“Um, Chef, about the fruit salad…”
“What?”
He held out the bowl. “There appears to be some kind of dressing on it?”
Greta inspected the bowl. The strawberries and watermelon were perfectly ripe and sliced into bite-sized pieces. The feta was delicately crumbled, not mashed. The balsamic drizzled lovingly. “What’s the issue with it?” When Linus said nothing, she got a spoon and sampled a bite. Flavor coated her tongue: salt, sour, brine. “Oh God.”
“They think it tastes like…”
Greta’s eyes flew to a bottle on her sauce shelf. “Soy sauce.”
“That.”
“I’ll start a new batch.”
“Is there time to cut all that fruit?”
Holly stepped into the kitchen and joined them. “I’m so sorry,” Greta began. “The fruit salad dressing is my mistake.”
“It’s not the fruit salad.”
“What is it?”
Holly winced. “The egg dish. Guests are saying it’s floating in vinegar?”
“But I only put a dash on at the end.” Greta glared at the vinegar bottle. About the same time she took the egg dish out of the oven, Sissy had been talking about Oliver—blathering, asking, prying. Her vinegar sprinkle must have turned into a shower. She closed her eyes.
“Tell you what,” Linus said, already heading for the door, “I’m going to mix another batch of mimosas while you two sort this.”
“They’ll be drunk!” Holly hissed.
“All the better. We can tell them how wonderful brunch was, when they come around.”
“Holly, I’m sorry,” Greta repeated. “I don’t know how this happened. I’ve never done anything like this.”
“Let’s talk later and fix now. What can you whip up in less than fifteen minutes?”
Fourteen minutes later, a platter of truffle scrambled eggs sailed out of the kitchen, along with mango-ginger wellness shots and crisp wedges of smoked salmon avocado toast.
The next time Holly returned, she looked only slightly less stressed. “Well, you turned the brunch around. Everyone was pleased with round two.”
“Again, Holly, I’m terribly sorry. I’ve not felt like myself lately.”
“Look, I know I’m asking a lot of the staff with all the changes around here this season. We’ve been nonstop since renovations and then Harvest took off. And now the wedding weekend is here. I’m wondering if it makes sense to hire another chef. Just as support!” she rushed to add.
It was the last thing Greta wanted. This was her kitchen and Paul was a great sous-chef. Even pain-in-the-butt Linus had shifted gears and was pitching in more. “I appreciate the offer, but I really think today was just a fluke. I promise I’ll be on my game tonight.”
“Are you sure? Because I have two jobs here: meet the clients’ needs but also take care of my staff. We can revisit this whole private-event idea later, but we still have tonight to get through.”
“I’m sure,” Greta said, hoping she sounded it. “As you said, this event is our first. I don’t think it will be our last, don’t worry.”
Holly looked like she wanted to believe her. That was the part that got to her most. Greta was a professional. Harvest was booming. And renting out the inn for private events was still a good idea—as long as she kept her heart where it belonged, in her chest. Then lonely brides and wavering gardeners couldn’t touch it.
Ben
He almost didn’t call. He knew how chaotic things were at the inn, but in the end Ben couldn’t resist.
“I was a little worried when they showed up in their cocktail-hour finest, but I think the oyster tour was a smash. Honestly, I had trouble getting them out of here.”
