The Chef's Choice: The Chef's Choice. Kristin Hardy
in their rooms. Everything’s set up, though. All you need to do is keep an eye on things, stock up whatever needs it. Make nice, clean up afterward. You know the drill."
“For about the past twenty-seven years,” Cady agreed.
“Fresh,” her mother said.
Cady’s lips twitched. “This is a surprise?”
“They’re a pretty easy bunch,” Amanda continued, ignoring her. “With any luck, things will be quiet while we’re gone."
Ian’s snort sounded suspiciously like a smothered laugh. It was an inn. Things were never quiet, Cady knew, unless it was empty, and often not even then. Hope could spring eternal, though.
“Anyone coming in today?” she asked.
“One guest. He’s not due until after we get back.”
“Where’s his registration, just in case?”
“His paperwork and keys are right here.” Amanda opened the Dutch door and went into the tiny office and kitchenette behind to pull an envelope from a wicker organizer. “You shouldn’t have to deal with him, though."
“Perish the thought,” Ian muttered.
Amanda elbowed him. “Hush, you. She’ll do fine. Won’t you, Cady?”
“I’ll be the milk of human kindness,” she promised, tongue firmly in cheek. “Now get going or you’re going to hit traffic."
She followed them outside and watched them walk toward the parking lot, hand in hand, like always. Since she’d been a child, the two constants in her life had been the inn and her parents’ quiet love for each other. For an instant, she felt a tug of wistfulness. She’d always assumed that someday she’d find a love like that, at least until she’d hit high school and discovered that what guys wanted were curvy, blond cheerleader types with Pepsodent smiles, not opinionated, auburn-haired tomboys.
Well, she was who she was, for better or worse. The day she’d given up looking for romance with a good-looking charmer had been the day she’d finally started to get comfortable in her own skin. And at twenty-seven she wasn’t about to change for anyone.
She washed her hands and tied on an apron. Even though the Compass Rose boasted a separate restaurant, breakfast had always been in the morning room of the main building. Despite the fact that the inn’s restaurant employed a half-dozen cooks, responsibility for breakfast had always fallen on Amanda and Ian and the front desk staff.
And on that particular day, the front desk staff was Cady.
She sighed. It wasn’t that she couldn’t be polite, exactly, it was just that she had strong opinions. And maybe her patience was a teensy bit limited. Okay, maybe a lot limited. Her father, now, he could be interested in just about anyone for as long as they wanted to chat.
Cady tried—sort of—but somehow it never worked. The problem was her face. It always showed exactly what she was thinking, and if she was thinking that the person she was talking with was a bore or a fool, well …
It could be a problem.
Shaking her head, she pasted a smile firmly across her face and walked into the morning room to begin refilling the stocks of coffee, hot water, muffins and fruit. One pair of the missing guests had arrived and were tucking in with gusto. A little too much gusto, she realized—the orange juice pitcher was nearly empty. Unfortunately, so was the carton in the little refrigerator tucked back in the office.
Perfect. An hour left to run on breakfast, one pair of guests still to arrive and her with no orange juice. Time to get resourceful, she thought, grabbing the carton and hurrying out the door.
Outside, the air smelled of the sea and the pines that grew up around the cedar-shingled restaurant building. Cady slipped stealthily through the back door to the pantry and dishwashing area, heading toward the walk-in refrigerator. She’d just liberate a little juice, enough to refill, that was all.
“Don’t you be tracking dirt on my clean floor,” a voice said.
Cady jumped and looked guiltily through the doorway to the kitchen. “Roman, what are you doing here?"
“Writing my memoirs.” The young, mocha-skinned sous chef glanced over from where he was mincing onions. “There’s nothing to eat here. Go over to the breakfast room if you want food."
“That’s where I just came from. I’m on desk duty.”
He stared. “You?”
Cady rolled her eyes. “Yes, me. Lynne’s sick, Mom and Dad are out for the morning. I’m pitching in. I can do it, you know."
“Your parents gotta get some more help.” He resumed chopping, shaking his head.
“The way I hear it, you’re the one who needs more help,” she countered as she ducked into the little passage that led to the walk-in.
The restaurant’s head chef, Nathan Eberhardt, had moved on three weeks before, leaving Roman to run things in his stead. While Roman was both a talented line cook and a tireless worker, he was barely twenty-three. He hadn’t anything like enough experience to be suddenly managing the complicated dance of running a kitchen. To his credit, that hadn’t stopped him. He’d kept things going, mostly by dint of practically living at the restaurant.
“You’ve got assistants for prep,” she called over her shoulder. “You’re running the joint, Roman. Delegate. Either that or you’re going to drown in it."
“Still breathing air, last time I checked,” he grunted. “And anyway, I might—wait a minute, what’s that noise?” He came around the corner in his chef’s whites. “What the heck do you think you’re doing?"
“Just getting some orange juice for breakfast.” Cady hastily stepped out of the icy refrigerator.
“Oh, no, you’re not. Get your own.”
“It’s not for me, it’s for the breakfast bar. Come on, it’s just a little juice,” she wheedled.
“I got twenty pounds of salmon to marinate. No such thing as a little orange juice.” He shook his knife at her.
“I brought you tomatoes yesterday,” she protested.
“Don’t think that gets you off the hook.” For a big guy, he moved fast.
Lucky she was small and faster. “Think of the headlines. Juicing Chef Offs Plucky Desk Clerk.” Cady made a break for the door. “What will Malika do while you’re in jail?"
“Buy her own orange juice, I hope,” Roman growled, but she saw his grin before she escaped out the door.
She’d say this for working the desk: the time went quickly. She’d blinked once, maybe twice, and it was going on one in the afternoon. Of course, time had a way of flying when you were lurching from crisis to crisis.
Every time the door opened, it seemed, it heralded another person with a problem or question or emergency for her. As always, living a bit of her parents’ life only increased her respect for them. Roman was right; they needed more help, whether they could afford it or not. A few hours into one of their days and already she was worn-out.
She’d cleaned up breakfast dishes, folded bedspreads and sheets in the laundry, vacuumed the lobby, baked scones for afternoon tea. She’d handed out directions, jumped the car of a guest who’d left her dome light on all night and calmed the hysterics of a maid who’d found a mouse in the linen closet. Smiling, always smiling, even talking to the guest who’d plugged his toilet trying to flush a washcloth.
A washcloth.
What was it about people in hotels? she wondered for the thousandth time as she hurried back to the office behind the reception area to call the plumber. They did things that they would never do at home. What kind of ninny put a washcloth down a toilet? And now, here she was with another maintenance bill to further stretch