Horrified by the review of Heavenly Delights in the New York Gazette, Lucie crunched up the newspaper and then immediately stomped on it. She’d read it multiple times, searching for a glimmer of something positive. Anything that could be considered constructive, but there was nothing. An encouraging word simply wasn’t to be found. The restaurant had been panned by Eaton Well. The review had been scathing, sarcastic, and that was only the first paragraph. It got worse from that point on. This review was disastrous and had the potential to ruin them.

“Sweetheart, are you reading it again?” her mother asked.

Lucie slammed her foot down on the crumpled-up newspaper and ground it back and forth as if putting out a cigarette butt. This was what she’d like to do to the reviewer, squish him like the roach he was. The man or woman was a parasite. A bug that needed to be exterminated. Eaton Well had been completely unfair, mocking her food, belittling her talent, and even going so far as to suggest she give up cooking entirely.

“Lucie, Lucie, sweetie, let it go.” Wendy placed a restraining hand on her daughter’s arm. “Don’t let that ridiculous article upset you so much.”

Her mother remained cool and calm, which served only to infuriate Lucie more. Apparently her gentle-hearted, optimistic mother didn’t understand what this might do to their restaurant. This could be the beginning of the end.

Wendy seemed to take this horrible review in her stride, whereas Lucie was at the boiling point, but then she’d been the brunt of much of the printed piece.

“You’re taking this much too seriously,” Wendy warned.

Lucie stared at her mother. Wendy had always been the optimist in the family, the one who never failed to find something good in any situation. When her mother had first read the review, Wendy had actually suggested that the reviewer must have had a bad day. The poor reporter was probably on a deadline and hadn’t taken time to enjoy his meal.

“Don’t you understand that a review like this could ruin us?” If Lucie had said it once, she’d said it ten times, but apparently the words had yet to sink into her mother’s head.

“Perhaps so, but personally I don’t think we need to worry.” Wendy poured hot tea into her cup and blew onto the steaming liquid before she took a sip. “We haven’t seen a decline in reservations, have we?”

“How could we?” Lucie snapped. “The review is less than twenty-four hours old. Mom, don’t you understand? Readers pay attention to these restaurant reviews. Even if we manage to survive, this has the potential to set us back for years.” Lucie didn’t want to be negative, but one of them had to be realistic. To be reviewed in its own right was a big deal. With literally thousands of restaurants to choose from, to have Eaton Well dine at their establishment meant Heavenly Delights had caused something of a stir. Enough to warrant the Gazette’s attention.

Still, how dare the reviewer criticize her sauce. She’d worked hard on that recipe and she’d put it up against any chef’s in the industry.

Wendy remained unfazed. “Lucie, you worry too much. We have a large number of loyal customers.”

“Don’t you understand? Didn’t you read the article?” Lucie didn’t need to retrieve the printed page. After reading the worst of it several times over she had the comments memorized: “Heavenly Delights is anything but. Those with high blood pressure beware, the chef has a heavy hand with both lemon and salt. So much salt that she must have drained the Dead Sea in the beurre blanc sauce … seriously, whoever is in the kitchen needs to return to culinary school or hang up their hat entirely.” Lucie was too upset to continue.

“I agree that comment wasn’t the least bit kind.”

“It was a desperate effort to sound clever and witty at my expense.” Lucie seethed every time she thought about those cutting remarks.

“I don’t think you should take it personally, Lucie.”

“Not take it personally! How can you say that? This is definitely personal. It’s an attack on my credibility. The reviewer might as well have said I’m unqualified. Come to think of it, that’s in the article as well.” Lucie struggled to contain her outrage. Of all the nerve. Eaton Well knew nothing about her, nor was it necessary to write his or her review. The food critic didn’t have a clue of the sacrifices she’d made in order to attend culinary school or how she’d worked nights and weekends until she was too exhausted to think. As far as she was concerned this critic was heartless and unfair.

Her mother continued to drink her tea, setting the cup carefully back in the saucer. “Answer me this: When was the last time you took a night off?”

Lucie collapsed into the chair. “Are you suggesting that I’m so overworked that I—”

“I’m not saying anything of the sort. What I am suggesting is that you need to step back, take a deep breath, and let this roll off your back. A single bad review isn’t going to destroy us.”

Lucie wished she could believe that. Clearly her mother didn’t have a clue how serious this situation was. Until recently Wendy hadn’t been part of the culinary world. Lucie’s mother didn’t understand that these restaurant reviews could be incredibly influential.

The phone rang and Wendy reached across the kitchen counter and snagged it.

Lucie only half-listened to the conversation. It didn’t take long for her to recognize that the person on the other end of the line was a friend of her mother’s who’d phoned to commiserate.

“I’m not the least bit concerned,” Wendy insisted. “I know my daughter. Anyone who’s ever tasted Lucie’s cooking recognizes that she’s a fully qualified chef. My daughter knows her way around the kitchen. No, no, we aren’t going to file charges against the newspaper. This was one person’s opinion. Most people prefer to judge a restaurant themselves. It’s unfortunate that he or she had a bad experience but we can’t make everyone happy all the time.”

That was true enough, Lucie realized. Still, she would have preferred to have this reporter brag endlessly about her cooking instead of lambasting her on every level.

Wendy had no sooner hung up the phone when it rang a second time. “Oh, hi, Juliana. Yes, of course we saw it. No, I’m not worried. Thank you. I’ll tell Lucie. Really?” After a couple of moments of silence, her mother sat up straighter and fixed her gaze on Lucie.

Lucie couldn’t help but notice the way her mother’s eyes brightened.

“Of course I’ll tell her. This is just wonderful. Thanks so much, Juliana. You’ve made my day.” Wearing a huge smile, her mother docked the phone.

“What did Juliana say?” Lucie couldn’t help being curious at the change in her mother’s posture.

“Juliana went on the newspaper’s website. She always was one to keep up with technology. All that social media techie stuff is beyond me.”

“And?” Lucie pressed.

“Well, apparently several people have taken exception to the review and have left comments.”

“Really. Several people? Did she mention a number?”

Wendy nodded. “She said you should check it out yourself and you’d be impressed. I believe she said there were already three hundred comments, all disagreeing with the review.”

“Three hundred.” Lucie felt like dancing around the room.

“And not a single one of them is related to this family,” Wendy boasted.

Lucie immediately sat down at her desk, which she’d set up in the corner of their cozy living room. Sammy, who sensed something was wrong, waddled over and sat down at her feet, resting his chin on her foot as though to comfort her.

Lucie booted up her computer, logged onto the Internet, and went to the home page for the newspaper. Sure enough, the Heavenly Delights review dominated the comments directed at the newspaper. Lucie could barely believe her eyes. Her hand covered her mouth as she read comment after comment praising the restaurant. Several people mentioned Lucie’s signature dishes and nearly everyone raved about the desserts. Wendy was right. Their loyal customers hadn’t remained silent. They’d come to the restaurant’s defense in droves. It was barely noon and the comments already numbered over three hundred.

“Take that, Eaton Well,” Lucie murmured, grinning uncontrollably.

“What did I tell you,” Wendy said, coming to stand behind her. “We don’t have a thing to worry about.”

Lucie desperately wanted to believe that.

A summons from the managing editor wasn’t unusual, but it was the way the message came to Aren. He’d been asked to stop by the editor’s desk at his earliest convenience.

Sandy Markus had been with the paper nearly thirty years. She was a pro and didn’t stand on ceremony, nor was she shy about sharing her opinion. The woman had grit and guts—both necessary to rise this high in what was once considered a man’s world. Sandy had not only broken the mold; she’d helped shape a new one. Aren respected and liked his boss even though she had the power to intimidate him.

When Aren appeared at her office door, Sandy glanced up and motioned him inside.

“Close the door,” she instructed.

Aren reluctantly complied with her request. If Sandy wanted the door closed, it usually meant bad news.

Aren’s stomach sank.

The managing editor continued to focus on her computer screen. “Have a seat,” she instructed. She wasn’t the stereotypical newswoman. Sandy was tall and thin, with short, wiry hair that she groomed into submission with mousse until it stood straight up on end. In her mid-sixties, her face had weathered well through the years.

“Is there a problem?” Aren asked. As far as he knew his work had been more than satisfactory.

Aren didn’t expect Sandy to praise his writing. She’d let it be known she expected his articles to be of top quality. If they weren’t he could seek employment elsewhere.

Aren took a seat. “What’s this about?” He hated being called to task when he didn’t have any idea what he’d done wrong.

“Heavenly Delights,” she muttered, reluctantly tearing her gaze away from the monitor. She removed her eyeglasses and a deep frown marred her brow as she studied him. “You wrote the review of the restaurant, right?”

“I did.” Aren stood by his piece. The food had been some of the worst in his experience. As far as he was concerned, whoever was doing the cooking had a lot to learn. The chicken dish was satisfactory, but that showed no real expertise. The true test had been the sole and sauce, and in that the chef had failed miserably.

“You were scathing in your remarks.”

Scathing wasn’t the word he’d use. “I was honest.”

Sandy glared back at him from the other side of her desk. “Apparently your review has caused quite a stir.”

He laughed. “It has?” He couldn’t imagine why, other than the obvious fact that the restaurant needed a new chef.

“I don’t suppose you’ve taken a look at the website or the Facebook page? There are hundreds of rebuttals to your review between the two sites. Readers are leaping to defend the restaurant, the food, and the chef. They even applaud the color of the dining area walls.”

Aren grimaced. That comment came as a result of a line he’d written about the calming effect of the interior. The owners had chosen a warm shade of gray with black highlights. Aren might have gone a bit overboard when he’d insinuated that the interior, while soothing and inviting, wasn’t enough to distract from the poor quality of the food. The remark had been cutting; he wished now he’d been more judicious.

“Not everyone is going to agree with me,” he felt obliged to remind his editor.

“I second that. We aren’t running a popularity contest with these restaurant reviews. However, when three hundred people take the time to write and contradict your findings, I sit up and take notice.”

“Three hundred?” Aren squared his shoulders. “I ordered the sole—”

“I know what you ordered.” She cut him off. “You wrote about it in great detail as part of your review.”

She was right, he had.

“Look at this.” Sandy swiveled her monitor around so Aren could read a few of the comments left on the website. In case he had trouble, Sandy read one aloud. “My name is Bill Wheeler and I’ve traveled extensively around the world. One of my favorite seafood dishes is sole served with a beurre blanc sauce. I’ve ordered sole in London, Paris, and beyond. The best, the very best I’ve ever tasted, is served at Heavenly Delights.” The last three words were spoken slowly and precisely as though she was reading them to a child.

“Three hundred comments,” Aren muttered under his breath.

“Apparently Mr. Wheeler liked it.”

“Apparently so. Mine was inedible. An entire canister of salt must have fallen into that sauce, along with enough lemon to pickle herring, not to mention the distinct taste of cayenne pepper. There was no redeeming this sauce or the fish.”

“Some people aren’t going to agree with a food critic’s reviews.”

“That’s understood.”

“But three hundred? That tells me you aren’t doing your job.”

“That’s not true.” Aren feared he was about to join the ranks of the unemployed. “What would you like me to do?” he asked, fearing she was about to ask for his resignation.

“What I’d like,” Sandy said, her voice elevated to the point that the window of her office vibrated, “is for you to eat at Heavenly Delights again. Clearly the chef had an off night.”

“Clearly.” Aren struggled to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

“If several hundred diners have rallied to defend the chef, then I believe a second look is in order.”

“All right.” Although Aren wasn’t looking forward to this dining experience.

“Do it soon.”

“Consider it done. However …”

“Yes?” Sandy had already returned her attention to the computer screen. Her gaze bounced back to Aren.

“I wrote an honest review. I’m willing to give Heavenly Delights a second chance, but if the food is the same poor quality as before I won’t change my opinion no matter how many people disagree with me.”

“Fair enough,” Sandy said. Then, as if she’d suddenly had a second thought, she asked, “Anyone go with you when you ate there earlier?”

“My sister.”

“What was her opinion?”

Aren exhaled and frowned. “Actually, she was impressed. Her chicken dish was delicious, or so she claimed.”

“So it was you and you alone who found the food below par.”

“Apparently.”

Sandy was facing her keyboard again even before he left the office. Returning to his desk, Aren reached for his cell and texted out a message to his sister.

Giving Heavenly Delights a second chance. Join me?

Her reply came within a few seconds. When?

Tonight?

Tomorrow?

OK tomorrow.

Can I meet you there?

No problem.

What time?

7 unless you hear otherwise.

Aren made the call and discovered, somewhat to his chagrin, that the only reservation available was for five thirty p.m. He sent another text to his sister.

She replied, I’ll do my best to get there on time. Might be a few minutes late.

No problem.

Aren arrived at Heavenly Delights five minutes before their early reservation. His sister sent him a text telling him she was running ten minutes behind and told him to be seated.

Be there lickety-split.

The same charming, older woman who’d served as hostess at his first visit seated him. “I see you’re back.” She beamed him a smile. Then, lowering her voice, she added, “I’m glad that nasty food critic didn’t change your mind about our food.”

Aren feigned a grin.

She led him to a table that was close to the kitchen. He had to agree the scents coming from the other room enticed him.

Perhaps he had been overly critical. Well, he’d find out soon enough.