by Mary Manners
“No you’re not. Let me think a minute.” Julie paced, one hand splayed across her mid-section. “We still have most of the morning and the entire afternoon to figure this out. It’s not really an emergency until you’re down to a few hours. Unless you don’t have any food in your cupboard. Tell me you have an adequate supply of groceries to manage this, Korrie.”
“I do. I mean, I did. An entire cartful. I spent everything I had. But I’ve exhausted most of the stock trying out recipes. I just can’t get anything to bake right. Or boil right. Or brown or simmer. I tried frying chicken and nearly set the stovetop on fire just to get an end result as tough as shoe leather. I simmered spaghetti sauce but the spices were all wrong and the more I tried to fix it, the more it morphed into something culled from a dumpster. I thought I’d try my hand at sourdough bread but the dough failed to rise even an inch. And the brownies…well, they’re more like chocolate sauce than chocolate squares. I’m hopeless.” Korrie buried her face in her hands. “I don’t know why I’m so horrible in the kitchen. The only cooking show that would ever want me is Kitchen Disasters.”
“Oh, sis…that’s not true.”
“It is.”
“OK, maybe it is.” Julie took Korrie’s hand. “But we can fix this.”
“How?”
“Come into the kitchen. I’ll show you.” She turned and led the way, dragging Korrie alongside her.
“I’m not supposed to be imposing on you, yet here I go again.” Korrie groaned. “I’m sorry.”
“You have to stop apologizing and start living, Korrie. I mean, really living.” Julie turned to flash her an irritated look, complete with eye-roll. “You’re never imposing here. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”
“I’m trying.” As they made their way down a short hall, Korrie drank in details of the renovation work Julie and Michael had done. The inside of the house had been gutted and reconfigured to accommodate an open floorplan. Gone was the yellowed wallpaper with hideous circa-70’s designs. It had been replaced with fresh, bright paint and crown molding. Skylights welcomed natural light.
“I was just whipping up some pies,” Julie said.
Korrie grinned. Whipping up ‘some pies’ probably meant opening a fully-stocked bakery.
“You could film your own cooking show.” It was the truth. Michael had traded two restored cars for the funds to give her a professional kitchen, complete with walk-in pantry, endless countertop space, cabinetry that went on and on, and double convection ovens spacious enough to bake for an army. “Michael obviously enjoys your cooking.”
Brayden had, as well. The thought elicited a defeated grumble. Korrie was toast.
Burned toast.
“The kitchen is the heart of the home.” Julie smoothed her hand over the granite countertop of a ginormous island inlaid with a griddle and five burners along with enough space to lay a dozen cookie sheets. The surface was dusted with flour. A ball of dough sat in the powder, like the base of a plump snowman. “Isn’t that what Mom always said?”
“Yes, but Mom was a fantastic cook. All of her homemaker genes have been passed on to you, Jules.”
“I just try harder at it because I love to cook. You don’t, and that’s OK too. You’re gifted in other ways. It’s no secret that Dad passed on his artistic creativity to you. When it comes to drawing and painting and anything art-related you have more skill in your pinky finger than I have in my entire being.”
“What good has that done me? You can’t feed a man with watercolors. Besides, my supply of canvases was laid to rest a long time ago.”
“You can revive them anytime you want.”
“I don’t want to.” Korrie stuffed the fib. The truth was she missed painting. She’d given it up when working long, crazy hours at the real estate agency created a time crunch she couldn’t manage. Painting didn’t make money. Selling real estate paid the bills, bought her fine things, and padded her bank account.
Until the Great Disaster. The belongings had been sold, the financial padding evaporated, and she now had nothing to show for all of those endless hours of blood, sweat and tears.
And the tears had been plentiful.
Returning to her childhood home brought front and center how much she missed the creative outlet.
“You can’t fool me, sis.” Julie turned on the faucet to wash her hands. “I know that look. You miss it. You want to create again.”
Korrie avoided the comment. She sniffed the air. “What I do want is some of whatever’s baking in the oven. It has my belly begging for a taste.”
“And that’s exactly what Brayden will say when he gets a whiff of the out-of-this-world apple pie we’re going to make together.”
“I don’t know, Jules.” Korrie eyed the baking utensils Julie drew from drawers and cabinets as if they were combat weapons that required top-secret training. And a license. She had neither. “Are you sure you want to take a chance on me? I might burn down the kitchen.”
“Not on my watch.” Julie laughed. “But my help will come at a price.”
“What’s that?”
“I want you to do a watercolor for me to place on the wall overlooking the baby’s crib in the nursery. Something whimsical and dreamy.”
“Jules, you know I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“I haven’t painted in years.”
“Then it’s a good time to start again.”
“What if…” Korrie caught her lower lip between her teeth and bit down hard. “What if I’ve lost my touch?”
“There’s only one way to find out, right?” Julie set a rolling pin beside the ball of dough. “Before we start on the pie I have something to show you.”
“The last time you said that we went on a tour of the nursery. You didn’t find out you’re having twins, did you?”
“No, but I’m having an ultrasound next week to determine boy or girl.” Her eyes twinkled. “But this has nothing to do with that.”
“Jules…” Korrie waited while Julie padded to the storage room. Her sister returned a few moments later carrying an oversized tote bag.
“Michael and I found this when we were cleaning out the nursery space. We thought Dad would want you to have what’s inside.”
Korrie took the tote. She looked inside to find tube after tube of her father’s watercolors. Brushes, mostly used and carefully stored, were there along with several blank canvases and other necessary tools.
“It’s a treasure.” Her dad had held these tools in his hands. He’d used them to create. Korrie felt a connection…a longing…so strong that it tugged at her heart. “I don’t know what to say. This is…amazing.”
“I thought you’d feel that way.”
“I’m not sure what I’ll do with them.”
“You’ll paint a watercolor for the nursery, and maybe some other things, too. That’s what you’ll do with them.”
~*~
Korrie glanced up from her sketchpad and sniffed the air. The thick, smoky scent wasn’t the same as the honey-baked chicken her sister had expertly crafted in their trial run earlier. No, during the test run Julie’s chicken had browned perfectly, succulently, and had teased the senses with its sweet, flavorful aroma.
There hadn’t been any smoke, either. Not like the thick, grayish-black cloud drifting through the kitchen doorway.
Korrie tossed aside her sketch pad and leapt from the couch. She raced toward the kitchen.
“Hand me a towel.” Brayden had somehow entered through the locked back door and beat her to the oven. He held a fire extinguisher in one hand and his cellphone in the other.
“Please don’t call the fire department. I’ll never live it down.” She shook her head stiffly, mortified beyond words. “We can handle this.”
He hesitated only a moment before tucking the phone into his pocket. Smoke curled from cracks around the oven door and up through the cooktop eyes.
Brayden pulled the pin on the fire extinguisher and aimed. Foam
coated the cooktop and dripped onto the tile floor.
“Here.” Korrie tossed him a kitchen towel and when he opened the oven, flames flickered and spat.
“Oh, no!” Korrie’s instincts had her reaching for the flambéed baking dish, but Brayden pushed her gently back.
“Let me.”
The flames continued to dance and gyrate. They were having quite the time with her honey-baked chicken.
Which wasn’t so honey-baked anymore.
“Hurry, Brayden.”
“There’s no need. I think it’s dead.”
Korrie could only gape, mortified, as he took aim at her carefully-prepared creation and fired. Foam filled the oven, turning it into a hissing, rabid dog.
“Oh…my casserole.” Korrie pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a groan as Brayden handed her the fire extinguisher.
Carefully, with his hands protected by the new oven mitts she’d purchased just yesterday, he reached in and pulled the baking pan from the rack. He set the dish in the sink and tossed water on the flames to extinguish them. “Yeah, definitely D.O.A.”
“Oh, no.” Korrie set the extinguisher on the table next to a dinner plate she’d borrowed from Julie’s kitchen. She’d taken so much care to create place settings that were eye-appealing and perfectly-matched. Now it was all ruined.
She used the towel to fan the air, trying her best to make the smoke dissipate. It wasn’t budging. She coughed and cupped a hand to her nose and mouth.
“I’m so sorry, Brayden. I guess I lost track of time.”
Two hours…she’d let the chicken cook for more than double what the recipe recommended. At the wrong temperature. One look at the cooktop console and she saw she’d set the oven to four-fifty, not three-fifty as the directions had specified. Ugh. She switched the oven to off and double-checked that the heat had disengaged, just to be sure.
“It’s OK.” Brayden covered the extinguished chicken with a dish towel, laying it painfully to rest.
“No, it’s not. Our dinner is ruined.”
Brayden glanced at items she’d set on the counter. “Looks like there’s still a salad and rolls. And is that a pie?”
“Apple.” At least she had that going for her. “With vanilla bean ice cream.”
“I love apple pie.” Brayden placed a hand on her forearm. “It’s my favorite.”
“Yeah, well…Scottie needs more than dessert for dinner and the salad and rolls aren’t enough to feed a rabbit.”
“I have steaks. I’ll grill them.”
“I’m supposed to be cooking for you, not the other way around.”
“You can make the after-dinner coffee.”
“Right. With your coffeemaker. And your coffee. Just peachy.” She huffed out a breath. “I just knew this would happen. Alert the media; the secret is out. Now you know. I’m horrible in the kitchen.”
“There are worse places to be horrible.” His hand sought hers, and he twined their fingers with a gentle squeeze. “The garden, the garage. One of the guys at the station has a wife who ran her car into their garage door not once, not twice, but three times last month. Three. He got so frustrated by the repairs that he removed the door.”
“He did not.”
“Scouts honor. Really.”
“Well…I should have paid better attention to the timer. I didn’t even hear it ring.” She had set it, hadn’t she? Now she couldn’t be sure.
“What were you distracted by?”
“Nothing.” She sliced a look toward the living room, which held the collage of paints she’d scattered in an attempt to take inventory. Her notebook lay open on the coffee table where she’d tossed it when the smoke assaulted her senses. She hoped Brayden wouldn’t notice the mess. She’d already failed at cooking. There was no room for untidy housekeeping.
Not that it should matter. She probably wouldn’t see him again after tonight. Except for maybe in a passing glance over the hedgerow.
“What are you looking at?”
“I told you it’s nothing.” She tugged her hand from his and crossed the room, nonchalantly blocking the doorway to the living room. “But those steaks sure sound good after all.”
“Korrie…” He shifted to squeeze past her and paused when he spied her work strewn across the coffee table and over the carpet. “What’s that?”
“It’s nothing. I was just wrapped up in a little sketching.”
“That looks like more than a little sketching.” He crossed into the living room, the ruined dinner forgotten. “Do you mind?”
“You’re already there.” She stepped aside to join him. “But promise you won’t laugh. I haven’t worked on anything in a while, so they’re not very good.”
He lifted the sketch pad and fanned through her work. His appreciative whistle told her he thought otherwise.
“Are you going to use these sketches as inspiration for your paintings?”
The look in his eyes touched her to the core. He understood her. She could feel it. He knew the importance of those drawings to her very being…her hope and her future.
“That’s the plan.”
“You shouldn’t keep these to yourself, Korrie.” He fingered one sketch then another, and finally the watercolor she’d started with her dad’s tools. “They’re way too beautiful not to share.”
5
“You’re a much better cook than I am.” Korrie said as she licked au-jus from her fingers. Her steak bone was bare; she’d scavenged every last morsel. The thought made her sad, so she rose from Brayden’s kitchen table and crossed to the coffeemaker—a sturdy, old-fashioned carafe variety—that sat on the counter beside the sink.
“Grilling doesn’t count as real cooking, since it doesn’t require a kitchen.” Brayden watched as she grabbed the coffee carafe and filled his mug. True to her word, she’d brewed the after-dinner coffee herself. “So you’re still in the game.”
“You’re just trying to make me feel better.”
“Is it working?”
She laughed. “Yes.”
They moved to the screened-in porch to watch Scottie romp through the yard chasing fireflies with Thor on his heels. The dog hadn’t quite got the hang of it, and he sniffed and whined as the tiny lights flitted and flickered.
The air whispered with a hint of warmth, and the scent of roses mingled with fresh-mowed lawn. Brayden had tended to Korrie’s yard when he got home from the station. She’d seen him out there, his skin glistening beneath the April sunshine as he walked quick, straight rows with a push-mower along the postage-stamp sized lawn. When she’d stopped to question him with a glass of sweet tea, he told her he knew she didn’t have a mower and that Michael was covered up with renovating one of the farmhouse’s upstairs bedrooms into a nursery.
His easy manner had made Korrie thankful that he cared enough to notice the unkempt lawn and take action. He didn’t seem to expect anything in return, but when she offered to repay the favor anyway, he told her the tea was thanks enough.
But she had other plans. Her mind wandered to the artist’s supplies strewn across her living room floor as an idea took shape.
“Scottie and Thor are two peas in a pod,” she noted. “Where did you find such a loyal dog?”
“Thor was my brother-in-law’s partner on the force. Craig trained him from a pup and they worked the drug unit together.”
“Worked?”
“Yes. Craig was killed in the line of duty—a drug raid gone bad. After his death, my sister was unable to care for a dog so Thor came to me.”
“And Scottie? When did he come to live with you?”
“About the same time. Diana was undergoing treatment for bone cancer. She blamed herself for Craig’s death. He’d been spending nights in the hospital with her.”
“Wow…that’s awful.”
“It was. Diana was diagnosed right after Scottie was born. She went into remission for a couple of years and then relapsed a few months before Craig was murdered. I was overseas at the time, fulf
illing the final leg of my second tour with Special Ops. Luckily, the end of that detail coincided with the call to come home.” He took the coffee she offered. “Diana gave it a good fight, but she couldn’t…she lasted five weeks after Craig was gone.”
“I’m so sorry, Brayden. That’s…just terrible. I can’t even imagine.”
“Sometimes when I wake up in the morning I’ve forgotten. And then I hear Scottie padding to the bathroom or scampering around the kitchen with Thor and it all comes rushing back.” He shook his head slightly, grimacing. “Scottie doesn’t remember them very well. He’d only just turned four. I do my best sharing stories and pictures.”
“So much pain. So much loss.” Korrie placed a hand on his forearm and squeezed gently. “How do you manage?”
“By realizing we’re all terminal, Korrie. Some of us just sooner than others. I don’t dwell on it. I just do my best to make every day count. Some days are spilled milk and others are warm apple pie.”
“I like the apple pie days.” Like today. Despite the ruined casserole and sudden change of plans, she’d call this evening just about as perfect as they came.
Brayden lifted the mug to his lips and sipped his coffee. “You know that woman I told you about, the one who ran her car into the garage door?”
“You said she nailed it three times. Yes.” She might have poor driving skills, but Korrie’d bet the woman could produce a perfectly-bronzed chicken casserole. “And, for the record, I might have faulty kitchen skills, but my driving record is without reproach.”
“Right.” Brayden grinned. “Well, thankfully Carol’s misadventures behind the wheel don’t carry over to her business sense.”
“No?” Her interest piqued, Korrie continued. “What does she do?”
“She owns an art studio on the corner of Fifth and Jackson. She runs a robust business—one she’s looking to grow. Word on the street is that she’s interviewing for a panel of artists-in-residence as well as work to display and sell on commission.”