Month of Sundays (23 page)

“If I did, I’d be lying.”

Veronica raised her glass. “Then let’s hear it for the final two.”

Why do I feel like I’m about to make a deal with the devil?

Griffin toasted their unlikely alliance. “To the final two.”

*

“You got off to a slow start, Veronica,” Stewart said, “but you’ve certainly made up for it. Congratulations.”

“Thank you, chef. I’ve always said it’s not how you start.” She tossed a withering glance in Griffin’s direction. “It’s how you finish.”

While Elinor rattled off the details of the two-week, all-expense paid trip to France Veronica had just earned by claiming her third straight victory, Griffin dropped her head and wondered what had gone wrong.

She had started off like a house on fire, winning the first Pressure Cooker challenge and coming in second to James in the elimination challenge. Since then, she had fallen to the middle of the pack, in no danger of being voted off, but no threat to the top contenders. Veronica had flown past her to stand next to James as the co-favorite to win the competition. Three elimination challenges remained; the third would determine the finalists—the two chefs who would compete for the grand prize. If she didn’t get her act together, she, like Trevor, Damian, and Jorge, would watch the final episode instead of competing in it.

I need to right the ship in a hurry. But what am I doing in this position in the first place?

She sighed as she peered out the tinted windows of the courtesy van that ferried her, Veronica, Sal, James, and Brady across town. Filming the show was like being in a sensory deprivation chamber. She kept time by the number of challenges she had participated in and the number that remained. Six down and six to go, not including the final. With no real point of reference, she barely knew what day it was, let alone what week.

Was Erica in her second week of filling in for her or her third? How was she holding up under the pressure? What was Rachel doing? Had she been to Texas yet or was she still recovering from both her literal and figurative trips to California?

“You’re thinking too much,” Veronica said as they piled out of the van. “I can smell your brain frying from here. What’s on your mind?”

How much should she share with Veronica? Everything? Nothing? They were friends before they were lovers, but they hadn’t been either for a very long time.

“Too many things I can’t control.”

“Can I help?”

“Yeah. Stop being so good at what you do.”

“Sorry. Can’t help you there,” Veronica said with a rakish grin. “No one said it would be easy, Sutton, but I know you’ll figure it out.”

“That sounded a lot like a compliment. Careful. Someone might hear you.”

Griffin couldn’t reconcile the villain role Veronica played when the cameras were rolling with the mentoring role she played when they weren’t. Which one was the real deal?

Upstairs, she sat at the small writing desk. Veronica unbuttoned her chef’s coat and began to undress despite the presence of the camera crew. Unlike her exhibitionist roommate, Griffin hadn’t learned to ignore the omnipresent cameras. She was always aware of being watched.

“Relax,” the floor director urged her during their one-on-one meetings after each challenge. How was she supposed to do that with a video camera in her face every second of every day and no one to vent to who wouldn’t try to use her perceived weakness to their advantage?

She pulled out her chef’s notebook, the journal she used to jot down ideas for recipes or meal presentations. She began to sketch an idea she had for a very special meal. Perhaps the most important meal of her life. The one she planned to serve the first day she got her life back.

“The boys and I are going to climb in the hot tub.” Veronica peered over Griffin’s shoulder. “Do you want to join us or are you going to spend the next hour doodling in your sketch pad?” Veronica took offense when Griffin covered the drawing with her hand. “What’s the matter? You still don’t trust me?”

When they were in culinary school, Veronica had violated chef law by claiming their collaborative dish as her own. Did she have the balls to steal an idea outright?

“I’m not the same person I was when we were in our twenties, Griffin. Besides, I thought we agreed to let bygones be bygones.”

“We did.” With a pang of guilt, Griffin uncovered the drawing.

“Then put on your swimsuit and protect me from Brady.”

“Brady’s a teddy bear.”

Veronica rested her hands on her narrow hips. “The teddy bear gets a boner every time he comes near me. Don’t make me deal with Little Brady by myself.”

“All right. All right.” Griffin reluctantly closed her notebook and pushed her chair away from the desk. “I didn’t bring a swimsuit so you’ll have to lend me one of yours.”

“Not a prob.”

Veronica tossed her a skimpy string bikini. Griffin held the swimsuit against her body. “Two pieces of floss would provide more coverage than this.”

“I hope you’ve been working out. The camera adds ten pounds, you know.” Veronica flopped on her bed and folded her hands behind her head. “Now hurry up before Sal drinks all the beer.”

Griffin went to the bathroom to change clothes. When she came back, Veronica was right where she had left her. So was her notebook. Maybe she really had changed. Or not. Veronica’s hungry eyes ravished her body.

“Screw the party out there.” Veronica crawled off the bed and pinned her against the wall. “Let’s start one in here.”

She pressed her mouth to Griffin’s in a kiss so fierce it was almost primal. Her insistent tongue tried to pry open Griffin’s tightly-clamped lips.

Griffin used to be titillated by Veronica’s brash personality and competitive nature. Now both turned her off. She longed for what she didn’t have: Rachel. She hadn’t expected to miss her so much. Every night she went to sleep with visions of their dream vacation to Newport Beach dancing in her head. And every morning she woke to the nightmare that was Veronica. She preferred the dream.

As the cameraman zoomed in for a close-up, she put her palms in the center of Veronica’s chest and pushed her away. Veronica landed on the bed with a melodramatic flop. Griffin rolled her eyes at Veronica’s blatant theatrics. “You said you needed a chaperone while you were in the hot tub. Are we going to do this or not?”

Veronica shook her head in disapproval. “Domestic bliss has made you boring.”

“You’re breaking my heart.” Griffin dragged her off the bed. “Come on. Let’s go.”

*

Today’s challenge was the biggest yet. The winner would receive a trip for two to Tuscany, fifty thousand dollars, and a guaranteed spot in the finals. Even if she didn’t win the trip or the money—neither of which was anything to sneeze at—Griffin had a chance to make her mark. To go out on a high. Today’s challenge was tailor-made for her. She, Veronica, and James would be serving dim sum for a hundred people. Their dishes would be judged based on technique, creativity, presentation, and, most importantly, authenticity.

She and her fellow chefs had been up until midnight prepping their dishes. In two hours, she would begin serving. Her inspiration was the meal she had shared with Mr. Li and his wife Peng in December—and the conversation she’d had with him at his store the following day.

“
Dim sum is about being together
,” he had said
.
“
That makes tea more important than the food. Tea, unlike a meal, cannot be rushed.
”

When service began, she would fill the diners’ steamer baskets with a variety of dishes, but tea would be the centerpiece of the meal.

After today’s winner was decided, the show would take a short break before the finalists went head-to-head. Griffin needed the respite. She was mentally and physically exhausted. But she could see the light at the end of the tunnel. Win or lose, she was going home tomorrow. She was going to see Rachel. If she went home with a trip to Italy and a guaranteed spot in the final in her pocket, that would make up for all the time she and Rachel had lost while she was away.

Almost.

She rubbed her palms together as the van and the accompanying support vehicles barreled toward Chinatown.

One more day.

The van parked in front of the restaurant that would host today’s challenge. Griffin climbed out and supervised the off-loading of her dishes.

In the kitchen, Veronica checked the levels on her canister of liquid nitrogen. She was a devotee of molecular gastronomy, the cutting-edge technique that combined cooking with science. Practitioners experimented with everything from cooking temperatures to presentation as they sought to create dining experiences that were one of a kind.

In previous challenges, Veronica and her bottle of cryogenic fluid had wowed the judges by putting ultramodern twists on traditional favorites.

“What are you planning on nuking today?” Griffin asked.

“Dim sum’s always served with tea, but tea’s so boring. I’m going to jazz it up a bit and make some green tea ice cream.”

“I give you points for creativity, but I don’t think the diners will find your approach very authentic.”

“Who cares what the diners think? I’m trying to impress the judges.”

“This isn’t a popularity contest. The diners should come first, not last, don’t you think?”

“The diners aren’t going to hand me a big fat check when this competition’s over. The judges are.”

“Amen, sister,” James said.

Veronica’s and James’s reactions to her statement made Griffin question her strategy. She watched Veronica pull out the thick work gloves and sturdy safety glasses she needed to handle the liquid nitrogen. On the other side of the room, James was braising cabbage to stuff inside pot stickers. Should she ditch her approach in favor of something flashy and attention grabbing?

No. At the end of the day, what matters isn’t how the food looks or how it’s prepared. What matters is how it tastes. My food tastes good. I don’t need a big fat check to prove it.

Veronica primed the canister.

“Good luck,” Griffin said.

James sharpened his knives. “You’re the one who’s going to need luck. I take that back. To beat me, you’re going to need a miracle.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ll start praying now.”

His trash talking smacked of desperation. And defeat. Veronica had won four out of the last six elimination challenges. Was James conceding today’s challenge to her, too?

Not if I have anything to say about it.

She had broken Veronica’s win streak two rounds prior when her Latin-influenced shrimp cocktail had bested Veronica’s tuna ceviche. She had followed that up the next round with the best braised short ribs she had ever served. Could she make it three wins in a row?

She had been initially reluctant to audition for the show, but she was glad she did. Competing against the best of the best was like placing her skills against a whetstone. Each felt sharper as a result. She thought the experience had turned her into a better chef. If she could get through today, maybe she’d get a chance to show it. To prove to Veronica and the rest of her critics that she wasn’t, as they claimed, a no-talent hack graced with good looks and an even better PR manager.

She laid out the steam baskets and filled each with shrimp dumplings, steamed buns, rice noodle rolls, and thousand-layer cake. She completed each presentation with a Phoenix talon, the labor-intensive fried chicken foot that was a Chinese delicacy.

Saving the tea for last, she put water on to boil. Pu-erh tea leaves underwent years of fermentation, producing a strong, earthy taste that didn’t require much brewing. She lined up a series of small ceramic teapots and placed some of the tea leaves in the bottom of each pot. She poured the hot water on the leaves and signaled for the wait staff to take the pots to the tables. Then she checked on her dishes.

She would have preferred going last instead of first so her food was on the forefront of the judges’ minds, not a distant memory. Instead, Veronica would have the honor. Like she needed another advantage. Griffin quashed the negative thoughts.

I’ve beaten her before and I can beat her again.

Sweat rolled off her face as the timer continued its inevitable march to zero, but she told herself not to rush. She didn’t want to make a silly mistake that would undermine all the hard work she had put in. She finished plating with precious seconds left on the clock.

“Yes!” She tossed a dish towel on the counter like a football player spiking the ball in the end zone after a touchdown.

Veronica wandered over to her station. “May I?” She picked up a shrimp dumpling and took a bite. Her forehead creased as she considered the dish. “Nice job, chef,” she said at last. Before Griffin could completely take in the compliment, Veronica asked a question she didn’t know how to answer. “But is it good enough to beat me?”

“We’ll see.” Griffin grabbed the judges’ baskets and followed the servers into the dining area.

After James and Veronica sweated out their final preparations, the three faced the judges’ panel.

“Griffin, your dish left me wanting,” Elinor said.