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Get out of my kitchen!” I yelled at Tater, the one-hundred and thirty-pound Newfoundland dog who had burst into my workspace and taken an interest in the crown roast of pork sitting on the counter.
“Molly, put the knife down before you hurt someone!” Becca Kilpatrick yelled to me as she burst through the kitchen door in Tater’s wake.
I hadn’t realized I’d been brandishing my Wustof’s classic chef’s knife, my pride and joy. I slipped it onto the counter before any blood was shed, especially mine. It was that sharp. But something needed to be done about that mongrel. Ten movers-and-shakers from our small seaside town of Sea Haven were expected for Mrs. Wade’s dinner party, and she would not be a happy camper if the main course was in the dog’s belly.
“I’ll get him.” Becca dropped her purse on the slate floor. She was my best friend and server for this evening’s event and had just arrived to help with set-up. The dog must have barreled through the door when she’d opened it, as that dog had a habit of doing. She grabbed Tater by his red collar and pulled with all her might. She may be tall, willowy, and strong as an ox, but she was no match for the mutt.
I ran to assist in banishing the beast from my kitchen. My shorter, stockier build gave me leverage as I pushed the brute from behind. We battled that stubborn mutt a good five minutes. Some cuss words may have passed my lips, as happens when I lose control of a situation. Eventual success, but not due to our efforts. No. Credit goes to the squirrel prancing across the backyard. Tater raced off in pursuit, yapping happily.
I slammed and locked the French door, sliding the security bolts at the top and bottom, just to be sure.
Becca bent at the waist, put her hands on her knees and drew deep breaths of air.
I leaned against the kitchen counter and did the same.
“We’re too old for this,” she said.
I nodded in agreement. Forty-something was too old for a lot of things, I’d learned.
“That is one strong dog!”
“And stubborn. Can’t blame him though, after what he’s been through lately.” What Tater had been through, in a nutshell, was being dumped by his dog dad, Dustin Wade, while the college dropout went in search of himself. I think his primary motive was to find a sexy signorina somewhere along Italy’s Amalfi Coast. That was three weeks ago. The poor dog now exhibited signs of severe separation anxiety. Partly because the human Tater had attached himself to was no longer around, but perhaps more so because nobody in the Wade household paid a bit of attention to the mutt, let alone took him for a romp on the beach every day. The five-year-old puppy-at-heart was starved for attention and acted out by chewing anything that didn’t move, to include but not limited to, high-end furniture and expensive leather shoes.
Mrs. Wade had threatened to ship the dog to the glue factory. Yes, he might be the size of a small pony, but I don’t think he would have been accepted at the Elmer’s processing plant, so don’t worry.
Mr. Wade, on the other hand, had a soft spot for his only son, and by extension, his only son’s dog. He’d threatened to ship Mrs. Wade to the glue factory.
Yes, there was trouble in paradise here at Casa Wade.
The family fighting—mostly yelling which a few times had devolved to wine-glass throwing—might be the third contributing factor in Tater’s unruly behavior. I know I’d been tempted to gnaw on something when the shouting commenced.
“Hey,” I said to Becca once we’d both caught our breath. “We need to get crackin’. There’s much to be done and less than two hours to do it. The florist should be here any minute with fresh flowers for the front room and dining table.”
“Who’s the florist?”
“I don’t know for sure, but Mrs. Wade usually uses Happy Petals.” Rose Campbell owned Happy Petals, a small florist on the outskirts of town. My boss had a soft spot for small, struggling businesses owned by single women. I had the honor of being one of her “projects.” I will forever be grateful to her, as I have now achieved financial independence working as a personal chef, which I absolutely love.
“It’s a big night for the Wades,” I told Becca, “so think classy not flashy. Can you please work your tablescape magic to match the mood?”
Becca was a natural in creating beautiful table settings. I mean Pinterest-worthy type displays. In my honest opinion, she wasted her talents serving bangers and mash at McGuffy’s, her uncle’s Irish pub. But she loved working there, so I guess that’s what’s really important in life, right?
There came a scratching at the back door. I knew without looking that Tater’s sad shaggy face would be peering in. “Ignore him,” I said before Becca made eye contact with the mutt. No need to give him false hope.
Becca started opening cupboards, taking inventory of the Wade’s collections of beautiful Polish pottery. “What’s the cause du jour?” She slammed one cupboard and moved on to the next. “Wait. Let me guess. Pretend Friends are Real People, Too. Or some such nonsense.” She rolled her eyes.
I laughed.
“Don’t laugh. It’s a real thing.”
My turn to roll my eyes. “You need to stop believing everything you read on social media.” Granted, Mrs. Wade had been involved in some unusual charities over the years, like one that was dedicated to improving the life of African Pygmy hedgehogs, which I guess if you’re someone’s pet hedgehog it’s important, but in my opinion the world had bigger issues. But at least her causes benefited a small, real, segment of the planet.
“The cause?” Becca prompted me.
“A political fundraiser.” I opened the largest of the three ovens in Mrs. Wade’s professional-grade kitchen and slid the crown roast in. After an hour or so I’d pull it out and fill the cavity with my special sausage and potato stuffing. Before serving, I’d put a little paper hat on each of the ribs. Presentation was everything to Mrs. Wade. This was by far the fussiest dish I’d ever prepared, but when Mrs. Wade wanted something, she got it.
“Must be something big if you’re doing a crown roast. And it’s kinda a miracle that Mrs. Wade found ten people in this town who still eat meat.” Becca held out two plates next to each other and then shook her head and put them back in the cupboard. “So many pretty patterns I can’t choose just one. Okay with you if I mix and match?”
“Just keep it classy,” I instructed.
“But of course,” Becca replied.
I lifted my head at the tippity-tappity sound of heeled shoes rushing down the hallway. The door opened and in rushed Rose Campbell, her arms overflowing with flowers in a riot of colors and textures. The blooms were pretty in their own way, but not quite the understated elegance Mrs. Wade expected this evening. But that was Rose’s problem, not mine.
After pleasantries had been exchanged, we gabbed about local events as we each focused on our tasks at hand: Rose bustling between the kitchen and the florist van as she arranged her blooms; Becca coming and going as she mixed and matched plates and tinted glassware; and me focusing on preparing my signature dessert, Death by Chocolate Trifle, as simple to make as crown roast is fussy.
“What’s the big to-do for tonight?” Rose stepped back and surveyed her last arrangement.
“Mrs. Wade is going to launch her political career,” I said, keeping a close eye on the mixer because the whipping cream was seconds away from turning into butter. “She’s running for mayor.”
“Oh, god!” Rose screamed.
Not exactly the reaction I expected.
“No,” Becca shrieked.
Not the expected reaction at all. Mrs. Wade was generally well tolerated in the community.
Crash!
I winced at the unmistakable sound of delicate pottery smashing against a slate floor. After turning off the mixer, the room settled into an eerie silence. I opened one eye to survey the damage. Rose and Becca stood in shocked stillness amid a sea of colorful pottery shards. Their gazes were not focused on the shattered stoneware, but instead on a large fuzzy beast standing in the corner. He must have snuck in with the florist.
Tater finished his snack, licked his chops, and then flashed a self-satisfied smile our way. A plastic bulk-sausage wrapper, licked completely clean, lay under Tater’s front paw.
No big surprise that a dog named after the main ingredient in Boyd and Blair Potato Vodka (yes, he was named by a fraternity boy) always acted like he was two shots into a good-time party.
I swear, that dog was going to be the death of me.
