Thyme for Love (Cooking Up Trouble Book 1)

by Pamela S. Meyers

  “Dunno. That’s always been Bob Cousin’s area—until tomorrow.” He twisted his body toward me. “Let’s change the subject. The police aren’t interested in any of this, and I’m not either right now.” He slipped his arm around my waist and tugged me against him. “I’ve been thinking about how I’ve missed those times we’d talk after dinner, solving all the world’s problems.”

  Not seeming to notice how at his last remark, my spine went stiff as a starched shirt, he tousled my curls with his free hand. “Are you going to be able to sleep tonight with all the excitement?”

  Which excitement was he referring to? The kitchen at Rescaté or what was happening right here? “Once my head hits the pillow, I’ll be out. I’ll make sure Kitty sets the security alarm tonight.”

  “Good. I don’t want you losing sleep.”

  I grinned. “Why? So I can be awake enough to fix more goodies tomorrow?”

  “What time you planning on starting?” He moved a strand of hair from my face, his fingertips brushing over my skin like a feather. Tingles ran down my neck.

  “7:30.”

  “I’ll be there too.”

  “For that, you’ll get an extra latte.”

  He nuzzled his nose into my curls. “Your hair smells like lilacs.”

  “It’s the shampoo.”

  “Don’t ever stop using it, babe.” He pressed his face into my hair then trailed his fingers through the locks.

  My eyes fluttered shut. I’d forgotten how much I loved the sensation of him playing with my hair. Was that a kiss he just placed on my head? I pressed a palm against his chest and pushed myself away. “We’ve got to stay focused.”

  “I am focused. On the woman I lost once and don’t want to lose again.”

  “You won’t lose me again because I won’t let you have me the way you did before.”

  Hurt clouded his eyes. “I’m not the same man. Haven’t you noticed?”

  “I’ve seen some change.” I swallowed back the knob in my throat. Okay so I fibbed again. Wasn’t that better than being truthful and leading him to think I was ready to pick up where we left off?

  “Just some?”

  I shut my eyes to stop his smoldering gaze from searing my soul. “A little more than some, but it’s not enough to—”

  Marc’s lips brushed over mine, soft as a gentle breeze. “To what?”

  The last of my defenses dissolved. I’d missed his company as much as he said he missed mine. It was time to let down the walls. “I forget.”

  “Good.” He brought his warm lips to my mouth, this time letting them linger. I let out a tiny groan, and my arm went around his neck as the kiss deepened. Even his kisses seemed better than before. We parted just enough to breathe, lips still touching, then came back for more. He pulled away from my mouth and feathered my face with more kisses. When we finally came apart, I stayed snuggled in his cozy hug, dizzy from the sudden explosion of pent-up emotions.

  He tilted my chin upwards with a crook of his finger until our gazes met. “Time to stop the cat-and-mouse game, mi caramela. I still love you. I never stopped.”

  I blinked as an ache replaced the tingling in my chest. As much as I wanted to be in the moment, say the words he was waiting to hear, I couldn’t. It wasn’t that I didn’t still love him, because I did. But I couldn’t resume our relationship as though the past eight years hadn’t happened. I needed assurance we wouldn’t end up the same as last time.

  He leaned in ready to kiss me again. But, I strained against the pull in my heart and slid away, putting some needed space between us. “This isn’t being very platonic.”

  Now it was his turn to stiffen. “I wasn’t intending on platonic. Seemed for a minute there you weren’t either. Nor were you the other night.”

  Why wasn’t he as confused as me? “I know. But we can’t go there. We need to keep this to talking, or you’ll have to leave.”

  He stared at the six inches of flowered chintz that separated us as if I’d dug a chasm as wide as the Mississippi. Maybe I had.

  He raised his head and looked at me in frustration. “What’s with you? One minute you act like you still love me and the next you’re shoving me into the next county.”

  I pressed my face into my hands. “I don’t know, Marc. All I know is I can’t love you. Not while I sense there’s more to the California story than you’re telling me. Maybe you should leave.”

  “I can’t take off until Kitty gets home. The pill thief might still be around.”

  I forced a laugh. “Like Kitty could stop someone bent on hurting me.” I moved to the chair. Sitting next to him only got me in trouble. Especially with the taste of his kisses still fresh on my lips. “Do you see your family very much?”

  He blew air out through his nose with a loud puff. “I see Mom a couple times a year. Last Christmas, Steve and his wife came from Argentina. We had a great time.”

  I came to the edge of my seat. “Your brother is married and living in Argentina?” I couldn’t believe I hadn’t asked about him until now. I returned to the sofa and sat inches away from him. “I’m sorry, Marc. I don’t know why I never asked about Steve. Must have presumed he still lived nearby.”

  “He did until he visited our cousin a couple years ago and met our cousin’s best friend. They’re expecting in September.”

  “I bet Argentina is beautiful.”

  “It is.” He scrubbed his hand over his beard as a pained expression filled his eyes. “I planned to take you there, didn’t I?”

  “Yes.” I glanced away. “For our honeymoon.”

  Marc rested a hand on my arm. “I meant what I said before. Let’s give God some time with us and see what happens?”

  A recurrent mental image flowed into my mind. Me in a wedding dress, walking across Kitty’s lush green lawn to a rose festooned arbor with the blue lake as the backdrop, and Marc waiting for me in his tuxedo. Over the past several years I’d managed to tuck that vision away to wherever unrequited dreams go. It was back, but without knowing what Marc was hiding, I wasn’t sure I could trust him enough to make that vision a reality.

  “How can I consider giving us another chance if you won’t be honest with me?” I asked.

  “How have I not been truthful?”

  “Do I need to bring it up again?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck with his left hand and stared at the floor. “I never told you how my dad drank himself to death the spring of our junior year—”

  “Drank himself to death? I thought he died in a car crash.”

  Marc gulped hard and stood. If he thought I would let him leave without explaining himself, he had another think coming.

  He walked to the window and stared out at the dark lake. A silent moment passed, then another. I kept my lips sealed, praying that Kitty wouldn’t walk in before he gathered enough courage to speak.

  “The car accident was Dad’s fault. There wasn’t any slick spot on the road like we said. His precious bottle of whisky was found on the seat beside him. Praise God he didn’t hurt anyone else.”

  Talk about feeling left out of the loop. What else had he kept from me all those years we were together? And here I thought only eight years were missing. “So alcoholism retired him early, not some recurring virus like you said?”

  “He did catch a bad virus in Argentina but nothing debilitating.” He turned and caught my eye. “No one except my family knew about his drinking. Even then, we hardly spoke about it. The proverbial elephant in the room.”

  “When were you going to tell me?”

  “I knew I’d have to when we married, but Mom asked me not to until then. We all wanted to believe he’d recover.” His voice caught. “You don’t remember the times I’d suddenly suggest we eat out instead of with my family?”

  Chastened for my selfish reaction, I went to him and gripped his arm. “I’m so sorry, Marc. If I’d known about . . .”

  “If you’d known, what could you have done? Dad controlled our lives, and he
would have controlled yours too.” He gathered me into his embrace, and rubbed a circle on my back with his palm. “My pastor in California helped me see how Dad’s alcohol problem contributed to my being so rigid and controlling with others. Those boys at church I work with—their parents attend the addiction ministry that meets there once a week. If I can help them avoid becoming like I was. . .”

  I nuzzled my head under his chin as all the puzzling circumstances of the past resolved themselves. The times Paul Thorne didn’t make it to parents’ weekend, or wasn’t feeling well and stayed in the bedroom during my visits. Marc’s vague answers one year when asked why he didn’t make plans with his family for Father’s Day. I wasn’t the only one with a difficult father relationship.

  “So, why didn’t you get the doctorate?”

  He took his hand away from my back. “Does my having a PhD matter?”

  “It did to you. Knowing about your father helps, but it doesn’t explain why you didn’t achieve your goal.”

  He edged toward the window and faced the lake.

  “I have to know, Marc.” By the time I said his name I was almost shouting. “Other than God, our relationship must come first. I won’t let you hurt me again.”

  He spun around to meet my stare. “You didn’t put me ahead of what you wanted. Made like Chicago was the only place to live. Then what do I hear a couple years later? You’ve moved to Atlanta. You’d go to Atlanta, but not California.”

  “I told you a hundred times why I needed to stay in Chicago. It was only two years. Would you have liked paying my dad back four years worth of tuition bills? Not exactly a good way to start out a marriage, especially with you in grad school. I left as soon as the two years was up. Atlanta had a good culinary school, and it was far away from both you and Dad.”

  “Your dad seemed like a great guy. You have no idea what it’s like to have a bad father.”

  Were his ears filled with wax? “My dad didn’t have a drinking problem, but he was anything but a good father.” I marched out of the room with the sound of my raised voice still echoing in my ears. How could someone so intelligent be so obtuse? I may as well have been talking to a stone. I was going home.

  I halted in the kitchen. What an idiot. I was home. He was the one who should be leaving.

  “God’s been working on me, April. I’m not the same.” He came around to face me.

  I knew how to handle the smug expression that usually appeared when we’d fought before, but I had no idea how to handle the humility I saw now. It scared me. I didn’t trust it.

  “I wasn’t a good listener before,” he said. “I’m ready to listen now.”

  Tears hung on my eyelids, but I had to stay strong. “Tell me about the change in plans, Marc. What happened to bring you back to Canoga without that degree.”

  “Aren’t the differences you see in me enough?”

  “No. I can’t give you my heart again until I hear from your mouth what happened.”

  Silence fell between us, heavy and awkward.

  Headlights flashed through the windows and he turned. “Kitty’s home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  The door slammed behind him, and I moved to where I could see outside.

  He’d stopped to say something to Kitty, the tender bent of his head only serving to infuriate me. How dare he act so concerned when he wouldn’t share the intimacies of his past with me.

  As I stalked to my room, I made myself a promise. As soon as I had assurance Ramón could rest in peace, I was leaving Canoga for good.

  Chapter 26

  I unwound the sheets, damp with perspiration, from my legs and squinted at the clock radio. In three hours K-LOVE would blast through the speakers, rousing me from a sleep I never had.

  Wide awake, I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling. Marc still loved me. Of course, I knew that before he ever said the words. All fooling myself aside, I loved him, too, but I couldn’t act on it.

  Whatever happened in California had to be awful. Why didn’t he trust enough to tell me? He’d trusted me in the past—didn’t he? But if he had, would he have been so thickheaded to not believe me about Dad’s tuition deal? How could he have thought I wanted to stay near home? He’d heard me say many times how my father’s belittling my love of cooking cut deep. How could he not remember that? The day of my interview, he’d acted surprised when I said I was chasing my dream to be a chef. Had I been talking to a wall those four years we’d dated?

  If he wasn’t going to tell me, I needed to figure it out for myself. I flung back the covers, and without bothering to turn on a light, padded downstairs and slipped into the chair in front of Kitty’s computer.

  Lord, if I don’t find anything about Marc that I don’t already know, I’ll drop it and tell him that I’m ready to start over.

  Within moments I had the computer booted and was at Google’s home page. I took a deep breath then typed “Marcus R. Thorne” into the search field. A new screen popped up. Dozens of Marc Thorne’s, but no exact matches. I settled against the chair back, wanting to stop right then. But I needed to be sure.

  I tried variations of his name and each time got new links, but none of them for my Marc. No news was good news, as the saying goes. My eyelids grew heavy. Now, maybe I could grab a couple hours sleep. Tomorrow I’d tell Marc I was ready to renew our relationship. Did he still have my ring? If he did, I’d happily take it back. I directed the cursor to the top of the screen to close the window and paused my hand as a link at the bottom of the screen caught my attention.

  I read the preview of the first line: “Don’t fall into a trap like Marc Thorne. Moral failure is never good for anyone . . .”

  How had I missed that? My stomach knotted as I clicked on the blue letters. Please, Lord, don’t let this be my Marc.

  The site for California Christian University’s Graduate School forum popped up. So much for wishing for a different Marc. Heart pounding double-time, I read the next screen.

  “Moral failure is never good for anyone. Marc Thorne will be the first to tell you that. Last I heard, he’s serving his sentence at SACC. Check out the archives for the complete story.”

  I moved the mouse with a trembling hand and clicked on the archive link. A screen asked for a university ID number and password. I had neither. I closed the screen and slumped against the chair back.

  Some choice I had. Weaken my stance and return Marc’s love despite not knowing about a huge chunk of his life or walk away from him. Reason told me to do the latter. Maybe I’d keep on searching until I found the answer that didn’t require a password. Good compromise.

  After several stabs at searching for SACC in California, the only reasonable hit I came up with was Santa Alicia Correctional Center. A shudder trailed down my back. Marc may have been a lot of things, but he wasn’t a law-breaker. Was he? How many times had I heard news reports about some Joe Anybody being arrested for a crime and his friends saying they had no idea and that he’d seemed like a normal guy with a job and family? The post I found earlier said “serving his sentence.”

  Marc always looked hot in most anything he wore, but not in the prison jumpsuit that popped into my thoughts. A sob escaped my throat. Straight arrow Marc and convict Marc didn’t belong together in the same thought. But what else could “serving time” mean? I’d want to cover up a past like that too. Was that what caused him to grow the beard? Wear his curly hair longer than before?

  “April, I heard you all the way upstairs.”

  I whirled around. “It’s Marc. He . . . he . . . I think he did jail time in California.”

  Kitty tightened the belt on her pink robe and dragged up a chair. “Where did this idea come from?”

  “He told me last night he still loves me. I told him that until I found out what happened the past eight years, renewing our relationship wasn’t an option. He still refused. We had a terrible fight. I couldn’t sleep and decided to Google his name. I just read something that if it’s true . . .”


  “Show me.”

  I back-clicked to the CCU Forum and pointed at the post.

  Kitty pulled her glasses from a robe pocket and put them on. She bent toward the screen and read. “What did the archives say?”

  “I couldn’t get in without a password.”

  “And what about this is upsetting you?”

  “There’s a Santa Alicia Correctional Center in California.”

  Kitty’s features hardened. “That’s a broad jump to a conclusion. You owe it to Marc to ask him what this means. If your worst assumption is true, you need to hear him out. Not every person sent to prison is guilty, and even some of the guilty ones come out restored.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “Shortly after your Uncle Daniel and I were married, he did fourteen months in prison for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  I gasped. “This isn’t a time to be joking.” Her solemn expression didn’t change and I grabbed her arm. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

  “I wish I were.” She took my hand and gave it a squeeze. “A man at the company where he worked embezzled money and used Daniel as a front. Daniel knew nothing about it, but the judge didn’t believe him. It took his attorney those fourteen months to prove Daniel’s innocence. We decided what was done was done, but it changed both of our attitudes toward prisons and the people that are kept there.” She let go of my hand and palmed a tear from her cheek.

  Trying to wrap my head around the thought of Uncle Daniel in prison garb and sitting in a cell was like trying to visualize Donald Trump living in a homeless shelter. “How come I never knew?”

  “Your father was still in high school when all this happened. By the time he married and you were born, it seemed almost like a lifetime ago. Daniel and his friend started the firm that he eventually took over. Since he was exonerated it seemed better to not mention it.”

  If ever I felt on information overload, it was now. My stomach felt like I swallowed a rock. I wanted Uncle Daniel back so I could hug him and talk to him. At least I still had Aunt Kitty. “Those months must have been hard on your marriage.”

  “It wasn’t easy, but we managed. I worked at the business, keeping it going and spent weekends driving to the prison to see Daniel. That’s when he’d advise me on what to do with the firm. The situation could have driven a wedge between us or deepened our relationship. We chose the latter, but it took work.”