The Secret Ingredient Read online

  “Coffee... Must have coffee.” Nina’s scratchy voice preceded her round, flushed face.

  I inclined my head to the blue and white speckled percolator keeping warm next to the hearth. “Just made another pot.”

  “You’re a goddess.” Nina was still dressed in her running clothes, a pair of tiny spandex shorts and a hot pink tank top. Her golden hair was pulled back in a sloppy ponytail. We’d been inseparable since childhood and drunkenly slept together a few times before settling back into a cozy, supportive friendship. She was a gifted cook, responsible for the vegetable-forward dishes that helped put our tiny kitchen on the culinary map. Nina poured us each a mug, adding a healthy splash of milk and two spoonfuls of sugar to mine. “What time did you get here, anyway?”

  “Five.” I tried not to let any exhaustion creep into my voice.

  “Beth!” Nina looked as though she might slap me. “You need to sleep, honey! Want me to do the job posting stuff?”

  Guilt swelled in my stomach. This wasn’t just about me. Being short-staffed and busier than ever also meant Nina and Andrew suffered. “No,” I sighed. “You can get started on your prep. I can’t stop thinking we’re never going to find the right person. Roy was such a disappointment.”

  Nina scoffed. “Yeah, in more ways than one.”

  A laugh bubbled up from my belly as I turned back to the oven to ensure all of the wood had caught. The temperature needed to regulate by eight thirty so I could get the first of the breads and pastries in.

  The door clattered open and Andrew walked in, a stormy expression eclipsing my brother’s normal goofy half smile. “Beth. Some people outside to see you.”

  Since The Yellow House had been awarded Best New Restaurant in the Northeast by the Martin Williams Foundation, a prestigious culinary organization I’d never heard of prior to receiving the letter in the mail, we’d been bombarded with reporters, bloggers, and more diners than we could possibly keep up with. Usually, though, they didn’t show up a full four hours before we opened for the day.

  Peeking through the window at the small gravel parking lot, I spotted a gleaming black Mercedes and three people sitting at one of the picnic tables in the garden. I wiped my hands on my apron and patted my hair, hoping that my curls hadn’t dried in a frizzy mess. Dressing in the dark, I’d hardly had a moment to make sure my socks matched before dashing out of the house. A few too many times these visitors were enthusiastic with the photos and I appeared in Instagram posts and blog entries looking like a wild and unruly thing.

  “Good morning!” I called as I bounded down the stairs. The morning air brushed cool against my clammy skin. Before the fire settled down, the kitchen tended to get unbearably hot. The sunlight had gathered itself into soft rays that glistened off the dew in the vegetable and herb patches. A monarch butterfly fluttered across my path and I paused, letting it take its time. Medusa, the barn-cat-turned-restaurant-mascot, snoozed on one of the picnic tables, blissfully oblivious of the visitors.

  At the sound of my voice all three of them stood: a tall, slim man in a beautifully tailored suit, a shorter man with a ruddy, irritable face, and another person with their back to me. She turned. Immediately my cheeks heated, and an awkward laugh bubbled up from my throat.

  She was like something plucked from my adolescent queer fantasies. Bad boy and tough woman rolled into one. She wore dark jeans, a thick leather belt, and a white T-shirt with the sleeves cuffed a few times up to reveal sinewy biceps. Her dark blond hair was pushed back from her flawless, angular face in a messy not-quite-pompadour. Straight eyebrows a few shades darker than her hair. A long, delicate nose. Lips that probably would have been ample were they not pressed together in a tense frown.

  “How can I help you folks?” I bit back the comment that we didn’t open until eleven and offered a sweet smile instead.

  The woman stepped forward without missing a beat, extending her hand. I closed the gap between us, shivering as her long fingers brushed my palm. Her skin was warm and a little work-rough. A heavy quiet settled over me as we shook hands. I had the strange thought that I could have held her hand all day. Up close I realized her narrow, wary eyes were a soft shade of green. They widened for a fraction of a second before she stepped back, shoving her hands into her pockets.

  “I’m Adah Campbell, the new executive chef at Bella Vista. This is Sean Jacobs, our GM, and Riccardo Visconti, the head of our restaurant group.” Beneath the formal veneer of her words, her voice thrummed with life. Her accent wasn’t quite Southern, more country than anything else. It was the sound of humid thunderstorms and steaming biscuits slathered in home-churned butter. I never wanted her to stop talking.

  I exchanged far briefer handshakes with the two men.

  “Well, lovely to meet you.” I fiddled with a stray curl that kept bouncing in and out of my peripheral vision. “I’m Beth Summers, the madwoman behind this whole operation.” I jabbed my thumb back at the house.

  I had no earthly idea what Bella Vista was. To be fair, though, I hadn’t eaten at another restaurant in ages. Most of my meals consisted of late-night affairs conjured up after the final guests left for the night. I’d developed the bad habit of burrowing into my own life so deep I sometimes forgot a world outside of The Yellow House existed.

  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...

  No. Nope. No way. Not going there. I needed to focus. I had a restaurant to run.

  Chapter Three

  Adah

  It turned out starting your own kitchen from scratch was nothing like being promoted up from sous-chef. The past two weeks had been a blur of writing and scrapping menu idea after menu idea, interviewing staff, trying and mostly succeeding to block out my general manager’s blatant sexism, and consuming genuinely unholy quantities of caffeine.

  But this morning as I speed-walked the six blocks to work, large iced coffee in hand, the warm sea breeze caressing my cheeks, the usual hordes of tourists clogging the brick sidewalks didn’t even phase me. I took in the details of my new town that I usually tuned out during my short commute: the mix of kitschy tourist shops selling T-shirts printed with bad lobster puns, the old man tossing bread crusts to a teeming mass of pigeons and seagulls in the town square, the way the clear morning light made the cobbled streets and brick buildings look like something out of one of Peter’s old storybooks. Confidence and something like hope swelled big and bright inside my chest.

  I’d done it. I had a great menu, with simple takes on mostly Spanish and Italian coastal classics, and a fantastic team. Well mostly fantastic. I was particularly thrilled with Mac, the quiet storm of a woman I’d hired as my sous-chef. She’d started out as an oyster shucker at what she described as “a shithole tourist joint” in a town in Massachusetts I’d never heard of and worked her way up to an assistant chef position at one of Boston’s finest restaurants. She was fast, serious, and tough.

  My only concern lay with the pastry chef Sean had insisted on hiring. I’d wanted to hire Grace, a peppy young woman, who, yes, was relatively inexperienced but had also made a perfectly textured olive oil cake with fresh peaches and a delightfully silky sabayon sauce. Instead we’d gone with the culinary school grad with a mile-long resume and blasé, entitled personality. Not only had our new hire shown up for the interview ten minutes late, it appeared he never stayed more than a few months at a given establishment, seeming to bounce around all of the buzzier spots in town. I wanted someone committed. Serious. Sturdy. Worst of all, I’d been underwhelmed by his blood orange panna cotta. Pastry wasn’t even my strong suit and I could have whipped up something better. I’d been downright vexed when the guy didn’t bother to show up at our first staff family meal. But my mama’s words slid down their well-worn groove in my mind: kindness, forbearance, and patience, Adah. Best to put my head down and see what came of the situation.

  I stopped in front of the restaurant, drawing in a deep breath. The summer air here was clean and pleasantly briny, a far cry from the exhaust-choked humidity of Chicago and muddy river smell of home. I shook my head. No. This was home now. This red brick building by the sea. The cedar-shingled apartment with its squeaky floorboards and tiny, always-dripping shower. This unfamiliar state where no one knew me, and I was just fine keeping it that way.

  Well, two people knew me. I pulled my phone out of my back pocket and sent
a quick text to Vanessa and Peter.

  Heading into work now. Call the restaurant if you need me. Hope you two have fun today.

  Immediately my landlady-turned-guardian-angel responded with a slightly out of focus selfie of her and Peter in flour-dusted aprons. A moment later another message came through.

  We’re cooking this morning in your honor. Making blueberry muffins to bring on our hike! Don’t worry we’ll eat something healthy too. Go get em girlie!

  I laughed softly to myself then started at the sound of someone coming up fast behind me. My heart hammered hard in my chest and my throat clenched tight. I willed myself to breathe.

  “So, you do smile, huh?” My sous-chef’s low voice was a welcome sound.

  “Sometimes.” I shrugged, hastily trying to compose my features. Neutral expression. I couldn’t afford to start today off on the wrong foot.

  Mac took a long sip from a jar of...something green and murky. She was dressed in loose jeans and a wash-worn Prince concert T-shirt. Her arms were muscular and heavily tattooed in a vintage style. She pushed back her mess of dark curls and smirked at me. “It’s a nice day and all, boss, but what do you say we head inside and get to it.”

  Today was our soft opening and there was no room for error. And for the most part everything went off without a hitch. My staff communicated well, moved quickly, and everyone showed up on time. Everyone, that was, but our dang pastry chef. He didn’t bother to show up at all. Five hours into the day, after I’d frantically reprinted the menus to replace his planned assortment of petit fours and chocolate cherry torte with the blueberry puddings one of the assistant chefs pulled right out of thin air, the stupid jerk left a message informing us he’d accepted a gig in Boston instead. Great.

  I knew what I should do. I should check in on everyone’s mise and follow up with a few suppliers whose deliveries hadn’t been quite up to my standards. I should sift through the other applications and make a few calls to find someone else. Instead I stalked down the dimly lit hall to Sean’s tiny office. Technically it was my office too, but I wasn’t exactly eager to share seventy-five square feet of space with the guy. He sat behind his computer, one of the stupid acoustic covers of punk songs he loved playing a little too loud.