by Melody Grace
Working at Chez Andre was like living in a war zone. It was one of the best fine-dining restaurants in the city, complete with a coveted Michelin Star, but all that prestige came with a price. Andre ruled the kitchen like a tyrant. Her blood pressure had gone through the roof since she’d been working there; she’d lost twenty pounds running around on her feet all day, and as for dating? Aside from a relationship with a rival chef that ended in heart-break, she hadn’t even tried in years. But that was life in a high-end kitchen. When Summer told people she was a chef, most of them imagined she was waltzing around in a cute white hat, tasting spoonfuls of sauce and dreaming up exotic menus, but the reality was very different. It was a fiercely competitive profession, especially at the best restaurants, and they all paid in blood, sweat, and tears for the chance to learn from the best. Sometimes she wondered why she put herself through it, but the answer was always the same.
She loved food.
The tastes, the textures, the alchemy behind every mouthful... Ever since she was a kid, and had discovered that a simple box of dry mix and a tub of frosting could produce the wonder of a freshly-baked cake, Summer had been madly, wildly, recklessly in love with baking. The plate was her canvas, her mixing spoon was her conductor’s baton – Summer would happily mix metaphors all day long for the chance to pursue her passion. Not that she got much of a chance. Chef Andre was famed for his intricate fine dining, full of precise, elaborate details. Why send out a perfect summer fruit pie when you could spin bird-shaped sugar baskets, and fill them with freeze-dried ice-cream and beads of coulis? Summer didn’t buy into his ‘more is more’ philosophy, but that was the way the culinary world worked. It was her job to execute the head chef’s vision, until the day she had enough experience (and investors), to strike out on her own.
She already knew exactly the kind of place she’d run, one day. She’d been dreaming about it for years. A little bakery of her own, where decadent chocolate tortes jostled side by side with lighter-than-air meringues; the air was scented with vanilla and butter, and nobody screamed at you for plating the dessert without a streak of gold leaf on the dish. She would turn out delicacies all day long – not tired old pound cakes, but new, interesting flavors, like the sweet summer cake sitting in the backseat, with slices of fresh, bourbon-soaked peaches baked right into the batter. Summer had made it at the restaurant one night in a fit of rebellion, when the soufflés Andre ordered refused to rise. He’d stormed in, ready to fire her, until the notes started coming back from the dining room, all lavish with praise. One diner had loved it so much, she’d even begged for Summer to bake it for her wedding, so here she was, driving three hundred out of the city with fifteen pounds of cake packed up tightly like precious works of art. Which Summer rather thought they were.
She checked the directions on the GPS again, and found she was just a few miles out. The road had shrunk to a two-lane highway, with a canopy of pine trees shading the blue skies overhead, and the ocean glinting through the trees. Summer rolled the windows all the way down to enjoy the warm, sunny day and took a breath of salty sea air. She’d been living in the windowless kitchen for so long, she hadn’t even noticed the seasons change. Now, it was almost Memorial Day – time for herbed salads and fresh fruit sorbets; lobster rolls, and sweet taffy that stuck to your fingers.
She smiled. The truth was, she had an ulterior motive for making the delivery in person. Her best friend, Poppy, had just moved out to the Cape, and soon as she was done with the wedding, they had a whole weekend planned to reconnect, relax – and for Summer to meet this new man who had swept her friend off her feet. She’d heard plenty of stories about him, but as best friend, it was her official duty to size him up and make sure he wouldn’t break Poppy’s heart.
Her cellphone rang, and Summer hit the speaker, expecting it to be Poppy. “Hey babe,” she said happily, “I’m almost there.”
“Almost where?”
The voice on the other end of the line deflated Summer’s good mood in an instant. “Hi mom.”
“Where are you? I called the restaurant, but they said you had the day off. You shouldn’t be slacking,” Eve Bloom said disapprovingly. “You know there are a dozen sous-chefs who would kill for the chance to work under Andre.”
“I am working,” Summer explained. “I had to make a wedding cake for an event out of state.”
“You’re catering?” Her mother’s voice rose, and Summer winced.
“It’s a favor,” she soothed her. “Besides, the Kenmores are Andre’s biggest investors. I’m sure there will be tons of restaurant people at the wedding, and they’ll be a captive audience to my baking.”
“Hmm, well alright.” Eve seemed mollified. “But make sure you circulate and meet everyone, don’t just hide away in the kitchen. Investors buy into a personality, not just the food.”
Summer stifled a sigh. Her mother would know. Eve Bloom was one of the biggest TV chefs in the country, with collection of cookbooks, Food Network shows, and even a line of non-stick pans selling gangbusters at Target. She’d built an empire out of smiling perfection, and no matter how hard she tried, Summer knew she’d never live up to her mother’s example – which is why she’d given up on winning Eve’s approval ten years ago, and had set about forging her own path, instead.
“And be sure to wear your hair back from your face,” Eve continued. “Did you show your stylist those photos I sent? Marcie agrees, bangs would make your nose look much smaller.”
Marcie was her mother’s hair and makeup assistant, on-hand 24/7 to give Eve a youthful glow, and constant adoration. “Uh huh,” Summer answered vaguely. She’d learned the hard way it was easier just to agree with everything her mom said.
And live halfway across the country from her, too.
Her older brother had done one better – he barely stepped foot in the States at all with his job as a photojournalist, which meant Summer was lucky enough to get the full force of their mother’s attention. “Anyway, the reason I’m calling is we’re going to need you in the studio next week,” Eve continued briskly. “I’m flying out to film a family meal segment, sharing recipes down through the generations. I’ll teach you to make a pie, and then we’ll host a nice family dinner together.”
Summer laughed out loud, then quickly covered it with a cough. “Family?” she echoed in disbelief. “Pie?”
The last time her mother had baked pie for the family was… never. She’d never baked them pie. Because despite her public image as hostess supreme, the truth was, Eve Bloom barely stepped foot in the kitchen – unless the cameras were rolling.
“It’s the pitch for my new series, I told you about it. We’re going for a more homey feel. Anyway, I’ll put you down for the nine AM call-sheet. ”
“No, mom, I’m not coming on your show—“ Summer tried to object, but Eve didn’t pause for breath.
“I’ll have Marcie take care of those bangs. And wear something blue, you know the stage lights always wash you out.”
“Mom, I told you, I’m not—“
Suddenly, there was a flash of orange ahead on the road. Summer cursed out loud and slammed on the brakes, yanking the wheel to avoid hitting…
What was that?
She caught a glimpse of something round and fluffy dashing off into the undergrowth as she pulled over to the side of the road. She caught her breath, her pulse racing.
So much for lowering her blood pressure. Between her mom’s delightful call and that kamikaze cat, she would be lucky if she reached the wedding in one piece.
Summer checked the backseat, but the cake boxes were thankfully intact, and when she fished her cellphone from where it had fallen between the seats, there was nothing but dial tone. Her mom had already hung up.
“Thanks a lot, buddy.” Summer could see the cat through the windscreen: a fat ginger fluffball now happily sunning himself on the steps of a ramshackle old house, as if he hadn’t just tried to kill her. “Look both ways next time.”
Yes, sh
e was talking to a cat. No, she hadn’t slept in twenty-two hours.
Yes, she needed coffee, and fast.
2
Summer made it the final few miles without any more interruptions (animal or maternal) and finally pulled up the gravel drive of a stately-looking hotel overlooking the beach. She drove around to the delivery entrance, and found a woman pacing there, clutching her phone. She had blonde hair pulled back in an immaculate bun, and wore a crisp white shirt and pencil skirt, despite the warm weather.
“Is that the cake?” she demanded, the moment Summer climbed out of the van.
“Reporting for duty.”
The woman let out a massive sigh of relief. “Thank God. Sorry,” she added, with a flustered smile. “The bride’s been talking about this for weeks. I don’t think she’d even mind if he left her at the alter, as long as she still got to eat the cake.”
Summer laughed. “Don’t worry, I just need to assemble it, and we’re good to go.”
“Can I help with anything? I’m Brooke,” the woman added, looking less stressed now.
“Nice to meet you, I’m Summer. And yes, I’d love some help carrying those boxes in. Carefully.”
Together, they unloaded the van. Brooke guided her through to the kitchen, which was already a hive of activity. “I’ve told the caterers to stay out of your way.” Brooke showed her to a clear corner. “You’re the VIP.”
“And I bet they’ll love me for it,” Summer joked.
“Do you need anything?” Brooke checked, but her phone was buzzing like crazy, and Summer guessed she had a million other places to be, so she waved her off.
Now came the fun part.
Carefully, she laid out the sturdy base, and then set about unpacking each layer of the cake. There were six in all, cut in perfect squares that got smaller in size. Summer had already frosted them in a thick peach buttercream, and now she retrieved her bowl and ingredients from the cooler, and whipped up another batch of frosting to use as a kind of cement: carefully building the cake layer by layer, until it stood: sturdy, sweet, and utterly irresistible. With a few sugared rose petals, a dusting of gold leaf, and the piece de resistance – a custom cake topper, crafted to match the photo the bride had sent – Summer’s masterpiece was complete.
And it would taste even better than it looked.
“Is this ready for the table?” a server asked. It took three of them to wheel it out, and Summer couldn’t resist stripping off her apron and following them. The hotel was bright and airy, and the reception spilled out of the main hall onto the patio that overlooked the bay. It was a picture-perfect scene, with the afternoon sun sinking over the ocean, guests mingling between white linen-topped tables, and gorgeous displays of fresh-cut roses spilling from every column.
Summer kept to the edge of the patio, skirting the crowd as she tried to blend into the background. She wasn’t exactly dressed for the party, in cut-off jeans and an old T-shirt, but she loved seeing the looks on people’s faces when they bit into something she’d made, and cutting a wedding cake was an extra-special moment.
As the caterers wheeled the cake to the top table, she heard the hum of approval; guests stopped, and turned to watch, and by the time they carefully placed it on the table, there was a smattering of applause. Summer glowed, but the look on the bride’s face was the real prize: she lit up like the fourth of July.
“Oh my god!” The bride squealed. She clapped her hands together, and did a little bounce. “It’s too perfect. I can’t bear to cut it.”
“If you don’t cut it, you won’t get to taste,” her groom pointed out good-naturedly, and she laughed.
“Good point. But we need photos!” she beckoned over the photographer, and then they posed beside it, the bride fussing to make sure the cake was the center of the shot.
Summer grinned. Now there was a woman who had her priorities right.
And speaking of priorities…. She spotted the buffet across the patio, and made bee-line through the crowd. She’d been snacking on gas station chips and junk food all day, which was a crime against nature – and calories. Surely nobody would notice if she snagged a crab puff… or two?
She was just loading up a plate when felt her skin prickle, like someone was watching her. When she turned, she found a dark-haired man staring from across the room. He was tall, and broad-shouldered, but unlike the other men in smart tuxedos, he was wearing a crisp white button-down with jeans, and a scruffy winter beard.
Hello.
She smiled, but he just stared at her stonily, with what looked like disapproval on his face. What was his problem?
She turned back, and defiantly took another puff. After all, she’d earned it.
Grayson noticed the brunette the moment she walked in. It was hard not to. He liked to think he could spot chaos at a hundred paces, and this woman was definitely a disturbance to the atmosphere. Take her outfit, for a start. Cut-off jeans that hugged her bare legs, and a paper-thin T-shirt that hugged everything else – a far cry from the fancy cocktail dresses on display. She lurked by the buffet table, watching the happy couple, and Grayson wondered what disruption was about to ensue.
A jealous ex-girlfriend come to ruin the event? A scorned family member about to make a scene? Either way, it was clear from her rumpled curls and those danger-sign curves, someone was about to wave goodbye to peace and quiet for good.
Luckily, it wouldn’t be him.
He strolled over to the bar, and looked around. There was no bartender in sight, so he slipped behind the polished wood and found himself a good bottle of scotch. He liked the view from back here, at arm’s length from the rest of the party, with an unobstructed view of the ocean.
Grayson wasn’t a man for crowds.
He wouldn’t have come at all, except the groom’s father was on the city council. They’d done a deal on some land that backed onto Grayson’s property, and he had his eye on another couple of acres across town, so he figured it was worth making a brief appearance at the festivities. As an Englishman on Cape Cod, he was an automatic outsider, which he liked just fine, but a handshake and a few well wishes would go a long way come winter, when he wanted to make his move.
Plus, there’d be cake. Grayson always had time for cake.
“Excuse me?”
He glanced over. The brunette had materialized at the bar, setting down two plates of hors d’oeuvres and wriggling up on a stool. “Scotch, please and thank you.”
He looked around, but the bartender was still nowhere to be seen, so he plucked a bottle of Jack Daniels down, and slid it down the bar towards her.
“Thanks,” she said, catching it with surprising deftness. “But I meant real scotch. This is technically whiskey.”
See? He knew she’d be a disturbance.
“Delicious with peaches, or spicing up a banana bread,” the woman continued, scanning the bar behind him. “But I was thinking more… Glenlivet. Single malt. On the rocks.”
Grayson felt marginally less annoyed. “That’s what I’m drinking,” he said.
“A man of good taste.” She smiled, her whole face lighting up with a mischievous grin, and suddenly he didn’t mind the interruption so much. “I didn’t know anything about scotch, until I wound up working in an Scottish pub, in the middle of Paris of all places,” she continued, as he set the fresh bottle in front of her. “Now, that nation has opinions about their booze.”
“Don’t get between a Scottsman and his drink,” Grayson agreed. “They’ve been known to take offence.”
“You’re telling me. I once made the mistake of ordering a Jack and coke. I thought they were going to lock me up for re-education. You know, strapping me down and making me do blind taste tests until I knew my Laphroaig from my Glenfiddich.”
She grinned at him, that bright, dazzling smile that almost made him ask more, but Grayson caught himself in time.
The key to a man’s happiness was peace. Relaxation. Routine. The trouble started when you forgot all that an
d let a pretty face spin your whole world off-course.
Disturbance to the local pressure systems. Storm warning, up ahead.
So Grayson just took another sip of his drink, and enjoyed the ocean breeze off the water. But the woman didn’t seem daunted by his silence. She poured herself a couple of fingers instead, and took a sip, sighing with pleasure. “I needed that.”
Grayson noticed for the first time that she had dark shadows under her blue eyes, and her smile was wearing thin at the edges.
Not that is was any of his concern.
“Hey, you.” An impatient voice came from further down the bar.
Grayson turned and found a middle-aged man in an expensive suit. He snapped his fingers. “Can I get some service around here? I need three martinis and a beer.”
Grayson gave him a cool look. “No.”
“Excuse me?” the man gaped.
“You heard me.” Grayson turned away from him, leaving the man to bluster powerlessly.
“This is ridiculous. I’m speaking to your manager!”
“Go right ahead,” he shrugged, before the other man finally stalked away.
The woman grinned. “That was perfect,” she laughed. “God, I’ve had to serve way too many people like that.”
“Money can’t buy manners,” he agreed.
“But the penthouse and sports cars kind of make up for it,” she pointed out.
“I don’t know,” Grayson shrugged. “They always struck me as more trouble than they’re worth. All that staff, doormen and housekeepers all knowing your business.”
“Let me guess, you’re a cabin in the woods kind of guy.”
“How did you guess?”
“The beard gave you away,” she grinned. “And the jeans, at a black tie event?”
“I hate suits,” he admitted. “Always itching in the wrong places.”
“Hey, look who you’re talking to. I’m not exactly dressed for the occasion either.”
