The Chef's Choice / The Boss's Proposal

Of course, these days she had a bit more than her soul to worry about. After six years of working for another landscaper in the area, she’d decided to hang out her own shingle two years before. Be her own boss, her thinking went, though she hadn’t quite realized at the time that being her own boss really meant thateveryone was her boss, particularly her clients. To date, the best thing she could say was that she was keeping her head above water.

Barely.

One challenge was that the population of Grace Harbor was a whopping five thousand people, though that quadrupled when the summer tourists descended in droves. Another was that the Maine growing season was so short. Hard to make a living growing things when those things only grew from May to September.

But that was the job she’d taken on, so from May to September, she worked, she cultivated, she pasted a smile on her face and made nice until her jaws hurt. And in the winter, she put a plow blade on her truck and prayed for snow.

Still, she was making progress. Her old truck would have to last a few more years but the new greenhouse gave her a critical advantage in growing her own stock that would pay off big down the line. She’d acquired a few steady clients—businesses, rental property owners, her uncle Lenny at the marina. She’d scrape along, even if the Compass Rose was still her biggest account.

Cady settled another bag in the bed of her truck and turned back to the pile. It didn’t matter that the inn was family owned, her parents had always treated it as a business, insisting on paying her just as they would any other groundskeeper. And because Cady was in business, too, she’d felt honor bound to negotiate long and hard with them over the terms. She still considered it something of a coup that she’d fast-talked her father so that he didn’t realize he’d signed a contract that paid her less than he had his last groundskeeper.

It was her business, and she’d do what she wanted, including offer a family discount, even if the family didn’t know. It wasn’t as if she was going to go broke.

Yet.

She wasn’t so sure about her parents, though. The past couple of years had been increasingly tight, even as repairs on the nearly hundred-year-old main building mounted up. They definitely needed to make a move to bring in more traffic.

Hiring an unstable guy like Damon Hurst wasn’t making a move, though. It was desperation.

Damon Hurst. Just the thought of his name had her fuming, and if that didn’t, the memory of his easy smirk did. Cady knew about him. Oh, she knew all about him whether she wanted to or not, courtesy of Tania, who was a complete junkie for his show.

“I don’t care about cooking, Tania,” she’d pleaded at one of their weekly get-togethers. “Can’t we just watch a movie?"

“It’s almost over. Besides, how hard is it? Don’t you want to look at that face?” Tania had returned, eyes gleaming. “Don’t you want to see how long it takes him to yell at one of his chefs during the competition?"

“No. I want to see vampires and car chases and preferably something blowing up. I don’t want to see Damon Hurst."

Well, she’d have to see him now, Cady thought, at least for the two or three weeks he’d probably stick around. She thumped another bag of yard waste into her truck. How he’d managed to con her parents into trusting him was anybody’s guess. Why, was even more perplexing. He had to have options in the city, job offers that paid a whole lot better than her parents could afford. Why come all the way up to a little dot-on-the-map Maine town? Could he really be that hard up? And if he was, did they really want him?

It was a fiasco waiting to happen. The guy hadn’t even bothered to come look at the restaurant and meet the people he was going to work with before taking the job. That wasn’t the behavior of a man who gave a hoot about his staff—or his performance. No way was he planning on being there for the long haul.

Gritting her teeth, she slammed another bag down.

“You’re going to split one of those open if you don’t watch it,” a voice said behind her, making her jump.

She knew before she turned it was him.

He wore jeans and the same bomber jacket he’d had on the day she’d met him, his dark hair loose and pushed back behind his ears. He still hadn’t bothered to shave; even in sunlight, his eyes looked only two or three shades away from black. Not that she was noticing. Good-looking guys didn’t get to her, Cady reminded herself.

She spared him another glance. “Well, you’re up and around early."

He smiled faintly. “Not a lot of nightlife around here.”

“Life in Grace Harbor. Sorry to disappoint you.”

“I didn’t say I was disappointed.”

She bent back to her rubbish pile. “I’m so relieved.”

This time he laughed outright. “Nice to see you’re in good form again today."

“I’m in good form every day,” she said, tossing an armload of rhododendron branches into the bed. “Get used to it."

He looked her up and down. “I’m not even going to touch that one."

She flushed and grabbed another load of branches from the previous day’s pruning to toss into the bed. “So what brings you out here so early?"

“Maybe I just wanted some fresh air.”

“It’s all around you. Knock yourself out.” She turned to find him already handing her the next bag from her pile. She hesitated, then took the brown paper sack from him. “Thanks."

“Don’t mention it. What’s McBain Landscaping?” He nodded at the magnetic sign on her truck door. “I thought it was Compass Rose."

“The Compass Rose is my parents'. I’ve got my own business."

“Planting stuff?”

She scowled. “Yeah, I plant stuff, you fry stuff.”

“Okay.” Brown paper crackled as he handed her a bag of leaves. “Let’s start again. Along the lines of frying stuff, Roman says you’re the person to talk to about the farmers’ market."

“You’ve met him, finally. Good for you.”

He gave her a narrow-eyed look. “The farmers’ market?”

“What do you want to know? Directions?”

“Among other things.”

“Kennebunk has a market but it doesn’t open until June. This time of year you’ll have to go to Portland.”

“How long’s the drive?”

“As long as an hour, depending on traffic.” At his whistle, Cady shrugged. “It’s in town. It’s tricky to find parking. If you’re smart, you’ll do like Nathan did. Skip the market and have what you want trucked in from suppliers.” Before she’d even gotten the words out, Damon was already shaking his head.

“No trucks. I want local. Fresh.”

“People in hell. Ice water,” she countered. “It’s too early in the season here to have much of anything to harvest unless it’s greenhouse grown."

He picked up an armload of lilac branches and tossed them over the side of the truck into the bed. “Roman says Nathan supplemented shipments with veg he bought locally."

“When he could.” Cady added an armload of her own.

“Roman says he’s been going with local stuff, too. Actually—” Damon flicked an assessing glance at her “—he said you were the one who went to the market for him. Said he’d never have made it through if it hadn’t been for you."

Cady shifted uncomfortably. “Roman talks too much.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Don’t get any ideas. He was shorthanded and working his butt off, so I pitched in to help. It’s not an ongoing program. I’ve got a business to run.” She shut the tailgate of the truck. “You want the farmers’ market, big guy, that’s your job. I’d be happy to write down directions for you."

“Better yet, go with me.”

“Hello? Business to run?” She tapped the side of the truck.

“Just this once, that’s all. Show me around, introduce me to the people you do business with."

“Money’s the best introducer there is.”

“And you know as well as I do that business is about relationships.” He gave her a second glance. “Then again, maybe you haven’t figured that out."

“I’ve got all the relationships I need.”

“You might be surprised. The right one could change your whole world view."

“My world view is fine, thanks very much.”

“Look, just give me tomorrow morning,” he said in exasperation. “I’ll keep it quick."

She reached in her pocket for her keys. “Tomorrow won’t work. They only hold the market twice a week—today and Saturdays."

“Twice a week? For a town with as many restaurants as Portland? You’re kidding."

“It’s May. It’s Maine. You’re lucky the market’s even open this time of year."

“Don’t sound so happy about it.”

She’d promised to be civil, Cady reminded herself, and even for her, she wasn’t doing a very good job. She let out a long, slow breath. “All right. It just so happens that I’m working a job today for a summer client, so they won’t know if I push them off until later. If you’re obsessed about having me take you to the market, I’ll take you. One hour only,” she warned. “And you’d better be ready to go now. I’ve got a job site to be at this afternoon.” She opened her driver’s door.

Damon glanced at the rubbish-filled truck bed. “Are you going to take it like that?"

“What, you think people are going to steal my dead leaves?”

“No, because I figure it’s all going to blow out by the time we hit the highway. Let me drive."

“I didn’t know Manhattanites knew how to.”

“I’ve seen it on TV,” he said.

“Forget it. I know where we’re going. For your information, the dump’s on the way. I was already planning to stop."

He eyed her. “You just want to be behind the wheel.”

“That’s right,” she said, getting in. “Nobody moves me from the driver’s seat."

His slow smile set something fluttering in her stomach. “We’ll see about that."

Chapter Four

It was what she got for being nice, Cady thought as they drove up the highway to Portland. If she’d thought twice, she’d never have agreed to be stuck in the tight confines of a vehicle with Damon Hurst. He sprawled comfortably in the passenger seat, his lanky frame making the cab seem very small. It was impossible to ignore him. However much she tried to pay attention to the road, he was what she noticed.

He didn’t bother to make conversation. She wasn’t sure if that was a relief or if it left her to focus all the more on him. He just sat there in his leather jacket and stubbled chin, looking like something out of a blue jeans ad, looking like—

Cady cursed and stomped on the brakes as the car ahead slowed suddenly.

“A decent following distance might help with that,” Damon said mildly, though she noticed he reached up to grab the overhead handhold.

“If you’re going to be a backseat driver, change seats.” “You don’t have a backseat.”

“I know. So relax and enjoy the scenery.” She whipped over into another lane and onto the exit ramp.

“I can’t see it with my eyes closed,” he said through his teeth as the truck swayed with the quick succession of turns she made on the city streets.

Cady caught sight of a parking space and punched it to get through a yellow light and to the opening. “Well, you can open your eyes up now, sweet pea. We’re there."

“Thank God,” Damon said and slowly, carefully, released his grip. “Next time, I’m driving."

“There won’t be a next time.”

“I’m still driving.”

The square before them was filled with the color and hubbub of the farmers’ market. Canvas-tented booths in blue and green and yellow displayed boxes of lettuce in a bewildering variety, pyramids of the fall’s apples and potatoes and cabbage. Hothouse tomatoes provided flashes of red next to the vivid purple and green of rhubarb. Even though it was barely eight, the market was bustling.

Catching sight of a stand selling pastries, Cady made a quick beeline for it.

Damon came to a stop beside her. “What are you doing?”

“Breakfast,” she told him. “It’s the least I deserve after making the drive."

“Are you kidding? I’m the one who ought to be rewarded for surviving."

“Fine. You can buy us both drinks. I’ll take a Coke.”

“At eight in the morning?”

“It’s the best one of the day. What do you want here?” She gestured at the pastry and pulled out her wallet.

“A corn muffin, I guess,” Damon said, lining up before the coffee urn.

“A corn muffin and a cheese Danish,” Cady ordered.

They made their way over to a bench, exchanging booty. He watched her as she took a bite of Danish, washing it down with a swig of cola.

“You know you’ll die young eating like that?”

“That’s what people tell me,” she said, licking crumbs off her fingers with relish.

“Cream cheese and Coke. I don’t even want to think about what that combination tastes like.” He took a swallow of coffee.

“It’s not about the taste, it’s about the sugar rush, although you’d be surprised if you tried it."

He gave her a pained look. “Someone needs to educate your palate."

“My palate’s doing just fine, thank you very much. Okay—” she balled up her napkin “—let’s get going."

Damon swallowed the last of his muffin. “That didn’t count as part of the hour, by the way.” He tossed his trash into the nearby barrel. “The clock starts now."

“Then get going.”

It wasn’t what she’d expected. She’d thought it would be like going grocery shopping—pick and buy, pick and buy. Instead, Damon wandered down the rows aimlessly, stopping at this stand to sniff at a shiny red apple, that one to weigh a bunch of rhubarb in his hands and stare thoughtfully into space.

“You know, that’s the fourth place you’ve checked out the lettuce,” she said as he examined yet another head of brushy green stuff.

“Do you buy a car at the first place you go?” he asked, then shook his head. “Never mind, I’ve seen your truck."

Cady scowled. “What’s wrong with my truck? It got you here, didn’t it?"

He put down the head of lettuce and walked to the next stand. “Thank God for small favors."

“It’s under no obligation to get you home, you know. Speaking of home, when, exactly, are you going to start buying things? You are going to eventually, aren’t you?"

“Maybe. I don’t know.” He stopped at a vendor selling mushrooms and picked up a deformed orange thing that looked as though it had grown under someone’s back steps. Cady repressed a shudder. Her notion of cuisine ran toward pizzas and burgers, not something nasty that looked like an alien life form.

“If you’re not going to buy anything then what, exactly, are we doing here?"

“Recon.” He gave her an amused glance. “I want to see what’s out there, what I can get around here. If I can find something for tonight’s special, so much the better. Like these.” He picked up a different mushroom.

“What are they?” She stared suspiciously at the pointy, honeycombed fungus.

“Morels. Unbelievable flavor and texture.”

She watched as he sifted through the pile, hands quick, picking some mushrooms for his bag, leaving others. “I’ll take your word for it."

“What I need now are some ramps,” he said after he’d finished with the cashier. “I’ll sauté them up in a little ragout and put it over a poached haddock."

“I’m sure they’ll all come running. What are ramps, anyway?”

“Wild baby leeks that grow in the woods this time of year. They taste like a cross between onions and garlic. I can’t believe nobody’s got any here. We’ll have to hunt some down.” He started walking again.

She trailed along after him. “Not we, you. I’ve got a job, remember?"

“How about you quit and come be my forager? You grow stuff, you’d be good at it."

“I brought you to the market. Wasn’t that enough?”

“It would be if it was a real market.” He shook his head. “This is pathetic. Most of it’s from last year."

The criticism had her raising her chin. “I told you, it’s too early for fresh produce here. It won’t really get going until July."

“The green market in Manhattan had ramps and asparagus and squash blossoms last week."

“And it’s four temperature zones away from us,” she defended. “This is Maine. We have snow until April. We grow what we can. If you want more of a choice, feel free to drive down to Boston. In fact, feel free to keep going."

He studied her. “You don’t want me here, do you?”

Cady opened her mouth, closed it. “It’s not a matter of what I want. It’s my parents’ business and they think you’re the right guy for the job."

“You’re evading the question.”

“Okay, how about this? I’ve seen the headlines. I know your style. You don’t fit here."

He smiled. “You don’t believe in soft-pedaling things, do you?”

“Why waste the time?”

“And you think you know all about me.”

“Given all the press you’ve generated, it’s kind of hard not to.”

“Now who’s wasting time?” he countered. “Half of those stories are exaggerations, the other half are outright lies."

She folded her arms. “So, what, you didn’t throw people out of your restaurant?"

“Okay, I might have asked one or two people to leave early on,” he admitted. “You’ve got a restaurant, you know how they can be. In fact, I’d be a little shocked if you’ve never thrown someone out yourself."

“The customer is always right,” she reminded him, not bothering to add that she’d never had the choice.

“That’s funny coming from someone whose operating assumption seems to be that everyone else in the world is wrong but them.”

Her cheeks tinted. “We’re not talking about me.”

“I am.”

“Stop changing the subject. This is about you. Maybe I didn’t see you punch your sous chef but I know you yelled at him because I saw it."

“You saw it?”

She could have bitten her tongue. “My girlfriend was watchingChef’s Challenge.” “You don’t say.”

“And I know the story of the woman in your office is true because the husband named you in the divorce proceedings."

“Well, well. You have been studying up,” he said and something flickered in the depths of his eyes.

“What, are you trying to say it didn’t happen?” she challenged.

“I think that’s between her and me.” He reached out to catch the hood strings of the jacket she wore. “The same way it would be between you and me if anything happened."

“Nothing’s going to happen with us,” Cady returned, but suddenly it was hard to catch a breath.

“Mmm, careful what you say,” Damon murmured, tugging her forward a bit. “That sounds like a dare."

She should have been smacking his hand away. She should have been turning on her heel to go. She couldn’t understand why all she was doing was looking into those eyes as he leaned closer and wondering what it would be like if—

“Hey, Cady!” A shout came from behind her, releasing her from the spell.

She did move to smack Damon’s hand away then, but he’d already released her. She turned away without another word, not trusting herself.

“Pete,” she called and crossed over to the booth where a burly man with a graying close-trimmed beard waved at her.

“Hey, good to see you. Howya doing?” he asked from behind a table covered with baskets of tomatoes.

“Good. How’s Jenny?” she asked, thinking of his neat, compact wife.

“Good, thanks.”

Damon walked up to the stand to look at the tomatoes gleaming ruby red in the sun.

“Nice.” He picked one up, nodding to Pete. “Hothouse?”

“Yep.” Pete adjusted the NAPA cap on his grizzled hair. “Early Girl beefsteaks."

Damon sniffed the tomato he held and put it down in favor of another, turning it over in his hands. “How many greenhouses?” he asked.

“Two. Careful how you handle that.”

“What’s the square footage?”

Pete’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You lookin’ to buy my tomatoes or my greenhouse?"

“Pete.” Cady stepped forward. “I want you to meet our new chef at the Sextant, Damon Hurst. Damon, meet Pete Tebeau."

“The new chef? Why didn’t you say so? Pleased to meetcha.” Damon found his hand enveloped by a hand the approximate size of an oven mitt. “Does that mean we’re not going to see you here anymore, Cady?"

“If I’ve got anything to say about it. Not that seeing you isn’t the highlight of my day, Pete.” She grinned at the guy and suddenly she looked young, mischievous and downright pretty.

And Damon kept his jaw from dropping, only just. She was flirting with the guy. This scratchy-tongued woman who had turned being a curmudgeon into a holy calling was joking around, chatting up a guy old enough to be her father.

“The highlight of your day? You’d be amazed at how many women tell me that.” Pete didn’t miss a beat.

Cady snorted. “You better hope Jenny doesn’t get wind of it.”

“She’s the one who says it most of all.”

It had all the hallmarks of an old game between them. It had all the signs of a long friendship. And he couldn’t stop watching her.

“So, how are the plans for the big weekend?” Cady asked.

Pete’s eyes gleamed. “Great, thanks to you. We’re in one of your cabins, harbor view, they said."

“I’ll make sure Lynne puts you in guesthouse two,” Cady said. “It’s got the prettiest view of the water. You can sit out on the deck in the morning with your coffee. Jenny’s going to love it."

“I hope so. I want her to be happy.”

“After twenty-five years, Pete, I think you can be pretty sure she’s happy."

“Yeah, but she’s had a rough time lately, what with losing her dad and all.” He took his cap off and turned it around in his hands. “I want to give her a special anniversary, something she’ll remember."

Like a weekend at the Compass Rose, Damon translated. “You’re coming to the inn for your anniversary?” he asked.

Tebeau nodded. “This weekend. Usually I just take her out and buy her a lobster. I figured twenty-five years deserved something more, though. This young lady helped."

The young lady in question flushed and looked away.

“Tell you what,” Damon said. “Come to the restaurant for dinner while you’re there. I’ll make you a special meal. Off the menu, I mean, just for you two. What does your wife like to eat?"

Tebeau thought a moment. “Garlic, shrimp, crab cakes. And mushrooms,” he added.

Sometimes you just had to go with your instincts. Damon picked up two baskets of tomatoes. “I know just what to make for her. You know anyone who sells ramps here?"

“Ramps?” Tebeau took the tomatoes and set them on the scale.

“Wild leeks. White flowers, green leaves about so big.” He measured. “I sauté them up with morels and asparagus and you’ll think you’ve died and gone to heaven. If I can find them. Got any ideas?"

“Maybe.” Pete took the money Damon offered. “Old Gus Cattrall next door to me, he’s got all kinda stuff growing in the woods over on his place."

“Great,” Damon said. “Does he have a stall here?”

Tebeau shook his head. “Naw. Mostly he just sells stuff out of a cart on the road. Never seen him put out—what did you call them, ramps? But if he’s got ‘em growing, I bet he’d be happy to let you pick them yourself."

“Just tell me who to call or where to go.”

Pete handed Damon his change and loaded the tomatoes into a box. “Thing is, Gus isn’t likely to cotton to strangers walking around his property. He knows you, though, Cady. You’d better come instead."

“Me?” she asked blankly. “But—”

“Sure. This guy’s got my curiosity up. Why don’t you come over to my place tomorrow morning about six? We can catch Gus before he gets working. If he’s got any of those ramps growing you can bet he’ll know where and we can just pick ‘em. Easy as pie."

“Easy as pie,” Cady said under her breath. “All right, Pete, sure. As long as you’ve got time."

“Absolutely.”

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow. Damon—” she directed him a thunderous look “—we’d better get going."