And He Cooks Too Read online

  Silence filled the airspace. “Uh, didn’t you more or less do that?”

  “Under duress! I had just discovered that my boss was a lying wimp.” The mere thought of Louis’ dishonesty ignited her blood. “I know, I shouldn’t have given in to my anger. Probably not the wisest thing I’ve ever done.”

  Her mother left that alone. “What are you going to do? Take him to court?”

  “Already considered and rejected that idea. I couldn’t win. Drawing attention to my dispute with Louis would only appear to confirm his charges.” With a hitch in her voice, she added, “I’m not sure what to do, Mom. That’s why I called you. My plan to become Super Chef in the next few years is in shreds.”

  “Maybe you should take a break from that career plan? You’ve set such lofty expectations for yourself, trying to live up to your father’s success.”

  Not this argument again. “Not live up to his success, Mom. Pay tribute to him. Celebrate the name that came so close to superstardom.” She probably should’ve told her mom why she was so driven to become the city’s super chef. Still too ashamed. Maybe someday but not yet.

  “Fine. But you don’t have to get there by the same age he was when he died. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”

  Subject change needed. “Back to my current situation, what should I do?” Did that come out like a whine?

  “O-kay,” her mother replied tentatively. After a bit, she suggested, “Why not call that TV chef? The one that followed you from the restaurant and offered you a job?”

  “That Nick guy? I only told you about him because I thought his proposition was a hoot.”

  “That was then. Now, it’s a different story. You need a job, and his seems to be the only one on the table at the moment.”

  Surely her mother was kidding? Taking that job would be such a step down career-wise. If word got around that she’d become a production assistant on a local cooking show, it would annihilate what was still left of her professional reputation.

  “Even long distance, I can sense you turning up your nose,” her mother surmised. “Before it goes too high, think of it this way—you’d be diversifying your experience. Making yourself more marketable.”

  “You actually made that preposterous idea sound logical.”

  “You could call it cutting edge culinary training. Let other chefs cook or sleep their way to the top, like that woman who got your job. You’d simply be taking a different path.”

  “I appreciate the humor. I needed a laugh today.”

  “Hey, wait! I was serious.”

  “Television’s not my thing,” she said, dismissing the idea. “But you did get me to thinking. Maybe I could use my cooking skills in another venue. At least until this current embarrassment dies down.”

  “Like…?”

  “Like sign on as some billionaire’s personal chef. Or take up catering.”

  “As long as you’d enjoy yourself. But promise me one thing. Watch that show first.”

  “Oh, all right.” Anything to get her mother off the topic.

  But viewing the show wasn’t a priority. It wasn’t until the next day, bored enough to clean out her purse, that she discovered the business card. According to the copy on it, the weekly episode aired in thirty-five minutes. She shrugged. How copasetic. Why not?

  On the tube, he appeared to be holding court in the set designer’s idea of a bachelor’s urban kitchen. “Bachelor’s,” because it lacked any frills and was decorated in a palette of grays and blacks. “Urban,” because the window over a stainless steel double sink at the back featured a backdrop of the nighttime Manhattan skyline.

  His blue oxford cloth shirt emphasized great shoulders and pecs. And accentuated incredible dark blue eyes. Mesmerizing blue eyes, like the depth of the ocean. Watch the show, Reese. Not the man. Nonetheless, the guy really was a hunk. That’s probably what brings in the audience. All female, I bet. But he was too good looking with his perfectly-trimmed black hair and male model chiseled face. No man could be trusted, but this one, with looks like that, even less.

  Pretty one-dimensional. Just Nick Coltrane solo, preparing a meal. But the camera really liked him. She had to admit, there was a certain charm about him that said, “Difficult to prepare, yes, but if I can do it, so can you.”

  Appealing manner. Great looks. But those didn’t change her mind about the job offer. Other than earning a pittance of a paycheck, no benefit in joining the outfit.

  She reached for her remote to end the program and any further consideration of becoming part of And He Cooks Too. Then the credits ran. Leonie McCutcheon, executive producer. Could it be the same sought-after caterer she’d heard so much about? It had to be. That name was too distinct for there to be more than one. She’d never met the woman. Only heard of her by reputation from fellow culinary students and various patrons.

  Catering. Her mother hadn’t taken her seriously when she’d mentioned it as a possible new career direction. Realistically, it probably wasn’t such a great idea, since she wasn’t equipped financially to start her own business. But, if she could team up with an established entity, that was different. In fact, it was reason enough to change her mind about that job in order to make the connection. Why not give it a couple months—that’s all the time she could spare in her grand plan—and see what she could work out with the caterer?

  She retrieved the business card from the garbage can. “Okay, Nick Coltrane. It’s your lucky day.”

  She got him on the third ring. “Is that offer to work on your show still open?”

  Pause on the other end. “Sure is. Does this mean you’re interested?”

  “If we can work out a deal.”

  “This could be exactly what you need to bolster your career.”

  “It can’t hurt your show either with one more chef on board.”

  “Yeah, uh, that. Remember, this a production assistant job. Not a chef’s job. In fact, until folks get to know you, it would be better if we kept that detail just between us.”

  “Excuse me?” Was that a small red flag going up?

  “You okay with that?”

  “Absolutely not! That’s what I do. Who I am.” She’d raised her voice. Better watch that. She didn’t have the job yet.

  “Here’s the thing. The executive producer is very budget-conscious. Even if we’re paying you as a PA, we don’t want her to get nervous.”

  “Leonie McCutcheon doesn’t know I’ve been hired?”

  “You’ve done some research since we met. Good sign. But you, uh, won’t be reporting to Leonie. Not directly, anyhow. Jasper Walters, the supervising producer and director, will be your boss. Show up next Friday.”

  “Oh.” She’d hoped for a closer relationship with the caterer. “When can I see the contract?”

  “Only the on-air talent—me—has a contract.”

  Was that typical? Though this low-paying job was only temporary, until she’d regained her cred with the top restaurants in town, she needed to safeguard her continued employment. “It’s just that, well, you heard me with my former boss. Promises were made and then broken. That can’t happen again.”

  “Sorry. No promises.”

  “Except a job. And television experience.”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “What about hours and pay?”

  “Probably should have gone into those immediately.” He laid those out for her. “Doable?”

  Doable? Yes. Desperate circumstances called for desperate actions. Desirable? God no. “The pay leaves a lot to be desired, but I knew that. However, the hours are shorter than I’m used to. And, it won’t be forever.”

  Another pause. “You do plan to stick around awhile?”

  “Awhile.” No need to let him know her plans.

  “How long?”

  “No specific time period. I thought I’d see how things worked out first. I’ve built up a small rainy day fund that will support my reduced salary but not forever.”

  “You know,
that promise thing goes both ways. We need to know we can depend on you too.”

  “Thought you said there were no promises,” she reminded him. “If a great offer from some restaurant comes along, I’m likely to accept.”

  “Right. Got it. But give us some lead time.”

  Probably not such a bad idea, since it wouldn’t help her career to repeat history. She clicked off without giving him a chance to reply.

  Chapter Two

  Reese arrived at the studio the following Tuesday, a half hour earlier than reporting time. Many of the technical crew had already arrived, going about whatever “technical” things they did. The activity produced a certain din, not unlike the restaurant cacophony she knew so well. The area even smelled a bit like a restaurant kitchen, with the tangy fragrance of cinnamon and apples mingling with other less recognizable smells. Paint? Epoxy? Those must be coming from the production side.

  “You report to Jasper Walters,” Nick Coltrane had told her. “Remember, no one else is to know that I hired you or that we’ve even met. Don’t mention you’re a chef, either.”

  Why the secrecy? She’d agreed, but it was sure going to make it more difficult to make herself known to Leonie McCutcheon. Reese surveyed her new digs. Directly in front of her, she recognized the kitchen set from the episode she’d viewed. The larger, more utilitarian room off to the side must be the prep kitchen. A stainless steel counter loaded with produce, boxes of foodstuffs, and several bottles and jars of spices ran down the center.

  A small, glass-enclosed room that spanned the rear of the studio must be the control booth.

  What a cavern. And no friendly faces to greet her. When no one approached, she drifted over to the only other person wearing a white jacket, a short, slightly overweight young woman with blue-rimmed eyeglasses. “I’m Reese Dunbar, the new production assistant.”

  The young woman spun her head Reese’s direction. “No kidding? I thought they were going to leave that slot open to save money.”

  “Apparently the hiring freeze is over. Are you the other production assistant?”

  “PA. Yeah, Trudy Grabowski.” The somewhat dumpy young woman wiped her hands on her apron, pushed up her glasses, then shook hands with Reese. “How come I’m just hearing about this? News like that usually spreads faster than spilled milk.”

  Uh-oh. Her pledge to keep mum about the details of her employment was already being put to the test. “I’m not sure. You’ll have to ask Mr. Walters. He’s the one I’m to report to.”

  “Walters? Jasper Walters? Since when does he hire anyone?”

  Reese’s fingers began to tingle. That was the name she’d been given, wasn’t it? “Why do you say that?” Although it would be silly to let an idle comment from this underling worry her, something about her new job wasn’t adding up.

  “On other shows, the supervising producer, like Jasper, usually does do the hiring,” Trudy explained. “But here,” she glanced over her shoulder as if to check who might be near enough to hear, “the executive producer calls those shots.”

  “Oh.” Whatever. As long as she had the job, she didn’t care who hired her. But if she wanted to keep the job, she’d better get to work. “I need to discuss my duties with Mr. Walters. Any idea where I can find him?”

  Trudy considered briefly. “Should be here by now.” She shoved a box of strawberries toward Reese. “Here. I could use some help prepping these while you wait. We’re doing a pie today.”

  Reese bit back the suggestion that Trudy cover the clunky rings she wore on eight of her fingers with disposable gloves. Where did they keep the cooking utensils? Better ask Trudy. Except, where had she gone so fast?

  Reese placed the box of berries on the stainless steel counter next to her and set off to catch up with her cohort, who’d stopped at a large sink across the room to peel potatoes.

  Without taking her eyes off the vegetable in her hands, Trudy said, “Done already?”

  Not until she found a colander.

  “Who abandoned these strawberries?” a low, throaty woman’s voice demanded from behind them.

  Trudy gulped. “Uh-oh.”

  Like a championship wrestler displaying his newly-acquired belt, in the center of the studio, a tall, thin red-haired woman of about fifty held aloft the box of fruit Reese had left behind. The woman appeared none too pleased. All action stopped in both the prep kitchen and the adjacent set, everyone motionless like a Christmas tableau.

  “Tell me that’s not the box I gave you,” Trudy whispered.

  “What’s the big deal?” Reese shot back. “I set it down for less than thirty seconds so you could show me around the kitchen.”

  Trudy gripped Reese’s arm and pulled her closer. Keeping her voice low, she said, “Newbie or not, no one leaves a food item by itself in the studio. Too easy for someone else to use it. Or worse, to do anything to it.”

  “Like what? Add poison? You’ve seen too many murder mysteries.”

  “Not me, the devil in the kelly green pantsuit over there. That’s our executive producer, Leonie McCutcheon. It’s one of her rules. Better get a list and memorize them fast.”

  “That’s Leonie McCutcheon?” Reese squeaked. Damn! The woman was the only reason she’d considered working on this show and she’d already managed to irritate her.

  “You’ve heard of her?”

  “Well, yes. Her catering business has been around for years. Staff at my restaurant would work for her on occasion, when she needed extra help for large events.”

  “You’ve got restaurant training?” Trudy’s voice softened, awestruck.

  “Of course. Don’t we all?” What a strange thing for someone on a cooking show to say.

  Trudy cocked her head, her expression patronizing. “You sure are new. But about Leonie. Even though we’re just a local show, she’s quite a prima donna.”

  “A local show in the Big Apple,” Reese reminded her, compelled to defend the caterer.

  “Whatever. Be on the alert.”

  The advice came too late. The offending container of fruit suddenly appeared in front of Reese, as if suspended by its own volition. “I’m told you’re the one responsible for leaving this fruit unattended.” Leonie McCutcheon’s designer attire accentuated the green of her eyes, eyes that pierced through Reese, daring her to deny her transgression.

  Okay, she’d stood her ground with more than her share of angry head chefs, but this woman was different. Better not blow it with her. Especially on her first day. She attempted a cordial smile. “I wasn’t aware of your rule, Ms. McCutcheon.” She reclaimed the orphaned berries.

  “Who. Are. You?” Though smoky, the older woman’s voice also carried a lilt, an educated tone, like that of a socialite accustomed to having her own way.

  A thin blonde in a black mini-skirt who’d been following in the wake of the executive producer raised a hand. “She’s the new production assistant, Leonie.”

  The executive producer screwed up her face, appeared confused. “Why didn’t I know about this, Deborah?”

  The female flunky bit a lip. “Actually, you did receive notice. Last week, right after she was hired.”

  Apparently deciding not to air the communications slip-up further, the executive producer returned her attention to Reese. “And you would be?”

  “Reese Dunbar.”

  “Then Reese Dunbar, dispose of these berries post haste, because we can’t use food items that have been left unattended. And hurry. You’ve already put us several minutes behind schedule.”

  Diva alert. Was saluting required? Never mind. Groveling was in order. She kept her smile in place until the verdant lioness pivoted suddenly and stormed away.

  The executive producer stopped abruptly and then turned back to her, adding, “I only allow one mistake per person on this production. You’ve just used your quota.” Then, swiveling, she clicked off in her stilettos.

  Don’t you think you’re something, lady? Too bad. No quaking in the boots here. She knew a
ll about prima donnas. They permeated the food industry. She probably fell into that category herself on occasion.

  Her colander search, which now included a new box of berries as well, was yet again disrupted, this time by a male voice behind her. “Ms. Dunbar?”

  She turned to find a suave, silver-haired gentleman staring at her with furrowed brow. “Yes, I’m Reese Dunbar. Did I break one of your rules too?”

  The wrinkle on the man’s square-set face rose a half inch. “Rules?”

  “I seem to have gotten off to a poor start with the executive producer by leaving these berries alone for half a minute.”

  He motioned for her to follow him to a less occupied part of the set, all the while shaking his head. “I’m Jasper Walters. Call me Jasper. I’m so sorry.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I should have been here to welcome you. Of all mornings to get tied up in traffic. Having your own driver is not the perk it’s supposed to be. The guy’s more interested in auditioning for Broadway than getting me here on time.”

  “You’re the one who hired me?” She lifted a brow, as if to suggest she was in on their little secret.

  But Jasper played it straight, extending his hand. “That’s right. Sorry we weren’t able to meet until now. And that you had to deal with Leonie before I got here to run interference.”

  “I can handle her.”

  The furrow on his forehead reappeared. “I, uh, am sure you can. But,” he momentarily glanced away, “you are aware that you’ve been hired as a production assistant?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s not a chef.”

  She knew that. What was he getting at?

  “That means you follow orders. You don’t give them, like you did as a chef.”

  “Oh.” She knew that coming in. Nick Coltrane had gone out of his way to establish that point during their phone call. She’d just been denying that part of the job as long as she could.

  Jasper eyed her, his mouth turned down. “Is that going to be a problem?”

  She cocked her head. “Probably.” She summoned a tepid smile. “But I’ll get over it. I’ll remind myself what it was like as a student at the culinary institute where the instructors were minor gods.”