Healing Hearts: A friends with benefits, small town romance (Hope River Book 3)

by Margaret McHeyzer

  HEALING HEARTS

  Copyright © 2021 Margaret McHeyzer

  All rights reserved.

  This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be stored or reproduced by any process without prior written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.

  email: hit_149@yahoo.com

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  Preview - Ugly

  From the Author

  Also by Margaret McHeyzer

  Tabitha

  Lying on my bed, I look around my spacious room. I flick the TV on and scroll through all the channels.

  Boring.

  Nope.

  Boring.

  Ugh.

  Nothing catches and keeps my interest. I turn the TV off, and grab my phone from beside my bed. I check out social media, and roll my eyes. Way too much bullshit drama for my taste. I don’t give a rat’s ass who’s doing what with whom. Not my business.

  I turn over in my bed, and look out the window. I’m so bored. I just want to do something. Pushing the covers back, I head down the marble staircase toward the sunroom, where I know Mom is.

  I find her curled up on the sofa in the sunroom, sipping a cocktail and talking on the phone.

  “Ha! I know. Did you hear what happened with Trish and her husband?” she gossips into the phone. She casts a wary eye toward me. I stand patiently waiting for her to stop talking with whichever friend she’s on the phone with. “Lunch, tomorrow?” She chuckles loudly.

  I move from foot to foot, and look around the expansive, and ostentatiously decorated room. “Mom,” I whisper. She keeps talking without acknowledging me with anything more than an irritated glance.

  “Oh, lunch today? At two? Of course, I can make it, I just need time to get ready.” She sits up straight as if to rise, and places her cocktail on the gaudy glass-topped coffee table. “Hang on, darling.” She moves the phone away from her ear, and looks down her nose at me. “What do you want, Tabitha?” she asks as if I’m interrupting her precious phone call.

  “Can I come to lunch too?” I ask, hoping she finally says “yes.”

  “God, no! There aren’t any children where we go.”

  “I’m fifteen, Mom. I won’t get in the way.”

  She scrunches her mouth, and shakes her head. “No other children will be going, so no.” She picks her cocktail up, and sips it again, this time finishing off the contents. Mom lifts the phone to her ear again. “What were you saying?” she pauses and listens. “Oh, it was no one, really. Just Tabitha. I swear, that child is so difficult to live with,” I hear her say as I walk out of the room.

  Right, I’m hard to live with! Because I want to spend time with her, and Mom would prefer to socialize with her fake friends than with me.

  I let out a ragged breath, and head into Dad’s home office. He’s on the phone too. As I enter the room, he lets out a loud laugh. “Golf at eight tomorrow morning? Hang on a minute, Tabitha’s here.” He looks at his phone, places it on mute, then lowers it to his desk. “Hey, kiddo. You okay?”

  “Can I come to golf with you tomorrow?” I eagerly ask.

  “No, golf isn’t for you, Tabitha. Wouldn’t you rather hang out with your friends than this old man?”

  “Well… not r…”

  “Here.” He feels under the papers lying on his desk, finds his wallet, and opens it. “Take this, and go to the mall and hang out with your friends.” He lifts his hand offering me a bundle of bills. “Is that enough? Do you want more?” I look at the money as if it’s filthy.

  He tries to hand it to me, but I don’t reach for it. “Dad, can’t I come with you? You can teach me to play golf. We can do it together?”

  “No, don’t be silly, Tabitha. Hanging out with a bunch of old men isn’t something you should be doing. Here.” He thrusts the money toward me again. “Go, and have fun. I’m on an important call. Love you, sweetheart.” Dad picks his phone up, unmutes it, and goes back to his conversation.

  He swings around in his office chair so his back faces me, and returns to his phone call.

  I hear him arranging his golf game as my shoulders droop and walk out with a fistful of cash.

  I wonder what Dorothy is cooking today. She’s always nice to me, I know it’s because we pay her and she has to be. I head into the kitchen, and see Dorothy moving her hips and dancing to the music she has playing softly. “Hi Dorothy,” I say as I approach and sit on the kitchen stool to watch.

  “Oh, Miss Tabitha you scared me,” she says. “Should I turn the music off? Is it too loud? Are you hungry?”

  “No, no please.” I wave my hand at her. “I’m just wondering what you’re making.” I look at the bag of flour and eggs sitting on the counter.

  “I’m about to make fresh pasta for dinner.”

  “Oh, can I watch?” I ask excitedly, then my shoulders fall as I add, “Unless I’ll be in your way. I can leave if you want.”

  “Watch? Miss Tabitha, you can help,” she eagerly replies.

  I look at her, then at the flour, then back to her. “You want me to help?”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Tabitha. I didn’t mean any disrespect. I thought, maybe you’d like to learn.”

  She’s misread my facial reaction for anger, rather than excitement. “Please, I’d love to help,” I say as I jump to my feet. “What do I do?”

  “First you need to wash your hands. Never touch food with unwashed hands. That’s the most important rule in a kitchen.”

  I follow Dorothy’s instructions, and wash my hands. “What now?” I stand beside her, and watch what she’s doing.

  “First, we divide the flour between us.” She pointedly looks to the flour.

  I look at the flour, then Dorothy. “Oh, you want me to do it?”

  “The only way you’ll learn is to do it yourself. So, half for me, and half for you. Go on.” I open the bag of flour, and shake it out. “Lower, closer to the counter.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you don’t want the flour going everywhere. You want to be able to contain the mess to just a small area. No chef likes a messy kitchen.”

  “Okay.” I lower the bag I’m pouring the flour from, and divide it into two piles. One in front of Dorothy, and one in front of me. “Now what?”

  “A good pinch of salt on each.”

  I look for the salt that’s already on the counter, and I take some and sprinkle it over both piles of flour. “Is that good?”

  “Yes, perfect. Now, make a well with the flour. It needs to be deep enough for the eggs, and so the eggs don’t run out everywhere.”

  “Why?” I ask again.

  “Because eggs make a mess. And if you create a well for them, it’s easier to mix the flour and egg together.”

  “Ah, okay.” I watch as Doroth
y forms the flour into a circle, then makes a well with her fingers. I mimic everything she’s doing.

  “Now, get two bowls from the cupboard.” I grab two clear glass bowls. “Break two eggs in each.” I break the eggs into the first one successfully, then on the next two, some shell gets in. “Best way I’ve found to remove shell, is to use a bigger piece of the shell and scoop it out.” She picks up half a shell, and gets the flake that was floating in the raw eggs. “Now, season the eggs. You have to season every step of the way. But don’t be too heavy-handed with the salt. You can always add, but you can’t take it away once it’s in the food.”

  “Okay.” I repeat the process of what I did for the flour. “Is this enough.”

  “Perfect!’ Dorothy smiles at me. “Now, we need to beat the eggs. Use a fork. But don’t over beat it, just enough to combine the whites and the yolk. Like this.” She takes two forks out of the cutlery drawer, gives me one, and whisks the eggs together. I watch, and do what she’s doing. “Really good job, Miss Tabitha. We’re ready for the fun part. Empty the eggs in the well.”

  I watch, and repeat exactly what she’s doing. She flicks parts of the flour into the egg, then with her fingers, starts incorporating the egg and the flour. “Aren’t there machines that do this for you?” I ask.

  “Oh, hush now! Nothing tastes better than food you create yourself. Well unless, of course, someone else makes it for you. You can go to the store and buy a carton of pre-made pasta, but it doesn’t taste the same. You appreciate the food more when you’ve made it with your own two hands.”

  I like Dorothy’s enthusiasm when it comes to cooking. “You like cooking then?”

  “Like it? No way. I love it.”

  “Where did you learn to cook?”

  Dorothy smiles as she begins to knead the pasta dough. “My Momma. She was a great cook. She’d go to the fridge, look to see what was in there, and just throw things together. I grew up watching and helping her, like you are doing now.”

  Dorothy is pretty old, maybe like fifty. She has gray hair and wrinkly hands, but she still moves like she’s younger. “My Aunt May can cook too. I like going to her house. She lets me help with everything.”

  Dorothy looks at me sideways to make sure I’m copying her. “I haven’t met your auntie. Perhaps one day I’ll get to cook for her too.”

  I shrug. “Doubt it. Mom doesn’t really like Aunt May. They’re so different. Actually, the summer holidays are nearly here!” I say happily.

  “I don’t know anyone who doesn’t love vacation,” Dorothy says with a smile. “One day, I’m going to go to Australia. I have family who live in Sydney, and they’re always asking when I’m going to see them.”

  “Australia, huh?” I shrug. “I love where Aunt May lives. It’s this really small town, called Hope River. And everybody knows everyone, and there’s always something to do. I can’t wait ’til summer vacation, because I’m going to ask Aunt May if I can go stay with her for a few weeks.” Sadness quickly overtakes my happiness. “It’s not like Mom or Dad want to hang out with me here.”

  Dorothy doesn’t respond. I suppose she can’t. Instead, she focuses on the task at hand. “Now that we’ve mixed it, we have to make sure the dough is smooth and elastic. The way we do that is to poke your finger in it, like this.” She pokes her finger in, and the dough springs back. “That’s how we can tell it’s ready.”

  I do the same, and turn my head for confirmation I’m doing the right thing.

  “Great job,” Dorothy chirps. “What we have to do is cut it into two equal portions. Ordinarily, I’d be making it all in one go, but because you wanted to learn, we did two batches. Cut it into half, and wrap it in cling film, then place it in the fridge to rest for as long as you can. An hour will do, but two hours is better.”

  I follow her instructions, and when the dough is in the fridge, I help clean the mess we made. “What about the sauce?”

  “Ah, yes. I’m going to make a red sauce with fresh tomatoes and basil.” She goes to the pantry, where she takes out a bag of tomatoes, an onion, a head of garlic, and several other things.

  I spend the rest of the afternoon helping Dorothy in the kitchen. It was so much fun, and now I can’t wait until dinner.

  “Dad, guess what?” I say as I bounce in my seat impatiently.

  Dad’s got his phone in his hand as he types and sends emails. Mom’s sitting opposite Dad, staring at him with hatred while she sips on her third cocktail since she came home from her lunch.

  “Dad?” I say bursting with excitement to tell him about the pasta and sauce I helped make.

  “Wait just a minute.” He holds a finger up to me.

  Stephanie, one of our maids, fills my glass with water, and I smile at her. “Thank you,” I say, then turn to look at Dad, waiting for him to finish what he’s doing.

  “Stephanie, another.” Mom points to her empty glass. Stephanie shuffles forward, and takes Mom’s glass.

  “Dad,” I say again. Dorothy walks in and places the pasta on the table. She smiles at me, and I beam eagerly at her. When she returns, she has a silver bowl with the sauce we made. “Dad!”

  Dad looks up from his phone, holds his finger up at me, then quickly finishes what he’s been doing. “Yes, darling, what is it?”

  “Guess what I did today?”

  Dad serves himself, Mom, and then me. But Mom’s never really interested in eating with us. She merely sits here drinking, while Dad and I eat together. Mom barely picks at her food.

  “What did you do?” He twirls some of the pasta around his fork, and eats it.

  “I made that.” I look at the pasta he’s eating.

  “You made what, darling?” he asks as he swirls more pasta around his fork, and shoves it into his mouth.

  “I helped Dorothy make the pasta and the sauce. I did it, I made that!” I enthusiastically say. My heart is beating so fast waiting for Dad’s reply and hopefully, his approval.

  “Did you?” he asks with a giant smile. “Well done! It’s so good.”

  I clap my hands together, and turn hoping to get the same reaction from Mom. Her sour look, and cold eyes signal her disgust. “Why would you bother helping them?” Mom scowls toward Stephanie who’s placing another cocktail beside Mom. “You’re well above them, Tabitha,” Mom says.

  “I enjoyed it,” I say in a small voice as I look at the pasta on my plate, feeling deflated.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mom pick her fork up, and take the smallest of nibbles of the pasta. “It’s palatable, only just.”

  “Leah,” Dad reprimands Mom. Mom rolls her eyes, picks her glass up and drinks the whole thing in one go. “I think it tastes fantastic. Maybe you can help Dorothy again, if you want.”

  I don’t bother looking at Mom again. She’s such a sour person. She’s made it obvious, time and time again, that no matter what I do, she’ll never be happy with me.

  “Thanks, Dad. I think I will. That is, if Dorothy will let me.”

  “We pay her salary. She’ll do whatever we tell her to do,” Mom snaps.

  I look down at my plate, and decide it’s best to remain seen but not heard. Maybe Mom will like me better if I just say nothing.

  Hope River is one crazy-assed small town. Not only do we have a festival every six weeks that celebrate everything from candy, to flowers, to well, whatever. Everybody also knows everyone else’s business.

  When my friend Hope was driving past and saw Old Roger’s house, she fell in love with it instantly. Hope, who also happens to be a house flipper, noticed Old Roger’s decrepit house had sat idle for many years, and she bought it. No one in Hope River wanted the damned house, but the moment Hope showed up to buy it, the entire town was talking and planning a boycott if she tore it down and built anything else on the land.

  Thankfully, Hope restored the house, and created Hope River’s very first bed and breakfast. Which is where I work.

  Right now, I’m in Elle’s restored café, cooking up chili in
one pot, and pasta for mac and cheese in the other. “Hey, Pop Rock.” My back straightens, and my skin erupts in a fine sprinkle of goosebumps. I look over my shoulder to see Hope’s very sexy brother, Charlie, walk into the café kitchen. He turns to make sure we’re alone. “Whatcha doing?” he asks as he shoves his hands in his pockets.

  “Getting ready for the festival. Elle should be here soon, and…” I shrug. “You know?” I try to keep it short when I talk to Charlie. I like Charlie. He’s great for a bit of fun, but I don’t want or need anything more from him than a casual on-call hook-up. We’re friends with benefits. That works for both of us.

  He comes further into the kitchen, and leans against the counter watching me. He moves his head from side to side, searching for something. He picks up a piece of chopped carrot and tosses it into his mouth. “So,” he says. I turn to look at him, and he waggles his brows and smirks.

  “No, not now. I’m busy.”

  “Come on, Pop Rock, you’ve got a spare few minutes.”

  I look out the window, and notice Elle standing out front with a blindfold. Hope is hopping around with her endless supply of energy, and Jake’s beside Elle with Aunt May on Elle’s other side. “They’re here now, which means you can’t be. Go.”

  “Nope.” He shakes his head, and cheekily grins.

  “Go!” I hiss at Charlie, hoping to get him out of the kitchen before Aunt May sees him here.

  Walking backward, he says, “Meet me in the bathroom in fifteen minutes.” He gives his sexy, sinful smile and winks. Dirty bastard.

  I look out the front of the café, panicking that Aunt May is going to see Charlie in here. She’ll ask me if anything is going on between Charlie and me, and since I won’t lie to Aunt May, I’ll be forced to tell her we’re both each other’s booty-call. I’m positive Aunt May doesn’t want to know that. “Fine. Just, go.”

  I hear Charlie chuckling as he walks out and probably heads toward the bathroom, waiting for me so we can hook up. Normal stuff really.

  Hope leads a blindfolded Elle into her café before lowering the cloth. Elle has the biggest grin on her face, and tears in her eyes. “How?” Elle says as she looks around her café in awe.