Out of the Ashes

by Cynthia Reese

  “No, I don’t think that.” Kari couldn’t look at her mother for another second. More for something to do than anything else, Kari stood and poured herself a cup of coffee. She’d give anything to have one of her bear claws or Danish rolls to go with this—

  No point in thinking about that.

  “I’m sure Jake will be just as horrified as I am,” Kari’s mother said. “Oh, Kari, grab that box of croissants there. We’ll have some breakfast.”

  Kari followed her mother’s pointing finger to the top of the fridge, where a clear plastic grocery store bakery container held a few croissants. With a sigh, she yanked the things down and plopped them on the Formica tabletop. “You couldn’t have bought some from me, Mom?”

  “Well, actually, these were leftover from the office brunch—I told them we should have had you cater it, but the girls at the office said that there wasn’t enough in petty cash. Besides, they’re not that bad.”

  Kari bit into one. The pastry was tough and greasy, not at all flaky like the croissants she strove to make. She scanned the printed ingredients list: hydrogenated soybean oil, high fructose corn syrup, refined flour, soy flour.

  She dropped the half-eaten pastry on her napkin. It was disappointing to the taste buds, a little stale, nothing like a fresh croissant. A good one was light and flaky and loaded with real butter. So what if they took hours to make? Better to have one really good croissant than a whole bin of these.

  “See?” her mother said. “Not bad at all.”

  What could she expect from her mom? Kari asked herself. Her mom always tried her best, but the results never turned out well.

  True, such meals had been made lovingly and had been more than enough to keep Kari fed for the fourteen years she’d lived with her mom...and when she’d been in juvie, even her mom’s cooking had seemed way better than the glop they served.

  Her mother reached up and caressed Kari’s cheek. “Oh, sweetie. This is horrible for you. But—I know! You can cook here! Why, this kitchen would do, wouldn’t it? It would be much better than trying to cook in that oversized kitchenette in your apartment. And that way you could bake all your cakes and keep your orders up—you’ve got the Gottman wedding to do, right? You can bake it right here.”

  Kari couldn’t help but smile. “I might have to take you up on that. It will probably be a while before I’m back on my feet again.”

  Her mom brightened and waved a hand around to encompass the kitchen. “Why, you’ve got everything you need, right here—and barely used at that. Isn’t it a good thing I was such a bad cook?”

  Kari squeezed her mother’s fingers. “You’re not a bad cook.”

  “Nope, next to you...you make those lovely little cupcakes that everybody always raves about. Oh, honey, where did you get your cooking mojo?”

  Not for the first time did Kari utter some words of thanksgiving to Alice Heaton, the cook at the youth detention center where Kari had been incarcerated. If it hadn’t been for KP duty and a birthday cake, Kari might never have found a way to survive her years behind bars...or a way to make a living.

  Well, strike that. She’d had a way to make a living, but now? Not so much.

  Kari flicked the croissant with a fingernail. This was not breakfast. This wasn’t even really food.

  “I think I’ll take you up on that offer to cook. I can make something better than this,” Kari said. She sprang from her chair and busied herself with rummaging through her mother’s cabinets.

  “Oh, sweetie, you don’t have to cook—” her mother protested. “You’ve been through so much.”

  Kari shrugged. “It helps me, Mom, the cooking. Cheap therapy, you know?” she tried to joke.

  “Except for my hips,” her mother said. “If you really want to, I have some blueberries in the freezer. They’ve been there since the first of the summer, though.”

  “Perfect. I’ll make us some blueberry muffins.”

  What Kari really wanted was to tackle a brioche or a croissant or even a Danish, something that would require thought and energy and concentration. She’d welcome anything that would distract her from her worries.

  But her stomach was rumbling in protest from the Franken-croissant, and muffins would be quick at least. Kari began dumping the ingredients into a bowl.

  “Where’s Jake, Mom?” she asked again.

  Her mother set her coffee mug down with a thud. “Out. Out with friends.”

  Kari tried to suppress the predictable irritation that flared up within her. Jake acted as though he were still seventeen, not almost thirty. He was three years older than her...but she felt eons older than twenty-six.

  “I tried his cell phone, but he didn’t answer,” Kari said.

  “Oh, well, you know Jake...maybe he ran out of minutes.”

  Kari stirred the batter a little more energetically than she normally would have. It sloshed onto the counter, and Kari made sure to wipe up the spill. “He’ll never grow up, Mom, if you don’t let him.”

  “Let him! Kari, my goodness, of course he’s grown up. He’s older than you—what, twenty-seven?”

  Kari leveled a gaze at her mom. “Try twenty-nine, Mom. And he still hasn’t figured out what he’s going to do with his life.”

  “Oh, now, that’s not true. He’s registered for classes at the college.”

  Despite Kari’s best attempts to level it, hope rose within her. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe Jake had nothing to do with this fire. Between that and the magic of baking, some of her pent-up tension began to melt away.

  “Of course... I don’t like that boy he’s hanging out with these days,” her mother added in a murmur, completely destroying the peace that had begun to settle over Kari.

  “Mom—” Kari bit her tongue and forestalled any additional reminders that Jake was way past requiring—or even wanting—assistance on the playdate front.

  “Don’t say it, Kari. You’ve made it perfectly clear that I need to be tougher on Jake. But I don’t want to break his spirit...you know how sensitive he is.”

  “He’s a guy, not a horse,” Kari protested. She began to pour the batter into one of her mother’s muffin tins.

  As she slid the muffin tin into the oven, the back door swung open. She straightened to see Jake framed in the morning light of the open door.

  He stood there, stock-still, all muscular legs and bare arms in his cargo shorts and rumpled T-shirt. He looked as though he’d just rolled off somebody’s couch.

  Even so, with his hair all ruffled and his clothes a wrinkled mess, he had that angelic-choirboy look that made girls his age flock to him and old ladies beam at him with trusting adoration.

  Jake was beautiful, her beautiful, gorgeous brother. If he’d wanted and had lived in a larger city, he was so arrestingly attractive that he could have landed a male modeling gig.

  Next to him, Kari had always felt a little...dull. Not so shiny. Not so pretty. And yet, just like everybody else, when she’d been fourteen, she’d wanted to be in his orbit, soaking up the glamour-by-association cachet having such a good-looking brother had afforded her.

  “Hey, Kare, what are you doing here? I figured you’d be downtown.” He did a double take, his eyes rounding. “Oh, wait, man, you don’t know? It was a fire—wicked bad. One of my buddies told me—we went down there. Sick, man.”

  Relief flooded through Kari. Jake hadn’t set the fire. How could she have so instantly blamed him?

  Because he set one years ago.

  “I know. I came to tell Mom.”

  “Somebody said it was arson.” Jake’s words came easily. Unlike their mother, he didn’t stumble over the word arson. “What? Old Charlie decide the insurance money was better than the rent money?”

  Kari set the timer on the oven and waited to compose herself before she turned back to face hi
m. “I don’t think it was Charlie. Why would he burn a perfectly good building?”

  Jake snorted and flopped down into a chair beside their mom. “You cooking? Righteous. I’m about to starve. And I can’t believe you’re calling that dump a perfectly good building. Just yesterday you and he were in a screaming match about everything that was wrong with it.”

  Kari felt her stomach churn. That very public argument was one more nail in her coffin. It was her motive. She could hear the DA’s opening argument already— revenge because her landlord wouldn’t repair the building.

  She met Jake’s eyes. They were coolly speculative. “Jake...”

  “You didn’t light it up yourself, did you, sis?” her brother asked.

  “No!” She began dumping the dirty dishes in the sink, rinsing them out and loading them in the dishwasher. “Of course I didn’t.”

  “So, was it? Arson?” Jake pressed.

  “Yes, Jake, it was, but don’t badger your sister. She’s got a lot on her shoulders.”

  “So do you, Mom. I mean, she burned up your retirement money, didn’t she?”

  Kari slammed the dishwasher door shut a little too hard. “I did not burn—”

  “Relax, sis. It’s too easy to get your goat.” Jake gave her that crooked little grin that worked on so many people—for at least a while until they realized that he had no interest in actually following through on any of his promises. “I was just joking.”

  “Jakey!” her mom scolded. “Don’t even think about joking about this. Kari could get in real trouble—and think what she did for you. You should be grateful. If the police knew...”

  Jake fixed Kari with a level stare. “But they don’t know. And they wouldn’t believe her now anyway. And, Mom,” he added, not moving his gaze from Kari, “I swear, scout’s honor, it wasn’t me. You can’t keep blaming me for every fire in a fifty-mile radius.”

  Kari wanted to believe Jake. And she understood well enough how badly it felt to be the usual suspect in whatever trouble that surfaced.

  His mom rushed to smooth things over. “Of course it wasn’t you, nobody said it was you—”

  “Sure sounded like that to me,” Jake grumbled.

  “I tried to call you—” Kari began.

  “See? You’re still trying to pin it on me!” he snapped.

  “No, that’s not what I—”

  The doorbell rang—the front door bell. Jake was apparently ready to snatch at any excuse to end the conversation, because he leapt out of the chair and said, “I’ll get it.”

  As he went down the hall to answer the living room door, Kari’s mom hissed, “Now, see? You’ve hurt his feelings.”

  “Mom, I didn’t—”

  But Jake’s voice rose and fell in counterpoint to whoever was at the door. Something about the timber of that other voice—male, deep, the barest hint of amusement in it, caused Kari to stiffen.

  She heard Jake say, “Sure, she’s in the kitchen. You’re just in time for whatever she’s cooking. C’mon.”

  Footsteps sounded closer and closer as Jake approached the kitchen with his companion.

  She froze and watched.

  “Hey, Kare...somebody here to see you. Didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”

  Jake strolled back into the kitchen. Kari looked past his shoulder to see none other than Rob Monroe in his wake.

  “Pardon me for tracking you down,” the arson investigator told her. “But I have just a few more questions for you.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ROB TOOK ADVANTAGE of Kari’s flustered silence to let his gaze slide around the kitchen. It was straight-up middle class suburbia, updated sometime in the past few years with granite counters and stainless steel appliances, but Rob knew a working kitchen when he saw one. And this kitchen? It wasn’t a working kitchen.

  This one wasn’t like Ma’s—it showed none of the telltale wear that a kitchen offers when it’s used every day. No, Chelle Hendrix’s kitchen looked fresh out of a home improvement store brochure. And there was something about it that made him think that the whole thing was a wannabe setup. The appliances didn’t look substantial enough for the industrial look they aspired to. The floor and the cabinets and the hardware were all too...shiny, perfect, basically unused. There were no scuffmarks, no scratches, no worn finish around the doorknobs. Ma’s kitchen was scrupulously clean and cared for, but worn around the edges. This kitchen? It was too pretty to be a working kitchen.

  But it sure smelled like a working kitchen. Something golden brown and delicious assailed Rob’s nostrils—blueberry muffins, if he knew his baked goods, and thanks to Ma and a family of good cooks, he did.

  The guy who’d let Rob in—there was enough resemblance in the face to peg him as Kari’s brother—lounged against the too-pretty stainless steel fridge. “So, cool, you’re with the police, huh? I thought you were Kari’s main squeeze.”

  Kari coughed in embarrassment. “Jake, Mom, this is Rob Monroe. He’s—what did you tell me? Fire marshal and arson investigator? He’s determining the cause of the fire at the bakery.”

  “You mean the whole downtown, huh, sis?” her brother corrected.

  There was something of a smirk in that correction. Rob couldn’t explain the instant and visceral dislike that flared up within him at Jake’s response. Maybe it was because, despite all the teasing that the Monroe brothers inflicted on their sisters, they knew the value of basic human kindness. He’d never kick Maegan, Cara or DeeDee when they were already down.

  But not everybody was like him or his brothers. He pushed the thought away and concentrated on Kari’s reaction. Her head bowed, and she managed a tiny nod.

  “Yes. You’re right, Jake. It wasn’t just my shop that burned. Thanks for reminding me not to be so self-absorbed.”

  Rob did a double take. Kari’s tone was completely devoid of sarcasm—in fact, a mix of humility and gratitude bubbled up out of her words.

  If he’d been surprised that she hadn’t clocked her brother, he didn’t miss the flash of irritation in Jake’s expression.

  “Oh, yeah, Miss Goody Two Shoes. Guess you’ll be wading in and saving the day, huh?” Jake retorted.

  Kari’s mouth compressed in real anger. Before she could say anything, Chelle piped up, “Jakey! Don’t poke fun at your sister!”

  Chelle could have been talking to a nine-year-old, not someone about Rob’s age. But it must have given Kari the distraction she needed, because Rob heard her draw in an audible breath. He looked around to see her place both hands on the counter and press down hard. Control was obviously very important to Kari Hendrix.

  “You’re right, Jake. You know me way too well. I really should do something for those folks. They’ll be going through and trying to salvage things now—right, Rob? The buildings have been released? People can go through them?”

  Rob considered this. “Yes and no. If the building in question is structurally sound, then they can go in during daylight hours. But some of the structures will need to be reinforced. And...well, yours is a crime scene.”

  Kari bit her lip. “Right.” She turned to her mother. “Mom, do you mind if I use up the rest of the blueberries and the flour? I’ll buy you some more. But I want to make a big batch of muffins for my downtown neighbors... Jake’s right. It’s not just about me. They’re going through the same thing I am.”

  Chelle waved her hand expansively. “Mi kitchen es su kitchen, I told you that. Jakey, go get some money out of my purse and run to the grocery and get her whatever she needs, okay? She’ll make a list.”

  Jake barely concealed a roll of his eyes. “Sure, sure. I’ll grab her a superhero cape while I’m at it. I think they’ve got ’em on aisle three. Hey, sis, just text me the list, okay? I’m outta here.”

  He sauntered out of the kitchen, presumably to
ward wherever Chelle kept her purse.

  The timer beeped on the oven. It galvanized Kari. She called after Jake, “Wait! The muffins! You said you were hungry?”

  His reply wafted back toward the kitchen. “I’ll grab a honey-bun or something.” The front door banged shut.

  Rude. Just plain rude and inconsiderate. Ma would have skinned any of her children who turned down home-cooked food as it was coming out of the oven.

  Not everybody was raised by Ma. You can’t judge people by Monroe standards. Isn’t that what you’re always telling Daniel and Andrew?

  Rob drew his thoughts back from his brothers and pinned his attention on Kari. It wasn’t hard to do—not with her pulling a delicious-smelling pan of muffins out of the oven.

  These were huge, puffy confections, studded with steaming volcanoes of blueberries. His fingers itched to snatch one up.

  Kari must have read his mind. “You’ll have one, won’t you, Rob?”

  “Uh, sure. If you have enough.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m cooking more for the downtown folks.” She smiled—a sweet curve of her lips that warmed her face in a way he hadn’t seen on her before. “Can I get you some coffee?”

  “I guess I’ll take you up on that muffin. I don’t know, though, about the wisdom of me having more coffee. I’ve had something like six cups already since four, and I’m wired as a coat hanger. Maybe I’d better just have some water.”

  “Milk,” Kari said instead, firmly, confidently. “Milk would go better with the muffins, and you look like the sort of fellow who would enjoy a glass of milk.”

  “Yeah. That sounds perfect.” He pulled out a chair beside Chelle and watched as Kari deftly turned the muffins out in a wide shallow bowl. They came out perfectly, like something that would be in the pages of a cookbook or a magazine. His mouth watered as Kari set the bowl down on the table between him and Chelle. With quick efficient movements, Kari grabbed a stack of small plates from the cupboard.

  “Let me get that milk,” she added as she set the plates down beside him with a clatter.