The Kitchen Marriage

by Gina Welborn

  Isaak frowned. He’d need to think more on that later. Right now he had a more pressing problem to fix.

  He headed west in the direction of the house, his chest pounding. He was the only one who could handle the three Wiley boys.

  Oliva Wiley would adore Miss de Fleur. The boys—Isaak knew their capabilities.

  While Miss de Fleur was smart and clever, those boys would use her gentleness against her. She was too gracious, too lenient, and too tenderhearted for her own good.

  And beautiful, which wasn’t relevant.

  Although his molars ached from gritting his teeth yesterday while trying not to stare at her beauty.

  Isaak picked up his pace. He and Jakob had left the house at seven-thirty that morning because Miss de Fleur was to begin making marmalades for the welcome-home dinner at eight when Sarah Wiley arrived—which she’d clearly done with her children in tow.

  He darted across the street.

  The Wiley children—Alex and Dante, at least—would run roughshod over Miss de Fleur. Their mother had to be behind this: Find a meek and malleable person to tend to her children so she wouldn’t have to. Twice now, Sarah Wiley had manipulated Miss de Fleur.

  That was why, with hat in hand, he was running up the street to his home at nine forty-five when he ought to be at The Resale Co.

  As he slowed to a jog along the pebbled path by the house, the earthy smell of warm dirt greeted him. Isaak stopped at the picket fence.

  And then he saw her.

  Right palm turned up, Zoe knelt in the garden wearing a well-worn apron and a baggy calico dress, her straw bonnet shielding her face from view. Thad and Olivia knelt next to her, staring intently at whatever was in her gloved palm. She said something to them. They nodded and took turns touching whatever was in her hand.

  She turned her head and saw him. Her smile stole the breath from his lungs.

  He should have stayed at work.

  “Mr. Gunderson!” Olivia exclaimed, to the piercing dismay of Zoe’s right ear.

  As Olivia and her brother dashed off to hug Mr. Gunderson’s legs, Zoe gave her head a good shake to lessen the ringing. She slid the worm back into the dirt, then stood and looked at Mr. Gunderson. His jaw tightened. Oh, the action was minuscule, but she noticed how he now stood more stiffly, like when he was about his business. Not relaxed. Not at ease, even though Olivia and Thaddeus clung to his legs like husks around corn. Something worried him.

  Zoe gasped, her heart pounding. “Did something happen to Jakob or the Forsythes? Or—” She drew in a slow, calming breath. “Is it Nico?” She had yet to see him since his last failure to meet Jakob.

  Mr. Gunderson’s head shook. “Vaughn called to say Alex and Dante stopped by the store,” he said in that direct, this-is-the-problem-at-hand voice of his.

  “Zat is why you are here?” Zoe waited for further explanation. When none came, she said, “Zey went to ze seed shop for manure for your mother’s garden.”

  Mr. Gunderson removed Olivia and Thaddeus from his legs. “Run inside and see if your mother needs help.” Then he strolled to where Zoe stood in the middle of the fractionally cleared garden and, after gripping her gloved hand, led her along the greenhouse’s south side to where a pile of manure bags and a pile of soil bags were stacked up against the brick wall. “Anything my mother’s garden needs is here. Or in the shed. Or in the greenhouse.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Or three blocks away,” he continued, “at The Import Company, working to ensure that all is ready in time for the grand opening.” He released his hold on her hand. “This is Jakob’s job, not yours.”

  Zoe responded to his brisk tone with a gentle, “If I were your mother—or even your brother—I would feel much love zat someone cared enough to cultivate ze garden for me because I had no time to do it myself.”

  “Jakob’s had the time. He still has the time!”

  “Zere is no need to yell.”

  His mouth opened, then closed, and then, in a moderate voice, said, “You’re already doing enough for Jakob.”

  Zoe raised her chin. “I am doing no more for him zen I am doing for you.”

  He regarded her with a look that said, I disagree with that statement, and as soon as I think of a suitable response to prove you’re wrong, I will make it.

  Zoe merely smiled. She knew she was right . . . and knew he knew it, too.

  He growled. “You’re just like my father.”

  “Zen I know I will like him.”

  He blinked several times. “The point is, the next time Jakob or Sarah Wiley or anyone asks something of you, you will say no. You need to stop allowing people to obligate you into doing something you don’t wish—or have the time—to do.”

  She looked at him in disbelief. “Isaak Gunderson, you have no right to tell me what I can or cannot do. I have everything under control.”

  Shock—or perhaps something in the lesser vein of surprise—at her outburst flickered in his eyes, and then it was gone. “You don’t know how the Wiley children can be.”

  She touched his arm. “You worry for no reason.” His brows rose, so she added, “I am providing food today in exchange for ze children’s labor. I brought everything I need to cook both meals. If zey do not work, zey will not eat.”

  “You’re cooking for them?”

  “Papa said food can motivate a king to go to war.”

  “It can.” His hand rested on the middle of her back, and he nudged her into walking. “What are you bribing them with?”

  “Zis morning we had omelets, fried trout stuffed between potato cakes, and a lemon-butter sauce. Later we will enjoy lamb stew, fresh baked rolls, and—

  He groaned. “Stop. Please, stop. I don’t want to hear what I’m missing.” As they neared the garden, he checked his pocket watch. “I need to get back to work.”

  “You want to.” The words slipped out before she thought the better of them. But because they had been said, Zoe decided to go on. “Going back to work is a want, something you choose to do, not something you need to do.”

  He looked at her intently. “I have to go. Obligation, not want. Emilia is there alone.”

  “Zis is true.” She sighed. “Zere is also a telephone in ze house. You could call over zere and tell her to close ze shop. She may enjoy Saturday with her husband. Zey are newlyweds, yes?”

  “But I’m not a newlywed, and I have a business to run.”

  “You are a dutiful manager.”

  He scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Zoe stepped to the pile of gardening tools. She probably should have answered him immediately, but his arrival had put her in a cheeky mood, so she knelt and took her time examining the tools. She selected one and stood. With faux gravity, she said, “It means you must decide if you want to return to work where zere is no lamb stew, fresh rolls, and apple-raisin tarts with ze flakiest crust you will have ever tasted or if you need to.”

  One corner of his mouth lifted. “I’m fairly certain that’s not what being a dutiful manager means.”

  As hard as she tried not to smile, she failed. Who knew she would have fun teasing him? “I am fairly certain zat what you will find at work will not be as enjoyable as what is here.”

  He glanced at the house and then back at her. “As much as I could agree with you, Miss de Fleur, there’s the fact that I will find no children at work.”

  Zoe shrugged. “I see no children here.”

  “Oh, they’ll be back. Trust me.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because you’re here, and that’s why my house is where they’ll find the best food this side of the Mississippi.”

  “Zis is true.” She stepped until she was right in front of him. Smiling—and ignoring the curious increase to her pulse—she offered him the hoe. “Take it.”

  “Why?”

  “You need to work less and have fun a little more.”

  “Gardening?”

  She nodded. “People ca
ll you Mr. Gunderson because zey see you as a benevolent king reigning over his subjects. Zey follow your lead because zey know you care. And you believe zis is all you are. A man with responsibilities. You can be Mr. Gunderson all day, every day. Or you take a holiday from ze job and ze expectations and just be Isaak.” She gave him a flirtatious grin. “I will feed you.”

  “Apple-raisin tarts?”

  “I will make extra for you to enjoy tomorrow.”

  He gripped the hoe’s wooden handle just above where she still held it. “I’ll stay . . . but only because you don’t realize yet how much you need me to help you wrangle the Wiley children.”

  “Zat sounds like an excuse to escape work.” His mouth opened, and in case he was about to change his mind, she hastily said, “Nevertheless, it is also one I will accept.” She released the hoe, swiveled around, and as she walked to the overgrown garden, snatched up a rake. She stopped in the garden’s middle. Although her heart pounded fiercely, she glanced his way.

  “Isaak?”

  “Yes?”

  “I zink I can wrangle, as you call it, rambunctious children and grown men just fine.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Wednesday afternoon, April 25

  De Fleur-Gunderson Courtship Contract, Day 47

  Isaak ran the entire eight blocks to The Import Co. He shouted, and the crowd gathered around the door parted like the waters of the Red Sea. He slowed to bypass them and cross into the store, shutting the door behind him. Splotches of white paint spilled down the walls, over wooden crates awaiting unboxing, and puddled on the floor. Isaak’s nostrils stung at the fumes, making it difficult to catch his breath. “Jake? Where are you? Are you okay?”

  “Iz?” Jakob’s voice came from a distance. Footsteps thudded overhead, then down the stairs. He hustled into the retail space. “How did you hear?”

  “O’Leary barged into The Resale Company, shouting that you’d been vandalized.”

  Jakob nodded. “He was here when I returned from lunch. He must have gone straight to you.”

  Isaak swung his hand to encompass the dripping mess. “Any idea who did this?”

  “None, but I must have just missed whoever it was.” Jakob rubbed the back of his neck. “I was only gone for twenty minutes.”

  “Did you send someone to fetch Marshal Valentine?”

  “No! I stood here wringing my hands, waiting for you to come tell me what to do.”

  Isaak bit back a retort. Watching the Wiley children bicker while they cultivated Ma’s garden had been an eyeopener. The metaphorical slap had come when Miss de Fleur said the children were as snippy with each other as he and Jakob were.

  Jakob rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Sorry. I’m not angry at you, it’s just . . .”

  When he didn’t continue, Isaak stepped closer and put an arm around his brother’s shoulder. “It’s just what?”

  “You’ll say it’s irresponsible.”

  Isaak dropped his arm. Was he really so overbearing, demanding work without relief? Memories of gardening with Miss de Fleur and the Wiley children rushed back. After taking the afternoon off, he’d felt refreshed in body and spirit. There was something to be said for balancing work with relaxation . . . and apple-raisin tarts. “Whatever it is, Jake, I promise I’m not going to pull my big-brother act on you.”

  Jakob raised his head, his blue eyes searching for any hidden message. “You mean that, don’t you?”

  Isaak tamped down irritation at having his veracity questioned. “Would I have said it otherwise?”

  After another searching glance, Jakob took a deep breath. “I’m supposed to be going to dinner and then Romeo and Juliet with Zoe, Yancey, Carline, Geddes, and Windsor tonight. I don’t think I can make it now and stay on schedule.”

  Shocked by Windsor Buchanan’s anticipated attendance at the theater—to see Romeo and Juliet, no less—and Jakob’s worry over keeping to a schedule, Isaak chose to respond to the latter. “I can take over here. I just need to—”

  “No,” Jakob interrupted. “I need to take care of this.”

  “What about the play?”

  “Can you take Zoe instead of me?”

  Yes! No! I shouldn’t. “If you’re sure . . .”

  Jakob’s eyes glinted with a speck of humor. “Would I have said it otherwise?”

  Isaak chuckled at the repetition of his own question. Common sense pricked his conscience, prompting him to say, “I don’t mind taking care of this.” Not true, though it needed to be.

  “No, but thanks for the offer, Iz. The Import Company is my responsibility.”

  The words, I’m proud of you for doing the mature thing, sat on Isaak’s tongue, but to utter them would sound patronizing. Nor was it wise to throw stones at his brother when his own adherence to strict schedules and timelines was shifting.

  A commotion outside drew their attention. Through the window, Isaak saw Marshal Valentine push through the crowd still gathered around as though they would be invited to view the vandalism the same way they would the store during the grand-opening celebration set for next weekend.

  Jakob met them at the door. As he and the city marshal talked, Isaak slipped out the back. His brother had this well in hand. The best thing he could do was leave.

  Besides, he was going to the theater with Zoe tonight. He needed to go home to make sure his dress shirt was ironed.

  Deal’s Boardinghouse

  Despite the fact that she stood next to the warm cookstove, in a green-and-black silk gown more suited for an opera house than a kitchen, Zoe licked the last bit of soup from the spoon. The sweetness of the tomatoes flowed effortlessly with the beef stock.

  Thank the good Lord above for Mrs. Deal’s friendship with her neighbor, Mrs. Hess, who had more canned goods in her larder than Zoe had ever seen in one. Thank the good Lord above also for Mrs. Hess’s willingness to trade.

  “Zis is perfect tomato soup.” Even from tomatoes canned last year. Zoe gave the tasting spoon back to Mrs. Deal. “Mr. Deal will be pleased you have mastered his favorite dish.”

  Mrs. Deal’s brown eyes grew teary. “I thought I was a culinary failure. The lessons you’ve given me have done wonders, enabling me to reduce food expenses by half.”

  Zoe acknowledged the compliment with a simple nod of her head. It saddened her to know a well-to-do French family, even without a household cook, could live on what Mrs. Deal had been discarding because of improper storage, overpurchasing that led to spoilage, and ignorance of how to use seasonal purchases in multiple recipes. Good cooking was less about costly produce and meats and more about knowing how to compound a good and palatable dish from a limited larder.

  Not that the dear woman had any canning skills.

  That, though, was something Mrs. Hess could teach Mrs. Deal, and would now that Mrs. Deal, admirably, had found the courage to admit to her friend that she needed help.

  Zoe turned to the rectangular pan resting atop the cookstove. “Let us taste ze biscuits.” She waited patiently for Mrs. Deal to find two forks. The biscuits looked as perfectly baked as the spongy sweetbread Mrs. Deal had served during lunch.

  Mrs. Deal cut into a corner biscuit. “For years I’ve told Mr. Deal that my cooking is the reason we have so many vacancies. Today is the first day ever that the men’s side is full of boarders.” She handed Zoe a forked piece of biscuit. “Word has spread about the meal you prepared for Lily Forsythe and about the lessons you’ve given me. The prices you could charge—”

  “I have no wish to find employment,” Zoe cut in.

  “Then what do you want to do?”

  “I want to be a wife and a mother.”

  Mrs. Deal smiled sweetly. “Jakob Gunderson is a blessed man.”

  Zoe nodded, wishing she felt more joy over Mrs. Deal’s words. Wait out the contract, and I recommend you don’t share this with my wife had been Judge Forsythe’s advice Monday when she had stopped by his office after praying about Isaak’s advice to seek parent
al wisdom. If Jakob had noticed Zoe had been keeping her distance, he had yet to say anything. All she had to do was make it through tonight, the welcome-home dinner the day after tomorrow, and the next thirteen days without him falling in love with her.

  And then they could end the contract as friends.

  Because things would be harmonious between her and Jakob and because Isaak was now her friend, she had no reason to leave Helena. She had friends. She had family in the Forsythes. For the first time since her childhood, she had a home.

  Tomorrow she would find Nico and accept his offer to look for a house to purchase.

  “Oh, dear,” Mrs. Deal muttered. “I did something wrong. What is it you see that I don’t?”

  Realizing Mrs. Deal had assumed the worst from Zoe’s silence, she quickly tasted the biscuit. The moment the flaky layers touched her tongue, she uttered an elongated, “Mmm.” She returned the fork to Mrs. Deal. “You did nothing wrong. Good flour makes a better bread.”

  “You’ve said that repeatedly but haven’t explained how I tell if the flour is good.” While her words were clipped, Zoe knew they were not intended as a slight. In the last seven weeks of getting to know Mrs. Deal, Zoe had discovered how direct the woman was. And how benevolent and open to instruction.

  “Place some flour in your hand, zen press your palms together.” Zoe mimicked the action. “Good flour will adhere and show ze imprint of ze lines of ze skin. Good flour tint is also cream white. Poor flour may be blown away with ease and appears dull, as though mixed with ashes.”

  “So it’ll look dingy?” Mrs. Deal supplied.

  “Dingy?”

  “Dull. Like when water has sediment in it.”

  “Dingy,” Zoe repeated. She liked the sound of it. “Zat is a good description.”

  The kitchen door opened. Mr. Deal stepped inside. “Mr. Gunderson is here.”

  “You mean Jakob.”

  Mr. Deal shook his head. “Isaak Gunderson is here. Is there a problem?”

  There had to be one, or Jakob would be here to take her to the theater.