indicating the entire town.
“ So you do have preconceived notions about small towns.” I didn’t mean it as a question.
She started to rise. “No, and don’t accuse me of that. I’m a journalist. That means I’m impartial. I go about any assignment with an open mind.”
She had opened a door I wanted. Boldly, before she could stalk off, I put my hand on her arm and asked, “Do you have some clippings of previous stories. Something that could verify your credentials for us?” It was almost a declaration of war, and she certainly took it that way.
“ I don’t have to prove anything to you or anyone else in this town.” She was gathering her purse and notebook, so I stood too.
“ No, you don’t. But if you don’t approach us with a chip on your shoulder and an eye for our weak spots, you mind find us all more cooperative. I’m not sure I’m crazy about being back in Wheeler after years in Dallas, but there are things I like. I’d be glad to talk to you about them and about the things I don’t like.”
“ Like a lack of men?” Her tone was bitter.
“ No, that’s not one of them. Please don’t pre-judge me…or my town.”
She stalked away, and I knew I ’d made an enemy.
Donna came in a little later . “Sara Jo’s back. I don’t know if I’m glad or not.”
“ I know. She was here early this morning.” I thought it best not to say any more.
“ Well, I’m glad to have her back for the cooking school if nothing else. You know, it was her idea. Have you made any progress on your menus?”
I knew there was a deep down reason I resented Sara Jo, and now I knew what it was. “Not yet,” I said, “but I’m working on it.
****
And that’s how Rick Samuels found himself in my kitchen that night, eating Beef Wellington and Caesar salad. I’d even made a quick trip to Canton in the afternoon to pick up some good beef tenderloin, the kind I could never afford to serve at the café, and some puff pastry, along with a better than usual cabernet.
“ What’s the occasion?” he asked, seating himself at the table. It was one of those rare evenings when he had changed out of his tan uniform and wore a plaid shirt with starched jeans and, of course, boots. I always liked him in his uniform but somehow he looked better to me tonight.
I , on the other hand, had on jeans that were not creased, an oversize shirt, and one of Gram’s aprons. Not a fashion picture. “I’m practicing for Donna’s cooking school.”
“ Whoa! Back up! She’s going to teach a cooking school? I thought you said she can’t cook worth…well, you know.”
“ She can’t, and she isn’t. I am.”
“ And you got roped into this how?” He was laughing as he opened the wine.
“ I told you Sara Jo would be trouble. This is all her idea. But I decided it might be fun, and I want to practice my cooking skills on some nicer things. So, tonight, Monsieur, you get Beef Wellington and Caesar salad.”
“ You aren’t going to put chopped liver on it, are you?”
“ Liver pâté? No, it’s not in this recipe. I’m trying to simplify for the ladies.”
“ Whew! That’s a relief.”
I started to laugh, and then the giggles came, stopped only by a sip of wine and a sobering thought about Sara Jo. “If this is the worst trouble she causes, it won’t be so bad. But I talked to her this morning, and I have lots of worries.”
“ Let’s eat first,” he said.
I tasted, rolled the wine around on my tongue, and pronounced it superb. Then I giggled again. We were not exactly wine connoisseurs—what’s the word for that? Oenophiles?
Over dinner, served of cou rse on Gram’s Blue Willow china but with Reidel O glasses I’d recently ordered, I told him how Donna was going to be administrator of the class.
“ What’s that mean? She’ll collect the cash?”
“ Well, yes, but I’ll demand my fair share. And we’ll send the ladies home with dinner that they’ve cooked. For two. If they have children,
“ So you do have preconceived notions about small towns.” I didn’t mean it as a question.
She started to rise. “No, and don’t accuse me of that. I’m a journalist. That means I’m impartial. I go about any assignment with an open mind.”
She had opened a door I wanted. Boldly, before she could stalk off, I put my hand on her arm and asked, “Do you have some clippings of previous stories. Something that could verify your credentials for us?” It was almost a declaration of war, and she certainly took it that way.
“ I don’t have to prove anything to you or anyone else in this town.” She was gathering her purse and notebook, so I stood too.
“ No, you don’t. But if you don’t approach us with a chip on your shoulder and an eye for our weak spots, you mind find us all more cooperative. I’m not sure I’m crazy about being back in Wheeler after years in Dallas, but there are things I like. I’d be glad to talk to you about them and about the things I don’t like.”
“ Like a lack of men?” Her tone was bitter.
“ No, that’s not one of them. Please don’t pre-judge me…or my town.”
She stalked away, and I knew I ’d made an enemy.
Donna came in a little later . “Sara Jo’s back. I don’t know if I’m glad or not.”
“ I know. She was here early this morning.” I thought it best not to say any more.
“ Well, I’m glad to have her back for the cooking school if nothing else. You know, it was her idea. Have you made any progress on your menus?”
I knew there was a deep down reason I resented Sara Jo, and now I knew what it was. “Not yet,” I said, “but I’m working on it.
****
And that’s how Rick Samuels found himself in my kitchen that night, eating Beef Wellington and Caesar salad. I’d even made a quick trip to Canton in the afternoon to pick up some good beef tenderloin, the kind I could never afford to serve at the café, and some puff pastry, along with a better than usual cabernet.
“ What’s the occasion?” he asked, seating himself at the table. It was one of those rare evenings when he had changed out of his tan uniform and wore a plaid shirt with starched jeans and, of course, boots. I always liked him in his uniform but somehow he looked better to me tonight.
I , on the other hand, had on jeans that were not creased, an oversize shirt, and one of Gram’s aprons. Not a fashion picture. “I’m practicing for Donna’s cooking school.”
“ Whoa! Back up! She’s going to teach a cooking school? I thought you said she can’t cook worth…well, you know.”
“ She can’t, and she isn’t. I am.”
“ And you got roped into this how?” He was laughing as he opened the wine.
“ I told you Sara Jo would be trouble. This is all her idea. But I decided it might be fun, and I want to practice my cooking skills on some nicer things. So, tonight, Monsieur, you get Beef Wellington and Caesar salad.”
“ You aren’t going to put chopped liver on it, are you?”
“ Liver pâté? No, it’s not in this recipe. I’m trying to simplify for the ladies.”
“ Whew! That’s a relief.”
I started to laugh, and then the giggles came, stopped only by a sip of wine and a sobering thought about Sara Jo. “If this is the worst trouble she causes, it won’t be so bad. But I talked to her this morning, and I have lots of worries.”
“ Let’s eat first,” he said.
I tasted, rolled the wine around on my tongue, and pronounced it superb. Then I giggled again. We were not exactly wine connoisseurs—what’s the word for that? Oenophiles?
Over dinner, served of cou rse on Gram’s Blue Willow china but with Reidel O glasses I’d recently ordered, I told him how Donna was going to be administrator of the class.
“ What’s that mean? She’ll collect the cash?”
“ Well, yes, but I’ll demand my fair share. And we’ll send the ladies home with dinner that they’ve cooked. For two. If they have children,
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