One Summer_...at Charlie's Diner

by Mary Jane Forbes

  Jane laughed.

  Liz looked wistfully at the little girl. “Adorable.”

  “Lizzy, tell Star your big news.”

  Star turned to Liz, her blue eyes big, questioning.

  “Manny and I are having a baby.”

  “Oh, Liz, hugs for you,” Star squealed, wrapping her arms around Liz. “Congratulations. When?”

  “Not until December.”

  “How did Manny take the news?”

  “He’s ecstatic,” Jane blurted out, smiling ear to ear.

  “Which reminds me, Manny and I have an appointment. I’m sorry, but I think we have to bring this little coffee klatch to an end,” Liz said with a frowny face.

  Star returned the frowny face. “If you must. I’ll walk out with you.”

  Leaving the Wurly music arm in arm out into the humid air, Star saw Ash walking up the driveway.

  “Ash, hi. Come here, I want you to meet my two best friends, Jane and Liz. They stopped by for coffee. And you two, meet my friend Ash.”

  Ash shook Jane’s hand fluttering in front of him. “Nice to meet you, Jane and Liz. I can see by the smile on your faces you enjoyed the new atmosphere … the cartoons.”

  “The menus were Jane’s idea,” Star said squeezing her aunt’s arm.

  “Oh, it was nothing. We’ll be back soon. Won’t we, Lizzy?”

  “Absolutely. I feel we had a hand in adding a little spice in those meatball tarts. Nice to meet you, Ash.”

  Star hugged them, waved goodbye, and turned to Ash. “Coffee?”

  “No, I’m off on an assignment. I stopped by to let you know I’ll walk you home tonight.”

  “Great. You know where to find me. I like your reporter clothes. Tan trousers, white polo shirt—casual, put the people you interview for your stories at ease, and—”

  “I missed you last night.” He reached over, his thumb grazing her cheek. “A speck of flour.”

  She smiled at the gesture, hoping it was more than a speck of flour. “I missed you too. I had stuff I had to do last night.”

  Shifting his gaze to the side then back. “Okay. Tonight. Closing. Still nine o’clock?”

  Star nodded, watched him return to his car. She didn’t trust her voice. Tongue-tied? Come on, you’re acting like a school girl, missy.

  Chapter 18

  ────

  THE BLISSFUL IMAGE of Liz having a baby flitted in and out of Star’s mind as she prepared another late lunch order of meatball mini-tarts for a mother with three lively toddlers. The mother, looking at her waiter, whispered that the tarts were a conspiracy to keep her children contained. She came to the diner for the menus and a cup of crayons, everything else, as far as she was concerned, was gravy. Except for a cup of coffee and a side order of blueberry pie, if you please.

  During the shift, Star felt Ty looking at her. If she looked up, his brows would arch, questioning? Had she heard from the bake-off competition—was she in?

  Star just shook her head. She wasn’t sure if it was nerves or just a very humid day—her visor’s sweatband was wicking in overdrive. She kept checking her cell phone—had she turned it off, were the batteries dead? No … she wasn’t selected and they were skipping a call, sending a rejection by snail mail. Don’t be absurd, she thought snatching an order slip from the wire above the grill.

  Ty’s eyes were constantly locking on her until she finally gave him the look—stop it!

  Retrieving another can of whole-berry cranberry sauce from the shelf, she felt her cell phone vibrate in her apron pocket. Fumbling for the phone, knocking a spatula to the floor, her hand grazing a splash of olive oil, she turned her back to the grill holding the phone to her ear with sticky fingers.

  Ty saw her turn, cell in her hand.

  He watched. Was this it?

  Star didn’t budge a whisker. He could tell she wasn’t breathing—it had to be the call they were waiting for. It must be good news. Bad news doesn’t take this long?

  Suddenly, Star twirled, her eyes darting around the diner to find him. He was at the third booth, holding a pot of coffee mid-air. Star started jumping up and down, fists in the air as she raced from the grill. Ty quickly moved the coffee pot to safety on the booth’s table startling the guests. At the same exact moment, the cook threw her arms around their waiter.

  Without saying a word, both grinning, Star, with a slight skip in the air, returned to the grill and Ty topped off booth number three’s coffee.

  Finally, there was a lull in the diner. Orders were filled, and no one was coming in the door. The Wurlitzer rocked out a Kelly Clarkson ballad as Ty strode to Star’s side. “So, when? Where?”

  “The coordinator, that’s what she called herself, said the producer rented a building. Set up a television studio in Daytona Beach.”

  “Where?”

  “On Williamson Boulevard—off International Speedway. She’s emailing all the information. The call was to let me know I’m in. Ty, I AM IN! Oh my God, I have to tell Wanda … Charlie. They’re going to have a fit.”

  “What’s going on here?” Charlie asked stepping up to the grill ready to relieve Star for her break.

  Inhaling a deep breath, Star quickly told him what she and Ty had been up to, adding how it started with her friend’s visit. “My friend Jane, you know … bouffant pink hair—”

  “Yes, I know the cartoon.”

  “Well, Jane suggested I enter a baking competition, Ty made a video of me for the Florida Amateur Baker Competition, that’s what it’s called. The competition coordinator just notified me … I’m in … Monday, in seven days.” Star paused, gasped for air, plunging on. “Can you give me the time off? Please, please, say yes.”

  Star saw Ty’s lips move. “Monday?”

  Charlie caught Wanda out of the corner of his eye coming out of the office to see what the commotion was about. “Give you time off for what?” Wanda asked.

  Charlie, his face pinched replied, “Seems our cook entered some kind of a cooking contest. What’re we going to do now?”

  “We’re going to wish her well.” Wanda moved to give Star a hug. “When I have a minute, you have to tell me about this contest.”

  Charlie was a little more pragmatic.

  Looking at the grill that would once again be his responsibility, he had a slight smile on his face. “Okay, okay. If Wanda says no problem, then there’s no problem. Just remember, if you make it to the finals, you said you’d stay the summer.”

  • • •

  THE COMPETITION RULES landed in Star’s email inbox within seconds after she received the call notifying her that she was selected to participate. Ty waited as she scanned the message on her phone’s display. She quickly whispered each point. “Oh my God, Ty, there will be one round the first day. Maybe two rounds the next day … unless I’m eliminated. Every episode … Ty, episodes like a real TV series. Every episode, except the first will feature one or two rounds, maybe three.”

  Star looked up at the pot rack, closed her eyes, gulped a big breath and continued. “The baking category, such as cakes, cookies, pies, will be divulged at the beginning of each round—not before. Bring your personal best recipes. You will also be given mystery recipes to display your baking knowledge, skill. There will be a minimum of seven rounds. Must arrive at the studio, directions to follow, by 6:30 a.m. sharp. If you are traveling, make arrangements to stay for the duration of the competition—until you are sent home. The winner will be awarded $50,000.”

  Star grinned at Ty. There it was again—$50,000. It wasn’t a typo.

  • • •

  “GRAN, I’M IN.”

  “Sweetheart, that’s wonderful. When does it start?”

  “Next Monday. Can you send me a few of your favorite recipes—tried and true? I have several of yours, plus the ones we talked about, but I want to be armed with more. I’m not sure how it’s all going to work, equipment, stove, oven … but I’ll call you when I find out.”

  “How about if I you send my
little cookbook, the metal one, three-hole punched pages. I always typed my favorites on my old Smith-Corona. Some I wrote with a pen. Many have my notes in the margin. Do you remember it, dear? Six by eight inches, silver metal? Remember?”

  “Oh, Gran, of course I remember. Some of the pages, the banana nut bread, have flour stuck to them.” Star smiled as she spoke, wiping away a tear. “How are you, Gran? Everything okay? Taking your heart medication?”

  “I’m fine dear. I’ll get my recipe book in the mail today … oh, post office is about to close. No, I’ll call FedEx right now You’ll have it tomorrow afternoon. Now, you keep me posted … every step of the way, young lady.”

  “I will, Gran. Love you.”

  “Love you too, dear.”

  Chapter 19

  ────

  THE COMPETITION

  MONDAY

  THE WHITE LINCOLN cruised down International Speedway, the sun cresting the horizon, rays bouncing off the rear view mirror hitting Tyler in the eyes. Squinting, he turned left onto Williamson Boulevard, and soon turned left again into the driveway and parking lot of a mid-size cement block building. A large, unmarked, white semi truck was parked at the back of the lot. More than twelve cars were parked along the side of the lot shaded by a line of trees. An older woman, white slacks, pink T-shirt, was locking the door of a small blue car marred by a crease stretching across the back fender.

  Ty glanced over at Star, her eyes riveted out the windshield. She was nervous.

  Way more than nerves. Star tried to breathe in rhythm hoping a steady flow of air into her lungs would tamp down the nerves, release the tension.

  What was wrong with her? She was a pastry chef. She’d landed a job at a five-star hotel restaurant. Didn’t she?

  This was no big deal.

  Oh yeah? She was kidding herself. What was at stake? Only her future, her life.

  “It’s okay, you know,” Ty said punctuating each word. “You are going to be okay.”

  Star hitched the strap of the backpack up on her shoulder, picked up the red tote between her feet on the floor mat, and flashed a smile at Ty. “Wish me luck,” she said sliding out of the car into the sunshine, humid air smacking her in the face.

  “Good luck and I’ll be here to pick you up. Give me a call, or text if you’ll be later than six, otherwise I’ll be here.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” Smoothing her black slacks, straightening the collar of her white blouse, the same outfit she wore in the video with the exception of changing a skirt to a pair of slacks, she was ready.

  Setting her backpack straight, chin up, Star marched through the door into a new world of bright lights, cameras on rolling sleds, and the buzz of anticipation that something big was about to take place.

  Wide-eyed, gaping at the scene before her, she was caught by surprise at the elaborate set up of a television studio. The producers obviously meant business—the filming of a TV reality show, a show of amateur bakers, contestants vying for a chance to transform their everyday existence into a dream of becoming recognized as a professional baker. In Star’s case, compete for the prize money, money that would make it possible to open a little bakery, publish a cookbook, a wildly successful cookbook.

  Holding that image in her mind she strode to the contestants work area.

  The producers had put together a very charming, colorful but tasteful environment for the competition, an area that would soon showcase the drama of a baking competition.

  She smiled at the individual baker’s setup, almost identical to Cindy’s kitchen except now there were five rows, two stations per row, separated by a center aisle. Each station was like a galley kitchen, delineated by butcher-block counters, front and back.

  Standing between the counters, the bakers had access to the stovetop in the middle of the front counter, or the ovens behind, as well as cabinets filled with prepositioned supplies such as flour and sugar, baking pans and utensils.

  The space was open, counter to ceiling, so the bakers could see the host at the front, and each other at all times.

  Off to one side of each station was a bright red refrigerator—one refrigerator shared by two bakers. Matching red mixer, blender, striped hand towels, oven mitts, were lined up on the counters. Star chuckled. Her visor was the same red as the refrigerator and appliances. She chose the color hoping it would bring her luck and easy to spot her. “Recognition is key,” Tyler had said. Plus he wanted her to stand out in more ways than being the cutest baker in the competition.

  The cement-block walls sported a fresh coat of white paint on three sides. The fourth side consisted of a bank of picture windows framing a lush woodsy landscape of oak and pine trees towering over flowering bushes with red, orange, and yellows blooms. A serene scene compared to the drumming of hearts beating in the chests of the anxious bakers. Inside, faux trees had been strategically placed to soften the room of the one-time electronics factory.

  Thankfully, the air conditioning was working.

  A wide area, a stage, fronted the baker’s stations with a doorway opening to the back to what Star presumed were once offices.

  Spotting her name on the counter, left side, second row, she strode toward her station introducing herself to another contestant checking out her space, and then to a young man setting up behind her. They would share the red refrigerator. Checking the cabinets lining her work station, Star found everything she needed, all provided by the producers at no charge to the contestants, except for the entry fee.

  A bald man, official looking in a suit and tie, hustled up to Star, introduced himself as Jim Whisk, one of the two producers, explaining he would be acting as the show’s host. He didn’t stop to chat, hustling off to each of the other nine bakers.

  Striding to his place at the front of the hall, Whisk picked up a cordless microphone lying on a side table. He turned to face the eager, nervous smiles of the ten wanna-be bakers all dressed in their street clothes–slacks with colorful T-shirts—stripes, flowered, or solid. Slacks were plain, but of multiple colors.

  It was show time.

  “Welcome, everyone, to the Florida Amateur Baker Competition. Relax, I’ll let you know when we begin filming the show. First, let me introduce my co-producer, Stephanie Hall.”

  An attractive thirty-something blond woman, dressed in black slacks under a long-sleeve white silk shirt, a gold chain draped around her slender neck, gold hoops at her ears, looked smart and professional strutting up in high heels to the host. She stood beside Jim, smiled and nodded to the group arrayed before her. Ms. Hall towered over her co-producer by a foot. When Mr. Whisk turned his head to welcome his co-producer, he revealed a sandy-haired ponytail neatly held back by an elastic band.

  Hearing a stifled whistle for Stephanie Hall, Star glanced around at the two cameramen leaning back, relaxing, waiting for the show to begin, waiting to start maneuvering the camera sleds, zooming in and out of the action.

  “Okay, Steph, are we ready to film the first episode?”

  “Absolutely. Take it away, Jim.”

  Star and the other contestants stood like soldiers at their battle stations, the two cameramen sat forward, eyes peeled through the lens at the host.

  “Hello, and welcome to the first Florida Amateur Baker Competition. There’s a lot at stake, folks—publication of a cookbook, guest appearances on various television shows. Oh, and did I mention a grand prize … $50,000 to the winner of this season’s show?”

  Laughter erupted from the ten bakers, clapping at his pronouncement of the grand prize.

  “With each episode you will be tested on your ability to bake something tasty, as close to perfection as you can get, all under extreme pressure. At the end of each episode, one of you will be named Star Baker for that day’s category … for example Star Pie Baker. And, one will be eliminated. At the end of the final episode, end of the series, there will be one winner.

  “Our contestants are from all walks of life—a lawyer, a fireman, a stay-at-home dad, a hous
ewife ready to cut loose now that her kids are off to college, a short-order cook, to mention a few. With every episode you will work your magic in three different segments, but within the same category. Today, we begin with pies, pies, and more pies. The first pie segment will be one you lay your claim to fame on, your personal best, the one you’ve baked a hundred times, the pie called for by family and friends.”

  With his words, Star visualized the email she’d received from the producers listing the categories—cakes, cookies, pies and tarts, breads, desserts, and a French pastry that one would purchase at a patisserie. Six in all. The order of the six was a mystery. They had to be ready for whatever category was thrown at them.

  Reading the email and hearing Mr. Whisk’s words were way different. Hearing him made the hair stand up on her arms. Fear mixed with excitement. She glanced around—were the others feeling the same?

  Star had scoured Gran’s recipes. They had numerous phone conversations before she settled on at least two variations for each category. She and Gran had joked that their choices would be the nucleus of Star’s cookbook. The cookbook that the contest producers would see was published, maybe as an e-book to start, but hints that a major publisher may be waiting in the wings.

  So, today was pie day. Focus, Star. Breathe … in … out.

  Star’s mind filled with the pie she had baked many, many times, even introduced to the diner, an American tradition if ever there was one—apple. She wondered if the other contestants knew the trick on how to insure the crust would not end up with a soggy bottom. Gran had impressed upon her, since the day Star began baking beside her, that a pie crust with a soggy bottom was a no, no. Maybe that would be her edge today.

  What, what did he just say?

  “Then the technical phase where the bakers are given a surprise recipe, pie, of course. Everyone will have the same recipe—the ingredients—but the recipe will be missing the instructions.”

  A groan escaped every baker’s mouth.