The angry-looking man, whose name I’d promptly forgotten, glared at the cottage behind me like it had single-handedly murdered his entire family. “So, the Williams Award, huh? Pretty big deal. How are you guys handling the attention? I bet you’re getting a lot more customers than you’re used to.”
He was talking to me like I was a child running a lemonade stand with her parents’ money.
I shrugged and smoothed my apron, letting the pleasant texture of the coarse linen distract me from the unpleasantness of this man’s voice. “It’s been a wild few months, that’s for sure. Lots of folks from away coming to eat here. But it’s amazing to build a community of people who really care about good food.” The sun inched higher in the sky. I needed to get back inside, put the first loaves of sourdough in the oven, and start prepping the berries for the tarts.
A long, tense silence stretched between us. Normally, I would have invited them in for coffee and a few fat slices of peach cake left over from last night’s dessert service. But something about the three of them unsettled me. The fancy suit, the rough demeanor, the...well, I didn’t have time to think about why Adah had me all out of alignment.
“I read your interview in Bread & Wine. Sounds like you take the whole ‘farm-to-table’ thing pretty seriously.” Mr. Jerkface said farm-to-table like a particularly foul swearword.
“Sure do.” I plastered a smile on my face. I felt like a politician when all I wanted to do was stop talking and start working. “My dad’s a lobsterman and my mom ran this place as a coffee shop my whole life. This is my home. I want the food to reflect that. To taste both familiar and exciting.” As much as I meant it, it was a canned response. One I’d given a dozen or so times since people started asking me silly questions about my culinary philosophy. Whatever in the world that meant.
“What’s your staff situation look like?” I half expected this guy to pull out his phone and start recording. Adah and the fancy suit dude exchanged a meaningful look.
“Well...” I trailed off for a long moment, letting the irritation creep up my throat just a little more. I didn’t owe these people anything. And they still hadn’t told me what they wanted. Was this a thing big shot restaurant people did? Drive out to small-town eateries and pester the owners with weird questions? I sighed. “It’s just me, my best friend Nina, and my brother, Andrew, in the kitchen. Plus Ahmed, our front of house superstar, and our two servers.” I left out the fact that one of said servers spent most of his time on shift getting stoned and that I was desperately in need of about five more people I could not possibly afford to pay a decent wage, which meant I was a living, breathing poster child for overwork. I rolled my neck and inhaled deeply.
“That’s a pretty lean operation.” Adah shot me an unreadable expression.
Usually, I could get a sense of a person’s energy within the first few minutes of meeting them, understand who they were and what they were looking for. My mom called it empathy. My brother called me a psychic. Really, people just made sense to me. But not this woman.
Adah squinted back at the cottage, shielding her eyes with her elegant hand. Smoke poured from the stone chimney. Fuck. I’d forgotten to adjust the flue before rushing outside and the fire had gotten too hot. In all likelihood the kitchen temperature had climbed from hot as hell to face-meltingly sweltering, meaning my dough would be trash. This little conversation had cost me a good thirty minutes of work. Now instead of slipping the breads into the oven, I’d have to tamp the flames, start over on my choux pastry, and recalibrate my entire morning. No way in hell was I getting around to the job posting today.
“Looks like your oven’s burning too hot.” Adah nodded, a sharp definitive motion.
Suddenly, rage engulfed me, whole and scalding. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was the ache in my lower back. Maybe it was the fact that after years spent running away from my hometown I was still reeling from my decision to come back. When I spoke, my voice was brittle and too loud. Unfamiliar. “Thanks. I know that. You all have been taking up my morning and I have to say, I’m not quite sure why. So, if you need something, please enlighten me. Otherwise, I have to get back to work.” Probably by most standards I wasn’t being that rude. The few disastrous months I’d spent at culinary school had taught me that most chefs and bakers carried explosive tempers beneath their neatly starched whites. But that wasn’t me. At least not usually.
At my words Adah visibly stiffened and took a step away from me, her face going from unreadable to stormy. Mr. Jerkface muttered something under his breath. The guy in the slick suit stepped forward, the perfect picture of hospitality polish.
“Of course.” His voice was heavily accented and butter smooth. “We’ve been terribly rude. Allow me to apologize. And to explain. My restaurant group is opening a new fine-dining spot in town. Bella Vista, as Chef Campbell mentioned. None of us are from the area and we wanted to get to know some of the other local talent. Your restaurant has made quite the impression and we wanted to see it for ourselves. But of course, I understand how busy you must be.” He shot me a winning smile and handed me a business card. “Please come by anytime. Our soft opening is in two weeks. We would love to see you there.”
I wanted to be gracious, but my words remained bitter and harsh, like tea brewed too strong. “Well thanks for stopping by. Like I said, I have to get back to work.” I should have turned on my heel then, marched back into the cottage, and poured myself a fresh cup of coffee. Instead, my mouth kept moving, a good fifty paces ahead of my brain. “Besides, I don’t think that we’ll have a big overlap in business, so you shouldn’t worry. The cruise ship crowd doesn’t make it out to Port Catherine all that much. If you’re looking to get a better sense of your competition, I recommend you stop by Caruso’s on the waterfront.” Okay, now I was definitely being rude, both to these folks and the poor Caruso family, who ran a perfectly respectable, if old-school, seafood place. Sure, I was frustrated by the influx of people from Boston and Manhattan coming up to Maine to buy up property, drive up rents, and replace family-run businesses with soulless corporate operations. But I had no idea what this Bella Vista restaurant was even going to be. And really, I thought it was nice that they were reaching out personally to other businesses.
An apology was on the tip of my tongue when the kitchen window clattered open and Nina’s blond head popped out. “Beth, sorry to bother you, babe, but what’s-his-face at Moonbeam Farm just called. I guess the storm the other night wiped out his spinach. Andrew says we have a little bit left in our beds but either way we need to totally rethink tonight’s menu. I could do the tomato and green garlic orecchiette again but...” She trailed off, probably aware that she was shouting her stream of consciousness thoughts across the courtyard.
After holding up a finger and shooting my best friend an amused eye roll, I turned back to the group. Fancy suit guy was once again extending his manicured hand, politely thanking me for my time. I tried for my kindest smile and stammered an approximation of an apology for my earlier rudeness and busy morning. But Adah, the one I oddly wanted to hear my words, had stalked away. She leaned against the car, arms crossed over her chest, infuriating blank expression on her face. I was too damn busy for this kind of thinking, but for a brief moment I thought she looked like the tough greasers I’d fantasized about after devouring The Outsiders when it was assigned as summer reading in seventh grade. I imagined the rough feel of her hands on my face, tangling into my hair, the soft brush of her lips against mine. She would smell like soap and citrus with a slight spicy base note. And she would taste...