Recipe for Redemption

Jason Corwin’s hand stilled over the hotel registration form as he sniffed the air. “Do you smell smoke?”

A middle-aged woman with short-cropped gray hair passed through the reception area of the Flutterby Inn, Butterfly Harbor’s main hotel, a stack of freshly laundered towels in her arms. The lack of concern on her face might have made Jason wonder if he were imagining things, but as a former professional chef, he was more than familiar with this particular smell.

“I have you down for three weeks, Mr. Corwin,” Lori, the plump young woman who had introduced herself minutes ago, said. She leaned her hands on the whitewashed batten-board counter, lively green eyes devoid of concern as the air thickened. “Is that correct?”

“Yes.” He scribbled his name, his eyes beginning to water as a thread of white smoke snaked out from under the double doors to his left. “I’m sorry, but shouldn’t someone check—”

The deafening screech of a smoke alarm rent the air. Hints of gray puffed through the plumes of white smoke.

“It’s nothing!” Lori waved her hand before turning to focus on the old-fashioned mailbox portals behind her. “That’s just Abby in the kitchen. It’ll clear in a few
minutes.”

The lobby became hazy. Jason’s pulse kicked into overdrive as he wrenched open the sliding doors and got a face full. Coughing, eyes tearing, he hurried through the dining room, dodging the mishmash of tables and chairs. He tried to inhale but there wasn’t any fresh air to be found, nothing to calm his nerves or stop the dread pounding through his body. Did it have to be the kitchen?

He’d kept his vow and hadn’t stepped foot in a professional kitchen in over three months, but given the choice between burning to death in a hotel fire and breaking a promise to himself, he’d take choice number two.

He pushed open the swinging door and stepped into the kitchen, waving his hands in front of him to disperse the smoke. A stockpot of what he hoped was water boiled over and splashed into the too-high flame beneath it, causing bright orange flickers of fire to arch toward the ceiling.

“Come on, you stupid, plastic piece of crap!” A woman stood on the stainless steel worktable and banged the end of a broom against the smoke detector. “It’s not like this is our first go-around.” Bang. Bang, bang. “Stop. Making.”

She grunted and he could see her arms start to weaken. “So. Much. Noise! Ah!”

The kitchen went silent and she sagged forward, bracing a hand on her knee as she heaved out a sigh. “Got ya. Oh, sugar pots.” 

Before Jason could move, before he could utter a word, she jumped down and grabbed a thick orange towel, dragged out two trays of cremated somethings and tossed them onto the counter with a squealing “Ow!” The bang of metal hitting metal echoed in the room and in his head. She shook her left hand as if she’d burned herself—how could she not—before reaching for the pot. The orange towel slipped dangerously toward the flames.

“Stop!” Jason yelled and dived forward.

She shrieked and leaped aside as the towel skimmed the still-flaming burners and ignited. “Who are you?” She flipped the towel onto the yellowed linoleum floor and did
a little dance over it to stomp out the flames. “What are you doing in here?”

“Right now I’m wondering where the fire department is.”

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