The Chicken Sisters(57)

“We can’t let anyone see the house,” she said. “Or know that’s an issue. It’s just—it would mess things up, right?”

Andy looked at her thoughtfully. “Most people around here know,” he said. “But, yeah, I can see why you wouldn’t want it on TV.” He laughed, and Mae glared at him again, then relaxed. He was right, after all. No harm in that.

“I don’t,” she said.

“She won’t let you . . .” Andy made some vague gestures with his hands that Mae took to mean cleaning up, and she laughed.

“Not hardly,” she said. “It’s like you said. She’s not much of a delegator.” It was a relief to trust him, even this much. “I think she needs to take it easier. You’re right. And maybe—there’s you, and if we win Food Wars, you could do so much, right? Like, this could be a real cult destination.” Andy nodded, and Mae was relieved to move the conversation on.

“You’re thinking we could win now? Really?”

“I am. Look, Mimi’s is special. You know it is. And you’re special.” Butter him up a little—plus, he really did have a feel for the simplicity of the kitchen. “You could really impress those chefs tonight with the way you want to get just these few things perfectly right. And then people would come. They’d take road trips for your chicken. Nobody’s going to take a road trip for a frozen mozzarella stick.”

Andy gazed at her thoughtfully, and Mae had a feeling her compliments hadn’t moved him much. She wondered if he saw this as his opportunity to move on to bigger and better things. Maybe not. Merinac, she was starting to see, wasn’t actually a bad place for someone with some history to start over.

“Maybe if you wanted to, Mom would let you play with some lunch service, or adding something special to the doughnuts Saturday morning.” There had to be some room in this for him. “And I was even thinking she could give pie-making classes. Or, well, Patrick would. And people would come. Especially with the Inn here, and the lakes—this kind of thing can really work now, you know?”

Andy seemed to be catching a little of her fire. “Like that pie place in Iowa,” he said. “Or the one the woman from that home makeover show started down south.”

He did get it. Mae nodded. “Exactly.”

Andy looked around, then sighed. “We just have to win first,” he said. “And I gotta tell you, I don’t know if we can do it. And this chicken’s not going to be as good—”

“The chicken will be fine,” said Mae. Oh God, he was just a temperamental chef at heart. “Seriously. Anybody can have to start with frozen chicken once in a while. Probably most places do. It’s not like we’re plating a bunch of fried chicken tenders we just warmed up, or defrosting stuff and calling it ours.” She grinned. “Not like some restaurants I know.”

Which was really the point. She’d felt it, a minute ago, when she said the words “frozen mozzarella stick.” A little shift in her mind, almost a click, and then Mae knew exactly what she could do to derail Amanda and set Mimi’s up to be America’s sweetheart chicken shack. And it probably wouldn’t take more than two words in Sabrina’s ear. After she cleaned herself up, of course. And after they finally finished all this chicken.





AMANDA





Frannie’s was packed. Utterly, totally packed. Word that tonight was the night the celebrity chefs would come had spread. Every seat was taken, the bar was full to standing, and in the little entry and waiting area people were packed in on the benches. There was even a couple standing squashed in behind the Lions Club candy machines. Outside, they’d set up more benches—Amanda and Gus had even loaded a wagon wheel and a wooden wheelbarrow planted with annuals into Mary Laura’s old truck and brought them over for atmosphere—and a big orange cooler of water with paper-cone cups for people waiting in the hot sun. Amanda fielded a few takeout orders, but most people wanted to come in, enjoy the air conditioning, and have their delicious meal served with a flourish on a classic divided-oval off-white diner plate.

They wanted to be a part of it.

Between the crowd and the cameras, the waitstaff should have been in a panic, but Amanda had to give full credit to Nancy. She never let them break a sweat. She was everywhere, telling them they were doing great, that a little spill or slosh wouldn’t matter, that everyone was having a fantastic time and to just keep it up. Except Amanda. Amanda she was ignoring.

The first chef to arrive at Frannie’s was Simon Rideaux, famed as much for his hard-drinking, straight-talking approach to food as for his series of bestselling cookbooks. He came in without Sabrina, who had said she would return later with the other chefs, and striding ahead of his Food Wars handlers. The crowd parted for him as best they could, and Amanda, who had been prepared and essentially pushed into place by one of Sabrina’s minions, showed him to his table.

“I never eat alone,” he declared. “You will sit down with me, then. Take a load off. Someone else can seat people for a while. You’ll be forgiven, I guarantee it.”

Amanda cast a frantic look around, but there was no one to rescue her. The producer behind the camera gestured for her to sit. Oh, this was not going to help with Nancy. She had not found the discovery of a dozen boxes of chicken originally meant for Mimi’s in her walk-in funny, and she had made it clear to Amanda through whispers and glares that she was disappointed in her. She didn’t know yet that Sabrina had filmed Amanda doing it, but she would soon enough. The wave of self-righteous glee that had led Amanda to invite Sabrina along to help rub Mae’s face in her failures had vanished, replaced by a miserable cocktail of regret, guilt, and remorse.