Fear gripped Bethany’s body with icy tentacles. “What are you talking about?” Her stomach quivered and the room tilted, forcing her to cling to the counter to stay upright. She closed her eyes until the spinning room settled, and she could open them again without getting sick.
“Your restaurant’s entry, Grandma Lou’s Chocolate Cake with Buttercream Frosting, was originally shared by Chef King Desmond Mitchell as part of his television show last month.”
She didn’t know whether her face reflected surprise or looked as blank as her thoughts. The reporter’s words might have been in a foreign tongue for all she could understand. Seconds ticked by while she registered the hard look in the woman’s cool blue eyes and the flashing of the television camera pointed in her direction and the slickness of her hands where they gripped the wood countertop. Then the wheels in her mind shifted into high gear, and she realized the seriousness of the accusation.
“Ididn’tplagiarize our entry. The recipe was my grandmother’s.” How had she not known that Desmond had shared it? Of course, she’d been a little busy trying to keep the restaurant afloat, and in general, she avoided watching Desmond’s show because it only made her angry.
The reporter tilted her lips in a suspicious smirk. “Fresh & Easy announced your recipe from all the entries as the winner of the contest this morning and then rescinded the announcement a few hours later, after they learned your entry violated their contest rules. It has proven to be a duplicate of Desmond Mitchell’s.”
They rescinded the announcement.Bethany’s throat closed, and she had a sudden, urgent need for air. A sharpache took up residence in her chest, right above her pounding heart. They must have tried to leave a message, but with the shop phone off the hook, and her cell calls going to voicemail, she hadn’t gotten it. “He stole it. Desmond stole my grandmother’s recipe.” Her voice trembled, making her sound guilty.
“Those are serious charges. Desmond Mitchell is a well-known public figure and host of a popular television cooking show. Do you have proof what you say is true—that he stole your recipe?”
“Yes, I...” Her throat constricted further, cutting off her air supply. She swallowed the dryness and tried to explain. “I have the recipe, written in my grandmother’s handwriting. I added a few notes to it on the side, in pencil, but most of it is in her handwriting. Is it sufficient?”
The reporter’s eyes widened, so she looked almost interested, and she nodded. “I’m sure our viewers would like to see your grandmother’s recipe. Can you show it to us?”
“Yes, I keep it in the kitchen with my grandma’s cookbook. Follow me.”
She led the reporter and cameraman into the kitchen and rummaged on the shelf above the pantry until she found Grandma Lou’s fat red cookbook stuffed with snippets of recipes in her spidery handwriting. Then she carried it with her into the dining area and opened the book on the counter. The recipe for her chocolate cake, which should have been on top, was nowhere inside. Warm heat flooded her cheeks. “It’s not here.” She flipped through the pages in the book, searching desperately for the familiar scrap of paper with stains from cooking.
The reporter shot her a pitying glance, like Bethany needed a remedial course in lying. Then she turned to look into the camera.
“You heard it here first, folks. She may be known as a talented baker in this neighborhood, but Bethany Parker, owner of Grandma Lou’s Kitchen and Pantry in Tremont, is in hot water over the recipe she submitted to a national baking competition. Today, Ms. Parker’s recipe was selected as the winner of the half-a-million-dollar prize money. In a strange twist of events, the Fresh & Easy baking company announced that Parker had entered a recipe widely attributed to Chef King Desmond Mitchell, Parker’s former fiancé. Unfortunately for Parker, her entry has been removed, and she’ll no longer have a shot at the prize money. The new winner has not yet been announced. I’m Susan Winchester, reporting live from Tremont.”
The moment the green record light stopped blinking, Susan set down the microphone on the counter and peered into the display case. “I’ll take a vanilla swirl brownie and a cup of coffee to go. And Joe, here”—she gestured to the cameraman—“will take a whoopie pie.”
“I’m sorry, I need a second,” Bethany said, grabbing her cell phone where she’d set it behind the counter and pulling out a chair to sit. Her limbs trembled and her head was full of the air which seemed to have escaped her lungs.
She searched her voicemails until she found the message from Fresh & Easy and listened to Francine explaining that her entry had been disqualified after they’d received an anonymous tip saying her recipe had been previously published. Fear grabbed her heart and squeezed with a cold fist. The whole world thought she was a liar, that she had stolen the recipe from Desmond. How would she ever convince anyone to believe her?
The reporter watched her, one hand on her hip, while Joe headed out the door. Bethany figured he was returning his camera to the white van parkedout front.
“That was live on the news just now?” Bethany asked.
Susan slapped a ten-dollar bill on the counter. “As live as a newborn baby, honey.” She pulled out the chair next to Bethany and sat. “You didn’t steal the recipe, did you?”
The oxygen seemed to return to the room all at once, and Bethany took a cleansing breath. “No, I didn’t.”
“Listen, for what it’s worth, I believe you. I have a good instinct about these things. But my job as a news reporter is to leave my personal feelings out of it and tell the facts.”
Bethany looked around Grandma Lou’s. The worn tables, rickety chairs, wood countertop, and antique register gave the place an ancient, rustic charm. Donuts drizzled in melted chocolate, homemade fruit pastries, and today’s special pumpkin muffins tempted from the display case. Shelves with the rhubarb jam she’d canned last summer, the teas she ordered from a British catalogue, and her grandmother’s tea set lent an old-fashioned charm to the atmosphere.
A single tear slid down her cheek. It was time to admit what she’d been denying ever since Desmond left town. She couldn’t keep running a business that was part charity without pulling in a profit, no matter how much she loved it—no matter how homey she had made it or how much of her own personality she had stamped into the fabric of the place. She and Travis must close the door on their grandparents’ legacy and say goodbye to their neighborhood friends. They must put this chapter of their lives behind them and build a new one.Somehow.
She sucked in a quivering breath. They must be strong, but dear Lord, she felt so weak.
She swiped at the tear, trying not to draw attention to it, and stood to fetch the treats and pour the coffee. The busyness settled her nerves, and she returned with thedisposable cup of hot coffee and the brownie and whoopie pie in a paper bag, and set them in front of Susan, giving her the change.
Bethany stuck out her chin. “I know you’re only doing your job, but I didn’t plagiarize my entry. I’ve been making that recipe since I was a small child. It was my grandmother’s favorite cake. No one ever made it quite like she did.”
“Honey, if you show me proof, I’m more than willing to present both sides of the story.” Susan opened the bag, pulled out a piece of the brownie, and popped it in her mouth. “Oooh, this is good. Did you make this?”
“Yes, this morning. I don’t know what other proof I can show if I can’t find the original recipe.”
“Do you have any credible witnesses who’d be willing to speak up in your favor?”
“My brother, Travis?—”
