Baking for Keeps

by Jessica Gilmore

  “I can’t believe he’s done this!” That was Lacey, her rich voice unmistakable even if it was shriller than usual. “He knew how important this is. Not just to me but to everyone. It’s like he’s forgotten us. Forgotten Marietta.”

  A calming murmur seemed to have no effect as Lacey exclaimed, “No, he’s exactly the same as Mom and Dad: music first, family second. And it’s not just us he’s let down—the Bake-Off people are counting on him too. I don’t know what to do. I can’t believe Nat’s not coming home.” And then he heard a gulp that sounded horribly like a swallowed sob.

  Zac wavered. It was just family business. No need to intrude. He should just keep going. A nice, cold walk in the dark and snow. He was supposed to be clearing his head not muddling it further. But somehow his footsteps led him not past the ajar kitchen door and down the hall to the front door and solitude, but into the warm kitchen where three worried faces turned to face him. Lacey’s eyes were suspiciously wet although her cheeks were flushed with indignation.

  He leaned against the doorframe. “Sorry, I don’t mean to intrude but is there anything I can do to help?”

  It was a polite offer. Zac didn’t really expect it to be taken up in any way. He certainly didn’t expect the three women to look at him at first in surprise and then in hope, nor did he expect a speculative gleam to light up Lacey Hathaway’s fine blue eyes or a smile to curve her full mouth as she stared at him as if he were Christmas, her birthday, and a chocolate hamper all rolled into one. “Zac! Of course. You’re single aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said cautiously. “But I don’t see…”

  “Thank goodness,” she breathed and turned to her aunts, her face alight. “Aunt Patty, Aunt Priscilla, we have our bachelor!”

  Our what?

  Zac took an instinctive step back.

  “We were talking about it earlier,” Lacey said. “Remember? The Bachelor Bake-Off I’m helping organize? The Crooked Corner are is sponsoring a bachelor and I’m planning to video the whole learning to bake process and the Bake-Offs themselves to try and raise the profile of the after-school club. The plan is to get some out of town interest, which will hopefully lead to grants toward equipment and running costs. My brother, Nat, had promised to come home and be our bachelor but he’s just called and canceled…” Her voice faltered.

  Aunt Priscilla took up the tale. “Nat’s a very talented musician and he’s been asked to be the support act on a really prestigious tour. We’re delighted for him.” The glance she gave her niece was full of meaning. Meaning Lacey was obviously not intending to take.

  “I’m not,” Lacey said. “He was supposed to come and stay with us at Christmas but bailed to go and play with Mom and Dad, and now he’s let us down again. He’s going to be exactly the same as they are. Always on the road, every concert more important than promises or family or staying in one place for more than a minute. But if you stepped in for him then we could at least salvage something.” Her face was bright with hope.

  “Step in and do what?”

  “Enter the contest of course. As our baking bachelor.”

  “I don’t bake.” There were plenty of other reasons why this was a terrible idea, Zac knew, but the obvious was all he could articulate right now. This was why he hated small towns. He’d been here for less than a week and was already being inveigled into community life. Another week and he’d be helping preschoolers learn to read and taking fruit baskets into the hospital. No one even spoke to him in most cities let alone looked at him as if he was their salvation.

  “Oh, that doesn’t matter at all; in fact it’s part of the fun. Nat can’t even make toast but Aunt Patty and Aunt Priscilla bake. Very, very well. They will teach you three recipes. One for each round. I mean, they will if you agree.” Now pleading had joined the hope in her face, Lacey’s eyes big and round and focused right on him. Zac took another step back.

  “I know I said I’d buy a cookie or something and I’m happy to make a donation but that’s as far as I’m prepared to go. I don’t live here, I don’t do community or bake sales or fundraisers, and I might be single but I like it that way and I’m certainly not intending to join some bachelor auction.” His stomach turned at the thought of it. Of all that attention. People talking about him.

  Lacey didn’t blink. “Oh no, it’s the things you bake that get bought, not you. We did a bachelor auction last year. It was really successful but we don’t like to repeat ourselves. Honestly, Zac, it’s fine. Like I said, there’s a lot of single men out on the ranches and the winter can be a quiet time for them. This is just a bit of fun over the winter, which mingles raising money with the opportunity for single people who want to meet people to do so. That’s all. Taking part doesn’t mean you’ll be targeted as ready and available.”

  Zac eyed her suspiciously. He didn’t believe that for one second. He’d met several women since he’d been here who, straight after introduction had slid their gaze right down to his wedding ring finger and then, noting its bare state, slid back up to meet his eyes with an obvious invitation. It seemed that women in Marietta were not shy about coming forward. He had no intention of encouraging them further.

  “So why not ask one of those single ranchers to step in?”

  “We could do, I suppose.” She looked so ludicrously crestfallen Zac almost—almost—felt guilty for turning her down. “It’s just you are right here; it makes filming and baking lessons so much easier. We wanted someone from Crooked Corner to be involved. I was so happy when Nat said yes and we kind of organized ourselves around him. You being here at this very moment seemed heaven-sent.”

  “I don’t really have the time.” It was a lame reason and he knew it. Why wasn’t he just saying a flat no and leaving? But good manners—and, much as he hated to admit it, the hope in Lacey’s eyes—kept him standing awkwardly in the doorway.

  “All the Bake-Offs are on Saturdays… The Town Hall shuts at weekends so you’re free.”

  “Lacey.” Priscilla patted her niece’s arm. “Don’t bully the poor boy. We’ll figure something out.”

  “But the first round is in just over a week. This Bake-Off has really pulled the town together after Harry’s death. Goodness knows we needed something fun to focus on. Zac, before you decide will you just come see the house, see what we’re trying to do? If you still feel uncomfortable after that I promise not to say another word…” Lacey looked imploringly at him.

  No. Absolutely not. But, just like an hour earlier when she’d shown up in his room and suggested he eat dinner with her, Zac found he didn’t quite know how to say no to Lacey Hathaway, not when she had that pleading look on her face. “Fine.”

  “Really? That’s amazing. You won’t regret it I promise.”

  What had he done? “Fine I’ll take a look at the house, that’s all. Nothing more. If I were you I’d get a list of alternate bachelor bakers together and get phoning because you’re going to need it tomorrow,” he warned but Lacey just grinned.

  “I know, I know, but just wait till tomorrow. Wait till you see it and then decide. Oh, thank you, Zac. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this!” And before he knew what she was doing, before he had a chance to step away, Lacey danced forward and hugged him. A brief hug, her hands light on his shoulders but still. A hug. Zac froze, her cinnamon scent enveloping him, the softness of her hair still imprinted on his chin as Lacey released him and stepped back, glowing.

  He had to get out of this house, this kitchen, before he found himself promising to cook a four-course meal for every single woman in Marietta. “Right. I’m just going for a walk so I’ll see you tomorrow. To look at the house.”

  “Yes, yes tomorrow. Better get an apron ready because I promise you, you’ll take one look at that house and you will be ready to start baking!”

  Chapter Four

  Lacey pulled at her sweater nervously. She’d seen neither hide nor hair of Zac since he’d walked in on her dramatic scene the evening before—she’d probably sc
ared him away with that hug. Lacey closed her eyes, as if she could block out the memory along with her sight. What had she been thinking? She was a talker not a hugger; she saved her tactile moments for her family not for complete strangers. Complete strangers who stood there as if they were hewn out of granite as she pressed herself against them.

  “Okay, Hathaway,” she muttered. “Remember to keep your hands to yourself.” The flush that swept over her as she remembered just how much of him her hands had actually touched was completely because her aunts had turned the thermostat way up too high and nothing to do with how firm Zac’s shoulders had been under her fingers. No, nothing to do with that at all.

  Lacey turned to the window and took a deep breath. Calm, professional, and persuasive, not babbling and inappropriate. Easy.

  It was a glorious winter’s morning, the sun gleaming in a sky so blue it almost fooled her that summer was here—until she noticed the snow on the branches outside the window or stepped outside into the freezing temperatures. She loved this season: the crunchiness of the snow underfoot, hot chocolates and sleigh rides and ice-skating on the lake.

  But she loved spring too with its promise of warmth and growth, the gradual shedding of layers until winter clothes were consigned to the closet in all their bulk. As for summer, hayrides and swimming, meadows filled with flowers and the warmth of the sun on her bare skin, often Lacey loved summer best of all. Until she got to fall—that was—with its dramatic coloring and crispness. Face it, she loved all the seasons. She’d hated it when her parents had spent too long in southern states where winter required merely a hoodie not a thick jacket.

  There. She could chat about the weather. A nice, safe, non-body-contact topic of conversation.

  Zac was already in the kitchen when Lacey finally left the sanctuary of her bedroom and headed down the stairs. He was weekend ready in a pair of perfectly tailored black jeans that Lacey bet cost more than all her many pairs put together and a beautiful gray cashmere sweater that managed to be smart, define every muscle in his arms, and give him a far more relaxed look than the crisp shirts and suits he favored for work. Not that she was becoming an expert on his wardrobe; no, she was a trained journalist. She spotted details; that was all.

  Horribly aware her cheeks were blazing warm and probably an attractive bright red, Lacey allowed her hair to sweep over her face as she walked past Zac with as breezy a “Morning!” as she could manage. There was no sign of either aunt but that was no surprise. Saturday was a workday at Crooked Corner Cakes. She poured coffee into her travel cup, added some half and half, and snagged a still-warm apple and cinnamon muffin from the basket on the table. “Okay.” She plastered on a smile—not too bright, she’d scared him enough already. “Shall we get going?”

  “Sure.”

  Obviously they were back to monosyllabic answers. Never mind. Once Zac Malone had seen what the town had in mind for Harry’s House he would be positively garrulous. And, once they’d seen the house, maybe they could take a circuitous route back to Crooked Corner and give him a chance to see the town at its best; it was still dark when he went to work and dark again when he came home. But Marietta buzzing with Saturday vibes was a fun place to be. Even Zac would surely find something positive in the friendly, warm atmosphere.

  Lacey opened the pantry door and stopped. Something was wrong. The shelves were groaning under the weight of ingredients and baked goods as usual, nothing seemed out of place, the small room scrupulously clean, no spillages or suspicious smells. And yet…

  She moved the door. Nothing. Not a squeak.

  “The pantry door! It’s stopped squeaking.”

  “It just needed oiling that was all.” Zac padded up alongside her so silently she hadn’t noticed and she jumped at his sudden proximity.

  “You oiled it? How?”

  “With the oil can. I mended the hinge on the back door as well and straightened that shelf.”

  Lacey stared fascinated at the shelf above the radiator. It had always been a little wonky. Nat had hung it last time he came to visit and although better than his baking skills his DIY was a little haphazard.

  “The perfect lodger,” she said. “Careful or the aunts will draw up a never-ending list of jobs. None of us is that practical; we tend to hope for the best until it breaks. Where did you learn to do that anyway? Accountancy school?”

  “I took care of the house growing up. Learned a few things.”

  She now knew one thing about Zac Malone; he was handy with a toolbox. It felt like progress. Lacey didn’t want to analyze why this pleased her so much, turning briskly to wipe the thought from her mind. “Thanks, Zac, the aunts will be so pleased. Right, are you ready? Marietta awaits!”

  *

  Lacey wasn’t often at a loss for words. But she was unaccountably tongue-tied as she and Zac stepped off the porch onto the driveway and made their way onto Bramble Lane. Pull yourself together, Hathaway, she told herself sternly.

  “This is Bramble Lane, but I guess you know that already. It’s the historic heart of the village. Some of the houses are as old as the state of Montana itself. Have you noticed Bramble House by the park? That huge old Victorian on the corner? It’s a B&B now; it’s still lovely but once upon a time it was the fanciest private house in town.” When in doubt just say anything and Marietta was a subject she was comfortable with.

  Lacey’s confidence returned as she led them along the sidewalk, pointing out sights of local or historical interest while she planned their route. It was only a short walk if they took a right turn up 4th and then a left onto Church Avenue where the house was—nice and near the school district, an easy, safe walk for the prospective users. “The schools are just there, right near the community park and the recreation center. It’s a really nice park. Baseball field, plenty of space to hang out, to picnic.”

  His gaze as they passed the elementary school was amused. “Is this where you went to school? I can just see you now, ribbons on the end of your pigtails, skipping down the street.”

  So could Lacey. She’d imagined it often enough. “No. I only managed two years of high school here.”

  “Really? You’re such a poster girl for the town I assumed you were born and bred Marietta, copper running in your veins instead of blood.”

  Lacey smiled as she instinctively looked back over to the stately Copper Mountain, snow-covered now as it stood guard over the town as it had done since the first pioneers built the first homestead, since the original inhabitants had hunted through the rich mountains. “A little bit of copper, yes; both my parents are from here but they left before I was born.”

  “But you live with your aunts?” His voice was cautious now, as if wary of treading onto sensitive territory. It must seem odd, a grown woman of twenty-five living with two women in their late sixties, just as odd as a teenager of sixteen voluntarily choosing to.

  “My parents travel a lot. They’re musicians, the Copper Mountain trio? And yes, there are only two of them. They’re kind of well known, if you like folk music. They believe in taking music to the masses so we didn’t really live anywhere, not long enough to put down any roots that is.”

  “So you traveled the country as a child and decided Marietta was the best the world had to offer?” He sounded amused now, a little superior, and Lacey’s hackles rose.

  “Traveled the world,” she corrected him. “They played all over Europe several times, we went to Australia and New Zealand twice, toured most of South America, Japan. I had more stamps in my passport by the time I was thirteen than most Americans manage in a lifetime. But you know what I realized? A hotel room is a hotel room, a concert venue has the same smell, the same stage, the same backstage area in Paris as it does in Santa Fe. Sightseeing isn’t so much fun when you’ve been living out of a suitcase for months on end and there are times when you wake up in Phoenix and genuinely can’t remember that you spent three months there several years before. Or worse, you know you’re spending the winter in Nashville and you
can’t wait to get back to school and meet up with the friends you made there last time you stayed. Only those friends have grown up and changed and you don’t fit in anymore.”

  Lacey paused and swallowed. “Marietta is my home,” she said quietly. “And in my book that makes it the best the US or the world has to offer.”

  Zac’s brows drew together at her words but he didn’t answer and they continued to walk in a silence that was oddly companionable until they reached Church Avenue and the house earmarked for the afterschool club.

  It was a perfectly ordinary house. Faded and peeling but painted white with a green trim, a porch out front overlooking the graveled driveway and front lawn. It was pretty run-down but there was nothing that some hard work and commitment couldn’t sort out—along with the twenty-five thousand dollars it was estimated the repairs would cost.

  “This is it,” she said, scanning Zac’s face for a clue as to what he was thinking. “The house was donated to the town and the Chamber of Commerce have offered it to us to use for a club—as you can imagine, something this run-down right in the middle of town isn’t great for tourism. But the deal is we only have ninety days to get it cleaned up and made fit for purpose, otherwise it gets sold off to any commercial concern who wants it—and the clock’s ticking. Hence the Bachelor Bake-Off. If we can get the money we need then there is just enough time, if the community pitches in, to make the deadline. But it’s tight and every cent really does count. One less bachelor means less stuff to bid on, less to see, that the whole thing is that little bit less of an event. That’s why we need you.”

  Lacey led him up the porch stairs and knocked on the faded green door, Zac following on more slowly behind her. The door swung open and a tall, graying man in his forties greeted her with a smile.