The Rails to Love Romance Collection

by Brandmeyer, Diana Lesire; Cabot, Amanda; Carter, Lisa

  Changed, she headed into the kitchen, poured a couple cups of flour into a mound on the counter, made a well in the center and cracked an egg to put in the well. Grabbing a fork, she whipped the egg, slowly gathering in the flour, then sprinkled in some salt and added a touch of olive oil. Once the dough was holding together, she put a large pan ofwater on the stove to boil. Then she went back to the pasta and began to knead until it was smooth and pliable. She let it rest for a moment, cleared the counter, and put a new sprinkling of flour down. Then she began to roll a quarter of the dough into a very thin circle. The thinner the pasta, the better it tasted, in her humble opinion anyway. She knew some who liked it thick, real thick. She paused. What did Jeffery like? Fear of failure washed over her again.

  She shook off the thought. She’d make it to her taste, and if he liked it thicker he could just let her know.

  Jeffery stopped at the fishmonger first and picked up four fillets of fresh bass and a lemon. Thankfully, George Mueller had both a lemon and a lime tree in his yard. Next, he headed over to the market and gathered an assortment of summer and zucchini squash. He spied a bushel basket of fresh tomatoes—one of his favorite vegetables—sitting in a bin next to the zucchini. He picked up a dozen. Perhaps Tilda knows how to can. He replaced the dozen tomatoes and grabbed the entire bushel basket. Marsha Maciel, the owner’s wife, raised her gray eyebrows. “I’ve never known your mother to can before, Mr. Oliver.”

  Jeffery shrugged. “These are for my wife.”

  “Your wife! Congratulations. When did this happen?” she asked, weighing the produce.

  “Last week. Her name is Tilda. Would you put her on my account to charge whatever she might need?”

  “Certainly. And your account is to be separate from your parents?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “That’ll be two dollars and twenty today. On your account?”

  Jeffery reached into his front pocket and pulled out enough change. “No, thank you. I have the funds today.”

  “Very well. And congratulations again, Mr. Oliver, I can’t wait to meet your wife.”

  “Thank you.” At that moment, he realized how much he truly would like to meet his wife and really get to know her. She was articulate and smart. He hadn’t fooled her with his late nights at the office, though unfortunately she’d gotten the wrong impression. He grabbed the bushel of tomatoes. “I’ll bring the basket back in the morning.”

  “That will be fine, Mr. Oliver. Good day.”

  Jeffery put the bushel basket, along with his other purchases, in the buggy and headed home. He hadn’t expected to see Tilda packed and ready to leave, but his mother’s words—“You’ve been awfully busy with work for a man who just got married”—had run around and around in his head all morning. Thank You, Lord. I don’t have a clue how to be a good husband. Help me become a man Tilda can trust and respect so we can take our relationship further.

  Childhood memories of his parents, who always seemed so… together, so… at one with each other, brought a smile to his face. His dad had such a gift for gab. Then again, so did his mom. And when they both got going, even in social settings, it often turned to playful banter. Something he’d never learned and, more importantly, had never wantedto. Now? Now it seemed like a foreign language. How could he open up and speak about things he wasn’t even certain about himself? he wondered.

  As he arrived home, he found Tilda in the kitchen, cutting very thin strips out of some kind of dough. “What are you doing?”

  She jerked to attention. “I’m making pasta.”

  “How’d you learn to do that?”

  Tilda shrugged. “I had some Italian friends. They taught me. What I wouldn’t give to have one of their pasta machines. With those you can roll the dough very thin and can cut the pasta as well.”

  Pasta machine. Jeffery stored that for future reference.

  “What did you purchase?” she asked, pointing with the knife at his bushel basket.

  “Tomatoes. I love fresh tomatoes. I thought you might be able to can some.”

  “Sure.” She shrugged. “I can make catsup also. However, that will take most of the tomatoes you have there. But there’s nothing like catsup on hash browns.”

  “Yum, that sounds good. Do you know how to cook bass?”

  “Sea or freshwater?”

  “Fresh.”

  “Yes. But I’m more skilled with the sea bass.” She dried off her hands. “Let me see what you purchased.”

  He handed her the paper-wrapped fillets. She placed the package on the counter, opened it, and smelled the meat. “They’re fresh.”

  “George Mueller has never sold me a bad piece of fish. I’ve opened an account for you at the Muellers’ place as well as at Maciel’s Fresh Foods. I’ll show you where they are later.”

  She paused and looked up, her gaze locked on to his. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  Jeffery nodded. “You’re welcome. I apologize for not thinking about such things earlier.”

  She smiled. “We both have a lot to learn.”

  “Tell me, how I can help?”

  “Do you know how to set a table?”

  Jeffery chuckled. “I know the basics, not much more. However, I’d be happy to set the table, and you can come in and rearrange anything I put out of order.”

  “Thank you.” She pushed a strand of her brown hair behind her ear. “I need to finish this. I’m going to make a white sauce for the fish; then I’ll broil the fillets in the pan instead of frying them.”

  “I picked up some summer squash as well as some zucchini.” He pointed to the brown paper bag on the counter.

  “I can work with those, too. What time are you expecting your parents?”

  “Five.”

  She glanced up at the clock and paled. “I don’t have time to bake a dessert.”

  Jeffery came to her side and placed a hand on her shoulder. “I should have stopped at the bakery. I’m sorry.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Don’t worry about it. We did not have dessert after dinner every night when I wasgrowing up. Not to mention they are last-minute guests.”

  She bit her lower lip and nodded.

  He brushed the errant strand of hair that had slipped back out from behind her ear. “Tilda, trust me, my mother will not find fault in you for not having a dessert ready on short notice.”

  Tilda gave a weak smile. How can I trust you?

  Chapter Four

  Tilda finished cutting and cooking the fresh pasta, then went on to prepare the vegetables, cream sauce, and bass. Minutes later, she pulled the sizzling fillets, white and fluffy, from the flame. “Perfect,” she said, carefully removing them from the frying pan. She knew southerners liked their fried food, which she enjoyed as well on occasion. Hopefully she would not offend the Olivers by cooking the bass in the lighter fashion she preferred.

  A glance up at the clock told her she still had a few spare minutes. She should go upstairs and freshen up. But her searching eyes caught sight of some fresh bananas in a fruit bowl. There were plenty of milk and eggs… and a half-dozen vanilla cookies she’d made a couple days ago remained untouched in the cookie jar.

  She put a pan on the stove, dropped in a pad of butter, then mixed together some sugar and eggs. After crushing up the cookies, she returned to the egg and butter mixture and added some flour, then some milk, whisked it well, and combined it with the melted butter in the pan. She took a pie tin down and spread it with butter, lined it with the cookie crumbs, and placed the two fresh bananas —thinly sliced—on top of the cookie crumbs. She stirred the sweet pudding in the pan and added some vanilla. Once it thickened, she removed it from the stove and beat up the egg whites into a meringue. She layered the pudding over the bananas and topped it with the meringue, slid it into the oven, and ran upstairs. She changed quickly out of her housedress and into a casual but nice dress to meet Jeffery’s parents.

  She glanced in the mirror, poured so
me cool water into the basin and washed her face. Freshened up her lilac perfume with a tiny dab behind each ear and went down the stairs.

  At the bottom of the stairs, a woman waited for her, looking to be about fifty or more years old, her eyes beaming. Just behind her stood Jeffery and a silver-haired gentleman Tilda took to be the senior Mr. Oliver engaged in conversation. “You must be Tilda,” the woman said, seeming genuinely pleased.

  “Yes,” she choked out.

  “I’m so happy to meet you.”

  As she reached the last step, Jeffery came up beside her and offered his hand. She slipped her fingers into its warm and gentle embrace, and a calm flowed through her. He winked and led her to the parlor and his parents followed. “Dinner is ready,” Tilda offered. “Would you like me to serve?”

  “Nonsense.” Mrs. Oliver, a trim woman with impeccable taste in clothing and movement, sat down on the sofa and tapped the cushion. “Let us get to know one another first.”

  Fear washed over Tilda. She had worked hard to prepare a perfect dinner. This delay would mean the food would be cold and not up to Jeffery’s standards. “But…” her voice trailed off. How do you tell your mother-in-law no?

  As if sensing her concerns, Jeffery spoke up. “Mother, Tilda has worked hard putting together our dinner with little notice. If she feels it is best to eat our meal now, we should. There will be plenty of time to visit during and after.”

  Mrs. Oliver, who shared the same blue eyes with her son, let her assessing gaze linger for a moment on her new daughter-in-law. “Of course, dear. Shall we go to the dining room?”

  Tilda smiled. “It’s a simple fare. One I hope you will enjoy.” Tilda glanced at Jeffery, looking for affirmation in her decision and mouthed thank you. He nodded while offering his elbow to his mother.

  “Excuse me.” Tilda hustled into the kitchen and placed the pasta in the water already heated on the stove, warming up the white sauce as she placed the pasta and fish on each plate. Then she placed the vegetables in a serving dish and brought it into the dining room. Without saying a word, she went back to the kitchen, poured the hot white sauce over the fish and pasta, and carried two plates at a time out to the table, serving her in-laws first.

  “This looks wonderful,” Mrs. Oliver purred.

  Mr. Oliver placed his napkin in his lap. “Smells delicious.”

  Tilda caught the hint of an approving smile from Jeffery, who sat at the head of the table. “I’ll be right back with the rest of our dinners.”

  Back in the kitchen, she turned the oven off and opened the door a little to let the hot air vent. She returned with the last two plates, placed one before Jeffery, and sat opposite him at the other end of the table.

  “Father, will you offer the blessing tonight?” Jeffery asked.

  Mr. Oliver cleared his throat. “I’d be honored.” He went into a lengthy prayer, one she sensed was genuine, if not a little stiff.

  “Amen,” everyone said after he finished.

  “So, tell me about yourself, Tilda. Where is your family?” Mrs. Oliver asked.

  Tears threatened to build, but Tilda held them back. “My parents died nearly a year ago in a train wreck. I am an only child.”

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean.…” Mrs. Oliver took a forkful of the main course. “This is delicious.”

  “Thank you. And you couldn’t have known. Jeffery and I don’t have a traditional relationship. There is much we don’t know about each other.”

  “Traditional, no. But I’m glad he found someone,” Mr. Oliver said. “My father wasn’t too sure he ever would.”

  She smiled. “My father probably felt very similar toward me, as well.”

  Jeffery spoke up. “This is very good, Tilda. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” See, I told you I could cook, she wanted to say, but she held her tongue. There’s no sense airing our laundry in front of his parents, she told herself and wondered just how much or how little they knew about their relationship.

  The evening progressed with simple questions followed by simple answers, and Tilda decided she liked the Olivers, though it seemed they were not as deep or as open as her parents had been with her. Is that why Jeffery had trouble getting to know people socially?

  They finished the evening in the parlor over cups of coffee. “Well, it was wonderful getting to meet you, Tilda,” Mrs. Oliver said as she stood up from the sofa. “And I ate too much. I loved that banana pudding you made. I look forward to seeing you at church on Sunday.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Oliver grinned at Tilda’s use of the southern sign of respect.

  Mr. Oliver extended his hand. “Thank you again, Tilda. I look forward to getting to know you better.”

  “Oh, and don’t forget to start working on those grandbabies.” Mrs. Oliver winked.

  “Mother!” Jeffery chastised.

  Tilda could feel the heat on her cheeks as her in-laws slipped out the front door without a hug. The most contact she had received was a handshake from Mr. Oliver—another reason, she guessed, as to why Jeffery hadn’t done more than extend his hand and his elbow to her all evening. If she was going to stay in this marriage, there was a lot of work to do.

  Jeffery turned and faced his wife. “You’re amazing. That dinner was fantastic—and dessert. … You actually made dessert! How?”

  “I told you I could cook,” she responded with an impish grin.

  “Consider me reprimanded. Can I help you with the clean up?”

  “I won’t say no. The kitchen is a disaster,” Tilda warned, heading that way.

  “I’ll clear the table.”

  “Thank you.” She retreated to the kitchen, and Jeffery entered the dining area. He picked up a plate and scraped it onto another until all the plates were cleared and stacked. These he carried to the kitchen counter by the sink. A pot of hot water was already heating on the stove as Tilda scrubbed down the counter where she’d made the pasta earlier. “That was delicious pasta. I didn’t know it could taste so good, being fresh like that.”

  “Oh, there is so much I could do with it. Have you ever had lobster ravioli?”

  “No, I don’t believe I have. It sounds delicious.” He headed back toward the dining room, stopped, and turned back. “You mentioned a pasta machine?”

  “Yes, it’s an Italian tool. It helps to knead and thin the pasta.”

  “Can you make the ravioli without a pasta machine?”

  Tilda laughed, a warm, lilting sound he decided he liked.

  “Yes, I can. All we need is the lobster meat to fill them.”

  Jeffery smiled. “I’ll speak with George Mueller about Maine lobsters. I presume you would want to use them over southern lobsters.”

  “What is the difference?” she asked as she continued to clean.

  “The southern variety don’t have claws, and the meat is not quite as sweet.”

  She nibbled her lower lip. “I will try southern lobster because I have not had them before. However, if they are not as tasty as Maine lobsters…”

  “I understand, and I agree. My preference is the Maine lobster.” He turned back to the dining room and finished clearing the table as fast as possible. To be in the same roomwith his wife, to get to know this fascinating person now sharing his home, became an overwhelming desire.

  Back in the kitchen, he found her at the sink, scrubbing away at the dishes as soapsuds worked their way up her arms. For a brief moment, he wanted to be those suds. Jeffery squared his shoulders. He would be a gentleman; he would not be presumptuous with his wife. On the other hand, he didn’t want to end their time together. “I’ll admit I’ve never washed a dish—or dried one, for that matter—but I’m willing to give it a try.”

  Tilda’s smile edged up to her eyes. “It’s not that difficult, and I’m glad for the help.” She looked away and mumbled, “and the company.”

  Jeffery relaxed and walked up to her. “Tilda, I appreciate your willingness to stay in our marriag
e.”

  “I want our marriage to work,” she said as she placed another dish in the rack draining into the sink.

  “Thank you.” He wanted to sweep her into his arms and hug her. But that would not be appropriate. He’d never seen his father carry on with his mother like that. “Men need to respect their wives and not treat them like a woman of ill repute.” His father’s words resounded in his head. But then images of friends with their wives, holding hands, hugging… Honestly, he didn’t know what was proper.

  She banged his side with her hip. “What are you thinking?”

  He could feel the heat rise on his neck. “I—I’m not certain whether or not it is proper to speak of such things with a woman.”

  Her eyebrows raised, then pinched together in the center of her forehead.

  “Forgive me. I was raised to treat a wife with the greatest respect and to protect her from the harshness of life.”

  She said nothing at first as she continued to wash and put items in the rack for him to dry. But he could see the wheels turning. Jeffery finished drying a dish, set it down, and grabbed another, waiting. “Jeffery,” she nearly whispered his name, “from what little I saw of your parents tonight, I can tell we’ve been raised very differently. Did you ever receive hugs and kisses from your parents?”

  Jeffery leaned back on his heels. “When I was a boy, yes.”

  “Ah, I thought that might be the case because your parents didn’t hug me or kiss me. The most contact I had with them was a handshake from your father. In my home, my parents would hug and kiss me all the time. And Mother would welcome just about everyone she met with a hug. Father would slap a man on the back as he shook hands with an old friend and even give an occasional hug. I say all of that because you mentioned feeling socially inadequate. I’m willing to bet that you never had any really deep, personal conversations with your parents—possibly never with anyone.”