“Been watching you, son. Been tasting your food,” the Judge had tapped a fork on his dinner plate. Greg had roasted a pair of fresh-caught trout in hazelnut butter with a dressing of spring greens and homemade basil vinegar. Though Greg had cooked half the meals since Ma’s funeral—“fair is fair” the Judge had declared—it was the first time his father had spoken of it.
“Uh-huh,” Greg had gone for a neutral acknowledgement. He knew the Judge hated such prevarications, but Greg didn’t know where this was heading and went for caution.
“This is good. Real good.”
Greg hadn’t been able to offer even a neutral grunt over his surprise at the Judge’s remark.
“Still needs some work, though.”
Before Greg could snap at him about what did a man who scrambled eggs and ruled on law know about fine cuisine, the Judge continued.
“You need more seasoning,” and he aimed a fork at Greg’s chest, “and I’m not talking about salt. Your technique is the best I’ve ever seen, but I don’t taste anything special. There’s nothing here that isn’t in any other fine restaurant. You need time to find your own voice, not some other chef’s.”
“My own voice?” But he didn’t need to ask, he’d heard it a thousand times growing up.
The Judge looked down at the trout, one of the only times he’d ever said anything without looking at whoever he was addressing straight in the eye, “Your mother taught me that.”
Ma had been a painter, a good one. Her seascapes had sold in galleries up and down the coast. Tillamook, Newport, Gold Beach, they all snapped up as much as she could produce and was willing to let go of—Grosbeak Gallery in town had always gotten first pick though. She’d often talked about finding your voice in your art so that it didn’t look like everyone else’s.
“So, here is the deal I’m offering you.”
Greg knew that it wouldn’t be open to negotiation; no one negotiated one of Judge Slater’s “deals.”
“The diner is mine on weekdays from six to ten every morning. I’d like you to stay as my assistant because you’re good at it. That pays rent here at the house, a small salary, and we split the tips. What you do with the diner for the rest of the time, that’s up to you.”
And for three years, Greg had stayed in Eagle Cove and searched for his own voice. In the first year, he’d never cooked for anyone but himself and his father—who never again spoke about the food itself. Then one night Greg had invited a couple of buddies from high school who were still in town to the diner, as a test audience. Word got out about how good it was and folks had started asking when he’d do it again.
He’d eventually started “Irregular Friday Dinners at The Puffin.” He only opened when he had a new meal to test. It was all prix fixe, fixed price—a twenty in the jar—and a set menu. After two years of those he felt almost ready to take his cooking out into the world; maybe spend a while as a pop-up restaurant—there and gone—rather than a full launch. He’d been saving his half of every morning tip and every cent for when he went back to the cities. At first he’d simply been trying to be better by the time he left Eagle Cove, but he’d become obsessed with finding and perfecting his “chef’s voice.” He wanted it to be so clear that it was undeniable. When he went back to Seattle, no one would label him the protégé of Charlene at Maximilien’s or Angelo at The Tuscan Hearth. He’d be his own—
The old brass bell screwed into the top of the diner’s front door rang like a small ship was coming into port. Morning service peaked as usual around eight and had now tapered off to just a few lingering diners.
Greg glanced at the big-face clock above the cash register—9:57—and suppressed a groan. Judge’s rule was that if you were in the door by ten, you could take as long as you wanted. If it was ten sharp plus a second, you were turned away—“Fair is fair.” Maybe they’d be quick; he’d had an idea for a savory roulade that he wanted to try out.
Greg turned back and had to blink, then blink again. The morning sunlight shone through the front window and silhouetted two dazzling blondes, their hair practically set afire by the sunlight streaming in from behind them.
Then his eyes adapted as they moved farther into the room.
Mrs. Baxter who was soon to be Mrs. Baxter once again.
And a woman he hadn’t seen since the day she’d left for college, but he’d know anywhere.
Jessica matched his own five-ten and her hair, instead of being the waist-long waterfall he’d remembered, now floated about her shoulders in choppy wisps that framed a face of high cheekbones, full lips, and eyes that sparkled with mischief.
Halfway across the old linoleum floor, she stopped and looked at him.
“Greggie’s gaping, Mom.”
And he couldn’t do a thing about it.
* * *
Available at fine retailers everywhere:
Eagle Cove
About the Author
M.L. Buchman started the first of over 50 novels and as many short stories while flying from South Korea to ride across the Australian Outback. All part of a solo around-the-world bicycle trip (a mid-life crisis on wheels) that ultimately launched his writing career.
Booklist has selected his military and firefighter series(es) as 3-time “Top 10 Romance of the Year.” NPR and Barnes & Noble have named other titles “Top 5 Romance of the Year.” In 2016 he was a finalist for RWA's RITA award.
He has flown and jumped out of airplanes, can single-hand a fifty-foot sailboat, and has designed and built two houses. In between writing, he also quilts. M.L. is constantly amazed at what can be done with a degree in geophysics. He also writes: contemporary romance, thrillers, and SF. More info at: www.mlbuchman.com
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Copyright 2017 Matthew Lieber Buchman
Published by Buchman Bookworks, Inc.
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the author.
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Cityscape and freeways © neelsky
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