Snickers from the crew light my face on fire with embarrassment. It’s not exactly fair, is it? I never had the cash to skate when I was a kid. Never had desire once I had the cash. Obviously, Brooke did just fine. She navigates the other skaters with ease, stopping once to spin as tight as a top, before she lengthens her legs and skates away.
“I can’t do this.” I snap my fingers at Guy In Charge to get his attention. “We can do something else. Buy hot cocoa, or sit on Santa’s lap, you name it, but this isn’t working for me.”
He strokes his goatee like it’s his pet. “Give us a few good falls, and we can talk about quitting.”
“You actually want the falls?” But I know he won’t answer. It never looks good to admit you want your talent to fail for ratings’ sake.
I push off the wall, actually upright for once, but as I start to slow, I teeter. My feet quicken like I’m at a run, but I stay still. The position tips my weight forward. Ice rushes my face. I close my eyes to brace for impact, but instead of pain, I feel her.
Brooke’s hands catch my shoulders, straightening me and pulling me by both hands to another section of the rink. I follow like a duckling behind her, complete with a mini-waddle because I can’t skate to save my life.
“Straighten up.” She drops my hands and glides behind me. I try to follow her directions, but my body follows her instead. I don’t even have time to think about falling before I crack against the ice. Collective gasps and laughs come from the rink and camera crew respectively. I brace myself on my hands and knees, systematically taking inventory of my body because I’m sure I’ve fractured something.
No luck. My early exit plan is foiled by my resilient skeletal structure.
“Need help up?” Brooke’s gloved hand slides into my view, but I’m not sure it’ll make a difference.
“I’ll use the wall.”
If I’m hoping for a more manly approach, I should have gone with Brooke’s hand. My skates peel out behind me, crashing me to my knees again. Attempting three more times, I fall every single try. Brooke’s hand catches my shoulder. Her smile warms my frozen heart
“Toe pick.” She points to her skate and the jagged edge at the front. “Dig that in. You’ll have traction.”
I do as she suggests, and at least I finally have brakes on this runaway train. She keeps my hand in hers, pulling me along the wall as I do my best not to fall again.
“You must do this all the time.”
“Since I was a kid.” She weasels her hand from mine, only taking my fingertips. “I used to come with my dad when I was really little, but after he died, my grandmamma still brought me.”
Family. I wish it didn’t sound like a foreign language. This is the part where I should mention something I did with my uncle, but other than watch him get drunk on the couch or get lost in a heroine haze, I have nothing.
“You’re doing great.” Brooke skates ahead of me, leaving me alone for a second to fend for myself.
Story of my life.
Panic takes hold.
My feet stutter.
The blade snags. Before I fall, Brooke catches my hands, skating backwards with a soft smile.
“Breathe, Evan. Let go and relax a little.”
“Hard to breathe when I feel like the ground is falling out from under me.” I tighten my grip on her hands. “Don’t let go this time.”
“What are you so scared of?”
A million answers roll through my mind at once.
I’m about to lose everything.
One wrong choice, and I’ll be out on my own.
If it falls apart, it’s all my fault.
But most of all I’m terrified that if I leave her, I’ll never feel this way again.
I can’t say that, not in front of the cameras and never to Brooke. I have to think of an answer that won’t hurt her.
“If I fall down, someone’s going to skate over my fingers and cut them off.”
For a second it feels like our predicament is forgotten. She laughs like the world isn’t crashing down on us. “That won’t happen, Evan.”
“Easy for you to say. You don’t fall.”
The wind catches her hair and blows it across her face. I’m dying to push it back again, but she stays out of my reach. I have to be content with her hands pulling me along like a tug boat.
“If they slice one off, I’ll pack it in snow, and we’ll get it sewn back on.”
Taking a bigger risk than I mean to, I release one of her hands and wiggle my fingers at her. “I can’t cook without my fingers. Do you know how much these are worth?”
Brooke pretends to think about it. “Not much if we can’t pull off our little plan.”
She didn’t mean to throw a wet blanket over us, but that’s the impact her words make. It taints her hands in mine, the smile on her face, her laughter and the adoration in her eyes. She’s doing it for the camera. She’s trying to convince America that it’s worth loving me, even if she never will.
Chapter 19
Brooke
Maybe I should wear a purple dress to the party tomorrow night. The day at the rink plays through my mind. I’d match Evan’s bruises. I shove a couple more dresses deeper into my closet. We spent the afternoon skating, but poor Evan spent the majority of it prostrate instead of upright. He fell on the ice more times than I can count. I’m not sure I fell that much in my entire history with skating. Nice to know he’s not good at everything.
The camera crew would have had him skate another hour, but I called it when he started wincing with every move. Flawed is one thing, can’t walk is quite another. After all the falls he took, I’m surprised his teeth are still intact. It’s no surprise that he retreated to his suite for the rest of the evening and left me to whittle away the night hours at my computer paying off the last of the bills I owe. With the wee hours swiftly approaching, I doubt Evan will be up to do his nightly kitchen elf duties, which means I’ll need to wake up early to be ready for my guests with breakfast.
I set two dresses on the bed, one black, and one red. Sleep is what I actually need at two a.m., not daydreaming of Evan’s reaction when he sees me in my dress for the first time tomorrow evening. None of it matters. We have a plan, and we have to stick to the plan to secure the jobs for people employed by the Granny McPherson name. I pick the red dress up and press it against my frame. It’s the racier option. Off the shoulder, clingy fabric, fits me like a glove, it’s the kind of dress that would knock even Evan off his game.
I swap it for the black dress. Fitted at the waist, but flared in a full skirt, the dress belonged to Grandmamma in the fifties. Cap sleeves, lace edging, classic design, not the kind of dress that will bring a man to his knees, but it certainly fits my personality.
“This one,” I whisper to no one in particular. “If you’re going to lie on national television, you might as well be comfortable in your own skin while you’re doing it.”
The smell of apples and cinnamon catch my nose. Likely a figment of my imagination, I try to brush it aside. I hang the dresses in the closet again, eager to close this chapter on my looming heartache. Out the window, the full moon illuminates the sparkling hills of snow, only occasionally broken up by stands of evergreens. If I squint really hard, I feel like I can see one of Evan’s forts still standing, only partially covered by the new snow.
Two and a half weeks left until Christmas, the inn is booked until Christmas Eve, and I’m headed for the black. Winnie was right, at least about Evan helping inn bounce back. Twinkling stars wink from the dark sky. I used to watch for Santa from this same window. Not once did I consider kids like Evan, the ones who felt forgotten by Old Saint Nick. Now I’ll never forget him.
Two headlights pierce the night. I glance at the clock. Two-fifteen in the morning. With all the guests accounted for, who would come to the inn at such an hour? As if to give me an answer, the smell of spiced apples hits me again. My mind flashes to the morning Evan burned himself. I never saw the woman who cam
e to the door. It could be her again, Evan’s girlfriend perhaps, or, and I hate the idea, his wife.
With the stealth of a burglar, I creep downstairs in my flannel pajamas. Voices hum from the kitchen. The smell of cloves and nutmeg hang heavy in the air. I start for the kitchen, but when the sounds start moving toward me, I retreat to the shadows of the hall.
“Well, we’re going to miss you, Mr. Skruggs,” the woman says. The door swings shut behind her tiny frame until Evan pushes it open and falls in behind her.
“Please, Martha, call me Evan.” He adjusts his grip on a basket. “I wish I could stay longer, but duty calls. I’ll send cash as soon as I can get the account set up.”
“Cash can’t buy your cooking, Evan.” Martha smiles back at him with warmth I don’t expect. “Everyone’s gotten a bit spoiled. More than one watches my phone for the text telling me you’re ready.”
“I was glad to help out.” He extends the basket to her. Sadness clouds his features as if saying goodbye to this woman stings.
“God bless you, Evan Skruggs.” The woman takes the basket but also wraps her arms around him in a deep embrace. Evan folds into her as well, happy to accept her friendship.
“Bless you too, Martha Timmons. You’re doing good work. It makes more difference than you’ll ever know.”
They exchange a few more words before she makes her exit to the snow, laden down with two baskets of bread, muffins, and I think a couple apple pies. The door clicks shut with finality, as if it were the figurative door closing on whatever has been happening down here in the middle of the night. Evan sighs, hand on the door frame, and waits.
“How much did you see?” He doesn’t turn around, but he doesn’t have to for me to know the question is directed at me.
“The end.” I step out of the shadows. “How’d you know I was here?”
Without turning he nods at my curio cabinet. “You’re in the reflection.”
I have no right to ask, no privilege that makes me privy to the information, but I can’t help it. I have to know.
“Who was she?”
“Martha.” Evan draws in a deep breath just to let it seep out. “Martha Timmons.”
“Your girlfriend?”
His frame tenses. “No. Nothing like that.”
“Your wife?”
“What?”
“Ex-wife?”
He finally turns to face me. “What part of nothing like that did you not understand?”
“I’m sorry. You have some woman arriving at my inn at strange hours of the night. I could have guessed drug dealer or prost—”
“Woah.” Evan puts his hands up to stop my thought process. “It’s not like that at all.”
“Then why doesn’t any of this ever end up on the live feed? How come no one out there is talking about your nighttime visitor?”
Evan’s glare turns hard. Sharing personal information still bothers him, even if he’s sharing it with me.
“Andrew cuts the feed for me.” He starts for the kitchen as if he thinks that’ll do the trick, and maybe I won’t follow him. He should know me better than that.
I shove through the door behind him. Pans clutter the table. Flour dusts most of the counters. Frustration that I won’t relent builds in Evan’s eyes.
“But why? Why her? Who is she?”
Tins clang against each other as Evan starts to find order in the mess he’s created. “You jealous, Brooke?”
“Jealous?” The shrill tip to my question gives me away, but I’m determined he’ll never know. “Of course not.”
He drops the pans in the sink. I cringe at the sound. Evan flips on the water to full blast before returning to gather the rest of his dishes. Spatulas, scrapers, wooden spoons, I wait as he gathers them all. When the suds in the sink threaten to flow right over the edge, Evan cuts the water, grips the edge of the sink and leans forward as if the weight of his entire empire rests squarely between his shoulder blades.
Maybe it does.
He caves a bit, bowing beneath the pressure. The battle wages in his mind, I’m sure of it. The constant question of whether to open up to me or not.
“She has a soup kitchen in town. I make food and donate it.”
Jealousy looks rather petty now. Evan has been secretly feeding my hometown for weeks, and I had no idea. Beyond that, he’s never asked for recognition. In fact, he’s done his best to hide his good works.
I open my mouth to speak, but every option sounds shallow. I can’t tell him I had no idea Willow Glen had a soup kitchen. I can’t pretend like I didn’t know my town had homelessness. I can’t mention the coats I donated last year, because compared to what he’s done, it’s nothing.
I want to ask him why. Why go out of his way to do something like this for a place he’s never going to see again? From day one he’s baked overnight. He must have come ready to contact Martha, ready to help. Guilt tugs at my heart not only because I judged him too harshly, but because I never thought to do the same.
He sets to work on the dishes, scrubbing, rinsing, suds steadily climbing his bare arms. I lean against the stove, still warm from his late night charity baking. Maybe he senses my need to talk, maybe he finally wants to share, but for whatever reason, Evan speaks next.
“Near my hometown, there’s this man named Santiago. We all called him Santi. Back in the day he was a big deal in the culinary world. He worked at the finest restaurants, cooked for celebrities, you name it, Santi was there.”
The name triggers the memory of the picture I found in his bag. The young Evan, before fortune ever found him and fame stained him, standing with an older man.
“I ran away for good when I turned thirteen. As far as I know, my uncle never came looking for me. The state has so many foster kids, one like me, one who never stayed in his foster home, can fall through the cracks. Santi never let us though. He made sure we had a place to sleep, warm food to eat, all three meals. He was like a father to all of us. Santi made sure we stayed off drugs and out of gangs, at least most of us. He knew what they’d cost. That’s how he lost his career, drugs and women. He started the soup kitchen once he got clean. I worked in the kitchen with him. Food was the first time I ever got excited about something.” Evan stacks the clean dishes next to the sink. “Santi showed me everything he knew. Half the recipes in my first book are his. I owe everything I have to him.”
The air stills. I want to pull him close, dishwater-soaked arms and all, but I stay put.
“Where is he now?”
“Probably still at Manna Meals, saving the world.” He resumes dishes, fading into memories. “I wrote my first cookbook on the back of takeout menus I found on the street. I peddled them to any agent or publisher who would listen. But one look at me and my book,” he laughs without mirth at the word, “and they sent me packing. Andrew was the first one to take a chance on me. I told Santi that Andrew was going to see if he could get our book published, but they couldn’t give us credit, what with me being a homeless eighteen-year old, and him, a washed-up recovering drug addict. We got in a fight. I did what came naturally. I ran away and never went back.”
“You haven’t seen him since then?”
“I sent checks after each book, but he’s never cashed them. I don’t even know if he’s alive.” Evan’s movement ceases for a second. “He said it was wrong that Andrew wanted me to hide, like I was ashamed. But I was ashamed. I was nothing back then, not like I am now. He didn’t understand why I needed to put space between who I was and who I wanted to become. I got my first advance, rented an apartment in the city and made myself new. I never went back, too many ghosts of the past.”
“But you don’t have to be ashamed, Evan.” My heart aches for the trouble he faced at such a young age. “You built this company on the back of trials that might have crippled the strongest people. It’s a story to be proud of. It’s a story you should share. You could give hope to other kids in the same situation. You could change their lives.”
He g
lances at me, brow furrowed, emotion misting his eyes. “I wish you were right. I wish I could put myself on the cover and be proud of where I came from, but that life still haunts me. Better to leave it buried, no matter the consequences.”
Consequences.
Consequences like breaking my heart on national television tonight. Consequences like letting someone dictate his choices and determine the course of his life. I meet his eyes and I see it, he’s thinking about it too.
“Aren’t some costs too high?” It hangs there, waiting for his answer, wishing he’d throw it all to the wind, abandon this crazy idea and trust that for once he’s enough.
“I wish it could be different, Brooke.” He dries his hands and starts toward me. I reverse, stealing the space back from him. His lips part as the ache wells up in my throat. “Maybe in a different life it could have worked.”
I nod, but it’s nothing more than a reflex. “Maybe in a different life, you could have been happy, because I know this won’t make you happy, Evan.”
“I wasn’t made for happiness. I learned that a long time ago.” He sinks back against the counter. “You should go to bed. It’s gonna be a long day tomorrow.”
Evan has a way of closing doors on conversations. That’s likely the most closure I can expect from our could-have-been relationship.
I point to the pile of dishes still waiting for him. “Want any help?”
“No, thank you though. Santi always had me clear down in the end. Said it was good for me to know how to build something back up after I destroy it. It helps me feel close to him still.”
He might as well be shooing me out of my own kitchen. “I’ll see you in the morning.” My hand catches the door, but Evan’s voice draws me back.
“Brooke, sleep in tomorrow.”
“I can’t. I have guests.”
“I’ll take care of them. It’s the least I can do, considering…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He leaves off the part where he apologizes in advance for shattering my heart into a dozen pieces in front of adoring fans in the name of fame and fortune. “I don’t want to see you down here before eleven, okay?”
Christmas With Granny McPherson Page 15
