Free Leaves by Michael Baron Page A

sometime?”
    â€œI think I’d like that.”
    â€œWhat are you doing Tuesday night?”
    â€œI might be available,” she said with an expression that indicated that she knew she was.
    â€œI’ll give you a call.”
    â€œSounds good.” Again she held his eyes. He loved the way she looked at him when she was paying attention to him. “Hey, I’m really glad you dropped in. And thanks again for the hand. Don’t forget your gummies on the way out.”
    Tyler walked over and picked up a bag. “Got ‘em. Maybe you can bring me the other bag on Tuesday.”
    â€œI’ll do that.”
    The customer walked to the counter and pulled Patrice away from him. Tyler waved and walked outside.
    It really was a gorgeous day.

**^^^**

    It was just after noon and Deborah had been at the inn for a little more than a half-hour. She didn’t need to be here this early today. The stock was already prepared for the Chicken Miso Soup that was tonight’s appetizer. She wouldn’t pat the spice rub for the seared tuna onto the fish until an hour before she cooked it. And the pears poached in caramel and Marsala would be cooked while diners ate the rest of the meal. Still, she didn’t have anything going on at home, so she was just as happy to be here.
    She wanted to give some thought to the October thirtieth menu. It would be the final formal meal she served at the inn and she wanted it to be a memorable one. As silly as it sounded, she thought better about food when she was in this kitchen than anywhere else. Maybe it was the ready access to the hundreds of cookbooks she‘d collected and stored here (she was going to have to figure out where she was going to put these in her apartment). Maybe it was that she could smell an ingredient or heft a piece of equipment for inspiration. Or maybe it was just sheer force of habit. This was where she’d always thought about her menus.
    It was never difficult for Deborah to put a menu together. When a dozen German dignitaries talked her mother into an impromptu opening of the dining room for lunch once, Deborah improvised effortlessly. When a shipment of Dungeness Crabs failed to arrive one night, she shifted direction without missing a beat. However, this upcoming menu was giving her fits. All she’d decided so far was that she would serve six courses rather than four and that she would give the diners a little something to have with their breakfast the next morning. It was her way of saying, “To be continued.” Beyond that, she had no idea what to present. Maybe she should throw darts at a list of ingredients and just put a meal together out of that.
    While Gina toasted walnuts in vanilla sugar for tonight’s salad, Deborah sat at the table in the kitchen with a pad and created columns for the six courses: salad or soup, appetizer, fish course, first meat course, second meat course, dessert. Maybe just looking at the columns on a piece of paper would get her started in the right direction. She wrote various ingredients into the columns with the same thing in mind.
    While she was writing, Paul popped his head through the kitchen door to tell her she had a phone call. It was unusual for anyone to call her here on a Sunday. Most of the calls she got were from suppliers, and none of them would be around today.
    â€œDeborah, hi, it’s Sage Mixon from the gourmet shop.”
    â€œOh, hi,” she said brightly. “The marmalade was great, by the way.”
    â€œI had a feeling you’d like it. Listen, if you aren’t too busy over there, I’m having a tasting this afternoon for a new line of dessert toppings. I thought you might be interested in stopping by. There’ll be ice cream and my homemade pound cake. It’s from two to three thirty.”
    â€œSounds great. You hit me on a good day. I’m usually knee-deep by three o’clock, but the menu is easy