“And you’re stuck there.” Aimee sighed, feeling his frustration.
“I thought you might sit with her for a while. Work your magic with the juice straw and maybe encourage her to consider an IV. Would you do that? When you’re finished with your shift in dietary, of course.”
“I’m not at work; they sent me home. I had a little accident—cut myself.”
“What? Are you okay?”
“Yes,” Aimee assured him, feeling like an idiot all over again as she glanced down at her glued-together finger. “It’s just a small slice. No stitches. But they said I shouldn’t work with it.”
“Makes sense.” It sounded like Lucas sighed. “I guess it will be awkward, physically, to try and manage—”
“It’s not only that,” Aimee interrupted before he could mention his grandmother again. Guilt tried to arm wrestle her growing anxiety. Why hadn’t the coordinator called? “There’s a problem about tomorrow. The contest,” she explained. “I couldn’t get the rhubarb. The Garden of Eatin’ people weren’t at the farmers’ market and aren’t answering their phone. The farm is somewhere up in the coastal mountains, and there’s no other source for organic, local rhubarb. I have a call out to the contest coordinator to get permission to make a substitution.” She rested her hand on her mother’s recipe tin. “And then I’ll have to find the right recipe and convert it to vegan ingredients. Then do a test run in my oven. And—”
“Sounds like you’re too busy,” Lucas broke in. Something in his voice suggested he’d heard more than enough.
“I’m really sorry,” Aimee told him, guilt getting the upper hand. His grandmother’s kidneys were in jeopardy and she was whining about rhubarb. Of course Lucas would see it that way; he couldn’t understand how much Aimee needed to—“I’ll call dietary,” she offered in a rush, “and talk to the woman who’s taking over the tray delivery for me. I know her pretty well. Maybe I can convince her to stay awhile and encourage your grandmother to drink her fluids. And then if you talk to the evening aides . . .”
“Already did that. I do it every day, Aimee. You know that.” There was a muffled groan. “I wasn’t trying to put you on the spot. I thought you were already at the hospital. It’s just that I know my grandmother likes you . . .”
“I like her too, Lucas. A lot.” Aimee hated that they were having this conversation over the phone; she couldn’t read his expression, see his eyes. “I wish I could help, but I’m probably going to be up half the night getting the recipe right and—”
“I get that. Look, I’ve got to go. The team’s waiting.”
“Sure. I’ll check in with you tomorrow, after—”
“Bye.”
Aimee disconnected, closed her eyes for a moment. She reminded herself that she wasn’t equipped to offer the kind of help Rosalynn Marchal really needed: medical expertise. The kind of skills that her humiliating failure at nursing school proved she lacked. She was no more than a glorified tray deliverer who’d been coerced into—
Aimee’s cell phone buzzed; her heart leaped to her throat as she answered.
“Aimee Curran?”
“Yes,” she breathed, recognizing the accent of the contest coordinator, the same man who’d encouraged her in the semifinals. “This is she.”
Please . . .
“I got your message. A pity about the rhubarb. I must tell you that it’s highly irregular to substitute a recipe. Especially mere hours before the competition. It would be up to the judging team to accept it, and I certainly won’t bother them tonight.”
“I can understand that, sir.” Aimee’s shoulders sagged. She was failing again. “I do appreciate your returning my call and—”
“It’s irregular, but not entirely unheard of in this particular competition. And of course, the recipe would have to comply with the same vegan, organic, and local requirements. I would suggest that you come prepared to make this substitute dessert. Arrive thirty minutes earlier than the scheduled time.”
Aimee’s breath caught. “You mean there’s a chance?”
“We’ll present your proposal to the judging team.” The coordinator chuckled. “As Jacques Pépin has been known to say, ‘Cooking is the art of adjustment.’ Is that not so, Miss Curran?”
“Uh . . . yes, absolutely,” she agreed, clueless about the quote, sure her voice was squeaking like a mouse, but still so very—“I’m grateful. So grateful for this. Thank you.”
Aimee disconnected, nearly giddy with relief. She’d been given a chance and she wasn’t going to blow it. Tomorrow she’d win the baking contest, secure her admission to culinary school. The beginning of her future.
Her brow furrowed as she recalled what the grill chef had asked her today: “What’s the big dream?” Donny had said that she was young, had plenty of time to find her calling. And she had found it. Of course she had. Food—being a “rising culinary star” on the fast track to becoming a chef—that was Aimee’s calling. And despite today’s stumbling blocks, she was back on track. On her way forward.
“Mom . . . ,” Aimee said aloud, seeing her mother’s lucky spoon among the tools she’d gathered for the contest. She raised the orange plastic implement, smiling back at the silly, cutout happy face. “I’m going to make you proud. I promise.”
She set the spoon down and reached for the recipe tin, lifted the lid, and began searching through the index cards. They were faded and dog-eared, some smudged with blotted food stains, and all in her mother’s so-familiar looping cursive. A few had stick-on gold stars. Two hundred recipes or more . . . ten times that many precious memories. Aimee’s throat tightened. She’d so wished to be able to use the rhubarb recipe. Valentine’s Day, her birthday, and the dessert her mother always made: it had all seemed so perfect.
Her heart cramped. Practically perfect—a sprig of daphne flowers behind her ear would have made it truly perfect. But Aimee still had the local strawberries and a second chance now. The answer was here somewhere.
Please, God. Help me find exactly the right recipe.
LUCAS FLICKED ON the truck’s headlights and continued down the mountain. It was getting dark, and by the time he got back to San Diego, his grandmother would be asleep. Still dehydrated and still in a stubborn mind-set to refuse life support measures. He’d have to go see her in the morning, get there ahead of the medical team and try to talk her into changing her mind. What were the realistic chances of that happening? Why—when it was so important—couldn’t he be even half as effective in helping his grandmother as he was in his career?
He glanced toward the equipment lying on the seat beside him: digital camera, lenses, tripods, bindle paper, biohazard bags, the latent print kit, tweezers and forceps, flags, seals, flashlight . . . and boxes for collecting weapons. His jaw tightened as he recalled snapping photos of ropes and duct tape, presumably used to bind the abducted woman. Thank God the suspect had been apprehended before he harmed someone else. Lucas liked knowing he’d play a role in bringing the man to justice by providing the carefully gathered and documented evidence already headed for the crime lab, then probably a courtroom. He liked that he helped to make logical sense of painful chaos, bringing order after tragedy.
If only he could accomplish a fraction of that with his grandmother. Maybe he could have, if Aimee . . .
No. He gripped the steering wheel, reminding himself that he’d done all the brooding he was going to over that. It wasn’t fair to blame Aimee. She had no obligation to him or his grandmother. She’d already done far more than necessary to help, even beyond the payback to Wanda. She had every right to pursue her dream. Lucas took a slow breath, remembering their conversation as they sat overlooking the ocean and drinking their coffee. She’d talked about her mother, said that following a culinary career would continue something important they’d had together. Aimee wanted to honor that. She’d said, too, that she felt like “God had a hand in it” because the Vegan Valentine Bake-Off was taking place on the tenth anniversary of her mother’s death and Aim
ee planned to prepare the same dessert her mother always made . . . for her birthday. His stomach sank. Tomorrow was Aimee’s birthday and she couldn’t make that special dessert.
He slowed the truck, pulled to a stop on the shoulder, hating himself. He’d practically hung up on her—what a jerk. He glanced at the clock on the dash, trying to remember what she’d said about that organic farm. With the crazy name . . . Yeah, Garden of Eatin’.
Lucas pulled out his cell phone, opened his browser, and tapped in the name. Aimee said the rhubarb farm was “up in the coastal mountains.” That it was anywhere near here was a long shot. And worth a try.
Strawberry cobbler, strawberry pie . . . Strawberry Fields Forever cake?
Aimee pulled the pink-smudged index card from the recipe tin, laid it atop the others, and checked the clock. Nearly seven thirty now. She’d have to run to Trader Joe’s to grab more vegan buttery spread. And practice berries—the farmers’ market strawberries were at the hospital, safe from her gasping kitchen fridge. Then she’d have to whip up the recipe, do the test bake, and pray it worked; there wasn’t time for flubs. And then . . . Aimee lifted her hand, frowned at the mismatched polish. She still had to fix that, too. It had been so much easier when a nail polish choice was the biggest problem.
Aimee’s eyes swept to the clock again. The hospital dinner trays would have been taken away by now; the friend in dietary had said she’d planned to sit with Mrs. Marchal, but things got hectic and they were short-staffed for kitchen cleanup. Hopefully the rehab aides had gotten Lucas’s grandmother to eat. He said he’d talked to them. “I do it every day, Aimee. You know that.” She flinched, remembering the tone of his voice over the phone. He was disappointed, frustrated. But so was Aimee. If she didn’t find the right recipe . . .
She thumbed through the rest of the Ss, moved on to the Ts—there could be a strawberry tart or torte . . . but there wasn’t. Aimee told herself to stop, settle for the cake named after an old Beatles song, go to the store, and start baking. But . . . it doesn’t feel right.
She flipped through the Us, the Ws, found nothing in the X slot, decided yams were yucky with strawberries, pushed past the empty Z tab, then started to close the recipe tin and—
What’s that?
In the back of the tin were two sheets of spiral notebook paper, folded into quarters. Not index cards, but . . . Aimee smiled as she saw the gold stars her mother had embellished the sheets with. Tried and proven-winner recipes. But the first one wasn’t a recipe at all. It was her mother’s handwritten notes for her food ministry, a service she’d provided for fellow church members as long as Aimee could remember. Long enough that at least a half dozen of these people had since passed away.
She scanned the list of food recipients, her mother’s notes. Mrs. Campell, she’d penciled, had had a hip replacement, loved sweets despite her diabetes. Bring light fruit parfait and a new sweet romance novel. Cowboys . . . Mr. Foster lost his wife the year before and was becoming more reclusive. His appetite was “finicky,” but he liked Swedish turkey meatballs. Aimee smiled at her mother’s addendum: Bring a treat for Scottie dog, ask about him. Mr. Foster will relax and eat a little more. Aimee chuckled. Alice Wheaton had gout, loved chiles rellenos San Jose—bring Beano. And avoid talk of politics.
Her throat tightened at the next entry: Melanie Carson, single, first-time mother. Laid off from her job. She could hear her mother’s sweet voice in the note: Bring cheesy chicken and rice and some of that almond lotion she admired. Tell her she’s an amazing mother and show her the baby photo of Aimee. Remind her that, even as a mother, she’s still God’s precious little girl.
“Mom . . .” Aimee set the paper down, choked by sudden tears. Miranda Curran’s notes said it all, revealed her heart. Aimee had planned to take one of these recipes and adapt it to win a contest, while her mother had adapted recipes to people. Used her passion, her skills, to bring a smile, boost a spirit, and make a difference, one person at a time. Now that was a spiritual gift, a calling.
Aimee lifted the remaining sheet of paper. Not in her mother’s handwriting this time. A faded, printed page. Maybe something her mother photocopied, titled simply “The Recipe”:
Take 2 heaping cups of Patience
1 heart full of Love
2 handfuls of Generosity
Sprinkle with Kindness
Add plenty of Faith
Mix well and spread over a period of a lifetime and serve everybody you meet.
Aimee read it again as a warm tear slid down her cheek. She pressed a hand over her heart, closed her eyes, breathed in the scent of daphne flowers, and heard her mother’s laugh, the sound of her happy-face spoon scraping the side of a mixing bowl. Her mother’s gifts of love. Taylor had nailed it, only two weeks ago. When Aimee told her about the contest, how she planned to adapt her mother’s recipe to fit the vegan venue, Taylor reminded her that “Aunt Miranda was all about ‘stirring in the love.’”
Aimee wiped at a tear, astounded and at the same time peaceful—and so very certain. She’d sat right here, on the eve of the contest, her birthday, and the anniversary of her mother’s death, and asked God to help her find exactly the right recipe. He couldn’t have said it more plainly. Patience, love, generosity, kindness, faith, and . . .
“. . . serve everybody you meet.”
Aimee pushed away from the table, hefted her purse from the chair back, and hustled out the door. Then put her car in gear and headed to the hospital.
“I’M GLAD YOU CALLED,” the breathless Aiden Owens told Lucas. “I was going to sit down and try to return some messages now that things have settled down some. And Evie and our son—” his voice cracked—“are out of danger.”
“Danger?”
“Because of his early birth,” the Garden of Eatin’ co-owner explained. “Sorry; how could you know that? But it’s been crazy hectic here at the hospital. And absolutely awesome. His name is Wyatt Cornell. After our grandparents.”
“That’s great,” Lucas told the man, thinking this was the last thing he’d expected. “Congratulations . . . to all of you.”
“Yeah. Thanks, man. I’m still wrapping my head around it.” He laughed. “And you’re probably looking for produce.”
“Rhubarb,” Lucas confirmed. “It feels weird saying this, considering, but it’s kind of an emergency.” He relayed the situation briefly, surprised to find that the man remembered Aimee. But then again . . . how could you not?
“And the contest is tomorrow?”
“Yes, starts really early in the morning. Aimee’s one of four semifinalists.”
“We saw the TV clip and were really happy for her. It was gutsy to go with the black bean brownies. But I guess it didn’t click that she needs our rhubarb for the finals; or maybe Aimee did tell us, but . . .” Aiden sighed. “Wyatt happened. I’m sorry, but we’re way out in La Mesa.”
“And I’m up in the mountains. On my way home from a work site.”
“Mountains? Where?”
Lucas told him, suddenly daring to hope.
“Awesome!” Aiden whooped. “You’re only twenty-five minutes from our farm. Turn left at the mileage sign—our wooden sign is just beside it. The road is paved most of the way, then turns into gravel. It dead-ends into our place.”
“Someone there? A farmhand or . . . ?”
“Nope. Just the collie. No worries; she only growls to hide the fact that she’s a complete sissy.”
“So I can go there now?”
“Right. Got a flashlight?”
“Sure. And a knife—if I need it.” Technically Lucas had been in possession of two knives today. One was sealed in an evidence box now, but this new dad didn’t need to hear that.
“No knife,” Aiden told him. “You never cut rhubarb to harvest it. That’s important. But you’ll need that flashlight, and you’ll have to follow my directions to find the right field and choose the best stalks.”
“I’m listening,” Lucas assured. “Is there a place
I can leave some cash or—?”
“Nah. This one’s on me, friend. Tell Aimee we’re rooting for her, and we wouldn’t mind if she mentions the Garden of Eatin’ to the TV folks.”
“I’ll do that. Thanks. Hey, this is really great,” Lucas added, touched by the man’s kindness. “Tomorrow’s Aimee’s birthday, and she’s sort of doing this contest in memory of her mother. The rhubarb dish was something special between them.”
“I hear you. And I’m glad we could be part of that. I don’t believe in coincidence. Me catching your call just now and you being in that area—sounds like a God thing to me.”
“Yeah, maybe so.” Lucas thought once again of Aimee’s words: “God had a hand in it.”
“Now,” Aiden said over the sound of an infant’s mewling cry, “let’s get you up there.”
In thirty minutes, Lucas was at the farm. Or to be more exact, he was trudging in darkness up—and up—the rutted deer path that led to the farthest, most mature, rhubarb patch. After climbing over the chained and padlocked gate the proud new father had forgotten to mention. Fortunately Lucas had worn hiking boots to collect evidence at the crime scenes, and there was a decent amount of moonlight. He was grateful, too, that the collie was as friendly as Aiden had promised, though the geese—guarding the unexpected gate—weren’t at all. They’d hissed like serpents in Eden and were still managing a menacing waddle up the path behind him.
“Almost there?” Lucas asked the collie, stopping to aim his flashlight up the path. A cricket chorus joined the hisses. Lucas squinted in the darkness. Aiden had said there would be a small marker designating the mature field and . . . “Ah, there.”
He stared the geese down, then followed the collie the remaining dozen yards. Pale moonlight shone on the rhubarb field, sizable green mounds scattered like dome tents at Scout camp. Lucas had snagged a large evidence bag from his kit and shoved a few pairs of plastic gloves inside it. He’d forgotten to ask if “poisonous leaves” meant there was a problem with touching them as well. This off-road adventure would be pointless if he passed out from rhubarb toxicity and was finished off by homicidal geese.
Chance of Loving You Page 17