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CHAPTER 1
Mid-November…
Sunny’s Sunny Side Up Blog
One of the true joys of my culinary journey around the south is the discovery of the unexpected gem. Whether it’s a gas station serving spectacular homemade donuts or a cafeteria which has elevated chicken and dumplings to a culinary masterpiece, it’s always a delight.
This is perhaps why I had such high hopes for Midnight Manor. Several readers had written to me praising the charming atmosphere and the delectable food. And perhaps that is why I was so disappointed by the experience.
The first glance was promising—a Craftsman style bungalow which has been tastefully converted into a restaurant. The original rooms, woodwork intact, have been turned into an assortment of intimate dining rooms, the tables topped with crisp white linens and sparkling crystal. A charming blue-haired hostess greeted me warmly—not always true whendining alone—and escorted me to a table next to a big fireplace with a roaring fire.
Unfortunately, that is when the illusion began to fade. As I waited, and waited, for a server, I had time to notice signs that all was not as it seemed. The flowers in the center of the table were dead and drooping, smoke kept drifting from the fireplace into my face, and the napkin was stained with what appeared to be lipstick.
A harried server finally whizzed by to deposit a menu and a basket of stale bread. As I perused the elegantly handwritten menu of the day, I foolishly allowed myself to hope again. Midnight Manor serves a limited menu with only two selections for each course—a sensible option for a small restaurant—and they all sounded delicious. Unfortunately, when the server finally returned, clearly on the verge of tears, most of the already restricted menu was unavailable. I hoped that meant the remaining items would shine. They did not.
The amuse bouche was a limp slice of cucumber topped by too warm caviar. The consommé had an odd muddy consistency and taste. The quality of the steak was clear, but it was egregiously overcooked, and the accompanying vegetables were also limp and unappetizing. At that point I gave up.
When I asked for the bill, the owner appeared, demanding to know what was wrong. However, when I tried to express my concerns, he snarled—quite literally—tore up my bill and told me to leave. The South’s legendary reputation for good manners is not in evidence at Midnight Manor.
And so, dear readers, I am returning to the road to search for a true hidden gem.
Damian snarled againas he read the review, his fangs descending. It wasn’t the first time he’d read it, or even the tenth, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. Some anonymous soul had been “kind” enough to go to the trouble of printing out the online review and mailing it to him and he’d been obsessing over it ever since.
Midnight Manor was his vision, his creation, and the review hurt more than a silver knife to his guts. The worst part was he was afraid that Sunny—what a ridiculous name—was not entirely wrong. Odd destructive events had been happening at random intervals over the past few months and they seemed to be escalating. He’d had to replace all of the flowers in the restaurant again last night, even though they’d been freshly delivered the day before.
And as for the food…
Jack was a well-trained, creative chef. How could so much be going so wrong with his dishes?
The bell over the door chimed, interrupting his worried thoughts.
“Go away. We’re not open,” he snapped, then winced.
He sounded every bit as rude as the reviewer claimed. Looking up, an apology on his lips, he barely suppressed a groan. Flora, one of the town elders, was standing in front of him giving him a withering look from piercing dark eyes. Those eyes and her pale green skin indicated her orc blood, but a fairy in her family tree meant that she was barely five feet tall. Her diminutive size, combined with the pink velour tracksuit she was wearing, made her look almost innocent, but he knew better.
“To what do I owe this honor?” he asked, sweeping a bow and taking refuge in the elaborate manners he’d been taught.
“You fucked up,” she said bluntly, waving a piece of paper that had an unfortunately familiar look. The anonymous letter writer had been busy. “The town doesn’t need this type of bad press.”
“I hardly think one malicious review by one obscure blogger is a cause for concern.”
“Not as obscure as you seem to think. And she’s not the only one who’s noticed that you’ve been having problems.”
“Which are my concern.”
“Not as long as your restaurant is here in town. You know what a struggle we’ve had reviving the town’s economy.”
Unfortunately, he did know. Fairhaven Falls had long been a peaceful haven for the Others, creatures of myth and legend, but to such an extent that the human population had begun to diminish, along with any interest from the human world. Over the past year, the town had been running holiday festivals that had drawn in an increasing number of tourists, with very positive results to the town’s economy.
“But it’s still?—”
“We don’t need any negative publicity,” she said firmly. “So fix it.”
“And how do you propose I do that?”
“Solve your problems. Invite her back. For once your somewhat questionable charm might come in useful.”
“I don’t even know who she is,” he snapped.
