Doing It Over (A Most Likely to Novel Book 1)

by Catherine Bybee

  “I’ll be in the kitchen. Don’t wander off.”

  “’Kay!”

  “Mel in the kitchen?” Zoe asked while they walked inside.

  “Afternoon cookies,” she reminded her friend. “Miss Gina’s schedule hasn’t changed.”

  “But you don’t cook.”

  “I manage.” Kids had a way of making cooks out of their parents. Even if that cooking was often out of a box with just add water instructions.

  The retrofitted kitchen was home to modern conveniences Miss Gina added when she turned the old Victorian into a B and B. The restaurant grade stainless steel refrigerator and range stood in contrast to the white cabinets and poured concrete countertops.

  “Is it wrong that walking into this kitchen feels more like home than my mom’s?” Zoe asked.

  Melanie removed two baking pans from a lower cabinet and set them on the counter. “Food at your mom’s was pizza or whatever she brought home from the diner. Miss Gina always had raw ingredients that had your hands flying to grab them.”

  Zoe opened the refrigerator and giggled. She reached for the red lemonade pitcher and set it aside. “God bless Miss Gina.”

  Melanie handed her friend a glass and moved around to dig inside the fridge herself. “It’s like coming home, isn’t it?”

  “Sure is.” Zoe topped her glass off, sat, and took a drink. “So good.”

  “It still bites you,” Melanie warned.

  The premade cookie dough came in a tub. According to Miss Gina, she bought the stuff off the school fundraiser and stocked herself up twice a year.

  Melanie set the tub on the counter and turned to the sink to wash her hands.

  “What is that?” Zoe asked.

  “Cookie dough.”

  Her glass met the counter with a thump and Zoe’s jaw dropped. “No . . . no, no . . . you can’t be serious.”

  “It’s what Miss Gina told me to cook.”

  Zoe was up and out of her chair in half a second. She tore off the lid and sniffed. Then the fundraising tub became a companion of the trash can. “I can’t believe she’s gone back to that crap.”

  Melanie stood back as Zoe did what Zoe did.

  The pantry door opened, and out came several containers. “I’ve told her a thousand times. bed-and-breakfasts need fresh and organic. Not preservatives and red dye number six.” A Tupperware lid met the sink and Zoe stuck her nose inside the container. “A few simple ingredients and everyone will remember the food. No wonder she’s not busy all year long. Sticky cookie dough,” Zoe muttered. “Grab a mixing bowl,” she ordered.

  Melanie found the bowl and stepped aside.

  Zoe waved a container in the air. “See, she has everything she needs.”

  Melanie wasn’t even sure what Zoe held.

  “Not even expired. Why would Miss Gina buy this and not use it?”

  The questions kept coming, but Melanie didn’t bother answering. This was how Zoe cooked. Hands flying, fingers tasting . . . nose sniffing. She found an apron, took a swig of lemonade, and in the time it would have taken Melanie to turn on the stove and pop off the lid of the fake cookie dough, Zoe had flour, salt, sugar, and several other bits of flavor mixed and on cookie sheets.

  While the cookies slid into the oven, Zoe knelt beside a deep lower cabinet and dug. She unearthed a coffee bean grinder, dusted it off, and plugged it in. “She better have . . .” From the pantry, a sealed bag of coffee beans emerged. “I don’t get why she isn’t using this.”

  Zoe continued talking to herself as the kitchen filled with the smell of fresh coffee and mouthwatering sweetness.

  The screen door slammed with the sound of small feet running toward them. “Stop right there young lady. Shoes off. You and Samuel wash your hands before you come in here.”

  The kids turned toward the washroom without argument.

  Zoe stopped her muttering and chuckled. “Ohhh, the Mom voice. You do that really well.”

  “It’s in the guide that comes from the hospital. Mom voice and Mom look are in the second chapter.”

  “What’s in the first?”

  “Mom worry and Mom smothering.”

  Zoe leaned against the counter while the cookies finished baking. “It’s been hard, hasn’t it?”

  “Yeah. You’re smart to wait. Not that I planned it.”

  “The good things in life are never planned,” Zoe said. “I didn’t plan on being a chef. It just happened.”

  “It didn’t just happen. You made it happen. You left this town before I did with half a scholarship and a beat-up pickup truck.”

  Zoe waved her off. “Still didn’t plan it. Not all of it.”

  “Would you do any of it differently?” Melanie asked.

  Her friend stared at the wall. “Well . . . no. I guess not.”

  That didn’t sound convincing.

  “Are you happy?”

  Zoe tore her gaze away, turned toward the stove. “Yeah . . . yeah, I am.”

  That didn’t sound convincing either.

  As the cookies emerged from the oven, Hope and Samuel fled into the kitchen. Their eager faces still dirty after poor attempts at cleaning them, their hands dripping with water.

  While Melanie poured milk for the kids, the screen door slammed shut again. “Someone other than Miss Gina is cooking.”

  Mel’s heart did a quick jump in her chest before Wyatt rounded the corner. The easy smile on his lips had her biting hers. He wore the blue jeans she was used to seeing on his narrow waist. He had on a pullover shirt and a tool belt loose over his hips.

  “Aunt Zoe made cookies,” Hope announced, her lips smacking over the cinnamon snickerdoodles.

  “Are they any good?” Wyatt asked with a wink.

  Zoe scoffed and pretended offense.

  When Wyatt reached for one, Melanie opened her mouth and her mother’s voice came out. “Wash your hands.”

  Wyatt snapped his hand back and grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Her cheeks heated. “Sorry. Habit.”

  Wyatt sauntered out of the kitchen and he could hear the sound of running water from the downstairs bathroom.

  Melanie turned away from the kids and found Zoe watching her. “What?”

  “He’s cute,” she said under her breath.

  “Stop.”

  “Why?”

  Footsteps stopped their conversation and Melanie pushed Zoe away.

  “Mmm. Luke said you were a good cook,” Wyatt said.

  “He did, did he?”

  “Zoe can turn macaroni and cheese into a delicacy fit for kings,” Melanie praised her friend.

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “A direct quote from one of the judges of Warring Chefs.”

  “A quote used once they found out I grew up in a double-wide. It was a joke.”

  “It’s the truth.” Melanie turned back to Wyatt, his face full of another cookie. “She won her first Fourth of July chili cook-off when we were twelve. In high school, when we needed a new pole vault pit for the track team, Zoe cooked a three-course meal and sold tickets as a fundraiser. Once word got out about her culinary talents, people started driving in from forty miles away and paid forty bucks a plate.”

  “That’s impressive,” Wyatt said. “You should stick around. We could use another pole vault pit.”

  “We?” Melanie asked.

  “I help coach at the high school,” he said.

  “Really? Zoe, Jo, and I were all on the track team.”

  Wyatt wiped cookie crumbs off his chin. Out of habit, Melanie handed him a napkin.

  “I think I remember Jo mentioning that.”

  “Yeah, Jo was a sprinter, Zoe here did the mile, and I was the vaulter.”

  “Hence the pole vault pit,” Zoe added.

  Ho
pe and Samuel scrambled off the kitchen stools. “We’re going back outside.”

  “Go on.”

  “I keep trying to get our sheriff to coach. Lord knows she keeps bringing me kids.”

  Zoe and Melanie started to laugh.

  “The apple didn’t fall far from the tree,” Zoe said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sheriff Ward, her dad . . . he did that all the time. Someone got caught doing something they shouldn’t be doing . . . he gave them an option. Join track or handcuffs.”

  Wyatt glanced between the two of them. “And what did you two get caught doing?”

  Melanie and Zoe exchanged glances.

  “It wasn’t us. We were there supporting our friend,” Zoe offered.

  It took a few seconds for Wyatt to catch on. “Jo?”

  Melanie snapped her lips together. “I’ll never tell.”

  Zoe lifted her little finger in the air, and Mel took hold with hers. The not-so-secret handshake of sorts still held.

  “It’s a daily education with you in town,” he said.

  Zoe pushed away from the counter and opened the fridge. “You kids get out of here. I have stuff to do.”

  “Stuff?” Melanie asked.

  “Yeah . . . I need to remind Miss Gina how this is done.” Zoe waved them away. “When is she coming back?”

  “Dinner. She suggested I invite you over.”

  Zoe snorted. “I bet. Sneaky bitch.”

  When Zoe started muttering and filling her arms with onions, tomatoes, and some kind of cheese, Mel backed away. “I need my knives.” Zoe dumped the ingredients on the counter and disappeared out the front door.

  Wyatt started to say something but the words didn’t articulate before Zoe marched back inside, a black bag in her hands. “What are you two still doing in here? I’d put you to work, but I don’t need a hammer for dinner . . . and Melanie, bless her, is useless.”

  “Hey, I manage.”

  Zoe snorted before turning away. “And take those cookies to the parlor. I’m sure Miss Gina already has a plate ready.” Another muttered sneaky bitch left Zoe’s lips as Melanie and Wyatt left the room.

  The noise generated by Hurricane Zoe drifted the farther they moved away from the kitchen.

  “Is she always like that?” Wyatt asked.

  “Only when she cooks,” Mel told him.

  In the parlor, a crystal serving tray sat empty. A small piece of paper sat to the side. Crafted in calligraphy were the words Compliments of Chef Brown.

  “Oh, she’s good.” Wyatt snaked one last cookie and waved it in the air.

  “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “Finishing up the roof. Bathroom still needs work.”

  Melanie froze. “You didn’t leave the ladder—”

  “I learned that lesson. The ladder is still on my truck. I smelled these before I could set up.”

  “Zoe’s cooking is a beacon.” She finished setting out the cookies, had to tilt her head to catch Wyatt’s gaze. His eyes wandered to her lips.

  “A beacon,” he repeated.

  When she bit her lip, Wyatt looked away and stepped back. “I guess I should . . .”

  “You probably should,” she agreed, though she enjoyed the heat he generated in her belly.

  He took three steps before turning back. “I hear you’re thinking of sticking around for a while.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Small town. News travels fast.” He was smiling.

  She folded her arms across her chest. “I’m considering it.”

  He nudged the wall and changed course. “That’s good.” He didn’t elaborate before he waved the cookie her way and walked out of the house.

  That’s good?

  Two seconds later, she followed him out. He stood at his truck, pulling the ladder from the back.

  “Why?” She yelled across the driveway.

  “Why what?”

  “Why is that good?” She knew, but wanted to hear him say it.

  Wyatt paused in his task, offered a smirk. “You used to pole vault.”

  Pole vault? What the . . . “Yeah, so?”

  “We haven’t had a good pole vault coach since I moved here.”

  “Pole vault.” Seriously?

  His muscles worked in perfect unison as he pulled the ladder free. He leaned on it for a minute and posed. At least it looked like he posed. Like one of those guys in the calendars pretending to be carpenters. Only those men didn’t wear shirts. The thought of what Wyatt looked like shirtless had Melanie biting her lip again.

  “You still remember the basics, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “So you’ll consider it?”

  “I . . .” Pole vault. He was interested in her track talents. Not that they did anything for her. “I guess.”

  Wyatt sent her a full dimpled smile, shook his hair out of his eyes.

  She muttered pole vault under her breath and turned away.

  Wyatt’s laugh followed her back into the house.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  All small towns across the country had a few fundamental things in common. Gossip ran like water in a stream, most teenagers left as soon as they learned to drive or graduated from high school, and they honored their heroes on the appropriate holidays and the anniversaries of their passing.

  Sheriff Ward had been a River Bend hero.

  So much so that the town endorsed his sometimes delinquent daughter when she finished the academy and returned home.

  Jo didn’t need this day as a reminder of her father, but the town did. So when her deputy lowered the flag to half-staff, she didn’t suggest he not. She accepted the handshakes and pats on the back when she passed people in town without having to ask why they stopped her. This had been going on every year since his death; this year wasn’t any different. Except, of course, the fact that many of the kids she grew up with were home to partake in the ritual.

  Jo found herself scowling through a mental Rolodex of names. Who went out of their way to find her on this seventh anniversary of her father’s death, who avoided her. Even Grant, the town drunk who spent a few nights in her lockup like that man from Mayberry, removed his hat and shook her hand.

  What the town didn’t know was how keenly she categorized everyone and everything on this day. Not for the desire of wallowing in her loss, but in an attempt to find her dad’s killer.

  The town may not remember all the details of her father’s death . . . but she did. It helped that upon her return from the academy, she opened her father’s files and studied the report of his death to the point of memorizing nearly every word.

  Her father was murdered. She knew it, the Feds suspected it, the local townspeople thought his death was accidental.

  Problem was, the FBI didn’t find his case dirty enough to investigate once they found a satisfactory nonhomicidal angle.

  Jo knew better.

  Her daddy had been murdered. And she would, one day, find his killer and bring them to justice.

  At quarter to noon, the door to the station opened. Zoe walked in beside Melanie. It was good to see her friends. She missed them both, terribly. Having them there sparked all kinds of memories.

  “What are you guys doing here?”

  “Miss Gina says you go to the cemetery at noon. We thought you might want company.”

  The world stopped in that second and emotion swam in. Emotion that Jo worked damn hard to keep away. Her eyes swelled with unshed tears and she couldn’t form the words needed to tread past them.

  “Uhm . . .” Damn it, she didn’t cry. It wasn’t something she did. Not then, not now. She blinked a few times, pushed away from her inner girl.

  “I can drive,” Melanie offered. “I have the van.”

  Jo gave a q
uick shake of her head. “How about you follow me. In case I get a call.”

  Her friends saw past her excuse and didn’t press.

  Zoe pressed two fingers to her forehead in a mock salute. “After you, Sheriff.”

  Jo pushed her friend toward the door. “Get out of here.”

  Before sliding behind the wheel of the squad car, Jo removed her baton and tossed it on the seat beside her. Next came her hat. She pulled out of the small parking lot, Miss Gina’s flower child van following close behind. The cemetery was just outside town. Far enough to require a daily drive but close enough to see in passing several times a week. Jo always thought it was poetic that the route to R&B’s passed by the cemetery, reminding people not to drink and drive. It did for her, in any event.

  It was a clear summer day with only a few white clouds dotting the sky. Nothing like the day she learned of her father’s death.

  She shook the painful memories aside and concentrated on the familiar route to her father’s final resting place.

  The cemetery was maintained by the little white church, aptly named the Little White Church.

  Jo left her baton in the squad car and carried her hat.

  Zoe and Mel fell in step beside her. Like in a library, their voices didn’t raise above soft whispers. Funny how walking among the dead made one quiet. Almost as if yelling invited a spirit to come out and play.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for his funeral,” Mel said for the hundredth time.

  “Let it go, Mel.”

  “I just feel so bad.”

  Jo wrapped an arm around Mel’s shoulders. “I know you do. If it makes you feel any better, I promise not to go to yours.”

  Mel started to laugh and the mood lifted.

  They walked along the moist graves, avoiding walking right on top of them. Small town cemeteries didn’t have city ordinances keeping the markers on the ground level, and here in River Bend’s only resting place, the markers rose to the heavens in varying heights. The more prominent or rich the member of the community had been, the larger the stone.

  Sheriff Joseph Ward’s stone was somewhere in the middle. He hadn’t been a rich man—no servant of the state was unless they were dipping dirty fingers into pockets they had no business being in.

  The three of them stopped at the foot of his grave and Jo took in the memorized words on his stone.