Chapter Eight

The kitchen at Cliffs House looked like a full-time bakery in microcosm at seven o' clock that evening, with trays of gingerbread and biscuits filled with tempting dried fruits and nuts, all cooling on its counters. It wouldn't be wrong to try just one before the welcoming fete, I told myself.

"Mind if I try a sample?" I asked.

"Help yourself," said Michael, as he scooped biscuits filled with dried strawberry and walnuts off his baking sheet. "There's plenty. This is my last batch for the fete. The Saturday of, I'll come early and make the sandwiches for the tent, then move all of it to their tables."

"You've been busy today, since you were in consultant capacity at the baking contest, too," I said, nibbling the biscuit.

Michael laughed. "Nothing to do but watch," he said. "I don't know why they ask. Should pre-molded shop chocolates be used? Is compressed whipped cream acceptable? Should people be made to dry their own fruit or buy it at the shops? The answers are easy, so they don't need me to decide. They just want someone there so they can say they have a professional on staff, to make the audience think the rules are strict."

"Maybe you need duties to go with the title of 'culinary consultant,'" I suggested.

He slid his pans by the sink. "I'll volunteer to wash their dishes," he said, wiping his hands on a dish towel.

"How about coaching a bad baker into becoming a better one?" I suggested.

"Who?" he scoffed, before he sensed my question wasn't a total joke.

"You know the presenters on the show are competing in a mini baking contest, right?" I said. "One of them — Kimmie — is completely clueless when it comes to everything from spatulas to speculaas, even more hopeless than I am. She wants to be better, however. Apparently, her comedy partner has a knack for making attractive bakes already."

"They didn't mention me doing it," he said.

"No, she mentioned it to me," I said. "It's not an official thing. I only thought there's nobody better than you who could help someone who needs a few pointers in the kitchen."

"I'm no instructor," answered Michael, dismissively. "She'd be better off watching videos on Youtube."

"I suppose. But you can't ask videos questions." Kimmie struck me as the inquisitive type, and the type who like hands-on learning — since she only wanted to learn a few recipes, I couldn't see that hours of watching videos would hold her patience for very long.

"You can if you type them into the little blank below," answered Michael. A joke that was the final refusal, I gathered, as he deflected all my hints.

I chewed another bite from my biscuit. "These are really good," I commented. "They're almost chewy in the center, like a cookie, but the edges are crisp."

"It's a cookie recipe I adapted," said Michael, sliding some of his cooled bakes into freezer bags to be stored until the day before the fete. "I thought the strawberry would be a good swap for the usual chocolate."

I helped him by packaging the biscuits on my end of the table. "All I stopped by to do was plant that suggestion and also, to ask you to dinner tomorrow night," I said.

"Since when do you ask people to dinner, unless they're bringing takeaway?" asked Michael.

"Since Matt's cooking and I'm bringing a bottle of wine from one of the nicer shops in London," I said. "The kids are at a birthday party in Penzance tomorrow night at one of those arcade centers with pizza."

I wondered at the bravery of any group of well-meaning adults and teens who wanted to drive a van with six kids from ages five up to any recreational center, but if they were fine with listening to screams over lost prizes and spilled fruit-flavored drinks for a night, I wasn't going to question it.

"Anyway, Matt offered to do it as a reward for my very successful pasta dish last night, and I would never say 'no' to this kind of opportunity," I answered. "We don't get many chances for grown-up company these days — we'll probably spend Valentine's Day with cherry heart lollies and cartoons."

I zipped closed the biscuit bag. "It's casual, so don't bring anything but yourself and maybe a backup bottle," I said. "Matt's taste in wine is sometimes adventurous, so I can't guarantee everyone else will appreciate it."

He nodded. "I'll come," he said. "I'll bring dessert, too."

"Perfect," I said. "See you then. Seven-thirty." I pushed the last empty pan into his pile by the sink. "We'll do the dishes, so don't volunteer."

After I finished helping Michael with the biscuits, I called another number on my phone on my way back home. "Hi," I said, after it picked up. "Are you busy Friday night?"

Matt's sweet offer meant mouth-watering mushroom risotto and a roasted vegetable and herb bruschetta spread that I remembered as heavenly from the last time I had tasted it. I promised to call from the bottle shop so my selection would be the label he wanted, anticipating anything from a new Italian vineyard to a New Zealand brand.

He had complimented my ziti in homemade pesto with fresh parmesan a little too enthusiastically, because it would be nothing compared to his cooking. I knew how much he had appreciated coming home to the aroma of fresh herbs and spices and a warm, peaceful atmosphere after a long day, because I appreciated the same thing during crunch week before a wedding. Usually, either of us came home to the activity of frantic coloring exercises at the table, or school assignments that were due on the morrow, and the frantic chopping of a salad to go with whatever meal we'd located last minute from the contents of our fridge.

On the train, I had time to daydream about a real dinner party with adult conversation, in between reviewing details from the upcoming spring wedding Kitty and I were in the thick of finalizing. Alexi had texted me pictures of her dress now that it was fitted and modified by the designer, and wanted some changes made to the menu that I could fix with a quick face to face with the caterer. Some specifics needed a human touch rather than an email or phone call, to be sure communication was perfectly clear — which is why Kimmie wasn't watching the helpful cooks on internet videos to solve her biscuit and brownie woes.

Saturday was the second challenge for the presenters, and the announcement for the next baking challenge. I had seen the shedule and knew this was the longest break between challenges, with a 'TBA' between numbers two and three that I felt sure boded something crazy for the competitors. All of whom were probably reading every sponge recipe they owned and practicing every flavor combination they could think of trying as they waited for the next announcement.

I had time, so I texted Dinah. Nervous? I asked. You were great this last one. If it hadn't been for Prue's flawless mirror glaze, I knew that Dinah's cake probably would have taken first place, despite her worries that chocolate sponge was simply too traditional to seem special. To me, anyway, her mint and chocolate cream filling had tasted like a champion bake.

Nervous. But feeling better. No idea what they're tossing at us next.

Probably something challenging, but your repertoire of recipes can't be beaten. I added a smiley face.

I do wish. I thought if there was a sarcastic emoji, Dinah would have added it here.

Come have dinner with us tonight and we'll cheer you up, I texted back.

Thanks. But I shall be working. Having fish and chips from family fridge.

Are you sure?

Chocolate cranberry sponge with macadamia filling comes out in one hour. Putting in new butter apricot recipe next.

I took this as a final 'no.'

The stately hotel venue for the wedding reception had sent its assistant manager to greet me and discuss the photography plans and the delivery times for the wedding supplies. Afterwards, I finished my journey to London to meet with the jeweler who was engraving Alexi and Ravi's rings, then to Matt's favorite London bottle shop.

The stiletto heels of my red Choos teetered a little on the chipped ornate tile floors of the old building, where former bookshelves had been converted into wine racks for dusty old vintages and newer bottles. I always felt as if I had stepped into a wine enthusiast's version of a library.

"I'm looking for your favorite from last time, but I don't see it," I said, scanning the shelves on our video call. "Do you want me to ask the shop's owner?" He was in the middle of a rambling explanation about a bottle of cabernet with another customer.

"Mmm, show me the shelf next to the vintage pinot noirs," said Matt. "No — on the other side of the vintages from the sixties, I think. Yes, that's the shelf."

I let him scan those bottles, then zoomed in on the neighboring section, which had imports of a nineteen eighties vintage from a now-closed Italian winery. Matt chose a bottle of red from these, which I kept tucked safely in my bag all the way back home.

The aroma from Matt's cooking — 'heavenly' was too mild a description, I decided, as I slipped off my stilettos in the front hall. I picked up the two school backpacks my kids had abandoned, along with a handful of crayons, a soccer ball, and what I hoped was not a science project in an old jam jar.

Despite our resolve to be organized and tidy from now on, I kicked these things temporarily into the closet under the stair before I went through to the kitchen, where Matt was stirring mushrooms in a skillet.

"Never let me take you for granted," I said, hugging him from behind. "I'm starving, by the way."

"Not for another hour," said Matt, catching me as I sneaked a hand around his body, towards the dish that held the herbal Italian tomato spread. "Go change into something more comfortable. I still have the risotto and the salad to finish."

Our guests would be arriving soon, so I slipped off my business skirt and jacket and pulled on a pair of jeans and a pair of ballet slippers. It gave me time to pick up a few more toys in the hall and tidy up our washroom, tossing a wet teddy bear towel into the washing machine, the one Sylvia had left crumpled next to the tub.

"The door, Juli," Matt called, in response to a knock that coincided with his toast going into the oven. I answered, letting in Michael, who had changed into jeans and a button-down for the evening in lieu of his chef's togs.

"French table wine," he said, holding up a bottle. "Traditional enough that anyone will be satisfied except for the snobbiest critics." He handed it to me. "Chocolate gateau with wild cherry sauce." That was what was in the cake carrier in his other hand.

"We can skip dinner and just eat this," I kidded him, taking charge of it with more enthusiasm than I felt for the gift of the bottle. "Come in and have a seat. Dinner's nearly there, but we're still a few people short." I took his leather jacket and hung it on one of the hooks which had been occupied by my daughter's lacrosse stick until five minutes ago.

"Put on some music if you want," I said, as I went through to the kitchen. Matt was stirring his sauce, taking one last taste before he added some basil. "I was going to put in the folk music cd by the stereo, but there's a new one from a local band that Nathan loaned me next to it." One of the perks of being an event promoter was the gift of promotional merchandise, as I had learned secondhand over the years, with Nathan landing tons of dvds, cds, venue posters, and autographed celebrity photos.

He was flipping through them, but paying more attention to the photos in frames than the song selection. The new one in the largest frame was of me, Matt, and Giles at the ceremonial opening of the William Ashton Memorial Gardens, where Matt had delivered an address which moved me to tears. The new photos of Heath and Sylvia were taken at the butterfly center we visited last school year — one that featured me prominently, I had left in the photo album, where it wouldn't draw too much attention to the fact I had indulged in a little too much cake during some of those months.

"I need to make space for a new one of Kitty, Nathan, and the baby, when it arrives," I said. "Nathan already has three empty frames waiting on their mantel, apparently."

"He has everything standing by, apparently," said Michael, with the hint of a smile. He had heard plenty of stories from Kitty about the stockpile of baby toys, the books on baby names, and planned-for 'meet the baby' Skype party with his family in the States.

"She's going to make a great mom, no matter what she says," I remarked. "I know her family teases her about her wild past and so on, but I think she'll be fine."

"Kitty? The kid couldn't want better," said Michael. Despite knowing her less time than me, he knew her as well or better due to the friendship they developed during those years at the manor house. "What are you getting her for a present?" he asked. "I never know what to buy."

"I don't know. I thought about getting something for just her and Nathan — I gave them tons of Heath's old stuff from when I cleaned the cottage out a few months ago." Things my son had outgrown had simply been tossed in a box in the back of the closet, some of them so new that I was ashamed to think we'd wasted money on them.

I heard the sound of a car pulling to a stop in our lane, and spotted Lorrie's red VW Polo through the living room window, parking behind Michael's motorcycle. Another pair of lights flashed from a second car turning down our lane, which might be Charlie.

"Looks like everybody's here," I said. "Matt, I'll lay the table in just a moment."

"The risotto is just now in the serving dish," he called back.

I opened the door, where Lorrie greeted me with a hug. "I brought the candles since I know yours were melted in the craft project a couple of weeks ago," she said. As school headmistress, Lorrie was privy to news of lots of assignment-related household disasters.

"Thank you," I said. "Charlie — go on through, Matt could use someone to pour the wine."

"Hello, Michael," said Lorrie. "It must make for a pleasant change, having somebody cooking instead of yourself." She crossed to the sofa and made herself comfortable.

I was about to close the door when another voice piped up. "Hello? Right house, wrong guests?" Kimmie poked her head around the edge.

"We come bearing gifts — at least, imported chocolates the production company insists on leaving in our dressing trailer." Pet leaned around her shoulder, holding up a box of expensive Belgian chocolate.

"Come in," I said. "You're just in time for dinner."

The two comedians shed their coats, paying a few compliments to my cottage's humble interior, and oblivious to the stares of Lorrie, and of Charlie, who had poked his head through the kitchen doorway, eyes widening at the sight of the new arrivals.

I could feel Michael's gaze and knew he guessed in part that tonight was a setup. I smiled innocently as I made a few quick introductions before taking the box of chocolates to the kitchen.

"Is that —?" Charlie asked me in a low voice, as I set the box by the cake.

"Of course," I said. "What? You see them every day you're on security watch at the set, right?" I inserted a corkscrew in the wine bottle.

"Yeah, but I don't talk to them." He glanced around the doorway. "I'll have to start eating dinner at your house more often."

"You like having dinners of leftover tuna surprise with a sprinkling of crayon dust, do you?" I kidded him. "Matt, which cupboard has the extra silverware now?"

"The one above the percolator," he answered, as he grated the last of the Parmesan over the serving dish's contents. "I think we're ready."

"Good, because I'm starving," said Lorrie, joining us. "Juli, you didn't tell me you're inviting famous people to dinner," she added, in a quieter voice.

"They're perfectly normal, even if they're a little dramatic," I said. "Kimmie says they spend most evenings writing material for the show in London and going for a pint and fish and chips. I thought they'd like some company and conversation for a change."

When I poked my head through the living room doorway to survey the rest of the guests, Pet was admiring my photo collection. "Are these your kids?" she asked me. "Simply darling. I love kids." She put the photo back. Charlie was sidling, being sucked in by that male magnetism which Pet apparently possessed.

Kimmie had turned from admiring Constance Strong's painting by Matt's desk to the only person in the room not chatting at present — Michael. "Here for the party?" she kidded. Seeing that the joke didn't have the icebreaker effect she intended — not knowing Michael as I did — she held out her hand.

"Kimmie Sands," she said. "Object of pity invited to party."

"Michael," he answered, accepting hers in his grip.

"Just Michael?"

"In this village, you only need one name and descriptor — in my case, the French chef. Half my heritage is French."

"That's as interesting as it gets for your life story? I would want to pick mine. My mother was Welsh. She could make cheese and whistle in two languages," said Kimmie.

"I'm supposed to laugh, I assume," answered Michael, dryly.

That brusque humor was off-putting, even to people who knew him. I cringed, listening. Kimmie wouldn't want lessons with him after he put down her career that handily.

"Sorry." Kimmie held up both hands in surrender. "Always on. It's the curse of being a comedian, you say things whether they're funny or not. Sometimes the first thing that pops into your brain to say is an absolute disaster."

"You work in comedy?" Michael said.

"You don't watch telly, do you?" Kimmie lifted an eyebrow.

"Not really. Except for football matches," he answered.

"That is the loveliest thing anyone has said to me all week," she said.

To my surprise, Michael actually laughed. It wasn't much of one, but maybe it meant he wasn't too annoyed. That was promising for him rethinking his dismissal of offering a few pointers, at the very least.

She plopped down on the sofa. "Forget all about what I said about me," she said. "Tell me about being a chef. Come on, I want to know what a chef does in a village like this." She propped her chin on both fists, elbows on her knees in an attentive pose.

"Don't be silly," said Michael.

"No, really. I think people's jobs are very interesting. What you do may not always be you, but it always says something, doesn't it? It's one little slice of reality, full of people, or skills, or drama. Life is all about the slices."

"Talk to Charlie. He's a policeman."

"Are you the one who's looking for the trespassers?" said Pet. "I heard you chased off a lad who was trying to sneak a photograph through our trailer window. Cheeky little sod."

I cleared my throat. "Dinner, everyone," I announced.

 

___________________

 

Matt's risotto scraped the bowl clean of all but the sticky bits around the edges and a stray mushroom, and the Italian spread over toast had disappeared nearly as quickly as the main dish. Pet and Kimmie might be a little crazy, but they were good party guests when it came to telling animated stories, and a lot more relatable as the evening carried on.

"When did they ask you two to present the baking show?" asked Lorrie, when the topic drifted from children chaos at the local school and childhood memories.

"Sir Dominic decided to leave, and they thought 'new blood,' apparently," said Pet. "They wanted it to be a bit more contemporary."

"Are you a fan?" I asked. "Did you watch the show before now?"

"Me? Never," said Pet. "Too busy."

"I watched a couple of series," said Kimmie. "My secret fantasy on telly." She caught my eye for a moment, a twinkle in hers.

"Frankly, the village obsession with the program surprised me," said Charlie. "Nobody I knew before was quite this fond of it — even my gran, whose champion of the local baking competitions."

"You know about the program's Cornish chapter, don't you?" said Matt, as he served himself a little more salad. "The winner was one of our own."

"Really?" said Kimmie, interestedly. "Wait — don't tell me — it's the female baker who won with the passion cake, isn't it? I watched that series, but I didn't even remember until now that it was here."

"The manor house where you're taping one of the episodes was the original site," I said. "The baker — Dinah — she was the chef there before Michael."

"No, really?" said Pet. "That's fun."

"You had a lot to live up to," said Kimmie to Michael. "Her cake looked fantastic." I watched Michael's reaction to this, but his mild gaze didn't rise to her challenge. Kimmie smiled at him — a gleam of humor appeared in her eyes at the same time.

"You haven't lived until you've tasted Michael's cooking," said Lorrie, with a laugh.

"Seriously?" Kimmie asked, being serious now.

"Ask the Michelin star guide," joked Lorrie. "This may be a small village, but our food is the best — whether you want Charlotte's fish and chips or Michael's coq au citron."

Michael blushed a little, the way he usually does for praise — as if his Michelin stars weren't proof of what the rest of us knew by sheer quality alone.

"I've always wanted to learn to cook," commented Charlie. "It's easier to live off takeaway and frozen pies, but my gran would always say that nothing is better than a meal from your own stove."

"I can bake killer dessert squares," said Pet. "Everybody gobbles them up at parties."

"Don't ask me to bake," I said. "I volunteered to do biscuits for the fete and they're a little on the crumbly side. Any iced gingerbread cottages you see at the fete, those are probably the last ones you want to sample."

"They're not that bad," said Matt. "They're quite decent. If a little crumbly." His eyes smiled at me over the rim of his wine glass as he took a sip.

"I've tasted your baking before," said Lorrie. "Matt's is better, obviously, but yours is certainly edible." She smirked at me.

I smacked my chest. "I feel the sting of that remark right here, Lorrie," I answered, as everybody laughed. "But it's true. By far, Matt's the better cook of the two of us. He introduced me to my first Cornish pasty and to the finer points of English desserts with his family's beautiful sticky toffee pudding recipe."

"Oh, that sounds gorgeous," said Lorrie, who helped herself to a slice of cake as Matt began serving dessert.

"Your parmesan pesto penne dish was delicious," Matt said to me. "You're a more creative cook than I am, which is why you feel like you have so many failures. Experimentation split the chances evenly between success and disappointment."

I accepted the slice of cake he passed me, leaning in to kiss his cheek. "I love it when you talk like a scientist," I murmured, flickering a quick glance into those dark coffee eyes before I sidled away. Matt was definitely exaggerating the magic of my pasta dish.

"They asked me to volunteer as a baker for the fete, but I hesitate," said Lorrie. "They wanted me to make my mother's Christmas cake recipe, which is completely beyond my humble powers."

"Everything is beyond my powers," said Kimmie, with a short laugh.

"Nobody is that bad," said Charlie, sympathetically.

"Do you want to know how terrible I am?" said Kimmie. "I'll tell you. When I was eight, someone gave me one of those toy ovens and the little cake kits that come with them. The sort with the light bulb that cooks the cake? All of the cake mixes, however, came out more like rice pudding — and all my biscuits were little coals on the pan. My poor dollies must have suffered terrible indigestion eating them."

Lorrie laughed. "Maybe it was simply a bad light bulb," she suggested. "Sometimes those toys are a nightmare for parents."

I made a mental note not to buy one for Sylvia for her birthday. Who could be sure whether she inherited Matt's patience and skill — since the general evidence her crafts skills provided pointed to my genes, anyway.

"That wouldn't explain the disasters in my home oven today," said Kimmie. "But I persevere — if the baking show wants me to bake, I trudge through the humiliation. I'll lift up my chin and write some silly banter about squirty cream puffs and frowny face biscuits." She perked up her chin with a little smile. "I won't let Pierre's cutting words stand in the way of good comedy. Who knows, maybe luck will be with me once or twice."

"Oh, you are so losing to me every time," said Pet, laughing. "Love, the entire world knows you can't boil water without burning it. Like, every time. That's why this bit will be hilarious when it's edited together."

"Maybe I don't always want to be hilarious," answered Kimmie.

"It's you, though, so how can you not be?" Pet asked, looking both puzzled and amused.

"I'm an incredible optimist," said Kimmie, taking a sip of wine.

There wasn't any cake left to speak of after dessert, and I was glad my children wouldn't be able to give me sad glances because of a lonely slice left on the plate, of a gateau as rich as anything Dinah would have made if she'd accepted my invitation.

"Anybody interested in cards? Charades?" suggested Lorrie. "Fancy some Scrabble tiles on the table?"

After a quick game of Gestures and one too many glasses of wine for me since tomorrow was my half day, there were signs that the party was going to break apart early. Lorrie had papers to grade at home and Charlie had committed himself to an after-hours check on the program's sets rather than trust the security team alone.

Michael slipped on his jacket in the hall, as I handed him back his empty cake carrier. "Thanks for coming," I said. "That dessert was killer."

"You're welcome," he said. He glanced towards the kitchen, where people were still chatting.

"Something wrong?" I asked.

He looked at me and shook his head. "No," he answered. But he didn't step outside, even though he had my door's handle in his grip. "Listen," he said, after hesitating. "I have some time, now that the fete's baking is done. Your friend can come by tomorrow and I'll show her a few things."

"Thanks, Michael," I said, squeezing his arm.

"Nine A.M., sharp," he said. "I still have to finish a catering tray for the committee tomorrow afternoon. No promises that I can teach anybody anything," he added.

"Maybe that old adage about students teaching themselves applies," I suggested, wisely.

Michael's head shook, pessimistically. "Good night, Julianne."

The rest of the guests came through one by one, Charlie first and the two presenters last. Pet trotted out first to answer a phone call, so Kimmie was the last one through, pausing to say goodnight to me.

"He said 'yes'," I said to her, smiling.

Kimmie relaxed. "Yes," she said, with a little bit of triumph. She held up her hand and high-fived me. "Thank you, thank you. I'm so psyched. I might not sleep tonight." She hurried after Pet, turning to wave goodbye from my front garden before I closed the door.

One little half-glass of wine was left in the bottle when I poured it into my glass, which I sipped as I began filling the sink with hot water for the neglected dinner dishes. Matt had switched on a cd in the next room, peeking through the curtains every few minutes to see if the van bringing back our sleepy children was turning up the lane. Pretending not to be doing it, I noticed.

He put the leftover salad in our fridge, then embraced me from behind, settling his chin comfortably onto my shoulder, his body to my curves. "Was it the evening you hoped for?" he asked. "No frozen casseroles, no chat about simple fractions or superhero cartoons."

I turned my face to his, nuzzling his cheek. "I'd say it was very successful," I answered.