A Taste of Heaven Read online

  Baldwin laughed. “He’s our resident hipster from Portland, Maine. Johnson, I think. I’m Lancelot.”

  The quiet Chinese woman said, “I’m Shaggy.” Her accent was heavy, and she was still tapping her foot in nervous agitation.

  “I’m Sophia. Do you have a real name?”

  That elicited a small smile. “Yes. Lin Lin.”

  “You’re a professional chef?”

  “Yes,” she sniffed. “Tossed in with a bunch of amateurs. My partner is a woman named Tammy. From Texas. I hope she can cook,” Lin Lin added, looking doubtful.

  “The amateurs must have some culinary ability, otherwise they wouldn’t have been chosen for the competition.” Sophia was beginning to get irked with the condescending attitude.

  “One would hope. Perhaps showing the contrast between true talent and incompetence is a winning formula for the producers. Who knows?” Lin Lin sipped her beer and stared off into space.

  The atmosphere at the makeshift party wavered between awkward tension and manic anticipation. Most of the pros were studiously ignoring the amateurs, too haughty to even bother with superficial conversation. And the amateurs looked scared out of their minds. Sophia needed a drink.

  “Elliott, I’m going to grab a beer. Do you want one?”

  “I want two. We obviously aren’t going to have a quiet, private conversation here. Hurry up and we’ll find somewhere else to talk.”

  She left him scowling at the other chefs and went in search of alcohol.

  As Sophia rummaged through a bucket of ice, she wondered if she’d be sleeping alone in one of the dorm rooms or be partnered with another contestant. This was beginning to feel like the worst parts of college—performance anxiety and cramped accommodations.

  “I’ll take that.” Elliott appeared behind her and snatched a beer out of her grasp. “Too bad it’s not whisky, but it will do for now. Let’s head to the quad and find a quiet spot. I need some fresh air anyway. This place is a dump.”

  He took her hand and pulled her out of the dorm. Outside the sky was black and star-filled, not in the slightest bit interested in man-made concerns or mounting anxieties. Elliott continued to clutch her hand as he rushed along the uneven sidewalks. Sophia was sure he was completely unaware of that fact. She, however, was not.

  For twenty-two years, she’d gotten used to a slender hand, smooth and soft, linked with hers in a mindless way. David would often flex and tighten his fingers sending her some unconscious message. She peered down at her hand clutched by this angry Scottish man and had to suppress a wince. His massive hand was thick and hairy and rough. Elliott’s hand yielded no give-and-take. It was all take.

  She yanked her hand away. She was perfectly capable of walking without his assistance.

  He shot her an amused look as he stopped in front of a bench and gestured for her to sit.

  “God. I wish I still smoked.” His voice sounded rough.

  Sophia raised a brow. “Doesn’t smoking dull your sense of taste?”

  “Aye. That’s why I quit.”

  “There’s more liquor in the dorm.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, I plan to help myself when we get back.” His eyes narrowed. “But not too much. We need to be on the ball in the morning.” He stood in front of the bench with his arms folded tightly across his chest, towering over her with the haughty attitude of a king assessing the lowliest of servants.

  “How much experience do you have?” he barked.

  “Cooking experience? I’ve been cooking for myself since I was a teenager. Nothing too fancy, but I have the basics down.”

  “Can you make a demi-glace?”

  “Yes.”

  “A red wine reduction?”

  “Yes, I do that a lot with my daughters.”

  “We all know you can make dessert. That might come in handy if we have a sweets contest. I’m not big on baking.”

  “I can muddle through.”

  He sniffed. “Muddle my arse. How are your technical skills in the kitchen? Knife skills, sauces, sautéing? Can you make stock for a soup?”

  “Of course. What are—?”

  He interrupted her. “Fine. That’s better than I expected.”

  “For God’s sake, I’m forty-seven years old. I have two grown daughters. I’ve made soup once or twice in my life. Just because I didn’t win a Best New Chef award doesn’t mean I’m a complete idiot in the kitchen.”

  Elliott raised an eyebrow. “Well, well, well. Pretty little garden fairy has a wee bit of a temper, does she?”

  Sophia ignored the taunt. It was time to learn something about Elliott and his culinary vision. “What sort of dishes do you typically prepare at your restaurant?” She highly doubted he had succumbed to any trendy culinary methods. She couldn’t imagine him playing with molecular gastronomy. He seemed firmly entrenched in traditional cooking.

  “I prepare Scottish food. Cock-a-Leekie soup, Finnan Haddie, roast partridge, smoked goose, shepherd’s pie. Haggis. Food that is rich and comforting and real. I don’t do gels.”

  She nodded. “That’s good. I’m not too keen on that stuff either.”

  He continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “My cooking celebrates the lengthy tradition of Scottish cuisine, recipes that are inspired by the land and sea around us. There’s no reason to think Scottish dishes are solely for an undiscriminating or unrefined palate. Anyone with a sophisticated culinary education should be able to recognize that.”

  “Elliott, you don’t have to convince me—”

  “Furthermore, these dishes don’t need flowers or herbs or bits of green.” He spat out the last word vehemently.

  “Are you finished?” she asked quietly.

  “Am I finished? No. We are at the beginning of our journey together, and it’s imperative you and I are on the same page.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Let me guess. The Elliott Adamson Page.”

  “Damned straight.”

  “Don’t you want to know what my cooking approach is?” she asked.

  The look on his face was comical. “No.”

  “No? Not at all interested? You aren’t curious if we’re compatible . . .”

  He leaned down and boxed her in with his arms. Lowered his face until it was just inches from hers. “Let’s get something perfectly clear. This is the Elliott Adamson Show. I’m the professional chef. I’m the one with the experience. I’m the one who has everything on the line. Not you. I bark orders. You follow them like a good little girl. I make the decisions. You follow my lead. I don’t want to hear your opinion. I don’t want you making suggestions. I lead. You follow. Is. That. Clear?”

  Is that clear?

  What was clear to Sophia was a cauldron of fire building inside of her. Rushing to the surface like a plume of lava, ready to burst forth, showering the earth. What an insufferable bastard. So cocky and dismissive.

  Sophia’s days of being a good little girl were over.

  She lifted her hand and pushed his chest. He didn’t budge. She pushed harder and he stepped back. Sophia adopted a cool, composed facade while inside her emotions were churning. She was shocked by the violence she felt. She wanted to strike Elliott, slap him, wipe the smirk off his face. She took a deep, calming breath and stood. “I’m surprised, Mr. Adamson. I thought you said you wanted to win. But it seems like you’ll be disqualified before the contest even gets underway. Either you play by the rules, or you lose. And the rules state that we both have to participate. Both of us. The judges will ask us what we made, how we contributed to the dish. I’m perfectly capable of enhancing your vision, but we have to work together. Unless you knock the enormous chip off your shoulder, we’ll be done before the first round is over. Decide. Do you want to win?”

  Sophia had delivered that speech with nary a wobble in her voice. Inside, she was quaking and shocked by this new side of her personality. And perhaps a bit proud of herself as well. This new Sophia. Who would not be cowed.

  Elliott turned red. He stared
at her in stunned disbelief. Yes, she wanted to shout at him. The garden sprite does have a temper!

  His eyes darted back and forth, an indigo blaze raking over her face. She could see the barely suppressed tension in the tautness of his mouth, the twitch of an eyelid. And she knew he was recalculating this relationship. Reassessing her. Reassessing the situation. Trying to squeeze her into a compartment that was comfortable and predictable. Wondering how he would manage her. Wondering what she was capable of.

  He really had no idea.

  Did she? Did Sophia have any idea what she was truly capable of? She was about to find out.

  Finally, he nodded. “Fine. You have a point.”

  Breathless, and surprised by his response, she sat back down on the bench. “Instead of towering over me like an irate ogre, why don’t you sit and we’ll talk. And actually listen to each other.”

  He reluctantly seated himself next to her. “An irate ogre?”

  She raised a brow.

  He laughed. “You would fit right in with my employees. They all hate my guts.”

  “I wonder why. Do you charm them with the I Lead, You Follow lecture?”

  “Yes,” he chuckled. “It works much better with them, thankfully, than with my American partner. They’re all on board with my rules at Stone Soup.”

  “Is that the name of your current restaurant? Stone Soup?” she asked.

  “Yes. Named by Wife Number Three. Tucked behind a stone wall in North Berwick, near the sea. In a dark, dank, dreary spot that is . . . well, never mind. The food is flawless.”

  “Wife Number Three? You’re kidding, right?”

  “I never kid about ex-wives. They’re not a laughing matter.” He stared off into the night as fireflies began to spark around them.

  Three wives? Dear Lord. Part of her was not surprised. In spite of his infuriating attitude, something about Elliott Adamson was extremely provocative. That combination of single-minded intensity and rough masculinity was captivating.

  She cleared her throat. “I used to read Stone Soup to Em and Cady when they were little girls. They loved that book.”

  “Wife Number Three joked I could make a gourmet dish from anything. A rock. A stick. A piece of coal.”

  “Does Wife Number Three have a name?” Sophia was curious.

  “Wife Number Three is now Ex-Wife. Like Wife Number Two. And Wife Number One.” Are we going to talk about food or yak on about my miserable love life?”

  Clearly, the ex-wives were a sore spot for Chef Adamson. “Very well. I’m ready to talk about food, Oh Lord and Master.”

  He laughed at her sarcasm. “Fine. Tell me about Vermont. The types of products they will throw at us. What can we expect over the next week? I had no idea the contest would be like this. I honestly thought a crew of professional chefs would be tossed into a kitchen and battle it out.” He frowned and released a bone-weary sigh.

  For the first time Sophia saw the tiniest bit of vulnerability in Chef Adamson’s swagger. “I can tell the premise for this competition has thrown you for a loop, Elliott. But I assure you I’m a competent cook.”

  “We’ll see about that. In the meantime, educate me about Vermont.”

  Sophia told him about fresh cream from the local dairy and grass-fed beef from the farm one town over. Honey from the Akins bee skeps, syrup tapped at the local university. The organic turkey farm that raised plump birds racing for their lives the day before Thanksgiving, and then turned into a ghost town once the holiday was over. She told him about every local Vermont product she could imagine that A Taste of Heaven might include in the competition. He was silent, mulling over every word. And she could see the gears and wheels in his brain clicking and turning and creating as he assimilated the possibilities. When she’d finished, he continued to sit next to her, lost in thought, silent and brooding.

  Finally, he spoke. “Very well. We play by the rules. But I’m still captain of the team.”

  “Team Grumpy Scottish Bastard?”

  He started out chuckling, but soon his booming laugh was echoing across the green, streaming up into the open windows of the dormitory, and floating on the nighttime breeze into the Vermont starry sky. “Grumpy, indeed. Time for bed.”

  She walked back to the dorm, wondering what wheels she had set into motion by choosing the prawns in whisky sauce.

  It was a sobering thought.

  Chapter Eight

  The dorm room looked like a prison cell.

  A Taste of Heaven may have invested in a brand new courtyard kitchen for the Vermont Culinary Institute, but they certainly hadn’t invested a dime in the dormitories. Skinny mattresses topped the rusty bed frames. The walls were dingy and plain. Pipes lined the ceiling, occasionally hissing and clanging like an angry wraith.

  Sophia found her duffle bag on top of a mattress.

  Lin Lin lounged on the other bed.

  “Hello again. Looks like we’re roommates . . . at least for now. Until someone goes home.” Beneath the shaggy mop of bangs, one dark eye glared at her.

  Already exhausted by her Scottish partner, Sophia had no intention of continuing the hostility with her roommate. “I’m glad we’re together. Where are you from?”

  Lin Lin brushed the bangs from her eyes and sat up straighter. “From Vancouver. I have a restaurant there. I heard you’re local.”

  Sophia sat down on her bed and winced as it creaked. Hopefully she wouldn’t fall through the floor tonight. “Yes, I live about fifteen minutes from here. I traveled to Vancouver years ago with my late husband. We loved it. Such a gorgeous city.”

  Lin Lin nodded. “Uh huh. Good food city. Do you think these judges will like Asian-inspired cuisine? Tarquin leans more toward Indian inspiration, and Rutgers is old school, I think. The blogger . . . eh. Who knows? She seems ridiculous.” She began to tap her foot on the faded bedspread. “This competition is not what I expected.”

  Sophia smiled. “I don’t think it’s what anyone expected. That’s the whole point. The producers are forcing all of us into an uncomfortable situation. I have a feeling this show will be more about teamwork and less about the food.”

  Lin Lin shook her head. “No, you’re wrong. It is always about the food. The teamwork part is a wrench in well-planned strategies. That is all. The food will win the game.” Her one visible eye gleamed, and the tapping stopped. “Hopefully Tammy will not be as clumsy as she seems tomorrow.”

  “Tammy from Texas?”

  Lin Lin nodded. “And she stutters. She is a nervous wreck.”

  “I’m sure everyone will calm down once the cooking starts.”

  Lin Lin shot her a doubtful look and turned on her side. “I’m reading before I sleep . . . about Vermont products and resources. I want to be ready tomorrow. Please turn the lights out in thirty minutes.”

  Sophia sighed. She had no doubt that all of the “amateurs” were being bossed around right now.

  She changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt and slipped under the thin blanket. Was this another tactic to keep the contestants rattled? For the first time, Sophia wondered how much of this contest was a psychological experiment by the producers. Were they trying to ramp up the tension for the show? She understood they needed drama for entertainment, but she was planning to be as prepared as possible for tomorrow. And it had nothing to do with reviewing cooking techniques.

  She pulled out her laptop and typed in ELLIOTT ADAMSON.

  An hour later she was huddled beneath the shabby blanket so the light from her computer would not disturb her roommate. Lin Lin snored quietly from her corner of the room and was grinding her teeth. Still nervous, even in sleep.

  Sophia poured over photos and menus and reviews. And wedding announcements. Elliott with Wife Number One—small and dark and shy. With Wife Number Two—golden and fair. And with Wife Number Three—stocky, joyless, holding a pot spilling over with claws.

  Early photos revealed a lean, beardless Elliott, all smiles and swagger, surrounded by friends in a cramp
ed kitchen. Eventually the man became heavier, harder, grim. Dark circles began to appear under his eyes. A thick red beard cropped up on his face like a shield, but not enough to mask his solemn expression. The last several years of photos were telling. No more smiles for the camera, no more wives by his side. He looked haggard, and bleak, and all alone.

  She found snippets of reviews. Tourists thrilled to find authentic Scottish cuisine. Tourists complaining about appalling service. Customers who raved about impeccable food. Restaurant critics shocked by a dreary, dark atmosphere. There were just as many disgruntled comments about his establishments as positive.

  Sophia began to inspect the menus, one at a time, analyzing each dish. She searched the Internet for information about Scottish cooking, the most popular traditional dishes and their history and preparation. By the time a purple sunrise began to creep into the window, she had collected some perplexing information about her new partner.

  Elliott Adamson was an enigma.

  He was obsessed with food. But apparently clueless about the rest of the details involved in running a successful restaurant. He barreled through projects as frequently as wives. When one restaurant faltered, he left it—and the wife—and started fresh.

  How had a man filled with so much talent failed to launch?

  The answer was there, hidden somewhere behind the clenched jaw and stubborn mouth and eyes as blue as the sky in North Berwick.

  Sophia had no idea what was holding him back. But she was ready to move forward. And this big, brooding, bullheaded man was standing in her way.

  This competition was her chance for a fresh start. And if she had to bully the Scot to get there, so be it.

  ❦

  “Rise and shine!” An intern grinned cheerfully as she pushed open the dorm room door. “We’re having an early challenge today.”

  Lin Lin groaned from her bed. Sophia pushed herself up on one elbow and glanced at her watch. Five a.m. Oh my God. She’d had scarcely an hour to sleep.

  “What’s the challenge?” Sophia’s voice croaked.

  “You’ll find out soon enough!” The P.A. chuckled at the two of them. “Grab a quick cup of coffee and meet me outside in half an hour. The van is leaving for our challenge location.”