Wanted--The Perfect Mom

by T. R. McClure

  Holly waved. “Same to you.” She turned to Mac. “We better go, too.” Hand in hand, they walked down to the arena, where ten horses and their riders waited for the peewee class. Second in line, Frosty and Riley waited patiently. Picking a spot on the rail next to the gate, Holly caught Riley’s eye and gave her a wink.

  Riley smiled, flashing two big front teeth.

  Mac brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Do you want to sit with the others?”

  Holly scrutinized the crowd on the bleachers, where her parents and Mac’s mother sat, talking animatedly. Her father flashed her a thumbs-up and she waved back. Sitting next to Rose were Liz and Rick Drake, their gazes glued on their granddaughter. “No, I’m fine here.”

  The Drakes had become part of their family, visiting often. Fritz and Rick were building a swing set together in Mac’s backyard. If they hadn’t insisted Frosty move north with Riley, would any of this have happened?

  Holly reflected on the way families grew, picking up people like a snowball rolling downhill.

  A finger tapped her shoulder. Her belly stretching a maternity shirt, Louise pointed at Riley. “She looks great. The navy print shirt and matching blanket really set off her blond hair and the white horse.” Louise narrowed her eyes at Holly. “You might actually be developing some fashion sense in your old age.”

  “What are you doing here?” Holly asked. Moose stood close by, solid as a tree, his adoring gaze on his wife. “Aren’t you afraid she’ll go into labor?”

  Louise waved a hand in the air. “He’s a policeman. They know how to deliver babies.”

  Mac rolled his eyes. “We watch a movie, Louise.”

  Louise shrugged. “We had to be here. If not for Moose and me, none of this cute McAndrews family drama would be happening.”

  “What are you taking about?”

  “Did you think I couldn’t come in until nine on Saturday mornings? Pul-leaz. I’ve always been an early riser.”

  Holly’s mouth dropped. The older she got, the less she knew.

  “Oh, look,” Louise said, “they’re starting.”

  Mac wrapped his arms around Holly and she leaned into his solid frame. Louise had survived her tragedy. She planned to return to part-time work at the hospital in the spring.

  Holly returned her attention to the ring. Riley and Frosty executed the commands effortlessly, moving as if they were one. The feet of the white horse with the black mane and tail barely touched the ground.

  “Thank you for this.” Mac dipped his head toward the arena. He whispered in her ear. “I love you, Holly. I always have.”

  Holly gazed into smiling blue eyes and light brown hair bleached blond by the summer sun. Deep inside she felt a flutter, a tickle, like an exploding seedpod. She would show her child the speckled jewelweed and tell the story of how his parents fell in love. Just as her grandmother had, Holly would pass along a shared memory, the joy of living, the beauty of nature exhibited so gracefully in the touch-me-not.

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from RECIPE FOR REDEMPTION by Anna J. Stewart.

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  Recipe for Redemption

  by Anna J. Stewart

  CHAPTER ONE

  JASON CORWIN’S HAND stilled over the hotel registration form as he sniffed the air. “Do you smell smoke?”

  A middle-aged woman with short-cropped gray hair passed through the reception area of the Flutterby Inn, Butterfly Harbor’s main hotel, a stack of freshly laundered towels in her arms. The lack of concern on her face might have made Jason wonder if he were imagining things, but as a former professional chef, he was more than familiar with this particular smell.

  “I have you down for three weeks, Mr. Corwin,” Lori, the plump young woman who had introduced herself minutes ago, said. She leaned her hands on the whitewashed batten-board counter, lively green eyes devoid of concern as the air thickened. “Is that correct?”

  “Yes.” He scribbled his name, his eyes beginning to water as a thread of white smoke snaked out from under the double doors to his left. “I’m sorry, but shouldn’t someone check—”

  The deafening screech of a smoke alarm rent the air. Hints of gray puffed through the plumes of white smoke.

  “It’s nothing!” Lori waved her hand before turning to focus on the old-fashioned mailbox portals behind her. “That’s just Abby in the kitchen. It’ll clear in a few minutes.”

  The lobby became hazy. Jason’s pulse kicked into overdrive as he wrenched open the sliding doors and got a face full. Coughing, eyes tearing, he hurried through the dining room, dodging the mishmash of tables and chairs. He tried to inhale but there wasn’t any fresh air to be found, nothing to calm his nerves or stop the dread pounding through his body. Did it have to be the kitchen?

  He’d kept his vow and hadn’t stepped foot in a professional kitchen in over three months, but given the choice between burning to death in a hotel fire and breaking a promise to himself, he’d take choice number two.

  He pushed open the swinging door and stepped into the kitchen, waving his hands in front of him to disperse the smoke. A stockpot of what he hoped was water boiled over and splashed into the too-high flame beneath it, causing bright orange flickers of fire to arch toward the ceiling.

  “Come on, you stupid, plastic piece of crap!” A woman stood on the stainless steel worktable and banged the end of a broom against the smoke detector. “It’s not like this is our first go-around.” Bang. Bang, bang. “Stop. Making.” She grunted and he could see her arms start to weaken. “So. Much. Noise! Ah!”

  The kitchen went silent and she sagged forward, bracing a hand on her knee as she heaved out a sigh. “Got ya. Oh, sugar pots.”

  Before Jason could move, before he could utter a word, she jumped down and grabbed a thick orange towel, dragged out two trays of cremated somethings and tossed them onto the counter with a squealing “Ow!” The bang of metal hitting metal echoed in the room and in his head.

  She shook her left hand as if she’d burned herself—how could she not—before reaching for the
pot. The orange towel slipped dangerously toward the flames.

  “Stop!” Jason yelled and dived forward.

  She shrieked and leaped aside as the towel skimmed the still-flaming burners and ignited. “Who are you?” She flipped the towel onto the yellowed linoleum floor and did a little dance over it to stomp out the flames. “What are you doing in here?”

  “Right now I’m wondering where the fire department is.” He strode over and closed the oven door, flipped off all the burners and then shoved open the closest transom windows. “Hasn’t anyone told you the kitchen’s a dangerous place? It’s not a playroom.”

  “I wasn’t playing.” She pushed the windows on the other side of the kitchen open and, as the smoke thinned, glared at him. “I was trying to make scones.”

  Jason looked at what seemed to be tiny shriveled briquettes. “You failed.” He glanced up at the ceiling and saw the cover of the smoke detector hanging by a duo of thin battery wires. “Your detectors are not to code.” No wonder he didn’t hear sirens. It wasn’t hooked up to anything but noise.

  Now that he could see clearly, the entire kitchen looked stuck in the past. Only the refrigerator appeared to have been manufactured in the last decade, the stainless steel scarred and leaning toward tarnish. He could see rust forming in the tile grout around the cracked farmer’s sink.

  He bent down to grab the towel, but she snatched the smoking fabric out from under his hand and tossed it into the sink overloaded with used bowls, spoons and...was that a tortilla press?

  “I’ve got it, thanks.” She shooed him away from the mess she’d made and toward the door. “All in a day’s work. Nothing to worry about.”

  Must be the hotel motto. Was it too late to rethink his stay? Probably, considering he hadn’t been the one to make his reservations in the first place. Fresh air collided with the smoke and thinned it out. He’d never been so grateful to fill his lungs before as he coughed out the remnants of her scone attempt.

  Her mouth twisted as she peered at the charcoal briquettes scattered on the trays, counter and floor. “I don’t know what happened. Our cook told me they were foolproof.”

  “You mean full proof.”

  “She said what she meant.” She swiped a hand over her damp forehead and let out a long breath as she seemed to collect herself. “Not the way I like to greet new guests.” She was choking as she tried not to cough and as she blinked, cleansing tears streamed down her face. “I’m Abby Manning. I run the Flutterby Inn. And you are—?”

  “Jay Corwin.” After three months, the lie came easily.

  “Next floor show starts at five.” Her laugh sounded strained as she planted a hand on her hip and studied the mess. Her doll-like face with a too-small nose and too-wide turquoise eyes eased into a smile that almost broke through his personal bank of storm clouds. How, with all those thick blond curls of hers tumbling around her shoulders, had she managed not to set herself on fire? He needed to keep moving, keep thinking, otherwise the walls were going to start closing in on him. Walls. Memories.

  So many memories...

  “You’ll want to put some ice on your hand.” Jason dropped his gaze to her reddening fingers. He headed toward the stainless steel refrigerator only to have her wave him off again as she dragged open the freezer door and sank her hand wrist deep into the ice tray with a relieved sigh.

  “If you’d like to return to the lobby, Lori can—”

  “Abby? Is everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine!” Wincing, Abby pulled her hand free and shoved it into her jeans pocket, pressed a finger against her lips in a silent plea for his cooperation. “Just a little, um—”

  The kitchen door swung open and an elderly woman entered. It was like watching night turn into day right before him as Abby’s eyes brightened despite her fingers flexing in her pocket. “Good morning, Gran. How did you sleep?”

  “As fine as anyone my age does these days. Hello. I’m Alice Manning.” Alice bypassed Abby and headed straight for him, her steps short and slow. “This one here’s my granddaughter. I’m the former manager of the Flutterby Inn.”

  “Jay Corwin, Mrs. Manning.” He could see the family resemblance, the familiar soft feminine features right down to the same color eyes. He shook Alice’s outstretched hand before he bent down to retrieve a stray over-cooked scone off the floor and tossed it into the sink. The door beckoned him, offering freedom, offering relief, but he didn’t see a way past Alice without being rude. Stuck. In a kitchen. Great. “A friend of mine recommended your hotel as the perfect getaway.”

  “Well, I hope you’ll feel at home during your stay. That’s what we always aim for, right, my girl?” Alice glanced at Abby before she wagged a finger at him. “You’d be from the East Coast. New York, I’m guessing? Always could tell. Used to make a game of it when I checked customers in. I worked that desk out there for more than fifty years, long before this one was born. I know my accents.” Gran angled her chin in Abby’s direction. Something akin to pride shone in Abby’s face as she watched her grandmother. “Nothing I like more than meeting people from all over this wonderful world, not that we get many visitors these days. Tell me, how long will you be staying with us, Mr. Corwin?”

  “A few weeks.” He couldn’t remember exactly at the moment, because all he could think about was escaping the Flutterby Inn’s kitchen. If he closed his eyes, he could almost hear the cacophonous symphony of the nightly dinner rush at JD’s in New York.

  “Good, good.” Alice nodded and lifted a slightly trembling hand to smooth a curl above her ear. “Then you’ll be here for the anniversary celebration. It’s going to be quite the to-do, from what I hear. And what kind of work do you do?”

  The truth froze in his throat and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t quite clear it. “I’m between jobs,” he managed and avoided Abby’s suddenly curious stare.

  “Finding yourself, then?” Alice said with a solemn nod. “No place better than Butterfly Harbor to help you figure out life’s big questions. Now, as for you.”

  Alice spun to face her granddaughter so fast, Jason held out his hands for fear the older woman would topple over. Abby reached out at the same time, shooting him a grateful look over her grandmother’s stooped frame.

  “Abby, tell me you haven’t been cooking again.” Alice shook her head and scanned the room, her rust-colored hair reflecting against the ceiling lights.

  “You always told me practice makes perfect,” Abby said in a tone that spoke of lifelong affection and commitment.

  “I also taught you to accept your limitations. You should have learned your lesson when you were six and blew up your Easy-Bake Oven.” She made a face at Jason, who kept his expression neutral. “Bet you didn’t know one of those could fly, did you? Up and tried to launch itself out of the house on Christmas morning, I’m telling you.”

  “I thought we agreed it was a faulty lightbulb,” Abby said without a hint of embarrassment.

  “Your grandfather, bless him, and I thought it best to keep the truth from you. Now that you’re almost thirty, I think you can handle it.”

  “You know me...” Abby stepped in and wrapped her arms around Alice and hugged her close. “I can handle everything as long as I have you. And I’m not going to stop trying to make Matilda’s cranberry-orange scones you like so much.”

  “No scone is worth burning down our home.” Alice clicked her tongue and patted Abby’s back. “You always were an overachiever, Abby girl, but it’s time you wave a white flag and accept when you’re beat. I’d like to go at least a week before hearing that blasted alarm again.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Abby chuckled. “Would you like me to drop you off at Eloise’s this morning on my way to the hospital? I’m going to be leaving in a little bit.”

  “I’m ready whenever you are,” Alice announced. “I’ll
go put my lipstick on and we’ll zoom, zoom, zoom. A lady just isn’t ready to go out in public without her red lipstick,” she told Jason as she held out her hand again. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Corwin.”

  “Jay, please. You, too, Mrs. Manning.”

  “Alice.” She smiled, charming character wrinkles around her eyes appearing. “Welcome to Butterfly Harbor. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

  Abby’s amused gaze faded as he caught her eye. “So do I.”

  * * *

  “MR. CORWIN, THERE you are.” Lori Fletcher, Abby’s assistant manager and invaluable right hand, met them in the dining room as Abby led their new guest to the lobby.

  She could feel the cool morning air brushing in through the front door Lori had opened to clear out the smoke. All the better to see Jay Corwin. Abby’s gaze skimmed from his short-cropped, almost military-style brown hair to a neatly trimmed beard down to a myriad of muscles peeking from under a snug black T-shirt.

  He seemed a bit more relaxed now that the smoke had dissipated. Or maybe it was a trick of the light. He’d stopped staring daggers at her and she was glad to see that frown on his face wasn’t permanent. Not that he would win any points for a cheery disposition.

  “Bonnie’s doing a quick once-over on your room,” Lori told him as she handed him the room key dangling from one of their trademark monarch butterfly key chains. “We have fresh coffee and pastries on the buffet in the lobby if you’d like to wait there.”

  “Thank you, Lori. Miss Manning.” He bowed his head as if he were dismissing her. Abby gnashed her teeth. Storming into her kitchen to lecture her? As if she didn’t know how inept she was when it came to cooking? Or that she didn’t know how to silence a smoke alarm? Arrogant know-it-all.

  “Abby, Matilda’s going to have a coronary when she hears about this,” Lori whispered once Jay Corwin was out of earshot. “She almost went on strike the last time you tried to cook spaghetti and over-boiled the sauce so it erupted like a volcano.”