Kristin Hardy - The Chef's Choice / The Boss's Proposal

KRISTIN HARDYhas always wanted to write and started her first novel while still in school. Although she became a laser engineer by training, she never gave up her dream of being an author. Kristin lives in New Hampshire with her husband and collaborator. Check out her website at www.kristinhardy.com.

The Chef’s Choice

The Boss’s Proposal

Kristin Hardy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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The Chef’s Choice

Kristin Hardy

Dear Reader,

My name is Kristin and I’m a cookaholic. I used to think I could quit anytime I want, but now I have to admit it—I’m obsessed. Maybe I should blame my mother, who let me watch Galloping Gourmet reruns when I was home sick as a kid, or my high-school teacher, who introduced me to Julia Child. At any rate, it was only a matter of time before I wrote a book about a chef, which, of course, required me to finagle my way into a five-star-restaurant kitchen. Purely for research purposes, of course. Several months and several hundred dollars’ worth of cooking gear later (Japanese turning mandoline! Timbale molds! Immersion circulator!), this book was born.

I’d love to hear what you think of Cady and Damon and the rest of the McBains, so drop me a line at Kristin@kristinhardy.com. And don’t forget to watch for the stories of Max, Walker and Tucker, coming soon. In the meantime, stop by www.kristinhardy.com for news, recipes and contests or to sign up for my newsletter informing readers of new releases.

Enjoy!

Kristin Hardy

To Shannon, for the dreams, to Teresa, for everything

to Gail and Charles (may he live forever) for not

hunting me down and strangling me and, of course,

to Stephen, who understands the true secret ingredient

Thanks go to Chef Jonathan Cartwright and his staff at the White Barn Inn, for giving me a window into their world, to Eric Lusty at the Dockside Guest Quarters, for taking me behind the scenes and Joe DeSalazar, food blogger extraordinaire (www.blog. foodienyc.com), for the ramps.

“Mind the front desk? Me?” Cady McBain looked up from where she was planting a flowering kale to stare at her mother plaintively.

“Only a few hours. Just until your father and I get back from Portland,” Amanda McBain added hastily.

Cady almost smiled. McBains had run the Compass Rose Guest Quarters for four generations. For her parents and even her brother and sister before they’d moved away, tending to guests at the Maine inn was second nature, effortless.

For Cady, it was usually excruciating.

There were times she was sure there’d been a mix-up at the hospital when she was a baby. Give her a hedge to trim or pansies to plant, and she’d go at it with gusto. She kept the grounds of the Compass Rose impeccable, from the flower beds to the trees to the emerald back lawn that ran down to the lapping waters of tiny Grace Harbor. Cady could make sense of plants. She understood them, they were predictable.

She couldn’t make heads or tails of people.

It wasn’t that she didn’t try—although dealing with guests was right up there with root canals on her list of fun things to do. Somehow, though, she always said or did the wrong thing.

“Where’s Lynne?” she asked now, thinking of the brisk, efficient woman who worked as their desk clerk.

“She called in sick but we can’t reschedule your father’s appointment."

“Didn’t Dad go to the doctor last week?” Cady rose, brushing the dirt off her hands.

“He did, but Dr. Belt wanted him to have some tests.”

“Tests?” She frowned. “What kind of tests?”

“You’ll find out after you turn fifty,” Ian McBain said darkly as he walked up behind them. “Suffice it to say you’ll never look at fruit juice the same way again. Anyway, it’s all a waste of time. I’m as healthy as a horse."

“And we want to keep you that way.” Cady smoothed his hair where the morning breeze off the water had ruffled it. “Go to your appointment."

“I hope we’re not messing up your schedule too much,” her mother said.

Cady shrugged. “I was planning to work the grounds all day, anyway. I can keep an eye on the place.” She didn’t add that she’d anticipated spending at least half of it in the gleaming greenhouse she’d put up earlier that spring at the back of the property, the heated greenhouse where bedding plants for her fledgling landscaping business were already stretching their heads aboveground.

Ian looked from Cady to Amanda. “You’re leaving her in charge?"

Amanda raised a brow. “You have a better idea?” “Cancel my appointment?” he offered hopefully.

“Nice try.” She turned toward the house.

“You’re not going to run off all our guests, are you?” Ian gave Cady an uneasy look. “We do actually need to make some money. That new roof isn’t going to pay for itself, you know."

“Leave it to me, Daddio,” she soothed. “I’ll take care of everything."

“Why do I get nervous when you say that?” he asked, but he slung an arm around her shoulders as they walked up the steps to the back deck of the inn.

The Compass Rose Guest Quarters had been built in 1911 to provide rooms for the clientele of her great-great-grandfather Archie McBain’s main business, the marina next door. For four generations, the sprawling white clapboard inn had perched at the edge of Grace Harbor. The original neo-Colonial style had long since been obscured by almost a century’s worth of additions. Now, the building stretched out in all directions, rising three stories to a roofline festooned with dormer windows and red brick chimneys. It should have been a fright, but wrapped by a broad porch and softened by rhododendrons the height of a man, it somehow managed to look warm and friendly and welcoming.

Family lore held that it had been Archie’s wife, Jenny, who’d planted the maple that spread its branches over the little spit of land at the back, and Donal’s wife, Manya, who’d added the white gazebo. Donal’s son, Malcolm—Cady’s grandfather—had contributed the quartet of four-room guesthouses that clustered around the main inn. There, guests who wanted more privacy could enjoy their own decks overlooking the harbor.

White sailboats still bobbed at the docks of the Grace Harbor marina next door, but it was owned these days by Cady’s uncle Lenny and run by her cousin Tucker. She saw Tucker on the docks, dark and lanky, and raised an arm to acknowledge his wave before they stepped inside.

“Now, we’ve only got three rooms full at present,” Amanda told her, crossing the lobby to the Dutch door that served as the inn’s front desk. “Six guests."

Cady didn’t miss the frown that flickered over her father’s face. In early May, the Maine tourist season was weeks away, but they still should have had at least double the number of occupied rooms. Especially with the new roof, her parents needed every penny they could get.