Part 5: The Lay of the Land

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Quinn stirred, emerging from a deep, untroubled sleep. He glimpsed the morning's first light, confused about where he was. Being on the road so much, it was not an unfamiliar feeling. He squinted at the antique dresser and caught the faint scent of salt on the fresh morning breeze that stirred the curtains. The little bed and breakfast — right, I'm in Nova Scotia.

He was often up before the dawn, but his eyes were heavy and he was warm and comfortable. He resisted waking. Usually, his first instinct in the morning was to reach for his phone. Instead, he rolled over and chased the fading remnants of an enticing dream, sinking back into sleep until hours later.

After ten, he sat straight up suddenly and glanced at the ancient digital clock on the bedside table, shocked at the time. He never slept this late. Must be the fresh air, he thought, stretching. Good for what ails you.

His phone was blowing up with texts and email notifications. He scrolled through dozens of messages. Screw it, he thought, and threw the phone back on the bed. That shit can wait.

He walked to the windows, and pulled the curtains open, taking in the endless expanse of ocean. It was a brilliant day in the picturesque town, all big sea and sky. The colours were so bright he squinted, raising a hand to his eyes. He'd been around the world more times than he could count and saw lots of little towns by the sea. He could tell this one was special.

He showered and threw on a pair of jeans and a tight-fitting but light-as-air grey cashmere sweater. This last restaurant in the contest was blessed. The owners lived in a place where seafood was fresh and plentiful, and there were farmlands and lush vineyards as far as the eye could see. He couldn't wait to check it out further.

After Evelyn stuffed him full of buttery eggs, homemade scones with tangy rhubarb preserves, and smoked maple bacon and mushroom and herb quiche, he bounded into the sunshine to explore. People nodded and waved; at first he thought it was because they recognized him. He realized everyone waved to everyone else in Port Ross, stranger or not.

His first major discovery was an honest-to-God fishmonger down by the wharf. Quinn was pleased to see the variety of seafood just pulled from the chilly waters of the North Atlantic, spread out in the sunshine on piles of ice. If the owners at Sea Breezes didn't take advantage of such bounty, they were fools.

He poked around the stores and signed autographs for the few who recognized him. After a while, he decided to scope out the failing restaurant they'd be profiling. As always, he wasn't sure about the reaction he'd get. People were always shocked when he showed up in person just before filming started. He understood why, most of the celebrity TV chefs had their staff scout the location beforehand.

His producer and cameraperson were en route, but he wanted to check the place out first, and develop a preliminary shot list for filming. He continued his walk through the downtown, which didn't take long — it was basically one long road along the harbour. Jewel-coloured fishing boats were lined up like soldiers, bobbing on the sparkling water. A couple of young guys in overalls and rubber boots recognized him. He chatted with them, getting an invite to go out fishing later in the day. His first job was helping out on his uncle's fishing boat when he was 16, so he was pleased to accept.

"Meet us here at three. We'll do beers after," a tall, bearded guy named Bruce yelled as they walked off.

"You got it," Quinn yelled after them. I like this town.

He paused when he saw the Sea Gulps coffee shop across the street. He decided to do a little guerilla research before visiting the restaurant.

He pushed the door open, jingling a quaint bell and walked up to the counter. "Please tell me you have espresso," he said.

"We sure do," said the pretty, dimpled barista. She gave him a dazzling smile. "Welcome to Port Ross, Mr. Allen. You're creating quite a buzz! I hope you like it here."

"Thanks. I'm definitely liking what I see." He kicked himself as soon as he realized he said it. He wasn't there to flirt with the locals.

She blushed, and twirled a piece of hair around her finger. She took him in, from head to foot. He cleared his throat.

"So, how 'bout it?" he said, after an uncomfortably long pause.

"How about what?" she asked, startled.

"The coffee? Large double-shot espresso please. No dairy."

"Oh! Right. Of course!" She laughed awkwardly. Quinn smiled and looked down. He was used to his fair share of female attention, but this one was on the younger side. Lesson learned there.

"Have a seat, I'll bring it over," she said, with an embarrassed shake of her head.

He walked over to a table of rambunctious older men who were setting the world to rights over their cups of tea. "Gentlemen — how are you doing today?"

"Good, 'n you?"

"Not bad, can't complain," Quinn said, feeling a familiarity in the exchange. He saw traces of Ireland and New England everywhere he went in Nova Scotia — in the landscape and the people. "Mind if I join you?"

"Suit yourself," said a man in a faded Blue Jays hat at the head of the table. "You're that shouty chef from the TV, aren't ya? You tell everyone what an asshole they are." The table roared with laughter.

Quinn shook his head. "Quinn Allen. I'm not the shouty guy."

"Well now, I beg to differ. I've seen your show and you're pretty shouty."

"No, Percy," said a bald guy at the end of the table. "Quinn's not the shouty chef. He goes into the bars and screams at people. He tells them they're assholes and then he renovates the bar. He's the bar guy!"

"I'm not the bar guy." Quinn accepted his coffee gratefully from the barista and savoured its first bitter sting. It was perfect, another reason to like the town.

"Are you the English guy who hates junk food? Nothing wrong with a bit of grease now and then. The Fish Wagon down the road, now that has the best fish and chips you'll ever have. That healthy crap'll kill you," a white-haired man said.

"Nope, I'm American. And I love a good feed of fish and chips — when it's prepared properly."

"Wait — do you renovate houses with your brother?"

"Jumpin' Jesus, Bill, that's a completely different network," Percy said, rolling his eyes.

Quinn rubbed his face with his hand. "I'm the guy with the contest," he said. "Canada's Worst Restaurant. Your town's my last stop this season. Each place gets a bit of money and my best advice to make some changes. The fans vote on their favourite, and the one who wins gets the grand prize — fifty thousand for a total reno."

"Oh," the table said in unison, nodding to each other. "The guy with the contest. Why didn't you say so?"

"So what do you guys know about Sea Breezes?" Quinn said, sipping his coffee.

The table erupted.

"Forget about it." "Can't be saved." "That place has gone straight to hell." "It's ruined." "It's a dive."

Interesting. Quinn leaned forward. "What's wrong with it?"

Percy scoffed. "What's right with it? Cal used to have a really good place there but he let it go downhill. His daughter and wife used to run things back in the day. Lucy — she's a smart one. Nice lookin' girl, too. We never waited around to get served when the women ran the show, did we? And the food was great." The coffee club nodded in agreement.

"Where's the daughter now?" Quinn asked.

"Oh, Miss Bossy Boots is back from away. Isn't that right, Scotty?" Percy yelled to a man across the room who was just about to leave. "Yup. Saw her yesterday," the man said, pausing at the door. "Big city gal now. Too big for her britches, if you ask me. Just about ran us off the road, rantin' and ravin.' The language! It's not fit. She used to be a nice gal. I'll see you boys later," he said, giving them a small nod and heading out the door.

Quinn smirked. This one sounds like a piece of work. "Aw, Lucy's alright," Percy said. "Used to babysit my kids. Sweet gal. She just never should have gone to Toronto," Percy said. All the gentlemen agreed.

"Wait — her father is out of town? Isn't he the owner?" Quinn said, trying to recall the briefing notes he received.

"Not anymore. Up and took off, him and Moira, Lucy's mom. Went to their time-share in Florida. Gave Lucy the keys to the restaurant and said 'see ya later.' Since when does anyone around here have a time-share? Anyway, off he went like a bat out of hell. Sick of the restaurant game, I guess." The men shared a look that Quinn couldn't quite interpret. There was more to the story, he could tell. Nothing good.

"So he was the one that entered the contest, and left it to the daughter to manage everything," Quinn said. Why?

"Yup. It's all on Lucy now. And she's got her cousin Vincent to deal with. When Cal made him head chef, that's where things really went downhill, if you ask me. Used to be a great place to get a decent lobster roll, or a club sandwich. I used to love their fish chowder," Percy said.

"Don't forget the homemade pie. Nowhere in town to get good lemon pie now," the white-haired man said. "Tracey's Bakery over on Elm does them OK, but they just don't get the meringue right." The men nodded in agreement.

Quinn was right to stop in. He always tried his best to advise each contestant and talking to the locals gave him the clearest idea of where they were going wrong and how to help. But he came in for answers, and now he was leaving with more questions.

He stood up. "You guys have been great. Come to the relaunch in a few weeks and you'll all get a free dinner. Bring your partners. We'll get that lobster roll back on the menu, I promise." A roar of approval erupted from the table.

"Hey, you going fishing with Brucie later?" Percy asked.

Quinn paused on his way out the door. "How'd you know that?"

"I saw his Snapchat story," Percy said. He turned to the others' shocked faces. "What? The wife uses it."

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