* * *
Greg inserted the key into the lock. He’d insisted on Tillie keeping the house locked up, especially while here alone, but she had no reason to follow through with his request other than fear that the intruder would return.
The moment he opened the front door, a blast of bourbon hit him.
What the…
Tillie didn’t seem the type to hit the bottle. But she did live in the county where the international bourbon festival took place each year.
“What’s that smell, Daddy?”
“Um, flavoring.”
“Do I have to eat it?”
“No. You’re a minor.”
“Like on Minecraft? I like to mine everything, but the best thing is crafting Ender crystals so I can kill Ender Dragon!”
Greg shook his head. Things sure had changed since he was a kid. “Not that kind of miner. I mean you’re too young. Bourbon’s a grown-up flavor.”
“Oh.” He seemed disappointed. Then his smile returned. “Usually, it’s a bad thing to be too young, but I’m glad I don’t have to try that.”
They started down the hallway toward the kitchen where Christmas carols were blasting as Tillie sang slightly off-key to the music. Honestly, both the singing and the aroma were growing on him. He walked into the room to find Tillie liberally pouring bourbon from a fifth-sized bottle over several loaf-sized breads or cakes wrapped in cheesecloth.
“Mummy cakes!” Derek declared as he drew closer to inspect them. “Whoa!” He backed off when the fumes got the best of him and wrinkled his nose.
“Oh, hi, boys!” Tillie laughed at Derek’s reaction.
Who are you calling a boy? Hell, he felt like anything but a boy around her.
“Sorry that it smells like a distillery in here, but it’s fruitcake baking day. I need to have nine of them wrapped, soaked, and stored by tonight in order to have enough to get through the holiday parties and guests from mid-December to New Year’s.”
“What’s the rush?”
“They’ll need to mellow out and for most of this bourbon to dry up.”
“I see.” Judging by how much she was pouring—and the two empty fifths on the counter—a serious amount of sour mash bourbon went into the making of these cakes. Good thing he wouldn’t be offered any; fruitcake was not his thing.
“Anything we can do to help?” Would he be corrupting a minor by having him surrounded by all this booze? At least no one was drinking it, as far as he could tell. And they would be long gone by the time she unwrapped any and took her first bite, so he’d be spared pretending to enjoy it.
“You could take the steaks out of the freezer to thaw for supper. The butcher paper is labeled. Choose whichever cut you’d like. I have rib eye, New York strip, and even a porterhouse.”
He rummaged a minute before choosing a rib eye for himself and Derek to share. “Which would you like?”
“Ribeye, please.”
Setting the two wrapped steaks side by side on the counter, he watched as she recapped the bottle and went to the oven to stick a toothpick in one of the next three cakes.
She’d pulled her hair into a loose bun at the nape of her neck. Her apron covered a tan sweater and skin-tight leggings of the same color that hugged her legs and—well, all the right places. The outfit was a departure from her usual vintage dresses, but his heart pounded in a way that told him he found her sexy as sin no matter what she wore.
What the hell was he doing noticing her in that way?
With only a few more days left here, he was tempted to book a return trip during the holidays for no reason other than to try a piece of fruitcake, despite his initial opinion about them. Everything Tillie made was out of this world, so why would these be any different? And with the amount of bourbon she soaked them in, how could hers be dry like the one he’d bought in the grocery years ago?
But there probably wouldn’t be a single room available. The way she talked and how she went all out to give her guests an authentic Kentucky Christmas experience, people must make reservations months, or even years, in advance.
Christmas had never been celebrated much when he was growing up. His parents were busy entertaining colleagues and clients, leaving little time for him. He didn’t want to pass that legacy on to his son. This year, he’d give Derek a Christmas like Gram might have done.
“Can we go outside and play, Daddy?”
Derek’s request jarred him into the present. “Sure. What do you want to do?”
“Play in the leaves!”
To Tillie, he asked, “Mind if we make a mess of the piles in the front yard? We’ll be happy to rake them up again afterward.”
“Don’t worry about that. Just enjoy yourselves.” She closed the oven door. “My place is your place during your stay.”
“You’ve certainly made us feel right at home.”
“Then my work here is done.” Her smile warmed his cold heart. She truly had kept this place a real home. Maybe he could figure out hers and Gram’s secret and recreate it when he returned to Minneapolis. Unfortunately, a large part of the feeling was what happened in this room. Tillie poured herself into everything she cooked or baked. He wasn’t particularly handy in the kitchen, so it would be a stretch for him to replicate that anytime soon.
Maybe he’d ask Tillie for some simple cooking lessons before he left. Hell, he didn’t even know how to make grilled cheese, one of Derek’s favorites. And how the hell did she make those Mickey Mouse pancakes the boy loved so much? Was it as simple as joining three pancakes to form the head and ears, or was there some trick to it?
Outside, they spent half an hour burying each other in the leaves and raking them up again for Derek to jump into. Greg hadn’t played in leaves in…well, forever.
They crawled around in the leaves until he heard a woman shout, “Ready or not, here I come!”
Greg rolled onto his back as Tillie launched herself toward the pile squealing like, well, Derek might. Full-out abandon. Greg had placed himself in such a way as to catch her so she wouldn’t hurt herself. Her eyes widened when she saw who was in her trajectory.
“I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean—” she sputtered before landing on his chest and knocking the air out of him.
Her soft curves and vanilla-bourbon scent warred with his ability to remain cool and detached. She felt right in his arms, but the horror in her eyes made him grin. Was being in his arms such a horrible fate? Well, perhaps, given the rocky start he’d made of it here.
He rolled to his side to place her gently in the bed of leaves, and they sat up simultaneously, both breathing hard. He stared at her a moment. Her rosy cheeks paled only to the redness of her lips. Natural. Not made up.
Sexy as hell.
She seemed to become aware of their nearness and pulled farther away, leaving him to wish she’d come closer once more.
“Sorry. I normally would never intrude on my guests this way. But when a bottle of bourbon was accidentally knocked over and spilled, I had to go to the office for another and saw y’all out the window having so much fun. I couldn’t resist joining you. I’ve wanted to do this for a long time, but usually I simply rake and bag the leaves for my compost pile.”
“That’s how I perceived leaves until today, too. A nuisance to be discarded.” Greg would never see them the same way again. Derek pretended to swim through a pile nearby. “Nothing like having a kid around to give us an excuse to act childlike.”
“I think you’re right,” she said. He turned toward her once more. “Although if you hadn’t been enjoying yourself as much as he was, I doubt I’d have gathered up the courage to make a fool of myself the way I did.” She averted her gaze, her cheeks growing redder until a smile broke out, and she stared into his eyes. A knot formed in his stomach as he fought the urge to lean forward and kiss her before her widening eyes reminded him who he was. Who she was.
Abruptly, he stood to place more distance between them.
Jeez. What the hell’s the matter with you?
Focus, man.
But that merely touched the tip of the iceberg of all that Gram’s journals revealed to him. He’d begun to reassess his choices in life—no longer satisfied with choosing work over family and everything else. While there was no chance for anything more with Nancy, he had a lifetime to be a dad to Derek and didn’t want to screw it up any more than he already had.
He’d been doing all the same things wrong that his own father had done in raising him. In just a few days, this trip had shown him how much he enjoyed being with Derek. If no other treasure surfaced during this nostalgic trip, that knowledge would be reward enough.
Tillie stood, reminding him that once again he was about to screw up his priorities. He hadn’t come here for any kind of romantic or sexual involvement with the inn’s owner.
Glancing up the road to regain his composure, Greg watched a white van drive past the inn followed by a silver sedan. The driver of the van slowed down even more than one might, despite the curve. The man at the wheel turned away before Greg could get a good look at him and accelerated around the bend. His intuition told him whoever it was might be up to no good. Was he casing the place, waiting to attempt another break-in to steal whatever it was he wanted?
“Did you see that van?”
Tillie, brushing the leaves from her hair, scanned up and down the road. “No. Why?”
“Seemed suspicious.”
“Describe it.”
“Nondescript white full-sized van.”
“Sounds like a caterer friend of mine.”
“No logo on the side panel.”
“She’s independent. I can’t see her having trouble finding the location of a party or delivery here, though. She lives less than a mile away.”
“No, definitely a he, but his face was hidden. He hit the gas when he saw me watching him.”
“I can report it to the sheriff’s office, but it’s not a crime to drive slowly by a house checking it out. All the same, I don’t suppose you saw a license plate.”
“No. Drove away too fast.”
“Well, I’ll keep an eye out, but wouldn’t worry much. This is a busy road with all the subdivisions.”
Derek dove into the leaf pile they’d vacated, and all thoughts about the van or potential threats to Tillie or her house were obliterated as the three of them played together another fifteen minutes before Tillie begged off to return to finish baking her fruitcakes.
Greg watched her walk, a little-girl stride with her arms swinging casually at her sides and not a care in the world.
At least she’d let herself have fun for a short while. How else could he bring out her inner child to play?
Chapter Nine
Tillie couldn’t believe she’d actually spent twenty minutes of her busy day cavorting in the leaves. Whatever had possessed her? One moment, she watched out the window and wished she could be so carefree; the next, she’d pounced on Greg in the middle of the pile.
Her cheeks warmed at the memory. Dear Lord, what must he think of her? She was supposed to be running the inn, not behaving like a five-year-old.
Lighten up, Tillie.
Mrs. Foster’s words eased her guilt. That had been the most fun she’d had in longer than she could remember. Maybe she should offer babysitting services in the future to give her an excuse to be silly and childlike.
She lifted the plastic bin holding the first three cheesecloth-wrapped cakes and set it on a shelf in the pantry. For the next few weeks to a month, she’d flip them over at least once a day allowing gravity to pull the bourbon evenly through the cakes. After a couple of weeks, she’d occasionally leave off the lid to let some of the remaining liquid evaporate.
The Christmas season never began for her until she had her first bite of Mrs. Foster’s Kentucky bourbon fruitcake. Apparently, the woman had gifted them to many of her neighbors, too, and Tillie had continued the tradition with the remaining elderly ladies who enjoyed a good fruitcake. Tomorrow, she’d bake one more batch in small, aluminum loaf pans. Sadly, each year, her list of recipients grew smaller. But she still had eight to give to this year. She’d send the ninth cake in that batch to Greg so he could try one.
She thought Mrs. Foster would like that her grandson would be able to enjoy one of the woman’s favorite things.
The front door closed, and she heard footsteps on the stairs. After she wrapped and soaked the latest three fruitcakes, she began preparing supper. She still had three more full-sized cakes to bake tonight. That last batch might not be out of the oven until midnight, but the more time they had to mellow, the better. She’d made the mistake of serving her first bourbon fruitcakes the year the inn had opened after they’d only mellowed about two weeks, and her guests had nearly gotten drunk off of the fumes alone.
For supper, she’d chosen to have a southern cookout. While it wasn’t hot outside, the sun was warm, and Indian summer made it comfortable. Mrs. Foster wouldn’t have passed up the chance for Greg to experience this treat, and Tillie considered herself an extension of the woman in many ways. The produce wouldn’t be as fresh as in summer, but all the same, she hoped he would enjoy everything.
Tillie wrapped five ears of corn in foil, still in their husks, and set them aside. She’d made the banana croquettes this morning, a local treat she’d learned from a woman at church. Only Tillie dredged the bananas in watered-down peanut butter rather than mayo before coating them with peanuts. Mayonnaise wasn’t her thing. In about thirty minutes, she’d start the charcoal, but first needed to put the finishing touches on the potato salad and German coleslaw.
Working mechanically, she let her mind wander to the current state of her burglary case. Well, it wasn’t really a burglary unless they stole something, was it? Nothing seemed to be missing or damaged except for the broken jar of preserves and the window. She’d had difficulty sleeping last night, wondering if every sound she heard outside might be the culprit returning again to find whatever it was he wanted.
“What can I help you with?”
She nearly jumped, not having heard Greg approach.
“Sorry if I scared you again.”
“No, no! I was just thinking too hard, I suppose.” She didn’t want him to view her as weak.
“Sounds serious.”
She also didn’t want to talk about the intruder, even though it remained on her mind a lot lately. At the moment, all she needed to focus on was tonight’s meal. As her luck would have it, she didn’t have to bring up the subject.
“What did you decide to do about the van?”
“Nothing. I can’t jump at every shadow. With nothing to go on, I don’t see any point in reporting it.” Hoping to divert attention from the intruder, she changed the subject. “Usually when I start my fruitcake baking, I also start dragging out Christmas decorations from the attic above my bedroom. I like having the place fully decorated by the weekend before Thanksgiving, but I wondered if it would confuse Derek to see me putting up a tree more than six weeks before Santa is supposed to arrive?”
“By all means, go about your normal routine. I can explain to him that Santa won’t come for weeks after we go home. My wife—ex—usually decorated right after Thanksgiving, so it’s not all that much difference.”
His divorce must have been recent for him to still accidentally refer to her as his wife. “Of course, you’re both welcome to join me in decorating the Christmas tree in the parlor.” She wondered if it would spark any memories of his visit to Mrs. Foster where he’d have seen so many of the decorations before, albeit on a new and taller tree. Tillie preferred to use artificial trees to prolong the season safely and liked to fill the space in the room with a tree that came closer to reaching the fourteen-foot ceiling
. “I probably won’t start on that one until after some of the unoccupied bedrooms have been decorated, though, in case I book any more reservations. Everyone seems to want Christmas earlier and earlier these days, and I’m happy to oblige. It’s my favorite time of the year.”
“I’m not sure how much help we’d be decorating.”
“Oh, the parlor tree is old-fashioned and doesn’t have to be precise. I actually prefer it to have the appearance of having been decorated by a family—so having you and Derek here this year will make it all that much more authentic.”
He seemed undecided, making her wonder if she’d crossed a line by inviting him to participate in such a domestic scene with a near-stranger. Somehow, he didn’t seem like a stranger anymore, though. They’d formed a bond, perhaps because of the intruder or maybe over a mutual love and respect for his grandmother.
“Mrs. Foster always said kids have their own special way of decorating trees.” Tillie recalled her own insecurities about helping with the tree that first year. She’d soon been divested of such worries.
He smiled. “That they do. If you get to that one while we’re here, then we’d love to join in.”
A silly euphoria swept over her. She hadn’t had anyone to share in the decorating for ages. Most of the decorations on the main tree had belonged to Mrs. Foster. Some had been handmade by Tillie when she was young and came for visits. Others had been made by Greg’s mother, bringing tears to Mrs. Foster’s eye every year for what might have been.
It was Tillie’s favorite tree bar none, and she was excited by the prospect she wouldn’t have to decorate it alone. Perhaps she’d fend off the melancholy that often overcame her as memories of Christmases past bombarded her.
* * *
Somehow Greg managed to convince Tillie to relinquish enough control to let him light the charcoal. There wasn’t much else she’d allow him to do. He liked that she didn’t grill with gas. Somehow, food tasted better with real smoke.
“Let me lay these on the edges of the coals,” she said, bringing out some ears of corn. She also placed a long flat foil packet on top of some coals. “Derek made that for his supper.”
Jesse's Hideout (Bluegrass Spirits 1) Page 12