Asking For Trouble. Millie Criswell
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moment, for she’d been about to place an ad for a chef in the Philadelphia Inquirer.
The capable, creative chef had worked in some of Philadelphia’s finest restaurants, cooking alongside some very accomplished chefs after completing her training at the Culinary Institute of America in upstate New York. Though she hadn’t provided references Lori appeared to be honest, and her skill in the kitchen certainly backed up her claims, so Beth had no reason to doubt her.
Still, there was an air of mystery about Lori. The petite, dark-haired woman seemed unhappy, and she wondered if her heart held heavy secrets. Beth had caught her looking nervously over her shoulder a few times, as if expecting someone to pop out of nowhere and steal her away. Beth knew chefs tended to be high-strung, but Lori seemed more so than usual.
The grand opening of the inn’s restaurant was scheduled for Thanksgiving Day, and Beth and her chef were working hard to get the kinks out of the menu and to finish the hiring and training of the kitchen and wait staff.
The two women were seated at the butcher-block table in the kitchen, evaluating the dishes Lori had prepared for this evening’s meal, which the inn’s guests had seemed to enjoy. They had filled out evaluation cards and rated the meal very highly. Brad Donovan had written Excellent across the bottom of his card, which pleased Beth greatly.
“The duck was a big hit. I think everyone liked the bing cherry sauce you served with it. And the rice pilaf was delicious, not to mention the pecan tarts. I’m going to get fat having you around.”
Her chef smiled. “Then we should definitely keep duck on the winter menu, along with rack of lamb and scallops of veal. If I can find a good supplier for Dover sole, I’d like to include that, as well.”
Making a few notes on the legal pad in front of her, Beth paused and looked up. “Are you going to be able to get the truffles for the stuffing?”
Taking a sip of the Diet Coke that was never far from her reach, Lori replied, “Yes, but they’re going to be expensive. I guess I could leave them out and substitute something else, if you’d rather not spend the additional money.”
“Go ahead and order them. I want the grand opening to knock everyone’s socks off. We already have quite a few reservations from Mediocrity’s finest. Mayor Lindsay is going to be here,” she explained, “and so is Hilda Croft, from the historical society, so we’re sure to have a good turnout. Good word of mouth will help business during the off season when there are fewer tourists around.”
The stuffing recipe was one of Lori’s favorites, though she couldn’t take credit for it. That honor belonged to world-renowned chef Bill Thackery, her former colleague. Though Bill might be absent, the one thing that wasn’t was his prized recipe collection, which she had lifted prior to leaving Philadelphia, along with his favorite set of Henckels knives.
No doubt he was more upset about losing his knives and recipes than losing her.
Leaving Bill hadn’t been an easy decision. He’d been her mentor, teaching her the finer points of culinary artistry, and she admired him greatly. But Lori felt she needed to get out from under his thumb, to establish herself as a chef in her own right, not just one of Bill’s protégés. Though she counted him as a friend, she just couldn’t work with him any longer. He’d grown demanding and unreasonable, wanting everything to be done his way and stifling her creativity until she wanted to scream.
They bickered constantly about the correct way to do just about everything, like what ingredients to use in chili, the proper temperature for roasting duck, how much yeast was required when baking bread. You name it, they argued over it. In fact, they had argued bitterly the night before her departure over a duck pâté that Lori had created. Bill had pronounced it “bland.” She’d stolen his knives and recipes for revenge.
The competition to outdo each other had finally gotten to Lori, who had decided one morning that she’d had enough, that it was time to make a break and get her own career off the ground. The Two Sisters Ordinary would give her that chance.
Lori hoped Bill didn’t hate her too much. She still felt guilty about leaving him the way she did, with no note or explanation. But she figured he owed her for years of hard work and loyalty. The recipes and knives were a fair punishment for his obnoxious behavior and nasty disposition. She just prayed he wouldn’t be able to track her down, because Bill Thackery did not like to be crossed.
“Is everything all right? You look upset. I meant what I said about the truffles. Just go ahead and—”
The dark-haired woman shook her head, smiling apologetically as she grabbed the edge of the table and pushed to her feet. “It’s not the truffles, Beth. I’m just tired. If you don’t need me for anything else, I’m going to my room and relax for a while.”
“Of course. If you like, I can fix breakfast in the morning, so you can sleep later.” Beth wasn’t a fabulous cook like Lori, but she was proficient enough to slap bacon and eggs together.
“That’s not necessary. I’ll be fine by morning. But thanks for the offer.”
Concern creasing her forehead, Beth watched her chef disappear and wondered, not for the first time, what was bothering the young woman. She didn’t have time to ponder the possibilities, because the door from the dining area to the kitchen swung open and Brad Donovan entered.
He’d changed since she’d seen him at dinner and was now wearing jeans and a blue polo shirt. The jeans had been ironed, as evidenced by the perfect crease dissecting the pant legs.
Good grief! What kind of a man ironed jeans?
A man who was a perfectionist and wanted everything just so—a man used to genteel living, gracious surroundings and having a perfect wife—a man who was reserved, anal and her total opposite.
Still, the dimples in his cheeks when he smiled were awfully cute, and he had a way of looking directly into her soul—as if he knew exactly what she was thinking—that made her totally uneasy.
“Hope you don’t mind, but I’m taking you at your word and making myself at home. Stacy wants a glass of milk, so I told her I’d bring one up to her when I retired, if that’s okay with you.”
“Of course. I’ll get it for you.” She made to rise, but Brad placed his hand on her shoulder and pushed her back down gently. His touch made her jump. “Please don’t!” She shrugged it off.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Forget it, okay?” Beth had overreacted, but she didn’t like to be touched in a proprietary way, not after Greg.
“I’d like to join you for a few minutes, maybe beg a cup of coffee, if I’m not disturbing you. Adult conversation’s been at a premium at our house lately.”
With an understanding smile, she pointed at the coffeepot. “Help yourself.”
“Thanks.” Fetching two mugs, he filled them with freshly brewed coffee and carried everything to the table, sitting down beside his hostess.
“You’re not disturbing me,” she said. “I’m just going over some menus.”
“Your chef’s terrific. I loved the duck. Very moist. And the skin was crisp, just the way I like it.”
“Thank you. My hope is to have one of the finest restaurants in the area. And with a chef as excellent as Lori I think I’m on my way.”
“Without a doubt. So why did you decide to become an innkeeper? It seems an odd profession for someone so young. I always think of innkeepers as old married couples who crochet doilies, chop firewood and wear red-and-black-checked shirts.”
Laughing, she sipped her coffee and started to relax. Brad Donovan was very easy to talk to and seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say. “I’m not as young as you think,” she said, explaining about her aunts’ decision to give their house to her, and hers to turn it into an inn.
“When I divorced my husband I was