Page 4 of Bed and Breakup (Dial Delights #15)

Robin

Molly’s arrival doesn’t just ruin my long-term plans for my stay at the inn.

My short-term ones are trashed too. I’d expected to spend tonight eating junk food and watching old episodes of SpongeBob on the big-screen TV in what used to be the dining room.

But there’s no way I’m letting Molly catch me moping.

I have a single crumb of pride left that I’d like to protect.

And from what I can tell, she has no clue I’m a bankrupt, humiliated failure.

Determined to at least make myself look busy, I wander toward the kitchen and pull out the random ingredients I grabbed at the store on the way into town.

It’s a little slim, but I’ve got the basics: flour, sugar, eggs, milk, butter.

I scrounge up some dried herbs and spices from the dusty pantry.

They’re old, though. Probably purchased when Jesse was still in charge of the kitchen, before the management company fired the cooks and started serving store-bought pastries.

At least that’s what I gather happened, based on a binder of reheating instructions I find in a drawer.

I can’t help but laugh when I spot my brand of frozen quiche cups among the pages.

I guess, in a sense, my dishes were still getting served.

Luckily, my old tools are stashed in boxes in the hall closet.

And although the garden has grown wild and unruly, some of my fresh herbs are still going strong.

I opt for a quiche. A little basic, sure, but given I’ve hardly made anything beyond a PB&J since my last restaurant closed, something simple is just what I need.

Making the rough puff pastry at first feels like I’m watching someone else’s hands do the work.

But as I roll it out into a crust, noticing the flecks of butter that will steam up to create flaky layers, I begin to get my groove back.

I may have failed at a lot of things lately, but this I can handle.

While the crust chills in the fridge, I chop an onion, then caramelize it slowly on the stove until it reaches a deep, rich amber.

It’s meditative in a way, finding just the right pan temperature without any bits burning.

I throw the crust in the preheated oven to parbake, then use an old blender to create a slurry of fresh herbs and olive oil.

It tastes delicious: bright and tangy and complex.

When the crust is a light golden brown, I pull it out to cool while I whisk together the egg mixture and fold in the onions. I pour that into the crust and swirl the herbs into a marbled pattern on top. Once it’s in the oven, all I can do is wait.

Waiting is the hardest part of baking. Wondering if all your work will turn out.

Hoping things rise like they’re supposed to.

And you can’t even open the oven to check without messing up the temperature.

This is the step where my brain starts spinning out of control, worrying about everything that could go wrong, and not just with the food.

Can I keep up appearances until Molly finds somewhere else to stay?

Will she laugh in my face if she finds out all my work to become a renowned chef landed me in the gutter?

Surely she won’t be able to stand living in a home with me for long, even if it sleeps up to eighteen people.

I feel bad for her, really. She’s probably on a tight budget and planned to crash here for free during a rare paying gig.

Unfortunately, I’m even more strapped for cash.

I try to quiet my mind by cleaning up the mess I made.

Scrubbing my knives, cutting board, rolling pin, and food processor as I think through options for making a quick buck.

Wiping down the counters as I remember all the emails from my manager, Edgar, that I’ve blown off over the past month.

When that’s done, I start to check social media before realizing that’s the absolute worst thing I could do for my mental health.

My accounts have been quiet lately, which is better than trolls mocking my collapsing businesses.

But I’m still likely to see plenty of my chef friends celebrating new restaurants and TV appearances and awards.

I’m avoiding those until I can find it in me to be happier for them than I am sad for me.

Pity parties are tacky as hell. That’s why I came to Eureka to mope in private.

Instead, I focus on deep cleaning the refrigerator.

It’s a great distraction, scouring every corner until I can forget my personal failings.

So good that the quiche gets a smidge overbaked before I notice.

I kick myself internally as I pull it out of the oven.

It’ll still taste fine, and it’s not like I’m serving it to any paying customers. But come on! Can’t I have one win?

I finish cleaning the fridge as I wait for the quiche to cool. While picking at a spot on the back wall, I hear a creak of floorboards that makes me jump and hit my head against a shelf. I step back, holding the top of my skull, just in time to see Molly’s back disappear around the corner.

“Trying to scare me off?” I say, still wincing.

Molly lurks back to the doorway. “No,” she says, not even pretending to apologize. “I was going to look for something to eat, but I see the kitchen is occupied.”

I can’t eat this whole thing alone, and even though she’s my bitter ex, I hate thinking about Molly going to bed hungry. I decide to be the bigger person. “I’m about to cut into this quiche. Want a slice?” I offer.

“I’m good,” she says. “I’ll go out and find something.”

I look at my watch. “It’s almost midnight,” I say. “What are you going to do, drive half an hour to the McDonald’s in Berryville? Just take it. It’s caramelized onion with an herb swirl.”

I can see Molly practically drooling. “It’s fine. I’m not even hungry, really.”

A loud rumbling sounds from Molly’s stomach. I raise an eyebrow.

She sighs. “Fine. I’ll take a slice.”

Of course she will. Who could resist the smell in here?

Buttery pastry, earthy onions, pungent rosemary and basil.

I pull out plates, forks, and a knife. After plating two slices, I garnish them with a drizzle of the olive oil and herb mixture and a sprig of parsley, styling it like I would for TV out of habit.

The camera would pick up on the overly browned crust, but it would also miss out on this ridiculously tempting scent.

Some things can never be experienced through a screen.

I pass a plate to Molly. Before I can say a word, she takes a bite.

Her eyes close as soon as the quiche reaches her lips.

Then her face flips through a bunch of conflicting expressions, her eyelashes fluttering and lips pursing with delight and relief and frustration and maybe a dash of longing.

Watching her taste my cooking awakens some ancient sleeping beast inside of me.

I want to know— need to know—what she thinks.

Maybe eating together can heal some of what happened between us.

Not that there can ever be an “us” again, but maybe we can be something that vaguely resembles friends, if you squint.

Turning to grab my own plate, I say, “I know the new tables in the dining room are cheap and flimsy compared to the the old walnut ones, but maybe we can sit and—”

My words hang in the air when I turn back, realizing she’s already left the room. I hear footsteps running up the stairs a second later. So much for sharing a meal.

Was the quiche bad? I grab a fork and take a bite. It’s fucking fantastic. Guess Molly hates me so much she can’t even stand to eat in the same room as me.

“You’re welcome,” I say bitterly to the empty kitchen.