“Mrs. McGowan? Mary Bliss McGowan?”
She didn’t recognize the man’s voice on the other end of the phone. She tensed. Bill collectors called her Mrs. McGowan. The insurance people called her Mrs. McGowan. Anytime anybody called her Mrs. McGowan lately, she’d come to expect the worst.
“Who’s speaking, please?” she asked.
“Oh, you don’t know me,” he said. His voice had a soft, southern accent. “I’m Gerran Thomas? Of Gerran’s Gourmet Cuisine? I was at the memorial service for your husband, Parker, last week. My grandmother was old Mrs. McGowan’s cook, and Nanny practically raised Parker. The Thomases and the McGowans go way back.”
“That’s nice,” Mary Bliss said, wondering when Gerran Thomas would get to the point.
“Anyhoo,” he said, “I digress. I didn’t get a chance to speak to you at the luncheon afterwards, so this is a little awkward for me. But I just couldn’t not call you. I’ve got a favor to ask. It’s impossible, I know, but call me crazy. Here it is. Ever since I had that chicken salad at the luncheon, I’ve been absolutely wild to find out who made it. Honestly, it’s the best chicken salad I have ever tasted. And I’ve tasted it all. I’ve had Swan Coach House. I’ve had Piedmont Driving Club, I’ve had Ansley Golf Club. And that chicken salad was the best!”
“I see,” Mary Bliss said. But she didn’t.
“If you ever tell anybody I said this, I’ll deny it to the grave,” Gerran Thomas said, “but that chicken salad was even better than my nanny’s.”
“I’ll never breathe a word,” Mary Bliss promised.
“I asked around,” he continued. “And your neighbor Kimmy said you made it. Is that right?”
“Yes,” she said. “The recipe was my best friend’s mother’s. She took the recipe to the grave with her. I don’t know if I got it exactly right, but I think it was pretty close to the way she made it.”
“My dear!” Thomas exclaimed. “That salad came directly from heaven.”
Mary Bliss laughed. She’d been laughing off and on for two days now. She wondered if she’d passed some kind of milestone.
“I don’t know if Mamie made it to heaven,” she allowed. “She was married three times, dipped snuff, and cheated at bridge. But you could definitely say it came from beyond the grave. So I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should. Now here’s the sticky part. I’ve got a huge wedding coming up in two weeks. Do you know Braelynn Connors? She’s the anchor on channel eleven at five o’clock?”
“I’ve seen her,” Mary Bliss said. “The blonde with the mole?”
“Adorable, isn’t she? Anyway, it’s seven hundred and fifty people, at the Botanical Garden. Town and Country magazine is flying a photographer down to shoot it. Everything has to be perfect. Perfect!”
“I’m sure,” Mary Bliss said. She wondered if she was having an out-of-body experience. This man kept talking in exclamation marks, but he didn’t seem to be saying anything specific.
“I’ve got a confession, Mrs. McGowan,” Thomas said. “I was a naughty, naughty boy. Heh-heh. I stole a little dish out of your church kitchen, and I took home a sample of that chicken salad of yours. I went right over to the station, and I caught Braelynn in the makeup room, and she tasted it and she agrees. We have to have that chicken salad at the wedding!”
“Oh.” Mary Bliss couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“I wonder if you would be willing to part with that recipe?”
She looked around her kitchen. At the peeling linoleum, at the damp spot on the ceiling. At the stack of bills on the counter near the phone.
“I couldn’t possibly,” she said sweetly. “After all, it’s not really my recipe to give. Katharine’s mother, Mamie, was extremely secretive. And I feel it would be a betrayal if I passed it along to somebody else.”
“Darn! That is disappointing,” he said. “Braelynn has her heart set on it. We’ve already changed the menu around just to make room for your chicken salad. I was going to do cold poached chicken breasts with a margarita crème dressing, but now Braelynn won’t hear of having that.”
“Hmm,” Mary Bliss said.
“I’ve tried my hand at re-creating it,” Thomas said. “But it’s a bit of a puzzle. That sweet-tangy thing is so tricky. Tarragon, right? And crème fraiche?”
“Not exactly,” Mary Bliss said.
“I wonder…,” he said, letting his words trail off. “Sour cream?”
“No.”
“Buttermilk?”
“No.”
“You’re killing me!” he said, lapsing back into exclamation marks again.
“It’s really a sacred trust,” Mary Bliss said.
“All right,” he snapped. “What Braelynn wants, Braelynn gets. And she wants that chicken salad of yours. So what would it take?”
“I really couldn’t…”
“Cut the cute stuff, Mary Bliss,” Thomas said. “Let’s talk chicken salad.”
“Well,” she said sweetly. “Since you put it that way. The only way this can work is if I make the salad myself.”
“No. Absolutely not. Nobody but Gerran does Gerran’s Gourmet Cuisine.”
“I understand. Good-bye, Mr. Thomas. And good luck with the wedding. I’m sure Braelynn will make a beautiful bride.”
“Wait! All right,” he said. “What do you want? What will it take?”
“I make the chicken salad myself,” Mary Bliss said, her mind racing. “In my kitchen, in my home. I buy all the ingredients myself, fix it all myself. You pick it up the morning of the wedding. And as far as the world knows, it’s Gerran’s chicken salad.”
“No. No. No. Impossible. Health department regulations stipulate that all food sold commercially must be prepared in kitchens inspected by the county health department.”
Mary Bliss found that she had recently gained a healthy disregard for regulations of all kinds.
“Who’s to know?” she asked. “I’m a very particular cook, Gerran. My kitchen is spotless. You can ask anybody.”
“This is very irregular,” he fussed. “I could lose my catering license.”
“You could just go with the poached chicken breasts with the margarita crème dressing,” Mary Bliss offered. “I think I saw a recipe for that in last month’s Family Circle.”
“Family Circle!” he shrieked. “That’s impossible. I created that recipe myself. The lime peel is candied and gingered and…All right. You can make the chicken salad at your house. I’ll pick it up that Saturday morning. In an unmarked van, of course.”
“Fine,” Mary Bliss said. “I think that will work. Just out of curiosity’s sake, how much chicken salad are we talking about here, Gerran?”
“That’s why I won’t work with amateurs,” he said bitterly. “How much? How much do you think? We have seven hundred and fifty confirmed. I’ve got to have a hundred pounds, minimum.”
Mary Bliss swallowed hard. She’d nearly killed herself producing ten pounds of chicken salad for Parker’s memorial service. This was ten times as much. Maybe she really was having an out of body experience.
“That’s no problem,” she said smoothly. “I charge twenty-five dollars a pound, of course.”
“Of course,” he snapped.
“And I’ll bill you for the ingredients,” Mary Bliss said.
“I’ll require an itemized bill,” Thomas said quickly.
“Impossible,” Mary Bliss said, borrowing his favorite phrase. “The recipe is a secret, remember? If I tell you what went into it, what’s to keep you from figuring the recipe?”
“Never mind,” he said. “So you’ll do it?”
“I’ll do it.”