Fry Another Day (25 page)

At five thirty, I was ready to go.
Still no word from Miguel.

Ollie had gone back to the homeless shelter and changed clothes. He was still wearing jeans and a T-shirt, but now they were clean.

Delia had changed, too. She was wearing a short, heavenly blue dress with a sparkly silver chiffon overlay. Her hair was up. She looked like a princess.

I cleaned up pretty well, too. I went for my favorite little black dress—scoop neck and ending above my knees. My curls were perfect and glossy. I added black heels and a blue star sapphire necklace and earrings that had been a gift on my sixteenth birthday.

“Ladies!” Ollie looked us both over, but his eyes got stuck on Delia. “I guess we're going without Miguel?”

“I haven't heard from him all afternoon. Maybe he's too busy to go to dinner.” I shrugged. “He might have had to get caught up with stuff at his office.”

Delia and I exchanged knowing glances.

“He's not
that
kind of man,” I said.

“She's
that
kind of woman,” Delia warned.

“Are we taking the food truck?” Ollie asked.

“No.” I'd called Uncle Saul's taxi driver friend, Cole. There was no point in bothering Miguel for a ride. We could certainly get there without him. He could join us later when he could get away.

I called Miguel one last time while we were waiting for the taxi. I left a voice mail to make sure he knew he could come late if he wanted to.

“I hope he's okay,” Delia said.

“I'm sure he's fine,” Ollie added.

“He probably just got busy,” I said again. “There were probably all kinds of clients that missed him while he was gone. He'll come later.”

I didn't want to feel miserable or pathetic—I was in the lead to win fifty thousand dollars. I was disappointed that Miguel couldn't be there tonight, but I couldn't expect him to drive me all over the city after going with me on the race.

I pasted a happy smile on my face when Cole pulled up, and the three of us got in the old Chevy taxi.

“Hey there, Zoe,” Cole said. “It's good to see you. Don't tell me—you're on your way out to Chef Art's place like Saul, right?”

“That's where we're headed.” I was careful to sit on the outside of the backseat so Delia and Ollie could sit next to each other. “I suppose Uncle Saul told you all about what happened while we were gone.”

He nodded as he pulled out of the parking lot. “He sure did. Sounds like you all had a heck of a time. Good eating, too. I'm glad you're home. I missed those biscuit bowls of yours.”

That made me feel better. It was nice to know that someone had missed me while I was gone; even nicer that someone had missed my food.

Chef Art's home was one of Mobile's best, and most famous, antebellum mansions with stately oaks surrounding it. All the oaks had been cut down so that Confederate artillery was free to shell Federal troops. The trees there had been replanted using acorns from the originals.

Woodlands had been built in 1855. It had been restored with plenty of money and loving care so that the massive rooms, circular staircase, and crystal chandeliers were in great condition.

Chef Art regularly entertained here. I'd only been in the house one other time. I was happy to be back again.

Cole dropped us off out front in the circular drive. The place was buzzing with activity—a lot more than there should've been for two food truck teams and some producers.

Chef Art greeted us at the door, as befitted a host of the old South. He was wearing his famous white linen suit, as always. “Good to see you. I'm glad you could make it.”

“What's going on?” There were hundreds of strangers walking around inside.

“I thought I'd ask a few friends over for dinner. It seemed like such a small party with just you all and the other team. We won't count the race officials and sponsors. It was short notice, or I'm sure there'd be a lot more people. Go on. Introduce yourself, Zoe. Make yourself known. That's how you get rich and famous.”

I did as he suggested. I recognized some of the people from national TV food shows that I watched regularly. I loved most of them, and had spent hours planning to be one of them. It wasn't happening yet, but there was plenty of time.

Ollie and Delia found a quiet place in a corner and didn't bother introducing themselves to anyone. That was fine, and what I'd expected.

I found Uncle Saul at the canapé table. He hugged me. “You have to try these okra treats. You won't believe how they taste.”

I tried one—not really an okra fan, but he was right. “What is that stuffed with?”

“I think it's sausage and some kind of filler.”

I tasted it again. “Quinoa? I think that's what it is.”

“Whatever it is, I like it.” He grabbed another one and looked over my shoulder at the same time. “Are you here alone? Where is everyone?”

“Well, Delia and Ollie are finding each other.” I nodded toward their corner. “Miguel was busy. I've taken up a lot of his time. I'm glad he could be there for the other parts of the race.”

He smiled and put his arm around me. “Zoe, you sound like the people who don't win the Academy Award. ‘It was just an honor to be nominated.' Come on. Cheer up. You'll see him tomorrow.”

He was wearing a bright blue and pink checkered jacket over a matching vest. His dress pants were a shade close to the pink in the jacket. Uncle Saul could be a snappy dresser when he chose.

“Excuse me.” A young woman wearing a small black fascinator on her blond hair joined us. “I'm Tiffany Bryant. I represent the committee putting on carnival next year. I was wondering if you'd be interested in bringing your food truck to the festivities? We're interested in having the
best
food Mobile has to offer.”

I was certainly interested in being called the best food Mobile had to offer. I knew getting into the two weeks leading up to Mardi Gras was hard. There were thousands of people there every year for the events.

“Yes. I'd love to be there. Thank you for asking.”

She handed me her card. “Just give me a call or text me. I'll send you an invitation. The food truck race has been so exciting, especially having someone at the head of the pack from Mobile. Good job, Zoe!”

“Thanks. It's been a lot of fun.”

“Except, of course for the deaths and the other problems,” she said. “What a bother those were.”

Bother
wasn't the word I would've used, but I wasn't going to argue with someone recruiting for carnival. I didn't agree, either, but our quick conversation was over. She had moved on to someone else.

I saw my mother's face on dozens of campaign buttons before I saw her coming toward me. No button or poster could do justice to her perfect blond hair or dazzling, intense blue eyes. She was determined to be a judge, and I knew what that meant—look out other people running for that position!

I
knew
she'd be here. Anabelle Chase was at
all
the important social functions around the city even before she began running for office. I knew because I was always with her, until I'd turned eighteen and had refused to go. That wasn't my kind of life at all.

“Zoe!” She air-kissed my cheek. “It's so
good
to see you home and in one piece.”

“Thanks, Mom. How's the campaign going?”

“I think I'll be a judge by this fall.” She walked up close to me. “That dress is a
little
short for you, don't you think?”

I looked at my hemline, which seemed reasonable to me. “No. I think it looks fine.”

She tried a shrimp canapé. “You might want to toss that old thing out and reinvest in something nice if you're going to big parties like this one. I'll be glad to take you shopping if you're low on cash.”

“Thanks.” I loved how she always said these things in ways that were meant to undermine my confidence. Sometimes they still rankled. I knew she couldn't help it. My mother was competitive with everyone.

Not that I was going to let what she said bother me tonight. This was
my
night, my success. Oddly enough, the success she was so sure I would never achieve when I started my food truck.

“So the race ends tomorrow?” Her expressive eyes swept across the room to see who was there. “You've done very well. I hope you win, honey.”

Like she even knows what that means.
“Thanks, Mom.”

Sam, her discreet assistant, came up close to us. He had a small camera—nothing too obvious. He was a nice man, as had been the other thirty or so personal assistants I could recall. There was a certain type my mother liked to work with.

“Hi, Zoe. Congratulations on doing so well in the race!”

“Thanks, Sam.”

“Maybe you two could move in closer and hold your glasses up, like you're toasting something,” he suggested in a quiet tone.

“Of course.” My mother was almost jolly in her quest for a judgeship. “Zoe, honey?”

I moved in close, as Sam had suggested, and we even put our arms around each other.

He took several carefully considered shots and then stood back. “Maybe you should eat something, Anabelle. I could take pictures of you eating with your daughter.”

My mother moved her arm away and her eyes narrowed. “Don't be absurd. I don't want pictures of me
eating food
in the media. Let's find Chef Art. I need some pictures with him.”

“See you later.” I waved as she walked away.

“Bye, Zoe,” Sam said as she dragged him with her. “Good luck tomorrow!”

I thanked him but he was already gone. I took a deep breath, knowing my father would be around here, too.

He wasn't running for public office, but he liked to be seen with popular people. He was the president of the Bank of Mobile, a position that had been passed down through his family.

It would've been hard to find two brothers—him and Uncle Saul—that were more different.

I looked down at my phone when it buzzed. It was finally a text from Miguel.

I read it eagerly, but the news wasn't good. Miguel said he'd decided that he wanted to be with Tina and that he wasn't going to finish the race. He was sorry, but there was no point in letting me think he cared about me when he didn't.

What?

I read it again, thinking I may have mistaken his meaning.

That was it. And he'd
texted
me to say it. Not even a phone call.

I walked around like a zombie in the crowded rooms until I reached the front door again. I was exhausted, on the verge of tears, and ready to leave.

“Where are you going, Zoe?” Chef Art stopped me before I could walk outside.

“Home.”

“Not yet. What about dinner? You won't even know what you're supposed to do tomorrow. I promise, it's gonna be
amazing
.”

I looked at him in his tiny black string tie and burst into tears. I was never particularly good at hiding my emotions. My mother had never been able to teach me that trick, though she'd tried hard enough.

“Good heavens!” Chef Art put his arm around my shoulders, and his burly bodyguard parted the crowd before us like Moses parting the Red Sea.

He led me to a small sitting room that was done in pretty shades of blue and white. I knew from a childhood of following my mother around to antique fairs that the furnishings looked shabby, but they were all very expensive.

“Now sit down and tell me about it.” He handed me a clean, white handkerchief and sat back to light the biggest cigar I had ever seen.

I told him all about me and Miguel and trashed Tina. My words weren't pleasant but at least they were G-rated.

Someone knocked at the door. The bodyguard opened it and my dad walked in. He was dressed in his old tuxedo, the one I'd seen him wear dozens of times. The look on his face made me start crying again.

He came over and put his arms around me. “What in the world is wrong, Zoe?”

I sobbed into his white shirt and gave him the details. By that time, I was all cried out.

I had been stupid to think Miguel was interested in me as something besides a client. I was even more stupid to think he and Tina were only friends after the way she'd acted with him.

Why am I so darn naive?

My father sat down and held my hand. I had always thought he was a handsome man. Now he was very distinguished with his year-round tan and close-cut hair. While my mother had always pointed out the right and wrong way to do things, my father was my heart.

There was another knock on the door. I hoped this wasn't a cameraman who wanted to film my breakdown and hear my story again. The bodyguard opened the door, and Uncle Saul came in.

“I heard you all were in here,” he said. “How are you doing, Chef Art? Hello, Ted! What's going on?”

“Tina and Miguel are together.” I abbreviated the tale and took out the tears.

“Sorry, Zoe.” He sat down, too. “I guess I should've spent time with you working on Miguel instead of helping Ollie with Delia.”

I sniffed. “Although that worked. Did you see them together?”

I certainly didn't want my uncle giving me pointers on relationships.

My father admired Chef Art's big cigar. Chef Art gave him and my uncle cigars, too. They lit them, and the smoke filled the room. The three of them started talking about something going on in Mobile politics. I was completely forgotten.

That was okay. I wanted to get out of there. I was going to stay for dinner and get the race over with. I was going to win and never think of Miguel Alexander again.

I went out of the room and removed Miguel's number from my phone. I even took him out of my contact list. That was that.

Dinner was served shortly after. Chef Art had a huge dining room table. All the food truck personnel and sponsors fit around it. The room was big enough that the cameramen had plenty of space to walk around and take videos of us during the meal.

Chef Art welcomed all of us to his home. “I guarantee the meal I'm about to feed you will be a thousand times better than the meals we had on the road.”

Everyone laughed. Chef Art's bodyguards closed the doors to the dining room while the party went on in the rest of the mansion.

“Still, I've had a great time. I can't wait to see how my Biscuit Bowl team does in the morning.” He nodded to Patrick Ferris who stood up at his chair.

“Hello, foodies!” He sounded exactly as he had during the race, but with no microphone. “I know you're ready for the finale tomorrow. We're down to only two of you. Teams, please stand when I call your names.”

Ollie, Uncle Saul, Delia, and I got to our feet as he announced the Biscuit Bowl. Bobbie and Allison stood up when he said Shut Up and Eat. The cameras zoomed around the table to get close-ups. We all waved and smiled, even Bobbie.

“We've got a tough day planned for these two teams tomorrow. Of course we'll begin at six
A.M.
in the heart of Mobile. I doubt if even the Spanish moss will be out that early.”

He guffawed, and the rest of us laughed with him. Fleet-footed waiters began bringing in the first course of the meal, cream of celery soup.

“But you all are used to that, aren't you?” No one responded, and he moved on. “You'll be making your signature foods again tomorrow. This time, though, we're gonna tie you down a little. Bobbie and Zoe will stay with their respective trucks while the rest of you swap teams. The Biscuit Bowl team will be working as the team for Shut Up and Eat. The team for Shut Up and Eat will be making those great biscuit bowls. How's that for excitement?”

Ollie didn't like that idea at all. “I didn't sign on for that. I'm not helping another team win the money.”

“That's not fair since we have three people in our team and Bobbie only has her daughter.” Uncle Saul nodded to Bobbie's daughter. “No offense, young lady.”

One of the producers, the quiet one who always seemed to have the last word, whispered something to Patrick.

“I guess we're going to allow one Biscuit Bowl team member to stay with Zoe Chase because of the difference in team size,” Patrick announced. “Zoe, pick your favorite team member.”

That was a no-win situation for me. All the cameras focused on my face. I had to look like I had shell shock.
How could I pick one person?
No matter who I picked, the others would be hurt.

I knew they were waiting for my reaction. “This really isn't fair. I can't pick one person on my team who's my favorite. I love them all, and I think this is a stupid way to end this race.”

Patrick grinned. “Remember, we told you we'd have some tricks up our sleeves. Make your choice, Zoe, or forfeit to Shut Up and Eat.”

Uncle Saul whispered to me, “Don't worry about me. We'll work out the savory filling between us. Choose Ollie or Delia.”

Ollie again stated his position on how wrong this was. “What if we sabotage the other team so our team wins?”

“We've thought about that, Biscuit Bowl team member. If either team loses because of poor work performance, the fifty thousand dollars will be awarded to the other team, the one that
didn't
cheat.”

Delia smiled at me and put her hand on mine. “Choose Ollie. I don't think he can handle it if you don't. I'll be fine. I
know
I'm your personal favorite.”

I felt like my hands were tied. I knew from the look on Bobbie's face that she wasn't happy with the terms of the race tomorrow, either. Her daughter was equally stricken. She was just a kid. She probably had no idea what to do or say.

“All right.” I got to my feet as the waiters were clearing the soup bowls. I hung onto mine. Cream of celery was my favorite and I wasn't finished. They weren't taking it away until I was done. “I'll choose Ollie. Not because he's my favorite, but because I don't want him to hurt you, Patrick.”

Everyone around the table snickered at that remark. They couldn't disagree after comparing the two men.

Bobbie got to her feet, too. “That's fine. I agree with Zoe that this is a really bad idea, but we'll work through it. Let's race.”

Everyone applauded. Patrick looked relieved. The sponsors sat back in their chairs, glad that their plan was moving ahead. Probably happy that the whole thing was almost over, too.

“And the second impossible, grueling aspect of tomorrow's big finale.” Patrick slowed down and savored the suspense he hoped he was creating as the salad course was brought in. “Each of the teams will be given the food they'll use to create their signature products tomorrow morning at the start of the Mobile challenge. So throw away all those ideas on what you
planned
to make.”

Bobbie groaned and put a hand to her forehead.

“That's right,” Patrick continued. “Our sponsors, Gemini Foods, Caldwell Meats, and North Star Food Products, have devised suitable menus for both our food trucks. You'll make the foods in your trucks as you have since Charlotte—I'll bet that seems like a long time ago to all of you.”

Uncle Saul patted my hand. “It's not gonna matter. You can still win this thing, Zoe.”

There was a bevy of prizes for the loser of the contest tomorrow. Of course, we both had our eye on the big prize. No one wanted to be the loser.

Bobbie sat several places up from me at the long table. I wondered what she had in mind to do with the money if
she
won. We hadn't really talked despite spending a lot of time together the past few days.

I knew it wasn't a good idea to start questioning if she deserved to win more than me, I realized as I finished my soup—
delicious
—and had to hold onto my arugula and peach salad so the waiters wouldn't take that plate away.

Chef Art's food was wonderful. His service left something to be desired.

The rest of the meal went without disruption. The main course was pasta with white dill sauce, vegetables, and fish. A small salmon pâté followed. Dessert was a surprise cherries jubilee. The flaming dish was brought into the always excited
oohs
and
aahs
of the appreciative diners.

Nothing says excitement like food that's on fire. I'd have to remember that for my own restaurant.

Like the old-time Southern tradition, some of the men retired to their cigars and brandy in the library. The big difference was that the women retired to the garden behind the mansion for cocktails.

I found myself in the lighted garden seated beside Bobbie Shields. The sound of the water cascading into the beautiful, clear pool was a perfect foil for the perfumed blossoms that filled the night around us.

“You know my little girl won't mess you up tomorrow, right?” Bobbie was frank and to the point, like always. “She's not that way.”

“Of course. Delia and my uncle won't do that to you, either.”

She grinned up at me after a long pull from her whiskey sour. “I didn't know that tall fella was your uncle.”

“Yes. He used to be in the restaurant business. I'm sure he'll do a good job for you.”

She nodded and lit up a cigarette. “What about that other fella with the tattoo? Will my baby be safe with him? I suppose you'll send the two of them out to sell your biscuits.”

“She'll be fine.”

“What happened to your outrider? I didn't see him tonight.” She grinned at me. “He's a good-looking fella. I wish he was coming with
me
tomorrow. He's my type.”

“That's Miguel.” I bit my lip to keep from saying something I might regret later. “He had to go back to work. He's a lawyer here in Mobile.”

She whistled. “How'd you get him to hang around like that?”

“Oh, he wasn't very busy. This is his slow season.”

“That's funny.” She blew smoke into the air above her. “Either you're blind or crazy if you think that. I never met a lawyer who'd give up billable hours to follow a food truck race and run for supplies. That fella is sweet on you, isn't he?”

I laced my fingers together and pulled them apart again. I'd thought I was through with talking about Miguel. The universe was against me.

“He's with someone,” I explained.

“Yeah.
You
. I'm telling you, he wouldn't have gone through this stupid race with you if he was taken by any other woman. You can believe it or not.”

I didn't respond. I didn't want to talk about it anymore. The garden was beautiful around us. A few of the guests had decided to strip down to their underwear and get in the pool.

“What are you gonna do if you win the race tomorrow?” I asked the question I'd promised myself I wouldn't ask.

She finished her whiskey and put out her cigarette in the empty glass.

Eww.

“I'm gonna send my daughter to college. She'll be the first one in our family to ever graduate past high school. How about you?”

“I'm going to remodel my diner into a world-class restaurant that people come to from all over to eat my food.”

“Sounds like we both have big dreams.” She shook my hand and got to her feet. “Good luck tomorrow, Biscuit Bowl.”

I laughed. “You, too, Shut Up and Eat.”

I could hear her smoker's wheezing laugh for a few minutes as she walked back toward the mansion.

“Hey, Zoe!” Delia called from the pool. “Why don't you come in, too?”