Just Desserts Part 7

Chuck pressed on. "...when we were in Hawaii. You can make those for everybody."

"Everybody?"

"Sure. Trash can punch, just like in college."

"I majored in finance." Jack offered a saccharine smile. "You're the one who majored in getting plastered and waking up with a hangover."

"We both woke up with hangovers-quite often, as I recall," Chuck kidded him. "And you are one h.e.l.l of a bartender, my friend, so if I were you I wouldn't look this gift horse in the mouth. You have something you can cook for a crowd. Just quadruple the recipe you used in college and serve a crowd. Toss in some finger foods on the side, and voila! You have your first meal taken care of." Chuck helped disengage Marilyn's arm and ushered her into the kitchen ahead of the other two. "C'mon," he said. "My allergies are killing me outside." "Looks like you have your work cut out for you," Colette told Jack with a sympathetic smile, coaxing him. "C'mon. It won't be so bad." Jack raked tense fingers through his hair as he watched Chuck and Marilyn opening drawers and doors and handing items to Colette to place on the dining table. Well, this was a fine pickle. Should he tell them before they went to so much trouble? Tell them what he knew that they didn't? "Finger foods. That's plural, my friend. I thought the whole idea was to get me out of having to prepare a meal."

Chuck paused in his a.s.sessment of Jack's utensils and small appliances to throw up his hands in defeat. "So sue me, Jack. You have to learn to cook this week. Like tomorrow!" Then his tone softened. "We'll think of something."

"What am I going to do for an encore after I've made c.o.c.ktails for everyone?" Jack asked. "I can't just tell them to drink up and wait for dinner!"

"How about a new recipe?" Chuck countered.

"New? I don't even know how to cook what's already in the blasted books!" He winced inwardly.

"We'll make it simple," Chuck suggested. "Your grandmother's recipe for flatbread."

Jack groaned. "This will never work. I don't even know what's in the d.a.m.ned recipe anymore." You're gonna burn in h.e.l.l for that one, Jackson.

"Well, I remember." Chuck counted ingredients on his fingers. "Package of yeast, four cups of flour, cup of milk, fourth cup of warm water and a fourth cup of olive oil, dash of Delacroix's Secret Spice." He grinned. "You have to mix this one with your hands, which will make you look more like a real cook. They'll love watching you."

A real cook? Well, that was what he'd been working on for several months without anyone knowing. Looked like he was about to get his chance. Jack almost lost his balance as he fought the urge to double over in laughter.

Colette moved to loop an arm through Jack's as he teetered. "Oh, don't remind him that they'll be watching him!"

Jack recovered, nodded. "And then what?"

"Cut it into squares once it's baked, layer with tomato slices, scrambled eggs, salsa, then sprinkle on a little sharp cheddar and a pinch of your grandmother's Italian herbs. Jack, anybody can make a pizza! You just layer the toppings using your liquid base first, then your meats and veggies, and top with cheese. It's easy!"

"Well, if it's so easy, why don't you enter the contest?" Jack challenged him.

"Maybe I will!"

"Maybe you won't!" Marilyn exclaimed, coming between the two men. "This is pointless. Jackson is the one who must enter the contest. He's already been entered. Besides, I guess I'd better tell you this now. As one of the judges, I'm supposed to appoint someone to shadow him, to make sure he's not cheating."

She bit her lips after the admission and stepped away from them.

"What?" Jack was outraged.

"Don't get your Wrangler jeans in a twist. Each of the chefs will have someone monitoring them night and day to make sure they're the ones doing the cooking."

"Whoa! Wait a minute!" Chuck objected.

"You didn't say anything about this before. I don't understand." Jack folded his arms defensively, no longer amused.

Marilyn shrugged. "It's all standard procedure for a cook-off. You didn't really think Larabee would trust any of you not to cheat a little bit, did you? I mean, Robert Neal might have someone stirring the batter for bread, but if he has anyone else tossing ingredients into the bowl and doing the actual cooking, he's disqualified. Same goes for you, Jack. You can have an a.s.sistant, but you can't have someone else doing the actual cooking."

"I thought you were on my side," Jack said.

"I am. But I'm also one of the judges, and now that I know you can't cook, I'll have to disqualify myself and have Daddy or Uncle Dave fly down here to replace me. Don't worry-I'm not about to tell them that you can't actually cook and that you're winging this."

Jack couldn't repress his sarcasm. "That's mighty big of you." He fully realized the fix they were both in, but considering what she'd done to him, he didn't feel compelled to make this any easier on her than necessary. Let her sweat it out alongside him a bit.

"Why didn't you say anything about this before?" Chuck asked, sniffling, a look of betrayal in his watery eyes.

"There's really nothing to get upset about," Marilyn explained. "The judges have to be totally impartial, and I can't judge this contest knowing what I know. Now I can either have Chuck shadow you or..." She looked at Colette who threw up her hands in defense. "Or he can be your a.s.sistant." She cleared her throat. "In which case, I'll a.s.sign myself to shadow you."

"If I'm his a.s.sistant, then technically we can converse over all of this, right?" Chuck asked.

"Sure. You just can't do the cooking for him like you did tonight. You may talk to one another. You may even-I hate to say this-coach him if you don't make a public display of it. I mean you wouldn't want any of the other judges, not to mention his rivals, to know his little secret."

The two men eyed one another, a smirk on both their faces.

"What if we change the rules of the contest?" Jack offered. "Let each cookbook author choose a member of the crowd before us to come up and cook in our place... with us coaching them?"

"That's absurd!" Marilyn argued.

"Why not?"

"Because your contract with Larabee states that you yourself must use the cookware!" Jack felt an evil grin spread across his face. He had her now! "All my contract states is that I have to talk them up in the media. And I will."

"That might work." Chuck nodded. "Yeah-that just might work."

"How is coaching someone as they're cooking any different from doing the actual cooking yourself?" Marilyn asked.

Jack gave a small growl. "Because you think I wouldn't know a bottle of paprika from one of cayenne pepper without looking at the label!"

"Or a saute pan from a cast-iron skillet, by the sound of this!" Marilyn stamped her foot.

That did it for Jack. The bossy bombsh.e.l.l had crossed the line. Let her and the others feel the noose they'd created for him tightening about their own throats for the next day or so.

"This isn't getting us anywhere!" Colette moaned. "Chuck? What would you think about having a member of the audience cook under Jack's direction?"

Chuck shrugged. "It might work once. But I doubt he'll get off without cooking at least one meal. And the other chefs-er, other cookbook authors-would have to agree to this."

"You see?" Jack chortled. Then he furrowed his brow. "But which meal?"

"Exactly!" Marilyn was still not convinced.

"And would Larabee go along with your changing the rules of their contest?" Colette asked.

"Well, there's only one way to find out." Jack turned to Marilyn, his eyes locking with hers. "Don't suppose the one who got me into this fix would talk to them on my behalf?"

Marilyn chuckled. "Blaming it on me, are you?"

"Hardly." Jack's tight smile was one of satisfaction. Good. He admired her s.p.u.n.k, but she needed to feel a bit more of his predicament.

"Don't start!" Colette warned her. "At least he's trying to come up with a solution."

"Now you're defending him too? I don't believe this!"

"What would you have him do?" Colette asked. "Stand before all of those people and admit that he can't cook? That would be suicide."

"Oh, I think he's going to have to admit it sooner or later." Marilyn set her jaw. "This is bound to come out either during or after the contest."

"Maybe not. Maybe I can teach him to fix something relatively simple," Chuck said in Jack's defense. "He's written the books, so he's most likely able to quote himself a few times. Having him give someone else directions isn't the hard part-if we can get Larabee to agree. Better yet, when you approach them with this idea, tell them that the more people who get to actually use their products will be better sales for them than just watching someone else having a hands-on experience."

"Now that I can use!" Marilyn snapped her fingers.

Jack walked over to the fireplace and sat on the hearth facing them, listening as they mapped out a strategy for him. He had a few secrets the others didn't know, but he had no intentions of making things any easier on them. Sure, you're nervous, he told himself, but you know you can do this.

"What if he opens the contest by making something simple, as you said?" Marilyn asked Chuck. "A kick-a.s.s beverage and something for brunch."

Chuck shrugged. "It might work."

"Everybody else will be preparing their best dishes," Colette said. "They'll want to show off a bit at first, no?"

"These things generally start with something simple," Marilyn argued. "The time to really show off is the third and final day of the contest. That's when we'll be in big trouble. He has to open with something himself, but maybe I can talk Larabee's representative into letting the audience partic.i.p.ate during the second day. Then we'll worry about Thursday night."

"What about next Friday night?" Chuck asked.

Marilyn shook her head. "The contest is running from Tuesday morning through Thursday evening. First day is breakfast or brunch, second day is the noon meal and last day-in this case, Thursday-is the big dinner. That's when everyone will expect him to outs.h.i.+ne the compet.i.tion."

"Who pays for all of this food?" Chuck asked.

"Partic.i.p.ants who wish to help judge the contests pay a flat fee, and Larabee picks up the tab on what isn't covered by their monies. Generally, there's more time involved, so Birmingham and O'Malley has offered to fly those who bought tickets for the show in Ohio to the resort here."

"The publis.h.i.+ng company is picking up the air fare?" Jack asked incredulously, no longer able to let them run the conversation without his input.

"Hey, it wasn't my idea," Marilyn grumbled. "Uncle Dave said that it was the least we could do, give them back their money or fly them out here for the festivities. I think he hopes to persuade Dad to fire me and use this as an excuse, saying I ran up costs. But most of them took us up on our offer."

"Oh, sure!" Jack said. "And Ohio is Robert Neal's home territory, which means he'll be bringing a plane load of his fans to our s.h.i.+ndig."

"Hey," Marilyn said, waving her hands expressively to punctuate the word, "it's only fair, considering you could've met him on his turf and could've flown in people from here. Your publisher would've flown a dozen or so of your fans to Ohio if you'd but asked us. We have arrangements with three of the airlines for such things."

"So that gives us tomorrow to teach him how to fix brunch," Chuck said. "Right? We skate through it on Wednesday. And he has to be up to speed come Thursday evening."

"Jack has to have a plan...a gimmick of some sort," Marilyn told them. "If I know Robert, he'll go with desserts. Those have been his specialty for years. Marie will go with meat dishes, so she'll be your biggest compet.i.tion on Thursday."

"Gimmick? You mean like cooking with herbs?" Colette asked.

"He's already said he doesn't know what herbs and spices look like," Chuck reminded them.

"That's out, then," Marilyn grumbled. Then she snapped her fingers again. "This is a trout camp-why not have him cook fish?"

"For three meals?" Chuck shook his head.

"No. But he can cook meals people would fix while camping. That would include fish, anything that can be grilled."

Jack ran a hand over his mouth to hide his grin. Mon Dieu. They were acting as if he didn't exist, had no say in the matter.

"He needs to make at least one or two breads, preferably breakfast items," Chuck said. "If we concentrate on a breakfast or brunch drink or two and a good, hearty meal, that will get him through Tuesday."

"That still just gives us three days before Jack's big debut. We have our work cut out for us," Colette said solemnly.

As his best friend, his shadow and the woman who seemed to glue their little group together all sat discussing him, Jack groaned. "The three of you need to stop talking about me as if I weren't in the room. Maybe the cookbook writer has something to say about all of this."

The three of them turned to face him, and Jack noted the worried expression on Chuck's, the hopeful one on Colette's and the defiant one on Marilyn's. Despite the delicious, naughty taste of revenge, Jack knew that he couldn't disappoint them. "When do we begin?"

Chapter Nine.

Marilyn's Oatmeal Mask.

Ingredients:.

1 tablespoon distilled water.

Enough oatmeal to make a paste.

Apply to face, wipe off with a clean, damp washcloth.

After the women went to their cabin and Chuck to his own, Jack undressed and showered, taking his time until the water ran cool against his flesh, and he did a lot of thinking. Perhaps his grandmother was right. What if he was still the immature, girl-crazy youth he'd been before he joined the Navy? The young man who'd rather spend his time with some tart, as she'd called one of his girlfriends? What if his life had become so complacent with so few challenges that he was merely moving along with the flow, much like the river outside his front door?

Sure, he had a secret, but wasn't that rather childish? Not letting anyone else know how he'd busted his a.s.s the past year learning how to cook? Even if he had taken most of what he'd cooked to the local nursing home. It was as if he were afraid of showing his true colors, as if he'd rather they continued thinking of him as the playboy of the family, the one with few responsibilities, the perennial bachelor who did as he pleased, seemingly never needing to stretch and grow as the rest of them.

He thought of his younger brother. Chance had always been more reserved, less interested in chasing women and having a good time with people his own age. He'd managed to befriend the local Cherokee when he was a boy and had become more or less one of them. A man of few words who preferred the wilderness in which they'd been raised to the people in it, the horses that roamed freely until they'd tamed them, the deer he protected during hunting season.

And he thought of their eldest brother, Vince, whose restless spirit had prompted him to join yet another branch of the Armed Forces, where he had become an intelligence operative for the Department of Defense. Vince certainly wasn't the kind of man who preferred sitting on his front porch with a laptop computer to catalog their grandmother's recipes. Vince wouldn't have gotten himself into this predicament any more than Chance would have. It would have been beneath either of them to lead such a set of head games like Jack was playing.

So what was it about himself, Jack wondered, that made him crave a life of leisure and refinement, albeit in a cabin on the riverbank? What made Jack so different from his brothers that the only time his adrenaline kicked in was when a beautiful woman was beneath him or a computer in front of him?

The devil in him warred with the side that was always honest and above board. Not like he had any secrets other than this one.

You knew this day was comin', Jack. You knew someone was gonna out you sooner or later, and that's why you've been practicing on your own the past year or so, waiting. No need to spring anything on 'em jess yet, though. Let's see how this plays out a bit longer before you make a move.

He turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. Before he could quite reach for the towel, a shadow outside his bathroom door caught his eye. s.n.a.t.c.hing the towel, he stormed out of the room, dripping water in his wake.

"What the h.e.l.l?" he asked, startling the woman whose sense of impropriety had evidently propelled her away from the bathroom.

"OmiG.o.d-I'm sorry!" Marilyn exclaimed, rus.h.i.+ng backwards so quickly that she stumbled and fell sprawling across Jack's bed. "I couldn't sleep... and that... that towel is slipping. I'm sorry."