Free Last Bite: A Novel of Culinary Romance by Nancy Verde Barr

some seaweed for the lobsters,” he said.
    “Great idea. Did you remember the lobster tools?” I checked my notes to see what else was on my list. We’d spent so muchtime on the tarte Tatin that the lobster spot was getting short shrift.
    He rolled his eyes and smirked as he held up claw crackers and lobster forks.
    “It’s my job to ask.” I smirked back.
    “How about lobster bibs?” Sally asked. She never confused cooking with heart surgery and was always ready to ham it up a bit. Not that lobster bibs were so weird, but many of our guest chefs wouldn’t consider wearing a plastic bib with little cartoon lobsters running over it.
    “What a fabulous idea!” Jonathan was clearly into this lobster thing. “I’ll get some of those too. Do you think Jim will wear one? He’s so conservative.”
    “If Sally does, he will.” Mae was right. The show’s hosts were well aware that Sally was a beloved figure, and they were happy to follow her lead in hopes of glomming on to some of her star power.
    Sonya came back into the room just as Jonathan was leaving. She spent a little more time with the script before setting it aside. “I think this is just fine, Casey. What else can I do?”
    I looked around to see where we were. I was working on the last apple, Mae had all the dough rolled out, and Sally’s butter and sugar were now caramel. We were in safe territory. No more knives or heat. “I think we’re ready to assemble the tarts. Let’s line the pans up on Romeo.”
    We put seven pans in a row down the center of Romeo and I switched the Post-its from inside the pans to the surface next to them. We took our places, two on each side, and began our assembly.
    Sally had stopped chewing ice and was now munching apple wedges. Between chews, she said, not so subtly, “I met the nicest young man in Washington, last week. He’s a sous-chefat Citronelle and very jolly. I think you might like him, Casey.” She was so sweet that way. Before I met Richard, she was always suggesting men she thought would be good for me. During one of my particularly long dating dry spells, she mentioned that she had a friend who was a “bit crumpled and dusty” but a fine fellow. Would I be interested? I thought she meant that he was a poor dresser, but it turned out that he was a very old, weathered college professor who, fortunately, found a mate before I had to tell Sally she must be crazy. Since I had kept her up to date on the turmoils of my transition from break to breakup with Richard, I imagine she was dusting off a lot of old friends.
    “Didn’t I mention that I bought a gerbil? I’ve really grown very fond of him.”
    “You did. But I thought that just might be a passing fancy.”
    “Nothing passing about it. Gerbils can live for two or three years. That’s a lot longer than my past relationship. ‘It’s not love, but it ain’t bad,’” I sang.
    “Don’t know that one. Roy Rogers?” Sally isn’t much of a fan of country music—she’s more of a Gershwin devotee—but she likes to hear me sing.
    “Merle Haggard.”
    “Never heard of him. I think you should come to Washington and meet this chef.” She raised her eyebrows in a question, and I smiled at her.
    “We’ll see.” I said.
    She turned her attention to Mae. “What about you, Mae. Are you still seeing that cute boy, Timmy?”
    “Tommy. No. I ended it last week and I’m so over dating twenty-year-olds with overdeveloped sex drives and under-developed communication skills. I’m looking for an older, sensible man who doesn’t consider beer guzzling and giving hisfriends wedgies cultural events. But, it’s so not happening.” Mae was in a tough position. For all that she looked like she’s playing dress-up from her nana’s closet, she is very mature. Older guys just don’t give her a chance to prove it.
    “What’s ‘older’?” Sally asked.
    “At least in his thirties.”
    “Huh!” said our septuagenarian.
    “I guess everything is