by Lexi Eddings
* * *
She took the recipe card from the side pocket of the pageant notebook and laid it on the counter between them.
“Is it written in another language?” she asked.
Seth chuckled. “No, that’s English. It’s just my granny Higginbottom’s terrible handwriting.”
“Oh! I’m sorry.” Angie didn’t want to offend him, but honestly, it was evidence of one of the worst cases of dysgraphia she’d ever seen. “Well, I can make out a few words. Let’s see . . .” She narrowed her eyes at the card and read, “I muscle donuts—”
“Made,” he corrected. “I made donuts.”
“Oh, I see.” She followed the scribbles with her finger, and went on, “with that vice land . . . getaday.”
“With that nice lard yesterday.”
“Nice lard?” She sat up straight and frowned at him. “What the heck makes lard nice?”
Seth’s hands lifted in a palm up shrug. “I’m guessing it’s . . . lard that hasn’t gone rancid.”
“Okay.” Just calling something lard sort of implied rancid to her. “Who cooks with lard anyway?”
“It’s a very old recipe.”
“Yeah, I get that. So, it says, ‘I made donuts with that nice lard yesterday.’ ” She wrote the translation—the script seemed so foreign, she couldn’t think of what they were doing as anything other than translation—on her to-do page, then she started trying to read the recipe again. “I . . . kawe?”
“Have,” he offered.
“If you say so.” She blinked at him and then turned back to the card. “ ‘I have a good recrift?’ What on earth is a recrift?”
“She means recipe. Granny just added a couple of extra bumps in there and made her p a little tall. That’s why you thought it was an f.”
“I’m not trying to be insulting to your grandmother, but how can that be an e at the end? It looks like a loopy t.”
“Yeah, it does, but it’s an e.”
“How do you know?”
“’Cause I write the same way,” he admitted. “The guys have a heck of a time reading my work orders sometimes. I usually have Pam write them out when I can.”
“Who’s Pam?”
“My office manager. She keeps things straight at Parker Construction.”
Angie found herself wondering about this Pam. Was she young and pretty or old and motherly? She kind of hoped for the latter.
“Dysgraphia can run in families,” she said. “Having trouble writing legibly must have made school hard for you.”
“At first. Once I learned to keyboard, things got easier.”
“And you didn’t have problems with reading, too? Dysgraphia and dyslexia often go hand in hand.”
He shook his head. “Reading wasn’t my favorite thing. Still isn’t, but I do okay.”
Angie bet he did better than okay. Obviously, he’d had to work harder for his accomplishments than some, but he didn’t seem at all bitter about it. If anything, his early struggles might have contributed to his rock-steady character now.
Everything came easily to Peter. She wondered for the first time if that wasn’t as much of a blessing as she’d thought.
“Back to Granny Higginbottom . . . ‘I have a good recipe so . . .’” She squinted at the card, trying to infer from context because the writing was as intelligible as hieroglyphics. “Here it is?”
“Yeah, now you’re getting the hang of it.” His smile made her feel as if she’d just recited a Shakespeare soliloquy word perfect instead of just a few lines from an old recipe card.
“I think I’ve got the next little bit, too.” The words looked more like 1 uek futternilh, but Angie guessed, “One cup buttermilk.”
“That’s it.”
She was on a roll now. “One cup sugar, two eggs . . . features? What’s an egg feature?”
“Beaten. Two eggs beaten.”
“Okay. What’s this squiggle off to the side?” She pointed to a scribble along the edge of the card. “It looks like ‘feet ace lo-quiker. ’ You’re sure this is in English? Sometimes early settlers around here still spoke a European language and slipped a few words from that into the English they were trying to learn.”
Seth frowned at the card. Even he had to study it for a bit before he said, “Beat all together.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” She ran her finger over the next item. “One t salt. I’m guessing t stands for tablespoon. One t nanillu?”
“Vanilla,” he corrected.
“You sure?”
“Pretty darn. That’s how I’d write it.”
“Okay, now for the really loosey-goosey part.” Angie hated recipes that weren’t precise. It was hard enough to make them work when everything was laid out clearly. “It says, ‘Three or four cups flour.’ So which is it? Three or four.”
“Looks like Granny’s added a note off to the side about that.” He pointed to another set of squiggles.
“Really? That looks like margarine something or other.”
He chuckled. “Nope. It’s ‘Maybe more. Go easy.’ ”
“Go easy, huh? Words to live by.” She needed to go easy with Seth for sure. She was coming to like his laugh far too much. “Two t baking . . . peer.”
“Baking powder.”
“Okay. One t soda. Does your grandmother mean Coke or Pepsi?”
“Neither. Granny means baking soda. You don’t bake much, do you?”
She shook her head. “My cooking gives new meaning to the phrase ‘burnt offering.’ I can make a mean salad and set a pretty table, but I was absent the day God handed out culinary skills.”
If she was being honest, she’d admit there was rarely anything in the kitchens of her foster homes to bake. But she didn’t need to launch into that sad song and dance. So she turned her attention back to the recipe card.
“What’s a dacle of nutwig?” she asked
“Dash of nutmeg.”
Angie wrote it all out on her list so she could refer back to it, but still didn’t know if she’d be able to use the recipe. “And your grandmother finally ends with, ‘makes three dog.’ ”
“Dozen. Makes three dozen.”
She nodded. “Well, that makes more sense. Those are the ingredients, but after I line them up on the counter, then what? Is there a special order I should mix them in? Do I roll the dough flat and use a donut cutter? Is there even such a thing?”
Seth shook his head. “Don’t ask me. I’m just the translator.”
“Or maybe I’m supposed to roll the dough into skinny logs and form little loops with them.” She tapped the end of her pen on the counter like a percussionist practicing rum-tum-tiddle-ums.
“You’re overthinking this.”
“And then once I have some semblance of donut-shaped objects, how do I cook them?” she wondered aloud.
“I’m no expert, but I think that’s where the nice lard comes in.”
“Even if I could find lard that’s ‘nice,’ to what temperature should I heat it? How long does each donut need to cook?” Her shoulders slumped.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. I bet this recipe would stymie cooks who have a lot more experience in the kitchen than you do.”
He patted her forearm and then let his hand rest on her wrist. His rough, callused palm was warm. Angie was sure he meant it to be consoling, but the contact had a jolting effect, sending flares of alarm up to her shoulder. She fought the urge to jerk her hand away. It was hard for her to let people touch her.
That was part of the reason Peter had been her one and only. It had taken a lot for her to let him close.
And another reason it cut so deeply when he left.
She wasn’t ready to be touched again. Not that Seth was so terrible. He wasn’t at all, but she always felt uncomfortable in her own skin when someone invaded her space. When he pulled his hand back, she released the breath she’d been holding.
“Why not just delegate the donuts to someone else?” he suggested. If he was aw
are of her inner turmoil a few seconds ago, he gave no sign.
“I don’t think Shirley Evans would appreciate that. Your aunt was pretty particular about the recipe staying in your family.” Of course, the unintelligible handwriting pretty much guaranteed it wouldn’t be passed on without an insider to translate.
“Add the recipe to your list of things to talk with Crystal about. She used to be an Evans.”
“Perfect.” Angie wrote a note on her list. “I’ll bet your aunt has already taught her how to make the donuts.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. Aunt Shirley is as secretive about her recipes as Granny was.”
“Well, I’ll ask your cousin Crystal about making the donuts anyway.” She underlined the idea, planning to fob off the baking to this Evans cousin. “Even if she says no, I’ll be no worse off than I am now.”
“That’s the . . . spirit.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right. I need a better attitude.”
“Are you always this negative?”
“I try not to be, but I guess I am looking on the pageant as a burden,” she admitted.
“If it is a burden, at least you only have to shoulder half of it. I’m here for you, Angie.”
The way he said it made her think he meant he was there for her in other ways, too. It was tempting to lean on his strength, but she’d learned early that she could only count on herself.
And when she forgot that lesson, Peter had been there to remind her.
“Heather would say that I need to look on the pageant as an opportunity. And frankly, the Warm Hearts credo applies to me in spades. I need something to get me out of myself and thinking about other people for a change.”
“You work with high school kids all day. I suspect you do plenty of thinking about others.”
“You know what I mean.” She took a long drink of her tea to empty the glass and started loading her dishwasher with their plates and flatware. “I was taught not to be the grabby child. Other peoples’ needs are supposed to come first.”
“Sometimes, it’s okay for you to be the one who needs something,” Seth said, his dark eyes warm as he gazed at her. “There’s a grace to giving and a grace to receiving. And sometimes, receiving is the harder part.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
He stood. “Because I want you to know whatever you need, I’m ready to give.”
Chapter 11
They say if you jostle a person, whatever they’re full of spills out. Pain always seems to slosh out of me.
—Angela Holloway, who wishes she could pull a thick blanket over her past and put it to sleep forever
“Whatever I need,” she repeated.
He had no idea. She needed quite a lot. So much she didn’t dare let herself feel it most of the time. If she did, she feared she’d start weeping and never stop.
One night, she woke screaming from a vivid dream of being locked in a closet. She was filthy and hungry and her throat was so dry, as if she hadn’t had anything to drink for hours and hours. Once she was fully awake, she realized it wasn’t so much a dream as a metaphor for a memory. She’d never been shut in a closet for real, but she remembered the feeling of being closeted. Isolated. Left out. Overlooked. Nobody saw a shy, silent girl who bounced from one foster home to the next because she couldn’t seem to connect with anyone. When she was punted to the next home, she doubted she was missed.
She’d slept with the light on for a week after that dream, just so she could remind herself quickly where she was when she woke.
Seth was still looking at her with that searching expression of his. It was as if he could read her secrets. She forced herself to smile at him.
“I don’t know what you mean. I don’t need anything. Oh, I could probably stand more sleep than I’m getting, but I’m fine.” She closed the dishwasher, grateful for something to do with her hands. He might catch them trembling otherwise. She knew better than to let thoughts of her past intrude on her present when someone else was around. “Look, is there anything else you think we need to talk about tonight? About the pageant, I mean.”
He shook his head.
“What about the budget?” She smacked her forehead à la the old “I coulda had a V8” commercial. Nothing came free in this world. Something as involved as the pageant would cost a good bit to produce. “I didn’t see anything in the notebook about money.”
“I’ll take care of the building supplies and labor for the manger,” Seth said. “We may have to take up a collection for fabric for new costumes, but whoever we get to do the sewing will probably donate their time. The merchants around town are pretty good about sponsorships for anything else we need. The Christmas pageant is about community. People are used to giving back around here. I’ll handle it.”
“Okay, well . . . then, I think we’re done for now.” The sooner she got Seth Parker out of her apartment, the more like herself she’d start feeling. She was strong. Independent. She didn’t need anybody or anything and she intended to keep it that way. “Meeting adjourned.”
He didn’t take the hint. “It’s still early. Want to catch a movie?”
That was a quality bad idea. She didn’t need the temptation to lean on him any more than she already was.
“Oh, I don’t think so, Seth. I’ve got school tomorrow and anyway, the films at the Regal aren’t exactly first-run caliber.” That was a good refusal if she did say so herself. It wasn’t personal. It was about the sorry old movies the Regal Theater offered.
“First runs aren’t necessarily all that good,” he said, clearly not hearing “no” in her gentle reply. “Sometimes, an old classic is better.”
“You have me there.” Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to go over to the Regal with him. After all, she’d gone to Harper’s with Peter and she’d emerged no worse for the wear. “What’s playing?”
“The African Queen.”
“I’ve heard about it, but I’ve never seen it.”
“You should.”
“I suppose since I haven’t, for me, it is a first run,” she rationalized. If we just went as friends . . . If there aren’t any expectations on either side . . . Expectations are what get you into trouble. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah, I’ll go with you. But since this is not a date, I’ll pay for my own ticket. Let me get my coat.” She scurried into the other room before he could object.
* * *
Not a date, she says. Seth stewed about it for as long as it took Angie to return with her coat—not the fancy, fitted leather jacket she’d worn to Harper’s. This one was padded and puffy, more for warmth than fashion. Clearly, she felt no need to impress him.
Seth pasted on his game face. She might not think this was a date, but he was going to count it as one.
True to her word, she wouldn’t let him pay for her ticket, but she couldn’t stop him from buying buttered popcorn and soft drinks for them both. He stifled a laugh when she didn’t even eat her popcorn with her fingers. Once the lights went down in the Regal, she tipped up the paper cup filled with buttery kernels and snagged a couple with her clever little tongue.
She laughed at the movie in all the right places, and he noticed she swiped her eyes a time or two toward the end, when Bogart and Hepburn were about to be hanged together.
He didn’t try to hold her hand or put his arm across the back of her seat. Somehow, he knew, without knowing why, that she wouldn’t like it.
But she did like him.
A little. He was almost sure of it. Sure enough to keep trying anyway.
They stayed until the last credit rolled. The kid who had to clean up the theater started sweeping the aisles behind them as they left. When they hit the sidewalk, a wintry wind hit them in the face. The temperature had dropped considerably while they were inside.
“Brrr!” Angie said as she turned up the collar of her coat and shoved her hands into her pockets. “And me without a hat or gloves.”
“Take mine.” Seth didn
’t have a hat, but he handed her his wool gloves. He wore leather ones for work, but hardly ever wore these. Usually only when Pam at work caught him heading home without them and insisted he put them on. He hardly ever felt cold, no matter how brisk the weather.
Angie put her tiny hands into his gloves and jammed her now oversized fists back into her pockets. “I’m glad you suggested that movie, Seth.”
“Me too.”
“It’s really strange, isn’t it?” Her breath puffed in the cold air as if she were a little she-dragon. “The way Charlie and Rose ended up together. They’re sort of an unlikely couple.”
“Well, shared enemies can make folks fast friends,” Seth reasoned. “Charlie and Rose had to fight a river and Nazis—”
“And mosquitoes.” Her shiver had little to do with the brisk wind. “Ugh! And those awful leeches.”
“And each other,” Seth said. “They didn’t think much of each other either in the beginning, remember.”
“No, not at first, anyway. I suppose that’s to be expected because they were such different people. She was so buttoned up and proper and he . . . well, I guess Charles Allnut could best be described as a slacker.”
“Hey, the guy leaped into a leech-infested river and pulled the boat for miles.” Seth felt honor bound to defend the movie’s hero. Allnut was sort of Everyman. “Doesn’t sound like a slacker to me. I’d hire him.”
They turned off the Square to walk around to the rear of Angie’s building. She picked up her pace. Seth had to lengthen his stride to keep up with her.
“You don’t have to walk me up,” she said as he started up the iron staircase beside her.
“Sure I do. It’s how I was raised. Every female in my family would have my hide if I didn’t see you safe to your door,” he said honestly. Even more than respect for his elders, his mother and aunts had seen to it that gentlemanly traits were pounded into Seth and his brothers.
“Well, that would be bad. I’d hate to see you lose your hide.” She took off his gloves and handed them back to him. Then she started rummaging in her purse as they continued to climb the stairs.