8

The next morning, Ella’s dad’s car motors up the road and rolls to a stop in front of my house. I jump in the back seat and lean forward between them. “Morning.”

“Good morning, Quinnie,” Mr. Philpotts says. He’s not very convincing about its goodness. He has dark circles under his eyes, like he’s been up all night writing one of his crime novels. I’ve learned to recognize “writer face” from seeing it regularly at Ella’s house.

“He needs a depth charge,” Ella says.

“That’s a fact,” says her dad.

“Zoe coming?” Ella asks.

“I haven’t talked to her since last night. I’m sure she’ll show up.”

Ella turns to look at me like, Is something the matter? I’m hesitant to admit things are not going as perfectly as I’d hoped.

Inside Gusty’s, the smells are breathtaking. We’ve arrived just as the blueberry muffins are coming out of the oven.

Mr. Philpotts waves at Dad and sits down at the counter. Dad immediately turns to the fancy Italian espresso maker he bought last year to satisfy discriminating caffeine drinkers like Mr. Philpotts and Ella’s aunt Ceil and uncle Edgar.

When Ella and I slide into our regular seats, she asks, “What happened to you last night?”

Now, I have been known not to tell the whole truth sometimes. But I have never fudged it with Ella, and I’m not going to start now. “I went for a walk with Zoe.” I can tell this bruises her feelings.

“On the beach?”

She says it like that puts a paper cut on top of the bruise.

Something tells me that I shouldn’t say, She wanted it to just be the two of us. So I say what I know is true. “She misses Scotland and doesn’t feel at home here anymore.”

I must have major disappointment on my face, because Ella pats my arm.

“You know what Monroe Spalding says, don’t you?”

Since Monroe Spalding is the detective in her father’s crime novels, I can’t imagine what he’d have to say that applies to this situation. “What?”

She tips her head and says, “Always follow your first instinct.”

“What does that have to do with Zoe?”

“I have no idea, but think about it.”

I’m thinking about it when the door to the café opens and in walks Slick, followed by Hubert himself. This is my closest look yet at his shiny bald head, those big ears—like open car doors—and his white chef’s coat, with its collar unsnapped and flapping.

Everyone, I mean everyone, sucks in a breath, and the room falls silent.

Hubert stands in the center of the room, turning his head like he’s looking for the person most likely to be Dad.

Dad comes out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. He and the bald man meet in the center of the café.

Sister Rosie eyes the door like she might make a run for it. People shuffle uncomfortably in their chairs.

Slick walks in between them like a referee about to do a coin toss.

Hubert’s neck is blooming red.

Dad’s chest is rising and falling.

Slick says to Dad, “Gus, this is Hubert Pivot.”

Dad sticks his hand out, friendly-like.

I swear there is a beat of time when we all think Hubert won’t go through with the handshake. Then he extends his arm and says, “How do you do? You have a nice place here.” His voice is quiet and flat, but at the same time, there’s a smirk on his face.

“Thanks,” Dad says, and everyone in the café seems to relax. “I haven’t seen yours yet.”

“Well, stop by sometime. I’ll cook something up for you,” Hubert says.

I’m hoping Hubert doesn’t ask Dad if he likes aspic, because that could send this whole thing into a tumble.

“So, Gus,” Slick says, “Hubert wants to take you up on your challenge.”

Dad broadens his stance. “Well, excellent.”

“How do you want to do it?” Hubert asks, as if he’s done it a variety of ways.

Dad looks a little unsure.

Mr. Philpotts, who has been watching along with the rest of us, interjects: “I have a friend who’s the editor of the Rook River Valley Advertiser. Maybe he’d put his restaurant critic, the Secret Diner, on the case? You guys just run your restaurants, and the Secret Diner will pop in and out—anonymously, of course. At the end of, say, a couple of weeks, the Secret Diner could announce the winner in the paper.”

Dad and Hubert study each other’s faces for signs of fear or confidence, then both nod and agree.

Ten minutes later, Mr. Philpotts has made the call.

“It’s a go,” he says. “The Secret Diner will commence incognito visits in two days. This will go on for seventeen days. And in the end, we’ll know whose food passes the test of our local tastemaker.”

I want to ask him why seventeen, but Mr. Philpotts goes ahead and explains that the Secret Diner’s doing two weeks’ worth of stops, plus a few off days, so he can keep the restaurateurs guessing. Dang. This is sounding like a bigger and bigger deal.

Dad and Hubert shake hands one more time before Hubert and Slick leave. Slick orders two whoopie pies to go on his way out.

When the door shuts behind them, applause breaks out in the café. Dad bows from the waist.

Ben and Dominic arrive a minute later.

“Was that who I think it was?” Ben asks.

“It was,” I say.

“Hubert in the flesh,” says Ella.

“I could take him,” says Ben.

“There’s going to be a competition with the Rook River paper’s Secret Diner as the judge,” I tell them.

Dad, meanwhile, is moving from one table to another, laughing and high-fiving people.

I’m not sure how I feel about this. If he wins, that’s great. But what if he loses? When I see how happy he is, I hope like crazy this works out.

“Gusty’s will grab the W, no sweat,” Ben says.

“I’m not sure I get it,” Dominic says. “They don’t make the same kind of food. At all. How do you compare Gusty’s chowder to fiddlehead ferns in custard?”

We look at each other vacantly.

“That’s a great question,” I say.

* * *

At home that evening, while Dad prepares dinner, Mom is at the kitchen table, making a list of everything that has to be done at Gusty’s before the competition starts. A new text makes her phone ping every few minutes.

“Touch up paint, get the new sign up”—Ping. She stops to check the text, then continues. “One more task: print new menus—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Margaret.” Dad turns around, holding a jar of Dijon mustard in his hand. “What new menus? We don’t need new menus.”

“Just a reprint and new plastic,” she says. “Some of them are sticky.”

“Okay, then,” Dad says, his hackles going back down. “As long as we’re clear. We’ve had that same Gusty’s menu for four generations. Every Gusty has cooked it and cooked it the same way.” He spoons some mustard into a small bowl and adds fresh chopped herbs. “It’s never failed us.”

“I’m not saying the menu isn’t perfect.” Ping. Mom stops to read another text. “But what if we added one dish that is . . . a little forward-thinking?”

Big mistake, Mom. I back away from the splash zone on this.

“Forward-thinking? What, does it have to jump onto the plate and turn into a frozen mist?”

Mom’s getting frustrated too. “I don’t know, Gus. Maybe one dish that demonstrates you could run a Hubert’s kind of restaurant if you wanted to. You’ve already got comfort food covered, but how about an item that competes head-on with one of his? It would be impressive.” She puts her phone on the table. “Everyone in town is suggesting a recipe. Listen to this. These are the texts I’m getting.” She taps her phone. “Beet brownies, kale chips, udon noodles in organic chicken-bone broth—”

“Let me think about it. You know, it’s not like I don’t know about all that haute cuisine business. It’s just that people will go to Hubert’s once, think it was fun but too expensive, and that will be it.”

After dinner, I’m walking upstairs to my room, and Dad stops me. “What do you think, Quinnie? Should I trade comfort for kale dust?”

“I kind of agree with Mom, Dad. What would it hurt to try a Gusty’s version of one of his dishes?” I put my hand on his shoulder. “Just don’t do the bone broth thing, okay?”