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make her happy. Or maybe happier.

Chapter Four
    The day after Denham had appeared in the kitchen Lizzy found herself checking the dining room for his presence. And the day after that. She kept expecting him to materialize in the back of the room, arms folded, watching the breakfast service with narrowed eyes.
    When he didn’t show, she felt oddly disappointed. Which she told herself was absolutely ridiculous. She so didn’t want to get caught up in any battle between Denham and Clarice, even if she did have a sneaky suspicion that Denham was in the right on this one.
    Clarice was even less present in the kitchen than before, which surprised Lizzy. Just because Denham hadn’t appeared in the dining room again didn’t mean he wasn’t keeping an eye on his chef. If she’d been Clarice, she’d have been watching her step—and watching Denham. Of course, she was already watching Denham.
    This whole thing was none of her business . She figured she owed Clarice the same kind of loyalty she’d show to any head chef she worked for. But she wasn’t going much beyond that.
    Those lingering scruples about loyalty to the chef disappeared completely the next morning. Fortunately, she’d decided to get to the kitchen a little early. At four thirty she walked into a dark, empty room. No clanks and thumps. No baking smells. No Clarice.
    For a wild moment, Lizzy considered calling her. Maybe she’d overslept or something. But she had no idea what Clarice’s phone number was. Clearly, she was on her own, at least for the time being.
    She took a deep, shuddering breath and turned the oven on to preheat. She managed to bake some muffins, using the batter Clarice had left in the walk-in, but not as many as Clarice usually made. She also managed to get the usual amount of bacon, scrambled eggs and potatoes going, along with a couple of urns of coffee. She figured she needed the caffeine as much as the guests did.
    There was no way she could run the omelet station along with making sure everything else was ready for the buffet line. As the clock inched closer to six, her stomach tightened in panic.
    Surely Clarice would show up. Surely she wouldn’t leave Lizzy alone in the kitchen to feed the thundering hordes.
    At six, she put a tray of muffins out on the counter and made sure the hotel pans of eggs, bacon and potatoes were all set up on the steam table. The coffee urns were full. So was the juice dispenser. The trays of fruit and the bowls of ice with the containers of yogurt were ready. Even the oatmeal urn was warmed up.
    And Clarice still hadn’t put in an appearance.
    Lizzy took a deep breath and walked toward the dining room door. This would either be her finest hour or the end of her career at the Praeger House.
    The three hours that followed were too busy for her to suffer as much as she should have. She kept the hotel pans going, refilling everything she could as quickly as possible. When Desi appeared at eight, she put him on duty refilling the juice, oatmeal and coffee dispensers since she figured lack of coffee was the one thing that could turn a disgruntled breakfast crowd into a lynch mob. Most of the customers were unfazed by the fact that the omelet station was closed, but she had to tell two or three very unhappy hikers that they’d have to fill up on scrambled eggs.
    And still no Clarice.
    At nine, Clark Denham stepped into the dining room and focused on the empty omelet station, then on Lizzy, currently putting another hotel pan of bacon into place on the steam table. She thought about saying something but decided it could wait until after breakfast. Everything could wait until after breakfast, at which time she planned to have a nervous breakdown in the kitchen.
    Apparently, Denham didn’t see it that way. He pushed through the kitchen door as she was loading several bowls of melon segments onto a tray to be carried into the dining room.
    â€œWhere is