by Kara Lennox
“It’s not your fault, Reece.”
He looked at her, surprised. “You’re making me feel worse, you know. You should yell at me.”
“I don’t want to yell. I don’t like yelling.”
His guilty expression would have amused her under other circumstances. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper about the car. You said it wasn’t your fault and I should have accepted that. And even if you were at fault-which I’m sure you weren’t-it wouldn’t have been on purpose. I’m sorry, Sara.”
Now she really wanted to cry. Reece certainly wasn’t like her father, who’d never apologized for anything in his life-at least not to her.
“I might have been driving a little fast through the parking lot,” she admitted. “Maybe I could have prevented the accident if I’d been more careful. And I should’ve told you not to put china in the dishwasher. It’s my fault, totally. I’ll take the blame with Miss Greer.”
Reece actually smiled. “Throwing blame around doesn’t really make things better, does it? Let’s try to solve the problem. Can we replace the dishes?”
Sara relaxed. The hideous “thing” between her and Reece was gone, just with a few words of understanding. Now the dish disaster had been reduced to a tactical challenge, and she liked a good challenge.
“There are services out there that do nothing but sell replacement china, silver and crystal,” she said. “But it wouldn’t be the same.”
“You mean we couldn’t match the exact pattern?”
“No, we could probably do that. But they wouldn’t be the exact same dishes.”
Reece obviously still didn’t get it.
“Are you familiar with the concept of sentimental value? These are the very dishes Miss Greer collected, dreaming of a life with a future husband who never materialized. Think how excited she must have been, saving her pennies, buying one plate or saucer at a time, planning for her very first meal. New dishes, even if they looked exactly the same, wouldn’t actually be the same.”
“Could she tell the difference?”
“Are you suggesting we don’t tell her?”
“Why break her heart if we don’t have to?” Reece countered.
It seemed dishonest, but she supposed Reece had a point.
“All right,” Sara agreed reluctantly. “Let’s figure out exactly how much is broken so we’ll know what pieces to look for.”
After removing all of the broken pieces from the dishwasher, they had their tally: three broken dinner plates, two salad plates, six teacups and two saucers. The pattern was Haviland’s Tea Rose, according to the seal on the bottom of a plate.
“I’ll get started researching this on the Internet,” Reece said.
Sara wasn’t particularly skilled on the Internet. She didn’t even own a computer. “I’ll make us some dinner.”
“Is that allowed?”
Sara laughed, the first time she’d done so since wrecking Reece’s car. Miss Greer was notoriously territorial about the kitchen, and anyone who stayed here any length of time knew it. “She lets me cook for myself,” Sara said, “so long as I don’t get in her way or smell the place up with onions. But while she’s away, we get to make up the rules. I’m going to cook all the things Miss Greer doesn’t approve of. Is there anything you especially like to eat?”
He thought for a moment. “Pot roast with potatoes and carrots?”
She should have known. “That’s not really my style of cooking. I lean toward vegetarian and ethnic dishes.”
“No meat loaf then?”
Honestly, the man had zero imagination when it came to food. “How about tortilla soup?” she asked. Everyone loved tortilla soup.
Except Reece, apparently. “Look, don’t worry about me. I’ll go into town to eat.”
“Will you at least try what I fix?” she persisted. “It’s much more fun to cook for someone other than myself. I mean, restaurant meals are fine, and I love trying new places, but nothing beats a fresh meal from your own kitchen.”
“Sure,” he said after a very long pause, “but please don’t be insulted if I don’t eat the spicy stuff.”
“I’ll tone down the spices just for you.” She gave him a little wink, because she couldn’t help herself. His life might be boring and predictable, but his food didn’t have to be. She was going to convert him to adventurous cuisine if it was her last act on earth.
Chapter Five
Reece’s Internet search had started out on an optimistic note.
All of the guests had left for dinner, so Reece had the living room to himself. As he sat on the sofa with his laptop, listening to the comforting clank and clatter of Sara cooking, he discovered a dozen companies that sold replacement china. But he soon found out it wouldn’t be as easy as placing the order and waiting for UPS.
Haviland’s Pink Tea Rose pattern, he learned, had been produced for only two years, 1955 and 1956, which made it nearly impossible to find. The few pieces that were for sale commanded ridiculous sums. Still, he’d broken the dishes, so he had to replace them. He found four saucers and ordered them; they were sixteen dollars each.
Then he registered with a search service, which would try to find the other pieces he needed. It seemed the sensible thing to do since they would know the best places to look.
Interesting smells began drifting his way from the kitchen. Miss Greer often fixed herself dinner and, judging from the odor she had favored sausage. This was completely different, and he had to admit it made his mouth water.
Maybe he’d been a little hasty, turning down Sara’s cooking.
It was interesting that she was such an enthusiastic cook. Here was a woman who didn’t have a home of her own, didn’t even own pots and pans, loved traveling. Yet she obviously had a strong streak of domesticity in her.
He felt bad now, getting so aggravated over the damage to his car. He’d already talked to the other driver, who had admitted fault and was willing to have his insurance company handle the whole thing, no arguing.
Maybe Sara could have been more aware of her surroundings, but mistakes happened, as he had so enthusiastically proved with the dishwasher incident. His mother didn’t put her china in the dishwasher; he should have known better.
Reece had been accused more than once of expecting a ridiculous degree of perfection from his coworkers-from everyone around him, actually. But his highest standards were reserved for himself. Today had just brought home the fact that nobody was perfect.
“Reece?”
He looked up to see Sara’s slim figure silhouetted in the kitchen door. “Yes?”
“I’ve made soup and sandwiches if you’re interested.” The uncertainty in her voice pricked his conscience. For whatever reason, his approval was important to her.
“Sure, sounds good. Let me just finish this one e-mail.” He was in the middle of explaining a complex financial procedure to his brother, and if he stopped now he would lose his train of thought completely.
Finishing the message took a bit longer than he thought it would. It was easy for him to get engrossed in something and lose track of time. Then he took a phone call from his father, who wanted to know down to the second when he would return to the office.
Probably fifteen minutes had passed by the time he shut down his laptop and headed to the kitchen, but Sara hadn’t nagged him.
He smiled when he saw her, sitting at the small table in the breakfast nook. She appeared to be sorting through recipes.
“Sorry that took so long,” he said. “I hope the soup hasn’t gotten cold.” He had to admit, it smelled pretty good.
She brightened and set her work aside, shoving it onto the seat of an empty chair. “No problem. The longer it simmers, the better it tastes.” She bustled around for a few moments, ladling up soup and slicing the sandwiches. He enjoyed just watching her perform everyday tasks.
He used to think she was a bit clumsy. During the first couple of weeks here she had dropped food on him at least three times while serving b
reakfast. But now he could see that she was actually quite graceful, moving with a beautiful economy, one activity flowing into the next.
Just the same, he tensed as she set his soup in front of him, ready to jump to his feet if the hot liquid appeared to be heading for his lap.
No mishaps today, though.
The meal not only smelled good, it looked beautiful. She’d served the thick ham sandwiches on brown bread with a pickle spear, just like at a restaurant, along with a few tortilla chips. Okay, so he didn’t like pickles, and that enormous green thing floating in his soup would have to go. But the effort she’d gone to impressed him.
He tried the sandwich first, because it looked less risky. At his first bite, he realized the bread was rye. He couldn’t stand rye bread. And there was something weird on the sandwich, like lettuce but not.
He chewed quickly and swallowed, then washed the bite down with iced tea-sweetened. What was it with Southerners and their tea? Every place he went down here, the tea was so sweet it tasted like syrup.
“The sandwich is made with one of those honey-baked hams,” Sara said. “Miss Greer received it as a gift for her birthday last week, but she doesn’t care much for it.”
“The ham is good,” he said without reservation. “What else is on the sandwich?”
“Havarti cheese, brown mustard-oh, and some arugula. I grow it myself in my herb garden on the patio.”
“Mmm,” he said noncommittally. Had she never heard of American cheese? Regular yellow mustard? Iceberg lettuce? He didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but he ought to let her know his preferences. Maybe he would buy some groceries he liked, and she would get the hint.
He ate a few tortilla chips, then went on to brave the soup. Good Lord, what was that green thing? He poked at it and discovered it was a slice of avocado. In his opinion, avocados were absolutely the grossest food on earth. Well, next to beets. And asparagus.
He deftly shoved it aside and spooned up some of the broth. Okay, not bad. Kind of strangely spicy. But there was no chicken in the soup. Wasn’t tortilla soup supposed to have chicken?
He ate some of the little crunchy things on top and more broth. And when Sara’s attention was diverted by her own food, he pulled the ham out of the sandwich, scraped off the mustard, cut it into bites and ate it. Then he put everything else in his napkin, to be disposed of at the first opportunity.
He and his brother had become masters of vegetable disposal from an early age. Their dog, Winston, would eat anything, even broccoli. Unfortunately the Sunsetter didn’t have a dog, so he would have to be more creative.
“You don’t like avocado?” she asked.
Busted. “It’s not my favorite thing,” he admitted.
“That’s a shame. They’re so good for you.”
“I thought they were fattening.”
“They’re high in fat, but it’s the good kind of fat.”
“I guess I better eat some, then.” To appease her, he cut off a tiny piece with his spoon and put it in his mouth, hoping that maybe he was mistaken and it would taste good.
Nope.
He kept eating the broth, but after several spoonfuls he noticed his tongue was burning. Great. His ulcer was going to love this.
“Thank you for not yelling at me,” she said suddenly.
“What? Why would I yell at you?” The dinner wasn’t that bad.
“When I was sixteen I wrecked my dad’s car. It wasn’t exactly my fault-a guy pulled out in front of me. But I was so busy trying to look cool that I didn’t see him in time.”
“Was anyone hurt?” he asked.
“No. The damage wasn’t even that bad. But my dad went on and on like I was the stupidest, most irresponsible girl on the face of the earth, and how he knew he shouldn’t have let me get my driver’s license and how all females and especially teenage girls were bad drivers and on and on and on. He just wouldn’t drop it. To this day, if the topic of driving comes up, my dad goes off about how I wrecked the car two weeks after getting my license.”
Reece understood demanding parents.
“I guess I’m not the yelling type. Anyway, it’s just a car. Easy to fix. It’s not like you smashed up a sweet old lady’s wedding china.”
Sara reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “I’m not the yelling type, either.” When she realized her hand was lingering on Reece’s arm, she snatched it away and hopped to her feet. “Do you want another sandwich?”
“No, no thanks,” he said hastily. “That one was…filling.”
“More soup, then?” She cast a critical eye at his bowl, which now contained nothing but soggy onions, celery and tomatoes. “You didn’t like the soup.”
“Yes, I did. I just ate around a few things that aren’t my favorite.”
She folded her arms. “You ate the broth.”
“And it was very good broth.”
“You don’t like vegetables of any kind, do you?”
“That’s not true. I like green beans. Carrots are okay.” He ticked the various items off on his fingers. “Corn. I’ll eat corn and…and lettuce. You know, all the normal vegetables. There are just a few I don’t like.” Okay, more than a few, several of which happened to be in the soup.
She shrugged. “Well, I appreciate that you at least tried the soup. Very adventurous of you.”
Hmm, somehow he got the idea she was condescending to him.
THE NEXT MORNING Sara got up early to fix breakfast. She and Reece had decided that he would help her with the meal, then he would visit Miss Greer and stay with her for a while, making sure she got everything she needed.
But it was early yet, and for a few minutes Sara would have the kitchen to herself.
When she opened the lid on the trash to throw away the eggshells, she found something strange. Bread. Cheese. Shriveled leaves of arugula. And a pickle spear.
In short, everything but the ham from Reece’s sandwich.
“That little sneak,” she muttered. If he didn’t like the way she fixed his meals, he needed to tell her rather than wasting perfectly good food.
Honestly, the man was the pickiest eater she’d ever known. Well, no, that title went to her father. He had to have beef and potatoes on the table every night at six-thirty sharp. One or two additional side dishes were tolerated-corn, carrots or an iceberg salad, in rotation.
The first time she’d tasted tacos at a friend’s birthday party, she thought she’d landed in a new universe. After that, she had tried every strange new dish she could get her hands on. Once she started experimenting in the kitchen, there’d been no stopping her.
When Reece joined her, she was taking a coffee cake out of the oven.
“That smells fantastic,” he said, going straight to the coffeemaker for his morning java fix. Reece did like his coffee, she noticed, and he drank too much of it.
“You don’t have to humor me, you know,” she said lightly. “If you don’t like my cooking, just tell me.”
He froze, a guilty expression crossing his handsome face.
“Do you dislike all bread, or just rye?”
“I don’t like those seeds,” he confessed.
“What about pumpernickel?”
“Not my favorite.”
“White?”
He nodded enthusiastically. “White is good.”
Figured. He’d probably been raised on Wonder like most American kids and had never branched out.
“I thought maybe I would buy a few groceries today,” he said casually. “You shouldn’t have to fix all our meals.”
“No, please,” she said, shuddering at the thought of what he would bring home. Saltines and cheese from a can? “I like to cook. We’ll just have to adjust to each other. But you have to tell me if you don’t like something. No more sneaking food into the trash.”
“Ah. Now the bread interrogation makes sense.” At least he looked a little bit shamed. “I didn’t want to hurt your feelings, but it just wasn’t my kind of sandwich.”
/> She smiled, suddenly finding the whole situation funny. “Got it.”
Reece helped with breakfast as much as he could, but mostly he carried dishes in and out of the dining room and forwarded requests from the guests.
Sara and Reece worked in a comfortable rhythm, which was frankly amazing given that it was only the second breakfast on which they’d cooperated.
Reece, as usual, ate oatmeal. At least that was healthy. But he loaded it with butter and sugar and refused her offer of raisins.
Strawberries. She remembered that he liked strawberries on his oatmeal, and she mentally added them to her grocery list.
She had a sudden vivid memory of wandering through the grocery with her mother.
“Oh, these tomatoes won’t do,” her mother would say, frowning at the produce. “Your father doesn’t like his tomatoes too ripe.”
“But I like them ripe,” Sara had pointed out.
“I do, too. But I have to put a meal on the table that pleases your father. I like to make him happy. You’ll understand someday.”
Sara had privately believed she would never understand, and she’d vowed that when she was grown-up she would cook exactly what she liked, husband or no husband. Yet here she was, plotting how to fix food that Reece would like.
And he wasn’t anything close to her husband.
What was going on here? Was she secretly more like her mother than she thought?
“You know,” she said, “maybe you should buy a few foods that you especially like. Then you’ll have something to fall back on if you’re not wild about my cooking.”
“Sara, I never said I don’t like your cooking. I think you’re amazing in the kitchen.”
She knew he was just soothing her ego, and she tried not to feel ridiculously pleased at the compliment.
But she couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face. Reece thought she was amazing.
“I WALKED twenty-two steps,” Miss Greer said proudly. “Can you believe they have me walking the day after surgery?”
“The doctor said your recovery is going well.” Reece was surprised at how chatty Miss Greer was on pain meds. Not out of her head or talking in German, as she’d been yesterday according to Sara, but relaxed and jabbering like a magpie.