Harper's Wish

“Scrubbed, dried and put away.”

He finally looked up from where he’d been studying an order form on his desk.

“The flatware?”

“Polished and the place settings laid.”

He opened his mouth, but she continued before he could speak.

“The napkins are ironed, the glasses are shining, the trash cans are empty, the floors are mopped, the salt and pepper shakers are filled, everything is stocked and I disinfected all the menus. Rafael and I finished cleaning the oven hood, and we organized the storage room like you wanted. I even helped Erin prep ingredients for the dinner crowd.”

Connor closed his mouth, and she felt a surge of triumph.

“Will there be anything else?” She knew her voice was a touch too syrupy by the way Connor’s eyes narrowed.

“All right, then,” he said grudgingly. “I suppose it’s time to teach you the menu.”

* * *

THE FOLLOWING DAY, Harper surveyed the multitude of dishes spread across the stainless-steel counter in the Rusty Anchor’s kitchen. Connor stood on the counter’s opposite side, sporting his chef whites with his arms crossed over his chest in what Harper could only label a defensive posture. She was more nervous than she’d thought she’d be, now that she was faced with learning the restaurant’s menu.

“So, we’re just tasting the dishes?”

Connor’s expression remained flat. “I’ll explain a dish, then you’ll taste it so you can make the appropriate recommendations to customers.”

She swallowed. “Okay. Where should we start?”

He pointed at the plate nearest to her. “Let’s begin with the fish. Pecan-crusted seared salmon with wilted greens and a maple balsamic glaze. Sides are either the wild-rice pilaf or sweet-potato pancakes, which is what I’ve plated here.”

Harper used her fork to flake into the fish. The salmon’s color was beautiful with a pale pink center. She scooped up a bite and popped into her mouth, all too aware of Connor’s eyes on her. The fish was cooked well, and the pecans lent a nice crunch. She wasn’t impressed by the maple glaze, which was a bit too sugary for her palate. She chewed and swallowed, trying to avoid Connor’s gaze as she twirled one of the wilted greens around her fork tines. Clearing her throat, she reached for a glass of water to wash down the flavors before cutting into the sweet-potato pancake. Still not looking toward Connor, she popped it into her mouth and was pleased with the crispy exterior followed by a meltingly creamy interior studded with bits of pancetta and the faint flavors of herbs. While she’d expected more of the sweetness she’d encountered in the rest of the dish, the pancakes were perfectly balanced with savory ingredients against the sweeter vegetable.

She swallowed and kept her expression neutral as she finally looked at Connor. She found him watching her expectantly.

“Okay, now what?”

He made a face. “Describe it to me. As if I were a customer.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Really?”

“Really. And don’t forget, in the kitchen, the proper way to address me is Chef.”

Harper felt a flicker of annoyance. “Fine, Chef.” She cleared her throat a second time. “Pecan-crusted seared salmon, cooked to perfection but a touch heavy on the maple glaze. The nuts add a nice crunch but would be better if they had been toasted longer before being ground for the crust, in order to balance out the sweetness. I can’t recommend the wilted greens, given their soggy, overly saccharine taste, but the sweet-potato pancakes are deliciously crisp with a satisfying marriage of salty pancetta and the licorice touch of fennel.”

“Soggy? Overly saccharine?”

“It was like eating moss drizzled with honey.”

His jaw clenched, unclenched and clenched again. “I didn’t hire you to critique my food. I hired you to serve it. Serving it means you have to sell it. And if that’s your best sales technique, then I’m not sure you’re capable of doing this job.”

His words pricked her ego. “I am more than capable of doing this,” she informed him, trying to measure her tone.

“Then forget that you used to be a restaurant critic. There is no place for it in your position unless you can find only good things to say.”

“You want me to lie to your customers?”

He threw up his hands. “You don’t need to lie. If you don’t like the wilted greens, recommend they trade them out for a side salad. Or maybe the squash medallions.”

“With that salmon?” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not sure that’s the best pairing.”

“Harper.” His voice had taken on a decidedly warning tone.

“Let’s move on to the next dish,” she suggested, by way of a truce.

He eyed her suspiciously and then gave a short nod. She picked up her fork and moved on to another plate. Reaching for a nearby knife, she sliced into the pork chop and piled some of the mango chutney onto the bite before lifting it toward her mouth.

Not bad, but again, the topping was sweeter than she liked. The au gratin potatoes were good enough, though, and the red pepper slaw added a nice spot of color and crunch to the dish.

“Grilled pork chop topped with a mango-pineapple chutney. The au gratin potatoes are layered with four different kinds of cheese including Gruyère, Jarlsberg, Parmesan and fontina, lending a nutty, almost caramel flavor that pairs nicely with the faint sweetness of the Yukon gold potatoes. The plate is rounded out by a red pepper and onion slaw, seasoned with spicy ginger and peppery cilantro.”

When she looked back at Connor, his shoulders had relaxed, and his expression lacked its previous tension. It occurred to her that perhaps he’d been nervous about what she’d say. After all, the last time she’d commented on his food, it hadn’t been a favorable experience for him. She suddenly felt bad for thinking only of herself in this tasting.

“How was that, Chef?”

“Better.” He released a sigh that sounded like relief. “Much better. There might be hope for you yet.”

And though a chef’s opinion had never mattered to her before, she couldn’t help feeling a tingle of pleasure at his words.

* * *

“YOU HAVE TO ADMIT, she’s not doing bad.”

Connor chopped through a row of carrots with unnecessary force in response to Erin’s words.

“I have to hand it to her, I thought she’d be out of here after you made her clean that grease trap.” Erin shuddered. “The girl’s tenacious. I admire that.”

“Whose side are you on?” Connor demanded as he scooped the carrots onto the edge of his knife and into a bowl.

“Don’t be such a grouch. I’m on your side, you know that. I’m just saying that she’s not what I expected her to be.”

“And what did you expect?”

“I don’t know, a simpering prima donna who refused to get her hands dirty? But she works really hard. Harder than Leah or Rafael or even me. These past two weeks she’s worked almost as hard as you do.”

He pierced Erin with a look, and she held up her hands in defense. “I said almost. But she puts in more hours than the rest of us, coming in early to help get ready for the day, and Rafael says she’s still here when he leaves at night. And somehow, I doubt she’s actually handing in a time card with all those hours.”

Connor stopped to consider this. He’d never thought about comparing Harper’s presence to the actual amount of hours on her time sheet. “I didn’t ask her to work without pay,” he protested. “I wouldn’t demand that of any of you, not even her.”

Erin’s voice softened. “I know that, Connor. You’re a good boss. But you’re riding her a little relentlessly, don’t you think?”