The Complete Eagle Cove

Chapter 2 -9

“Jessica, you i***t!”

“What?”

Natalya looked pissed. A glance around the table showed her parents and aunt were suddenly very focused on their glasses of ceviche. It was fantastic and by far the best food she’d ever had from the Judge. There was a lightness to all of the elements so that it didn’t overwhelm the mild seafood, but rather complemented the bursts of tomato or the light zing of onion. It was bright without the usual ceviche problem of being too acidic.

“This is Greg’s food, and he was standing right behind you when you said that.”

Jessica hunched her shoulders as if he still was, even though she could see him back at the window.

“Greg can cook?”

“Oh my god,” Natalya rolled her eyes. “Please tell me I’m not related to you.”

“Since when can Greg cook?” She glanced surreptitiously to see him, but he didn’t look any different. He was picking up a tray and Jessica could see the Judge right there in the kitchen. “But the Judge is the one cooking. Greg is just waiting tables.”

“Odd,” her father was rubbing his chin as if checking to see whether or not he’d shaved well enough. “I seem to recall selling that big halibut to Greg Baxter, not John. I’m not losing my mind, am I?” He aimed the last at his presently ex-wife, or maybe now she was his fiancé. That was her dad, always stepping in with a bit of humor to save the day. If Mom ever tried divorcing him again, Jessica was going to stage an intervention. As a matter of fact she’d make sure that the Judge had her phone number so she could tromp on it hard if it ever came up again.

“No more than normal, dear man,” she patted his cheek affectionately. “We simply didn’t tell Jessica about the treat she was in for.”

“This is really Greg’s cooking?” Some i***t part of her brain was having a particularly hard time with the concept. Cooking took skill and patience to learn which she couldn’t reconcile with how firmly she had Greg Slater pegged as another Eagle Cove failure. She could feel Mrs. Winslow berating her for “preconceived notions have no place in a journalistic view.”

The ceviche was more than good. It was a fine-dining chef’s work; she’d interviewed any number of them over the years and knew that for certain.

She watched Greg move about the restaurant with a practiced ease. There had to be fifty people here and he didn’t appear to hurry even once. It seemed that she watched him for a long time before she thought to ask the next question of her parents.

“Since when did Greg Baxter commit to anything?” That hadn’t come out right. “I mean—”

“I,” Greg was standing right by her elbow, causing her to practically leap out of her chair. He expertly balanced five plates of gorgeous fish, “spent two years at the CIA, apprenticed for two years at The French Laundry, and five years working with some of the finest chefs in Seattle. And how is your life going?”

He served them with only the barest of courtesy. Jessica half wondered if she was going to end up with a plate of fish down her blouse just as Greg had received hash browns down the pants from her. But he resisted whatever urge he was feeling, and stalked back to the kitchen. She noted with some chagrin that they were the last ones served this course.

Jessica looked down at her plate. It was just a simple piece of fish. Except it wasn’t. The white halibut had a layer of herbs crisped on it. It flaked at the tiniest nudge with her fork and when she bit into it, her mouth was flooded with powerful flavors of chive, shallot, basil, and fresh parsley. The crisping of the herbs had added a bit of crunch and had muted the flavors just enough for the fish to shine through. The fish itself rested on a double swirl on the plate of strawberry and blueberry puree—as beautiful as art and so rich that every ingredient must have been fresh that morning.

A sip of Becky’s Evergreen Lager—which thankfully didn’t taste like pine trees—added a freshness that brought the fish completely to life. The roasted green beans were an attractive contrast.

“That’s incredible. What the hell is he doing in Eagle Cove?” And Jessica could see she’d put her foot in it again. Why couldn’t she stop doing that? She’d turned into an i***t with a dash of b***h thrown in and didn’t like that side of herself at all.

“Okay,” she tried again. “You all have lives here, I understand that. But the chef who can cook this could go anywhere. Anywhere.” The next bite just melted on her tongue and she knew full well that she’d never have been able to afford the restaurant that someone like Greg would cook in, not even in her heyday as a rapidly rising journalist.