McCall

by Patricia Evans Jordan

  “And instead of taking advantage of you while you’re going through a hard time, he said he wanted to wait and do it right.” Sara paused. “It sounds like to me you’re worried he isn’t serious about you but it’s actually the exact opposite.”

  Sam nodded, pointing at Sara to let her know she’d gotten it right.

  “Oh. I think I’m getting what you’re saying,” Jen said slowly. “So this is actually a good thing?”

  “Definitely,” Sara said, “I think he’s just a gentleman. It sounds like he actually sees something in the future for you two.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you answer your phone last night and tell me this?” Jen’s was back to full volume, but Sara heard the relief in her voice.

  “Because I have a life,” Sara said, her tone teasing and reassuring at the same time. “Just wait. It will be worth it, I promise.”

  Sam reached for her hand and squeezed it. As they were saying goodbye, Sara asked Jen to check on the cabin, just to make sure everything was still locked up.

  “Actually, I already did,” Jen said, “I went over there to borrow one of your tools, but I couldn’t find them so I went down to the boat and looked there.”

  “Did you find what you needed?”

  “The wrench, no. But I did find your bra and underwear crumpled on the backseat.”

  Sara slid down in her seat, trying to hide the flush creeping up to her cheeks. She’d forgotten Sam had thrown them back into the boat that night in the lake.

  “So how is she?” Jen said, not even trying to hide her curiosity.

  “Sitting right here.”

  “Fine,” said Jen, undeterred, “But when you get back I want details.”

  They spoke for another minute or so, then Sara hung up, promising to let her know the minute she was back.

  “You were right about Murphy, by the way,” Sam said, looking over at her. “He’s got some integrity about him; I’m not surprised he’s holding off.” She paused. “But I am impressed.”

  When they got to Blackfoot, it was after two and they were starving. Ruby’s diner turned out to be tucked into the corner of a large stone building built in 1930s style. The stools and chairs were mirror finish chrome, and a bright cherry red covered the booths that lined the windows. The white tiled floor and eighteen-foot ceilings instantly made the space seem expansive and clean. A glass pie case sat on the counter and a waitress in a pale yellow uniform pulling out slices of chocolate pie told them to sit anywhere. Sam chose a booth by the window and the waitress came by briefly to drop off menus and take their drink orders.

  “What’s a monte cristo sandwich?” Sara asked, looking up from her menu.

  “You’ve never had one? Maybe it’s not a southern thing.” Sam folded her menu and laid it on the table. “But if I was ordering my last meal, I’d probably start with one of those.”

  “Well, there are no descriptions, so I guess I’m going to have to trust you,” Sara said.

  When the waitress returned, Sara ordered a monte cristo and a salad; Sam got a cheeseburger and fries.

  “Okay,” Sara said, “What did I order, now that I can’t change my mind?”

  “It’s a ham and Swiss sandwich on…what is that soft bread that’s slightly sweet?” She paused, trying to remember the name of it.

  “Brioche?”

  “That’s it. They coat it in an egg mixture with a touch of nutmeg, then deep fry it and serve it with powdered sugar.”

  “Seriously?” Sara said, “I just ordered a deep-fried sandwich?”

  “Yes,” Sam said, “And it gets even better. There is raspberry jam inside with the ham and swiss.”

  Sara laughed and the older couple at the table beside them looked over and smiled. Sara dabbed at her eyes with a napkin and tried to get it together.

  “So what did you study at culinary school?” Sam asked.

  “Primarily traditional French cuisine,” Sara said, “Although I just love food, so I guess I was really all over the place.”

  “Is that what you served at your restaurant?” Sam dumped sugar into her sweet tea.

  “Not really, but it did have an influence. Savannah is low country, right on the coast, so we served elevated traditional southern cuisine with a lot of seafood thrown in the mix.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “The food or the concept?”

  “Both,” Sam said.

  “When I started out, I had a vision of what I wanted it to be,” Sara said, folding her napkin and tucking it under her plate. “But as the years passed, what I put on the menu became more and more dictated by trends and the food critics I knew would review it. It was successful, but by the end I didn’t feel a real connection to the dishes.”

  The waitress set down their plates, and Sam piled the lettuce, purple onions, and pickles on the side of the plate precariously onto her burger.

  Sara cut into her sandwich, which looked somewhat like a block of French toast dusted in powdered sugar. When she sliced through it, bright raspberry jam and melted Swiss cheese dripped from the center over the layers of ham and down onto her plate. She cut a bite from the corner with her knife but Sam stopped her before her fork reached her mouth.

  “You can’t eat a monte cristo with a knife and fork,” she said in a whisper, laughter sparkling in her eyes, “And certainly not at Ruby’s. I’ve got my reputation to consider.”

  “How do you eat it?”

  “Just pick it up. It’ll get all over you, but it’s the only way to do it.”

  Sara closed her eyes and bit into the sandwich. The tart bite of the jam balanced the mild creaminess of the cheese perfectly. The ham was the perfect contrast, salty and rich, and the crisp egg crust was divine.

  “Amazing,” Sara said with her eyes closed and her mouth full. “How am I thirty-three and just now tasting this?”

  “I told you,” Sam said, smiling and nudging her foot lightly under the table. “You should listen to me. I’ve eaten a fair bit of diner food.”

  “I bet you have,” Sara said. “What’s your favorite dish?”

  “It depends on the place, but here it’s the monte cristo.”

  Sara looked at her plate, then over at Sam’s. “So why did you order a burger?”

  “I wanted to have something to trade you if you hated it.”

  Sara looked over at Sam, pouring ketchup onto a pile of French fries. Sam was getting to her. A lot. Maybe it was her kindness, or the way she laughed, whatever that was that she did to her last night, but she needed to be careful. Sooner or later, they had to go back to McCall, where Sara would open a restaurant that Sam hated, in the diner she loved.

  “So,” Sara said, “What did Gus have on McCall’s menu?”

  It was a risk, bringing it up, but the words were out of her mouth before she could catch them.

  “It was a lot like you’d expect,” Sam said, pushing her fries around on her plate. “Classic diner food like patty melts, burgers, mac and cheese…” She paused. “And the best monte cristo.”

  Sara reached across and entwined her fingers with Sam’s.

  “Will you teach me how to make it?”

  Sam nodded, putting down the burger and looking out the window.

  ****

  It was nearly evening when they left the restaurant. They stopped in town to pick up some supplies and refill the cooler with ice, but on the way out, Sara pointed to a little stone building on her side. The sign read Parker’s Wine and Fine Cheeses.

  “Can we stop there for just a minute?”

  “Absolutely, as long as you’re not planning to make me drink wine.”

  “What if I balance it out with cheese?” Sara said, with what she hoped was her most charming smile. “Serious cheese. Something butch, like a strong, herby chèvre?”

  Sam laughed so hard she had a hard time putting the truck in park and had to wipe her eyes when she finally got it together enough to speak.

  “I can assure you that the terms ‘butch’
and ‘herby’ should never be in the same sentence. But you tried hard so I’ll give you a pass.”

  Sam wandered around the store for a few minutes while Sara sampled some cheeses. She bought brined olives, some wedges of cheese, three bottles of wine, and a baguette. Sam pretended to struggle with the weight of the bags as they left and headed back to the truck.

  “Are you expecting us to be snowed in tonight?”

  “No, smart ass, but you’ll be begging me for more of this before I get done with you tonight.”

  “Really?” Sam said, looking over at her as they slid into their seats. “Because I seem to remember exactly the reverse last night.”

  Sara leaned over and kissed her, instantly wet when Sam’s hand wrapped around the back of her neck, pulling her closer. It took everything she had to remember they were in a busy parking lot and reluctantly pull away.

  “Well then,” Sara said, “I guess we’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

  Sam brought Sara’s hand to her mouth and kissed her palm, holding her eyes and running her tongue lightly over Sara’s fingertips before she let her go.

  “I think you’ll find I usually come out on top, Miss Brighton.”

  Sam drove them almost out of town then turned right down a winding dirt road. She drove what seemed like forever through the trees, then eventually slowed when she came to a small log cabin tucked right off the road.

  “Hang on,” she said, getting out of the truck, “I’ll be right back.”

  Sara watched her climb the steps to the front porch and grab an envelope that someone had taped to the front door.

  “What’s that?” Sara asked as she got back in the truck.

  “Just the key to where I’m hiding all that wine before you make me drink it.”

  “Hey!” Sara said, smiling and swatting her arm with the back of her hand. “Watch it, buster, you’re going to be eating your words later.”

  Sam just smiled and put her hand on Sara’s thigh as she drove down an increasingly narrow road, finally emerging in a small clearing with an enormous tree at the center. A spiral staircase built beside the trunk led up to an intricately detailed treehouse, built on two levels, with a wraparound deck on both connected by stairs. String lights, made of tiny mission style lanterns and strung around the porch railing, mirrored the golden glow of the setting sun behind the trees.

  “This is amazing,” Sara said, too busy staring at the treehouse to actually walk to the staircase. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  Sam held out her hand, both their bags slung over one shoulder. She led Sara to the base of the tree and up the spiral staircase, then unlocked the glass door to the treehouse. As they stepped inside, Sara instantly fell in love with it. There were two overstuffed white sofas with a coffee table in the center, and a rough-hewn antique table to the side with a collection of mismatched chairs that looked like they’d been taken directly from Sara’s cabin. The bright kitchen, painted a sunny yellow, was to the right of the main room, with small fairy doors attached to random cupboards and floorboards.

  “My buddy built this place for his daughter when she was young and built onto it over the years,” Sam explained. “And when he tried to renovate it after she went off to college, she flatly refused to let him take down the little fairy doors, so he just left everything the way it was.”

  She took the bags up to the bedroom while Sara wandered out to the deck and looked at the copper fire sky as the sun dipped below the trees. Translucent clouds in pinks and oranges melded into each other against the last slice of azure sky, and it was that moment that Sara knew she had more chance of pulling the sun back up into the sky than not falling in love with Sam.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Just try it.”

  Sara swirled the ruby wine around the sides and held out the glass.

  “What am I supposed to be tasting?” Sam took the glass but glanced longingly toward the cheese and torn baguette on the table.

  “Nothing specific,” Sara said. “Just hold it in your mouth for a few seconds and tell me what you taste. Or maybe the fruit it reminds you of, like black or red fruit.”

  “Seriously?”

  “It could be worse,” Sara said, leaning close and whispering in her ear. “I could make you do it while I’m sitting in your lap, then give you a test later.”

  “Wait,” Sam said, “I’m almost sure I like that option better.”

  Sara scooted her chair closer and picked up her glass.

  “Take a small sip and hold it in your mouth. Then breathe in through your nose. Try to draw in the air over the wine in short breaths.”

  Sam sipped, then set her glass down. “Okay, I’d love to torture you about this, but I actually do get what you’re saying. If I had to say what it reminds me of, it would be maybe…plums, or overripe blackberries?”

  “You couldn’t be more right.” Sara looked very pleased with herself.

  “So what do you like so much about wine?” Sam said, setting her glass down.

  “Well,” she said, swirling the wine in her glass, “I think most people assume that women tend to like fruity whites or sweet moscato, but for me that couldn’t be further from the truth. I like tannic wine that parches my mouth. I love it gritty and dirty, like liquid asphalt.”

  “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me at all,” Sam said. “There’s more to you than meets the eye.”

  Sara spread a slice of baguette with Humboldt Fog cheese and handed it over. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “What’s this?” Sam looked at it suspiciously. “And why does it look like there’s dirt in it?”

  “It’s a dense, velvety goat cheese,” Sara said, choosing a slice of a different cheese for herself. “And the gray line through the center is actually ash; it’s a great contrast to the creamy, earthy quality of the cheese itself.”

  “So why aren’t you eating it?” Sam asked, as she popped the baguette slice into her mouth.

  “Now that it’s in your mouth, I’ll tell you. I can’t stand goat cheese. To say it’s gamy is putting it politely.” She set the knife down and gave a little shiver.

  Sam closed her eyes. “Actually, I love this,” she said. “I would eat this every day.”

  “I’m glad. I thought you’d like it.” Sara looked around the table and over to the counter. “I swear I had three bottles of wine. What happened to the Sauvignon Blanc?”

  Sam spread another piece of baguette with the goat cheese. “It’s down at the end of the road.”

  “What?”

  “With a sign on it that says ‘Free’.”

  Sara hit her lightly on the arm. “You’d better be kidding!”

  “Of course I am,” Sam said, popping the second half of the baguette slice into her mouth. “I taped a five dollar bill to the bottle to make sure it found a good home.”

  Sara stood, sliding her knee between Sam’s and leaning over her, both hands on the chair behind her.

  “I’m going to check the fridge for that bottle, Draper; it’d better be in there.”

  Sam sat back in her chair, amused. “And what are you going to do about it if it’s not?”

  She thought for a second. “Pout.”

  “Actually,” Sam said, “I’ve seen you pout, and it’s adorable. I’d go with that if I were you.”

  Sara stood, laughing, and pulled the white wine out of the fridge. She brought it back to the table and cut the foil, glancing over at Sam.

  “When have you ever seen me pout?”

  “Well,” Sam said, “It started about five minutes after I met you when I wouldn’t let you step on the side of my patrol boat. Then again in my office when I told you that you couldn’t drive your boat without a license, and then yet again when I insisted you wear a lifejacket.” She leaned back in her chair. “Shall I go on?”

  Sara opened the Sauvignon Blanc and poured them both a taste in new glasses.

  “I think I see where you’re going wrong,” she said, me
eting Sam’s eyes and swirling the wine in her glass. “You’re confusing pouting with just being right.”

  Sara thought she might laugh, but Sam slowly took the glass out of her hand and kissed her, possessive and tender at the same time, holding her face in her hands.

  “You’re putting me on dangerous ground here, Sara.”

  “Good. That’s exactly where I like you.”

  After they’d put the cheese away, they sat out on the deck, gold light spilling from the lanterns, watching the squirrels chase each other across the railing then jump directly into the tree and scurry off.

  “I’m not sure this is a phrase I’ve ever said before,” Sara said, glancing over at Sam eating a green olive. “But the way you eat olives is sexy as hell.”

  Sam laughed, taking the pit out of her mouth and launching it over the railing. “In that case, I’ll have another.”

  She looked tan and lean, and wore jeans with a blue fleece jacket zipped over the white tank top that was warm enough to wear earlier. Her dark hair clashed with the vivid pale blue of her eyes, and even with her sleeves just pushed to her elbow, the muscles in her forearms brought back a vivid image of Sam on top of her the night before.

  “Are you seeing anyone right now?” Sam asked, putting her feet up on the railing and looking over at Sara.

  Sara laughed, pelting her with an olive. “That’s a loaded question.” She leaned back in her chair and looked at Sam. “Are you?”

  “Present company excluded,” Sam said, “No one I can remember.”

  Sara sneezed suddenly, then sneezed again. “Sorry,” she said, her mouth still covered. “That’s the worse timing in the world.”

  Sam laughed, looking at her watch then up to the wind moving through the trees. “It’s later than I realized. It’s cold up here; let’s move you inside where it’s warmer.”

  Sara went to take a hot shower and climbed into the loft afterwards. She pulled on sheer black underwear that laced up the back with a velvet ribbon and one of Sam’s white T-shirts she’d found on the bed. She towel-dried her hair and gathered it into a loose bun, then laid on the bed on her stomach with the book she’d been halfway through before they left. She heard Sam turning out the lights and locking up the house below, and then she finally climbed into the loft, stopping in her tracks when she saw Sara on the bed.