don’t know, leaves or something in them. Let’s see...there’s a whole smoked salmon, some fruit stuff—compote, he calls it—these fancy syrups, nuts, sauces, salad dressings, his special way-hot salsa and guacamole, a case of these humongous kick-ass red grapefruit, and, like—” he spread his hands “—a ton of chocolates.”
“Chocolates?” The man was a monster! “He sent me chocolates?” She reached for the carton. Maybe just a peek–
No!
She stiffened her spine. “Jason. Tell Mr. Reid this is not helping his cause. He is being, like, totally offensive here.”
“You’re unnatural. Don’t you eat?”
“Good-bye, Jason.”
She closed the door and dashed into her kitchen, where an exhaustive search turned up a stale Tootsie Roll and an ancient packet of low-fat hot cocoa mix that she had to peel off the inside of her cupboard.
*
“I give up.” Eric threw his hands in the air.
Cookie said, “Don’t give up.”
“What does the woman want?”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
“I’m supposed to read her mind, that’s why. I’m supposed to be original .” He surveyed the Cookhouse kitchen, heaped with the cartons Lina had sent back. Jason had slunk out murmuring something about unnatural females who don’t, like, eat.
“Okay,” Cookie said. “Time to bring out the big guns.”
*
“I told you, I did not order that!” Lina cried. “Where would I put a thing like that?”
The two sullen delivery men appeared to give that some consideration. Thankfully, they kept any suggestions to themselves.
The three of them stood at the freight entrance behind her apartment building, where she’d been summoned to sign for receipt of Chef Reid’s latest insane attempt at payola. Inside the delivery truck sat an enormous gleaming steel freezer—industrial model. Sharing the truck were cases of yummy things to fill it: filet mignon, lobster tails, salmon steaks, veal cutlets, and who knew what else.
The man was certifiable.
She’d been offered cash bribes in her decade-long career as a reviewer. She’d been offered cases of fine French wine and champagne, liquor, exotic foods, free meals, and—last and unquestionably least—Chef Rudolfo’s “free ride.”
But this was the first time she’d been offered a major appliance.
One of the delivery men shoved a clipboard at her. “Sign here.”
*
“I don’t know about this, Joy.” Lina steered her antique red Mustang onto Woodcleft Avenue, the “Nautical Mile” of Freeport, Long Island. “The closest I’ve come to fishing is the fisherman’s platter at—well, at that restaurant right over there.”
On their left was Woodcleft Canal, a manmade waterway leading to the bay and the Atlantic Ocean beyond. Tied up at the dock were large white party boats advertising half-day, full-day, and night fishing trips to the general public. She didn’t know if the long walk down Woodcleft from Front Street to the bay was an actual nautical mile, or even a land mile, for that matter. Not that she knew the difference, but she supposed there had to be one. But whatever the street lacked in “mile,” it more than made up for in “nautical.”
Boat dealerships and gift shops competed for space with fish stores, bait-and-tackle shops, and restaurants, some with open-air seating. Fishing boats sold their catch directly to the public from ice-packed crates set out on the dock.
“Quit griping,” said Joy. “I’ve never been fishing either. It’s an adventure. How do you expect to meet men if you don’t go where the men go?”
“I meet men.”
“Yeah, men who are strictly off-limits. Isn’t that what Etsuko said? ‘Keep your hands off the hot chef’?”
Lina didn’t want to think about the hot chef. She couldn’t believe that grope session at the beach, the frightening ease with which she’d abandoned her principles and let down her guard.
At least she was no longer in danger of succumbing to Eric Reid’s heart-stopping
“Chocolates?” The man was a monster! “He sent me chocolates?” She reached for the carton. Maybe just a peek–
No!
She stiffened her spine. “Jason. Tell Mr. Reid this is not helping his cause. He is being, like, totally offensive here.”
“You’re unnatural. Don’t you eat?”
“Good-bye, Jason.”
She closed the door and dashed into her kitchen, where an exhaustive search turned up a stale Tootsie Roll and an ancient packet of low-fat hot cocoa mix that she had to peel off the inside of her cupboard.
*
“I give up.” Eric threw his hands in the air.
Cookie said, “Don’t give up.”
“What does the woman want?”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
“I’m supposed to read her mind, that’s why. I’m supposed to be original .” He surveyed the Cookhouse kitchen, heaped with the cartons Lina had sent back. Jason had slunk out murmuring something about unnatural females who don’t, like, eat.
“Okay,” Cookie said. “Time to bring out the big guns.”
*
“I told you, I did not order that!” Lina cried. “Where would I put a thing like that?”
The two sullen delivery men appeared to give that some consideration. Thankfully, they kept any suggestions to themselves.
The three of them stood at the freight entrance behind her apartment building, where she’d been summoned to sign for receipt of Chef Reid’s latest insane attempt at payola. Inside the delivery truck sat an enormous gleaming steel freezer—industrial model. Sharing the truck were cases of yummy things to fill it: filet mignon, lobster tails, salmon steaks, veal cutlets, and who knew what else.
The man was certifiable.
She’d been offered cash bribes in her decade-long career as a reviewer. She’d been offered cases of fine French wine and champagne, liquor, exotic foods, free meals, and—last and unquestionably least—Chef Rudolfo’s “free ride.”
But this was the first time she’d been offered a major appliance.
One of the delivery men shoved a clipboard at her. “Sign here.”
*
“I don’t know about this, Joy.” Lina steered her antique red Mustang onto Woodcleft Avenue, the “Nautical Mile” of Freeport, Long Island. “The closest I’ve come to fishing is the fisherman’s platter at—well, at that restaurant right over there.”
On their left was Woodcleft Canal, a manmade waterway leading to the bay and the Atlantic Ocean beyond. Tied up at the dock were large white party boats advertising half-day, full-day, and night fishing trips to the general public. She didn’t know if the long walk down Woodcleft from Front Street to the bay was an actual nautical mile, or even a land mile, for that matter. Not that she knew the difference, but she supposed there had to be one. But whatever the street lacked in “mile,” it more than made up for in “nautical.”
Boat dealerships and gift shops competed for space with fish stores, bait-and-tackle shops, and restaurants, some with open-air seating. Fishing boats sold their catch directly to the public from ice-packed crates set out on the dock.
“Quit griping,” said Joy. “I’ve never been fishing either. It’s an adventure. How do you expect to meet men if you don’t go where the men go?”
“I meet men.”
“Yeah, men who are strictly off-limits. Isn’t that what Etsuko said? ‘Keep your hands off the hot chef’?”
Lina didn’t want to think about the hot chef. She couldn’t believe that grope session at the beach, the frightening ease with which she’d abandoned her principles and let down her guard.
At least she was no longer in danger of succumbing to Eric Reid’s heart-stopping
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