Making Up for Lost Time

by Karin Kallmaker

  Another of the workers clomped into the kitchen. Val served up another slice of the poppyseed loaf. The newcomer looked too much like Jan to be anything but a brother. “I feel like knocking down a wall,” he said, after wolfing down the slice of cake.

  The three of them disappeared upstairs and soon there was the most gawdawful racket Jamie had ever heard. She concentrated on cubing cinnamon rolls for bread pudding, but she cringed at every blow. She could feel each one resonating in her feet and wondered if the house could stand it.

  Val reappeared sometime later, covered in some sort of dust. “It’s going great,” she informed Jamie with a big smile.

  The woman really did like knocking down a wall more than kneading bread dough. Takes all kinds, Jamie thought.

  “Your walls are in good shape. I don’t see any sign of dry rot or infestations. We’ll have an inspector out here tomorrow morning, I’d say. They’re really responsive, which is great. I think it’ll be the same guy as last time—he really dug that mincemeat pie.”

  “Save him some of your poppyseed loaf. Serve it with a dollop of the cranberry jam on the side. Big cup of coffee—one attitude-adjustment snack done.”

  “Attitude adjustment,” Val echoed. “Sounds so much better than bribe. Hey, what’s this?”

  “Bread pudding made with cinnamon rolls instead of bread.”

  “Can I have some after dinner?” Val swung across the kitchen and Jamie noticed for the first time that she was wearing a tool belt. It sat low on her hips and for some reason made Jamie feel—well, warm. No, that was just the stove. What was a tool belt to her? It wasn’t as if she was into butch women. Kathy was hardly butch.

  Of course, she wasn’t into Kathy anymore, so there was no telling what her libido might decide. At the moment her libido was babbling about Val’s legs, and her brain was contemplating something delectable that would substitute for Val. Something very, very, deeply and darkly, richly, comfortingly chocolate.

  Peanut butter cake. With fudge topping.

  Val went upstairs again and Jamie’s brain took a trip to chocolate land. She stirred the daily special—pork and sweet potato stew—and imagined herself swimming in milk chocolate. The hint of cinnamon, the cream—she could feel it on her face, her cheeks, in her hair, she gasped for air—the scent of it filling her nose as she sought to devour all she could, sensing the strength of Val’s legs around her…

  Wait a minute.

  Val was in her chocolate fantasy. That would simply not do.

  Jamie quickly assessed the status of the primary lunch offerings. They were all okay. The week after Thanksgiving week was proving slow.

  Cocoa powder, heavy cream, graham crackers, peanut butter, eggs, butter, flour, baker’s chocolate, more butter, chocolate chips, the double boiler, medium springform pan, sifter, grinder, cinnamon, vanilla…

  She made the peanut butter cake in record time. She made it like she hadn’t made it in years. As if she’d been waiting all her life to make that cake, right then and there. She paced while it cooled, then melted chocolate and whipped it into warmed heavy cream. She poured the thick, sensual fudge over the still warm cake, where it pooled in luscious rich puddles that slowly dripped down the cake’s sides to gather in gleaming, tempting layers.

  When it was done Jamie sat down, worn out. Having a slice seemed like sacrilege. She wanted to look at it for a long time, then perhaps steal a swipe of the fudge, lick it from her fingers.

  Only the smell of rolls on the verge of burning brought her out of her reverie. She’d filled Dar’s orders automatically while making it, but the last few minutes had been spent in fervent contemplation.

  She felt calm inside. She felt much better.

  Then Val came back, still wearing her tool belt.

  Jamie had a slice of cake the moment Val left.

  “If I didn’t know better I’d say your thoughts are someplace else.” Jan rolled over in bed, but it was too dark for Val to see her expression.

  “I’m sorry, where were we?” Val let her hand wander down Jan’s thigh again.

  “We don’t have to if you don’t want to. Really. What’s bothering you?”

  Val thought about it. “Nothing, really. I’m tired, of course.”

  “Who wouldn’t be? You’re putting in twelve hours a day. Eight hours on construction, another four in the kitchen. How much of this place do you own?”

  “None,” Val admitted.

  “How much can she be paying you?” Jan sounded very puzzled.

  “Uh, not a dime for my time.”

  “I see,” Jan said. She plainly did not.

  “Have you ever read my column?”

  “All the time. That’s why I jumped at the chance to do that video thing.”

  “Exactly where do I live and what does it look like?”

  “Well, it’s someplace big, with lots of wood pieces and beautiful decorating, with a big kitchen and… well, fabulous.”

  “What would you think if I said I lived in a one-bedroom apartment on the verge of falling down that I’ve never done a lick of work to.”

  “Well, I’ve seen you in action. You’ve certainly renovated something.”

  Val smiled to herself. “Lots of somethings. Just nothing of my own.”

  “So what’s up with this inn?”

  “Well…” It sounded so silly. “Warnell Communications wants to make me their expert on home and garden and renovation. And the CEO wants to make sure I’m the real thing.”

  “Oh.” Jan was trying not to laugh, Val could tell. “You have to show something off.”

  “If it works I’ll be rich and famous.”

  “I can say I knew you when. That I slept with you when.”

  “It sounds so absurd. And so vapid. I mean, I do want to be rich and famous. Who wouldn’t? But I really want to build things, and make them beautiful, and show women in particular what my father taught me every day of my life—don’t settle. If you want something to change, change it yourself. I don’t have to be rich and famous to do that, but a little bit of fame wouldn’t hurt. And some capital to buy something, renovate it and sell it again.”

  “So why this place? So far off the beaten track?”

  “Oh. Well, I don’t really know how to cook much. Jamie’s teaching me.” It was a bit of a relief to tell someone the whole truth.

  “She is a good cook,” Jan said. “Okay, so you made a trade. But I think she’s getting the best of it.”

  “Probably,” Val agreed. “But while the people from Warnell are here she’s going to fade into the background and let me take all the credit for everything. I’ve learned a lot, but I can’t do the cooking myself.”

  “Well, that’s something.” Jan stretched. “I suppose after you’re famous I won’t see you again. You’ll be off to New York or someplace ritzy.”

  “It doesn’t have to be that way,” Val protested.

  “But it will be. Hey, it’s okay. I’m not the marrying kind, and I don’t think you are either.”

  Val was both relieved and bothered. Jan, as usual, was stealing her lines. She accepted that they were just having fun—spectacular fun. But how could Jan be so sure Val wasn’t the marrying kind? “I hope to keep in touch.” She brushed her fingertips over Jan’s ribs, then yawned.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Jan said. “Go to sleep.”

  Jamie found that she could reduce her stress level by simply ignoring all the work going on around her. She knew that Jan and Stan were on their last day, having been brought on primarily to help with the largest demolition and rebuilding. Well, Val had found other uses for Jan, Jamie reminded herself, then gave herself yet another lecture on cattiness, a trait Aunt Em had deplored.

  She found it best not to look at the new fireplace in the dining room, or even to go up to the master bedroom. She’d never thought of it as a master bedroom, but it would soon sport a large bath with a clawfoot tub and, according to Val, a bay window with an ocean view and a small pellet stove that provi
ded extra heat and the romance of a small, clean flame to fall asleep by.

  She supposed that when Val was done it would be her own room, and that she ought to be taking more of an interest in what was being done to it. She’d picked the Shaker patterns she liked and helped decide on the tables, benches and chairs. Val had access to some fabulous pricing, too. She had never dreamed of anything as extensive as Val’s vision, nor thought she could afford it. But the bank had been willing to make a small capital improvements loan, and so far the interest payments wouldn’t bankrupt her because she hadn’t had to borrow as much as she had thought. She had good security to offer in the Waterview, so the interest rate was a bit easier to swallow.

  Still, she kept her head down, tried to ignore Val’s charm, enthusiasm, hips, eyes, and she made a lot of chocolate.

  Chocolate soufflé, chocolate ice cream, chocolate blackout cake, chocolate raspberry mousse, chocolate cream pie, chocolate pastilles, chocolate dipped orange peels, chocolate chip cookies, chocolate hazelnut pie on chocolate chip graham cracker crust, chocolate cherry buckle, milk chocolate chip pie, pound cake with chocolate custard cream filling, Hungarian chocolate, chocolate bark, praline chocolate clusters—and just for a change she’d pop a Snickers miniature in her mouth with her afternoon cup of coffee. Thank God she could sell all the chocolate she was making after having a small sample herself.

  Chocolate versus Valkyrie Valentine, Jamie thought. Until now she’d have said chocolate would win versus anything.

  She finished swirling together the ingredients for a hearty quiche—the morning breakfast special—and pulled out her latest chocolate muffins. An inspector was due any minute to check the fireplaces and upstairs wallboard. All the inspectors had formed a habit of starting in the kitchen where Jamie usually just happened to have a tasty something and a cup of coffee handy.

  Sure enough, muffins and coffee disappeared upstairs with Val and inspector. A friend of Jeff O’Rhuan’s was making a clatter in the stairwell, running new electrical wiring while the walls were missing. Val had been pleased to find a licensed electrician, and Jamie kept him supplied with food throughout the day. She had just finished pressing a big slice of quiche on him when she realized that Liesel was right—Aunt Em would be proud of the way things were changing and what Jamie was doing. Feeding people, making herself happy. For she was happy.

  It was a happiness with limits. Obviously someone to share this happiness with would be nice. A little passion, a little laughter—it would be very nice. Kathy was right out, she believed that now. The problem was reminding herself that Val was right out, too.

  She had a sliver of chocolate bark.

  When the inspector came back downstairs he looked happy. He thanked her as always for the coffee and treat. They proceeded on to the dining room.

  Val said over her shoulder, “You can come look, too, you know.” She needn’t have had such a knowing smile, Jamie thought.

  When she finally took in the enormity of the changes, she was glad that Val was occupied with the inspector. The room was so different she almost felt like it wasn’t her inn anymore. The walls that had been repainted were now sea foam white. The ceiling was even whiter, making it appear to soar higher above the room than its nine feet. With wide unembellished facings and mantels, the fireplace dominated the far wall. The lines were clean and there wasn’t a scallop or curlicue in sight.

  The fireplace was actually three smaller fireplaces with one common mantel. Each was up off the floor about two feet with a bench-type hearth in front where a person could warm her backside. Each was gas-powered with special reflectors to increase both the heat output and glow. Val assured Jamie that when they were running she wouldn’t need any other heat in the dining room, especially after they insulated under the old wood floor. Insulation would come after the floor was refinished and the Warnell party had come and gone.

  She liked it. Liked it very much. Without Val’s artistic eye she would never have seen how these simple lines could add so much ambiance and style. She pictured the wood tables already on order fitted out with simple condiment trays and plates full of her food. Her finest stews and breads, cacciatores and pastas—and best of all, her aunt’s special cherry pie with ribbon crust.

  Teary-eyed, she backed out of the room and found privacy in the walk-in refrigerator. Not enough, though, because Val tracked her down a few minutes later.

  “Why are you hiding out in here?”

  Jamie busied herself counting milk cartons. “I’m busy.”

  “Yeah. Well—I thought… Fine. Just fine.” Val turned on her heel.

  “Wait.” Jamie scrubbed her eyes with her apron.

  “What’s wrong?” Jamie tried not to notice that Val’s eyes were like liquid cobalt. “You hate it. I thought you were waiting to be surprised or I’d have made you really look at it sooner. You hate it.”

  “I love it. I’m crying because I love it. I cry when I’m happy.”

  “You’re not making that up, are you?”

  Jamie shook her head. “My aunt would love it too. You know I had misgivings about all of this—”

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “Well, you’ve held up your end of the bargain more than I ever thought possible.” Jamie had to say it, even if Val was smiling in the way that made her want lots and lots of chocolate. “And I’ll throw my heart into holding up mine.”

  “Friends, then? Finally?” Val held out her hand.

  Even in the cold air of the refrigerator, Jamie felt the warmth of Val’s fingertips right down into her thighs. “Friends, then.”

  They shook on it. Jamie wondered if Val’s way of stretching the truth had worn off—her feelings were beyond friendly.

  Mendocino was not easy to get to, not without a helicopter. I wasted hours driving to the place. The whole trip was probably pointless. I had far too much to do because of the holidays—everyone knows that no work is transacted in New York during the last two weeks of December, and Dallas is almost as bad. So I really couldn’t afford to make this trip.

  But I had to. Whenever we talked, my father spoke of little else besides how much he was looking forward to an intimate holiday with all the traditional trimmings. He had no idea the pressure he was putting on me, and I needed to put some of that pressure on Ms. Valentine. I needed to be sure that everything was going to be okay, because if it wasn’t my father would likely never forgive me, and likely never give me a chance like this again.

  I had carte blanche with the media relations and art departments. We had scores of logos, six possibilities for a theme song, an entire book of studio sketches. Number crunchers were cranking out revenue projections every time I sneezed. A few days ago I realized that if Val and I didn’t come to a business agreement I’d have so much egg on my face I could open my own breakfast place. Somehow it had gotten away from me. VV—Valkyrie Valentine—had taken on a life of its own.

  The town was charming enough. Wood sidewalks, lots of artists’ boutiques. There was no neon. While there were definitely some buildings turned out for tourist conceptions of picturesque, they were still in keeping with the general feeling of the place. There was no sign of any new buildings done in faux historical architecture. I hate that. The wooden sidewalks weren’t for show—the streets showed signs of mud and flash flooding recently.

  It had been raining in Dallas when I left. I hadn’t seen the sun in almost two weeks. So this sun, gleaming on the ocean and white cliffs, was dazzling. I almost didn’t see the sign for Val’s Waterview house as I drove slowly down the main street. It was after lunch, but I was sure I could convince Val to give me a meal.

  I parked the rental car and then spotted a small bookstore. I’d run out of reading material on the plane and had been disgusted with my choices at the airport gift shop. I decided to duck into this bookstore first, while it was open, and find something to read. I didn’t feel right unless I was in the middle of a book.

  Jamie munched on a chocolate wafe
r and leaned against the back door. The fog was late coming in, but this was going to be her only lull in the afternoon. Her gaze was caught by a petite woman in a very short, blinding yellow suit. Ball earrings in Halloween orange dangled from her ears. From the back, her red beehive was impressive. Jamie rolled her eyes. Tourists.

  As she went back inside she discovered Val trying to scrub paint off her T-shirt. She was swearing.

  “Can I help?”

  “No. It never fails that a little tiny project becomes a great big one. You should see the floor upstairs. I was just touching up the trim when I dumped over the can.”

  “That’s sad.”

  The look Val gave her made Jamie want to giggle. She enjoyed seeing Val discomfited for once. She had paint in her hair.

  “Your hair’s okay,” Jamie added. “You could hide the painted parts in a beehive. I just saw a tourist with a beehive do. Maybe they’re back in style.”

  “This is my favorite T-shirt,” Val muttered. “I was only going to paint one little thing. No need—a tourist with what?”

  Jamie was taken aback by Val’s sudden intensity. “She was headed for the bookstore. Bright yellow suit. I’ll bet her shirt is white with black polka dots.”

  “Red hair?”

  “Yeah. And a bright yellow…what’s wrong.”

  Val had gone pale. Then she bolted to the back door. “Which way did she go?”

  “Down the block. Why?”

  “She wouldn’t surprise me, would she? I’m just paranoid.” Val stood on tiptoe, then slithered onto the back porch behind the big bougainvillea.

  Jamie decided it was time to get back to cooking. She stirred the thick beef stew and tasted it. It lacked depth. She rummaged amongst the bottles next to the stove and finally added about twelve ounces of a full-bodied cabernet sauvignon.

  A heartfelt and long-pronounced swear word floated in from the back porch. A few seconds later Val flew by Jamie and on up the stairs. “Don’t say anything. You don’t speak English. Ply her with coffee, just don’t say anything.” From the first-floor landing Jamie heard, “Shit shit shit…” until it faded out. There was a loud thud followed by some furious scrabbling and then the one working shower started.