Jackson’s laughter was rich, and it resonated deep within her. Emma leaned back and enjoyed it until Jackson handed her a clean fork.
“Take a deep breath,” he told her. “And then enjoy yourself.”
The serving Pearl had brought her amounted to no more than three bites, and she sliced off a portion with her fork and gently wrapped her lips around it. The sweetness of the cake engulfed her, and she leaned forward on her elbow, the fork still in her mouth as she moaned.
“I know,” Jackson said, nodding. “It’s amazing.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“You’re sure you don’t want coffee?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Milk?”
“Shhh,” she said as she filled her fork a second time. “Don’t blow the moment. I don’t get that many of them.”
“Okay,” he whispered. “I’m not even here.”
Emma looked into Jackson’s eyes and grinned. She didn’t know which was sweeter: the cake or the man sitting across from her.
On the third bite, she decided it was the cake. But that was up for debate later. She didn’t want to think about anything else just then. After all, she had plenty of time to consider Jackson’s attributes … after she picked at the crumbs left on her plate.
Colson Strikes Right Note for New Tanglewood Inn
Atlanta, Ga.—Last night, in the historic corner of Atlanta known as Roswell, new hotel owner Jackson Drake introduced his new destination event facility to a list of uber-stylish guests gathered from Atlanta’s governing offices and social register.
Locals will recall that Drake purchased The Tanglewood Inn earlier this year when it went on the auction block again for the second time in five years.
At the invitation-only opening night gala, 150 guests dined on gourmet cuisine from the kitchen of renowned chef Anton Morelli and a decadent crème brûlée cake from award-winning baker and Georgia native Emma Travis. For those in attendance who wanted to kick up their heels on the dance floor, Drake provided no ordinary DJ or dance band. Grammy-award-winning artist Ben Colson performed original music as well as such classics as “A Wink and a Smile,” “Crazy Love,” “At Last,” and “Over the Rainbow.” Colson also served as The Tanglewood Inn’s first hotel guest, saying that his suite “easily rivals some of the finest European boutique hotels.”
The party season begins for this new event venue next month. “We’ve booked a baseball-themed wedding, a traditional Victorian affair, and a murder mystery party to celebrate the twentieth wedding anniversary of Georgia senator Virgil Franchese and his wife, Patricia,” says proprietor Jackson Drake. “I’ve assembled one of the finest staffs a new business owner could dream up, and we have high hopes for The Tanglewood.”
“In this economic climate,” says party guest, district attorney Zachary Dillon, “this was a risky move for Drake. But if tonight is any indication of his future, I’d say we have a permanent fixture for some pretty spectacular social events here in Roswell.”
Morelli’s, the 100-seat onsite restaurant, is open to the public from 5 p.m. until 11 p.m. Sunday through Thursday beginning next week, and an English tea room operated by baker Emma Travis will take reservations for Tuesday and Wednesday afternoons from 1:00 p.m. until 4:30 p.m. Wedding and party planning can be facilitated by calling Madeline Winston at 770-TANGLEWOOD.
19
Emma grabbed her travel mug and bag from the seat and hurried from her car across the parking lot. There was no more pulling into the circular drive out front, hugging the curb and taking less than twenty steps into the hotel. Now The Tanglewood was open for business. Excitement buzzed through her at the thought as she jogged across the lot and took the sidewalk to the back entrance into the restaurant.
The door to Anton’s kitchen was propped open. “Morning!” she called to Pearl as she passed.
“G’morning, Emma.”
She pushed the second door open and strode across her own kitchen and into her office. She took a sip of hot tea as she flipped on the computer. She produced the small glucose monitor from her bag before she stowed it in the bottom drawer.
No e-mails from Jackson, she thought when her inbox popped up. That’s unusual.
It took a few quick seconds to poke her finger, apply a drop of blood to the strip, and insert it into the monitor.
117. A little higher than normal for this time of day, but Emma attributed it to emotions. The truth was that she’d been hoping for a call from Jackson on Sunday, and she’d checked her personal e-mail from home at least a dozen times over the course of the day. When communication never came, she was up before the alarm on Monday. And for someone whose normal driving speed had been compared to a stagecoach or a fast cow, Emma felt a bit out of her element reminding herself to slow down and pay attention to the stoplights on the drive over to the hotel.
Disappointment twittered around her ribcage like a fizzy drink. After his overtures on Saturday night, with the dinner and two dances to Ben Colson’s songs, she’d begun to imagine something might actually happen between her and Jackson Drake.
Emma sighed, and she zipped the monitor back inside its case, dropped it into the drawer, and, with a click of the mouse, began to review her calendar.
10:30 a.m.—Status meeting for the next month with Norma
12:00—Lunch with Connie Edison, the hotel’s publicist, to discuss the tea room
1:30—Cake consultation with Beverly Branson regarding her summer wedding
2:30—Consultation with Callie Beckinsale
Emma’s stomach knotted. She hadn’t thought much about Callie and Danny’s upcoming wedding except for the occasional mention of the sports-themed wedding being the first held at The Tanglewood.
Norma would be going over the final details, she reminded herself. All that would be required of Emma would be a simple update on the plans for her baseball mitt wedding cake.
“You’re in early,” Pearl remarked, curled around the door with just her head inside.
“Yeah, I thought I’d get a jump on the week.”
“Do you want tea?”
“No, thanks. I brought some from home,” she said and held up her travel mug from Starbuck’s.
Pearl hesitated. “How about some protein? Have you had any this morning?”
“Yes.”
“Well, are you doing okay?”
Emma glanced up at her. “Sure. Why?”
“Saturday night looked pretty intense. I just wondered how the rest of your weekend went.”
Emma wiggled her fingers at Pearl, who crossed the kitchen and sat down in the chair flanking her desk before Emma could say, “Come on in.”
“It was quite the romantic scene,” Pearl said. “I mean, he made like he was just trying to be nice and make sure you got something to eat. But it looked like a lot more when you two were on that dance floor.”
“It felt like a lot more too,” she admitted. “But I don’t think it was.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, because that’s all there was. We had a dance, a great dinner, some nice conversation, and then we called it a night. He didn’t call me yesterday, there’s nothing from him in my inbox—”
“Emma, how old are you?” Pearl interrupted.
“Thirty-four. Why?”
“Well, I’m fifty-seven. And men don’t get any different between your age and mine. He’s in After Care.”
“After Care? What’s that?”
“It’s like surgery, Emma. The operation is the hard part where they slice into their own egos and, in a weak moment, they let you know that they’re attracted. Then there is the light of day. That’s the stage that follows his moment of weakness, where he goes home to recuperate and has time to really think about what he’s done. He starts to ask himself questions like, ’Do I really want to get involved with someone right now?’ and ’What expectations is she going to start having now that I’ve let her know I’m interested?’ “
Emma giggled, but Pearl re
garded her seriously with one arched eyebrow. “This is a fundamental time, Emma Rae. What you do right now will determine how long he’ll make you wait every time he’s in after care.”
“Every time! How many times is he going to do this?”
“Depends on the guy. But for Jackson … he seems like a pretty good guy, so I’d say … four or five.”
Emma deflated and sank back into her leather chair.
“Anton is in Phase Nine. Or is it Ten?”
“Nine! Good grief.”
“Which one is this for Jackson?”
“Second. There was a night where we had a takeout dinner at my house, and the next morning when he gave me a ride to work you’d have thought he ate nails for breakfast.”
“Yep. Phase One.”
“And then there was Saturday night, with no phone call or e-mail since.”
“The good news is that you’re probably halfway through it,” Pearl promised. “You just take it easy. Don’t seek him out unless you have to. Don’t let him know you’ve even noticed that he didn’t call. And whatever you do, don’t get all melty when he finally does come around.”
“Melty!” Fee exclaimed from the doorway, and Emma scowled.
“I’m not melty.”
The diamond stud Fee wore in her nose on Saturday night was now replaced by a thin silver hoop, and her raven hair was pulled into two loose braids.
“Is our boss making you all melty? What happened that I don’t know?”
“Oh, it was quite the after-hours scene,” Pearl told her softly. “Dinner. Dancing to a private Ben Colson concert.”
“Really!”
“And of course now he hasn’t called her.”
“I’m in the room, you know,” Emma reminded them.
“Ah,” Fee nodded. “After Care.”
Pearl darted toward Emma and nodded. “Yep. Phase Two.”
“You know about After Care too?” Emma asked Fee.
“Oh sure. All guys do it,” she said with a nod. “It’s kind of like buyer’s remorse. Just a couple more episodes to go with Jackson, I’m guessing,” and Pearl nodded at her too.
Jackson poured another cup of coffee and turned off the burner. It was his third of the morning … or was it the fourth?
He hit #1 on the speed dial of his cell phone, then plopped down into the supple tan leather recliner and took a swig from the large blue mug.
“Jackson Drake’s office. Susannah speaking.”
“Hey, Suzi. How was your weekend?”
“My what?”
Jackson laughed. “Okay, so how was your Sunday?”
“I don’t know. I slept through most of it.”
“Wish I could say the same.”
“No?”
He decided not to expound. “Listen, kiddo, I’m not coming into the office today.”
“Are you all right?” The slight alarm in Susannah’s tone gave Jackson a warm sort of feeling.
“Fine. I have some personal business I need to tend to. Can you hold down the fort?”
“I’ve been holding down your fort for more years than I can count, Jackson. I think I can manage it another day.”
“Are The Hens in yet?”
“Norma and Madeline are here. Georgiann has an appointment this morning.”
“Okay, good. Can you reschedule Connie this afternoon?”
“Sure. Anything else I need to know?”
“Not that I can think of, but I’ll call you if something comes to me.”
“I know you will,” she replied with a lighthearted chuckle. “Have a good day, Jackson.”
“You too. See you tomorrow.”
Jackson couldn’t remember the last time he’d played hooky. It was his second day in the same gray sweatpants and navy blue T-shirt, and the empty pizza box from last night’s dinner was still propped open on the coffee table. He scratched his stubbly cheek and realized he hadn’t shaved since Saturday, and when he propped up his feet on the recliner, he noticed that his big toe was just about to poke through the white sock on his left foot.
He grabbed the remote from the floor beside his chair and snapped on the television. Dozens of cable channels from which to choose, and not a thing of interest anywhere in sight. He wondered what people watched when they were home during the day, and then he landed on a riveting scene where a blonde bombshell accused her cat-eyed mother of sleeping with her fiancé.
“Okay. Enough of that.” He flipped off the television and stared out the window for several minutes.
It hadn’t happened to him so quickly in a very long time, but in those couple of minutes Jackson found himself drowning in thoughts and memories of Desiree. He fought back the pinch of emotion that tweaked his throat and sighed. Surrendering to it, he tossed down the footrest, got up, and stalked across the hardwood floor toward the master bedroom.
There it was, tucked into the back corner of the walk-in closet. The large box with the flaps sealed down, the one that contained the photos and journals and greeting cards; the box that neatly concealed all that Desiree had left behind.
Jackson peeled back the tape and opened the box. There on the top was their wedding photo. They’d bought that pewter filigree frame on their honeymoon in Maui. He lifted it out of the box with care, holding it with both hands and looking into the crystal blue eyes of his smiling blonde bride.
She was such a beauty; so fragile and thoughtful and funny.
Not funny like Emma. Now that girl is hysterical. Very different from Desi, and yet—
He almost heard the needle scratch across the record of his thoughts. There he was again, comparing Emma Travis to his sweet Desiree.
What is the matter with me?
It wasn’t just Desiree that made his thoughts leap over to Emma. In fact, there didn’t seem to be a thing on earth that didn’t remind him of something about her. He saw a random red Mini Cooper on the road last week, and another car driving about 30 miles per hour under the speed limit, and then there was that arbitrary bakery truck on the interstate. They’d all pelted him into ridiculous reflections about Emma Rae Travis!
But Desiree? Wasn’t his life with her sacred? What kind of man let thoughts of his dead wife inspire meditation on another (live) woman? There was something rather demented about it, and Jackson was having none of it.
He poked the framed photograph back into the box and dragged the thing back to its spot in the closet beneath his suits and next to his gym shoes. Then he plunked down on the edge of the bed and tried to excavate the picture of his dance with Emma from the front of his mind.
She’d fit so perfectly into his arms, as if she’d been custom-fitted to take her place there. Her head rested lightly against his chest, and he could almost smell her hair again now. Sweet vanilla and berries.
In his mind’s eye, he shoved her away from him and vowed once again to stop thinking of her in terms like those. He wished he hadn’t kissed her. He wished he hadn’t taken her into his arms for that dance. He wished—
So many things.
He couldn’t help but wonder what Emma thought was going to happen now. He’d allowed her to draw expectations, to imagine he was ready to open his life to someone at this point.
The next thing I know, my award-winning baker is going to start thinking like a woman and want me to step up onto the top of one of those wedding cakes of hers. I’ve got to put a stop to this here and now before there’s collateral damage.
Now he had his head together. Now he was thinking like a reasonably intelligent man. What had he been thinking? Kissing Emma Travis? Romancing her?
It may have taken him two days, but Jackson now felt like he was back in the game. Falling backward onto the bed, he laughed out loud and then groaned.
A minute later, he leapt to his feet and grabbed his favorite pair of Nikes. A couple of hours at the gym, and he’d be as good as new.
Traditional White Layer Cake
Ingredients: 1½ cups softened butter
1½ cups
granulated sugar
2 cups sifted cake flour 2 eggs
1 cup buttermilk
½ teaspoon salt
Sift or mix the flour and salt together.
In separate bowl, blend butter and sugar. Then add eggs and mix well.
Dissolve baking soda in buttermilk.
To the butter, sugar, and eggs, add a portion of the flour mixture, then the buttermilk mixture, then the rest of the flour mixture. Mix well in between.
Pour into greased and floured pan(s).
Bake at 325 degrees for approximately 30 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out of the cake clean.
Always cool completely before frosting.
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A current of electricity buzzed through Emma’s arm as she twisted the knob and stepped into the consultation room. She wondered where Jackson was hiding these days, now that the room had a steady flow of traffic.
“Oh, good.” Madeline grinned as Emma entered. “Your timing just couldn’t be bettah. Emma Rae Travis, meet Beverly Branson, The Tanglewood’s first summah bride.”
“It’s a pleasure.”
“Emma will work with you to design the perfect wedding cake, Miss Branson. I’ll be in touch to confirm the details we’ve worked out today.” Madeline smoothed the front of her robin’s egg blue dress, looking every part the mature Southern hostess as she rose from her chair and shook Beverly’s hand. “Here’s my business card. If you have any questions at all, please feel free to call upon me at any time.”
“Thank you so much.”
Emma took Madeline’s place at the table and smiled at Beverly. “Madeline told me you were planning an intimate wedding, with an English garden theme.”
“Yes. My grandparents are both from England.” Beverly’s bright red hair formed a halo of curls around her round face, and her hazel eyes danced as she spoke of her family. “My gram is a very proper lady from Sussex, and she loved to tell me stories about tea parties in beautiful English rose gardens. I’d love to recreate that for my wedding.”
Always the Baker, Never the Bride Page 19