by Mae Nunn
“Miss Nancy, the lights were out for a reason.”
“Yes, I noticed.” She stopped next to the row where they were seated. “You two are waaay past eighteen, so you can do whatever you want, but if you’re gonna neck in public, you oughta do it in a movie theater like the rest of us.”
“Thank you for that piece of advice, Miss Nancy. Was there a reason you dropped by on this fine Sunday afternoon?”
She fished into the pocket of her camo pants, pulled out a white envelope and handed it to Cullen.
“It’s a special occasion so I’m delivering these personally.”
“Dr. Cullen Temple and Date” was artfully written in calligrapher’s ink.
“Go ahead, open it,” she urged in a manner that was uncharacteristically shy.
Cullen removed the engraved card and a smile spread across his face as he silently read the invitation. He stood and wrapped the older woman in a hug, and for once she didn’t resist. It was his day for cooperative women.
“Congratulations, Miss Nancy! You’re finally going to make an honest man out of Merle.”
“The old goat’s been making noise about moving in with me, and campus housing won’t approve it unless we make it legal.”
“Well, I think it’s superb.”
“Then you’ll come?”
“And I’ll bring Sarah as my date if she’s free to join me. You’re kind of doing this on short notice.” He glanced at the invitation again. “This isn’t a shotgun wedding, is it?”
Miss Nancy let loose with a loud snort.
“Now, that’s an idea! Maybe we’ll have the preacher hold my daddy’s double barrel Winchester just to get Merle’s attention.”
“Miss Nancy, you could have can-can girls dancing on the tabletops and Merle would only have eyes for you.”
The older woman turned to Sarah.
“You watch out for this one, you hear me?” She pointed a finger of accusation at Cullen. “He pretends he’s not marriage material, but he’ll be a keeper for some lucky lady—if he ever stops learning and starts living,” Miss Nancy warned.
In response to the observation, Cullen’s cheeks flushed.
“You might be right,” Sarah said, agreeing with Miss Nancy.
Suddenly, Cullen’s pulse picked up and his hands began to tremble ever so slightly—the classic signs that a panic attack was threatening.
CHAPTER NINE
ALMA’S KITCHEN HAD been clean as a whistle when Sarah had said goodbye to her girls earlier that day. Now, several hours later, it looked like a sack of flour had exploded.
“Mama, we just met the Cowboy Chef!” Hope shouted from her position at the head of the enormous farmhouse-style table where the girls and Alma were rolling out dough and shaping small loaves. Hope’s cheeks and hands were dusted with the white powder and a fingerprint dotted the tip of her nose. Her auburn hair had been caught up in a blue bandanna, making her appear for all the world like somebody’s granny on baking day.
“You really did meet him?” Sarah responded to her daughter’s excitement. “How cool!”
“And what’s so cool about an introduction to my twin?” Cullen pretended to be insulted. “Hunt has the same face that I do. He puts his Wranglers on one leg at a time, the same way I do. He throws a split finger fastball the same way I do, though not as well. He thumps the steering wheel and sings off key in the car the same way I do. He even drools in his sleep and wakes up with bad breath the same way I do. Wait, that’s Rocket I’m thinking about, not Hunt, which is an insult to my dog. Anyway, I don’t get it. Can somebody please let me in on what’s so special about my little brother?”
“I’ve been asking the same thing since the day you started high school and I quit being Mac Temple and started being Cullen’s brother.”
A man Sarah hadn’t noticed before pulled his head from inside the refrigerator and came to stand beside the table.
“Hey, bro!” Cullen slung his arms around the guy she judged to be closer to her age and, from the resemblance, was obviously another Temple brother.
Sarah watched the two embrace, awed by their open expression of love. And then awed some more by yet another drop-dead, good-lookin’ Temple. Wow, their parents had done a stellar job of populating East Texas with handsome men.
“What a nice surprise to find you here, you sorry sack of s—”
“Cullen, watch your mouth,” Alma cautioned.
“I was only gonna say ‘sack of sugar.’ You sorry sack of sugar.”
“He does call me that a lot, Alma.”
“Maybe to your face, but it’s a little different behind your back.” She snickered.
“Sarah, this is my oldest brother, McCarthy. Mac, this is Sarah Eason.”
Mac took her hand in his, held it fast and pierced her with a kind, brown stare. “I was acquainted with your husband from our Rotary Club meetings. Joe was a stand-up guy and we miss him in the service community.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, an instant fan of McCarthy Temple. Most people ignored the fact she was a widow, as if Joe had never existed. As if he’d hadn’t been the center of her world only a few years ago.
“You knew my dad?” Carrie spoke up.
“Yes, ma’am, I did, and with those pretty hazel eyes you are his spittin’ image. Except of course for the purple hair,” he teased.
Carrie tucked her chin but not quick enough to hide her pleasure at the compliment.
“Great shirt, by the way.” Mac nodded to the face of Ozzy Osbourne on a faded red background.
“Black Sabbath was one of Dad’s favorite bands and he bought this himself at a concert. Mom let me have it because she said it clashed with her hair.”
“Well, it certainly sets off that lovely shade of purple you’ve chosen to distinguish yourself,” Mac agreed.
“I had to do something to stand out in this redheaded family.”
“Did you know that red hair and blue eyes are the result of recessive genes?” Meg joined the conversation.
“Is that a fact?” Mac switched his attention to Meg, who was also doused in self-rising flour.
“Oh, yes, Carrie got all the dominant genes in the family. The rest of us got stuck with Grandpa Callaghan’s awful features.”
“I beg your pardon, but my daddy would not appreciate hearing that his granddaughters ‘got stuck’ with his beautiful Irish traits.”
“And his freckles!” Hope reminded Meg.
“Yeah, don’t forget his freckles,” Carrie agreed. “If these two didn’t have freckles they’d be as white as Casper the Friendly Ghost.”
Meg slung her hand toward Carrie and the flour on her fingers flew through the air and showered Carrie’s head.
“Now who’s as white as Casper?” Hope crowed.
Sarah knew she should discipline her unruly brood, but why throw a wet blanket on their fun?
“Momento de la limpieza,” Alma announced.
“Huh?” the three chorused.
Alma clapped her hands together and a swirl of flour filled the air, to the little girls’ delight.
“We need to clean up and get these last baking sheets into the oven while your madre samples the delicious tamales you made today.”
“I have to agree with Alma. With the extra help from you girls, this batch of pork tamales may be Alma’s best ever,” said McCarthy.
“How do you know how the tamales taste?” Cullen asked. His eyes narrowed with jealousy.
“Because I already had a few,” Mac taunted.
“You let him eat before I got here?” Cullen spun to Alma.
“Hunt came to pick up the polvorón and cremas de fresas for Temple Territory and since he let everyone taste the pastries I agreed to share the tamales even though you weren’t
here. Forgive me, mi querido muchacho?”
“Nana Alma said it was a special exception since we’re company, but after today we’re family.” Hope’s eyes were wide with the seriousness of the subject.
“Nana Alma, is it, then?” Cullen angled his squint toward his mother figure and pretended to pout. “One afternoon with a bunch of giggly girls and I’m kicked to the curb?”
“Usted sabe que está mi favorito.” Alma held white hands out and opened her chubby arms to Cullen, who deftly sidestepped her offer of a flour-coated hug.
“Wait a minute, you always tell me I’m your favorite,” Mac accused.
“Is that what she just said in Spanish? I heard her say that to the Cowboy Chef when he was here,” Carrie announced.
“And I let Joiner think the same thing when he comes to see me. So what? It’s been going on for years and everybody’s happy,” Alma insisted.
“She makes an excellent point,” Mac agreed with an easy smile.
“Sarah, let’s join in the sampling of these tamales that everyone says are so wonderful.”
Cullen motioned for Sarah to follow him into the kitchen where Alma rinsed her hands and then peeled away the foil from a pan large enough to roast a turkey. The homemade tamales were piled high, steaming packets of corn husks tied up with string, resembling little gifts.
“Hot!” Alma warned when he reached toward the mother lode.
“I’m not a child.” He pretended to be insulted.
“But you still act like one.”
“That’s so you’ll still take care of me.” Cullen tried to gather Alma in his arms but she swatted him away.
“These Temple boys are experts at turning on the charm when it suits them, so watch out for their ulterior motives,” Alma warned Sarah.
Then she offered Cullen a pair of long-handled tongs, which he wisely accepted. Sarah watched as he put two packets on a small plate and unrolled them carefully, wisps of steam escaping. He took a fork from a kitchen drawer, portioned off a bite and then scooped up the tamale. He turned and offered her the first taste. An almost forgotten feeling of excitement inside her said this moment would be memorable.
* * *
CULLEN SENSED SOMETHING special was taking place. Offering a woman her first taste of Alma’s tamale was right up there with feeding a bride her first bite of wedding cake. He watched as Sarah closed her eyes and gave her full attention to savoring the pork loin cooked for hours in a Dutch oven, then shredded and seasoned before being rolled in corn husks spread with lovingly prepared masa. The process was a centuries-old tradition of Hispanic cooking that not everyone would appreciate.
Cullen recalled the scene from Pretty Woman when Edward observed Vivian’s reaction to opera. He’d told her, “If people love it, they will always love it. If they don’t, they may learn to appreciate it—but it will never become part of their soul.”
Only this was not a video that Alma had watched a thousand times in their home. This was real life. If Sarah loved the flavor of the simple food, it would be part of her forever. If not, then her meals with the Temple Brothers would probably be limited.
Sarah chewed quietly, her eyes still closed, shielding her first impression and blocking Cullen’s ability to guess. Only a couple of seconds passed, but the suspense was killing him.
“How does it taste, Mama?” Hope broke the spell.
“I need something.” Sarah had everyone’s attention.
“Water?” Hope asked.
“Hot sauce?” Alma guessed.
“Salt?” Carrie wondered.
“More!” Sarah teased them all. “More tamales and my own plate. These are amazing! You all did a wonderful job!”
Cullen released the breath he’d been holding, handed over his serving and relinquished control of the fork. The question was answered. He wasn’t sure why it mattered so much, but it did. Sarah and her girls were fitting into his life with the comfort of a beloved old pair of Lucchese boots. Comfy and welcoming, though they sometimes rubbed you raw and smelled a bit.
That’s the way his family had felt before his parents were lost to him forever. Then Alma and Felix stepped in and restored the comforting and welcoming part, while his brothers still supplied the painful and stinky part. If the Eason ladies kept this up there was no end to the potential.
As the revelation sunk into his brain and the noisy conversation continued around him, Cullen’s armpits trickled sweat beneath his shirt. He’d managed to quell the earlier threat of an attack by practicing deep-breathing techniques he’d learned in therapy. But with these new symptoms, perhaps he’d just delayed the inevitable.
Only in addition to the clammy discomfort, an appealing pulse of warmth surged outward from his chest and through his veins.
Maybe this upset to his orderly life was worth the cost.
Then Cullen’s scalp began to prickle, an edgy sensation he hated.
Maybe not.
How was he going to manage his nerves and still be around this family that was slowly but surely finding a way into his heart?
CHAPTER TEN
“MOM, YOU WON’T be offended if the girls hang out with Alma this week, will you?”
The Sunday sun was still high in the evening sky, streaming light into the kitchen where Margaret Callaghan was stewing homegrown tomatoes to be put up for the winter.
“Heavens, no,” she said, allaying Sarah’s worry. “My granddaughters are welcome here with me and your daddy anytime, but backup help is always welcome. It’s nice for them to have a different cultural perspective since they’re a whole lot more likely to encounter Hispanics than Irishmen in East Texas.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way, but you make an excellent point.”
“And from what Meg tells me, the Temple brothers are frequent visitors there, too.”
“They’re more family than visitors. The guys show up without notice at Alma and Felix’s house the same way I do here.”
“If memory serves me, only one of the four is spoken for, so that makes three eligible bachelors who are all pretty easy on the eyes.”
“Mom,” Sarah warned.
“You could do worse than a Temple boy, my dear, even considering their colorful family history—which we won’t bring up in front of your opinionated daddy. Decades ago he swallowed the story hook, line and sinker that Pap Temple was nothin’ but a liar and a thief.”
“Cullen gave me the Reader’s Digest version of his grandfather’s conviction. Was it really that big of a deal?”
Margaret squinted hard at her daughter as if she’d just uttered a curse.
“Clearly I’ve failed as a mother and as a Texan to properly educate my only child on the importance of black gold in these parts.”
“Well, it’s not as if I didn’t realize this is oil country.”
“Oil country is an understatement. We live on top of one of the world’s largest reserves. When the Daisy Bradford No. 3 struck oil in 1930, it made the California gold rush look like a sack race. Major companies and wildcatters came from all over the globe, and at the height of the rush, Kilgore had over a thousand active wells, making it the densest oil discovery in history.”
“So if all that happened in the ’30s how did Cullen’s grandfather get into trouble in the ’60s?”
“Mason Dixon Temple has the dubious distinction of being the only man convicted of drilling a slanted well in order to steal oil from a lease that didn’t belong to him. Plenty of others were guilty, but Pap Temple was the one who took the fall for the practice.”
“Cullen seemed to think I would already have heard the gossip about his family.”
“I’m not surprised. It was a huge story all those years ago, and those of us who were around remember it the same way your generation will remember the O. J. Sim
pson trial.”
“Cullen said he and his brothers feel that they still live in the shadow of Pap’s crime.”
“As I said, it was a big deal, and people have long memories. In another hundred years it’ll be forgotten, but for now it’s still something of a dark blot on the name.”
“Well, other than that, I believe the Temple men are quite happy with life as they know it today.”
“And how about you?”
“Busy.” Sarah pretended to miss the intent of her mother’s question.
“I’m well aware that you’re busy. But are you happy?”
“Reasonably, considering the circumstances.”
“Honey, you’ve been on your own for over three years. And for a long while before Joe died, you were as much his caregiver as you were his wife. Nobody expects you to live for the girls’ sake alone. It’s okay to let a man into your life.”
“In my head I realize that’s true, but my heart is still confused on the subject. It’s not just loyalty. My own husband held out on me for months about his diagnosis. How can I ever completely trust a man again?”
“Joe was just trying to spare you for as long as possible.”
“But maybe things would have been different if he’d started treatment sooner. If he’d only shared the truth with me.”
Sarah had never fully understood or forgiven Joe for keeping that devastating news to himself, denying her the right to help search for other options.
“It wouldn’t have made a bit of difference, Sarah Elizabeth. Your husband was a smart man. He knew his circumstances, and he chose to do what was right for himself and his family in the months he had left. You have to accept that and try not to hold Joe’s decision against every other man you meet.”
Sarah nodded, wanting to accept her mother’s perspective.
“And the girls are all at an age where they need an example of how a man and a woman share a healthy relationship. Only you can give that to them, honey.”
“I worry they won’t handle it well, Mom. Each one has her own little psychosis going on. Carrie’s eaten up with that Goth business, Meg’s a class-A worrywart and Hope sees every man she meets through rose-colored glasses. My hands are too full wrestling their issues to sort through my own.”