Starting Over In Wickham Falls (Wickham Falls Weddings Book 9)

by Rochelle Alers

  Suddenly, he felt as if he was being cross-examined about something of which he had no knowledge. “I do.” The two words came out unbidden.

  Georgina patted his shoulder. “There you go. That wasn’t so difficult to admit.”

  His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Are you in the running to become Mrs. Langston Wayne Cooper?”

  “Surely you jest, Langston. I told you before I don’t have time for a boyfriend and even less for a husband.”

  “But you’re not opposed to marriage?”

  She frowned. “I never said I didn’t want to get married. Just not now.”

  Langston realized now that she was taking control of her life she would be more amenable to the things women her age wanted and looked forward to experiencing. He put his arm around her waist. “Come with me to the kitchen and I’ll show you what I’ve prepared for dinner.”

  “What about the food from Ruthie’s?” she asked.

  “It will keep. I put them in vacuum-sealed bags that will go from the freezer to boiling water.”

  “You’re really domesticated, aren’t you?”

  He winked at her. “You don’t know the half.”

  Georgina let out an audible gasp when she saw the tray of ravioli on a parchment-covered cookie sheet. “You made ravioli.”

  Langston set the small white box stamped with tiny cupcakes on the countertop. “You said you like them, so I decided they would be better than eating leftovers.”

  Going on tiptoe, Georgina brushed a kiss over his mouth. “Thank you.”

  “You’re most welcome.”

  “Where did you learn to make them?”

  “That’s a long story, Georgi.”

  “Well, we have until midnight before I have to leave, so I’m all ears.”

  Langston dropped a kiss on her curly hair when he wanted to kiss her mouth, if only to let her know of his deepening feelings for her. He’d told himself that he liked Georgina Powell, when in truth what he was beginning to experience went beyond a liking to wanting to spend uninterrupted hours with her, telling her things he had never told any other woman, including his ex-wife, because she’d proven not to be judgmental. When he’d admitted to experiencing PTSD, she hadn’t asked him about his flashbacks but whether he had sought a therapist. He’d encountered worldly women, from every walk of life, some who interested him and others he couldn’t wait to get away from. What he’d found ironic was he had to come back to his hometown to find himself attracted to one who appealed to something deep inside him. Under the veneer of being a world traveler and bestselling author, he was still a small-town dude who needed a woman similar to him in which to live his best life.

  “I’ll tell you everything over dinner.”

  * * *

  Georgina sat across the table from Langston as she ate melt-in-the mouth little pockets of homemade pasta filled with butternut squash, Asian-infused shrimp, pork and spinach with feta in a delicious vodka sauce. He’d grilled marinated rib lamb chops and the seasonings of finely minced garlic and mint tantalized her palate. A mixed green salad with a ginger balsamic vinaigrette complemented the meat and pasta dishes. She’d drunk sparkling water in lieu of wine because she feared sleeping past the time when she had to get up in time to open the store.

  “You missed your calling, Langston. You should’ve become a chef rather than a journalist.”

  Light from an overhead chandelier reflected off the sprinkling of gray in his cropped hair. “It was because I wanted to become a journalist that I learned to cook, not the other way around.”

  “I noticed a lot of Asian spices in the ravioli.”

  “That’s because one of my college roommates came from China.”

  “How many roommates did you have?” she asked.

  “Two. We’d rented a three-bedroom apartment in a walkway about five blocks from Columbia University. Joe Chen and Nicolas Rossi were exchange students from China and Italy who were also majoring in journalism. We didn’t have a lot of money, so we’d pool our money and cook for ourselves. What was ironic was that Joe’s and Nicolas’s grandmothers had given them recipes of dishes they could make themselves, while my mother gifted me with a cookbook of recipes written by Southern church ladies.

  “Nicolas had an aversion to store-bought pasta, so he made his own. And when Joe couldn’t find the ingredients he needed for his dishes, we’d all hop on the subway and go downtown to Chinatown. Once I introduced them to Southern cuisine it was all she wrote. The apartment would smell like fried chicken and collard greens, or fried fish and grits for days until we were forced to open the windows when cooking even in the dead of winter.”

  Georgina smiled at him over the rim of her water glass. “It sounds as if you had a lot of fun.”

  “At the time I didn’t know it would be one of the best times in my life. We were serious students, which meant there wasn’t a steady stream of women coming and going at odd hours. Dad would deposit money in my checking account at the end of each month and if I didn’t stick to my budget and ran out of money before the next deposit, then I was what you would call assed-out. I did get a part-time job at a Harlem restaurant waiting tables on the weekends and when I affected my best Southern accent the ladies suddenly would become very generous tippers. After a while I had regulars who’d ask for Country’s table.”

  Georgina gave him an incredulous stare. “They called you Country?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Were you flirting with them?”

  “I plead the Fifth.”

  “Langston!”

  He laughed. “Don’t look so put out.”

  “Please don’t tell me you were a naughty boy.”

  “The only thing I’m going to admit is that I was just naughty enough to make enough spare change to buy a ticket to a Broadway play or pay the cover charge at a jazz club.”

  Langston had no idea he’d gone up several points on Georgina’s approval scale, because he was willing to work for what he wanted. Although his parents paid his college tuition, his portion of the rent on his Manhattan apartment and extra money for living expenses, he’d wanted more and worked as a waiter to subsidize the more.

  “Did you enjoy living in New York?” Georgina asked as she cut into a piece of tender lamb, and then popped it into her mouth. Langston wasn’t just good; he was an exceptional cook. It was apparent he and his college roommates ate very well.

  “It took some getting used to. Even though we lived on the fourth floor I could still hear traffic and the wail of sirens from emergency vehicles. I was rest broken for the first few weeks before the noise lulled me to sleep. What I really enjoyed was spending the Christmas holiday in the city with all the lights and decorations.”

  “Do you think you could live there again?”

  “No,” Langston said without hesitating.

  “What about DC?”

  His expression changed, becoming a mask of stone. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to live in a cosmopolitan city again.”

  Georgina knew it was time for her to stop probing into Langston’s life when she saw hardness settle into his handsome features. It was obvious she’d asked him about something he’d rather not talk about or even forget. “It is apparent you haven’t lost any of your cooking skills because dinner is delicious.”

  Langston inclined his head. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  “I doubt whatever I’ll make can come close to this.”

  “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” he countered.

  “I hope whenever I invite you over that you won’t judge me too harshly.”

  He stared at her across the space under lowered lids. “If you hung out with your grandmother who taught you to knit and crochet, I’m certain she also taught you to cook.”

  Georgina touched the napkin to the corners of her mouth. “You’re
right about that. I loved going to Grandma Dot’s house because she always had something simmering on the stove. She believed in making one-pot meals and whenever she made beef stew, pot roast, oxtails with ham hocks, fresh or smoked neck bones, she could count on me staying for dinner. My personal favorite of hers was smothered pork chops.”

  Langston groaned as if in pain. “Oh no, you didn’t say smothered pork chops.”

  She smiled as he licked his lips. “Yes, I did.”

  Placing a hand over his heart, Langston shook his head. “I haven’t had them in years-s-s.” The last word came out in several syllables. “I’ve tried to eat healthy, but diet be damned for pork chops with gravy.”

  “When was the last time you had them?” Georgina asked.

  Langston appeared deep in thought. “I can’t remember.”

  “Are you ready to indulge for old times’ sake?”

  He narrowed one eye. “What are you hatching in that beautiful head of yours?”

  Georgina did not visibly react to his calling her beautiful, because she didn’t want to read more into the adjective than necessary. He hadn’t only admitted it, but she was able to read between the lines when he’d revealed his intent to turn on the charm with women to earn tips.

  “One of these days when I make smothered pork chops, you’re welcome to come over and eat to your fill.”

  * * *

  Langston pressed his palms together in a prayerful gesture. “Thank you."

  Georgina had just made it easy for him to see her again. He did not want to come on too strong, turn her off, or pressure her to feel obligated to date him. He still wasn’t certain what it was about Georgina, other than her overall physicality, that had drawn him to her, and he could not believe he’d traveled the world, encountered countless beautiful women from all races and ethnic backgrounds, yet he had come home to discover one who’d grown up and still lived literally in his backyard. Langston was aware that he did not have a type when it came to women. The only requisite was the ability to talk to each other.

  He and his ex-wife had connected immediately because of her outspokenness. She’d let him know what she thought and felt and that if she hadn’t been involved with another man she would’ve slept with him. Langston was shocked and flattered by her aggressiveness when she asked for his number with a promise that she would contact him once she broke up with her current boyfriend.

  He’d forgotten about the aspiring off-Broadway actress until she called him a year later to let him know she was no longer in a relationship. He and Ayanna had been dating for three months when he received an assignment to travel to an African country to cover an upcoming election between a longtime president and a London-educated lawyer who’d returned after being exiled for six years. Langston had proposed marriage, Ayanna accepted and a week later they exchanged vows at a Bronx courthouse with one of her cast mates and his colleague as witnesses.

  Covering the election was the first of many overseas assignments once the chief of the cable station’s foreign news bureau recalled Langston’s facility with languages. He had minored in Middle Eastern languages and had become fluent in Arabic, Farsi, Persian, Urdu, Hebrew and Dari—the most spoken language in Afghanistan. He’d also picked up Mandarin and Italian from his college roommates. When people asked him how he’d become a polyglot, Langston explained that something in his brain switched on when hearing another language other than English and after a while he had the ability to recall enough words and phrases to communicate with the locals. The gift had become a blessing and a curse after he’d published his second novel.

  Divorcing Ayanna, resigning his position at the news station, selling his condo and severing ties with his literary agent were now a part of his past. He’d returned to Wickham Falls after a sixteen-year absence, purchased his parents’ home, bought the failing biweekly, all with the intent of starting over. And Langston hadn’t thought when he was assigned to a table at the Chamber’s fund-raiser he would encounter someone with whom he’d rarely exchanged a word and that she would enthrall him as no other woman had, including his ex.

  When he’d asked Georgina where she planned to open her shop she seemed almost shocked that he believed she would consider anyplace else. In that instant Langston knew they were kindred spirits. She’d spent her entire life in the Falls, and she did not plan to abandon it when starting up a new business.

  He’d come back not to work for a local daily or television station but to attempt to resurrect a biweekly that had been the voice for Wickham Falls for generations. Editors had come and gone; some willing to challenge local government to do their elected duty to right the wrongs, while others pocketed money to circumvent the truth. As the current editor for The Sentinel, he owed it to his hometown to only print the truth.

  “How much would you charge me if I commissioned you to knit a pullover sweater for my five-year-old nephew?” Langston asked after a comfortable silence.

  “It would depend on the type of yarn and how long it would take me to knit it.”

  “Give me an example.”

  “If the instructions call for three skeins of bulky yarn at eight dollars per skein, and would take ten hours to knit and complete the garment, then I would charge you two hundred forty dollars.”

  Langston quickly did the math. “You’re saying you’d multiply the cost of the materials by the number of hours to finish the sweater to arrive at the final figure?”

  “Yes. The number of hours could vary appreciably if the instructions have a particular pattern with different colors, then of course this would increase the time spent and affect the total fee.”

  “How much time in advance do you need to knit a garment?”

  Georgina’s eyes studied him with curious intensity. “Do you want me to knit something for your nephew?”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  “Don’t think too long, Country, because once I have my grand opening I’m not going to have much free time for private customers.”

  Biting his lip, Langston slowly shook his head. “Something told me not to tell you about that.”

  “But you are country, Langston.”

  “And you’re not?” he countered, grinning.

  “Heck, yeah,” Georgina admitted. “I’m a country girl down to the marrow in my bones, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.”

  “Well, Miss Country, my nephew will turn six on Halloween and I think he’d love to wear a holiday-themed sweater to school on his birthday.”

  “You’re in luck because I have a book of children’s holiday sweaters and I may be able to find one with Halloween. If not, then I’ll make up a pattern.”

  “How would you do that?”

  “I use graph paper and color in the boxes to correspond with the different color yarns. I prefer knitting the designs in the garment than appliquéing it. I could also crochet the sweater, which takes less time than knitting, but the flipside is that in crocheting I’ll use much more yarn.”

  Suddenly, Langston saw Georgina’s needlework skills in a whole new light. It was a lot more complicated than he thought. “I’ll ask my sister what he likes about Halloween and then I’ll let you know what she says.”

  Georgina looked back at him for a long moment and then said, “You’re very special, because you’ll become my first customer even before I open the front door.”

  Langston wanted to be special to her for a reason other than he’d asked her to make a handmade sweater. “Do you have a name for your shop?”

  Her smile was dazzling. “Yes. It’s A Stitch at a Time.”

  Reaching across the table he extended his fist, and he wasn’t disappointed when Georgina gave him a fist bump. “Girl, you’re on fire!” Leaning back in her chair, Georgina flashed a smile he interpreted as supreme confidence. She may have been denied going to art school, but with her patience and determination Langston kn
ew instinctually that she was going to become a successful businesswoman.

  * * *

  It was close to ten when Langston walked Georgina to her car and waited for her to drive away. He’d spent more than two delightful hours with her, and again it wasn’t enough. He had waited a year before welcoming a woman into what had become his sanctuary and the wait was worth it, because Wickham Falls was too small, and he too recognizable for him to have women coming and going like Union Station.

  And once this week’s paper was delivered to subscribers the photographs from the fund-raiser would take up the entire centerfold, and he knew tongues would start wagging with the candid photos of his interaction with Georgina. And judging from their smiles and body language they were into each other.

  Although he’d told Jonas he did not care if folks talked about him, he did wonder how Georgina would react to the images of them together as what could be interpreted as a romantic couple. Langston couldn’t stop people from drawing their own conclusions, yet he didn’t want to place Georgina in a position where she would be forced to explain or defend her actions.

  He decided to wait until the paper was out and then wait for her to contact him. If she didn’t, then neither would he broach the subject.

  Chapter Seven

  Georgina walked into the kitchen Sunday morning to find her parents sitting in the breakfast nook flipping through back issues of The Sentinel. Their flight had landed Friday evening; they complained about experiencing jet lag and went directly to bed and slept through the night and into the following afternoon. It was apparent her father had gotten too much sun as evidenced by the peeling skin on his face and head, while her mother looked rested and content.

  “I thought you guys would still be napping,” she said, cheerfully.

  Bruce smiled at her. “I decided to get up and go into the store today.”

  “Are you sure that’s what you want to do, Dad?” Georgina asked him. Although it was his Sunday to work, she’d decided to step in and give him time to recover from his vacation.