Hitting the Books

by Jenn McKinlay

  “What’s truly tragic is that the whole thing could have been avoided. Chad Bauman would never have been swept into this by Sarah if Liza had known about her mother’s mental health. Larry should have told her the truth,” Nancy said. She shook her head. “Lies will always rise to the surface.”

  “Like dead bodies,” Ms. Cole said. They all looked at her, and she shrugged. “What? It’s true.”

  “Yeah, and really grisly,” Lindsey said. She held up a plate. “Grilled cheese?”

  “I’ll take that!” Mary Murphy, the final member of their crafternoon group, came into the room. She had Josie strapped to her front and the baby bag slung across her back. She dropped the bag onto the floor and looked at the group. No one volunteered to take the baby, as they had all loaded up their plates with sandwiches.

  This did not slow Mary down, not even a little. She approached the table, hefted baby Josie up and out of her sling, and thrust her at Lindsey.

  “Here you go, Auntie Lindsey,” she said. She had heard about the engagement a few nights before, when Sully and Lindsey had called their families. “Have some quality time with your soon-to-be niece.”

  “I . . . um . . . are you . . . is that . . .” Lindsey stammered, but it was no use. Mary plunked the baby into her empty hands, and Lindsey grabbed hold of Josie, pulling her in tight so as not to drop her.

  Mary loaded up her plate and began to gab with the other ladies about Gloria Steinem and how fabulous it was to listen to an audiobook while she had Josie in the jogging stroller and was running along the beach, trying to shake the baby weight.

  Lindsey stood paralyzed. The baby hadn’t made a peep. Surely she should be wailing in protest by now. Didn’t she have any survival instincts? She had to know Lindsey was the last person in this room—heck, in this whole town—who should be holding a baby.

  She heard a little snuffle and tipped her head down so she could see the baby. Josie was blinking up at her with big bright blue eyes just like her Uncle Sully’s.

  “Hey, there,” Lindsey said. Her voice was barely above a whisper.

  Josie’s eyes met hers, and her toothless mouth moved up into a wide smile. Lindsey let loose the breath she’d been holding and found herself smiling back at the baby. Josie blinked, and her smile got wider. Then she thrust a chubby fist into her mouth. It was the most ridiculously adorable thing Lindsey had ever seen, and she laughed.

  “All right,” she whispered. She rested her cheek on the baby’s soft, downy head. “Maybe babies aren’t so bad after all. I’m not saying I want any, mind you, but you smell pretty good and you have your uncle’s eyes, so this is actually not . . . horrible.”

  She lifted her head and glanced back down at the baby. Josie cooed and then grinned at her, and Lindsey smiled back. Well, okay then.

  Guide to Crafternoons

  What’s a crafternoon? Quite simply, it is when a group gathers to discuss a book they’ve all read or listened to, share food (always food), and do a fun craft. If you want to host your own crafternoon, here’s a handy guide to get you started.

  Readers Guide for A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

  Do you think the Nolans are an accurate portrayal of a struggling family during the early twentieth century in Brooklyn? If so, why? If not, why not?

  What does the tin can nailed down in the back of the closet represent to the family?

  What do you consider to be the overall theme of the book? Why?

  What are the dreams of the different family members—Johnny, Katie, Francie and Neeley? Do you believe they will achieve them?

  What do you think Francie’s future holds for her?

  Craft: Adjustable String Bracelet

  Waxed polyester thread (any color)

  Scissors

  Ruler

  Lighter

  Using the ruler, measure nine pieces of string, cutting each so that it is five inches long. Place them together and then cut two ten-inch lengths of string. Using one ten-inch length, tie the ends of the nine five-inch lengths of string together in the middle of the ten-inch piece of string. There should be a quarter of an inch of the ends sticking out of the knot. Tie two knots to keep it secure. Using your lighter, very carefully use the small flame to melt the ends of the nine five-inch lengths of string. This keeps them from slipping out of the knot. Now take the other ten-inch length of string and do the same on the other side, tying the nine five-inch lengths of string together.

  Now take the two ends of one of the ten-inch strings and twist counterclockwise so that when released the two strings will wrap tightly around each other. Tie off at the end, and use the lighter again to melt the wax and keep the knot from untying. Repeat the process with the other ten-inch length.

  Now the final step: Cut a five-inch length of string, and make a square knot (five loops is good) around the two twisted lengths of string. This allows the bracelet to be adjustable. Again, very carefully melt the ends of the square knot to keep the knot from untying.

  Recipes

  GOAT CHEESE AND AVOCADO GRILLED CHEESE

  1 loaf sliced whole-grain wheat bread

  ½ cup pesto

  10 slices of mozzarella cheese

  1 bunch of spinach leaves, washed and dried

  2 avocados, sliced

  1 cup goat cheese, crumbled

  3 tablespoons olive oil

  Assemble each sandwich by spreading the pesto on a slice of bread and layering a slice of mozzarella, a couple of spinach leaves, two slices of avocado, and a sprinkle of goat cheese on top. Top with another slice of bread and gently press down, sealing the sandwich. Heat the olive oil in a skillet on medium heat, making sure the oil coats the pan. Cook each side of the sandwich until golden brown. Remove from heat and cut corner to corner in triangles. Serve while warm. Makes 20.

  GAZPACHO: COLD TOMATO SOUP

  4 large, sweet tomatoes

  1 cucumber, halved and seeded, not peeled

  2 red bell peppers, seeded

  1 red onion

  3 garlic cloves, minced

  3 cups tomato juice (24 ounces)

  ¼ cup good olive oil

  ¼ cup white-wine vinegar

  ½ teaspoon sea salt

  ¼ teaspoon ground black pepper

  Chop the tomatoes, cucumber, bell peppers and onion into 1-inch cubes. Put each vegetable into a food processor, one at time, and process until coarsely chopped. Add each processed vegetable into a large bowl, then mix in the garlic, tomato juice, olive oil, vinegar, sea salt and ground pepper. Mix well and chill for 2 hours before serving.

  FLOURLESS CHOCOLATE CAKE DUSTED WITH CONFECTIONERS’ SUGAR

  12 ounces semisweet or bittersweet chocolate, chopped

  1½ sticks unsalted butter

  ¼ teaspoon salt

  6 large eggs, room temperature

  1½ cups granulated sugar

  Confectioners’ sugar

  Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Grease a 9-by-2-inch springform pan. In a large microwave-safe bowl, put the chocolate, butter and salt. Melt in the microwave for 90 seconds. Stir and microwave again, in 1-minute intervals, until completely melted. In a separate bowl, beat the eggs and sugar with a mixer until light and thickened, about 8 minutes. Fold the melted chocolate into the whipped eggs until evenly combined. Pour the batter into the springform pan and bake about 1 hour and 25 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the cake comes out damp but not runny. Remove cake from the oven and cool on a rack.

  Once the cake is cool, carefully remove from the pan and sift a light layer of confectioners’ sugar over the top.

  Keep reading for an excerpt from the first in Jenn McKinlay’s all-new contemporary romance series . . .

  THE GOOD ONES

  Coming February 2019 in paperback from Jove!

  When Jake took off
his cowboy hat and pulled her close, Claire wrapped her arms around him and the two became one. When they kissed she knew they were making each other a promise for today, tomorrow and forever. Claire sighed. For the first time in her life, she knew that no matter what happened, this man, who was her partner and her best friend, would be by her side. For all time.

  Maisy Kelly closed the book and pressed it to her chest and sighed. Jake Sinclair, the perfect man, why did he reside only in the pages of a book? It wasn’t fair. She was twenty-nine and none of the men she’d ever dated had been even remotely as caring or charming as Jake Sinclair.

  Knock knock knock.

  Maisy blinked. Someone was at the door. No, no, no. She had a book hangover, and she didn’t want to deal with the world right now. If forced to, she might curl up in a fetal position right there on the floor and never move.

  Knock knock knock.

  They weren’t going away. Maisy rose from where she’d been seated on the step at the bottom of the stairs. In theory, she was supposed to be cleaning out her great aunt Eloise’s house; in reality she was binge reading Auntie El’s hoarder’s trove of romance novels. It wasn’t making the task, which was heartbreaking to begin with, any easier.

  Knock knock knock.

  “All right, all right,” Maisy said. “I’m coming.”

  She strode to the door and yanked it open. Probably, if she had bothered to glance through the peephole or one of the long windows beside the door, she would have been prepared, but she hadn’t and she wasn’t.

  Standing on her front step, looking impossibly handsome and imposing, was a cowboy. Maisy glanced down at her book. On the cover was the artist’s rendering of Jake Sinclair, in jeans and a white shirt, leaning against a split rail fence, with a brown cowboy hat tipped carelessly over his brow. Maisy could practically hear the cows mooing in the background.

  She glanced back up. Jeans, white shirt and a cowboy hat. This guy had it all going on, except where the artist had left Jake’s face in shadow and not clearly defined, this guy was a full-on 3-D HD of hotness, with full lips, faint stubble on his chin and quite possibly the bluest eyes Maisy had ever seen this side of the sky. She had a sudden urge to poke him with her pointer finger to see if he was real.

  “Mornin’, miss,” the man drawled. Drawled!

  Miss? Huh, she hadn’t been called “miss” since she’d started teaching at Fairdale.

  She was wearing her favorite floral Converse All Stars, ripped up denim shorts and her old Fairdale University sweatshirt, the one with the sleeves that hung down past her hands, oh, and she had on no makeup and her hair was held back by an enormous pink headband. She probably looked like one of her college students, most likely a freshman.

  In that brief shining moment, she was certain if it was possible to die of embarrassment, she would expire in three . . . two . . . one. She gave it a second. Nope, still standing. Damn it.

  “Listen, I’m sorry, sir, but whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested—” she began but he cut her off.

  “Oh, I’m not selling anything,” he said. He looked bewildered. “This is three-twenty-three Willow Lane, right?”

  “Yes, it is. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back . . .” She let her voice trail off, hoping he’d get the hint. He didn’t.

  “I have an appointment with a Ms. Kelly,” he said. “Or Mrs. Kelly, I’m not sure.”

  Maisy closed one eye and squinted at him. She usually reserved this trick for her English 101 students when they asked if they could make up the final exam because they’d had a more pressing engagement, like getting their hair done, but she was more than willing to use it on tall, dark and good-looking here.

  She knew she didn’t have any appointments today. That was why she’d indulged herself in a good long reading sesh. This guy was probably a hustler, trying to con her into buying some property insurance or new windows. Ever since she’d inherited this monster of a house from Auntie El she’d had all sorts of scammers climbing out of the cracks in the sidewalk, trying to get her to refinance or buy a security system. It was exhausting.

  The man met her squinty stare with one of his own. He shrinkled up one eye and mimicked her look of disbelief right down to the small lip curl. The nerve! Then she saw the twinkle in his one open eye, and Maisy couldn’t hold it. She burst out laughing.

  He grinned at her, and her ire diminished as she noted the cowboy had a sense of humor. Okay, that was a bonus point for him. She decided to give him a break and at least take his name and number. She could call him later and decline whatever it was he was hocking.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “What was your appointment with Ms. Kelly about?”

  “It’s about the house, actually,” he said.

  Uh-huh. Masiy would bet her front teeth he was going to pitch all the reasons why she should take out a line of credit now.

  “My name’s Ryder Copeland,” he said. “I’m a restoration architect, and you are?”

  “Ryder Copeland?” Maisy’s eyes went wide. So much for keeping her teeth. “But our appointment isn’t until tomorrow, you know, Tuesday.”

  “Today is Tuesday,” he said.

  “No, it isn’t,” she said. “It’s Monday.”

  “No, it really is Tuesday. Wait,” he said. “Our appointment? You’re Maisy Kelly?”

  “Uh,” Maisy stalled. What to do. What to do. She pulled her phone out of pocket and gave it a quick glance. There was a notification waiting. It said she had an appointment. Right now, in fact, with a Ryder Copeland. She checked at the date. Today was Tuesday.

  She glanced back up at him. He was looking at her in surprise, as if he didn’t believe she was the owner of this house. She supposed she could fib and say Ms. Kelly was out but he’d figure that out the next time they met. And she was a horrible liar. She blushed and stammered; truly, it was just embarrassing. Finally, she nodded and whispered, “I’m Ms. Kelly.”

  “Pardon?” The man pushed back his hat and leaned in, although he didn’t step any closer, probably knowing that at his height, she guessed him to be about six feet tall, he would tower over her and might scare her back inside the house like a rabbit jumping back into its hole.

  Maisy cleared her throat and pushed her square-framed glasses up on her nose. Then she repeated, “I’m Ms. Kelly.”

  There. She used her professor voice. That’d tell him who was boss. Sure, that was why he looked perplexed as he studied her. She tipped her chin up, daring him to say anything about her youthful appearance or general slovenliness.

  “It’s nice to meet you.” His smile was slow, but when it came, it was wide and warm and genuine. He didn’t look put out that she’d tried to give him the bum’s rush. He also did not look like an architect. He looked like a man who’d be more at home on a horse, herding cattle, than drawing up designs for her old home.

  Maisy felt her face get warm under his steady regard. She ignored it. Maybe she could redirect him.

  “You aren’t what I expected,” she said.

  Mr. Copeland’s eyes moved from the pink headband in her curly dark hair to her bright floral sneakers and he nodded. “I’d say we have that in common.”

  His tone was as dry as a hot summer breeze, and it made Maisy laugh out loud, in a full-hearted chuckle. He grinned at her as if her laughter had been his aim all along.

  “I’m Ryder,” he said. He held out a hand that looked like a big old bear paw.

  “Maisy,” she returned.

  She slid her slighter hand into his, feeling the callused warmth of his palm surround her more delicate fingers. His grip was firm, yet gentle, not trying to prove anything but not treating her like spun glass either. It let Maisy know without words that he viewed her as an equal. Huh. She liked that.

  “Sorry about mixing up the dates,” she said. “Clearly, I wasn’t prepared for our meeting, and I’
m sorry for that. I know your time is valuable.”

  “No harm done,” he said. His voice was kind, and Maisy glanced up and noticed that his eyes were kind, too. “Your message said you were looking to restore your house.” He stepped back to where he could see all three stories and tipped his head back to take it all in. “I’m assuming this is it?”

  “Yes, in all its Queen Anne glory,” she said. She forced her gaze away from his square jaw and the wide set to his shoulders, cleared her throat and stuffed her fascination with him down deep, squashing it flat by talking in her teacher’s voice. Calm, assured, capable, yes, that was better.

  “Built in eighteen-eighty by my great-great-great-you- get-the-idea grandfather Stuart Kelly for his very well-to-do bride Margaret Hanover. Margaret is actually my given name, except it never fit, sort of like pants that are too long, you know?”

  Ryder glanced from the house to her. He looked momentarily confused and then smiled and nodded. “In my experience pants are usually too short, but I get where you’re going, Maisy.”

  She liked the way he said her name. It sounded as if he was trying it on for size and liked the fit. Be still her heart.

  The last date she’d had was with a science professor at the university, and while he’d been friendly enough, she’d lost her enthusiasm for the date when he’d gone into great detail about an article he’d just read called “Pedotransfer Functions of Soil Thermal Conductivity for the Textural Classes Sand, Silt and Loam.” She was certain it had made sense to him, but she’d spent the meal overeating to compensate for not having one word, not even a syllable, really, to add to the conversation.

  She had a brief fantasy, truly no longer than a peripheral glimpse into a crystal ball, of having dinner with Ryder Copeland and talking about books, houses and whether she could wrap both hands around his muscle-hardened bicep or not.