Eat, Drink and Be Wary Page 2

  “How do you know when enough is enough?” Pep asked. “Practice, I mean.”

  Sherry scanned her list of steps needed to execute a winning recipe in two hours. “I wish I knew the right answer. Once, I was in the finals of a cook-off with the theme Cake-Mix Creations.”

  “Let me guess. Was that when you were in your Cake-Mix-Kitchen-Sink-Cookie phase?”

  “Exactly. Sounded like such a fun contest, until I was notified I’d made the finals.”

  “Nothing wrong with that good news,” Pep commented.

  “The finals were in Denver. How was I going to practice for high-altitude baking here at sea level?”

  “You love challenging cooking conditions. What you don’t love is lack of control, but I sense something is different about you. Dare I say you have given up some control in favor of less stress and anxiety?”

  “Don’t try to overanalyze the situation. I’m working on going with the flow, as they say. But, like the perfect dry-aged steak, good things take time.”

  “I like what I see. Continue with your Denver story.”

  “I’ve competed at an underequipped and undersupplied pro football stadium at halftime in front of a crowd who only wanted more beer and hot dogs, in an outdoor tent with no additional outlets other than the one the single burner unit we were allotted was plugged into, and in the back alley of a television station in the driving rain with no protection from the elements. Denver was the toughest.”

  “I don’t remember how you did.”

  “Not well. Baking isn’t my strength. It’s too precise. The cookies were bumpy and uneven. The edges were burnt, and the center was raw. The winner was a Denver native, surprise, surprise. To answer your original question—I was never going to be prepared for that contest, but I vowed to step up my prep for the contests I’m best at. Oh, and I’m staying away from high-altitude contests.”

  Sherry ran her finger down the paper in front of her. “As sous chef, your job is to be my equipment and ingredient supplier, workspace tidier-upper, chopper on demand, recipe place checker, timer watcher . . .” Sherry drew in a deep breath before continuing, giving Pep a chance to interject a thought.

  “What the heck is your role? There’s nothing left after I do everything else. Perhaps testing the merlot for fruitiness?” Pep hummed a note of question.

  “If I may continue. I know it sounds like grunt work, but since the cook-off is a two-hour contest, your help will cover a range of tasks. Very important tasks, may I add.”

  “I’m kidding. I wouldn’t have agreed if I didn’t feel needed. That, and I haven’t seen you and Dad in so long. Killing two birds with one stone.”

  Sherry stole a look at her brother, and a recurring thought entered her head. She’d never lost hope he would one day move back to Augustin. After college, he became a man consumed by wanderlust, often losing touch with her for months, but the sibling bond had always managed to pick up right where they left off when he reconnected.

  “I’d be happier if you weren’t gone for such a long span next time, please. Doesn’t this time in the kitchen make you yearn for the good old days when you, Marla, and me played Recipe Piggyback? We’d take turns adding a surprise ingredient to a Dutch oven until an interesting casserole was born. Admit it, those were fun times.”

  “Agreed. The best times were spent with my two sisters. Now, let’s keep our eye on the prize and get a move on.”

  “The contest begins at the stroke of ten, tomorrow morning at the pavilion at Oyster Bed Harbor. It’s over at the stroke of noon. You’re in charge of watching the time.”

  Pep nodded. “Time keeper—check.”

  “Pretend you heard the opening bell. Team Oliveri is now in go mode. First on the agenda is laying out and measuring all the ingredients for the Savory Shrimp Lettuce Wraps in order of usage.” Sherry turned to her brother. He was running his finger down the list of ingredients and acting out putting them side-by-side on the counter.

  Pep stopped at one listed ingredient. “Will the shrimp be peeled with tails off?”

  “That’s a potential problem.” Sherry pointed to a line on the recipe printout. “In the recipe I submitted to the contest—the one chosen for the finals—I listed, ‘one pound large shrimp, peeled, heads and tails removed’ in my ingredients. Right here, though, is the recipe they have in their contest book. Only ‘one pound large shrimp’ is specified.” Sherry waved a flyer in front of Pep’s face. “Not much I can do about that now. Are you ready to deal with deveining, peeling, and, possibly, chopping the head off if you have to?”

  “No worries. I’m an old hand at shrimp cleaning. It was one of my many jobs over the years.”

  “Remind me to ask you about that later.” Sherry paused for a moment. “Onward we go. If they only provide us with one measuring cup, you’ll have to be the wiper-outer before we can measure the rice. That involves paper towels and a trip to the sink, where there’s sure to be a line waiting for a turn. Thank goodness we have two hours, right?”

  Silence.

  Sherry’s attention left the recipe and traveled to Pep. “Pep? Are you with me?” Sherry squeezed her eyes shut for an instant and took a deep breath.

  “I’ve rinsed a measuring cup before. I can do it again.”

  “You seem preoccupied.”

  “Nope, I’m with you every step of the way.”

  They continued on, through each item on her list. After an hour of reenacting the steps of the recipe in double time without any actual ingredients, Team Oliveri was satisfied.

  “There’s a fine line between being prepared and being overprepared.” Sherry folded her information sheets. “Let’s quit while we’re ahead.”

  Pep tiptoed over to his phone. “Okay to touch my phone now?” He held his hand hovering over his connection to the outside world.

  “All yours. FYI, Dad should be stopping by any minute to say hi. After that, we need to get over to the Augustin Inn for the contestant cocktail hour at six-thirty.”

  In the next room, Chutney began a barking tirade.

  “Speaking of the devil, he must be here.” Sherry let the tall, slim man in his early seventies in, accompanied by Ruth Gadabee, who was wearing an unusual wardrobe choice. The sight of the woman, nearing seventy, wearing overalls, came as a bit of a shock. Sherry’s gaze lingered on her father’s girlfriend’s baggy, denim farm fashion.

  “Where’s my son?” Erno called out. He gave Sherry a passing hug. He continued onto the living room, leaving Ruth at the door.

  “Good to see you, too, Dad.”

  “He’s so excited to have Pep home. Too bad it’s not for longer.” Ruth tugged at one of the straps that slid off her shoulder. The stauesque woman, whose overalls were missing the mark of full ankle coverage, extended Sherry a broad smile. “You’re probably wondering why I’m dressed in these duds.”

  “Overalls are a left turn from your normal pretty dress, but I’m not one to talk. Sweatpants and T-shirts are my preferred outfits. Overalls could be an upgrade.” When she observed Ruth’s brow rise, Sherry hoped she hadn’t offended her in some way.

  “Actually, these’ll be my working clothes. Tomorrow, I’m volunteering at the Fall Food Fest. I thought I’d give the outfit a test drive. All the volunteers are required to wear this getup, in honor of the region’s farming history. Now that I’ve been wearing it for the past hour, I have one question. Do farmers ever use the restroom? I mean, it takes the flexibility of a contortionist to get the straps unbuckled, the bib pulled down, and the sides unbuttoned before you can get down to business. If time is of the essence, there could be some accidents.”

  Sherry surveyed Ruth’s overalls from neck to ankle. “I see what you mean.”

  “I didn’t get assigned to the cook-off, but I’ll pop in as often as possible to see how you and Pep are doing. I’m so excited it’s an Oliveri family affair,” Ruth said.

  “Hey, Ruth. Get in here and see how handsome my son is,” Erno called out from the next roo
m.

  Ruth hooked her arm around Sherry’s elbow and led her to Erno. “You’re pretty, too, dear,” Ruth added as they traveled to the living room.

  “Pep, this is my dear friend, Ruth Gadabee.” Erno untwined Ruth from Sherry’s arm. “Ruth, this is the son I was hoping would one day return to Augustin and take over my ruggery store, but I’ve had no luck so far luring him back. Sherry, maybe you can perform some magic to get Pep to set down an anchor here.”

  “I’m not doing such a bad job at the store, am I?” Sherry asked. “Why are you trying to replace me?”

  “Sweetie, you’ve only expressed interest in a part-time position all these years. I’m happy to have you a couple days a week. But that’s not gonna get the entire job done. Besides, you love your editing work on the town hall newsletter, your cooking takes up so much of your time, and you volunteer at the community garden. You may also inherit a pickle business when Frances Dumont retires. I need a full-time working family member if we’re going to keep The Ruggery in the family if, and when, I decide to retire.” Erno’s voice trailed off toward the end of his thought.

  “Do we have to discuss this right now?” Pep extended his hand toward Ruth.

  Ruth swatted Pep’s hand down in jest before she wrapped her arms around him. “I’ve heard so much about you and your travels, dear.”

  “All good, I hope.” Pep’s words were barely audible, muffled by Ruth’s embrace.

  “Mostly good, but there’s an air of mystery about you. I’ve heard you’re putting your geology studies to use. I’ve also heard you’re self-employed with property investment in some of the places you’ve traveled to.” Ruth dropped an arm to her side, hiking up a fallen strap with her other hand as she did so. “How people wear these things on a daily basis has me baffled.”

  Sherry giggled. “The people that do probably wonder how you can be comfortable in a dress every day.”

  “Touché,” laughed Ruth.

  “Let’s have lemonade on the porch before we have to say good night. Pep and I have to be cleaned and polished for our contestant cocktail hour by six.”

  Sherry led the way to the kitchen, where she loaded a tray with her always-on-hand pitcher of lemonade. She gathered some glasses to complete the tray.

  “I’ll be there in a minute.” Pep exited the room, staring at his buzzing phone.

  “I’m really worried about Pep being able to focus on his duties as sous chef tomorrow. All he does is study that blasted phone. I need him to be dialed in for one hundred and twenty minutes with no interruptions.” Sherry sighed.

  “He’s a bright boy. He can multitask.” Erno poured himself a drink and lifted the glass in the air. “Here’s to a cook-off victory for my two favorite contestants.”

  Ruth lifted an empty glass. “I second that.”

  “I hope you’re both right,” Sherry added.

  “As I always say, even with eight eyes and eight legs, a spider still needs to spin a web to catch his dinner.” Erno pursed his lips.

  “If you always say that, why have I never heard that little maxim?” Pep let out a hardy laugh as he walked into the room. “And what does it mean, anyway?”

  Ruth cleared her throat. “Your father’s words of wisdom are subtle in their meaning. I believe he’s saying things get done, even though they don’t always happen with the most obvious tools available.”

  “Ruth, have you heard from Frances?” Sherry asked. “How’s she liking the cruise?”

  Ruth frowned. “I got an email from her, but I haven’t opened it. I’m afraid she’s telling me she’ll never return.”

  “Ruth, bite your tongue,” Erno scolded. “She likes her family. She loves us. After two weeks confined to a cruise ship with her kids and grandkids, she’ll love and appreciate us even more.”

  “Best friends, confidantes, partners in crime,” Sherry added. “Frances, Ruth, and Erno. Without the wit and wisdom you three pass on, life would be very dull.”

  “I feel out of sorts when Frances is gone.” Ruth’s lower lip jutted forward.

  Erno gave her a hug.

  “She deserves a vacation, if you can call it that. Now that she’s taken her Dumont pickle business back full-time, she’s had to work hard all summer season. I’m ready to take over when she retires for a second time, but I’m not holding my breath,” laughed Sherry.

  “See? You’d make time for selling pickles again, even with your packed schedule. All the more reason Pep is the man for The Ruggery job,” Erno said.

  After some quality time spent talking about the hooked-rug business, Chutney’s new relationship with the cat adopted by Sherry’s ever-inquisitive neighbor, Eileen, and Ruth’s expectations for the Fall Food Fest, it was time to dress for the cook-off cocktail party. The visitors made their way to the front door.

  On his way out, Erno paused. “I’m assuming you won’t be in the store tomorrow afternoon?”

  Sherry scooped up Chutney before the Jack Russell could scamper out the open door. “I will. And Pep said he’d love to come along, since he’ll be riding a wave of post cook-off energy.” Sherry peeked behind her to check her brother’s expression. “The look on his face confirms his enthusiasm.”

  “I have no recollection of saying that. Why rest, when my family can run me ragged? And remind me why I thought this visit would in any way be relaxing?” Pep asked.

  Chapter 3

  “You know the last time I was inside the Augustin Inn?” Sherry asked.

  “For me, it was your wedding reception.” Pep threaded the leather belt through the last of his pants belt loops. “Speaking of weddings, thanks for scavenging Charlie’s belt from the back of the closet. Haven’t had to wear one in forever.”

  “You’re quite welcome,” Sherry sang out. “Did you know the Augustin Inn wasn’t our first choice of venues?” She buttoned the lower half of her black cashmere cardigan. “Charlie was adamant about being close to the beach. Unfortunately, a nor’easter a month prior took out every potential venue within a twenty-mile radius of Augustin. When you get a location stuck in your head, it seems like nothing else will do.”

  “Maybe that was a sign of things to come. An omen you and Charlie weren’t meant to be.”

  “Actually, I think we had a stroke of good luck when Clarence Constable, the owner of the inn at the time, heard of our situation and offered up his place. Not on the beach, but we were certainly beggars who couldn’t be choosy at that point.”

  “His daughter is the owner now, right? What’s her name?”

  “Ginger Constable. She never married, I believe.”

  “Wasn’t there talk of the inn being haunted?” Pep asked.

  “The barn behind the inn is supposedly haunted by the ghost of a man who arrived at the inn on horseback over a hundred years ago. While he was putting his horse in the barn for the night, he was trampled when something spooked the animal. That’s the local lore.” Sherry checked her face in the front hall mirror.

  “Didn’t a guest have an accident during your reception? Was it a run-in with the ghost?”

  “All a misunderstanding. One of Charlie’s cousins claimed he heard screams from the barn, ran inside, tripped, and broke his arm. The hospital tested his blood-alcohol level, and, sure enough, it was sky high. Only ghost he saw was most likely a figment of his pickled imagination.”

  Pep took a step closer to the mirror. Sherry saw his reflection peer around her head. He stuck out his tongue.

  “I know you don’t want to come tonight, so thanks for making an appearance.”

  “It’s fine. I’m going to take my own car, though. I need to run a quick errand. Plus, everyone wants a piece of Sherry Oliveri. You’ll be required to hang out longer than I’m willing to. I need a getaway car.”

  “See you soon, boy.” Sherry gave Chutney a farewell cuddle. “I won’t be late. Hopefully just an hour, two tops.” She set the dog down on the couch by the bay window, where he curled up and closed his eyes, then she plucked off the
white fur that had transferred to her black sweater.

  “I don’t think he can measure time,” Pep suggested.

  “Nonsense, of course he can.” Sherry picked up her car keys and opened the front door.

  Pep scooted through the doorway. “I’ll see you there.”

  The short drive to the Augustin Inn provided Sherry just enough time to let the nerves creep in. Why does Pep have to take his own car to the party? Why doesn’t he suggest we do his “errand” together? If he decides to go out afterward, he may be too tired to be of use to me at the cook-off. Maybe he’s not even coming to the party.

  Sherry’s concerns vanished when she parked the car. She spotted Pep’s car a few spots away. “That’s a good sign,” she whispered. “Must have decided against running his errand.”

  The brick path leading to the whitewashed colonial building was worn and moss covered. Sherry’s canvas wedge shoes wobbled with each step, and she began to question her shoe choice. A sprained ankle would make maneuvering the cook-off platform difficult. She slowed her pace to a near crawl, taking care to set her foot on a level brick with each step.

  “Passing on the right,” a couple called out as they strolled past Sherry at a fast clip.

  Sherry began a reply, but the words fell flat as the couple strode out of earshot. Sherry followed the signs to the reception, which took her past the stately columns framing the entrance. She navigated around to the side of the inn. She stepped up to the covered porch and took her place in line, waiting for what, she wasn’t sure. As soon as she stopped walking, the breeze chilled any exposed skin. She regretted not choosing to wear heavier protection from the cooling autumn temperatures.

  “Name tags are on the table if you’re a contestant,” a voice on the porch directed.

  Half the people reassembled themselves to form another line in front of a long table.