Recipe For Redemption. Anna J. Stewart
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CORWIN’S HAND stilled over the hotel registration form as he sniffed the air. “Do you smell smoke?”
A middle-aged woman with short-cropped gray hair passed through the reception area of the Flutterby Inn, Butterfly Harbor’s main hotel, a stack of freshly laundered towels in her arms. The lack of concern on her face might have made Jason wonder if he were imagining things, but as a former professional chef, he was more than familiar with this particular smell.
“I have you down for three weeks, Mr. Corwin,” Lori, the plump young woman who had introduced herself minutes ago, said. She leaned her hands on the whitewashed batten-board counter, lively green eyes devoid of concern as the air thickened. “Is that correct?”
“Yes.” He scribbled his name, his eyes beginning to water as a thread of white smoke snaked out from under the double doors to his left. “I’m sorry, but shouldn’t someone check—”
The deafening screech of a smoke alarm rent the air. Hints of gray puffed through the plumes of white smoke.
“It’s nothing!” Lori waved her hand before turning to focus on the old-fashioned mailbox portals behind her. “That’s just Abby in the kitchen. It’ll clear in a few minutes.”
The lobby became hazy. Jason’s pulse kicked into overdrive as he wrenched open the sliding doors and got a face full. Coughing, eyes tearing, he hurried through the dining room, dodging the mishmash of tables and chairs. He tried to inhale but there wasn’t any fresh air to be found, nothing to calm his nerves or stop the dread pounding through his body. Did it have to be the kitchen?
He’d kept his vow and hadn’t stepped foot in a professional kitchen in over three months, but given the choice between burning to death in a hotel fire and breaking a promise to himself, he’d take choice number two.
He pushed open the swinging door and stepped into the kitchen, waving his hands in front of him to disperse the smoke. A stockpot of what he hoped was water boiled over and splashed into the too-high flame beneath it, causing bright orange flickers of fire to arch toward the ceiling.
“Come on, you stupid, plastic piece of crap!” A woman stood on the stainless steel worktable and banged the end of a broom against the smoke detector. “It’s not like this is our first go-around.” Bang. Bang, bang. “Stop. Making.” She grunted and he could see her arms start to weaken. “So. Much. Noise! Ah!”
The kitchen went silent and she sagged forward, bracing a hand on her knee as she heaved out a sigh. “Got ya. Oh, sugar pots.”
Before Jason could move, before he could utter a word, she jumped down and grabbed a thick orange towel, dragged out two trays of cremated somethings and tossed them onto the counter with a squealing “Ow!” The bang of metal hitting metal echoed in the room and in his head.
She shook her left hand as if she’d burned herself—how could she not—before reaching for the pot. The orange towel slipped dangerously toward the flames.
“Stop!” Jason yelled and dived forward.
She shrieked and leaped aside as the towel skimmed the still-flaming burners and ignited. “Who are you?” She flipped the towel onto the yellowed linoleum floor and did a little dance over it to stomp out the flames. “What are you doing in here?”
“Right now I’m wondering where the fire department is.” He strode over and closed the oven door, flipped off all the burners and then shoved open the closest transom windows. “Hasn’t anyone told you the kitchen’s a dangerous place? It’s not a playroom.”
“I wasn’t playing.” She pushed the windows on the other side of the kitchen open and, as the smoke thinned, glared at him. “I was trying to make scones.”
Jason looked at what seemed to be tiny shriveled briquettes. “You failed.” He glanced up at the ceiling and saw the cover of the smoke detector hanging by a duo of thin battery wires. “Your detectors are not to code.” No wonder he didn’t hear sirens. It wasn’t hooked up to anything but noise.
Now that he could see clearly, the entire kitchen looked stuck in the past. Only the refrigerator appeared to have been manufactured in the last decade, the stainless steel scarred and leaning toward tarnish. He could see rust forming in the tile grout around the cracked farmer’s sink.
He bent down to grab the towel, but she snatched the smoking fabric out from under his hand and tossed it into the sink overloaded with used bowls, spoons and...was that a tortilla press?
“I’ve got it, thanks.” She shooed him away from the mess she’d made and toward the door. “All in a day’s work. Nothing to worry about.”
Must be the hotel motto. Was it too late to rethink his stay? Probably, considering he hadn’t been the one to make his reservations in the first place. Fresh air collided with the smoke and thinned it out. He’d never been so grateful to fill his lungs before as he coughed out the remnants of her scone attempt.
Her mouth twisted as she peered at the charcoal briquettes scattered on the trays, counter and floor. “I don’t know what happened. Our cook told me they were foolproof.”
“You mean full proof.”
“She said what she meant.” She swiped a hand over her damp forehead and let out a long breath as she seemed to collect herself. “Not the way I like to greet new guests.” She was choking as she tried not to cough and as she blinked, cleansing tears streamed down her face. “I’m Abby Manning. I run the Flutterby Inn. And you are—?”
“Jay Corwin.” After three months, the lie came easily.
“Next floor show starts at five.” Her laugh sounded strained as she planted a hand on her hip and studied the mess. Her doll-like face with a too-small nose and too-wide turquoise eyes eased into a smile that almost broke through his personal bank of storm clouds. How, with all those thick blond curls of hers tumbling around her shoulders, had she managed not to set herself on fire? He needed to keep moving, keep thinking, otherwise the walls were going to start closing in on him. Walls. Memories.
So many memories...
“You’ll want to put some ice on your hand.” Jason dropped his gaze to her reddening fingers. He headed toward the stainless steel refrigerator only to have her wave him off again as she dragged open the freezer door and sank her hand wrist deep into the ice tray with a relieved sigh.
“If you’d like to return to the lobby, Lori can—”
“Abby? Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine!” Wincing, Abby pulled her hand free and shoved it into her jeans pocket, pressed a finger against her lips in a silent plea for his cooperation. “Just a little, um—”
The kitchen door swung open and an elderly woman entered. It was like watching night turn into day right before him as Abby’s eyes brightened despite her fingers flexing in her pocket. “Good morning, Gran. How did you sleep?”
“As fine as anyone my age does these days. Hello. I’m Alice Manning.” Alice bypassed Abby and headed straight for him, her steps short and slow. “This one here’s my granddaughter. I’m the former manager of the Flutterby Inn.”
“Jay Corwin, Mrs. Manning.” He could see the family resemblance, the familiar soft feminine features right down to the same color eyes. He shook Alice’s outstretched hand before he bent down to retrieve a stray over-cooked scone off the floor and tossed it into the sink. The door beckoned him, offering freedom, offering relief, but he didn’t see a way past Alice without being rude. Stuck. In a kitchen. Great. “A friend of mine recommended your hotel as the perfect getaway.”
“Well, I hope you’ll feel at home during your stay. That’s what we always aim for, right, my girl?” Alice glanced at Abby before she wagged a finger at him. “You’d be from the East Coast. New York, I’m guessing? Always could tell. Used to make a game of it when I checked customers in. I worked that desk out there for more than fifty years, long before this one was born. I know