her ground. “The phone’s through that door and take a right into the office. Oh, and don’t mind the water.”
The man frowned. And then nudged her out of the way until he was standing in front of the chicken.
She was too dumbfounded to respond as he reached into the pack and pulled out a leather package. With a deft flip of the hand, it unrolled to reveal half a dozen knives that gleamed.
Frankie jumped back, thinking she might be the one who needed the phone. To call the police.
“How many?” he said in a voice like a drill sergeant.
“I beg your—”
His eyes were sharp, his tone bored. “How. Many.”
Frankie was aware that no one in the room was moving. Joy was frozen to the spot near the dining room door, George had stopped with the cookie halfway on a return trip to his mouth. They were obviously waiting for her to explode.
She looked at the chicken and then back at the man who by now had picked up a long knife and was poised over the carcass. With that tool in his hand, he was all business.
“You’re a cook?” she asked.
“No, a blacksmith.”
As she stared up at him, the challenge in those hazel eyes was as clear as the bind she was in.
She had a choice. Rely on her skills, which had already resulted in the incineration of a sizable hunk of protein. Or take a gamble on this stranger and his flashy set of knives.
“Two parties of two. One six top,” she said briskly.
“Okay, here’s what I’m going to need.” He looked over at her sister and when he spoke next, his voice was back to being gentle. “Angel, honey, I need you to take one of those pots over there and put it on the gas with two cups of water in it.”
Joy leaped into service.
“George, is that your name?” the man asked. George nodded, happier now that the tension had dispersed and his cookie was finished. “I want you to pick up that head of lettuce and run it under the cold water, stroking each leaf like it was a cat. You got it?”
George beamed and started on his job. By this time, Joy had filled the pot and put it on a burner.
The stranger started in with the chicken, peeling off the skin with deft movements of his fingers and the knife. He worked with such speed and confidence, she was momentarily captivated.
“Now, Angel—” back with the soft voice “—I want you to bring me a pound of butter, some cream, three eggs and all the curry powder you can find. And do you have any frozen vegetables?”
Frankie cut in, feeling ignored. “We’ve got fresh Brussels sprouts, broccoli—”
“Angel, I need something small. Peas? Cubed carrots?”
“We’ve got corn, I think,” Joy said enthusiastically.
“Good. Bring it over and get some twine.”
Frankie stepped back, feeling more panicked now than when things were disorganized and she had no options.
She should be doing something, she thought.
George came back with the lettuce and Frankie was impressed. Chuck, the former cook, had never been able to get him to do anything right, but here he was with perfectly cleaned romaine leaves.
“Good job, George, that’s perfect.” The stranger handed George a knife. “Now cut it up in strips as wide as your thumb. But do not use your thumb to measure. It doesn’t have to be exact. Do it across from me so I can watch you, okay?”
Joy came up to him with the bag of corn and the twine. She was smiling, so eager to please. “Do I put the corn in the water?”
“No.” He lifted his left leg. “Tie it on to my ankle. The damn thing’s killing me.”
Chapter Two
Less than ten minutes later, Frankie took out the salads. They had a dressing on them that the man had whipped up out of some spices, olive oil and lemon juice. George, bless his heart, had cut up the crisp lettuce perfectly and had triumphed with the strips of red, yellow and orange peppers as well.
By this time, the local diners had left because they had perfectly good kitchens of their own to go home to, but the B & B’s guests were like zoo animals they were so hungry. She had no idea what the stuff tasted like, but figured the Littles and the other couple were so hypoglycemic they probably wouldn’t have cared if she’d served them dog food.
After she put the plates down in front of them, the Littles glared at her as they stabbed at the salad.
“Glad you finally got around to it,” Mr. Little snapped. “What were you doing, growing the leaves back there?”
She gave him and his anemic, stressed-out wife a frozen smile, glad she hadn’t sent George or Joy out. She was bolting back for the kitchen when she heard the man say, “My God. This is…edible.”
Great, Chef Wonderful got the raw veggies right. But what about the chicken?
As she pushed through the kitchen door, she wondered why she was being so critical of a guy who seemed to be saving her bacon, but she didn’t dwell on the thought. She was too astonished at the sight of George laying out a row of his favorite oatmeal and raisin cookies on a sheet of cheesecloth.
The stranger was talking, in that calm voice.
“And then you’re going to hold them over the boiling water when we’re ready. Okay, Georgie?” he was saying. “So they get soft.”
All Frankie could do was watch in amazement as the man, in a whirling dervish of motion, created dinner out of disaster. Twenty minutes later, he was spooning onto White Caps plates a curried, creamed chicken mixture that smelled out of this world.
“Now, it’s your turn, Angel. Come on, follow me.”
As he worked his way down a row of four plates, Joy was right behind him, sprinkling on raisins and almonds. Then the man packed couscous into a series of coffee cups and tapped out the mounds onto each plate. A sprig of parsley was put on top and then the man called, “Pick up.”
Frankie sprang into action, scooping up the plates at once, as she’d done since she started waiting tables when she was a teenager.
“Joy, you clear,” she called out.
Joy swept into the dining room with her, clearing the salads as Frankie slid the entrées in place.
It was over two hours later. Against all odds, the guests left happy and raving about the food, even the godforsaken Littles. The kitchen was cleaned up. And Joy and George were positively glowing with the good job they’d done under the stranger’s direction.
Frankie was the only one out of sorts.
She should have been falling on her knees to thank the man with the fancy knives and the quick hands. She should have been delirious with relief. Instead, she was crabby. Having always been the savior, it was hard to accept a demotion in favor of a man she didn’t know, who’d come out of nowhere.
And who still had a bag of frozen corn tied to his ankle.
The cook finished wiping off one of his knives and leaned under the overhead track lights to examine the blade carefully. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he slid it into the leather roll and tied up the bundle. When he put it into the backpack, she realized he’d never gotten to make his call.
“You want to use the phone now?” Her voice was gruff because what she needed to do was thank him, but gratitude was something she was rusty with. She was used to giving orders, not praising initiative, and the role reversal felt uncomfortable.
And maybe she was just a little envious of how easily he’d pulled everything