Recipe For Redemption

“Amazingly well, actually. Tents and banners should start going up around town and in Skipper Park sometime tomorrow, and Calliope has offered her empty property at Duskywing Farm for the open house on Thursday night. We lucked out with the timing. Being able to celebrate Butterfly Harbor’s anniversary when we’ve got a town full of people gives us a chance to show off. One hundred twenty-five years is nothing to sneeze at. Plus, we’ll get that national exposure thanks to all the media coverage.”

“The Cocoon Club is anxious to expand on their success from the Pig in a Poke BBQ cook-off.” The group of Butterfly Harbor seniors had their fingers in a lot of events these days. She only wished she could convince Gran to get involved with them again. Abby flipped open the pamphlet for the upcoming festival and immediately locked on the bolded wording on the second page. “Wait. This is an amateur cooking competition? As in no talent required?” With a hefty fifty-thousand-dollar first prize. Was this the universe’s way of bashing her over the head with a skillet? “Who’s sponsoring this? ShopMax Foods?”

“Hardly,” Gil chuckled. “I told you, sponsorships have been rolling in. And NCN is footing most of it. They’re hoping to find some new on-air talent. Since Butterfly Harbor pitched in a good chunk from our discretionary fund, we get to host the two-day competition while Pacific Grove and Monterey will pick up the other events. You know, now that I think about it—” Gil angled a look at her that told Abby his thought wasn’t new at all “—it would be nice to have someone from Butterfly Harbor representing us to really get the community involved. I wonder if Matilda has any suggestions.”

Why did he insist on asking questions he already knew the answers to?

“Last I heard she and Ursula were somewhere around Ohio.” That motor home of theirs had more miles on it than the space shuttle, but the sisters’ charity trek had become an annual event, one Abby wasn’t about to get in the way of, not when both Matilda and Ursula were breast cancer survivors.

“What about you?” Gil asked.

“What about me?”

“You should enter, Abby. There’s no one more amateur than you. Think about it. They’re only allowing three competitors, so your chances of winning might be better than we think.”

Was he serious? “Sarcasm aside, I doubt that’s a good idea.” Even if she had the inclination, by the time word got around town of her scone BBQ this morning, they’d probably start a petition to ban her from even owning a kitchen.

Still... She bit her lip. Fifty thousand dollars.

“Including one of our oldest businesses would look great in the advertising. Besides, you have the personality for it,” Gil said. “Then there’s the added advertising the inn wouldn’t have to pay for. All you’d need to do is come up with the entry fee. Don’t say no. Not until you check it out, but FYI, the deadline to enter is tomorrow.” He rapped his knuckles on her table and headed out.

Temptation and opportunity knocked. That money could be the answer to her problems. Assuming she won, of course. And Gil was right about one thing: no one was more amateur than her. Oh, this was crazy, wasn’t it? Even crazy for Abby, who wasn’t known for always making the most reasoned decisions. The smoke detector was evidence of that.

She was getting ahead of herself. She couldn’t make any decision until she got a look at the books. It could be she was worried over something a good couple of months could fix, in which case she had time to come up with a gangbusters promotion plan.

No reason to put all her expectations on a competition she didn’t have any hope of winning. Not until she knew what she was dealing with. But...she supposed it could be an option. A nuclear option, but still an option.

“Your order will be ready in about ten.” Holly returned after filling her customers’ coffee cups and clearing some tables. “What was that about?” She aimed a suspicious glance at Gil’s retreating back.

“Possibilities.” Abby shoved the brochure into her purse and smiled. “Do me a favor—add a small strawberry shake to that order? Lori deserves to remember life is all about enjoyment and taking chances.”

Now all Abby had to do was remember the same thing.

CHAPTER THREE

ABBY MADE IT until five that afternoon before she uncorked that bottle of wine. The nuclear option was looking better by the second.

For the first time in memory, keeping a good thought had failed her. Not only had Mr. Vartebetium’s fiscal warnings been shy of the mark, but they’d be lucky to keep the doors of the Flutterby Inn open through the summer.

Her employees and friends’ jobs aside, she couldn’t, wouldn’t let Gran lose her home. Abby would go down swinging if she had to in order to make sure Alice lived out the rest of her life feeling safe and secure.

Meanwhile, Abby would start a list of words she didn’t ever want to see in print again, beginning with back taxes and ending with pipe replacement. Even worse, the money she’d been assured had been set aside for a booth at one of the food festival’s events didn’t exist. There wasn’t seventy dollars to spare, let alone seven hundred. She still had employees and bills to pay.

Not even the normally comforting waves of the Pacific worked their magic this evening. Nor did sitting on the bench in one of the more picturesque areas of Butterfly Harbor, on the hill outside the Flutterby. The cypress trees arched their branches in framed perfection while the frothy foam bubbled up and draped over the rocks below in the lazy tide. Every time Abby tried to find the bright spot, any bright spot, she floundered like a beached dolphin who had taken a wrong and very unfortunate turn.

What she did have, aside from a half-filled glass of wine and a too-thin sweater to keep the coastal chill off her skin, was a circling dread.

“I’ve learned one thing about your Butterfly Harbor today.” Jay Corwin’s voice scraped over her raw nerves as he approached from behind, his footfalls crunching in the gravel and sand. “You have a beautiful secret here.”

Abby couldn’t help it. She smiled, then hid the expression behind her wineglass as she sipped. “It won’t be secret much longer. The new butterfly sanctuary they’re hoping to build should put us on the map. So to speak,” she added. Albeit probably too late for the Flutterby to benefit.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

She looked at him, trying to find a diplomatic way to say no, but she couldn’t, especially not when she recognized the same tinge of tension and sadness she’d seen in her own reflection recently. Abby scooted over on the bench. “I’m sorry. I didn’t bring another glass.”

“It’s fine, I’m not a big pinot fan.” Jay glanced at the brass plaque on the back of the bench before he sat—a little closer than she’d expected, a lot farther than she wanted—and shoved his hands into the lightweight navy parka he wore. “Bob Manning. Your father?”

“Grandfather.” Abby took in Jay’s acclimated attire of jeans and flannel shirt. He struck her as a man who fit in wherever he went, especially with that assessing gaze of his. She’d never seen a color like his, with shimmering silver depths beneath the ocean blue. She didn’t need to note his strong jaw to be reminded of his stubbornness or the permanent crease in his brow to make her wonder if he ever smiled. She hadn’t really noticed before—probably hadn’t been paying attention. He seemed incredibly sad. Now she wished she hadn’t been quite so snippy with him.

“Grandpa Bob died five years ago,” she said. “Right here, as a matter of fact. Came out to watch the sunset one night and went peacefully. Broke Gran’s heart, but I can’t think of a better way for him to go. The sunsets here are worth waiting for.”

“It seems a nice place to grow up. What about your parents?” Perhaps if this friendlier, inquisitive Jay had appeared in her kitchen this morning, she might not have spent part of the day dreaming of putting itching powder in his bed.

“They died in a car accident when I was four.” She pulled out a pair of gold rings and a diamond solitaire on a thin gold chain and held them between her fingers. “I’ve seen pictures of them, but I can’t be sure if I remember them. Gran gave me these when I turned thirteen.” She kissed the rings and tucked them away again. “Makes me feel as if I have a couple of guardian angels. Friendly ghosts, you know? It’s why I never take it off.” And wow, wasn’t she chatty with someone she wasn’t sure she liked. “Butterfly Harbor’s been my home ever since.”

He looked as if he wanted to apologize or offer sympathy, but couldn’t quite find the words. When he did respond, he said, “I’ve never really understood the appeal of small towns. I’ve always lived in big cities. Even spent some time in London and Paris. They’re all busy. Loud. I didn’t realize silence could be just as loud.”

“So Gran was right?” Abby said, grateful for the distraction he provided. She didn’t want to dwell on the red marks in the inn’s accounting ledger. “New York?”

“Born and raised, then I traveled some.” He leaned back and stretched his long legs out, crossed his ankles and sank into the late afternoon. “I like the peacefulness. Not sure for how long, though.”

“I know a couple of kids who could shatter that silence in a second. Say the word. My godson and his best friend have been known to violate the town’s noise ordinance.”

Jay’s brow furrowed. “Noise ordinance?”

“I’m joking.” And not doing a very good job of it, for a change. Maybe she needed a nap. “We’d have to have a lot more residents to need an ordinance, and I don’t think Luke would want that on his shoulders, anyway.”

“Would that be Sheriff Saxon? I met him while I was walking around town earlier. Nice guy. Nice dog, too.”

Cash. How many times had she thought about ways to snatch that lovable mutt from the sheriff? “He’d better be, since he’s marrying my best friend.” As far as Abby was concerned, Luke was one of the most decent men she’d ever known, even though he’d be the first to shy from the compliment. “We’re hoping he’ll be done using the cane before the wedding.”

The wedding. Abby closed her eyes, bit her lip. Darn it. Holly’s early August wedding was scheduled to take place at the Flutterby. Add that to the list of things to worry about.

“What’s that look for?” Jay shifted to face her more fully, something Abby appreciated as she went back to focusing on him. She’d never found beards particularly attractive, but on Jay it worked. Gave him a bit of a sophisticated air she’d bet would only be accentuated should he drop into a crisp white shirt and dark suit— “Abby?”

“What? Oh, sorry.” Yeah, her thoughts really were getting away from her. “Just checking things off on my to-do list. That reminds me. I brought back more vouchers for the diner if you need them.”

“Yeah. About that.” He flinched as if she’d struck him. “I drove up to Monterey for lunch. Diners aren’t really my thing.”

There was that tone again, that authoritative I’m better than you are tone that proved she hadn’t imagined his arrogance this morning. “Not your thing?”

“You know.” He shifted his gaze out over the water. “Pedestrian. Boring.”

Pedestrian? There wasn’t anything pedestrian about Holly’s diner. Or her food. “In other words, diners are beneath you and your New York sensibilities.” So what had all the small-towns-are-charming comments been? Polite chitchat? Disarming her before he plunged the dagger in her heart?

“I didn’t say that.” But as he spoke, she heard the doubt in his voice.

“There’s a reason why diners last through the ages. They’re steadfast, sturdy.” Holly’s diner could be considered the spine of a shriveling town. A town she’d do anything to make successful again.

“Diners are also predictable and ordinary.”

She shifted on the bench. “They’re comfortable and homey.”

“They’re cheap and greasy.”

“Wow.” Abby shook her head, unable to fathom his disconnect from reality. “I knew it. You’re a snob. And fair warning, I wouldn’t throw any of those adjectives around when Holly’s nearby. She’s likely to smack you with her grandmother’s rolling pin.” And if Holly didn’t, Abby might. Who did this guy think he was, coming into town and passing judgment on everything she loved? Everything she’d fight until her last breath to protect?

“I’m not a snob.”

Given the offense in his voice, you’d have thought she called him a serial killer. “Tilt your nose down once in a while, Mr. Corwin. Otherwise you can’t see where you’re going. Or where you are.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Well, you did. Maybe you weren’t listening earlier, but this is my home. It’s the only place on earth where I belong. The people, the businesses, the cracks in the pavement I used to ride my tricycle over. You don’t get to come here to hide and judge anything you’re not willing to experience for yourself.”

“I don’t need to experience something to know it isn’t for me. And who says I’m hiding?”

“I run an inn, remember? I know hiding. And boy, Gran was right. You are New York through and through. Oh, wait. I’m sorry, am I judging you on someplace I haven’t been? Shame on me.” She swallowed the rest of her wine and got to her feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to take Gran to dinner at the diner before her bunco game. And FYI, you might want to get some earplugs, because believe it or not, we take silly things like bunco very seriously around here. Good night, Mr. Corwin.”

* * *

HOW DID “DINERS AREN’T my thing” lead to offending his hostess?

He really shouldn’t talk to people. It never went well. He wasn’t a snob. His father—now, he was a snob, and he didn’t make any apologies for it. Jason gnashed his teeth at the thought of being painted with the same brush as his father.

He didn’t get the impression Abby disliked many people—not after having witnessed her interact with her grandmother and those she worked with. He must have really pushed her buttons, which fascinated him. He wanted to think his interest in her was merely a result of having more time on his hands. He didn’t have the pressure of the restaurant or contracts or budgets or...anything. He couldn’t recall encountering anyone like her before, someone with more layers than an onion and the more he peeled away, the deeper he wanted to go.

Butterfly Harbor might not have the bustling activity of his native New York, but it had its own charm. He’d wandered around a good portion of it today, noticing the intricate puzzling of homes dotting the edges of Monarch Lane, what he assumed passed as Main Street, USA. He’d explored a couple of antique shops and the hardware store, even the throwback gift stores that reminded him of the old-fashioned five-and-dimes his mother had once told him about. He found their offerings eclectic, including all types of...yep, butterflies. The post office, reminiscent of a different era, sat wedged into one corner of a neighborhood grocery that had one of the best selections of organic meat and fish he’d ever come across. Truth be told, the selection of produce and food could have put the Chelsea Market to shame given a little extra push. Butterfly Harbor impressed him, but not nearly as much as the wide offering of locally farmed fresh produce.

David would have loved it here—the selection, the tight-knit community. If Vegas hadn’t already been knocking on their restaurant door, they’d have explored the idea of opening smaller, more specialized restaurants in places like Butterfly Harbor.

Inspiration knocked featherlight against his mind. It might have caught hold if he hadn’t been reminded every five steps of that blasted food festival. A weather-resistant banner proclaiming its start had been stretched across the entrance to Monarch Lane.

He’d watched trucks and trailers roll down the street and disappear around the hill. The rumble of engines and smell of gasoline took a bit of the small-town polish off the town, but he imagined an event like this would help keep businesses open and people employed.

Had he any inclination to dip his toe back in the water that was his former career, seeing Technicolor posters pop into windows as he passed was enough to make him want to scuttle back to the hotel and hole up in his room.

Even if he didn’t plan on attending the festival, seeing the town explode into celebration over its one hundred and twenty-fifth anniversary would take the sting off.

A sting that had settled ever since he’d entered the kitchen at the Flutterby Inn. As exhausted as he was, he wasn’t anxious to call it a night. Maybe it was the aftereffects of his conversation with Gary and reliving the last six months yet again. It didn’t matter what his father was doing with the company, not when Jason couldn’t do anything about it.

He’d destroyed his credibility with one wrong decision. No one was going to take him seriously in that world anymore. David could have, though. David could have survived anything.

Except a plane crash.

But Butterfly Harbor, despite its pending participation with his former colleagues, held his interest. He might not understand small-town appeal, but he didn’t like the idea of places like this disappearing. Especially if it meant people like Abby and her grandmother, and maybe even the cutesy diner down on Monarch Lane, would vanish into the past.

The diner. Jason sighed. He supposed he owed it to Abby to try the Butterfly Diner before passing judgment. He relished saying I told you so about as much as she’d probably enjoy telling him you were right.

Jason shook his head, got to his feet and followed the sandy, rocky path to the Flutterby. Maybe he’d keep his revelations, whatever they turned out to be, to himself. Unless it did turn out he was wrong.

In which case he’d have to find a way to choke down his least favorite dish: crow.

CHAPTER FOUR

“BUNCO!”

Abby couldn’t help but smile as celebratory cheers exploded from the dining room that overlooked the wave-heavy shoreline. The tides were rolling high tonight, crashing and cresting and echoing peacefully in her ears as she sat behind the registration counter, windows open, her fingers flicking the corner of the festival brochure.

“That’s five buncos since they started,” Lori said as she tugged on her coat. “That might be a new record.”

“Let’s hope Gran’s one of them, otherwise she’s going to be in a grumpy mood when the game’s done. Hey, Lori.” Abby had been putting this off all afternoon. “Are you good going full-time the next few weeks? Maybe even bunking in one of the smaller rooms until after the festival?”

“With my active social life?” Lori blinked wide eyes at her. “Whatever you need, I’m here. Something going on? Does it have something to do with that hot Mr. Corwin?”

“What?” Even the mention of his name was enough to set her blood to boiling. “No, of course not, and stop ogling our guests. I was thinking about entering that amateur cooking competition they’re holding here in Butterfly Harbor.”

“I’m sorry?” Lori’s arms dropped to her side as she stared. “You’re thinking about what?” That her friend was trying not to laugh should be confirmation enough Abby had gone and lost her mind, but she needed that money. She needed to do something to stop the Flutterby from failing. She needed to keep Gran in her home.

Not that entering was enough. She’d have to win.

But she’d worry about that later.

“For the advertisement?” Lori squeaked and fanned her face. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be laughing.”

“I know it sounds crazy.” Abby went along with Lori’s misconception. “The publicity could bring in a good chunk of business. And I figured Paige could give me cooking lessons.”

“Um.” The humor vanished from Lori’s face. “Then you might want to decide now if you’d like to remain friends. That’s not a great position to put someone in. It might make her an accessory when you torch the entire town.”

“I’m not that bad.” Maybe she needed that disclaimer tattooed on her forehead. “I get distracted. I can follow directions. They just get stuck somewhere between my brain and my hands.”

“You do know you set the oven to five hundred fifty degrees this morning, right?” Lori bit her lip. “I checked when I cleaned up the kitchen. I wanted to make sure everything still worked,” she added. “For when Matilda gets back.”

“I was running out of time.” But she kind of guessed that had been the cause. “I thought the scones would bake faster at a higher temperature.”

“That wouldn’t give the baking powder and soda time to activate. You took them from raw dough to rock hard almost instantly.”

“So you do know how to cook?” Hope sprung like a fountain inside her. Maybe she wasn’t crazy after all.

“I know how to watch the National Cooking Network,” Lori corrected. “They do a lot of shows about the science behind food. Those competition things are scary. Like watching people’s worst features being broadcast in front of your eyes.”

“So you wouldn’t be interested in being a contestant in the cook-off.” There went that backup plan.

“I know things are stretched pretty tight around here.” Lori frowned. “But this seems a little extreme, even for you. You sure you want to take this on with everything else that’s happening?”

Abby bit the inside of her cheek. She wasn’t ready to tell anyone other than Holly that the inn was in trouble. Not until she’d exhausted every opportunity to put a cork in the financial hole. “I thought it would be fun and a good way to promote the inn. Each contestant gets a ten-minute profile on NCN when they air their coverage.” In a couple of months. Hopefully not too late.

“Sounds like you’ve already made up your mind,” Lori said. “Whatever you decide to do, I’ll be right behind you. Behind you, Abby. I love you, but not enough to get in front of a camera on national television. I’m going to go grab dinner before I drive the Bunco Babes home.”

Abby smiled. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Let’s hope we never find out. Night.”

An end-of-round bell chimed loud enough to make Abby’s ears ring.

The Bunco Babes—most of whom were significantly on the other side of Social Security—had been holding their monthly die games at the Flutterby long before Abby began working here. The group’s themed get-togethers were both a pleasure and a pain, as inevitably something would get changed at the last minute, from the menu requests—tonight they’d ordered pizza from Zane’s—to the decorations, but that was where Gran came in. Letting her focus on the group, both as a member and an organizer, gave her something to concentrate on other than the fact that she was growing older. Their continued patronage also brought in some extra cash, and right now, every penny counted.

And about those pennies...

Abby returned her attention to the online application Gil had steered her toward. Everything seemed straightforward enough.

No, she wasn’t a professional chef. No, she hadn’t had any professional training. Yes, she agreed not to use any employees of the Flutterby Inn during the competition. No, none of her employees or family were associated in any way with the National Cooking Network.

Her eyes blurred as she clicked the boxes. No wonder people didn’t read the fine print in these migraine-inducing contracts.

“Okay, here we go.” She hovered the mouse over Submit and caught the bold print below the button: “Application not processed until full payment of fifteen hundred dollars is received.”

Abby sagged in her chair.

Fifteen hundred dollars?

Her heart lurched. She couldn’t afford the seven hundred dollars for the miniscule promo tent the network would provide—how did she expect to come up with more than double that? Sell her car? Hardly. The ten-year-old clunker probably needed more than that in repairs, not to mention she needed a vehicle to get Gran to and from her doctors’ and physical therapy appointments.

Asking friends was out of the question. Money and family—and to Abby her friends were family—did not mix. She didn’t own anything of much value. Well, except...