Straight on Toward Paradise

by Kristin Wallace

  The woman squawked in outrage and spun around. “Why don't you watch where you’re going?” she cried, her expression cold and forbidding, like a queen looking down her nose at a peasant.

  “I’m so sorry,” Emma said, even though queenie’s attitude made her want to punch the other woman in the face. There were thousands of people crammed into a small space so accidents were bound to occur.

  “You should be,” the blonde said, with a sneer. Then she spun on her heel and stalked away.

  The girl stayed behind long enough to deliver a stunningly similar look of contempt toward Paige. “Klutz,” she murmured, before strolling after her horrid mother.

  “Who the heck are those people?”

  “Angelica Jennings and her mother,” Paige said. “She’s so stuck up. The whole family is mean.”

  Jennings. Emma tried to place the name, but came up blank. “Do you know the mom’s first name?”

  “Tammy-Lynn, and the dad is Terrance,” Paige said. “Angelica’s grandfather is the mayor.”

  Tammy-Lynn Peterson. How could Emma have forgotten about her? Tammy-Lynn might have been the most despicable person Emma had ever met, and she’d worked with plenty of raging jerks. Growing up, Tammy-Lynn had been the queen of the rich, popular girls, and she’d lived to torture her underlings. Layla had been the most frequent target, for reasons Emma had never quite understood, other than plain, old-fashioned jealousy.

  Now, she was married to Terrance Jennings, who’d also been among the rich, popular crowd. He’d been just as snobbish and cruel, so it was fitting that those two would wind up together and produce equally obnoxious offspring.

  “Come on, let’s go,” Emma said.

  She took a step to the side, and of course, crashed into someone else.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Emma cried, fearing she might not make it off school grounds alive. “Sorry…I’m so sorry!”

  “I don’t mind at all,” a deep voice said in her ear, with a good deal of humor.

  Emma lifted her head and met the smiling gaze of a handsome man with dark-blond hair and blue eyes. Well, at least she had a better reception from her second victim.

  “Are you sure I didn’t hurt you?” Emma asked, glad to find a friendly face in the crowd.

  “You made my night, actually,” handsome guy said. “A pretty woman stepping on my toes, giving me an excuse to ask for her name?”

  He gave the compliment like he meant it, and not like a sleazy pickup line, so Emma let down her guard enough to answer. “Emma Bertram.” She gestured toward the interested bystander near her shoulder. “This is my sister, Paige, and we’re trying to get out of here without maiming anyone.”

  He chuckled. “Jared Latham, and you’re doing better than I am. I’ve lost my daughter Tara somewhere,” he said, craning his neck in search of her.

  “I’m sure she’ll turn up soon.” No doubt the girl would appear any moment, with Jared Latham’s pretty wife.

  Jared focused on her again. “She might be with my ex,” he said, with a little grimace. “We have to share joint custody of Parent-Teacher Night, too.”

  Ex…meaning ex-wife…meaning he was single.

  Suddenly, Parent-Teacher Night didn’t seem so horrendous.

  “Well, I’m trying to figure out how to be a single parent in two places,” Emma said, deliberately dropping the news about her marital status. “I had to send a family friend to the High School with my other sister.”

  Jared Latham’s smile grew. “So, I guess we’re both trying to figure out how to navigate the system.”

  Emma decided she loved to not be on the receiving end of a judgmental glare. “I guess so.”

  The back of her neck suddenly grew warm.

  “There’s Genie and Uncle Reece!” Paige cried, as she started waving her arms.

  Of course he’d show up now. Emma looked over her shoulder, but she was in no way prepared for the shiver that went down her spine when she locked eyes on Reece. Even from ten yards away, she sensed the coiled energy radiating off of him. His gaze shifted to the man at her side, and Emma shivered again at the possessive flare in his dark eyes.

  “Uncle Reece?” Jared asked pointedly.

  Emma turned back. “The family friend I mentioned. He’s known the girls for years.”

  Jared quirked one brow, and he seemed on the verge of asking another question, when Imogene and Reece reached them.

  “Emma,” Reece said, with a slight bow of his head, a gesture that didn’t do much to soften the hard edge in his gaze.

  She bristled at his tone. He had no right to be possessive, even if part of her thrilled to know she could make him lose his cool. “Reece,” she returned and then focused on Imogene. “How did everything go?”

  Imogene shrugged and turned her face away. “Fine,” she said, with a world-weary sigh.

  Emma bit back a gusty release of exasperation, too. Since she would receive no information from her sister, she had no choice but to look to Reece again. “Did it really go fine?”

  “Yes.” He directed a pointed look past her shoulder.

  Emma jerked, having almost forgotten she wasn’t alone. “This is Jared Latham. His daughter is in Chorus with Paige.”

  Right. Introduce him as the father of Paige’s friend. Way to let Reece know the other man was no threat.

  “Latham…” Reece said. “Your family owns the Original Inn on The Strip, right?”

  Jared nodded, but with a hint of caution, as if he were trying to puzzle out what Reece’s true role might be in the Bertram family dynamic. “That's right.”

  The last thing Emma wanted was a showdown on the school steps. “Well, we should go,” she announced, before swords could be drawn. “I promised ice cream in town.” She turned to Jared and deliberately took his hand, fully aware of Reece’s glower behind her. “It was nice to meet you.”

  Jared had a cute dimple in his left cheek when he grinned. “Best part of my night.”

  Oh, that dimple should really make her swoon. If she could manage to ignore the maelstrom stirred up by her personal nemesis, perhaps she would. Emma walked away on a note of triumph.

  “You made a conquest,” Reece said under his breath.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I met a nice man and was being nice in return.”

  They made it to Reece’s car. Imogene and Paige climbed into the back seat. Emma opened the passenger side door, but Reece crowded closer before she could slide into the seat.

  “Do you think Jared Latham will make it easier to ignore what’s going on between us?” he asked, his voice low and intense, as was the banked fire in his eyes.

  Emma glared up at him, wishing she would stop imagining what his voice might be like when he was lost in passion. “There is nothing to ignore, because nothing is going on.”

  His mouth curved, and his mocking laugh fluttered along her nerve endings. He lowered his head, until his lips were next to her ear. His woodsy cologne and unique Reece Casings’ scent nearly made her knees buckle. Thankfully, the frame of the car held her up.

  “You keep telling yourself that, Miss Bertram,” Reece rumbled in her ear.

  Chapter 14

  The chocolate-glazed pear torte looked good enough to tempt a devout vegan to go back to meat. Emma forked a bite, and an explosion of flavors detonated inside her mouth.

  Her eyes closed. “Mmm…”

  The woman across the table grinned, her apple cheeks flushed with pride. “Told you,” Florence Pringle said. “My grandma’s recipe never fails.”

  Florence herself was a grandmother straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting. She had a short, round body and a head of loose, white curls to go with her apple cheeks.

  Emma took another bite of heaven. “What else did your grandma teach you?”

  “Everything she knew. Her parents owned a bakery back in Germany. When she came to the United States with her husband – my grandfather – they opened their own place in New York City
.”

  “You must have loved visiting them.”

  “It was the most magical place. I took over when they got too old to handle things.” She stopped and grinned again. “But then I got too old, and my husband and I grew tired of the freezing winters. Now, my granddaughters are in charge.”

  “Are you up to working in a busy restaurant kitchen? If you moved to Shellwater Key to relax, I’m not sure The Paradise is the answer,” Emma said, with some concern. She’d hate to hire Mrs. Pringle only to have her decide the workload was too heavy.

  Mrs. Pringle leaned forward, her dark eyes twinkling. “Truthfully, I’m bored out of my mind. I need something to do. My husband has his golf and bowling club, but I need a kitchen.”

  Emma smiled back. “I can definitely find you something to do.”

  She clasped her hands in front of her chest. “Then I’m hired?”

  “I’d be a fool not to snap you up.”

  They shook on it.

  “We need to get moving on planning a menu right away,” Emma said. “I’ve already got some ideas…”

  She trailed off as the kitchen door swung open. Her mother walked through, with Paige and Imogene in tow. The mulish expression on the teenager’s face indicated she hadn’t been able to think up an excuse fast enough to get out of coming.

  Emma sighed. God bless her mother. She kept trying to throw the Bertram sisters together. Unfortunately, the attempts hadn’t worked very well. Paige came willingly enough, but she was more interested in the theatre part than anything happening in the kitchen. So, she usually disappeared in search of something more interesting to do within a few minutes of her arrival. Emma was weak enough, and still unsure of her place in Paige’s affections, that she always let her youngest sister go without protest.

  Meanwhile, Imogene had been compelled to work on no less than five major science projects, a twelve-page term paper, and more math than a whole team of NASA engineers combined. Not to mention the mandatory participation in three after school pep rallies (including one for a chess tournament). Emma would have questioned a homework level more in line with someone pursuing a doctorate, but found it easier to simply allow Imogene to have her way. It might be cowardly, but dealing with her sister’s accusing glances every day threatened to topple her already shaky confidence when it came to child rearing.

  “Hi guys,” Emma said, trying to inject enthusiasm in her voice.

  It wasn’t like she didn’t want to spend time with her sisters. She simply felt ill equipped to deal with them, and second-guessed everything she did, especially with Imogene. Combine her continued bad attitude with the progress report from Paige’s school, and Emma felt like she was one deadly eye glare away from losing control altogether.

  Fortunately, Emma had a distraction and latched onto her newest staff member as a buffer. “This is Mrs. Pringle, my new pastry chef,” she said, gesturing to the older woman. “She makes the best pear torte I’ve ever tasted.”

  “Please, call me Susan.”

  Emma’s mother came forward. “Nice to meet you, Susan. I’m Mary Bertram. Knowing my daughter’s high standards, I congratulate you.”

  Emma pointed out the silent figures hovering near the door. “These are my sisters, Imogene and Paige.”

  Susan Pringle winked. “Hello girls. Emma was telling me all about you.”

  Imogene worked up a polite smile, at least for her.

  True to character, Paige came forward to shake hands. “Is your name really Pringle? Like the potato chip?”

  She chuckled. “That’s right.”

  “Cool.”

  “Are you related?” Imogene asked, with at least a modicum of interest, which was a big step beyond active dislike.

  Mrs. Pringle shook her head. “Sadly no.”

  “Bummer.”

  Everyone – including Emma – laughed at Imogene’s unexpected retort.

  Mrs. Pringle shrugged. “I could be disappointed, but then if I was part of a potato chip dynasty my grandparents would never have opened their bakery, and I would never have learned how to make desserts.”

  “Now that would have been a tragedy,” Emma said. “God knew what he was doing in your case.”

  “In every case,” Mrs. Pringle insisted.

  The laughter died down and with its ceasing, an uncomfortable tension grew. Emma didn’t know how to break the silence. Then she saw her mother gesture to Mrs. Pringle and then the girls.

  Whatever telepathic communication she’d been attempting must have worked, because Mrs. Pringle immediately started gathering her things. “I can see you’ve got company. Why don’t I work up some ideas and then we can meet in a couple of days?”

  “You don’t have to run off,” Emma protested, but Mrs. Pringle was already out the door.

  Emma’s mother backed toward the escape route, too.

  “Where are you going, Mom?” Emma asked.

  Her mother gestured vaguely behind her head. “You know, dear, that prop room is—”

  “A disaster, I know.”

  She smiled. “Right. I’d just be in the way here.”

  Paige took a step toward the door, too, but Mary Bertram shook her head. “Honey, you stay here with your sisters today. I can handle things by myself.”

  “What about our practice?” Paige asked.

  What were they practicing for?

  Emma’s mother had the door open and one foot in the hallway by now. “I promise, we can do that later.”

  Paige sighed in obvious disappointment, and Emma tamped down a whimper of her own.

  Her mother gave one last encouraging smile. “You girls have fun.”

  “Some fun,” Imogene said, addressing the still swinging door.

  Emma gritted her teeth hard enough to crack a molar.

  “So, what should we do?” Paige looked around, and her nose wrinkled. “Do we have to clean stuff again?”

  “Not me,” Imogene said. “That pantry was disgusting.”

  Emma searched for something…anything…they could do. She gazed around the kitchen, stopping when she spied the flour canister.

  “Pie,” she murmured.

  Paige’s nose wrinkled. “Huh?”

  She turned to them. “Have you girls ever made a pie?”

  “Yeah,” Paige said.

  Emma narrowed her eyes. “Did you do more than take something out of a box and heat it?”

  Both Paige and Imogene shook their heads.

  “Philistines, the lot of you.”

  Paige took a step forward. “What’s a philstine?”

  Imogene snorted. “Philistine. You know, from the Bible. David and Goliath. She means we’re like barbarians when it comes to cooking.”

  “What’s a barbarian?”

  Eye roll. “She thinks we’re idiots because we don’t know how to cook.”

  “I do not think you’re idiots,” Emma shot back. “I think it’s a shame that you’ve never had an opportunity to learn that cooking involves more than microwaves and frozen entrées.”

  Imogene folded her arms. “Well, it’s not like you were ever around to teach us.”

  Lord, the girl had mad skills when it came to aiming for the heart. If she looked down, Emma felt sure she’d find a giant arrow sticking out of her chest.

  “I’m here now,” Emma said, deciding to ignore the jab. A cooking lesson might be just the thing to break through the icy barrier between her and her sisters.

  “How do we make a pie?” Paige asked, saving the day for everyone.

  Emma went to the pantry to get some flour. “We’ll start with crust,” she said, bringing the canister to the prep table. “Until you master that, nothing else matters.”

  Emma showed the girls how to make dough and then moved to the fine art of rolling it into thin circles. She taught them how to use flour to keep the dough from sticking, how to get the proper thickness, and finally how to transfer the crust to a pie plate.

  They were starting on the second batch of dough
when flour erupted from the mixing bowl, splattering all over Imogene’s black shirt.

  Imogene gasped as she gazed down at her clothes. It looked like a flour bomb had exploded down her front. Emma held her breath, even as Paige giggled. Imogene’s eyes narrowed to slits. She snatched a handful of flour from the canister and threw it at her sister. Paige shrieked. At first Emma thought it was a cry of horror, but then she realized the girl was shrieking with laughter. Fists full of flour lobbed back and forth.

  “Now wait,” Emma said, trying to contain the situation. “Cut it out!”

  A glob of flour smacked her in the face.

  Paige stilled, her face frozen on a silent “Oh…”

  Imogene shifted closer to her sister in a protective stance.

  Emma wiped the flour from her face and then reached toward the canister.

  Paige’s eyes widened.

  “You are in so much trouble, little girl,” Emma crooned, before launching her weapon.

  Paige was laughing by the time it hit. Imogene joined in after a stunned moment, and soon a full-on flour fight was in the works. Shrieks interspersed with the scuffing of tennis shoes on the floor. Even Imogene was laughing. Within minutes, Emma had flour in her hair, her mouth, her ears, all over her clothes, even down her shirt. The girls fared no better.

  “What is going on in here?”

  They froze in mid-tussle and turned to find Reece Casings framed in the doorway.

  “We’re making pies, Uncle Reece,” Paige said, in all innocence.

  He eyed the floor, the countertops, even the ceiling. “Really?”

  Emma’s cheeks turned nuclear, but she raised her chin in defiance. “Yeah…really.”

  One corner of his mouth turned up. “Must be some fancy, new method I’ve never heard about.”

  “It’s all Emma’s fault,” Imogene said, her usual frown back in place.

  Emma’s heart fell. She knew better than to think a food fight would solve their problems, but for a few minutes everything had been normal. Imogene had been laughing and having fun.

  Until Reece had arrived.