Inherit the Word (The Cookbook Nook Series) by Daryl Wood Gerber
Authors: Daryl Wood Gerber
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narrowed. He scanned the restaurant and made a beeline for Ellen, who was chatting up an elderly couple. Willie parked his daughter in the stroller beside a table and pulled Ellen toward the kitchen door. Without releasing her, he ushered her beyond the door that divided the kitchen from the dining room. Through the glass porthole in the door, I could see him talking heatedly. Ellen cut a quick look at me—I was certain I was her target—and back at her husband. She shook her head.
Was Willie asking whether she had encouraged me to come to the diner? Wasn’t I welcome? Maybe they were discussing Rosie, the waitress, but I didn’t think so. Ellen flinched. She said something and then pushed through the door to return to the dining room. Willie followed and, in full public view, pointed at his cheek. Ellen, like an obedient spouse, leaned forward and gave him a peck, but she didn’t look happy about it.
Chapter 8
B USINESS THAT MORNING at the shop was busier than usual. By 10:00 A.M. , I was exhausted. Downing two of Katie’s lemon meringue mini-cupcakes after eating the oversized portion of French toast at the Word had something to do with my lack of pep.
Sugar blahs
, my mother called them. When I told Bailey and my aunt that I was going to take a twenty-minute catnap in the office, neither argued. Bailey, who was still off caffeine, was zipping around the store at the speed of light, reorganizing everything, soup to nuts.
While dozing, I suffered a muddle of dreams: Natalie and the chef’s resignation letter; the Lucky Cat crashing to the floor; Willie locking his precious daughter in his car as something in the car went
ping
,
ping
,
ping
; David running away from me. Last but not least, I dreamed of the display in the bay window at The Cookbook Nook. Something about it was off. I woke up with a crick in my neck. Eager to dismiss every dream as anxious nonsense, I focused on the window display.
In the advertising business, we had to be prepared to revise and rewrite as well as recast a role if an actor wasn’t working out. I felt the same about the window display. Over the course of the next hour, I removed the oars, Frisbees, and sand toys, but I left the partial white picket fence. I set out beach towels and umbrellas. On the towels, I fanned a selection of the culinary mysteries we had in stock. All the books had cute titles like:
A Brew to a Kill
,
Death in Four Courses
, and
The Diva Frosts a Cupcake
. In addition, I placed decorative boxes nearby to indicate that the books included recipes. I added pretty floral aprons, mixing cups, and kitchen utensils, and I titled the area
Beach Reading with Flavor.
Near noon, Katie, bless her soul, brought in a batch of open-faced crab melt sandwiches, made just for the staff. She had decorated each with a teensy umbrella. To my surprise, my stomach growled. I craved protein.
By mid-afternoon, a new wave of customers flocked into the shop. They perused the culinary mysteries with an enthusiasm bordering on frenzy. Everybody needs a book to read while basking in the sun, right? One of the women in the gathering, a charming woman and the leader of an eight-member book club, suggested I invite her book club to tea on a monthly basis so we could discuss food fiction. Pumped from the gusto in the shop, I jumped at the opportunity and asked if I might be able to grow the club. The leader was all for the idea. The more the merrier, she said, and then hinted that her pals might like to meet one of the mystery authors along the way. I had no idea whether an author or group of authors might come to quaint Crystal Cove, but I promised to do my best to lure them.
Around 3:30 in the afternoon, as I stood at the top of a ladder restocking shelves—my calf muscles were getting a great workout from all the sales.
Yahoo!
—Mayor Zeller entered arm in arm with Lola. I was thrilled to see that the lines in Lola’s face weren’t nearly as deep as a few days ago; her eyes glistened
Was Willie asking whether she had encouraged me to come to the diner? Wasn’t I welcome? Maybe they were discussing Rosie, the waitress, but I didn’t think so. Ellen flinched. She said something and then pushed through the door to return to the dining room. Willie followed and, in full public view, pointed at his cheek. Ellen, like an obedient spouse, leaned forward and gave him a peck, but she didn’t look happy about it.
Chapter 8
B USINESS THAT MORNING at the shop was busier than usual. By 10:00 A.M. , I was exhausted. Downing two of Katie’s lemon meringue mini-cupcakes after eating the oversized portion of French toast at the Word had something to do with my lack of pep.
Sugar blahs
, my mother called them. When I told Bailey and my aunt that I was going to take a twenty-minute catnap in the office, neither argued. Bailey, who was still off caffeine, was zipping around the store at the speed of light, reorganizing everything, soup to nuts.
While dozing, I suffered a muddle of dreams: Natalie and the chef’s resignation letter; the Lucky Cat crashing to the floor; Willie locking his precious daughter in his car as something in the car went
ping
,
ping
,
ping
; David running away from me. Last but not least, I dreamed of the display in the bay window at The Cookbook Nook. Something about it was off. I woke up with a crick in my neck. Eager to dismiss every dream as anxious nonsense, I focused on the window display.
In the advertising business, we had to be prepared to revise and rewrite as well as recast a role if an actor wasn’t working out. I felt the same about the window display. Over the course of the next hour, I removed the oars, Frisbees, and sand toys, but I left the partial white picket fence. I set out beach towels and umbrellas. On the towels, I fanned a selection of the culinary mysteries we had in stock. All the books had cute titles like:
A Brew to a Kill
,
Death in Four Courses
, and
The Diva Frosts a Cupcake
. In addition, I placed decorative boxes nearby to indicate that the books included recipes. I added pretty floral aprons, mixing cups, and kitchen utensils, and I titled the area
Beach Reading with Flavor.
Near noon, Katie, bless her soul, brought in a batch of open-faced crab melt sandwiches, made just for the staff. She had decorated each with a teensy umbrella. To my surprise, my stomach growled. I craved protein.
By mid-afternoon, a new wave of customers flocked into the shop. They perused the culinary mysteries with an enthusiasm bordering on frenzy. Everybody needs a book to read while basking in the sun, right? One of the women in the gathering, a charming woman and the leader of an eight-member book club, suggested I invite her book club to tea on a monthly basis so we could discuss food fiction. Pumped from the gusto in the shop, I jumped at the opportunity and asked if I might be able to grow the club. The leader was all for the idea. The more the merrier, she said, and then hinted that her pals might like to meet one of the mystery authors along the way. I had no idea whether an author or group of authors might come to quaint Crystal Cove, but I promised to do my best to lure them.
Around 3:30 in the afternoon, as I stood at the top of a ladder restocking shelves—my calf muscles were getting a great workout from all the sales.
Yahoo!
—Mayor Zeller entered arm in arm with Lola. I was thrilled to see that the lines in Lola’s face weren’t nearly as deep as a few days ago; her eyes glistened
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