Читать книгу Bet on My Heart - J.M. Jeffries - Страница 11

Chapter 3

Hendrix walked out into the hot noon sun. Reno was so different from San Francisco, which was cool during the day and downright cold at night. Mark Twain had once said that the coldest winter he’d ever experienced was a summer spent in San Francisco. She missed the fog, the activity, even the culture. If Reno didn’t work out she could always go back. But she didn’t want to—she wanted to leave her mark here. This was her home now.

Having survived her first week with Donovan was a relief. She hadn’t blown anything up or set fire to the kitchen. She decided she deserved a little treat. She climbed into her VW bug with the ladybug paint job, complete with eyelashes over the headlights. She headed for her favorite vintage fashion store after a quick stop at her house for some cupcakes she’d frozen for Hazel, the owner of Vintage Fashions. They’d be defrosted by the time she arrived.

Hazel Winston’s vintage shop was a small store set in a tiny, out-of-the-way strip mall. She was a tall, curvy blonde with sparkling blue eyes and a penchant for vintage fashion. The store itself was small and felt cluttered with a dozen racks of clothes, shelves of vintage accessories and boxes of gently used shoes. On the walls, Hazel had hung lattice and there she kept her most recent acquisitions. She was an expert on fashion from the forties and fifties and her passion showed in the white tulle Balenciaga wedding gown that floated in ethereal splendor on the most prominent wall in the store.

Hendrix gazed longingly at the Balenciaga wedding gown, but the price was too steep. Plus, she’d first need a man in her life, and that wasn’t part of the picture she had for her future.

Hazel dropped what she was doing and rushed over. She wore a pale yellow dress with a black-and-white polka dot neckline and cuffs—vintage Oleg Cassini.

“Did you bring my cupcakes?” Hazel demanded holding out a hand.

Hendrix handed over the box. “Hazel, do you have my dress?”

“I have three for you.” Hazel placed the box on the counter and, after a small peek inside, she led the way to the back of the store. “Thank you for the cupcakes. They look wonderful.”

“This is why I love you.” Hendrix followed her. “You love my cupcakes.”

“Everyone loves your cupcakes.”

Hendrix had been supplying her friend with baked goods for a couple years. Part of Hazel’s clientele came just for a quick snack while browsing the store.

Hazel grabbed the three dresses she’d found and hung each one over a hook on the wall. Hendrix was immediately drawn to a navy blue dress with embroidered yellow daisies on the halter top and a full skirt that flowed out over a white crinoline. She barely looked at the other two. One, a Dior form-fitting street dress of gray-and-green serge was almost as cute. The third dress was a black, pleated Coco Chanel silk dress with creamy white contrasting silk at the neck, cuffs and hem that would look heavenly on a romantic date.

“I’m celebrating my first week on my new job.” She began to unbutton her yellow dress once she was in the dressing room.

“You didn’t insult a customer or set fire to the kitchen, did you?”

Hendrix laughed. “I don’t deal with customers anymore.” Just an annoying executive chef. “I sort of miss talking to them.” She didn’t miss the complaints. No matter how good something was, one person would be dissatisfied. “And for your information, I only set fire to a stove once when I was adding butter rum to a chocolate sauce and some splashed over the rim of the pot.”

Hazel laughed. “Where’s the new job?” Hazel held out her hand for Hendrix’s dress.

“Hotel de Mariposa,” Hendrix answered as she pulled the navy blue halter dress over her head and settled it around her curves. The designers in the fifties really understood how to accent a woman’s natural curves, which was one of the reasons she loved vintage fashion so much. She wasn’t forced to slide her curves into current fashions designed for girls who looked like sticks.

“Ooh. The new in place. You are moving up in the world.” Hazel helped Hendrix adjust the dress.

Hendrix stepped back to view herself in the full-length mirror clamped to the wall. Nice. A little nip at the waist and it would be perfect. She twisted and turned to see herself fully. “I’m going to wear this swing dancing next week. And I have just the right shoes for it.” She’d found navy blue platform shoes in a sale bin at a resale store in San Francisco a couple years ago and she’d been saving them for just the right dress.

She wondered if Donovan did swing dancing. That would be a hoot, watching him trying to keep up with her doing the Lindy Hop or the jitterbug. She did a couple steps of the Lindy Hop and watched in satisfaction at the way the skirt flowed around her long legs in just the right wave action. This dress was perfect. She twisted her hips in a couple more moves and grinned at Hazel.

“I’ll take it.” She had room on her credit card and with the new job she would be able to pay the card next month and still indulge herself.

Hazel helped her out of the dress and back into her own clothes. She fondled the dress as Hazel folded it and led her to the front of the store.

She walked out into the blazing Reno sun ready to take on the culinary world.

* * *

“The guests at table five are demanding to see the executive chef,” the hostess, Rena Masters, said as she ran through the kitchen.

Donovan took off his apron and made his way through the kitchen and out into the restaurant to table five, wondering if they were complaining or complimenting. It was always a crapshoot.

“Are you the executive chef?” a woman demanded. She was in her early sixties with snow-white hair and a lovely face that owed its youthfulness to genetics rather than Botox. The man with her was distinguished-looking. He nodded politely after a smile.

“I’m Donovan Russell,” Donovan said.

“I’m Lenore Abernathy. This is my husband, Bruce. You’re apple custard tarts are divine. I’ve never had one so amazing before. How much do I have to pay you to get this recipe for my restaurant?”

Donovan reeled. The whole restaurant community knew who Lenore Abernathy was. Her restaurant, Piquant, was world famous. “It’s a secret recipe.”

She stared at him and he tried not to quake. “I would kill for your secret recipe.”

Donovan was too stunned to think straight. “Um...” How would he tell her that he had no idea what his new pastry chef had put in the tart?

“Donovan Russell,” Bruce said. “I know your name. Don’t you own Le Noir in Paris?”

“I did. I sold it to come to Reno and help my grandmother out.”

Lenore nodded sagely. “I read about your grandmother. She won this place in a poker game.”

“That’s my grandmother.”

“Bruce and I are on our annual food tour,” Lenore explained. “And I need this recipe. I will be happy to call it the Russell tart.”

“I don’t know if I want to be a tart,” Donovan said.

Lenore stared at him, eyes wide with surprise, and burst into laughter. “I do like a man with a sense of humor.” She pointed at the empty chair across from her. “Sit down. Let’s talk food.”

Donovan couldn’t refuse. She was authoritative, a bit too much like his grandmother. He couldn’t say no to one of the most successful restaurateurs in the United States. He sat down and tried to figure out what he was going to say to her. He couldn’t say he didn’t know what Hendrix had added. And he couldn’t just make something up and expect Lenore to be satisfied. She was astute, shrewd and a woman of substance. She would know he was lying.

“As you know, recipes are sacred,” he began.

Her eyes narrowed. “Piquant is not only known for its dinners, but its desserts. And my clientele also buys my upscale frozen foods. I want to try this out in my restaurant. Who knows, it might make its way into the frozen food section of your favorite supermarket.”

Donovan listened, thinking hard. His grandmother had told him food would bring people in. People came for the gambling and stayed for the extras. Having the tart featured at Piquant would also put the Mariposa on the map of food connoisseurs looking for the newest food experience.

He had two thoughts. First he had to sample the tart. Second he had to talk to Hendrix and find out what she did.

“I need to think about this and talk to my grandmother.” And he should probably talk to a lawyer. He’d developed the basic recipe, but Hendrix had added to it, which he figured would make them co-owners. The whole idea was too confusing to think about at that moment.

“That’s good enough,” Lenore said. “My husband and I are leaving tomorrow, but we’ll be back later in the summer. I will admit we love this hotel. The service is exceptional and the spa is to die for. Who knew I would find this gem in Reno? We’ll be in touch.”

Donovan knew when he’d been dismissed. He stood, thanked them both and retreated to the kitchen. He needed to talk to his grandmother, as well.

Having Lenore Abernathy want to add his dessert to her menu was an incredible opportunity. Yet, he was annoyed with Hendrix for doing exactly what he’d asked her not to do.

He grabbed an apple custard tart on his way through the kitchen. In his office, he sat at his desk and stared at it. The tart looked innocent enough and it was beautiful. Creamy custard bathed the apple slices arranged in a circle. A golden raisin anchored the center with two crescent shaped kiwis forming the leaves. The tart was a work of art. How had Hendrix found the time to do this? She was only one woman working the whole shift alone.

His brother Scott walked into his office, a half-eaten brownie in his hand. “Hey, bro. When did your dessert skills get so good? This is damn snacky.” He held up a brownie.

“I can make a dessert.”

Scott studied him. “What you can do with a steak is akin to Michelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel. But desserts? Not so much. Do not make me remind you of the ‘what’ cake.”

Donovan almost shuddered. He remembered the “what” cake too clearly. The “what” cake was Donovan’s first attempt to make a cake by himself when he was eight years old. Everything had gone according to the recipe, but when he took the cake out of the oven, the top layer looked more like a ramp than a perfectly domed cake. He tried to use icing to correct the slant, but the icing turned out too wet and kept sliding off. Miss E. wouldn’t allow them to waste the cake and made them eat it. Donovan’s oldest brother, Hunter looked at the cake and said, “what cake is that?”

“I’ve improved.”

“Right.” Scott just grinned.

Donovan grabbed the brownie and took a bite. The flavors practically exploded on his tongue. The brownie was a light yet dense chocolate extravaganza with undertones that made his mouth water. The basic recipe was his, but she’d added something to it. What was the last bit of flavor? Maple! No, not maple. Caramel? Maybe. And a touch of something else he couldn’t identify. Damn, the brownie was good. More than good, decadent. More than decadent—it was food fit for the gods.

The woman could cook. First her tart was going to put him on the foodie radar and now her brownie was touched by hands of angels. If this was only a small indication of what Hendrix was capable of, he was going to have to live with her kookiness.

“I have to get two more to take home to Nina,” Scott said.

“Nina is going to spin this, isn’t she?”

“This brownie is going to be on a billboard.”

Donovan could see the billboard in his mind and tried not to shudder. He did like his soon to be sister-in-law, but her mind never shut down. Donovan had already had one meeting with her in which she’d lain out her campaign to make the restaurants a five-star attraction. Nina was a bulldozer, jamming ideas at him every chance she got, making him want to run back to Paris.

His food had been the star of his restaurant in Paris. His reputation was his food. He wanted it to be the star of the casino, but Hendrix’s desserts were eclipsing him. First, Lenore Abernathy and now Scott raved about the desserts but said nothing about the food. He would have to up his game. His food needed to outshine the desserts. How? He didn’t know yet. His philosophy was all about slow and steady winning the race. When he developed a dish, he spent days thinking about it and weeks experimenting. His process was drawn out, painstaking and emotionally exhausting. And in one week, Hendrix, who just seemed to throw things together without thinking, had bested him.

Scott punched him on the arm. “Where did you just go in your head?”

“Thinking. Thinking...about...scallops.” He wasn’t certain he could tell his brother his ego had just gotten a big old kick in the butt. That would be unmanly.

“Really. Scallops. You didn’t have a scallops look on your face.”

Donovan frowned at his brother. Finally, he shrugged. “Since we’re grown-ups, I’ll confess. Hendrix Beausolie, the new pastry chef, made the brownies. And her desserts are better than my food and I don’t I like it.” His ego was definitely taking a huge hit.

Scott grinned. “That’s my brother—always has to be the prettiest one at the dance, or no one is going to have any fun.”

“I’m not going feel ashamed that my ego is dented. Maybe a little healthy competition is just what I need.” In school, his instructors had told him he had a gift for food. He’d studied hard and worked hard developing his technique. To have another person with no formal training and a haphazard approach outshine him was just plain insulting. In Paris, he made it to the top in a city of outstanding chefs. Reno wasn’t exactly the food Capitol of the world and he hardly expected to find any real competition. He’d accepted the challenge of building a dynasty with his family because he’d known, despite his reservations, that his grandmother was on to something.

Hunter and Scott thought Miss E.’s winning the Mariposa was a fluke. Donovan, being the youngest, had spent a lot of time studying his grandmother. He’d watched Miss E. manipulate them all into getting what she wanted. There would never be a middle-of-the-road goal for the Russell clan.

He’d watched his grandmother channel them all into the careers they’d entered once she’d figured out where their interests lay. Kenzie and Hunter were the artistic ones. Scott had had the potential to be either a cop or a master criminal, but Miss E. put him on the right road. And as for him, she’d known he enjoyed puttering with food and tastes. Even as a child, he loved to cook. She was a good cook herself, but her food was an expression of her love for her grandchildren, rather than just a skill set.

He wondered what food meant to Hendrix. Donovan got pleasure out of watching people eat his food and be transported by the combination of tastes and the artistic presentation. He suspected Hendrix wasn’t interested in watching people eat, she wanted to play with tastes more to amuse herself than for accolades. And she liked to eat. He’d seen her dip a finger into batter and taste it. He’d also noticed how she made small samples for herself, which she also ate before she pronounced whatever cake or pie or tart she’d made good enough to be served to the public.

He had to find out what she was doing, how she was doing it and how to channel her technique so that it would benefit everyone. She’d bruised his ego, but his ego wasn’t a fragile thing. Cooking wasn’t for sissies. One of his teachers at the Cordon Bleu once told him, to ensure success in this business you to have skin as thick as your ego is big. And Donovan had a very thick skin.