show demonstrating one of the recipes from her new cookbook on how to use a pressure cooker, and Hortense had taken a bite of the stew she’d prepared and said, “My this is tasty"—then came the dramatic pause, never a good sign—"if you’re partial to the kind of canned stew they sell in the supermarket.”
And another career had bit the dust. Libby shuddered as she finished her cookie. What if Hortense said something like that to her about something she and Bernie made? And while it was true that her store, A Little Taste of Heaven, had a loyal and devoted clientele, people were fickle. They tended to believe what they heard on TV.
“What do you think she’s going to give us?” Libby asked Bernie.
The surprise-ingredient thing was probably the worst part of the whole contest deal as far as Libby was concerned. She spent hours and hours planning out her menus, and here she and Bernie were being asked to cook a whole Christmas dinner with some strange ingredient that Hortense was going to give them in an hour. Then if they won the first round, they’d have to do it again and again.
“A boar’s head,” Bernie replied. “She’s going to give us a boar’s head.”
“Be serious,” Libby said.
“I am. Boar’s heads were the most popular item associated with medieval Christmas feasts.” Bernie paused for a moment. “Although they didn’t have Christmas foods the way we think of them. Well, that’s not entirely true. They did have plum pudding and mincemeat pies.”
Libby sighed. Her sister was full of more information than you’d ever want to know.
“I wish there was a way we could find out,” she mused.
“You and everyone else on the show.”
Of which there were seven. Actually, five if you didn’t count her and Bernie. Five caterers. Libby rubbed her forehead. She never watched reality shows on TV as a matter of principle and now she was going to be on one!
“Of course, we could always sneak into the cooler and take a look,” Bernie said. “I bet they have the ingredients stored in there.”
Libby ignored her. It was bad enough they were in the studio.
“This sucks,” she said instead. “At least Bree could have given us three or four months notice instead of letting us know at the last minute she’d booked us on here.”
“Back to the weight thing are we?” Bernie asked.
“Not at all,” Libby retorted, even though she was. If she had had even two months notice, she would have gone to Weight Watchers or Atkins or booked a cruise to Antarctica. Or Siberia.
Libby shut her eyes. She could picture Bree Nottingham, real estate agent extraordinaire, breezing into her store the day she’d made her announcement. Even though it had been cold and gray, she’d been dressed in pink, the color of the moment according to Bernie: pink tweed Chanel suit, pink slingback heels, pink Chanel purse.
“You’re so lucky to have this opportunity,” Bree had trilled after she’d explained to Libby what she’d done. “I had to fight to get you on the show, but I said, ‘Hortense, we have to use some of our local talent. It’s only fair.'”
Lucky was not the word Libby would have used.
“Maybe I could come down with typhoid or bubonic plague.”
Bernie tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “It would probably be bad for business.”
“Worse than me on television?”
Bernie shook her head. “Get a grip.”
“But I’m not a competitive person.” Libby moaned.
“You are now,” her sister said.
“You sound like Dad.”
“I am like Dad.”
“I know.”
Libby reflected that her dad was extremely excited that she was going to be on the show. So was her boyfriend, Marvin, for that matter. In fact, that’s all her father or Marvin had been talking about for the last three days.
“The whole world will be watching,” Marvin had told Libby, a comment that had sent her straight to the freezer for some homemade coconut ice cream.
As Libby looked around the set again, she wondered who the hell had a television studio built onto the back of their house anyway? Hortense Calabash, doyenne of the cooking channel, queen of sauces, and resident of Longely, that’s who. Libby couldn’t even use the excuse that she and Bernie were too busy in the store this time of year to take the time out to do this.
“Hortense’s house is only fifteen minutes away,” Libby remembered Bree Nottingham telling her.
Like she was some kind of moron. Of course Libby knew how far away Hortense’s mansion was. They lived in the same town for heaven’s sake. Not that she ever saw her. They didn’t exactly move in the same social set, which was fine with Libby. But then everyone in the world knew where Hortense’s house was. Okay. They had known a couple of years ago. According to the latest polls, her popularity was being eclipsed by a show on cooking caveman style. But it was still pretty popular.
“We’ve been friends since camp,” Bree had chirped.
“Good for you,” Libby had wanted to say to Bree. That woman had been the bane of her existence since the fourth grade.
“I should kill her,” Libby observed. “I’d be doing the universe a favor.”
Bernie raised an eyebrow. A well-manicured one, Libby couldn’t help noticing. Maybe she should get hers done too. Before tonight. But the thought of having someone put hot wax on her eyebrows and then ripping the hair out made Libby shudder.
“Hortense?” Bernie asked as Libby was contemplating what the wax thing would feel like on other parts of her anatomy. “What would her legion of crazed fans do? How would they know what to cook or how to serve it?”
Libby frowned. “No,” she said. “I meant I want to kill Bree Nottingham for making us do this.”
“She didn’t make you,” Bernie pointed out in her most reasonable—albeit irritating—tone of voice.
“Not in the literal sense, no,” Libby conceded. But when the social arbiter of Longely tells you to jump, and you’re in the catering business, you ask what hoop she has in mind.
“Well then. There you go,” Bernie said. “Anyway,” she continued, “this will be good exposure for the store.”
“A Little Taste of Heaven doesn’t need any more exposure,” Libby replied. “We’ve got more customers than we can handle as it is.”
“Not if you hired on more staff,” Bernie pointed out.
“We don’t have the room.”
“We could expand,” Bernie replied.
“That would mean moving,” Libby said.
