The Cookbook Club

by Beth Harbison

  Truth was, it was that mental picture—making the place beautiful so Margo would want to hang out here more—that kept him going forward into what could well be a huge mistake.

  Well, not huge. Maybe not even a mistake necessarily. What he had wanted and needed most was to get out of the city and have some quiet to think and create. He definitely had that now. In spades, no pun intended. Sometimes the quiet felt like someone had put earmuffs on his head and was holding them tight against his ears so the loudest thing in his head was his own heartbeat. It was silence like he’d never known, even as a kid growing up on a sleepy suburban street. There, at least, there was the occasional car, the laughter of neighbors cooking out in summer or shoveling snow on asphalt in the winter. Here there was none of that. If a plane landed on the nearest two-lane road, he might not even hear it.

  This was what he’d signed up for. And this was what he wanted, for the most part. It was.

  But it sure wouldn’t suck to be looking over at Margo’s face in the whisper of amber light that nudged through the age-encrusted sconces that flanked the porch door and illuminated the wrought iron patio furniture that had probably been there for decades.

  He needed a power washer.

  Among so many other things.

  He took a glass out of the cabinet and filled it from the tap. No ice. Oddly enough, the water didn’t smell funny until it was frozen, which probably spoke more to the state of the appliance than to that of the well. He took an Oreo from the package on the counter, blew an ant off it, and went out to the front porch to contemplate his next day or two.

  That was the luxury of country life, or at least he was allowing it to be. Frenzy was a bad habit, one that everyone in the city was trapped in. He’d had it for years, but he was going to kick it now if it was the last thing he did. There was no schedule to adhere to, no rush hour to take into account, no employees to accommodate. If he wanted to sit here on this thin old cushion, feeling the iron poke into his back, and listen to the crickets and birds for the next twenty-four hours, he could. If he didn’t answer his phone, no one was going to come running with the police; hell, most people didn’t even know where he was.

  He didn’t even have an emergency contact. That was the definition of being single, wasn’t it? No emergency contact. He could die, unknown, in a hospital in some strange town by himself. Completely alone until his face was splashed all over the internet.

  He kicked back. Yup, anonymity had its value but so did companionship. He checked his watch. It was just after 9:00 P.M. Borderline, but probably not too late to call Margo.

  But what would he say if he did? They’d just spent hours together. He couldn’t say he’d forgotten something in her car, they’d taken his. He couldn’t say he missed her, that would sound psycho, even though if he examined his feelings realistically enough, that would probably be an accurate assessment.

  He definitely couldn’t come right out and tell her he wanted another chance to do what he’d been meaning to for fifteen years and kiss her. She’d never made a first move either, and this was an equal opportunity world. Maybe the fact that she hadn’t meant that she wasn’t interested.

  Except she’d always been shy, especially about that kind of thing. He remembered one of their first conversations. It was before she’d started dating that unworthy twit JB. He had written it out in a word document, to relieve his brain of it (which didn’t work), and hopefully for a scene to be used someday in the future. He opened the document on his computer from the folder marked TAX STUFF. It was where he hid everything vulnerable that he couldn’t imagine sharing with the world.

  “So there’s a guy I like,” she’d said as they sat outside the library in the autumn shade during a fifty-minute free period they both had. “And I just can’t tell if he likes me too.”

  Max had scoffed. “You sound like you’re in seventh grade!”

  Her cheeks went instantly pink, the way they always were when she felt self-conscious. He’d already seen it happen countless times in class, as she was forever thinking she’d been called on and started to talk before realizing someone else had been indicated. “Thanks,” she’d said, clearly trying to attempt anger through a scorching embarrassment. Her gaze flitted to his, then she blinked and looked away, the pink of her skin blooming into red.

  He felt like an asshole right away. He was an asshole. Why had he said that? Apart from being pissed off that she—really obviously—liked JB DeWitt, the douchebag who was always asking her to take notes for him while he skipped class. All JB had to do was make a few elementary celestial references and she was putty in his hands.

  Guy like that wouldn’t be hard to get. At least not for a night or two, depending on how much she gave up. Then she would invariably be hurt, and no matter how much Max loathed the idea of her hooking up with that guy, he definitely didn’t want her hurt for any reason.

  By anyone.

  “Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way.”

  She lifted her chin. “What way?”

  He was flummoxed. “Well, any way that hurts your feelings.”

  “Cool. You didn’t mean whatever you meant. That definitely makes it okay.”

  “I didn’t mean to belittle you. What I meant was you’re great, you should just tell him how you feel.” He’d shrugged and probably did a little involuntary eyeroll. “If he’s too wimpy to make a first move, then maybe he’s hoping you will.”

  She’d considered him for a moment, then sighed. “Whatever. You’re right, he’s obviously not interested.”

  “I didn’t say that.” But he was careful not to say otherwise either.

  What could he say? Granted, he’d probably implied JB was disinterested by pointing out he hadn’t made a move, but given that he, himself, had never let on to her that he had feelings, he did know it was possible that JB didn’t have the confidence to say something to her even if he wanted to.

  But it wasn’t Max’s job to play matchmaker or figure out every other guy’s psychology. He liked to think he was a good friend in general, but there was such a thing as going above and beyond, and in this case he just wasn’t going to do it. Why should he?

  He didn’t know if the guy was into her or not, so what was the point in going out of his way to encourage her? He didn’t know.

  He just didn’t know.

  She met his eyes for a long moment, searching. “At least I always have you as a friend, right?”

  It was a crushing conclusion but true nevertheless. It was where he’d expected her to land anyway.

  “Right,” he’d said, then, since it sounded so lame, he’d reaffirmed it as strongly as he could. “We are absolutely friends for life.”

  “Great,” she said, without a spark.

  Seeing her deflated like that was almost enough to make him do a reversal on everything he’d just said, just to make her feel better. He could say he’d seen the way the jerk looked at her and he was definitely crushing on her. He could say the most intense interest was often characterized by a paralyzed inaction—it was certainly true in his case. Hell, he could even say he’d heard something through the grapevine that would make her heart and ego soar.

  As dumb luck would have it, before he had to make any concessionary decisions, JB and his little group of minions walked by in front of them—not going to the library, of course, but passing the building. So, in what Max had considered a greatly unselfish act, he’d gestured toward them and said, as cool as he could possibly muster, “There’s DeWitt now. Go for it. I’m sure he’ll be open to you.”

  “Gee, thanks for the huge vote of confidence. Maybe I can beg him for a little attention.”

  “I’m sure you won’t have to beg.”

  She widened her eyes at him. “Wow.”

  Everything he was saying was wrong, but he couldn’t figure out why. He was just trying to be encouraging. He was terrible at this. Terrible at love, and apparently even terrible at friendship. “Sorry!” That came out a little too
harsh. He softened his voice and tried again. “Look, I’m not good at this stuff, okay? Just . . . do what you want.”

  That had effectively ended the conversation, save for a few small comments that accompanied them gathering their things and going to their different classes.

  They hadn’t spoken again for about three weeks and by then she was dating JB DeWitt, so Max figured he’d probably done her a favor, even if it hadn’t seemed like it at the time.

  Part of him was pissed that she’d trampled all over his feelings like that, in her scramble to get to the guy she really wanted, but he knew her well enough to know she didn’t realize what she was doing. She’d just had no idea that Max was in love with her.

  In love?

  Had he really just thought that?

  He turned the idea over in his mind and examined it. The feelings he’d had today, the feelings he’d had when she came to visit in New York, the feelings he’d had when he was looking at her Instagram—far from the first time he’d done it, by the way—and seen that she was looking for a person and that, for once, maybe he could be the one.

  Sure, yes, it was fair to call it love. It had always been there.

  There had been so many times along the way that his feelings had swelled for her over the smallest, least consequential, hardest-to-define things. The way the waves of dark blond hair framed her face when she took it out of a ponytail. The melody of her laugh when she was taken by surprise. The unconscious swing of her hips when she walked slowly, lost in thought. To say nothing of the more obvious appreciable qualities, like her kindness to strangers, her patience with children and adults who needed help, the way she was always ready to give up her own time to be there when someone else needed her.

  She didn’t usually ask for help herself. It had been remarkable to find her post, looking for a caretaker. It was surprising, and a bit disappointing, even while it left the opportunity open to him, to learn that no one had stepped up to offer assistance before Max had. Sure, it could be argued that it was meant to be and that any other volunteers would have muddied the waters, but at the same time he felt sad that she wasn’t surrounded by people who cared about her as much as she always cared about everyone else.

  It didn’t matter now, he supposed. That fact was, he had seen the post, he had gotten back in touch with Margo, and he was here now, repeating all the same mistakes he got so good at fifteen years ago.

  If cycles needed to be broken, he was the one who needed to break them. Particularly if he was the only one who saw them.

  He picked up his phone and went to “recents.” Hers was the first number there, and he tapped it, then ended the call immediately. He didn’t have a plan. He was a man without a plan. He wasn’t going to make a bumbling ass of himself again.

  The phone vibrated in his hand, and he looked at it.

  Margo.

  Had she picked up on his thoughts? Was it possible that she was thinking about him at the same time he was thinking about her? Would that even mean anything, or was his romantic teenage self getting too wound up in the mix?

  “Hey, Margo, what’s up?” He congratulated himself on pulling off sounding casual.

  “You just called me.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Hmm. It showed up on my phone just now. It says nine forty-two P.M.”

  Damn these stupid phones. They registered everything immediately these days. You couldn’t rethink your actions halfway through dialing, couldn’t have the satisfaction of slamming a phone down in anger, couldn’t even hang up before the first ring without it trumpeting to the other party that you were sitting here aching for them.

  “Oh. Huh. You know, I just picked the phone up. Out of my pocket”—he leaped on that—“yeah, I just got the phone out of my pocket so maybe I hit the button. Sorry about that.”

  “No problem. I just thought— I was hoping nothing was wrong out there.”

  “Well, it’s hot as hell, but that’s to be expected this time of year.” He gave a laugh. For an actor, he sure did suck at improvising in real life. “So, nope, nothing’s wrong.”

  “This is quite a heat wave we’re having.”

  He nodded, then said, “For October.”

  “They say it’s the record.”

  “I can believe it.”

  “Max.” She stopped, and a silent pause stretched between them. “I have this big house to myself and if you’re uncomfortable or anything, you’re welcome to come stay here. In the guest room. I have two guest rooms, actually. You could take your pick.”

  He would like nothing more than to get in his car and drive back to her house and generate some heat, but not from the guest room. Or one of the two guest rooms. She was making it pretty clear she meant this platonically, so he decided it would be best for him to simply suck it up and stay where he was. He was here to man up for her, and cowering in the heat and making her prepare a room for him in her air-conditioning was no way to do that. If anything, it would just solidify their outpost here in the Friend Zone.

  “Nah, I’m fine here. It takes more than a little humidity to knock this man down.” He made a point of yawning extravagantly. “In fact, I’m about to hit the hay.” What a stupid bunch of things to say! If he’d come up with one more dumb cliché about manning up, he would have hit the trifecta. “I’m beat,” he finished lamely.

  There was a hesitation before she said, “Okay. Let me know if it gets unbearable. My door is open twenty-four hours.”

  He almost—almost—said something about being careful and locking that door, but he managed to stop himself. Maybe he really was tired. At any rate, he needed to stop himself before he said anything irretrievably stupid.

  “Thanks, Margo.” He shook his head to himself. “Everything’s fine here, don’t worry about it.”

  “Okay,” she said again. Her voice sounded small. “I’ll talk to you later then.”

  He hesitated.

  “Later,” he said, then hung up before the conversation became ridiculous.

  For everything he’d realized about his feelings for Margo before he came here and everything he hadn’t, one thing was becoming crystal clear to him now: he had it bad for her.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Aja

  I heard from Michael the other day,” Aja told Margo when they met in front of Trista’s restaurant for the Magnolia Table cookbook club meeting. Margo had a casserole dish of biscuits and sausage gravy, which smelled like heaven in a nine-by-thirteen to Aja, and Aja had brought the vanilla cake doughnuts with maple glaze because they were easy. Unfortunately, they were also delicious, and she’d had to make a second batch before the meeting because she’d eaten three-quarters of the first batch before Monday had arrived.

  “You did? I wondered how long it would take him. What did he say?”

  Aja drew her shawl tighter around her as the wind lifted. “I guess he noticed my work at his mom’s was taking longer than expected and he was uncomfortable with me still being around.” She stepped over a crack in the sidewalk. It was amazing how often she found herself doing that still. Didn’t want to break her mother’s back. “Or maybe she told him . . .” Even as she spoke she wasn’t sure whether to mention the incident with the ring. “I don’t know what she might have told him.”

  Margo looked concerned. “Hopefully you aren’t worried about it. Right?”

  Aja flattened her hand and tipped it side to side. “I’m going to have to tell him sometime, it’s only right. But I’m dreading it. So as far as that goes, yeah, I’m a little worried about it.”

  “Well, you’ve got us. He’s not going to hurt you.”

  “I know. I appreciate it.” She sounded so much more casual about it than she felt.

  Margo stopped. “I mean it.”

  “Thank you. That means more to me than you know. Even pregnant, I’m so much happier without him.” It was only when she said it that she knew just how true it was. It was a weight off, a real relief to not be spending so much
of every day actively hoping she hadn’t said too much, pushed too hard, or otherwise offended Michael’s standoffish ways.

  They got to the restaurant door then, and Aja took the moment to change the subject. “Anyway, I am so up for this,” she said to Margo as she opened the door. “I ate a huge lunch, but this is going to be really, really good.”

  Margo nodded, still eyeing her but far too polite to push a subject she obviously realized was being avoided. “I had to make a second batch myself.”

  “You too?”

  “Yes. You too?”

  Aja felt her face grow warm. “I couldn’t stop picking at them. They’re so stinking good. And I went to Costco for my neighbor, who has a hard time getting out so I run errands now and then, and they had the most amazing array of baking stuff. Oh my God, have you been there?”

  “To Costco? Sure, of course.”

  “Well, the maple syrup is fantastic.” Breakfast. She was glad Margo had brought the biscuits and gravy, she was definitely in the mood for that. “And the sous vide eggs that you put in the microwave for a minute and then top with hot sauce and . . .” She rolled her eyes. “Bliss. Pancake mix, a hundred pounds of Dubliner cultured butter, fresh orange juice, I mean, the place is just amazing. And my kitchen is way too small to accommodate everything I got, so I had to consume a bunch.”

  Margo laughed. “Jeez, you sound like you’ve been on Survivor or something. Pregnancy is everything they say, huh?”

  “And then some.”

  Margo nodded but her gaze was intense. “Just remember.” A pause. “I just want you to know if you did need to talk about anything, or if you need to get away, I’m here.”

  Aja’s emotions were a quick trigger lately. She felt like she could cry just because of the kindness of the gesture. “Thank you.”

  “I mean it.”

  They stepped in and it took Aja’s eyes a moment to adjust to the dimmer lighting, but when she did, she couldn’t believe how perfect the place was. Antique clocks and clock pieces adorned the wall over a tall and wide lit bar housing every liquor Aja had ever heard of. The taps for beer were carved wood, rather than the brightly colored ones the breweries sent for free advertising. The bar was a rustic bloodwood, which probably only Aja would recognize and know how expensive it was. She admired Trista for that touch.