by Lisa Hughey
Prior to making the soup the other day, just looking at a knife caused him to start shaking.
He rooted around in the silverware drawer and way in the back behind the caddy that held the cutlery he found a small paring knife. The blade was dull. He’d have better luck using a spoon than trying to cut a thing with this knife. He found a stone in the small yard that he thought would work as a whetstone for sharpening the knife. He drew the blade along the stone, the long slow strokes soothing him.
After sharpening the knife, he began to peel the apples. He sliced apples until he had a good pile. He needed a mix of the two for what he’d planned.
He set up his mise en place, lining up the ingredients along the counter like little soldiers. Digging through the pantry, he found cinnamon, cardamom, and nutmeg.
He didn’t have any baking tins, so he grabbed the cast iron skillet he’d been using to fry his eggs in the morning.
An hour later, his cabin was filled with the aroma of fall. Warm spices and baking apples filled the air as the first dish he’d created in over a year baked in the oven. Colt cleaned up the kitchen, absently applying the sanitation tasks and cleanup protocol. The actions rote like riding a bicycle—he didn’t even have to think about them.
He’d cooked—and nothing bad had happened. He hadn’t even thought about searching the pantry for a bottle. He’d taken pleasure in the repetitive movement of using the knife and creating uniform slices for the filling.
He’d used his hands to knead the mixture for the topping.
He pulled the bubbling treat from the oven. The crust was a deep golden brown. His mouth watered at the nutty aroma of the buckwheat and the oats. And all he could think was that he wanted to share it with her.
He reached for his cell to call her. And realized he had no idea what her phone number was. But he did know where she “lived.”
Once the dessert was cool enough, he wrapped the skillet in a cotton dish towel with pumpkins and leaves on it. Without stopping to consider the wisdom of showing up unannounced, he hopped in his truck and sped toward the Three Bears Motor Lodge.
When he arrived, he hesitated. Maybe this was too stalkerish.
She’d tell him to leave if she didn’t want some cobbler. Or he could offer to drop it off and go.
He didn’t want to equate a refusal of the food with a refusal of him, but the thought lingered in his brain. If she didn’t want the cobbler, it didn’t mean that she didn’t want him. And he would get over it if she didn’t want him.
Before he could talk himself out of it, Colt headed for her motel cabin. He knocked on the door cautiously.
The parking lot was full of plumbing trucks.
The door swung wide and he was presented with her back as she called over her shoulder. “I’m almost done. I’ll be out of your hair as soon as I can.”
There was a panicky note to her voice. But Colt was struck by the pile of clothes on the bed and the open suitcase. “You’re leaving?”
His heart crumpled.
She didn’t owe him anything so he wasn’t sure why her potential absence stabbed his at his tender feelings. He didn’t think she was ready to commit to marriage or anything but a heads-up that she was bugging out would have been nice.
She whirled around. “Colt!”
Instead of the reaction he expected, for her to be annoyed that he had shown up unannounced, she rushed over to him and threw her arms around him. He grunted and held on to the cast iron pan, barely.
“What’s wrong?”
But relief cascaded through him. She wasn’t leaving him.
Tracy
Tracy wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. Just for a minute.
She was ridiculously pleased to see him. She was embarrassed to admit that in the past when she had an issue with her living space, she called a manager or an assistant to deal with the problem with as little inconvenience to her as possible. Once the call was made, someone else took care of the problem.
None of this was Mrs. Beasley’s fault. But for a few frustrated minutes she felt trapped.
She only had a few hundred dollars left and the hotel rooms in Burlington were much more expensive than Colebury. She wondered again how regular people navigated life.
She had been doing just fine, being careful with her remaining money, but there was no room in her miniscule budget for this unexpected expense.
The truth was she could go home at any time.
Bernie, her father, even the press couldn’t stop her.
But somewhere along the way, surviving without her family had become a point of pride. And she had developed an appreciation and understanding for why her father’s opponent had criticized Fairy Tale Beginnings. She really had not understood how out of reach that registration fee was for so many people.
Colt awkwardly circled her shoulders and squeezed. She had been thrilled to see him. Just for a moment someone else to commiserate and share her burdens and worries.
“What’s wrong?”
“There’s a plumbing problem and Mrs. Beasley doesn’t have any available rooms.” It was a little weird, but Mrs. Beasley had been very intent when she’d explained that Tracy needed to leave.
She’d also dropped the bomb that some reporters had checked in to the other rooms.
Mrs. Beasley made it a point to tell Tracy that they were overflow for an event in Burlington. She’d put her wrinkled hand on Tracy’s forearm and spoken quietly. As if she knew that reporters would be bad for her. But she hadn’t ever given any indication that she knew who Tracy was.
Reporters!
They weren’t here for her. But it would definitely be better if she weren’t around.
“So where are you going?” His voice rumbled through his chest beneath her ear.
“I haven’t figured that out.” She glanced at her little leather backpack. Thinking about her remaining cash. “It’s going to be more…challenging to get to work if I’m staying in Burlington.” She squared her shoulders. “But I can make it work. Hopefully it’s just for a day or so.”
“Stay with me,” he blurted out.
She jerked back. “What?”
He cleared his throat. “You’re welcome to stay with me.”
But…they barely knew each other. One night of spectacular sex and sharing childhood memories barely made a dent in the volumes of things they didn’t know about each other.
“You would…do that for me?”
“You won’t be too far from the Speakeasy and you can save money if you don’t need to pay for your room,” Colt continued. “Or if it makes you feel better, you can pay me a rental fee. But I don’t want or need your money.”
Tracy mulled over the idea.
It seemed an imprudent choice. Share a small cabin with her crush. After all, she would be leaving soon, and he would hate her family dynamic and the press’s interest in her family and life if he ever discovered it.
However, she would definitely be off the grid. No way reporters could track her to his tiny cabin.
The truth was…she liked him.
She liked him a lot. He’d survived a crushing blow and he was working toward peace. She respected him and his efforts to get better. To be better.
“I shouldn’t.” She headed for her suitcase. She had to finish packing because the repair people needed to get in her room. And she needed to get out of here.
“You should.” He shoved a skillet at her. “I made an apple cobbler with our pickings.”
She smiled, her heart expanding. “You cooked! That’s great.”
“I made this for you.”
“I can’t—”
“It’s gluten-free.”
She paused while folding a Speakeasy T-shirt and peered at the treat. So much to unpack in this moment. She inhaled deeply. It smelled heavenly. Like sugar and cinnamon and spice and all the things that seemed like they would go with a cozy family home.
So very different from the mansion she’d grown up in.
> He was offering her a chance to experience that feeling of a home. Of that emotional intimacy that she’d believed out of her reach.
“You cooked,” she said again softly.
“I couldn’t get the recipe out of my mind. So I gave in and made it.”
“How is it?”
“I have no idea.” For a moment, he appeared uncertain. “I was hoping you would tell me.”
Her heart melted. “Okay.”
“Okay, you’ll eat my cobbler?” Colt’s brown eyes sparkled.
“Wow, that sounds slightly dirty,” Tracy teased. “Yes. I can’t wait to eat…your cobbler.”
He straight-up laughed as he handed her a fork.
“Right out of the pan?”
“No plates. Improvise when necessary.” Colt shrugged.
Tracy gingerly dipped the fork into the edge of the crust. She didn’t eat a lot of baked goods. Gluten-free was more accessible these days but she’d just gotten out of the habit. The crust crumbled slightly, flaky and buttery. She scooped a bite into her mouth.
The flavors burst on her tongue: tart, sweet, earthy. The crust had a slightly nutty flavor. “What is that nutty taste?”
“It’s the buckwheat.” He held the skillet in both hands like an offering to the gods, his body vibrating with pent-up energy as he waited for her judgement.
“It’s…amazing.” She licked her lips and dug the fork in again. Oh goodness. It had been way too long since she’d had apple cobbler. She’d forgotten how much she liked it.
“What’s the verdict?”
“I love it.”
The tension in his body eased at her compliment. “For the past year, I felt like a limb had been amputated. Off balance and uncoordinated. But today it was like it was re-growing while I worked in the kitchen.”
“That’s wonderful!” She squeezed his biceps, her brain flipping back to when he’d carried her from the laundry room to her cabin.
Her cabin that was unusable and about to be under construction.
The only good news was that the apparent water leak, the reason she needed to leave, hadn’t invaded her cabin yet. Her laptop and printer were undamaged. Thank goodness. Because there was no way she could afford a new one right now.
He had a look of anticipation on his face. As if the commentary on his food was not the only answer he was waiting for.
She’d already told him about his food. He had also offered her a place to stay. “You’re sure?” She really couldn’t afford to stay at a more expensive place.
Once again she wondered how people did it. How did they survive when catastrophe struck?
People were friendly here. No question they were more friendly than people in the city. But staying with him still seemed like an awful big imposition.
“It’s only for a day or two, right?” Colt waved away her unspoken concerns. “It’s no big deal.”
“Yes. Only for a day or two.”
And that was how the political heiress turned gastropub waitress in hiding ended up living with a cranky, famous chef.
12
Colt
Cee-Cee followed him home with her rental car.
“You know you could save some money by turning in the car,” Colt suggested as he lugged her Louis Vuitton suitcase toward the cabin. He couldn’t miss the fact that money was an issue.
“I’m not paying for the car. My friends rented it for me.”
If she had friends willing to shell out money for a rental car, why wasn’t she staying with them? But he kept the question to himself.
She answered as if he had spoken. “I…needed to get away for a few days.”
Except she’d been in Colebury for over a week. And she didn’t seem like she was in any hurry to leave.
They entered the small sitting area of the cabin. The compact design and layout created little mini separate areas making the place seem bigger than it was. She soon made herself at home, with a sheaf of papers on the coffee table and her bag near the day bed, unzipped with clothing spilling out the sides. She dropped a giant leather makeup bag on the tiny vanity in the small bathroom, reminiscent of his sister’s plethora of cosmetics.
Colt looked around the cabin with bemusement. She’d been here less than an hour and bits of her presence were everywhere.
Even the queen-sized day bed with the wrought-iron frame hadn’t escaped the whirlwind that was Cee-Cee. She’d dropped a floppy white beach hat over one finial.
Her spending habits seemed to be all over the place. That bag probably cost over a thousand dollars, but she was staying at the cheapest place around. Sometimes she seemed to forget that she needed to watch her pennies.
It was as if she didn’t think about money until she had to pay for something. And then she carefully counted it out. That was unusual. Her clothes were high-end. Her attitude was high-maintenance. But there was an unexpected sweetness to her that was so genuine.
“Are you hungry?”
He waited for her answer, mentally reviewing what was in his refrigerator and thinking and discarding ideas for dinner.
“I could eat.” Her stomach growled. “Or we could just gorge on dessert,” she teased.
“We need sustenance.”
He wanted to cook for her. Wanted to treat her. To make her the most amazing food she’d ever had.
With the exception of a few slices of wheat bread and some turkey, he had no food in the house. Then he realized it was Thursday. “Want to go to the farmer’s market?”
“Uh, sure.”
“I want to get some ideas for Chuck and Lottie’s anniversary party. I like the idea of using locally sourced ingredients. They have spent their whole adult life here. We want to honor them and where they live.”
A smile spread over her face. “That’s wonderful.”
They drove to the farmer’s market in Colebury in his truck.
Being around her was…fun. He hadn’t realized how much of his life lately wasn’t fun. Ever since his meltdown, things had been somewhat grim. But within a few days she had managed to lighten up everything.
They drove to the town square and parked along the boulevard, walking through a park to get to a row of tents.
He hadn’t felt this kind of creative urge in…years. Toward the end of his career, he’d been so focused on winning awards that his joy of cooking had gotten lost in a sea of competition. He focused on creating dishes that were over the top using exotic ingredients relying on unusual foods rather than solid cooking.
But suddenly ideas were flitting through his brain at warp speed. Just seeing the spread of produce and other food laid out before them, his brain was whirring. Flavor combinations popped into his mind and he wanted to grab up everything and rush back to his cabin to start cooking.
Instead, Colt forced himself to slow down and take in all the different foods available. They wandered through the market, winding through the tables and tents.
Colt had a method for discovery. First go through the rows and check out all the vendors and their wares. Then do a targeted run through the second time, stopping at all the booths and vendors whose products he wanted to buy.
He chatted with each vendor, asking questions about their methods and their products, storing away the information for later.
There were beekeepers. The Lyon Honey table, draped with the banner displaying their logo of a lion’s head on a bee’s body, was manned by a cute older couple who offered samples and recommended different specialties.
A cheesemaker’s table was laden with pyramids of goat cheese, an extra sharp cheddar, and a soft brie. A forager had a table with various mushroom samplings. Colt grabbed some shitakes and chanterelles.
“I’ll have to ask if Chuck eats mushrooms. I have a recipe for green beans, Dijon mustard, shitake mushrooms and black pepper, but I could adjust it.”
There were several meat vendors and he contemplated picking up some pasture-raised chicken breasts and thighs for tonight’s dinner or maybe he would do p
ork loin with a spice rub and an apple and dried apricot compote.
He bypassed the special spice rub offerings because he preferred to blend his own, but he made note of the meat vendors who ground their own sausages.
They skipped the tent with the freshly baked bread and another with jugs of Shipley cider. He checked to see if Audrey or her husband, Griff, were here but the booth was staffed by some younger guys.
As they wandered, he picked up some honey, goat cheese, spinach, carefully selecting products as he went. His fridge was small so he didn’t have a lot of space.
The band set up in the corner was belting out tunes from the sixties.
He grabbed Cee-Cee’s hand and threaded their fingers together. They stepped in unison.
She glanced at him with a sweet smile. He was beginning to recognize her different moods. Sometimes her smile was all about projecting happy without the emotion behind it. Sometimes it was about projecting laughter and a shared amusement. Sometimes it was about a bland default face that didn’t have any umph behind it.
But this one was his favorite. This smile said she was happy. She’d forgotten about image, about being perfect. She was just happy. But he had no idea why. “What are you smiling about?”
“It’s good to see you so excited.” Cee-Cee’s face lit up with incandescence. “I can’t wait to taste your creations.”
“I can’t wait to cook for you.” The past year had been about healing but now he thought maybe he was ready for this next phase. Because he hadn’t been this interested in living for a while. Suddenly life was a banquet again, and after a year of starving, he was ravenous.
Tracy
Tracy’s heart was full.
The trip to the farmer’s market was a revelation. Watching Colt’s tactile response to the various foods was like a master class in food appreciation. He sampled the wares with a methodical precision using all his senses.