by Nancy Naigle
“Sounds good.”
“The butcher is related to the hog farmer. I think they’re in cahoots to spoil us with thick cuts to up their bottom dollar.”
“Works for me. Where are your seasonings?” Ford asked.
“Pantry.”
Ford walked over and opened the frosted glass door. “I thought I was organized. Looks like a library in here.”
“Does not.”
She could hear him shifting things as he spoke. “A grocery store, then. Where are the spices?”
She almost hated to say it. “It’s in alphabetical order. All of the spices are together in S.”
He poked his head out of the door. “You’re shittin’ me.”
“No.” She slumped forward, feeling like a dope. “Okay, I’m a little over the top in pantry organization. If they gave degrees for that, I’d have a master’s.”
“I’ll say.” He came out with his arms full. “But it’s convenient. Can’t knock that.”
“Thank you.” At least he didn’t think she was a complete nutcase.
“I might even be a little jealous of your pantry.”
“If I come visit, I’ll help you with yours.” Flynn dumped flour in a shallow pan and set it aside. She generously stuffed each of the chops and then placed them in the pan too. “Can you season and dredge these for me?”
“Do you have specific seasoning you want on them?”
She started to tell him exactly how she made hers, then paused. “You know what. You just go wild.”
“I can do that.”
And he did. He shook and flipped those chops, humming the whole while. He seemed to be having so much fun that she couldn’t help but sneak peeks at what he was doing.
She moved the cast-iron skillet to the stove and added some oil, then turned on the burner. “Whatever landed you in Alaska? Had you always wanted to live there?”
“Heck, no. I was happy in Tennessee. Never really thought I’d leave there.”
“Now I’m more curious than ever.”
“My parents lived near Nashville. That’s where my dad practices law, but I had family out in Franklin and beyond. I spent a lot of time with my dad’s dad. We’re really close. It’s grown up quite a bit since, but there are still working farms out that way too. It’s beautiful. I always felt at home in the country. I loved the quiet. And nature.”
“And you and Jackson and Noah all went to college together in Tennessee, right?”
“Yep. Best friends since middle school. Played sports together. Fixed up our first cars together. Noah was the man on that stuff. Bagged our first deer together. Got drunk together.”
“But none of them ended up in Alaska. Did you follow a girl or something?”
“No. Nothing as romantic as that,” he said. “I think girls usually follow guys to new towns, don’t they?”
“Really?” She thought about the people she knew that had moved from their hometowns. “Maybe you’re right.”
“I’d graduated from college and was working at my dad’s law practice. Well, not his, but he’s a partner there. Huge firm. They have a very impressive client list. Lots of famous country-music-industry types and big companies.”
“So contracts and stuff.”
“All disciplines of law. Kind of a one-stop shop. No matter what a client needs, they can get it. Cutthroat, right or wrong, they play to win.”
“Even if the client is guilty?”
“Pretty much. Or undeserving in the case of divorces and settlements, but the money was great and I moved up very quickly. Probably mostly because of my relation to my father.”
“Sounds like a sweet spot to land, if you ask me.”
“I was good at it. I just wasn’t happy, to Dad’s dismay.”
“Because he wanted you to follow in his footsteps.”
“Yes, and I tried. I worked in his firm for nearly two miserable years. I didn’t like that cutthroat mentality. It was exhausting, and it just didn’t feel right. Also made me see a side of my father I didn’t really like. Maybe I’m just too nice a guy to be a lawyer.”
“So you quit?”
“Not exactly. When I handed in my resignation, my dad wouldn’t take it. Dad thought a much-needed break and some high-dollar R&R would get my head right.”
“Did it?”
“Not the way he’d hoped.”
“Because you decided you didn’t want to be a lawyer?”
“Exactly. I had no idea what I wanted; I just knew what I didn’t want. I traveled across country, and one night while I was in Vancouver I met these folks who worked on a cruise ship. We partied all weekend and they talked me into filling a temporary opening, bartending on a ship bound for Alaska. I was a kick-ass bartender in college. What’s your favorite drink?”
“I don’t drink much. I did have champagne at the wedding last year, but that’s about it.”
“Well, then I guess I won’t impress you with my bartending skills.”
“No, but I’m delighted by your handyman skills. And you’re pretty good with a spice jar.”
He threw a pinch of salt over his shoulder.
“For good luck?”
“Can never have too much of that,” he said playfully. “The cruise went all the way up the coast of Alaska. I saw glaciers and things that I’d only seen on the National Geographic Channel before. I fell in love with Alaska on that trip.”
“You never went back?”
“Had to go back. I still had a job and clients who were waiting for me, but after that trip I knew where I was meant to be. I finished out the year, spending all of my extra time learning about Alaska and watching for prime property to go on sale. By that Christmas I’d bought a piece of land, had a temporary place to live, a job, and a plan to move.”
“You were brave.”
“I was following a dream.”
“Sounds exciting.”
“It was.” He crossed one leg over the other as she placed the pork chops one by one into the fry pan. They sizzled and spattered. “My dad was furious.”
“He didn’t understand?”
“Not at all. That first year I lived in Alaska things were pretty rustic. I’ll have to show you pictures sometime.”
She picked up the tongs and turned the chops in the hot oil. Spices filled the air. “I’d love to see them.” She wondered if she’d ever be able to do something so brave. To just up and move to somewhere that you’d never lived. Not having a support system of family and friends nearby. It was hard to imagine.
He pointed to the pan. “I’m going to like that.”
“I know you will. I’m kind of famous for these.” She picked up a dishtowel and draped it over her shoulder. “Can you get the salad out of the refrigerator?”
“I’m on it.”
“You’re a great help. No, a miracle worker is what you are. I had a handyman living here for six months and he couldn’t seem to get my bathrooms finished. Not even one of them.”
Ford cut his gaze her way. “He either wasn’t as handy as he wanted you to think, or he just liked hanging around you.”
She felt the flush on her cheeks. There it was again, that feeling that he was flirting with her. But that was just silly. Or wishful thinking. “I’m not sure which, but I won’t be hiring him for any other work.”
“Can’t say that I blame you, but then I can’t blame him either. You are fun to be around.”
So was Ford, but she kept that to herself.
Chapter Eleven
The next morning scents from the kitchen roused Ford from a good night’s sleep. Savory sage and that sweet and spicy greasy smell that made his mouth water. Sausage.
I could get used to this.
He rolled over onto his back and picked up his phone to check the time. Just after seven.
He got out of bed and pulled on a pair of jeans. The aroma only got better as he headed downstairs. “Does this house seriously smell this amazing every single morning?”
“Please don
’t leave a one-star review on the website.”
“No, ma’am. Not as long as you’re sharing.”
“I was kind of counting on that. No fun to eat alone. It’s a beautiful morning. I thought we’d eat out on the breakfast porch.”
“I’m still full from dinner last night.”
“You have to eat something, and it’s lighter than it smells.”
“I didn’t say I’d turn it down. What can I do?”
“Stay out of the way, else I’ll charge you double,” she teased.
“I knew a guy with a rule like that.”
“I’m a quick study.” She opened the refrigerator and took out a pitcher of orange juice. “You can carry this out for me. I’ll be there in just a second.”
“I can do that.” He meandered out through the back French doors. In the summer it would likely be a sauna out here, but this morning the air was crisp, and the sun warm.
The table was set for two. Cloth napkins and china with a simple blue line around the edge. A little fancy for his style. His mind wandered to plates he might make for her in colors that picked up the vibrancy of the flowers. Glass plates in geranium red, chrysanthemum gold, and the soft, vivid green of new shoots and evergreens.
He sat down and flipped through the email on his phone. There was a message from Gary Graves over at the PRIZM Glass Art Institute. He’d responded to Ford’s email asking for early access to the facility this week.
Flynn walked out with a tray of fresh fruit and plates with biscuits and sausage gravy.
“That looks so good.”
“Dig in.” She sat across from him and placed her napkin in her lap.
“I’m headed out to PRIZM today to check on things before my start date. Have you ever been there?”
“To the glass studio?”
“Yeah. It’s open to the public.”
“Nope.” She took a bite of her breakfast. “I’ve never been.”
“Are you interested in going? If you’re not too busy, I thought maybe you might enjoy riding out there with me.”
“Might be fun.”
“I want to make sure I’ve got everything I need there. It won’t be an all-day thing. There should be some students working. Thought you might like to see that. It’s kind of cool.”
She hesitated, and for a minute he thought she might say no, and he felt a twinge of disappointment.
“I’ve never seen anything like that. I mean I’ve been to art galleries, but not a gallery that also had in-house artists and education on-site like they do. I’m not sure I really understand what you even do.”
“Then you have to come. Plus, Gary, one of the owners, said in one of his emails that they opened up a cafe there last month. I’ll treat you to lunch.”
“I heard about that place. It’s called Kaleidoscope or something like that, right?”
“Yes. That’s it. Everything is organic. Kind of farm to table, but they only serve breakfast and lunch. I wanted to leave around nine. Think you can be ready by then?”
“Absolutely.” They finished breakfast and then she scooted her chair back from the table and picked up the plates. “That’s the nice thing about this business. I can pretty much set my own schedule. Let me just get my stuff together.”
An hour later they were driving down the back route that connected Boot Creek to Heron Cove, where the PRIZM Glass Art Institute was located. The rattle of Jackson’s old pickup truck made it difficult to have a conversation, so they rode in silence.
Thank goodness it wasn’t too hot this time of year, because the air-conditioning in the old truck was barely sputtering cool air. It didn’t take long for them to give up and just roll down the windows. Flynn sat with one long leg folded up on the seat of the truck and her arm hanging out the window. As they drove she dipped her hand up and down in the wind, chasing the current. He spread his fingers against the wind too. One of those little unspoken synchronicities that made him feel close to her, but if he ever tried to explain it to someone else he’d sound half crazy.
They drove past a white clapboard church. Flynn clicked her fingers, pointing toward the sign.
He read it out loud as they sped past. “‘Things are only impossible until they are not.’”
“Isn’t that the truth?”
“I suppose it is.” He cocked his head, not even sure if he wanted to know the answer. “What do you think is impossible?”
She tossed her head back and laughed. “What’s possible would be an easier question.”
“I think pretty much everything is possible. I mean, you might have to make some sacrifices, but you can make things work if you really want them to.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re living your dream.”
“You are too.”
“Not really. The B&B is great. I love it, but there’s more to my dream than owning a business.”
“Fair enough. Mine’s not just about work either. That’s just what I do. Not who I am.”
“See. You get it.”
He understood that very well. Well enough to have alienated his father. Not an easy thing to do, especially since that had strained his relationship with his mom too. “I do. What more do you want?”
She stared out the window for a moment. “The fairy tale. A family. Annual vacations that we save up all year for. Picnics. Simple stuff, really, but things people don’t much think about anymore.”
“I want to own my own glass shop, but not like the one I worked in back in Alaska.”
“What didn’t you like about that place?”
“The facility was great, but it’s a tourist shop. We taught people with too much money and time on their hands how to blow glass balls. Seriously boring. And about as creative as counting quarters from a jukebox.” So why had he done it for so long? For the few quiet months out of the year that he had time to really create, but he sure longed for the days when that balance would shift. More him, less them.
“You don’t think having the business side would increase your enthusiasm for the art?”
He hadn’t really thought about that before.
She went on before he could even answer. “I’d think it would be fun to share your love of glassblowing with others. You have a special gift and a skill that most people will never get the chance to experience any other way.”
“True, but not like that. It’s fun to share the art I make, but taking them by the hand and baby stepping them through the most basic elements of glassblowing is no picnic. I’d rather allow the tourists to watch artists at work making real art. Not glass balls. Even place orders for custom work. And I think I’ve come up with a way to set up a simulator that would give visitors the chance to experience the process without the risk and without them having to wear smocks and get sweaty. Trust me, it gets old listening to people complain about that.”
“You sound a little grumpy.”
“I’m not grumpy. I’m just passionate about my work.”
“Is that what you call it?” she joked.
“Passion is one of my best qualities.” He held her gaze. She had a way of tempting his passion without even trying.
“Oh, well . . .” She tripped over her words, then said, “I was kind of thinking marking chores off of a list was at the top.”
“That too.” He spontaneously patted her leg, then quickly withdrew it. He hadn’t meant to respond with the overfamiliar gesture. It had just happened. “I do like having a plan. That way I get what I want.” And he was pretty sure what he wanted was more time with Flynn.
“I have to admit something.” She looked away. “I saw your portfolio when I was making up your room. It’s really impressive.”
He wasn’t sure whether to feel like she’d invaded his privacy or proud, but pride was winning out. Snooping did bug him, but he’d left that sitting out, and she had every right to be in the room. It was her house, and business, after all. “Thank you.” Plus he liked that she appreciated his talent.
“I’m sure I�
�d never be able to afford one of your pieces, but I could see one backlit on one of those built-ins downstairs. Wouldn’t that be beautiful?”
Wouldn’t she die if she knew he’d done that very thing in his own house? “It would.” He wanted to make things for her. To surprise her. To delight her in a way only he could.
He pulled into the parking lot in front of the gallery. Ziegler had sent a collection of Ford’s work to PRIZM a few months back. They’d planned to display it to get people interested in the special workshops he was leading this month.
At the time Ford hadn’t even cared what got sent. Now he hoped it was an impressive lot. He’d be seeing it for the first time with Flynn today, and he wanted her to be impressed.
The long glass window in front of the gallery sparkled with color, but he didn’t notice any of his pieces there.
They got out of the truck and Ford stepped ahead of Flynn to open the front door for her.
She took two steps, then stopped like she’d stepped into cement boots. The storefront was filled with fine glasswork of all sizes. Some for display, others for sale. The sparkle and depth of the colors in glass always felt alive to him. Maybe because in a way it was when he worked with it still in a hot liquid form.
“Wow. This is beautiful and kind of overwhelming,” she said.
Gary spotted them and walked over. “I’m so glad you could make it out today. Welcome.” He cuffed Ford on the shoulder. “Great to meet you in person.”
“You too.” Ford shook his hand. “This is my friend Flynn Crane. She owns the bed and breakfast over in Boot Creek.”
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Crane.”
“Flynn.”
“Welcome to PRIZM, Flynn. We are so excited to have Ford here. This is a big deal for us.”
“I bet,” she said.
Her smile made Ford’s mood soar. He placed his hand on the small of her back.
“Your work is displayed over here.” Gary led them across the space, looking excited to show off what they’d done for him.
Ford watched how cautious Flynn was walking through the crowded room of glass. She clung to her purse—afraid she might knock something over.
He got a rush as they passed lots of really nice work, but there was a drastic uptick in style and color when they moved into the gallery room where his own pieces were displayed this month. He’d forgotten about a couple of these. The huge jellyfish with long tentacles had never been one of his own favorites, but Ford wasn’t surprised it was among what Ziegler had sent, because it had always been one of his. They’d hung it from the ceiling at an angle. It looked as if it were pushing itself through the water. In this light and setting, he could understand more why Ziegler had always been so gaga over it.