Chapter 11
The comforting aromaof pancakes and coffee greeted me as I woke in my childhood bedroom. One good thing about being home again—Mom’s cooking. It sure beat my typical bowl of Peanut Butter Crunch.
As I walked into the kitchen, Mom was sliding pancakes onto a plate. “Good morning, Mom. These smell scrumptious.” I kissed her on the cheek before grabbing a cup of coffee.
“It’s so nice having you home, Jasper.” She smiled sweetly as she continued cooking.
I leaned against the counter, stole a strawberry she’d cut for the pancakes, and popped it into my mouth when she wasn’t looking. Not that she’d care anymore, but some habits stuck with you. In a household of six kids, I’d always found a way to skirt the rules. Guess that hadn’t changed. “I hope now that I’m here all the time, maybe dad will let me help a little.”
“Yes, I hope so too. I realize you’ll be working your job and also planning your restaurant, but it would be great if you could take a little off your dad’s plate as well.” She pointed her spatula at me. “Oh, speaking of restaurants, I heard some news that might interest you. Ted Quince, who owns the Moonstruck Steakhouse, had a stroke in the night. He’s in the hospital. They don’t know if he’ll recover enough to continue managing the restaurant. The family has been pressuring him to sell for a few years now, but he refused. Now he might not have a say in it anymore.”
“Oof. What a delicate situation. I don’t want to seem too eager to take advantage of Mr. Quince’s health, but I want the family to know that I’m interested in the restaurant. My entire plan centered on purchasing that place. I’d been hoping to spend some time with Mr. Quince to show him how loyal I am to this town and how I want to help the restaurant grow to continue the legacy he and his wife started. I can’t very well do that with him in the hospital.”
“You’ll figure something out. I have no doubt.” She handed me a plate of steaming pancakes and squeezed my shoulder. “And in your own sweet and charming way.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Slathering butter and syrup on my pancakes, I asked, “Where is dad, by the way?”
She blew out a breath in frustration. “He’s out doing chores. There are plenty of workers to do that, but he still insists on helping out.”
Dad’s entire life centered on helping others. He was always there to volunteer for whatever was needed, no matter what it was. But he refused to let anyone help him. He never wanted to be a burden to anyone.
A lightbulb lit in my head, “Do you think if I talk to Dad about my taking on some of the farm business, and make it seem like he would be doing me a favor and helping me learn the farm-to-table industry by letting me do it, that he would go for it? If I made sure to present it as a way for him to help me prepare for owning a restaurant?”
Her eyes lit up. “You might be onto something there. He’d say no if it was to help him, but if it allowed him to help someone else, he’d probably say yes. We’ll just have to figure out how to convince him that taking over some of these tasks would help you.”
“No lie, if I’m going to open my own restaurant here, connecting with the other businesses in the area would strengthen my ties to the community and help me learn the ins and outs of farm-to table. I’ll ask if I can take over some of that for him, to help me pave the way for the restaurant.”
“That’s a great idea.”
“Honestly, it really would help us both. Win-win.” I poured myself a glass of her homemade apple juice. “I also think I’ll go introduce myself to the chef at Moonstruck. I think his name is AJ Scott. We know he’s a fantastic chef from the times we’ve eaten there, but I’ve also heard he’s kind of tyrannical. Runs the kitchen with an iron fist. I want to make sure I get on his good side so he’ll want to stay on when I buy the place.”
She chuckled as she started cleaning up the kitchen. “You never have been one to let any moss grow under your feet. When you get an idea or inspiration, you go for it with all you’ve got. I have no doubt you’ll make this restaurant happen and you’ll win over Chef Scott without breaking a sweat.”
I finished my breakfast and looked at the clock. “I think I’ll head over there now so I can talk to the chef before they get busy in the kitchen. Then I’ll track Dad down when I get back.”
“Good luck.”
“Ah, who needs luck?” I winked at her on my way out the door.
I just needed to become friends with Chef Scott and let him know that I wanted to keep him around if—no, when—I took over the restaurant. Some people might think this was putting the cart before the horse, but I prefer to proactively line up my ducks to ensure a better outcome. Winning the support of Chef Scott would show the Quinces that I intended to continue their legacy. It would also help transition smoothly to new ownership.
Walking into the Moonstruck Steakhouse, I looked around with new eyes. The place would definitely need updating. It looked like the 80s threw up in here.
The paneling was a medium pine with a shiny finish. There were shelves in each corner filled with knick-knacks. Brass sconces surrounded a matching mirror or framed print on each wall. Powder blue velvet curtains hung along the sides of the windows, with lacy mauve valances across the top. Each dining table had matching chairs, but each set had a different style and color. The place was an interior decorator’s dream, or nightmare, depending on how you looked at it.
The dining room was empty since it wasn’t actually open yet, but I heard activity in the kitchen—the murmur of voices over pop music, knives chopping, pots and pans clanging—so I proceeded in that direction. As I pushed open the door to the kitchen, a man in a chef uniform looked at me. This must be Chef Scott.
“I’m sorry, but we’re not open yet.”
“I know.” I offered a bright smile and lifted my hand to show I didn’t mean to interrupt. “I don’t want to take you away from your work, but I was hoping to talk to you for just a few minutes, Chef Scott.”
“But, I’m not?—”
“I’m Chef Scott.” A female voice resounded from the other end of the kitchen. A voice that had haunted me since the gala.
“Aurora?”
Her eyes briefly widened—the only sign she recognized me.
“Chef AJ Scott.” She leaned her back against the counter and folded her arms across her chest, her ice queen mask firmly in place. “What can I do for you…Mr. Rhodes?”
I blinked, my mouth gaping opened then snapping closed like a trout. “I, uh. But I thought Chef AJ Scott was a man. I’m sorry. I feel like an idiot.” I rubbed my hand over my face, but it didn’t erase my embarrassment. “Let me start over. Hello, Chef Scott, as you know I’m Jasper Rhodes. It’s good to see you again. I came here to introduce myself to you and the staff here. It is my sincere hope to buy this restaurant, and I wanted to let you know that I plan on keeping all the staff, so the transition will be smooth. You won’t have anything to worry about.”
“You came here to offer me a job at my own restaurant? Are you mad?”
“And I’d love to talk about any suggestions you have for changing the menu?—”
“Of all the arrogant, cocky, self-absorbed—” Her hand snapped out and snatched an old crusty bun from the table. She reared back, released, and before I knew what was happening, it pelted me in the forehead.
“What the—” I dodged a potato and threw my arms over my face so the tomato smashed into my sleeve and not my hair. An onion came next. “This is uncalled f—” Splat. Mashed potatoes in the eye sting. I wiped it away only to find more veggies volleyed at me. “Hey!” I dodged behind a counter. “Hey! Let’s talk this out like civilized peop—blech.” More potatoes, this time right in my mouth. Kind of delicious though. I held up my hands in surrender.
“Uncle. Uncle. Stop. That’s enough, Aurora, I feel like Mr. Potatohead.” I wiped a glob of potato off my face and flicked it onto the floor.
“I’d say that’s an apt description. Get out of my kitchen while you still can, Mr. Potatohead,” she shouted, her volume ratcheting upward. “And don’t come back.”
Eyeing the knives on the counter next to her, my adrenaline spiked. Fight or flight time. And it seemed I was clearly under-prepared and outmatched for this round. I turned to leave but slipped on mushy potatoes. My feet spun in place like Fred Flintstone, unable to get enough traction to actually move. I fell forward and caught myself on the counter before stumbling my way out the door.
That was not how I envisioned that conversation going. Not with the chef, and certainly not with the woman from the gala.
And now I’d blown it on both accounts.
I had angered and insulted the chef, who, instead of becoming my friend, now hated me. And at the same time, I’d lost my chance with the woman I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about.
What is wrong with you, Jasper?I pounded my forehead with the heel of my hand.
Maybe I had dodged a bullet with my Cinderella. Apparently she was more like the wicked witch of the kitchen.
And now I had to talk my dad into letting me help—no, scratch that. I needed to convince my dad that it would be a big help to me if he let me take over some of the farm business. Initially, I had assumed that would be the most challenging part of my day. Choosing to go to the restaurant first, I’d hoped my success there could give me momentum and confidence to talk to Dad.
Maybe I should just go back to bed and start this day over.
Where was a good Groundhog Day or rewind button when you needed one?