Taste Test (30 page)

Angela is watching my face and I shake my head, as though to clear it via the Etch A Sketch method.

“So, are you going to be in the audience tonight?” I ask her.

She nods. “Of course. I can’t wait! And what about you? How are
you
feeling about tonight?”

I blow a gust of air out between my lips.

“Okay. Nervous. I think I’m just ready for this to be over—I want to figure out what I’m doing with my life and I sort of need to know whether that decision is or is not going to involve a passport.”

“And how about Christian? How is he doing?”

“Good, I think. I haven’t been allowed to see him much. We were sequestered at first because of the investigation; then, when the doctors agreed to release him, Benny wouldn’t let me within ten feet of him. No communication with fellow contestants, no television, no connection to the outside world. Finale regulations.” I look mournfully at the wall where my plasma-screen TV once hung.

“Right …” Angela looks down at her feet, then back at me, cocking her head. “And how about the investigation? What’s the latest with Ms. Svincek?”

I sigh. “She’s been charged with a felony for the sink—but you had to know that part.” Angela was one of the witnesses for the original arraignment.

“Right. And Gigi?”

I shrug. “Nothing. Haven’t heard from her.”

Angela bites her lip. “I have.”

I blink hard. “You’re kidding. She called you?”

“No.” She looks down. “I went to see her.”

“In
prison
?”

“It’s a detention center, Nora. But, yes, I went to see her last night when I got here.”

I don’t know what to say—of all people, Angela should be the most furious with Gigi. Her selfishness cost Angela the chance to be here competing tonight instead of watching from the sidelines.

“What did she say?”

“She wanted me to wish you luck. And she wanted me to give you this.”

Angela reaches into her pocket and brings out a folded piece of paper. I shake my head.

“Ang, whatever it says, I’m not interes—”

“Nora.” Her eyes are sad. “I know you’re angry—trust me, I, of all people, understand why. And I’m not saying you need to read this now. Tonight’s important and you need to focus. But you
should
read it at some point. Seriously.”

“Why? What can she possibly say to make things better?”

“Nothing. She can’t make anything better. She knows that.”

“I just don’t understand why you even went there, Angela. I mean, after what she did—after what she caused—”

Angela stands up and gives me a small smile.

“The right people are competing tonight—I have no delusions of grandeur here. It was always about you and Christian from the moment you both got on that shuttle.”

I remember that day like it was yesterday—his blue eyes, that infuriating smirk. I feel a tug of residual jealousy remembering his arm casually slung around Joy’s shoulders.

“Anyway”—Angela leans forward to hug me—“I wanted to wish you luck, but I will
not
say break a leg. The last thing you need is another accident.”

“Yeah, thanks for that.”

I watch as she sets the note on the corner of the desk. She gives me another smile.

“Next time I see you, you’ll be the season five champion!”

She’s out the door before I can respond. I’m too busy eyeing that letter like it might implode or burst into flames.

Hey, with Gigi’s history, you never know.

And Angela was right—I could have ignored the note and
spent my time strategizing for tonight, trying to get myself psyched for the finale. But instead, I sit for twenty minutes staring at a folded piece of paper, attempting to convince myself that I don’t care what it says.

At minute twenty-one, I snatch it off the desk.

At minute twenty-two, I unfold it.

Dear Nora,

I don’t know what to write because nothing I say changes anything—I lied to you and I hurt people. That’s something I have to live with every second of every day. I don’t want to make excuses and tell you that I had to do what I did. I didn’t—I could have said no. I just didn’t.

Everything I said that night in the arena was the truth—I never, ever would have done the things I did if I thought people would get hurt. My mother is a very persuasive person—she made me believe that my actions were in honor of my dad, that we were finding a way to make up for what we lost. I’ve always done what my mother’s told me to do, but I know that telling the truth was the best decision. Even if she ends up in jail for good—even if I do too—I know I did the right thing.

Angela told me they’re doing another finale—I’m glad that you will get your fair chance to win this thing. I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more. I only wish I’d had the courage to tell the truth sooner; maybe then, more people would have gotten a fair shot at the finals. Regardless, I know you would have made it to the end. You are an amazing chef, Nora, and I admire your talent and your strength.

I hope, one day, you will read this and know how much I regret what I’ve done. Maybe a part of you will understand why I did it in the first place. As someone who loves her father more than anything, I’m hoping you can see how much it hurt to lose my own. I haven’t felt whole since he died, but becoming your friend—well, it took away that ache in my chest. I’ll always be grateful for that.

Love,

Gigi

So rather than looking over my recipe for peach-basted pork chops with Vidalia onions, rather than reconsidering glazed carrots in favor of a starchier side, I stare at Gigi’s letter all afternoon.

Now, standing in the new arena, I’m still preoccupied with her words. I think about how it feels to disappoint a parent—how guilty I’d felt taking off for Connecticut in January, leaving my dad short staffed.

What if I actually
win
this thing? What if Paris isn’t just a pipe dream, but a big, fat furnace reality?

I’d leave at the end of August, the middle of the peak season at the restaurant, right when business booms every year. It’s not like I’m indispensible at the register, but not everyone knows the recipes by heart, not everyone can work the smoker when Dad has to deal with a late delivery or malfunctioning fridge. I’ll be abandoning him at the worst possible time.

So, can I understand Gigi’s predicament? Do I sympathize?

I don’t know. I don’t think I can—if I do, I’m saying it’s okay that she hurt Angela and Joy. That she almost killed Christian. But I
do
understand what it feels like to want to make your widowed parent feel a little less lost—like you’re really partners in this whole mess of life.

And that’s what’s keeping me from concentrating on basting and grilling and the dozen other things I should be doing right at this moment, in this new arena, cooking for my future.

“That’s right, viewers, we are thirty minutes into the
Taste Test
season five finale—and what a finale it is! On one side we have Nora Henderson—small-town girl with a barbecue background! On the other, we’ve got culinary prince Christian Van Lorton, out of the hospital and in the zone! Folks, I’m telling you—I haven’t seen a battle like this since …”

I try to block out the announcer’s voice. Leave it to the network to make the “Re-Finale” as dramatic as possible by hiring an obnoxious sports commentator to detail the play-by-play—as though hospital stays and felony charges weren’t enough to raise the already skyrocketing ratings.

“Again, folks, we’re just twenty-nine minutes away from finding out whose dish is the most de-lish, whose food will set the mood …”

You know, you’d think if they were going to hire a moderator, or whatever this guy is, they’d shell out a few extra bucks for someone better than a Dr. Seuss wannabe.

I check on my stove-top smoker. I really hope the apple wood chips were the right choice. I’ve only got a few more minutes until I need to move my chops from the smoker to
the grill. I pretend to check the clock while I watch Christian work. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and you can see the bottom of what’s left of the bandages. I swallow hard.

Competing against Christian was a lot easier when I wasn’t focused on how he was feeling. Or how good he looks in his button-down shirt, his blond hair disheveled, his eyes narrowed in concentration. A bead of sweat trickles down his temple. Apparently, he’s feeling as hot as he’s looking.

Stop it. Find your zone.

But with so little time left in the challenge, I still haven’t gotten to that point—the point where everything falls into place. And as I watch Christian’s back hunched over his saucepan, his hands flying over his cutting board with lightning speed, I’m starting to think that maybe I’m not the person who’s going to take this thing tonight.

Sometimes, it’s hard to remember what you’re fighting for. I squeeze my eyes shut and think about home. There are Dad, Joanie, and Billy watching the finale in the Smoke Signals dining room. There is the whole town of Weston crowded around their TVs, rooting for me to win. Then, I open my eyes and look at Christian again. He’s wiping his face on the front of his apron, one hand dipping a metal spoon into a shallow pan. He looks intent and determined. I can’t help but think about what he has to move back to after the show—a home, a school, a world where his father runs the show. Paris would be a chance for him to get out from under all of that.

So, when I pull my pork chops off the grill, painting them a final time with the apricot-colored sauce I’ve reduced a dozen times over, I really don’t know what I’d rather have
happen here—I could lose, go home, and live my life. The only life that, up until recently, I’ve ever known.

Or I could win.

And everything would change forever.

“FIVE.”

“FOUR.”

“THREE.”

“TWO.”

“ONE.”

And like it’s Times Square on New Year’s Eve. The crowd is on their feet. Christian and I step back from our stations as tuxedoed servers whisk our platters away.

“That’s it, ladies and gentlemen—the cooking is complete!” The announcer is yelling into his handheld microphone. “Stay tuned for our live Elimination Table, just after this break!”

“Bryce, seriously!” I swat his hand away. “If you put any more of that stuff on my face, my skin’s going to stage a rebellion and create a makeup landslide.”

Bryce swipes the big blush brush over my forehead one more time and looks at me critically.

“You’re a little shiny, love. I just want you to look flawless when you win this thing.”

“Don’t jinx it,” I mutter.

But when he walks away, I peer into the mirror and run a hand through my thick, loose curls. For the final elimination, I’m out of my apron and in a strapless cocktail dress. It’s the color of red wine, and the satiny fabric skims my hips and
pools around my ankles. Strappy gold sandals peek out from beneath the burgundy hemline. I feel glamorous, almost like I’m going to an awards show or something. Too bad I’m dateless for the main event.

“Psst.”

I look up and my eyes widen. In the mirror, I see Christian partially concealed behind the dark-purple curtain of a nearby dressing room. I swivel around in my chair, checking to see if anyone is close enough to see or hear us.

“What are you doing here?” I whisper, struggling to stand up without tripping on my train. “We aren’t supposed to ‘fraternize’ or whatever.”

“Come here,” he whispers, motioning for me to come closer. I hike up the skirt of my dress, trying not to let it drag on the cement floor. Once I’ve made it within a few feet of the curtain, Christian reaches out and pulls me inside the little cubicle. Like me, he’s dressed up for the occasion; his dark wool suit looks expensive, especially with the pearl-gray shirt and matching tie underneath. He looks like he was born to dress this way. My breath catches in my throat as he looks down at me and smiles.

“I had to see you,” he says softly, reaching a hand up to tweak one of my curls. I can feel myself blushing. I gesture at my dress self-consciously.

“I feel ridiculous. You’d think we were on the red carpet, not the chopping block.”

Christian touches my shoulder, letting his palm slide down my arm. When his hand reaches mine, he gives it a squeeze.

“You look gorgeous,” he murmurs. A warm sensation
fills my belly and sinks into my legs. I feel myself leaning into him.

“You don’t look too bad yourself.”

Curling a finger under my chin, he lifts my mouth up to meet his. I feel myself sinking into the kiss. What begins as sweet and innocent quickly turns more intense. I run my hands up his back; he has one arm around my waist and pulls me into him. I give a little sigh as his mouth moves to my neck, my collarbone.

“Christian …”

“Hmm?” I feel the slight vibration of his mouth along the hollow of my neck. The last thing I want to do is stop him.

“You’d better go.”

He moves to look me in the eye. “And why would I want to do that?”

I smile, moving my hand from his shoulder to his hair. The silky, spiky strands are both sharp and soft—an appropriate analogy that isn’t lost on me.