experimenting, and for the first time in months finding a sense of peace.
In fact, the more creative she got with the traditional Summer Showdown menu, the more her creative block seemed to crumble. Which was why, when she looked up from her Pacific sea bass sashimi with papaya and avocado mousse to find three innocent, smiling grannies, a cat trying to pass for a sunflower, and a worn leather book that predated even Pricilla, Lexi got a bad feeling in her gut.
Forcing an innocuous smile, Lexi threw a towel over the dish and said, “What are you guys doing here?”
They didn’t answer.
Lexi watched the inquisitive eyes studying her hidden appetizers, the cat sniffing wildly, and she stepped forward, placing her body between the welcoming committee and the entry to the kitchen.
“What’s that?” Pricilla asked, smoothing down her halo of gray after ducking under Lexi’s outstretched arms, which were now braced on either side of the kitchen counter, to pull off the towel.
“Oh, that? Nothing. Just dinner.” Lexi dropped her arms when ChiChi and Lucinda, who was carrying Mr. Puffins, skirted around the other side of the counter. All three grannies and the cat huddled around and stared suspiciously down at the dish, as if they were expecting it to walk off the plate.
Mr. Puffins looked hopeful.
Pricilla, proud.
The other two—completely at a loss.
“I think it’s fish,” ChiChi said to the others as though Lexi wasn’t standing two feet away.
Lucinda, needing a closer look, set Mr. Puffins on the counter. She extended one bony finger—everything about the woman was sharp edged—and poked the fish, frowning when it jiggled. “How long did you cook it?”
“It’s, um, sashimi.” When all three ladies pursed their lips in confusion, Lexi added, “Raw fish.”
The grannies shared a silent look of concern while the cat gingerly sniffed the air, his eyelids going heavy and his whiskers working overtime. At least someone appreciated good fish.
“It isn’t perfected yet. I’m still tinkering with the balance of the papaya—”
“We have reservations,” Lucinda pronounced, grabbing Mr. Puffins before he could take his first lick of the mousse.
“But you haven’t even tried it!” Lexi said, feeling her entire body deflate.
“At Stan’s,” ChiChi cut in, smacking Lucinda on the hip with the back of her hand. “For dinner. We have reservations at Stan’s for dinner.”
“I didn’t know Stan took reservations.” Nor did she know why she was calling them on the lie. Two minutes ago she would have given her left ovary to get them, and that recipe book, out of her kitchen. But it hurt that they were dismissing her plate on design alone. “Isn’t it more of a serve-yourself kind of place?”
ChiChi draped a regal hand down her form to highlight her cream pantsuit as though her St. John ensemble was solid proof that they had reservations for a bowl of soup at the service station.
“I’d ask you to join us, dear,” Pricilla said, gently rubbing Lexi’s shoulder. It was a sign that she knew Lexi was upset. “But you have your date with Vince.”
Lexi looked down at her striped pajama bottoms, at the well-used kitchen, at the fresh ingredients still waiting to be transformed, and groaned. She had totally forgotten about her dinner plans with Mr. Friday Night Lights, who was old enough to have played in the actual football game that inspired the book.
“I got so busy cooking I lost track of time. I’ll just call him and reschedule.” She pulled out her phone, hoping the ladies would take the hint and give her privacy—or better yet, leave. And take with them the traditional Showdown recipe book, which had been created by Lucinda’s and ChiChi’s mothers and had served as the culinary bible for every Showdown since.
“Nonsense, child, we’re just dropping by. Wanted to bring you this.” ChiChi opened the book to the first page and slid it closer to Lexi.
Lexi studied it for a long moment, not touching it. One look at the diagram of how to poach cod in milk was enough to cause her head to pound. It started as a slight pulsing behind her right eye, but by the time she got to the instructions for roasted squash and fig mash, a sharp pain crept down to the base of her skull.
“The tasting is set for Wednesday at seven at the Back Barrel,” Pricilla said, clapping her hands. “Bring one appetizer and one entrée with a side dish.”
“Of course, for the Showdown you’ll need to make each of the different courses for guests to choose from,