Honey and Smoke by Deborah Smith
He stirred a pan of cole slaw with renewed vigor and looked relieved.
Out in the dining room Max just looked. He looked her over from head to toe as she carried a big mug of coffee to him. She spotted Frank and waved at him. He waved back. Max looked at Frank. Max then looked at her with one brow arched in dismay.
The combination of his presence plus the fatigue of opening-day jitters and Frank’s arrival made her feel giddy. As she set the coffee in front of Max, she bent and whispered, “He’s after my sauce.”
Max’s slit-eyed attention glided to Frank Werner again, then back to her. “I hope you mean that in a culinary way.”
“He’s vice president in charge of new products at Goody Foods’ corporate headquarters in Atlanta. He’s been after me for years to sell my recipe. About every six months he calls or sends a note. Now he can track me down in public.”
“I could fix it so that he never wants to come back to Webster Springs again.”
“How?”
Max smiled mysteriously. “Oh, he might get some speeding tickets. Or his car could be impounded for violating some obscure code.” He sighed. “But, of course, I’m just the local magistrate. I have no control over how my old fishing buddy, the sheriff, treats a suspicious out-of-towner.”
She wanted to kiss him. “Maximilian, many people have told me what a scrupulously fair judge you are. But thank you for offering to be crooked for my benefit.”
“Oh, so you’ve been asking around about me again, have you?”
“Drink your coffee,” she said immediately. “And be sure to burn your tongue.” A minute later she brought him a plate filled with chicken, slaw, pickles, and a bowl of Brunswick stew, plus a basket of biscuits. “This is on the house, you lovely troublemaker. Prepare for ecstasy.”
He shot her a somewhat rebuking look. “I keep waiting. Someday. Soon. If you come to your senses.”
“I’m off to chat with the Goody man.”
“I reserve my next comment on the grounds that you’d probably hit me for it.”
Laughing, she went over and sat with Frank. He petted her ego, praised the restaurant decor, and exclaimed over his lunch, while she nodded politely and tried to keep from turning around to see how Max was faring with his lunch. She needed Max’s praise. She felt like a schoolgirl waiting for her first kiss.
Frank finished by pulling a sheaf of papers from his coat pocket. He presented them to her and watched hopefully as she scanned the figures. “What do you think?”
“This is better than ever, Frank. I could be rich.”
“Just say the word, Betty.”
She put the papers down. “But if I do things my own way, I could be richer.”
His happy expression fell. “I guess I’ll check back with you in another six months.”
“Anytime, Frank. You’re always welcome to a free meal at my restaurant.”
“Give me a hint, Betty. Just tell me one of the ingredients in your sauce that makes it unique.”
“Honey from love-starved bees.”
“Really?”
“No.”
He groaned.
She reached across the checkered tablecloth and patted his arm. “Sorry.” Speaking of love starved … She glanced toward Max.
His table and his plate were empty.
“Excuse me, Frank,” she said quickly, and went to the cashier’s stand. “Did Max Templeton leave?”
“Hmmm. A minute ago.”
“Did he say anything?”
“No. He looked kind of puzzled. Like he was thinking about a problem and couldn’t quite figure it out.”
“He didn’t say whether or not his food was good?”
“No, but he took all of his chicken with him. He had it wrapped up in a napkin. Ugh. It was messy too. Hey, he left you a five-dollar tip! And this.”
She handed Betty a napkin that had been folded several times. “For Betty. Confidential” was written on the outside. She opened it so fast that she almost tore the paper. And when she read the note, with its coy little mushroom drawing underneath, her knees went weak.
She had won the skirmishes, but with this weapon he might very well win the war.
Max swiped his hand across the top of another cardboard box, then twisted away as a cloud of fine dust rose in the air. It floated in the harsh light of a bare bulb that hung from the attic’s rafters. Max noticed that night had fallen outside a tiny octagonal window. Surprised, he glanced at his watch and discovered that he’d been in the attic for almost six hours.
Boxes that had once been stacked neatly against a wall now circled him, crammed haphazardly on the cloth-draped furniture that was stored in the attic. With their flaps open the boxes made Max think of ugly, square flowers in full bloom.
Flowers that hadn’t yet produced the seed he wanted.
Scowling, he faced forward on the rump-sprung old couch and tore yellowed sealing tape from the box between his feet. This box looked as if it hadn’t been opened for decades. He pulled the flaps up and looked inside.
“Eureka!”
The box was full of books, and the one on top had a torn gray dust jacket with “Best-Loved Recipes” stamped in faded black ink. Max thumbed through the book quickly, studying notes scrawled in pencil, carefully unfolding recipes cut from newspapers and stored within the pages of the book.
The handwriting was his grandfather’s, he suspected. Grandmother Templeton had died long before Max was born; besides, his grandfather had loved to cook, and Max recalled that his expertise in the kitchen—especially with barbecue sauce—had been the subject of much respectful teasing in the family.
The box was full of cookbooks. Max eagerly went through them page by page. He found several recipes for barbecue sauce, but all were simple and ordinary. None mentioned mushrooms.
He was so engrossed that the sound of a car cresting the ridge failed to register. Finally he realized that he had a visitor. Frowning, he dusted off his jeans and sweatshirt and hurried down the flight of narrow stairs behind the kitchen.
Betty was waiting for him on the front porch, her chin up, her eyes cold. She still wore the tennis shoes, blue jumper, and white top that he’d admired at the restaurant that afternoon. She hadn’t come directly from work, though, because sprawled at the end of a rhinestone-dotted leash was Faux Paw.
“Why, it’s Sheena of the Jungle,” Max said dryly.
His teasing words failed to break the tension.
Betty gave him a withering stare. “I told you that I’d never let myself be alone with you again. I meant it. Faux Paw may not be much help, but trust me, she’s a big distraction.”
“You obviously got my note.”
“Yes. And I came here—just as you knew I would—to tell you that you’ll never figure out my sauce recipe, no matter how devious you are. So stop hinting that you know my secret ingredient. You don’t.”
He stepped aside and waved dramatically toward the living room. “My humble house is yours, fair lady. Please bring your suspicious mind and extremely ugly cat inside.”
“Up, kitty.”
Faux Paw twitched her tufted ears and rose to her three feet. A spider scurried across the doorsill. With a flick of one declawed front foot she scooped the spider to her mouth and ate it.
Max eyed her askance. “That was my dinner.”
Betty never cracked a smile. She led Faux Paw inside and went to the couch. When she sat down, the cat leaned against her legs and scrubbed its head back and forth on her knees, its face contorted in one of the maniacal expressions which only cats can produce.
Betty had a very soft spot in her heart for this eccentric animal, Max decided. But then, he’d seen from the beginning that Betty treated the world and its inhabitants, both animal and human, with kindness. If she didn’t extend that kindness to him, it was his own fault.
He rubbed his forehead wearily and settled in an armchair. “Lunch was very enlightening,” he told her. “I haven’t tasted barbecue that good since m
“What a load of barbecued bull.”
“You and my grandfather would have gotten along beautifully. He grew mushrooms in his cellar. Why don’t you grow your mushrooms in your cellar instead of in a cave?”
“I like caves,” she said emphatically, through gritted teeth. “I like mushrooms. I don’t like you very much at the moment.”
“What do you do with the mushrooms? They’re not In the barbecue sauce—or if they are, they’re chopped so fine that they can’t be recognized.”
“I’m not going to dignify this interrogation with answers.”
“Hmmm. An interesting defense tactic. ‘I refuse to answer on the grounds that it might incriminate me.’ ”
“I never thought that you’d stoop to scare tactics. What do you want to do—harrass me until I’m so addled that I fall into your arms?”
“Not a bad plan. But seriously, babe, I’m just trying to understand why your barbecue sauce brings back my childhood memories.”
She raised a finger in warning. “If you’re trying to say that your grandfather’s recipe is the same as mine, you’re mistaken.”
“How can you be sure? Webster Springs is a small town, and fifty years ago it was even smaller. Our grandfathers were probably good friends.”
“Not good enough to share the Quint-family barbecue recipe.”
“Let’s go see Norma. She would have been almost twenty back then. She might remember something.”
“All right.”
They stood. Max looked down at her somberly, seeing the anger in her eyes, but also the fear. It stabbed him with regret. “I’m not trying to hurt you, babe. But, frankly, I want to be with you, and if this is the only way I can get your attention. I’ll take it.”
Her eyes flickered with shock. Before she looked away, he was certain he saw confusion and tenderness in them. “Let’s go visit Norma,” she murmured, carefully keeping her gaze on Faux Paw.
Max Wanted to take her in his arms and promise that he meant no harm to her or her silly secret about the barbecue sauce. Frustrated, he tapped a clenched hand against his leg and cleared his throat roughly. “Norma has two parakeets. The mutant cat won’t try to turn them into appetizers, will she?”
Betty almost smiled. “Not unless they make spider sounds.”
“What kind of sounds do spiders make?”
“Oh, no way, buddy. You’ll have to earn the honor of hearing my incredible spider imitation. And at the rate you’re going, you can forget it.”
“You’re a fascinating woman. Full of secrets. I intend to learn all of them.”
“You’re a fascinating man. Full of—”
“Save the compliments. Come along, Betty Belle.” He gestured toward the front door.
“Maybe it wasn’t going to be a compliment,” she said with a fiendish smile.
Max was pleased with the smile, regardless of its origin. He laughed. “I suspected as much.”
In her apartment above the wedding parlor Norma rocked in front of her fireplace with a section of quilt-piecing on her broad lap and a wary eye on Faux Paw, who lay below the parakeets’ cage, whiskers twitching.
Betty hugged a loosely knitted wool shawl around her shoulders and sat on the edge of an upholstered chair. Again her gaze went to Max, who stood hip-shot by the fireplace, one arm stretched along the mantel, the other hand hooked over the waistband of his jeans.
He and Betty were respectfully waiting for Norma to answer their question. She was thinking. Betty met Max’s eyes, and he shook his head slightly. She surmised that Norma didn’t like to be interrupted when she was contemplating the past.
Betty glanced at a photograph on the mantel of a handsome young man wearing the marine dress uniform. Norma’s son. Max’s best friend. The bond of family between Max and Norma couldn’t have been more obvious. He rested one big, lethal-looking hand on the back of Norma’s chair with a gentleness that made Betty look away, fighting tears.
He had upset her earlier today and might do so again before she left for home tonight. But she still wanted him. More than ever she sensed the rock-solid decency and compassion beneath his brashness.
“They had a falling out,” Norma announced firmly. She stopped rocking and looked hard into Betty’s eyes. “Your granddaddy and Max’s. Yes, I do remember it. They were friends, but they quarreled over something. I know it because Ol’ Mr. Quint used to let folks drive over the dirt road that ran across his property. It was a shortcut from the highway to town.”
Betty was bewildered. “What road?”
“I remember it,” Max interjected. “It was still there when I was a kid. But the forest was starting to take over. It’s gone now.” He looked at Norma curiously. “What did the road have to do with our grandfathers?”
“Or Mr. Quint closed it off. Blocked it with logs. Everybody got mad at him and didn’t understand why he’d done it. All he’d say was that it was Mr. Templeton’s fault. Mr. Quint never reopened the road, so I guess him and Mr. Templeton never settled their feud.”
Betty and Max traded speculative looks. Max sat down on a footstool by Norma’s chair and searched her solemn brown face intently. “Did you ever hear anyone talk about my grandpa’s barbecue sauce?”
“My mama talked about it. She swore she was going to get the recipe out of him. She ran a little roadside stand every summer, and your granddaddy would barter quart jars of barbecue sauce for her vegetables.”
“Did he ever give any hint about the ingredients?”
“Not that mama ever said. He guarded that recipe like nobody’s business.”
Max sighed and scrubbed a hand over his hair. “Well, I guess that’s where the mystery dead-ends. If he was so worried about somebody stealing his recipe, he probably never wrote it down.”
Betty breathed a sigh of relief and decided to be gracious in victory. “Then it certainly wasn’t the same recipe that made my grandfather famous.”
Norma gave her a puzzled stare. “Your granddaddy wasn’t famous for making barbecue sauce. Not that I know of, anyway. Max’s granddaddy always entered his sauce in the county fair—and he always won first place with it. Don’t you think your granddaddy would have entered his recipe if he’d had one?”
Betty wrapped her shawl tighter around her and awkwardly considered explanations. “Well, he must have been modest.”
Max made a low growl of amusement. “Or a nervous thief.”
Betty’s chin snapped up. “Don’t you dare—”
“Oh, don’t get ruffled. I didn’t mean it as a terrible insult. Swiping trade secrets is the American way, Betty Belle.” He gave her a sardonic smile. “There’s no law against copying a barbecue recipe. Or calling it your own. Or passing it along to your children and grandchildren. So that one of them can sell it. And make a lot of money. Hmmm?”
“Max, you’re making accusations that aren’t true and couldn’t even be proved if they were. My family recipe is no rip-off.” She thumped her knee and shoved one foot forward, accidentally poking Faux Paw in the ribs. Faux Paw bounced up, startled, and knocked against the stand of the parakeets’ cage.
The parakeets screeched. Norma yelped. The stand swayed. Max leapt up and grabbed it before it could fall. Betty vaulted from her chair, reaching for Faux Paw, who ducked her and collided with Max’s legs. Max struggled to keep his balance and shoved the twenty-pound cat aside with his foot.
Seeing Faux’s ears flatten viciously, Betty gasped. She sank her hands into the fur and loose skin of Faux Paw’s neck just as the cat reared up and sank its defanged but still menacing teeth into Max’s rump.
Faux Paw hung there, growling.
Max went very still. He couldn’t maneuver in the cramped space between the bird-cage stand, the footstool, and the fireplace. He nobly kept his rescue hold on the stand. Betty, horrified, jerked Faux Paw’s collar, then grabbed
“Faux won’t hurt you!” she assured Max desperately. “Just be still! She doesn’t like men. I think she’s having a flashback to her first owner.”
A muscle flexed in his jaw. Between gritted teeth he said slowly, “Please unhinge the future fur coat from my backside.”
Betty finally pried Faux’s jaw open and dragged the still-growling cat to a corner of the room, then knelt and wound an arm around Faux’s neck.
She stared at Max’s rump. A section of his jeans bore several tiny holes from Faux’s teeth.
“Are you hurt?”
He didn’t look pleased. He let go of the bird stand, smoothed a hand over his hip, and scowled. “How much sympathy is this worth?”
“I’ll sew up the punctures in your jeans and buy you a bottle of rubbing alcohol.”
“Will you do the rubbing?”
“No.”
Norma, who had been watching in stunned silence, began to laugh in loud, gulping hoots. Betty stood shakily, wrapping a hand around Faux Paw’s collar. “I think I’d better take Faux home. Good night, Norma. Thank you for the information.”
Guffawing loudly, Norma could only manage to raise a hand in farewell while the other beat the arm of her rocking chair.
Max followed Betty downstairs and outside. They walked up the driveway to her van in silence. He didn’t exactly limp, but he favored his bitten side. She chewed her lower lip both from tension and to keep from smiling. Faux Paw stalked along belligerently, straining at her leash.
When they reached the van, Betty put her in the front seat and hurriedly shut the door behind her. “I’m sorry. Max. Really.”
Turning toward him in the light from his porch, she tried to read his face. He looked at her with what seemed to be a combination of exasperation, amusement, and anger.
He raised a hand and cupped her chin. “You realize, of course, that this means war.”
Her breath short, the hot, callused grip of his palm imprinting itself in her senses, she stepped back. “So what else is new? I’ve been under siege for weeks.”