Recipe For Redemption

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 (#ulink_eafb944f-3242-5f85-a60f-56fa7f54b395)

“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...

Her stomach twisted as she pulled her parents’ wedding rings free from her shirt. She bit her lip.

She couldn’t be that desperate. Could she? Would it be worth it? Selling the only thing she had of her parents when there was no guarantee she’d win? If she did, she needed to rethink her strategy. She’d have to have help. Not financial. She needed someone to guide her, encourage her. She needed...

She needed a teacher.