“There’s always time for brownies. I just took them out of the oven. Double chocolate, with walnuts. Smell them?”
“My olfactory system stopped functioning a few hours ago. Thank heavens.” Brooke wadded up a fistful of paper towels to plug the hole. She got to her feet, straightened her back, and gingerly stretched her arms over her head. “Ow.” She winced as her joints popped. “Ow, ow, ow.”
“What was that?” Anna asked.
“My knees, wrists, and spine.”
“I better lace the next batch of brownies with Percocet.”
“Please do.” Brooke gimped out to the hallway and called up the staircase. “I’m off to Glens Falls. Anyone need anything?” She sniffed, narrowing her eyes. “Jamie, I know you’re smoking up there. Knock it off.”
Anna raised one eyebrow. “I thought your olfactory system stopped functioning.”
“I can always smell trouble brewing.” As Brooke buttoned up her coat, she noticed the grime embedded underneath her fingernails, grime that no amount of soap and scrubbing could eradicate. “This house is my albatross. Remember The Rime of the Ancient Mariner? Samuel Coleridge probably wrote that while he was chiseling away at a corroded old toilet flange.”
“You’re just frustrated.” Anna nodded up toward Mr. Wonderful perched on the newel post. “Deep down, you love this place.”
Brooke shook her head. “I loved the idea of it, before I knew what horrors lurked beneath the drywall and the floorboards and the toilets. This house is not as advertised.”
Anna abandoned her pep talk, plunked down on the steps, and rested her chin in her hands. “That’s exactly how I feel about my marriage right now.”
But Brooke was on a roll. She started gesturing and pacing the carpet. “All I ask for is a cute little hideaway that hasn’t sustained decades of internal structural damage. I don’t want a fixer-upper; I don’t want to spend all my free time fixing the previous owners’ mistakes; I just want to move in and unpack. Is that really so much to ask?”
“Yes,” Anna said. “Both with houses and with men.”
Brooke stopped ranting and focused on her friend. “Don’t say that. Jonas is such a nice guy.”
Anna shrugged one shoulder. “If Jonas had an MLS listing, that’s exactly what it would say: such a nice guy, move-in condition. It’s not that simple, though. It’s never that simple.”
“Oh, Anna.”
“Oh, Brookie.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Just keep chipping away at our respective toilet holes, I guess.” Anna exhaled slowly. “But for now, how about a brownie for the road?”
For the past few years, Brooke had been holding out for a nice guy. She’d never understood Jamie’s penchant for baggage-laden bad boys or Cait’s weakness for authority figures with superiority complexes. Her idea of male perfection was steeped in Southern nostalgia: a gentleman, in every sense of the word.
There was only one problem. After years of false starts and disappointing dates, she was starting to doubt that gentle men existed anymore. Or, if they did, they seemed drawn to wild, troubled beauties like Jamie, who was forever bemoaning how many of her male “buddies” had blurted out their undying love for her and ruined the friendship. “He’s like my brother,” Jamie would say. “I just don’t like him that way. I need a challenge, you know?”
Brooke didn’t see the appeal in trying to tame a man or bend him to her will. She wanted to get married and stay married and share a functional, healthy relationship with someone who took pride in being a husband and father. The right man would arrive at the right time, or so she had always told herself.
She was starting to have her doubts.
Brooke turned her car onto Pine Street and braked for a red light. The sweet aftertaste of brownie turned sour in her mouth. When the light turned green, she U-turned and headed back toward the quiet faculty neighborhood near campus.
I need answers,” Brooke blurted out when Professor Rutkin opened the door.
Cassandra didn’t seem surprised to find a frazzled former student pacing her front porch on a school night. She simply took a moment to adjust the collar of her black merino robe and sipped her mug of tea. “Miss Asplind. Lovely to see you.”
“Hi, sorry, I know it’s abominably rude to drop by without calling, but I was on my way to Home Depot, and—” Brooke shook her head in a vain bid for clarity. “I need help.”
“Come in.” This was more of a command than a request. The older woman ushered Brooke through the living room, which was furnished in sleek Danish furniture and exotic-looking pottery pieces, and into a small, utilitarian kitchen. She prepared a mug of chamomile tea from the kettle of water cooling on the stove burner and pressed the mug into Brooke’s hand. “Now, what can I help you with?”
Brooke tried to decide where to begin. “Well, I suppose it’s a crisis of confidence, or a crisis of faith. I’ve started to question some of the fundamental tenets of my personal belief system.”
A tiny smile played on Dr. Rutkin’s lips. “That sounds like a lot to take on in one evening.”
“I’ll say. My guest room toilet is ruining my life and I need to fix it. Oh, and I asked out this guy and he turned me down flat.”
“Well, you’ve come to the wrong place, I’m afraid. I have little to no experience with plumbing, and as for men—you’re better off asking someone else for advice.”
Brooke nodded. “I suppose you’re too sensible to waste your time with dating.”
“What on earth would give you that idea?” Cassandra squinted back at her. “I’m a physicist, not a vestal virgin. Don’t buy into all those hackneyed white lab coat stereotypes. I have stories from the trenches that would peel the polish right off your toenails.”
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”
Cassandra’s smile returned. “Don’t think you literary types have a monopoly on romance. I just don’t kiss and tell. Especially when the kissing may or may not involve other faculty members at this college.”
Brooke sized her up for a moment. “You’ve got some really good dirt, don’t you?”
Cassandra winked. “That’s immaterial.”
“Okay, but can you just tell me if you’ve heard anything scandalous about Professor Clayburn in the English department?”
Cassandra didn’t respond, but Brooke thought she detected a split-second flinch. “What?” Brooke pressed. “Is he a player? An addict? A secret back-alley internal-organs dealer? Give me a hint. I won’t reveal my source, I promise!”
“Miss Asplind.” The brusque, professorial air was back. “I believe you said you wanted to discuss plumbing.”
“I do, but I really need to know if Professor Clayburn is, you know, a shiftless libertine. Because one of my best friends is getting involved with him way quicker than she should, and I’m concerned that—”
Cassandra stared her down.
“Fine.” Brooke sighed. “Just give me the lowdown on plumbing.”
“Unfortunately, that’s not my area of expertise,” Cassandra admitted. “Wiring is much more my thing. But, actually, if you’d care to experiment in the spirit of scientific inquiry, I could use some help clearing out my bathroom sink. It’s been draining slowly and making gurgling sounds. My neighbor recommended a handyman to repair it, but I found his attitude appalling.”
Brooke’s head snapped up. “Was his name Hank Bexton, by any chance?”
“Why, yes, I believe it was.”
Brooke devolved into a frothy-mouthed, semicoherent diatribe punctuated by liberal use of the phrases “blonde jokes,” “Samuel Coleridge,” and “crescent wrench chauvinism.”
Cassandra waited patiently, sipping her tea, until Brooke wound down. “Feel better?”
“Much.” Brooke rolled up her sleeves. “Now lead the way to the sink. I’m sure I can tackle this. Let’s see, I’m going to need a drain snake, a wrench set, and some leather work gloves.”
The professor’s expression
barely changed, but she granted Brooke a quick, approving nod. “The student has become the teacher.”
“I feel like the Karate Kid of physics.” Brooke couldn’t have felt prouder if she’d aced a midterm on the laws of thermodynamics. “Wax on, wax off.”
“If this were played upon the stage now,
I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.”
—Shakespeare, Twelfth Night
Anna shifted her shopping basket from one hand to the other and stared up at the grocery shelf. Brooke had been right about Thurwell’s only supermarket branching out over the past decade; in addition to organic produce and dairy products, it now stocked a small selection of gourmet European cocoa and exotic spices. Usually, Anna loved selecting ingredients almost as much as she loved baking, but today the sweet, rich scent of chocolate made her eyes sting and her heart ache.
She studied the fine print on the bright red chocolate wrapper: Product of Belgium. Which made her think of Brussels, which made her think of Jonas, which made her want to scarf down an entire bag of chocolate chips.
Maybe she should go with a French chocolate. Maybe Dutch. Or maybe not. The supermarket hadn’t branched out that much; her choice seemed limited to rich Belgian decadence or the traditional American standbys.
“Excuse me, aren’t you the lady who made that fabulous Coca-Cola cake?”
Anna snapped to attention. “Yes. Hi. Anna McCauley.”
A short, stout woman bundled up in a red barn coat and multiple colorful winter scarves smiled at her. “I thought that was you. You probably don’t remember me, but we met at Belinda Elquest’s party. Kris Doyle.” She extended her right hand.
“Of course I remember you, Kris,” Anna fibbed, shaking hands. “It’s wonderful to see you again. How are you?”
“I can’t stop thinking about that cake.” Kris kissed her fingers in appreciation. “You know, I’d never heard of making cake with soda pop, and when Belinda gave me a piece, I admit I was reluctant, but my word! You’ve really got talent.”
Anna returned the Belgian chocolate to the shelf and tried to will herself into a cheery, convivial mood. “Thank you.”
“I’ve been dying to know: Wherever did you find that recipe?”
“Oh, I collect vintage cookbooks.”
“Really!” Kris put down her shopping basket and started to unwind her jumble of scarves. “Do you buy them on eBay?”
“Once in a while, but I’ve found some amazing stuff at garage sales and used-book stores. I love reading about all the different food fads that have come in and gone over the years.”
“What a fascinating hobby.”
“My husband got me started.” Why was she talking about Jonas? Stupid Belgian chocolate. “He gave me a first edition of The Joy of Cooking for our first anniversary, and I used it to make a custard pie. I’ve been hooked on baking ever since.”
“How sweet.” Now Kris was taking off her coat and settling in for a nice long chat right here next to the sacks of flour. “You’re lucky to have such a thoughtful husband.”
Anna’s thoughts flashed over to the last conversation she’d shared with him: reckless accusations of PMS followed by unsolicited phone sex propositions. “Yeah, he’s a real prince.”
“Do you two live here in town?”
Anna paused. “Not really. Well, I live here. For now.”
Kris tilted her head, waiting for Anna to finish.
“I went to Thurwell.” Anna smiled brightly, as if this explained everything. “Graduated ten years ago.”
“And your husband?”
Anna pretended to misunderstand the question. “Oh, he went to Skidmore. We didn’t meet until the end of senior year, actually. He sat next to me on the bus to the airport for spring break.”
When Kris opened her mouth to interrogate her further, Anna cut her off with, “Anyway, I have a few cookbooks from the 1950s, and sometimes I’m religious about following the recipe to the letter, but for the Coca-Cola cake, I ended up playing around with the ingredients and adding a few little extras. I thought palatability was more important than historical authenticity.”
“What sort of extras did you add?”
“Trade secret, I’m afraid. But if you give me your email address, I’d be happy to send you the original recipe and you can whip up your own variation.”
Kris dug through her handbag and produced a business card. “How far in advance do you book up? My husband is the president of the local Civil War reenactment society, and I’m hosting the holiday dinner for all the members and their wives. Do you have any desserts that might do for that sort of event?”
“Oh, I’d love to do a Civil War buffet!” Anna clapped her hands together.
Kris looked impressed. “You’ve done them before?”
“No, but I’ve got loads of ideas. I could do an orange flummery, maybe a modified Spanish blancmange, a plum cake—oh, and I’ll have to see if I can scrounge up some gooseberries. You know, it’s funny you should ask me about this today. Just last night, I was reading about a really rich sponge cake called a Robert E. Lee cake.”
Kris’s eyes lit up. “You’re hired. But you have to make the Robert E. Lee cake completely authentic. And don’t give anyone else the recipe!” She rubbed her palms together with glee. “Oh, this will be the talk of the Civil War circuit. I pity next year’s hostess.”
Anna saw an opportunity for Henley House synergy and made her move. “You know, if you really want to wow your guests, I can research Civil War centerpieces and table settings. One of my best friends is an event planner, and I’m sure she’d work with me.”
“That’s not a bad idea.” Kris nibbled her lower lip. “Oh, and then I’m hosting a baby shower for my niece. I’d love to serve one of your cakes. Something feminine, but not too cutesy.”
Anna’s spirits plummeted at the mention of the b-word. “I apologize, but I can’t.”
“But I haven’t told you the date yet.”
“Well, you see …” She exhaled slowly. “The thing is, I don’t handle baby showers.”
Kris looked startled. “Why on earth not?”
A voice cried out, “Hey! Kris! Hellooo!”
I’m saved! Anna took a step back and prepared to make her exit.
Trish Selway strode down the aisle and wedged herself directly between Kris and Anna. She gave Kris an air kiss and Anna a sharp, dangerous smile. “I thought that was you.”
I’m screwed!
“Trish!” Kris’s face went crimson. “Goodness, dear, I didn’t even see you over there!”
“I’m getting harder and harder to miss these days.” Trish patted her belly, which was obscured under a puffy down parka. “Second trimester in full effect.”
“Second trimester already!” Kris exclaimed. “How are you feeling?”
“Much better, now that the morning sickness is gone. I’m back to business as usual,” Trish said. “Speaking of which, did I just hear you say that you need a baby shower cake?”
Kris started weaving her fingers through her scarf fringe. “I … well … that is—”
“Look no further,” Trish said. “I’m your girl.”
Anna cleared her throat.
“Yes?” Trish towered over her. “You have something to say, Legacy?”
Anna used her wire shopping basket to stake out her personal space. When Trish tried to jostle her aside, Anna’s handbag fell to the floor, spilling out her wallet, cell phone, and a tattered paperback volume of Shakespeare.
“Oops.” Trish didn’t even bother turning around to assess the damage. “I am so sorry. Must be that pregnancy klutziness.”
“Oh, I had that in spades.” Kris crouched down to help Anna gather up her belongings. “I spent the entire nine months covered in bumps and bruises. It was especially bad with my youngest.” She picked up the paperback and glanced at the title. “Twelfth Night?”
“Yeah, it’s my favorite of the comedies.” Anna tucked the book into the interior pock
et of her bag. “I like to read it every few years. It’s such a funny, hopeful story, you know? Always cheers me up.”
“Now, which one is that, again?” Kris furrowed her brow. “Is that the one with Uncle Toby and the yellow garters?”
“Exactly. And Sebastian and Viola.”
“Viola. What a pretty name.”
“I always thought so,” Anna said. She and Kris were both kneeling, which excluded Trish entirely from the conversation. “In fact, I decided, way back in college, that if I ever had a daughter, I’d name her Viola.”
“Viola,” Kris repeated. “It’s got a nice ring to it.”
“And it’s unusual without being ridiculous or impossible to spell.”
“Viola?” Trish suddenly hunkered down alongside them. “What a coincidence. That’s what I’m planning to name the Bug here, if it turns out to be a girl.”
“You are not!” Anna said.
“Oh yes.” Trish nodded solemnly.
Anna searched for an appropriately stinging response. She finally managed, “Nuh-uh.”
“It’s true.” Trish smirked. “Viola is number one with a bullet on my baby name list. Has been for years. Ask anyone.”
Anna stood up, offered her hand to Kris, and helped her newest client regain her footing. “You know what, Kris? I’d be honored to cater your niece’s shower. Just let me know when and where, and I’ll whip up something truly—”
“Too late,” Trish interrupted. “You already turned down the job.”
They both turned to appeal to Kris.
“I have to go.” Kris pivoted and fled in a flurry of tartan wool.
“Email me!” Anna called after her. “Pleasure seeing you again!” Then she rounded on Trish. “What is wrong with you? Trying to poach my clients right in front of me!”
“Who’s poaching?” Trish shot back. “You said no to the baby shower. I heard you with my own ears.”
“So you’re an eavesdropper and a poacher.”
Trish squared her shoulders. “That’s it, Legacy. I tried to be nice. I let you share my kitchen—”
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