A Teaspoon of Trouble

by Shirley Jump

  Her heart skipped a beat. God, she was already thinking about kissing him again. Fantasizing about much, much more. “That would…that would, ah, definitely be bad.”

  “I agree. We should make sure that doesn’t happen.” He raised her hand to his mouth, and kissed the dollop of peanut butter off. She inhaled, and tried not to melt right there on the spot. The movement lasted only a second, but her body reacted in a flash of heat and want. For a second, she wanted to slather her body in peanut butter and see where his mouth went next.

  “I…I think you got it all,” she said and tugged her hand out of his. This wasn’t productive, nor was it wise. She was leaving town in a few days, and she already knew where a relationship with Matt would lead. They’d circle back around to the white picket fence life talk, and she’d break his heart all over again.

  The second time, she was sure it would hurt twice as much. Especially for her.

  “Sorry.” Matt stepped back. “Peanut butter is one of my favorite foods.”

  “I remember,” she whispered. For a second, neither of them moved, still caught in that tangle between desire and common sense. She cleared her throat and got back into her comfort zone—the organized safety of a recipe. “Okay, so now we have to sift together the dry—”

  Matt arched a brow. “Sift?”

  She picked up her flour sifter, and held it out to him. It was like a tiny wall between them. “Sift.”

  He muttered something about extra steps and extra dishes again, but did as she said, measuring the dry ingredients into the metal container, then pulling the handle, sending cloud-light flour drifting into a bowl. “This is crazy. I can’t use this thing during the Bake-Off. It’ll take forever.”

  She laughed. “We can pre-sift the dry ingredients so they’re ready to mix that day. I read the rules, and some prep work is allowed.”

  “There are rules?”

  She propped her fists on her hips. “You really are totally unprepared for this, aren’t you?”

  “I’m a card-carrying, pizza-ordering bachelor; of course I’m not prepared for this.”

  She handed him the salt and watched as he added it on top of the flour. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why…” She measured out the baking soda and dumped it into the sifter. “Why are you still a bachelor?”

  Loaded question of the day. Where had that come from? It wasn’t like she was still interested in him—okay, so maybe her reaction to that kiss and his very sexy peanut butter removal said otherwise—but still, they were ancient history.

  He kept on sifting, and for a while, the only sound in the kitchen was the soft ch-ch of the sifter sliding in and out. “I did get married. Two years ago.”

  “Really?” She gestured toward the mixer, because if she pretended to be more interested in the cookie dough than his answer, maybe he wouldn’t see how much it stunned her—and hurt a little—that he’d been married to someone else. She hadn’t expected Matt to stay a monk after they broke up, of course, but thinking of him falling in love with another woman gave her pause. “Add the dry ingredients gradually while the mixer is running.”

  “That sounds like a recipe for trouble.”

  She laughed. “Just keep the mixer on a low speed. Unless you want to flour bomb your kitchen.”

  “That was my plan for next week.” He grinned, then did as she said. He watched the arm of the mixer revolve, tipping the dry ingredients in a little at a time.

  “So…what happened?” Carolyn asked, cursing herself for showing curiosity. She blamed it all on that kiss and their close proximity. “Because I don’t see a wife in your kitchen now.”

  He kept on watching the mixture of dry ingredients tumble into the metal bowl and get caught in the constant swirl of the blade. “After we got married, Wendy decided she didn’t want the same future I did, and we broke up.”

  “Sounds like a common story.” She shook her head. She really was a glutton for punishment, wasn’t she? Retreading old, painful history? Why did she care so much? “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. You’d think I would have learned to have these conversations earlier in the relationship.” His smile disappeared almost as fast as it appeared.

  Ten years had passed, but the hurt still lingered in his voice. Carolyn had thought about the day she left a hundred times in the years since, and knew she had taken the coward’s way out. Break his heart and get out of town, so she didn’t have to see Matt and face that she had let a good man go. A good man who didn’t want to travel the same path as she did. A good man who wanted a different life from her. She’d told herself it was easier, quicker, less painful.

  But she had lied.

  “I’m really sorry about what happened between us that day,” Carolyn said. She put her back to the counter and braced her hands on the edge. “I shouldn’t have just broken up with you and run out of town. I did it because I was afraid…”

  “Afraid of what?”

  She hesitated for a long time. Why had she started this conversation? Opening up the past was like opening Pandora’s box. She should know enough to leave well enough alone. It had to be being back in this town, surrounded by all these reminders of the life she used to have. And that stroll down memory lane, as Matt had called their kiss. It had brought all the old feelings to the surface, paired them with years-old regrets. “I was afraid…if I stayed in town I’d change my mind.”

  “Really?” He turned off the mixer and pivoted toward her. His brown eyes softened with surprise. “And would that have been such a bad thing?”

  She shook her head. What-ifs were for dreamers. Carolyn was practical, realistic. She thought of the last conversation she’d had with her grandfather before he died. The grandfather who had taught her to cook, the grandfather who had seemed to understand her, to know what drove Carolyn. Don’t get stuck in this little town and leave your dreams behind you, he’d said. When you’re young, you have the freedom to run after what you want. So run, Carolyn, run before you end up…here.

  Here meaning the small town where her grandfather had ended up working in an automotive repair shop for forty years instead of pursuing the cooking dream he loved. Here where he’d ended up married at nineteen, saddled with three children before he was twenty-three, and caught in that need to make money and support his family instead of taking a chance on chasing his dream of being a chef.

  That was what Carolyn hadn’t wanted. To marry Matt after high school, or even after college, and end up in Marietta, maybe working as an assistant like her mother had, and never knowing what she might have found if she left.

  “I would have never been happy here, Matt,” she said, because that was simpler than putting all the rest into words.

  “In this town. With me.”

  Everything circled back to Marietta. The small-town life Carolyn had felt suffocated by was the very life Matt loved. “We should bake the cookies,” she said instead of answering him. “It’s getting late.”

  And the longer she stayed here, in this warm, cozy kitchen next to the man she used to love, the closer she came to the very past she had left behind ten years ago.

  Chapter Five

  Matt sat at his kitchen table, drinking coffee and eating peanut butter cookies while Harley snoozed in the bright Sunday morning sun streaming in through the windows. He heard a familiar double knock at the back door, called out, “It’s open,” and went back to his cookies. They were damned good cookies, if he said so himself.

  His brother Scott strode into the kitchen, wearing a thick running jacket, long running pants, and sneakers. Taller, even though he was a year younger, Scott had always had a lanky build, leaner than Matt. It suited him for his job as a roofer, because he could scramble up a ladder faster than most people could set one against the house. “You ready?”

  “Almost.” Matt ate the last bite of cookie and got to his feet.

  Scott chuckled. “You’re seriously going to run five miles on a breakfast of cookies?�
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  “Hey, they’re peanut butter. That means there’s protein in them.” And sugar, and butter, but he wasn’t going to mention that. After they’d finished baking, Carolyn had left most of the batch with him, taking just a handful to bring home to Emma.

  Every time he caught the scent of peanut butter or glimpsed the platter on his table, he thought of her. Hell, he’d tossed and turned most of the night, thinking of her. About kissing her, tasting her, wanting her. And how she had thrown up that wall between them all over again.

  Still, she had surprised him when she said she had left town in a rush because she was afraid she’d change her mind. All these years, he’d painted Carolyn as the callous one, breaking his heart and embarking on her new life without a thought for what she’d left behind in Marietta. When it turned out, like anything, there were layers and complications to the past.

  Scott plucked a cookie from the plate on the table and took a bite. “These are good. Who made them?”

  “Me.”

  Scott coughed, and laughed, almost choking on his bite. “Right. I’ve seen you burn water. You can barely make yourself a bowl of cereal in the morning.”

  Which was why he was eating cookies for breakfast. He might have learned one recipe, but that didn’t turn him into Mario Batali overnight. Though he did hope there were more baking lessons in the future. Just for the cookies…or at least that’s what he told himself. “I’m practicing for the Bake-Off. I signed up to compete on the first day, and then realized I was actually going to have to bake, so I got…a baking tutor.”

  Scott arched a brow. “A baking tutor? Who the hell does that in Marietta?”

  “Carolyn Hanson.”

  Both brows arched now, Scott let out a low whistle. “Carolyn Hanson, as in your old girlfriend? What’s she doing back in town?”

  Now he was sorry he had mentioned her name. He knew his younger brother and knew there was a waterfall of questions coming. A part of him wanted to talk about Carolyn, though, if only to give voice to the turmoil churning in his gut. Maybe then he could stop thinking about her. “Her sister and her sister’s husband Bob were killed in a car accident,” Matt said. “Carolyn has custody of Sandy’s four-year-old daughter. She’s here for a couple weeks while she figures out what to do.” And then she was leaving town again, just as she had ten years ago. He seemed to keep forgetting that.

  “Wow, that’s awful about Sandy. I didn’t know her well because she was a few years older than me, but she always seemed nice.” Scott shook his head. “And now Carolyn is tutoring you because…?”

  Matt laced up his running shoes, grabbed Harley’s leash, and led Scott outside. The icy winter air hit him like a wall. It hadn’t snowed in a while, so winter in Marietta right now consisted of cold and more cold. Soon as they got their run underway, Matt knew he’d be warm enough to want to unzip his jacket, but for now, it was bitterly cold. “Because I’m helping her with some dog training. Sandy also left behind a rambunctious mutt. Good dog, but needs some discipline.”

  “Trading favors, huh?” Scott fell into place beside Matt as they started with a light jog. Their breaths formed twin bursts of clouds in the brisk morning. “Trading anything else?”

  This was the part of the run where everything inside of Matt wanted to retreat to the warmth of his house. He knew if he stuck with it, though, his body would warm and sink into a rhythm and the agony of starting in the bitter January cold would ease. “She’s leaving town in a week.”

  “Which doesn’t answer my question.”

  Because answering Scott’s question would mean admitting that except for a couple of kisses, Matt hadn’t gotten close to Carolyn. Not that he hadn’t thought about it once or twice. Or a hundred times. “Getting involved with her would be crazy. Been there, did that, learned my lesson.”

  “Which still doesn’t answer my question.” Scott swung in front of Matt and began to run backward. “And I think you’re avoiding the answer because you two have been doing—”

  “We have not.” Matt ducked to the left, putting his brother and his brother’s knowing grin behind him. “I kissed her, but it was nothing.”

  “Nothing? Really?”

  Matt had never been good at lying, and even worse at lying to his brother. Everything between him and Carolyn was more than nothing. But what it was…he didn’t know yet. Wasn’t sure if he should even figure it out. “You know, it’s going to be a long five miles if you keep throwing out questions like that.”

  Scott grinned again. “That’s what I’m hoping for.”

  *

  Carolyn woke up before Emma on Sunday morning. She padded down to the kitchen, but it was empty and quiet, no coffee brewing. Her mother must still be in bed, which didn’t surprise Carolyn, but did sadden her. Normally, her mother rose early, getting in a morning walk before church or working in the garden. But since Sandy had died…

  Nothing was the same. And probably never would be. The best they could all do was move forward. Carolyn put on a pot of coffee, then noticed the light on in the garage.

  She poured two cups, then slipped outside and across the walk to the garage. Roscoe nudged past her, and started sniffing around the fenced yard. It had rained overnight, and the yard was soft, spongy, the air crisp and fresh.

  The side garage door was ajar, letting in the cold winter air. “Hey, Dad,” she said, entering the workshop and holding out one of the mugs. “I brought you some coffee.”

  “Thanks.” Her father took the cup and sat back on a stool. He had aged a lot in the last few years, his once salt and pepper hair gone completely white. Shadows dusted the space under his eyes and lines filled his face.

  Carolyn ran a hand down the smooth surface of the end table her father was working on. A dark maple, with an inlay of lighter oak, and elaborately turned legs that must have taken hours on the lathe. “This is gorgeous, Dad. Is it an order? Or for the house?”

  “I was making it for…” His voice trailed off and the words choked in his throat. Tears filled his eyes and he shook his head. “It’s not done yet.”

  In an instant, Carolyn regretted mentioning the table because she knew, without her father saying a word, who the table was meant for. Carolyn remembered her sister mentioning that she had asked Dad to build some new pieces for their living room. She’d been so excited, talking about how nice it was to talk with Dad and work out the plans. Now the house was going to be sold, and the furniture would remain in this garage. And Sandy would never see the craftsmanship and love that had gone into a simple piece of furniture.

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” Carolyn said. She stepped back from the piece and leaned against the workbench. She didn’t know what else to say, how else to make it right. Getting close to people had been Sandy’s skill, not hers. “Mom is worried about you.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “She told me you aren’t talking to her.” Carolyn wrapped both hands around her coffee. Maybe if she could at least get her parents talking to each other again, she could go back to New York and not have this constant worry in her gut. She worried about Emma, worried about where they were going to live, worried about how she was going to make it all work out. Maybe if she could get one corner of her life—and her family—straightened out, then the rest would fall into place. “She needs you too, Dad.”

  He put his coffee on top of his toolbox, then picked up a sanding block and started running it down a short piece of wood sitting on the bench. “I have work to do.”

  Except the piece of wood he was working on looked more like scrap lumber to Carolyn than anything else. And his movements lacked any real strength, more of a skim than a sand. “Emma and I are going to the park with Roscoe this morning,” Carolyn said. “Do you want to come with us?”

  “Maybe another time.” Dad had turned away, and the hunch of his shoulders already said the conversation was over. Carolyn waited a moment more—the only sound coming from the swish-scratch of the sandpaper—then she took her coffee and went
back inside. She didn’t know what else to say, or how to make it better.

  Roscoe caught up to her as she reached the back door, squeezing past her legs to be the first inside. Before she could tell him to sit or stay, he was off, circling the kitchen with muddy paws, then jumping on the bar stools and putting his paws on the counter. “Roscoe, no!”

  “He likes to run, Aunt Carolyn.” A sleepy Emma stood in the doorway, still wearing her pink flannel nightgown and clutching her mother’s sweater.

  “That he does. And now the entire kitchen knows that, too.” She sighed, then grabbed a rag from the bucket under the kitchen sink and wet it. She scooped some dog food into Roscoe’s bowl—the only way to get that dog to stay in the same spot for more than ten seconds. While Roscoe ate, Carolyn cleaned up the mud.

  Emma climbed on top of one of the bar stools. She watched her aunt finish tidying up the kitchen, then pour a bowl of Cheerios and set them on the counter. “I don’t want Cheerios.”

  “That’s okay. I can make you some eggs.” Carolyn gave Emma a smile. “I make a really great omelet if you want that instead.”

  Emma shook her head. “I don’t want eggs.”

  “Toast with peanut butter?” Maybe simpler was better. Carolyn realized she had no idea what Emma’s favorite breakfast was, what she was allergic to, what her favorite color was. Sandy had been the one to keep track of the details. Carolyn had operated on autopilot, pouring Cheerios because that was what she and her sister had sat here and ate almost every morning when they were kids.

  “I don’t want toast. I’m not hungry.” Emma drew the sweater closer to her chest, burrowing her face in the wool, as if she could still catch Sandy’s scent in those fibers.

  “Okay. Maybe in a little while.” While Carolyn cleaned, Emma sat on the stool, quiet. Pensive.

  “When are we going home to see my mommy?”

  The soft-spoken question seemed to echo. Carolyn stopped mid-movement, running water soaking the rag, her hands. The water was cold, but Carolyn barely felt the temperature. What was she supposed to say? How was she supposed to answer Emma? Every time, Carolyn had defaulted to her mother, letting Grandma take those tough questions. But this time, it was just her and Emma and Roscoe, and the dog wasn’t talking.