So, I am currently working on my 2024 addition to the DICKEN HOLIDAY ROMANCE SERIES. My book this year is called A CHEF’S KISS CHRISTMAS. I haven’t done a blurb yet, but the story involves a chef-on-the-run-from-life and a literary agent.
Of course it takes place mostly in Dorrit’s Diner, and the story is sprinkled with many glimpses of Amy and her family. This will be my last Dickens book (don’t cry!) and I wanted to make it a goodie. I like what I’ve got so far, so here’s a little glimpse into the first chapter. The cover reveal is coming in July so stick around by following me if you don’t.
Here ya go… the setup = Amy’s cook Winston has had an accident and can’t work. Amy is in dire straights looking for a chef. Enter…our hero.
“Crap on cracker.” Amy slammed her fists on her almost non-existent hips. “He was my one hope to take over for Winnie. I need a cook, asap. I can’t feed all these people,” she swept her hand across the room, “manage this place and serve at the same time.”
Something in her tone hit Tony deep in his chest. Part exasperated, part worried, and with a little fear thrown in, she sounded much like his Aunt Connie had when his uncle had his first heart attack and was unable to run their business. Tony had stepped up and never once regretted his decision. His aunt had been eternally grateful, and Tony learned a valuable lesson: helping people is its own reward.
That had to be the reason he did what he did next because he hadn’t felt like helping anyone in a long, long time.
Two years, three months, and eight days to be precise.
“Need help?” he asked Amy.
She narrowed her gaze toward him. “What I need is someone who can cook and run my kitchen, so my customers don’t revolt. Can you do that?”
“As a matter of fact, I can.”
Those narrowed eyes now widened.
“I grew up in a diner. Managed it for years.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin, then rose. “I can give you a hand this morning until things settle down if you’d like.”
Amy’s discerning eye raked across his face, probing, measuring.
He knew what she saw: a forty-something guy with hair in need of at least two inches chopped off, six days of lazy stubble on his cheeks and jaw and a body that could use a minimum of ten pounds back of the thirty it’d lost in the past two years. A smile hadn’t met his lips in quite a while and he rarely – if ever- struck up a conversation with anyone.
None of those traits exuded trustworthiness and he figured Amy was wary of him because of it.
“Come with me,” she said after a moment’s reflection.
He chugged the remainder of his coffee and followed her through the dining room.
Just beyond the swing doors, chaos ruled.
The two paramedics who’d responded to the 9-1-1 call were trying to load a screaming gent onto the gurney. The cook may be tiny but he more than made up for the lack of height with the volume of his wails.
To him, Amy said, “Wait here a minute.”
She made her way to the gurney, grasped her cook’s hand, leaned down close and said something that quieted him. Then she placed a kiss on his forehead and told the paramedics to break some speed limits getting to the hospital.
Two of the older waitresses surrounded Amy, speaking at once, and questioning how they were going to continue serving if they didn’t have a cook. Amy shooed them away telling them she was taking care of it.
They didn’t look all that convinced, but nonetheless went back out to the dining room with the instructions she’d given them to tell the customers their orders were going to be a few minutes more.
Then she lit on him.
For some crazy reason, he threw his shoulders back and stood straighter.
“Know your way around a kitchen, do ya?”
“Blindfolded,” he replied, surprising himself with his candor.
That piercing glare shot his way again. She reached into a tabletop drawer and pulled out a hair elastic.
“Board’a health rules.” She handed it to him and he pulled his hair up into a man bun.
“I’m gonna get a few of these orders ready,” she said, washing her hands at the sink. “While I do, make me an omelet.”
Like he knew his way around a kitchen blindfolded, he could make a simple omelet in his sleep.
“Any particular kind?” he asked as he moved to the sink, doffed his jacket, then mimicked her handwashing motions.
Amy popped six pieces of bread into the industrial toaster with one hand while the other poured pancake batter onto the griddle in six perfect little rounds. “Surprise me,” she said over her shoulder.
He nodded, then, spotting an apron on a peg by the office door, donned it, scoping the layout of the griddle and its surroundings as he did.
A sense of anticipation pushed him to pull three eggs from the industrial refrigerator along with a container of shredded cheese. Opening it, he recognized the woodsy aroma of Swiss. Onehanded, he cracked the eggs, whisked them, then tossed them onto the griddle while he poured a handful of the grated cheese on top. While that settled, he pulled bacon from the warmer and crushed two pieces between a pair of paper towels then tossed the crumbles on top of the setting eggs. From the spice rack he pulled nutmeg and salt, added them then topped it all off with a pinch of pepper.
When the eggs set to the point they were no longer runny, muscle memory pushed him to take a spatula and fold one third toward the center, then the opposite side until the omelet was folded to perfection. Sliding the spatula underneath it, he flipped it over. Instinct told him the exact moment to remove it, which he did, placing it on a clean plate.
While he did, Amy had been a study in motion, never once stopping while she cooked then plated orders. The waitresses all lined back into the kitchen when Amy dinged the ready bell, took their orders while tossing him a quizzical eye.
Once they were alone again, Amy turned, dragged in a huge breath, and said, “Show me what ya got.”
He handed her the plated omelet and a fork.
Amy inspected it as if she were a general inspecting her standing-at-attention troops. First, her gaze raked over the perfectly pale yellow mixture. Then she raised the plate to her face, took a whiff, one eyebrow lifting.
Zeroing in on him she said, “Bacon?”
“I didn’t have enough time to slice that ham I saw in the fridge. The bacon’s maple flavored.”
She nodded. “Only kind I use. Something else in here. Something…earthy.”
“A dash of nutmeg.”
Now her brows lifted to her hairline. Without a word, she forked a section and said as she lifted it to her mouth, “Color’s perfect.”
Since he knew it was, he kept silent. The very first thing he’d ever learned to cook had been an omelet. It had taken him almost of month of daily practice to know the precise second to remove it from the heat, when it was the best moment to fold it, how the only number of eggs to use would always be three.
He watched her face and identified exactly when the nutmeg and bacon hit her tastebuds. Her eyes went wide, then to half-closed as the combined spice and pork bits sent a savory river of deliciousness across them.
Amy swallowed then shook her head. “You know how to cook anything else aside from this?”
“Name a dish.”
“How are you with pancakes? Sausages? French toast?”
“Just as good as that.” He ticked his chin toward the plate she held. And since he knew his own worth, added, “Maybe better.”
“You know how to do a breakfast run? It’s not easy. In fact, it’s damn stressful.”
He nodded. “I do.”
“I think I’m gonna give you a chance to prove that.” She put the plate down. “If you’re serious about helping out, that is. For today – now – at least. Just to get me through to lunch.”
He had nowhere to be, nothing pressing him for his time.
And, most surprising of all, he realized he wanted to help.
He nodded. “I can do that.”
Julia pushed through the swing doors and waddled to a stop. “Dining room’s getting loud, Ames. How we doing with orders? Should I put up the closed sign?”
The diner owner looked from her daughter-in-law, then back to him, a corner of her lip tucked between her teeth. Then, “No need. We’re gonna be fine.” She stretched out a hand for the orders in Julia’s hand.
The younger woman didn’t look all that convinced, but handed them over then grabbed a clean coffee carafe from the dishwasher.
After reading through the orders, Amy divided them in half. Handing them to him she said, “Okay, son. Appreciate the help.”
Without even glancing down at them he nodded.
“My name’s Tony, by the way,” he said.
“I know.” She smiled for the first time since he’d come into the kitchen with her. “This is Dickens, son. There’s not much that goes on or happens that gets passed me, including newcomers, even when they’re close-mouthed. Once we get through breakfast we can have a little chat. For now, Tony-by-the-way, I got customers to feed.”
Small towns, he thought, shaking his head.
He didn’t give it another thought as he started the first order in his hand.
And that’s just the beginning. Thoughts, kids?
Peggy Jaeger, Author 