The Chef's Choice: The Chef's Choice

His lips twitched; he couldn’t help it.

She glowered. “Don’t laugh at me.”

It took all he had not to. Here she was, a head shorter than he was and she was threatening him. And she was dead serious, he realized, the smile fading.

“I’m not a jackass,” he said.

“You’ll pardon me if I prefer to wait and see on that one.” The snap in her words stung. Now it was his turn to step a bit closer. “Wait and see about what?” “Whether you live up to your reputation.” Taking his time, keeping control of the irritation, he leaned down to rest his elbows on the counter so that they were eye to eye, lip to lip. She smelled faintly of apples. And he could see her decide not to budge. “It’s a good thing we’ll have lots of time, then.”

For a minute, neither moved. And he couldn’t help wondering what she would do if he shifted just a bit closer, tasted that mouth of hers while it was open and soft with surprise. He saw her shoulders rise slightly as she took a breath, saw those hazel eyes darken to caramel brown.

And flicker with alarm.

She did move then, abruptly. “Stop playing games.” Her voice was sharp.

“Stop playing hardnose.”

“I’m not playing anything.”

“Really?” He watched the pulse beat in her throat. “This could get interesting."

Just then, the door behind him jingled. “We’re back,” a voice announced from the door and he turned to see a woman with Cady’s eyes walking in.

He could almost hear Cady’s sigh of relief. “This has been fun, but here are my parents. I guess it’s time for you to finally meet your staff."

“I guess you’re right,” Damon said. “See you around.”

“Not if I see you first.”

“Do you have any idea what you’ve taken on here?” Cady stared at her parents across their kitchen.

“Of course,” Amanda said pleasantly, glancing over her shoulder as she stood at the counter with bread and cold cuts. “Do you want me to make you a sandwich, too?"

“No thanks,” Cady muttered.

“You can give me hers,” Ian said cheerfully. “There’s nothing like fasting for a couple of days to make a guy appreciate food.” “You’re changing the subject,” Cady returned, although a sandwich was starting to sound increasingly good for someone who’d skipped lunch. “Why Damon Hurst, of all people? There have to be tons of qualified cooks out there.”

“Cooks, maybe, but not chefs, and not as many as you’d think. At least not who’d move up to Grace Harbor."

Okay, so a tiny tourist town, even one an hour from Portland, wasn’t for everyone. Still … “There has to be someone. Why Hurst? Why him, of all people?"

He’d leaned in and stared at her with those eyes and she’d almost forgotten how to breathe. This could get interesting. Just thinking of it made her furious.

Just thinking of it made her shiver.

“We hired him because he was recommended by Nathan, for one thing,” her father said, pulling a bowl of potato chips toward himself.

Cady blinked. “Nathan knows him?”

“Well, the chef Nathan works for now does. He told Nathan, Nathan told us."

“He said he hadn’t even been here. What, he couldn’t even be bothered to come interview? He made you go there?"

Her father coughed. “Not exactly.”

“You took him on sight unseen?” she asked incredulously.

“We took him on recommendation. We talked to him by phone, several times. We’d seen him cook on Chef’s Challenge, where he has a winning record, I might add. What more did we need to know?"

“I don’t know, chemistry? See if it feels right?”

“Chemistry?” Ian repeated in amusement. “We don’t want a date, we want a chef. I don’t see the problem. He needs a job and he can give us what we need, which is visibility."

“Or notoriety.”

“You know what they say. There’s no such thing as bad publicity,” Amanda put in mildly as she set the sandwiches down on the table and sat.

“Mom, you know the stories. I mean, he used to throw customers out of his restaurant, for God’s sakes. He gave one of his chefs a black eye. Do you want that happening at the Sextant?"

“Of course not. But he says that’s over. He wants to build something here."

“Sure, until he finds something bigger and better and walks out on his contract.” There was a short silence while her parents suddenly became very interested in their napkins. “You do have him under contract, don’t you?” Cady asked with dawning dismay.

Ian met her eyes. “We thought about it but we decided it was smarter not to. A contract is a double-edged sword, you know. This way if he doesn’t work out, we can walk away."

“You do admit there’s a chance of that, then?”

“Of course we do,” Ian said impatiently. “It’s a calculated risk."

“I agree with the risk part.”

“No matter what, we’ll get a lot of exposure from him. People know Damon Hurst. They’ll want to know why he’s here. They’ll come to see if he’s still got the magic. I mean, think of it, even you’ve heard of him and you barely pick up a paper or turn on the TV."

“Cable’s too expensive,” she muttered, moving to sit at the table with them.

“Our occupancy is down. It has been for the past two years. We need to get publicity and we can’t afford ads right now.” Ian picked up his sandwich. “Hurst’s our answer. We send out a few press releases, maybe get a review or two in the papers or magazines."

And start a media feeding frenzy. “That publicity’s not going to be worth much if your line staff quits and your diners start staying away."

“I think that’s unlikely.”

“I don’t trust him.” Cady reached out for a chip. “Why would a guy like him come all the way up here to work? You know the stories—he dates fashion models and pop tarts. I can’t imagine Grace Harbor’s going to thrill him.”

“Maybe he’s grown up. It can happen, you know.” Amanda gave her a bland look.

“All right, all right, I get the point,” Cady grumbled. “But he’s got to be costing you a fortune."

“Not as much as you’d think. We’ve caught him at a good time. And he’s got big plans for the Sextant."

“For now, anyway.” Then again, as much as she desperately wanted her parents’ inn to succeed, Damon Hurst couldn’t be gone soon enough for her peace of mind.

“We need him, Cady.” For once, there was no humor in her father’s voice. “We’re in a deep hole. We need all the bounce we can get from him and if you don’t trust him you’d better hope that you’re wrong and Nathan and Descour are right. We need you to do everything you possibly can to make this work."

“But—”

“We’re not asking you to marry the man, just keep a civil tongue in your head,” Ian shot back, temporarily silencing her. “If you can’t do that much, then just stay away."

Cady looked at them both and sighed. “Of course I’ll help however I can. I think you’re both nuts but if Damon Hurst is what you want, Damon Hurst is what you’ll get. God help you,” she added.

“Tell me again why having a gorgeous man who’s a fabulous chef and a celebrity working at your parents’ restaurant is a bad thing?” Cady’s best friend since childhood, Tania Martin, peered at her from the other end of the couch.

Cady scowled and scooped up some sesame chicken from one of the myriad takeout containers that littered the crates-and-boards combination that could charitably be called her coffee table. It was their weekly movie/gossip/junk food night, or at least Tania’s.

Cady believed in eating junk food as often as possible.

In a crowded room, nobody would ever have picked the two of them to be friends. Unlike tomboy Cady, who pretty well lived in jeans and a T-shirt, Tania kept on the cutting edge of hip with her black spiky hair and tinkling silver jewelry and her scarlet—or sometimes blue—nails and lips. They’d known each other since second grade and were as close as sisters.

“Why is Damon Hurst a bad thing?” Cady repeated, sprinkling soy sauce over her chicken with a free hand. “He’s irresponsible. He’s temperamental. He got fired from his TV show and from his restaurant for not taking care of business. He makes scenes. You, of all people, should know because you’re the one who told me about all of it."

“Besides all that.” Tania crunched into an egg roll.

“Besides … Tania, the guy got caught boinking one of his customers in his office—by the woman’s husband. You want to tell me again how you think him being here could in any way be a good idea?"

“Okay, so he has some rough edges,” Tania allowed, forking up some fried rice. “Anyway, that boinking story was from years ago. Maybe he’s past it by now."

“God help us if he’s not.” Cady squeezed a dollop of hot mustard out of its packet and swabbed her egg roll in it.

Tania watched her a minute. “Do you know you’ve probably burned off every taste bud you were ever born with by now?” she asked as Cady tore open a second packet. “How can you eat that stuff?"

“Puts hair on your chest.” Cady bit into the egg roll with a little hum of pleasure.

“Just what I’ve always wanted. Anyway, back to Damon Hurst—and I expect an introduction to him at the first possible moment, by the way—what are you going to do?"

Cady aimed the remote at her DVD player moodily. “Not much I can do. Mom and Dad seem to think he’s the answer to their problems."

“And you don’t agree. You know you’re only prejudiced against him because he’s good-looking."

“I’m prejudiced against him because he’s trouble. He’s one of those guys who thinks he can get anything he wants."

“Can he?” Tania asked curiously.

“Watch the movie.”

“It’s just previews.” Tania turned to face her. “This is much more interesting. Come on, what’s he really like?"

What was he really like? “A charmer, like it’s second nature. He knows exactly what to say and how to say it. He’s got this way of looking at you so that even when you’re ready to strangle him all you can do is just stand there staring up at him like an idiot."

Tania became very still. “'You’ like hypothetical or ‘you’ like you?” she asked carefully.

“Do I look like an idiot?”

“I’ll pass on answering that just now.”

“He’s so cocky, he thinks he’s God’s gift and he can get you to do whatever he wants you to. ‘This could get interesting,’ my ass,” Cady burst out in frustration. She sprang up from the couch and began pacing.

Tania just watched. “You’re getting awfully excited about a guy you hardly know."

“It doesn’t take long with him. I mean, he leans in and gets right in my face, deliberately, when he knows I’m pissed about him. And he does that thing with his eyes—“

“What thing with his eyes?”

“Like he wants to eat you up,” she responded, moving restlessly to the window. “Like you’re the only person in the world. And he makes you want to believe it.” It was irritating. Beyond irritating, infuriating.

“Let’s go back to the ‘eat you up’ part,” Tania ordered. “You mean he tried to kiss you?"

Cady stopped and flopped back down on the couch. “Give me some credit, will you? I would have stopped that one way before it ever happened."

“Why?”

“Why?” she repeated.

Tania forked up a dumpling. “You ask me, you could use kissing. How long has it been, anyway?"

“You know how long it’s been.” Cady took a drink of her Coke. “Since Ed Shaw."

Tania stared. “Ed Shaw was what, three years ago? Cady, sweetie, you’ve got to get out more."

“Maybe I don’t want to,” she retorted. “I mean, it’s fine for you. You’re gorgeous, you’ve always got guys after you. It doesn’t work that way for me."

“That’s because you scare ‘em off with that mouth of yours.”

“Maybe I want to scare them off. Maybe I just don’t want to deal with it.” She didn’t want the nerves, didn’t like the anticipation, despised that feeling of having it suddenly matter whether some guy called or not. And having no control over whether or not he did. Somewhere along the line it had just become easier, more comfortable, less nerve-wracking to avoid guys altogether.

“I think you’re nuts,” Tania pronounced. “I mean, what about Denny Green or Stan Blackman? You’ve had guys interested in you before."

“Not the ones I wanted interested.”

“Maybe that’s because you chose the ones who wouldn’t be.”

“Self-fulfilling prophecy, Ms. Freud?” Cady glanced over from the menu on the screen.

“I just think you haven’t given guys in general much of a chance. Why not try with Hurst?"

“Are you nuts? That would be like sticking a kid with a learner’s permit in a demolition derby. No thanks."

“It would be interesting.”

“So would skydiving without a parachute, at least for the first couple of minutes. Damon Hurst is in and out of here. And no,” she said as Tania’s eyes brightened, “before you start, I don’t need in and out, either metaphorically or literally."

“Well, I think that you’re the one who’s nuts,” Tania said, picking up the carton of broccoli beef. “I’d go for him in a heartbeat."

“Then why don’t you?” Cady asked tartly.

“Maybe I will. Maybe I’ll just …” Tania trailed off, staring at Cady. “You’ve got a thing for him,” she said with slowly dawning delight.

“I don’t have a thing for him,” Cady retorted. “I told you, I don’t want any part of him."

“Oh yeah, you do.”

“I want him gone.”

“Liar.”

“Watch the movie,” Cady grumbled.

Chapter Three

“No tuna at all?” Damon asked. He sat in the tiny nook off the kitchen that served as his office. Smaller than a phone booth, the space held a little counter just wide enough for a laptop and a phone, high enough that he could either sit on a tall chair or stand and look out across the kitchen.

“No more tuna, not today. We’re already out,” the fish vendor said over the phone.

“How about skate wing?”

“We got some nice scallops,” he offered.

It was an education in what was possible, Damon told himself. “Fifteen pounds of that."

“I got you down for haddock and lobster, also. Standing order. You still want it?"

“For now. Things will be changing soon, though.” He hoped to God. With a scowl, Damon ended the call.

He wasn’t used to not being able to get whatever he wanted delivered to his door, from suppliers no more than an hour or two away. Of course, he also wasn’t used to getting off work at midnight to find that the entire town had rolled up the sidewalks. After hours of fast, hard, demanding work, he needed time to come down. In Manhattan, that had meant a bar or nightclub. In Grace Harbor, it appeared to mean his living room.

Then again, there was something to be said for getting enough sleep to be at work early. The kitchen, at this hour, was quiet. Only Roman was in, standing at the stainless steel counter that paralleled the row of stoves that ran along one side wall; together, the two formed the line, where the bulk of the entrées came together during lunch or dinner service. Opposite the end of the line was the little corner bay where hot and cold appetizers were put together; between the apps station and the end of the line ran a crosswise aisle that led through a doorway to the dishwashing station and the back door and the walk-in.

Which brought him back to fish.

“What kind of a fish market sells out of tuna at seven in the morning, Roman?” he asked.

Roman glanced up, but his knife never ceased moving. “A fish market that sells a lot of tuna to Japan for sushi, Chef. You could probably get some shipped in."

“I’m not going to get it shipped in when it’s fished right here.” He walked past Roman to the boxes of produce that had been delivered that morning. Farm Fresh From California, the labels proclaimed, but how fresh could it be if it had been shipped across the country by truck or plane or train? And why were they getting goods from California when New Jersey and Florida were probably growing everything they needed by this time of year? Doing business in Maine was proving more of a challenge than he’d expected.

At least the kitchen was in good shape, all white walls and gleaming counters and terra-cotta tiled floor. The powerful fans at the ceiling were silent at this hour. When the stoves were fired up and the unbroken surface of their tops became one giant radiator, the fans and AC would kick into gear. Not that it would help much. Once the dinner rush was on and all the cooks were working on the line, all the air-conditioning in the world wouldn’t keep the temperature down.

At this hour, though, the kitchen was cool and empty, quiet save for the soft tick of Roman’s knife.

Damon turned back to his tiny office, the walls lined with clipboards that held the order sheets, a separate one for each day of the week. It was an organized system and Roman had kept it up, Damon would give him that. Actually, he’d give him a whole lot more, having seen the guy work the line during service the day before. A good man with a knife, Roman, and he ran a clean station. He moved easily from the grill to sauté to apps as necessary, turning out clean, consistently plated dishes each time.

Damon had the facility, he had the staff. Now it was up to him to come up with the right food.

The Sextant’s menu currently ran to entrées like baked haddock, steamed lobster, steak. Basic, satisfying fare, good enough for guests who didn’t want to deal with going into Kennebunk or Portland, but nothing that was going to bring anybody to the restaurant on purpose.

The thing to do was to hold on to the New England traditions but rework them, take the lobster and blueberries and turn them into something more than the sum of the parts. It was that aspect of cooking that he really loved, letting his imagination take flight, playing with flavors, mixing elements to come up with a new twist that made the taste buds sit up and take notice.

Of course, the thing to do was to go gradually. He’d ride with the current menu for a week while he developed the new dishes and Roman and the rest of the line cooks perfected making them. Then they’d rotate a few dishes in each night until at the end of the second week they’d be serving a revamped menu featuring the familiar flavors but taken to a new level.

The restaurant currently had two stars in the guidebooks. The McBains were hoping for three; Damon had vowed to get them four. Of course, that had been before he’d found out what kind of food stocks he had to work with. A look at suppliers and food cost requirements meant jiggering things a bit, but he could still do it. He was going to blow away Ian and Amanda McBain. And their daughter.

Especially their stubborn, opinionated daughter.

She was definitely an original. Nice enough looking, he supposed, though you’d hardly know she was aware of it. He was used to women who flirted, women who were experts at polishing their own allure. He wasn’t sure he could remember ever meeting a woman who just purely didn’t give a damn about making a good impression, on him or anyone else. As annoying as it was, he had to give her credit. Her redhead’s skin might look milky smooth but that tough, compact body could go toe-to-toe with anyone.

He remembered her scent and smiled. Going toe-to-toe with her could be kind of intriguing.

The phone rang and he picked it up absently. “Hurst.”

“Seven o’clock and already at work,” Paul Descour said in his lightly accented English. “I’m happy to see it."

“That makes one of us,” Damon said, stifling a yawn.

“You can sleep when you’re dead, my friend. You cannot build a world-class restaurant from the grave."

“Now, there’s a sprightly thought to start out the day. Was that the only reason you called, to cheer me up?"

“I called to see how your new venture is going.”

“Oh, great. I’m learning how to make meals without fresh produce."

“No green market?”

“I’m working on it. So far, I can mostly tell you what they don’t grow within a hundred miles of here."

“So it is a challenge. It will show you what you are made of.”

“It’s not what I’m made of that I’m worried about,” Damon said.

“You have always been resourceful. I am sure you will find a way. And how is the restaurant?"

“It’s got possibilities,” Damon allowed. “The kitchen setup’s good. A little small for the size of the dining room but it’s not a problem right now. We’ve got enough tables to do a hundred and fifty covers a night but we’ve had less than a quarter of that since I’ve been here."

“It is okay to start small. You are still working out the bugs.”

“Bugs are definitely not on the menu.”

“And that is a good thing. The health department just closed La Dolce Vida for violations,” Descour said, referring to Manhattan’s Italian restaurant of the moment.

Damon shook his head. “Marco never was much on taking care of the details."

“You may have had your faults, but you always kept a clean kitchen,” Descour said.

“I learned from a tough boss.”

“You did not learn everything from me, my friend. Some of what you know is a gift. Some of what you know I want no responsibility for,” he added before Damon could be pleased. “I did not like it when you were pissing your life away."

Funny how the rebuke didn’t sting the way it would have from Damon’s father. Then again, Colonel Brandon Hurst would never have leavened the criticism with a compliment, or meant the compliment if he had. It would have been one more condemnation in a lifetime’s worth, one more bit of proof that Damon had fallen short of expectations. Paul said it because he wanted better for Damon; the colonel would have said it because he wanted a better reflection on himself.

Which was an opportunity for its own kind of small revenge. However much Damon had squirmed at the exaggerations, rumors and outright lies the tabloids had printed about him, he’d always enjoyed imagining the colonel’s reaction, coming across them in some grocery store.

He never knew for sure it had happened because he hadn’t spoken to his father in nearly a decade.

If anyone had suggested to him that his drive for success stemmed from a need to prove himself to his father, Damon would have scoffed. Paul, though, Paul mattered. The problem was that Damon had no good answer for him. Mistakes, he’d probably—okay, certainly—made, but it was pointless to regret them now. The thing was to learn. If he’d done that much, then they could be filed under interesting experiences, no harm, no foul.

“What’s done is done,” he said. “I can’t change it. I’m more interested in what happens next."

“I shall be curious to see,” Descour said.

“I’m even more interested in finding a way to get produce that hasn’t spent the day soaking up exhaust fumes in some cargo bay."

“I shall be curious to see how you manage that, too.”

“I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

After he’d ended the conversation and hung up, Damon stared at the phone before him for a moment. “Hey, Roman,” he said aloud. “What do you know about foraging?"

Early morning was Cady’s favorite time. The day felt fresh and new, the air so crisp, even in May, that her breath showed as she loaded bags of Compass Rose yard waste into the bed of her battered pickup. The guests were all asleep, the employees yet to show up. She had the grounds to herself, just her and Grace Harbor, the quiet lap of the water against the rocks punctuated by the cries of the gulls.

Some people took time to find their place in the world. Cady had always known she belonged in Maine. Her brother, Walker, might have moved to Manhattan; her sister, Max, might have tried out Chicago before coming back to settle in Portland. As far as Cady was concerned, there was nowhere else she’d rather be than on this particular bit of coast. Life down east might not always be easy, but it satisfied her soul.