by Susan Wiggs
Isabel could relate, all too easily. After leaving culinary school, she probably would have ended up in full-on meltdown, except that her grandmother had needed her so badly. Bubbie’s illness had, in a way, saved Isabel. She felt a wave of shame, knowing that.
“I wonder if being a victim of the Lebensborn experiment had anything to do with her decision to give her son to Magnus and Eva,” Isabel said. She made a last, lingering study of the collection Annelise had shown them. The objects seemed so benign, yet now they seemed to possess a sinister power. “I bet that’s why she never married. It’s unusual for someone from her generation to stay single all her life. Not that there’s anything wrong with being single,” she quickly added.
“I didn’t say there was,” he quietly replied.
She didn’t hear him move, but suddenly he was behind her, his voice right next to her ear. Although he didn’t touch her, he was close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, catch his faint scent of piney soap. When she turned, she found herself nose to chest with him. “What?” she asked.
“I’ve got an idea,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”
“All right.” She went to Tess’s big antique desk and armed the shop’s alarm system. “We can leave the shop now.”
“I mean, really out.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will.”
They left Things Remembered and walked up the gravel roadway toward the house. The quiet of the gathering evening settled around them, disturbed only by the occasional hoot of an owl or the swish of a passing car on the road.
“That was overwhelming,” she murmured, her chest still aching from Annelise’s story. “I had no idea...none of us did.”
Their hands brushed as they walked, and in a movement that felt completely natural, he laced his fingers with hers. “I’m sorry for what she went through. Sorry you had to hear it.”
“I can’t believe she endured all that and still moved ahead with her life. Where did she find the courage?” She shook her head. “She was so brave. Grandfather and Bubbie, too, and so many others we’ll never hear about. These people were ripped from the safety of childhood without a moment’s notice. They had to survive on their own for years before putting their lives together. They were powerless to change what happened to them. And yet they didn’t allow the past to limit them. It’s humbling to me.”
“Humbling. In what way?”
She stopped walking and looked down at their clasped hands. “Hearing about how they survived reminds me that I’ve been timid about my life.” Very carefully, she withdrew her hand from his, not because she didn’t like holding hands with this guy, but because she did.
“What do you mean, timid?” he asked.
She started walking again. “Well, tentative, maybe. Overly cautious. I don’t really advocate being reckless, but I tend to stay too much inside my comfort zone.”
“And now you’re wondering what you might find outside the zone.”
“Yes. I wish I were more daring. More of a risk taker.”
“Planning Tess’s wedding isn’t a risk? Every day, you take your life into your own hands.”
She laughed. “It’s not that bad.”
“How about creating a cooking school? You don’t think that’s risky?”
“Of course it is, but that’s not the kind of risk I’m talking about.” To her, falling in love was the biggest risk of all, the ultimate loss of control. Life was much simpler when she kept her heart under constant guard.
Instead of heading toward the house, he went around to the gravel parking area and held open the passenger side door of his Jeep. “Get in,” he said.
“Where are we going?”
“Taking a little detour.”
“Where?”
“Out of your comfort zone.”
“Hey—”
“Get in, for chrissake, it’s not as though I’m kidnaping you.”
There was a foolish flutter in her heart—apprehension. Yes, she liked him. Yes, she was inspired by Annelise and her grandfather’s story to be braver about things. But...tonight? With him? She could feel her body tightening in response to the idea and thought, why not enjoy the guy’s company? He’d be gone soon, anyway. He was just—as he’d said—a detour.
“Fine,” she agreed, pushing past the apprehension. She climbed in and fastened her seat belt. The radio was tuned to a station blaring an old song by The Clash, and he drove down the farm-to-market road into town.
“See, no need to freak out,” he stated, parking on a side street off the town plaza. “Just wanted to take you for a bite to eat.”
“Good idea,” she said.
“I’m full of good ideas.” He pocketed his keys. “Where to? Assuming, I guess, that there’s a restaurant that meets your standards.”
“Archangel is full of great places. Let’s take a walk around the plaza and you can tell me what you like.”
“Everything,” he said as they entered the plaza. There was a big park in the middle with gardens and walkways. “I like everything.”
“Bees?”
“I don’t mind bees, except when they sting.”
“And they don’t sting unless you threaten them.”
A trendy-looking group of people came toward them, laughter and conversation filling the air. There was a guy with a portable light set and another with a shoulder-mounted video camera moving along with them.
Isabel nearly tripped over her own feet. In the middle of the well-groomed, perfectly made-up group was someone painfully familiar. He wore his trademark outfit—black jeans, black fitted Western-cut shirt, black cowboy boots with toes pointy enough to stomp a cockroach in the corner.
“Now what?” asked Mac, placing his hand at the small of her back to steady her. “You look as if you just saw a ghost.”
“Calvin Sharpe,” she said. “Not my favorite person.” She prayed the guy wouldn’t spot her.
He spotted her. His gaze focused like a laser aiming device. He still had some uncanny way of sensing her. Even as he regaled his admirers while the camera recorded him, his stare honed in on her, taking in Mac’s hand at her waist. Just for a moment, a fraction of a second, something hard and threatening flowed from him to her. She shivered and turned in the opposite direction.
“Isn’t that the guy you ran into the morning of the bee stings?” asked Mac.
“The very same.”
“He keeps turning up like a bad penny,” he said.
She crossed to the other side of the plaza. “Hmm. I’ve never actually seen a bad penny. How can a penny be bad?”
He shrugged. “I can tell he bugs you. Who broke whose heart?”
She quickened her steps. “Why would you ask me that?”
“Because it’s obvious you have a past with that guy. Come on, spill.”
“It was a long time ago. And believe me, nobody’s heart got broken.”
“Something got broken. He’s swanning around town with an entourage, and the sight of him makes you go green around the gills.”
“So you say.”
“I have ways of making you talk.”
That drew a laugh from her. “Right.”
“It’s true. I’m a professional.”
She glanced back over her shoulder at the group making the video. “All right, if you must know, Calvin Sharpe was a chef-instructor at the cooking school I attended in Napa. He was—and I guess, still is—supersuccessful, with an ego to match. I was—and maybe still am—supernaive and I followed him around like a lost puppy.”
“Shit. Tell me this is not going where I think it’s going.”
“Sorry, whatever you’re thinking is probably on the money. It was every cliché you’re imagining—a promising, eager student e
namored with her older, charismatic teacher.” Her stomach still churned when she thought of those days, the way she’d let him become her whole world, at the expense of her dreams. “He wasn’t—he’s not—a good guy. He treated me like his unpaid help and I was stupid enough to be grateful for the privilege. He took credit for work that I did and...” She stopped herself before blurting out the rest—the pregnancy, the assault.
“And?” he prompted. “And what? It ended badly.”
She shook her head. “The worst part isn’t that it ended. The worst part is that it didn’t end. I simply left the culinary program and never went back. Didn’t finish school, didn’t contact him ever again. There was no closure, no confrontation. As far as I know, he still assumes I’m a member of his fan club.”
“You can close that chapter anytime you want,” he said. “Up to you.”
“Right. Do I just go up to him and...what? Simply tell him off about something he probably doesn’t even remember? And then I’ll magically be over him?”
“You need to get over yourself.”
“Sure. Doing it now.” She knew he was right, but she didn’t like being pressured.
Mac looked back over his shoulder at Calvin and his entourage. “Have you ever told anyone the truth about that guy? Even yourself?”
She felt the color flare in her cheeks. “Can we please change the subject?”
“Change it to what?”
She gestured at a row of tasting rooms and colorful cafés. “Food and wine.”
“My two staples. Take me to your favorite place.” He surveyed the area, and a smile spread across his face. “I like it here. Great energy. Great smells. Live music.” He indicated a guy on a three-legged stool, tuning up a guitar.
“You’re right. I’m sorry, Mac. Seeing that guy and his crew put me in a mood. Let me finish showing you around, and we’ll find a table somewhere.”
“Much better.”
It was a gorgeous evening, with a breeze shimmering through the trees, people strolling hand in hand through the quaint streets and the plaza. The shops, bistros and restaurants were abuzz with patrons. She showed him where the farmer’s market took place every Saturday, and pointed out her favorite spots—the town library, a tasting room co-op run by the area vintners, the Brew Ha Ha café and the Rose, a vintage community theater. On a night like this, she took a special pride in Archangel, with its cheerful spirit and colorful sights. She refused to let the Calvin sighting drag her down. He had ruined many things for her, but he was not going to ruin the way she felt about her hometown.
After some deliberation, she chose Andaluz, her favorite spot for Spanish-style wines and tapas. The bar spilled out onto the sidewalk, brightened by twinkling lights strung under the big canvas umbrellas. The tables were small, encouraging quiet intimacy and insuring that their knees would bump as they scooted their chairs close. She ordered a carafe of local Mataró, a deep, strong red from some of the oldest vines in the county, and a plancha of tapas—deviled dates, warm, marinated olives, a spicy seared tuna with smoked paprika. Across the way in the plaza garden, the musician strummed a few chords on his guitar.
The food was delicious, the wine even better, as elemental and earthy as the wild hills where the grapes grew. They finished with sips of a chocolate-infused port and cinnamon churros. The guitar player was singing “The Keeper,” his gentle voice seeming to float with the breeze. Isabel savored a bite of the churro, licking a sugary crumb from the corner of her mouth.
“Hang on,” Mac said, staring at her. “Don’t move.”
“What’s the matter?” She froze. Maybe he’d spotted a bee or mosquito on her.
“Nothing. I just want to freeze this moment.”
“What?”
“Because it’s kind of perfect.”
She melted a little inside. “Kind of?”
“Yep.”
“What would make it really perfect?”
“If I knew I was going to get lucky afterward.”
“Get...” She blushed, suddenly catching on, and finished the last sip of her cordial. “You don’t want to get lucky with me.”
“Wrong. I’d like nothing more.”
She shook her head. “We’re better as friends.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she knew she was lying. She was falling for him in the worst way, but it was the kind of falling that was guaranteed to have a rough landing.
“How the hell do you know that?”
“I just know. I’m not interested in casual sex.”
“Who said anything about casual? To be honest, I don’t do casual sex, either. Just warm, intimate, slow, amazing sex.” He stared pointedly at her mouth. “It’s my favorite.”
She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“You shouldn’t. You should make me prove myself.”
She looked away so he wouldn’t see the yearning in her eyes. “What I mean is, I don’t... I’m not interested in just sex, or a fling or whatever you’re calling it.”
“You’re a red-blooded American girl. How can you not be interested? Don’t tell me you’re one of those women who doesn’t like sex.”
“I do,” she said. She did. “But forgive me for having standards. When I get intimate with a guy, I like to know there’s a possible future.”
“And you don’t see that with me.”
“Not unless you’re okay with hanging around in Archangel.”
He scanned the area, filled with music and soft breezes and delightful aromas. “This doesn’t suck.”
“Tess says you’re a rolling stone. You never stay in one place for long.”
“I never had a reason to stay.” He leaned forward, still studying her mouth, his knees under the table straddling hers. He was going to kiss her. She knew it in every cell of her body. She wanted it with every cell of her body.
“Let’s not do this,” she said in a rush, and scraped her chair back.
“Why the hell not?”
He was a complication she absolutely did not need. Not now. Not ever. “We’re bad for each other.”
“We might be made for each other. But if you have that attitude, we’ll never know.”
Better that way, she thought. Better not to know. Safer and neater. “Then I suppose you’re right. We’ll never know.”
PART SIX
The color, aroma and flavor of honey is a reflection of a specific region and time of year. Honey in its purest form isn’t clear, but misty with pollen. While plain sugar and other sweeteners are merely sweet, honey can express floral, grassy, fruity or woody flavor notes, depending on the source of the nectar. Honey from summer wildflowers is considered the sweetest variety.
3 cups flour
2 cups sugar
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon table salt
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
bananas (about 3)
2 cups diced overripe bananas
3 beaten eggs
1 cup chopped toasted pecans
1 cup vegetable oil
2 tablespoons honey
1 (8-oz.) can crushed pineapple, drained
Preheat oven to 350°. Sift together first 5 ingredients in a large bowl; add the remainder of the ingredients, stirring just until dry ingredients are moistened. Pour batter into 4 greased and floured 9-inch square or round cake pans.
Bake for 20 to 25 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool in pans on wire racks for about 10 minutes; then remove from pans and place the cakes on wire racks, to cool completely.
Browned Butter Frosting
1 cup butter
1 lb. powdered sugar
¼ cup milk
1 tablespoon honey
Melt butter in a heavy saucepan over medium heat, stirring constantly for 8 to 10 minutes or until butter begins to turn golden-brown. Remove pan immediately from heat, and pour butter into a small bowl. Chill for an hour or until butter begins to solidify.
Beat butter with an electric mixer until fluffy, and add sugar alternately with milk. Stir in the honey.
Frost the cake and sprinkle with pecans. Chill for at least 1 hour before serving to make it easier to cut and serve.
[Source: Adapted from a traditional Southern recipe]
Chapter Fifteen
“Here, taste this.” Isabel set a slice of cake in front of Tess. “If you like it, then we’ll make it for your wedding cake.”
Isabel had always been good at cakes. It was a special talent, making a cake that was both beautiful and delicious. Tess’s green eyes danced as she regarded the creamy iced wedge of two-layer cake in front of her. “Am I drooling? Because if this tastes half as good as it looks—”
“Not half,” Isabel said. “All the way. You have to trust.”
“I trust.” Tess leaned down and inhaled the fragrance. “Butter and pecans.”
“It’s a browned butter frosting, and the filling is a cream cheese custard sweetened with honey.”
“Stop. You’re making me have an orgasm.”
“Tess.”
“A cake-gasm, then.” She dug in, savoring the first bite with closed eyes and a blissful expression on her face. “Incredible,” she said. “Why would anyone eat anything else when there is hummingbird cake in the world?”
“Exactly. I’m glad you approve.”
“Well, I hope you know CPR, because when the wedding guests taste this cake, they are going to keel over and die.”
“So it’s a go?”
“Are you kidding? Total go. Get the defibrillator paddles. This might be the best wedding cake ever made. Oh, and don’t try to make it look like anything but a cake, you know? I’m not a fan of those silly cakes that look like the Liberty Bell or birdcages or something in a 3-D cartoon. A mile high cake on stilts, big enough to feed the world. That’s all we need.”