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  Then the Judge looked up at Greg and offered his “my decision is final” nod in obvious agreement.

  I’m in the Puffin Diner?

  Which meant what?

  Oh! Duh! He wasn’t in a pressure cooker like the Westin or The Herb Farm before that or the…he was in Eagle Cove, Oregon. He’d never enjoyed those high pressure kitchens, so why had tried to bring that attitude here? The only place more laid back than a small town on the Oregon Coast had probably been left behind along with the 1960s.

  Greg hadn’t done that on Friday night before, entering the commercial kitchen frame of mind, at least he hoped he hadn’t. No, if he had, Dawn wouldn’t have the least compunction about reaming him and she wouldn’t have been half as gentle as Peggy had just been.

  And the time pressure wasn’t that bad. He glanced at his watch. Okay it was that bad, but that didn’t make his manners any more excusable. Peggy and his father were helping him out of kindness; they wouldn’t be paid much more than food. The twenty dollars prix fixe often barely covered the ingredients he used and the beers that he paired with them.

  Yes, Oregon now boasted the number two wine region in the country, gaining ground on Napa, but for some reason all that changed when you crossed the Coast Range. Out here beer ruled. The first microbreweries of the new era had been founded in Oregon. Now you couldn’t drive a dozen miles down the coast—except in the long wilderness gaps—without finding another master brewer with their own set of techniques and flavors. He’d worked a lot with Becky’s flavors from her 5B brews and already knew exactly which pairings he’d use tonight…except with the dessert. Blackbird Porter or Deep Bay Stout? The porter. Just a four-ounce glass with the dessert—No! He’d go with tiny servings of the Espresso stout. Except he had no dessert. He needed a dessert to complete the meals’ overall flavor profile and if he couldn’t think of—

  Calm. Take a breath. Be calm.

  Yeah, right.

  He was being totally stressed, but he couldn’t dump that on his crew. He was trying to arrange the most complex dinner ever of his Irregular Fridays and there were so many elements to coordinate. He wanted to blame it on his father’s presence, but the Judge had taken instruction well and without comment.

  Yet still Greg couldn’t move from where he stood rooted in the middle of the kitchen.

  It was so important that this meal was utterly perfect because…

  The first question he’d asked Ralph Baxter even before how much halibut he’d be bringing ashore was whether or not his daughter would be here tonight.

  Vincent, who’d been standing close by, had slapped his back hard enough that Greg had almost lost his phone into the sawdust.

  Ralph promised that he was calling his wife next to make sure all three of them were there. That’s when the panic had settled over him nastier than a bar rag at the end of a busy night.

  Greg took one last deep breath…and didn’t feel cleansed at all. He could hear the scraping of metal spoon on scallop shell and the light tick of his father once again sliding the shallots back and forth on the mandoline to make paper thin slices.

  He could do this.

  He could make it good.

  And it was as he rushed toward his window box herb patch that he understood the second level to Peggy’s question.

  Where are you, Greg?

  He was in The Puffin Diner, though he preferred to think of it as The Puffin when he was serving fine dining here. He was in a kitchen that he knew better than any other in his past. And he was here to serve a meal to his family and friends.

  His real goal however—absolutely proving just how totally lame he’d truly become—was to impress the daylights out of a beautiful woman he hadn’t seen in fourteen years.

  “Why is everyone being so mysterious about this?” Jessica whispered to Natalya as she climbed the steps to The Puffin Diner for the second time today.

  “Because it’s making you crazy.”

  That was certainly the truth. Mom had simply declared, “Greg is doing a Friday night,” which was greeted with a swell of excitement from the knitters, “and Jessica doesn’t know what that means.” That had elicited a half dozen “You’re in for such a treat, dear,” comments.

  And when she’d pushed, they’d all shut down. When she’d tried being subtle about it Mrs. Winslow had snorted out a laugh at her lame technique and Tiffany had merely rolled her eyes. It reached the point where she couldn’t even mention it tangentially without getting shut down.

  “Are you going?” she’d asked Tiffany.

  Before the quiet woman could even look up, the other women were once again telling her not to pry. After everyone else had returned to their knitting, Tiffany had glanced up and offered another one of her minimal, hair-rippling headshakes. A mouthed why had only elicited a widening of her eyes and an uncertain shrug.

  Afterward, while Jessica had been inside clearing plates and glasses, Tiffany slipped quietly away to who knew where. There one moment and then gone.

  “Doesn’t talk much, does she?” Jessica had asked Mrs. Winslow when they had a moment alone.

  “Only when the girl has something to say.”

  Jessica glanced over to see if that was a remonstrance of some sort. It had been in the second grade that Mrs. Winslow had taught her the first key to good journalism: “Shut up and let them talk.” It was a skill that she’d had a hard time learning as a seven-year old, but after a year in Marjorie Winslow’s class—often sitting isolated in the front left desk scooted well away from the others—she’d learned it well. But Mrs. Winslow’s comment didn’t appear to be accusatory this time, so she didn’t mind the gentle reminder of the axiom.

  When asked how soon she’d be ready to go to dinner, she’d shrugged that she already was.

  In response, Natalya had grabbed her arm and dragged Jessica up to the room they’d be sharing.

  “What?”

  “We’re going out to a nice dinner. You need to put on some finer duds, girlfriend.”

  “I thought it was just Greg doing something.”

  Natalya had merely shoved her toward her suitcase.

  “Since when did people in Eagle Cove play dress up?” She received no answer as she started sorting through possibilities.

  Oregon evenings grew chilly early, so she’d selected a pair of white linen slacks with just a hint of a bell-bottom, sandals with knit Christmas socks because she wanted to be fancier than her battered running shoes, but didn’t want to risk messing up the only nice shoes that she’d brought for the wedding. She swiped a black denim shirt from Natalya, but it was warmer than she thought so she’d ended up tying the shirt tails together high on her midriff. A little skin never hurt. A filmy scarf of spring green borrowed from Aunt Gina had completed the outfit.

  “Put a flower in my hair and I’ll be certifiable,” she whispered to Natalya as they climbed the steps to the diner.

  “No, then you’d be perfect and that wouldn’t be fair to the rest of us.”

  They stepped through the door arm in arm, and Jessica had to glance back to make sure that she hadn’t just slipped through some kind of space-warp, time-portal thingy. But she hadn’t; Beach Way was still behind her and a steady trickle of townsfolk were flocking this way.

  She looked back at the room. Rather than harsh fluorescents and sunlight slamming onto battered Formica tables, the space was now lit by rows of twinkle lights running around each fluorescent fixture and tiny spotlights on Ma Slater’s paintings. The tables had been transformed with midnight blue tablecloths, buff-colored napkins, and the soft oranges of the sun settling into the inevitable bank of fog that was forming far offshore.

  “Maybe I’m certifiable without the flower in my hair.”

  Greg had been transfixed by the vision entering his restaurant. He’d been trying to find something to say, when he overheard her comment. He turned, selected a small dark-red dahlia from the vase that Vincent had dropped off to be a surprise at their family table—good man,
he’d bought a nice arrangement that wouldn’t miss the one bloom Greg had just liberated—and he nipped off most of the long stem with the chef’s knife he kept sheathed on his hip.

  “If I may?” He approached Jessica. While she’d stared at him in astonishment, he’d slid the palm-sized flower into her hair where she’d gathered it in a sidetail to flutter on one shoulder.

  “There.” It brightened her appearance, making her look even more exotic and other-worldly than she already did.

  “Uh thanks. So, that makes me completely certifiable?” Her smile made him feel far taller than his eye-to-eye height.

  “Absolutely. Certifiably lovely.”

  She snorted a laugh at him.

  All he could do was grin in response. Even next to Natalya she was the standout in the room.

  “Where do you want us, Greg?” Ralph Baxter looked the sea captain role. He stood six-two, fisherman-shouldered, and his own blond hair lightening toward white. He hovered protectively close to the women with him. He turned as Gina Lamont and Jessica’s mother entered as well.

  “I don’t have a six-person table,” Greg was looking around for which two tables to pull together, but there were only so many tables in The Puffin and he hated to turn anyone away. Next time he’d push them together in long, communal rows so that there wasn’t a wasted seat.

  “Oh, don’t worry, dear,” Gina hooked her arms around her daughter and her niece. “We’ll just squeeze in all friendly-like at a four-person. Monica, you can just sit in Ralph’s lap, you lovebirds.”

  Jessica rolled her eyes and Greg tried to smile at her in sympathy. But Gina’s comment only reminded him of the unbearably sad scenes he’d witnessed as the Judge had tried to figure out how to say goodbye to his wife of thirty years—sometimes cradling her for hours in his lap though he clearly had few words to offer. Greg did his best to ignore that memory as well as Jessica’s “And what’s your problem?” look by turning to seat the other arrivals.

  Soon, The Puffin was crowded to the limit. In addition to the six stools at the counter, he had two couples standing at either end. He found a few more stools from the back and seated them behind the counter, facing their partners across too small a space. Next time he’d have to take reservations, perhaps even do two seatings. That was a first, which was absolutely incredible…and was freaking him out more than just a little. So many people, so many servings to do.

  He took one last look about the room as he stood up from asking Vincent’s twins about their outing to Newport. It had included a visit to the aquarium which was always a big hit: Emma was more of a shark gal, Irma preferred the otter tank. Dawn looked only moderately harried from trying to satisfy them both. Vincent was doing a good job of getting the girls to tell him every detail and giving his wife a chance to breathe.

  “How about next time, I go with you?” Greg told the twins. “Then when no one is looking, your dad and I can toss you both in to swim in the otter tank.”

  Beneath their squeals of fearful delight, Dawn whispered to him, “Thanks for the flowers.”

  “They’re from—” he didn’t get to finish.

  “I’ve been married to Vincent for ten years and two children; I know who to thank, Greg.”

  “He means well,” Greg did his best to reassure her. He’d never heard her as rough as she’d been this afternoon.

  “Always,” she said it with a sigh, but he could also hear that she really meant it which made him feel more relaxed about what was going on with his two closest friends.

  Greg stepped away before Vincent could know that their flower-ploy was blown.

  He headed for the service counter, bewildered by the miracle of everything that was happening. The restaurant was packed solid with people and they’d dressed up to come—as if this was important. There was a buzz of merry anticipation in the air. Fine dining in Eagle Cove. It was enough to make him laugh, or hide in the back of the walk-in freezer and shudder with terror until they all went away.

  Peggy began setting up the trays of Halibut-Scallop Ceviche appetizer and he served them out. He’d decided to use the heavy-bottomed wide Old Fashioned glasses he’d picked up cheap at a bar supply store. The thin slivers of red onion, the teasing microgreens, and the spheres of the dwarf cherry tomatoes made a nice contrast to the white halibut and pale scallops through the glass. He’d done all of the knife work on the fish himself, because first impressions were so important.

  Becky came along behind him doing her brewmaster spiel and talking about the salmonberry pale ale as she poured just a few ounces into small juice glasses. She also had a soft cider that she served to Vincent’s twins and those who wished it.

  Greg didn’t serve Jessica’s table first, but he didn’t serve it last either. A customer who received their meal mid-service didn’t feel the guilt of being served first along with the boredom of waiting while others finished.

  He was delivering one of the final trays close by Jessica’s table when he heard her speak up, “When did the Judge get so fancy?”

  He almost bobbled the last glass of ceviche into Dawn’s lap. He managed to recover and offer her a smile.

  So much for trying to impress Jessica. It felt as if his longest chef’s knife had just been pounded in right between his shoulder blades. He abruptly wished she’d just go back where she came from. Why did she have to come back tonight of all nights? He sounded like a whiny Jewish Passover ceremony. Why on this night of all nights do we…let our hearts think there’s even a sliver of a chance?

  He turned for the kitchen to oversee the First Course and all he could hear was the roaring in his ears.

  “Jessica, you idiot!”

  “What?”

  Natalya looked furious. A glance around the table showed her parents and aunt were suddenly very focused on their glasses of ceviche. It was fantastic and by far the best food she’d ever had from the Judge. There was a lightness to all of the elements so that it didn’t overwhelm the mild seafood, but rather complemented the bursts of tomato or the light zing of onion. It was bright without the usual ceviche problem of being too acidic.

  “This is Greg’s food, and he was standing right behind you when you said that.”

  Jessica hunched her shoulders as if he still was, even though she could see him back at the window.

  “Greg can cook?”

  “Oh no,” Natalya rolled her eyes. “Please tell me I’m not related to you.”

  “Since when can Greg cook?” She glanced surreptitiously to see him, but he didn’t look any different. He was picking up a tray and Jessica could see the Judge right there in the kitchen. “But the Judge is the one cooking. Greg is just waiting tables.”

  “Odd,” her father was rubbing his chin as if checking to see whether or not he’d shaved well enough. “I seem to recall selling that big halibut to Greg Baxter, not John. I’m not losing my mind, am I?” He aimed the last at his presently ex-wife, or maybe now she was his fiancé. That was her dad, always stepping in with a bit of humor to save the day. If Mom ever tried divorcing him again, Jessica was going to stage an intervention. As a matter of fact she’d make sure that the Judge had her phone number so she could tromp on it hard if it ever came up again.

  “No more than normal, dear man,” she patted his cheek affectionately. “We simply didn’t tell Jessica about the treat she was in for.”

  “This is really Greg’s cooking?” Some idiot part of her brain was having a particularly hard time with the concept. Cooking took skill and patience to learn which she couldn’t reconcile with how firmly she had Greg Slater pegged as another Eagle Cove failure. She could feel Mrs. Winslow berating her for “preconceived notions have no place in a journalistic view.”

  The ceviche was more than good. It was a fine-dining chef’s work; she’d interviewed any number of them over the years and knew that for certain.

  She watched Greg move about the restaurant with a practiced ease. There had to be fifty people here and he didn’t appear to hurry ev
en once. It seemed that she watched him for a long time before she thought to ask the next question of her parents.

  “Since when did Greg Baxter commit to anything?” That hadn’t come out right. “I mean—”

  “I,” Greg was standing right by her elbow, causing her to practically leap out of her chair. He expertly balanced five plates of gorgeous fish, “spent two years at the CIA, apprenticed for two years at The French Laundry, and five years working with some of the finest chefs in Seattle. And how is your life going?”

  He served them with only the barest of courtesy. Jessica half wondered if she was going to end up with a plate of fish down her blouse just as Greg had received hash browns down the pants from her. But he resisted whatever urge he was feeling, and stalked back to the kitchen. She noted with some chagrin that they were the last ones served this course.

  Jessica looked down at her plate. It was just a simple piece of fish. Except it wasn’t. The white halibut had a layer of herbs crisped on it. It flaked at the tiniest nudge with her fork and when she bit into it, her mouth was flooded with powerful flavors of chive, shallot, basil, and fresh parsley. The crisping of the herbs had added a bit of crunch and had muted the flavors just enough for the fish to shine through. The fish itself rested on a double swirl on the plate of strawberry and blueberry puree—as beautiful as art and so rich that every ingredient must have been fresh that morning.

  A sip of Becky’s Evergreen Lager—which thankfully didn’t taste like pine trees—added a freshness that brought the fish completely to life. The roasted green beans were an attractive contrast.

  “That’s incredible. What’s he doing in Eagle Cove?” And Jessica could see she’d put her foot in it again. Why couldn’t she stop doing that? She’d turned into an idiot with a dash of shrew thrown in and didn’t like that side of herself at all.

  “Okay,” she tried again. “You all have lives here, I understand that. But the chef who can cook this could go anywhere. Anywhere.” The next bite just melted on her tongue and she knew full well that she’d never have been able to afford the restaurant that someone like Greg would cook in, not even in her heyday as a rapidly rising journalist.