A heat spread across his chest. It was pleasant. Like a peach tart on a summer day.
“I decided to do the charity competition.” He tossed the sticky towel into a pile of other soiled linen. “With you, I mean. We’ll have to talk about that later. I’ve got to get moving.”
She gave him a tiny salute. “Back to the judges’ table for me.”
He kept his eyes on the dessert plates.
He would not watch her walk away.
The contest called for six servings of each dish. He cut the tart into eight pieces. If he messed any of them up, he would have a backup.
After mixing whipped cream into the sabayon, he plated the pieces of tart, garnished each one with a healthy scoop of the champagne sauce, and then topped each with a fresh raspberry and a mint leaf.
He finished his plates just as the buzzer sounded.
“Chefs, be prepared for the judging.” Uncle Seb’s voice came through the speaker mounted over Zach’s cooking station. He arranged his six plates so that the tip of each piece of tart pointed the same direction. He wiped his hands on the sides of his apron and stepped back.
Not too shabby.
Suddenly, his mom made her way through the crowd. “Zach, this looks beautiful.” His mom looked poised and beautiful, as always, her auburn hair swept into a neat style despite the breezy day.
“Mom. Hi.” His stomach plummeted. First a heart-to-heart with his dad and now something similar with his mom. He hadn’t talked to either of them much over the years. Even recently at Dani’s wedding, he’d been too busy cooking to really talk to anyone. And now, he’d been so busy with the festival he hadn’t had time to check in with her. This was all too much too fast.
“I remember you cooking for us when you were a kid, but I never imagined you could do”—she waved her hand at his makeshift kitchen—“all this. It’s amazing. You’ve really done well for yourself.”
A smile tickled at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t need his mother’s approval, had lived for many, many years without it. But man, was it nice to hear her compliments. “Thanks, Mom.”
“I know your dad already told you how proud we are of you. We had coffee together earlier, and we’ll be watching you. We’re rooting for you today.”
Zach shifted his shoulders. Were they really getting along? His siblings had said so, but he’d had a hard time believing them. There was so much metaphorical water under the bridge for both of them that it was difficult to imagine them patching up their relationship.
The judges were wrapping up at local chef Alicia Baird’s table. “I can’t talk to you about Dad right now. It’s almost my turn.”
“Of course.” His mom smiled. “We’ll talk later.” She disappeared into the crowd just as the judges and Uncle Seb made it to him.
“Zach, please describe your dish.” Uncle Seb held out a wireless microphone to him.
“Judges, I give you a peach tart with a cinnamon reduction, topped with a fresh sabayon.”
The pleased murmurs as they tasted his dish almost wiped out the memory of the shocked looks when tasting his appetizer.
Almost.
The next moments passed in a blur. Moving with the crowd, Zach made his way to the stage. He stood between Alicia and Patrick. All three of them bore war wounds from the day. Smudges of flour, cream, and other unidentifiable ingredients stained their aprons.
Alicia turned a bright smile to him. “Good luck, Zach.”
“Thanks, you too.” His insides churned. Was the one-two punch of his entrée and his tart good enough to overshadow his disaster of an appetizer?
Onstage, Uncle Seb recited the rules again. “Okay, I have the list of the winners.” He held a white envelope in the air.
Zach searched the judges’ faces for a sign of what the envelope contained. Paul’s face was set in its usual stern lines. Anne smiled at each of the contestants. His gaze snagged on Ava. She wouldn’t meet his eye. A rock settled in his stomach. That couldn’t be good.
“In third place, and winner of a set of stainless-steel cookware—” Uncle Seb pulled a slip of paper from the envelope. “Val Anderson from Lion and Dragon.” The crowd’s cheers turned to a hum as blood rushed to Zach’s head.
Okay. Not third, then.
Uncle Seb pulled the next slip out with a flourish. “In second place, and winner of this roll of knives.” He gestured behind him. “I know nothing about knives, but they assure me these are the good ones.” The crowd laughed. Uncle Seb cleared his throat. “In second place, Zach Sullivan!”
