by Grace Palmer
Stella waved a hand, dismissing her apology. “It’s fine. I just wanted to convey that sometimes running from our past isn’t the answer we think it will be. I needed a fresh start and a new town and new friends. Maybe that’s what you need, too…or maybe not. If this town has taught me anything, it’s that you have to be open to the lessons life tries to teach you. Otherwise, you’ll end up making the same mistakes over and over again.”
Liza didn’t know if she believed in destiny or even that life had lessons to teach you. In her experience, things happened, and you could learn from them, but there wasn’t necessarily a larger purpose. Unlike the romance book the book club was reading, life didn’t make narrative sense. Characters disappeared without closure and people who would one day be married met without any flare of sparks or love at first sight. There wasn’t always a rhyme or reason to things, and Liza didn’t feel comfortable leaving herself to be caught in the current of life when, instead, she could command her own future.
Still, she thanked Stella for her well-intentioned words, and the two of them were discussing the upcoming holiday season in Willow Beach—the decorations and upcoming parades and festivals—when footsteps on the sand made them both turn around.
A man in a button-down shirt, jeans, and a flannel coat over top was walking towards them. A smile spread across his face when his eyes met Stella’s. This must be Sam, Liza thought.
Their connection was obvious. It took a full thirty seconds before Sam pulled his gaze away from Stella to introduce himself to Liza.
“You’re the woman staying in Mrs. Albertson’s house, right?” Before Liza could answer, he continued. “She has me driving her car around every couple days, but it would make a lot more sense if you took over the job, as well. Or do you already have a car?”
“He’s pleased to make your acquaintance,” Stella laughed, nudging Sam in the side.
He smiled sheepishly, his dimples showing. “Sorry. Rude of me. Nice to meet you.”
“You, too.” Liza smiled. “Actually, I don’t have a car, so if you don’t think Mrs. Albertson would mind, that would be great.”
Sam shook his head. “The way Mrs. Albertson talked about her trip, I don’t think she’s sparing a single thought for her house or her car back home.”
“She’s in France, right?” Stella asked. “I’d love to go to France. Painting the countryside there would be a dream.”
A gleam lit up Sam’s eyes and he wrapped an arm around Stella and pulled her close. “For our honeymoon.”
Stella rolled her eyes and grinned. “According to you, our honeymoon is going to be an entire world tour. It would be easier to keep track of where you don’t want to go.”
“I’ll take you wherever you want to go,” he whispered.
Liza felt uncomfortable being part of such an intimate moment—especially one that had shades of what Ben said to her in those first days and weeks, so many years ago. She stepped away, ready to bid them both farewell.
“It was nice to meet you, Sam, and wonderful to talk to you again, Stella. I will see you—”
“Oh, don’t go,” Stella said. “Have you eaten yet? Sam is actually here to pick me up and take me to Georgia’s for dinner. I know she’d want you to join us just as much as I do.”
Liza was about to mention that she’d just eaten lunch, but that wasn’t true. Her conversation with Stella had lasted longer than she thought, and the sun was beginning to set. It was time to think about her next meal, and she still wasn’t ready to go into town and risk seeing Ben. However, she also didn’t want to go to the inn and chance seeing him there, either.
As though reading her thoughts, Stella said, “Georgia doesn’t make dinner for the guests. They all have to fend for themselves. We usually eat in the kitchen, where no one bothers us.”
With that, Liza couldn’t think of a single reason to say no.
She wouldn’t take Stella’s advice where it concerned Benjamin Boyd, but Liza figured there was no harm in going with the flow in a few areas of her life.
“Sure, why not.”
Stella laughed and began packing up her painting supplies. “That’s the spirit.”
Despite Stella’s assurance that Liza wouldn’t see any of the guests at the inn, Liza still spent the first half hour in Georgia’s kitchen turning her head at every noise, certain Ben would reappear at any second. When he didn’t, she finally relaxed enough to begin to enjoy herself.
“If there isn’t enough for me, I had a big lunch,” Liza said. “I ate an entire personal pizza.”
“Nonsense. I’ve been cooking for a family of five for almost thirty years, and I have to feed an entire inn full of guests breakfast every day. My ability to gauge serving sizes is shot.” Georgia laughed. “Stella could have invited half the town, and we’d still have enough.”
“What are we having, anyway?” Stella asked. “I stopped listening after you mentioned there would be wine.”
“I’m not entirely sure, to be honest.” Georgia peeked into the pot on the stove and wrinkled her nose. “It’s a new recipe, but I think I’ve already ruined it. Is it possible to overcook rice?”
Liza walked over to the stove and assessed the situation.
“Well, Chef?”
“I’m not a chef,” Liza said. “Not anymore, anyway. But I’d be happy to help with whatever you need.”
Georgia jumped back immediately as though she was letting go of a hot potato. “I’d like all the help you’re willing to give. Take it away.”
Again, Liza was worried about overstepping or being an inconvenience, but it became immediately clear that Georgia was happy to hand over the reins in her own kitchen. Within ten minutes, she was sitting on a stool next to Stella, both of them watching Liza cook.
The rice Georgia had started making was a little soggier than Liza usually liked her rice, but it was an easy fix. Liza poured in a few cups of chicken stock, lowered the heat, and put the lid back on. With a bit more steaming, the rice would begin to break down into porridge.
Liza cracked the lid open a few times to throw in slivers of fresh ginger and pinches of various spices and herbs, but mostly, she focused on the chicken.
The chicken breasts were large and different shapes, so Liza butterflied them, laid them between two layers of plastic wrap, and pounded them flat so they’d cook more evenly.
“That has got to be good stress relief,” Georgia said, reaching for the mallet and giving the meat a few good whacks herself. She nodded in approval. “Yep. That’s satisfying.”
“This is why cooking is my therapy.” Liza winked at Stella, who laughed.
“Much better than painting. I can’t take a hammer to a canvas.”
Georgia had already seasoned the outside of the meat with kosher salt, so Liza squeezed some fresh lime juice over the chicken breasts and let them marinate in the juice for a few minutes while she heated up a skillet and softened onions and garlic. Then, she threw in the chicken and let it sizzle in the pan.
Liza got so lost in the process of cooking that she forget she had a rapt audience. She forgot everything.
For a few minutes, cooking felt the way it used to. Part of it, Liza suspected, came from the fact that she had to problem solve. Georgia had ingredients, but no direction, so Liza was left to arrange the ingredients into a meal like a puzzle. Seeing a meal come together like that was one of Liza’s favorite things.
Once the chicken was cooked, Liza sliced the breasts into strips and laid them on top of heaping bowls of fragrant rice porridge. Then, she sprinkled on chopped cilantro and slices of jalapeño.
Georgia and Stella both dove in before Liza could even make herself a plate.
“Oh my goodness.” Stella clamped a hand over her mouth, and Liza worried for a moment she’d made something inedible.
Georgia, too, gasped and stared at Liza, eyes wide.
“Is it good?” Liza asked. “Is it too spicy? Undercooked? Is it—”
“It’s incredible.”
Georgia shook her head and ate another bite, nodding as if to confirm her first opinion.
“I’ve made a thousand different meals with chicken and rice, but I’ve never made anything like this,” Stella said.
“It’s a basic variation of Khao Tom Gai.”
“She says casually,” Georgia quipped. “I’ve never even heard of it before.”
“I hadn’t either until I catered a luncheon for a Thai community center in Boston. It was in the early days of my business, and I made a very runny risotto. To make me feel better, one of the men told me it reminded him of his mother’s Khao Tom Gai. So, I told him to have her send me the recipe.”
“And she did?” Stella asked.
“She did one better. She called and talked me through the process step by step on the phone.” Liza hadn’t thought of that memory in years, and she couldn’t help but smile. “It took over an hour, so she told me about immigrating here in her twenties and raising her children when she barely knew the language. It made my problems feel much more manageable. Her name was Apinya, and we kept in touch for years until she passed away.”
“That’s beautiful,” Georgia said softly, looking back down at her bowl as though it held new meaning. She scooped out a spoonful and held it aloft. “To Apinya.”
“To Apinya,” Liza and Stella echoed.
As the women ate, they talked easily, and Georgia expressed interest in Liza finding the time to host a cooking class at the inn. It seemed Georgia was constantly experimenting with new ways to entertain her guests, and Liza was honored to even be considered. More than that, though, Liza was reminded why she loved food.
Cooking and eating created a shared experience. It made new memories and created the opportunity to share old ones. Food tore down borders and walls and generational gaps. Every person on earth needed to eat, and food and the need for it was the one thing people had in common.
When Liza stopped and thought about it, she couldn’t imagine how she could ever lose her passion or motivation for cooking. Food was life, and there were few things more important than that.
10
When Liza’s phone went off the next morning and Stacy’s name appeared on her screen, Liza’s heart jumped.
Since her dinner with Stacy and Ben, Liza hadn’t spent any time imagining the menu for her reception or coming up with ideas. As they parted, Stacy had mentioned calling Liza in a few days to discuss things more in depth, but Liza had been distracted with Ben and the pipe bursting.
She considered not answering, but decided that would look much more unprofessional than answering the call and telling the truth. So, Liza picked up just before her phone would usually send the call to voice mail.
“Stacy! Hello. It’s so good to hear from you. How are you—”
“Oh, Liza,” Stacy interrupted, sounded exasperated. “I’m so glad you answered. I’m in a bit of a bind, and I had no one else to call.”
Liza frowned. “Is everything okay?”
In all her years catering weddings and big events, Liza had received more than her fair share of panicked calls from frazzled clients. Though, usually, they came on the day of the event when they realized they didn’t have enough tables or chairs or tablecloths. Or, one time, when the venue caught on fire the night before and the entire party had to be relocated to a moose lodge across town that didn’t have an in-house kitchen. In the end, Liza cooked everything in her kitchen office downtown and then had a fleet of cars driven by Angela’s college friends deliver the food to the venue, where it was kept warm until dinnertime. It wasn’t her best work, but under the circumstances, the client was thrilled.
“Yes, sorry.” Stacy laughed. “I’m sure you deal with people all the time who think their minor drama is the end of the world, and I don’t want to be one of those people.”
“You aren’t,” Liza said, despite what she’d just been thinking. “Just tell me what you need, and I’ll do my best to help.”
“I was supposed to drive into Willow Beach today after lunch to meet with the alcohol supplier, but my boss just tasked me with leading a big meeting with out-of-town clients, so I can’t make it. I know it is a lot to ask of you, but since you are doing the food, I thought maybe you’d be able to sit in on the meeting for me? You already know all of the details of the event, so could you just pass that information along and make sure the supplier isn’t a criminal? Is that too much? It’s too much. I’m sorry. I—”
“Stacy, it’s not too much. Really. I deal with this kind of stuff all the time. It isn’t any trouble.”
Stacy let out a long sigh of relief. “Are you sure? I don’t want to be a burden. And I’ll pay you for the trouble.”
“Who’s your alcohol supplier?”
Liza could hear papers rustling on the other side of the line as Stacy shuffled through things before finally answering. “Oh, here it is. It’s the Duke Saloon. The woman I talked to was named—”
“Alma,” Liza finished.
“You know her?”
“As it so happens, I do. I just met her the other day, and I can confirm she isn’t a criminal. Not an obvious one, at least.”
Another sigh of relief through the phone. “Wow, that’s amazing. Thank you so much, Liza. You’re a lifesaver.”
Liza didn’t think this task would save any lives, exactly, but it would save her client’s sanity, which seemed important as well. Plus, Liza liked what she’d seen of Alma so far, and she would be glad to get to know her more.
Later in the afternoon, Liza pulled a pair of leather booties on over her jeans, a long coat on over her cowl-necked sweater, and a knit hat over her hurriedly brushed hair, and walked into town.
The weather radar didn’t show any signs of snow, but Liza could smell frost in the air. Everything smelled crisp and clean, and she blew puffs of air in front of her face as she walked, watching them dissolve into the sky.
It felt strange to be going to a saloon alone before dinner, but after her cold walk, Liza couldn’t think of anything nicer than wrapping her hands around a steaming hot toddy.
After her walk in the bright November sun, Liza had to pause in the doorway to let her eyes adjust to the dimness inside. The only lights came from the can lights above the tables and the lights at the bar, but Liza could see the saloon had an obvious southern theme. Barrels were used in place of chairs at several tables, lassos and horseshoes hung from the wood-paneled walls, and speakers were playing country music softly in the background.
“Hello there! Are you here for business or pleasure?” Alma came strolling out of the kitchen in bootcut jeans, red-tipped cowboy boots, and a button-down shirt with pearl buttons. She saw Liza’s attention turn to her clothes and gave a small spin. “I know, I know. It’s a little much, but occasionally I ham it up for the sake of theme.”
“You look great,” Liza said. “And I suppose I’m here for a bit of both. You had a meeting with Stacy Boyd this afternoon?”
“Oh, that’s right. The bride. Is she coming later?”
“She’s stuck at work, so I’m here as a substitute.”
Alma grinned and waved Liza towards a booth. “No offense to her, but I’m much more excited to be sitting down with you. Brides are often a bit too high-strung for my taste. They act like I don’t know how to run an open bar. Hello? I do it every night.”
Liza laughed. “I’m excited, too. We didn’t get to talk much at the book club meeting. Plus, I’m frozen, and I’d love a hot drink.”
“With alcohol?”
“Please,” Liza nodded.
Alma turned over her shoulder and opened her mouth to shout before she stopped and sighed. “Darn. For a second, I almost forgot I’m the only one working the bar right now. I’ll be right back.”
Liza settled into a booth while Alma dashed behind the bar and made two drinks.
Alma slid two double-walled glass mugs onto the table and slid into the bench seat opposite Liza. Both drinks had a slice of lemon floating on the surface of the water,
but Liza’s was a noticeably darker color.
“Hot water with lemon and honey,” Alma explained. “I operate a bar, but I try to avoid drinking too much. If I had a drink with every person I sat down with during the day, my liver would be toast. Yours has some black rum. It’s my favorite spirit for the colder months.”
Liza took a sip and sighed. The spiced rum had a nice warmth that was amplified by the honey and then undercut by the lemon. Perfectly balanced in every way.
“There’s not much to talk about in terms of the wedding,” Alma said, getting straight to the point. “Stacy wanted two open bars on either end of the reception hall. She is going to buy the alcohol and then keep whatever is left over, so I’ll send her my recommendation per her number of guests and see what she decides. Myself and another of my bartenders here will run the bars all night, and our price is $30 per hour. Again, I’ll write all of this up in the email to Stacy. Do you need anything else?”
Liza squinted, trying to think of anything she could possibly ask Alma. “Um, are you a criminal?”
Alma raised one brow in surprise and then threw her head back and laughed. “No, darling, I most certainly am not.”
“I think that’s all the information I need, then,” Liza shrugged with a smile. “You have all of the details of the wedding already, and she wanted me to make sure you aren’t a criminal. Check and check.”
“To a job well done.” Alma lifted her mug for a toast, and they clinked glasses. “Now, for the fun.”
“Fun” for Alma involved a good dose of gossip. As a business owner in the town and a bartender, she knew a tremendous amount of information about people’s personal lives.
“You’d be surprised how many people show up here, get a little tipsy, and then give you their entire life story,” she said. “And if you want to know who the criminals around here are, the sheriff is a regular, and he has told me everything. This town is nice and shiny on the surface, but underneath, there’s a dark underbelly.”