The Cookbook Club

by Beth Harbison

  Lucinda had remained quiet for a long moment before saying, “Have you seen my reading room upstairs? It’s very small, with room for only two chairs. It’s my favorite place in the house. I can’t stand all these echo chambers either.”

  Aja and Michelle must have both had the same look of surprise because Lucinda actually laughed. “Goodness, look at the two of you! You aren’t the only ones allowed a bit of human sentiment, you know.” She smiled at Michelle. “Do you like to read?”

  She nodded.

  “Why don’t you join me in my reading room, then, until your mother comes to get you? I think there are some Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden mysteries that will be right up your alley. Plenty of hidden jewels.” She winked at Aja and reached her hand out for her granddaughter.

  * * *

  MEETING 5—OCTOBER

  Magnolia Table

  BISCUITS AND GRAVY—Breakfast all day? Maybe just on Sunday. Will gain four hundred pounds if on the menu full-time.

  HAVARTI AND TOMATO SANDWICHES—Summer app.

  BEEF ENCHILADAS—Permanent entrée on menu—delicious!

  Margo talking about farm a lot. My bet: she moves there and sells her house. Worried it will be lonely out there alone though. Maybe Aja can rent room? She seems unhappy. Wish I could say something, but don’t want to be rude.

  * * *

  November

  Chapter Seventeen

  Trista

  Got any rats?”

  Trista looked up from the bar and her chest tightened when she saw Brice walking in.

  He wasn’t a typical head-turner. There were women who wouldn’t have given him any notice at all. Nice-looking, with medium brown hair and dark blue eyes. Clear skin and the kind of five-o’clock shadow that was perennially in, but which looked, on him, like an accident. Solid, straight nose, not remarkable. He had a good, albeit medium, build.

  Really, the first impression a lot of people would have had was that he was ordinary. But for some reason, Trista found everything about his looks to be just . . . correct. Right. He radiated reassurance. Kindness. Confidence. Competence.

  She smiled at him. “Not a one.”

  “No?” He rubbed his chin. “But I’ve been putting a trail of cheese out back every night in the hopes that you’d call me for help.”

  “Oh, was that you? It was delicious. Gruyère is my favorite.”

  “Cave aged for more than sixteen months.”

  “What woman or rat could resist?”

  He laughed. “I ask myself that every single day. About everything.” There was a split-second pause and he met her eyes. “You’d think my engagement would have worked out.”

  She damn near squealed but maintained her composure. “Your engagement didn’t work out?” She picked up a clean glass and went through the motions of drying it with a bar rag, and just hoped she didn’t drop it.

  His engagement didn’t work out. This was coming directly from him. He was cute, he was nice, he was chivalrous in the face of rats, and he was available.

  That didn’t mean he was interested in her, of course.

  Boy, it had been too long since she’d dated. All the time she’d devoted to work, and then to being fired, and then to starting over . . . she’d forgotten the basics of guy-girl dynamics.

  “Nope.” He pulled out one of the barstools and sat with a sigh. “It did not.”

  She wanted to ask why, obviously she was practically desperate to know what had happened, but there was no tactful way to do it. In fact, she couldn’t think of any follow-up that wouldn’t reveal her adolescent glee at the idea of him being free. “I’m sorry,” she said without an iota of sincerity. Hopefully he couldn’t tell. “I’m sure that’s rough.” She looked at him but reflexively looked down when his gaze met hers. Much as she wanted to read his expression, she didn’t want him to read hers.

  “Ah.” He shrugged. “Things just weren’t right between us. She . . . she didn’t appreciate cheese enough.”

  “Oh dear.” She gave a sly smile. “Literally or figuratively?”

  “Both. But to be fair, I wasn’t that into the things she loved either. Outlet shopping.”

  “Ugh. They’re really not even discounted anymore.”

  “Correct. It’s just an outdoor mall that smells like Chick-fil-A, pizza, and Yankee Candles.”

  She laughed. “It’s true.”

  “I wasn’t a fan of whatshisname either. The singer with the cowboy hat and bare feet?”

  “Kenny Chesney?”

  He snapped his fingers. “That’s it. Make up your mind, dude. Who are you?”

  “It’s true, he’s a conundrum. Not quite country, not quite beachy. It’s like jean skirts. It makes no sense to me.”

  He nodded. “I hear you. I could have gone Tim McGraw or Jimmy Buffett, but those are two completely different moods.” He tightened his mouth. “And if I never see another three-hour musical onstage it will be fine by me.”

  “There you go, it all comes back to Cats,” Trista said. Then, thinking he didn’t get it, added, embarrassed, “You know, rats and cheese and musicals? Cats and . . . well . . . Cats?”

  “I got it.” He nodded with a chuckle. “Very clever girl. Always rounding up the rodents. How did you get rid of them anyway? Did they all go off in search of Ratt Damon?”

  “Actually, they don’t like my cooking.” She smiled. “I’ll explain, but first, do you mind if I belabor the rodent pun for one more second and ask you to be my guinea pig?”

  He gave a rakish smile, which made her heart trip. “I don’t even know what that means, but I am one hundred percent willing.”

  “Give me a second.” She went into the kitchen and rounded up her most recent experiments. “First, cheese. I wasn’t kidding about that. I’m trying to pick one to multipurpose beer cheese as a pretzel dip, burger cheese, and appetizer.”

  “I’m all yours.”

  “Careful what you promise.” She bit her lip and bent down to the minifridge below to retrieve two bowls she’d set in there earlier. “Here you go”—she set them down in front of him—“sample number one and sample number two.”

  He looked at the bowls and then at his hands.

  “Oh! Shoot, sorry. I’ll get a pretzel, hang on.” She hurried back to the kitchen and got a soft pretzel. “This should help.” She put it on a small plate and slid it in front of him.

  “Okay.” He ripped the pretzel into pieces, and salt tapped onto the bar top. She moved in front of him and gave it a quick swipe with a rag. He met her eyes and dipped the pretzel into the creamy golden dip, which was uncooked and therefore sharper. He put the morsel in his mouth and closed his eyes while he chewed. “Very good. Very good. Nice garlicky bite. Good . . . cheese flavor.”

  She nodded. “It’s cheese. So.”

  “But it’s also got a note of . . . Hot.” He widened his eyes and swallowed. “Pretty hot!”

  “Sorry!” She grabbed a mug and pulled some Sam Adams lager into it, then handed it to him. “I forgot to warn you. Some people are more sensitive to that than others.”

  He took a sip and shook his head. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s great. It just sneaks up on you.” His eyes shone as he looked at her, probably a reaction to the hot peppers, but it made her heart trip nevertheless. “I like it.” He drank more of the lager. It was the same one she’d used in the dip, so she felt like it was probably a nice symmetry of flavors.

  “It does the trick too,” she pointed out. “The point of traditional Kentucky beer cheese is it’s supposed to make patrons thirsty so they drink more.”

  “Devious.”

  She laughed and absently wiped the rag across the gleaming bar top. “Got to stay in business.”

  He leveled his gaze on her and gave a slow nod. “I’d been wondering what sorcery you were using to make me want to keep coming back.”

  She blinked, suddenly blank. No clever quips came to her. He was flirting with her. She was sure of it.

  Well, almost s
ure of it.

  She’d been out of the dating game for so long she wasn’t sure what to do. What to say. Then again, she’d taken the rat joke way too far and he was still here, so maybe she was doing all right just by being herself. Isn’t that what she wanted in a man? Hell, in a friend? Someone who liked her for herself?

  “If I knew any sorcery to bring people around whether they wanted to come or not, I’d be very, very rich.” She tapped the darker bowl. “Now try the other one. Don’t worry, it’s not as hot.”

  “Did I say I didn’t like it hot?” He mocked offense. “I absolutely like it hot.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Do you now?”

  “The hotter, the better.”

  “But you looked a little alarmed at the first taste.”

  “First tastes are always unpredictable.” His expression was very still, though that dimple was showing very slightly on his left cheek. “That’s part of what makes them exciting.”

  “I mean, I agree.”

  He nodded. “I’ve learned if it’s not exciting right up front, it’s probably never going to be.”

  “But, as you said, sometimes it’s more subtle.” She swallowed and tried to keep her voice smooth and confident, even though she felt anything but. “It sneaks up on you.”

  “That’s true. But then you realize you suspected there was spice in it all along.”

  She’d thought his eyes were blue but she was noticing now that they were more gray, darker than she’d thought at first. Like storm clouds.

  She loved a good summer storm. “Uh-huh.”

  “Goes for more than just food. You know?”

  He was definitely flirting with her. Definitely. And he seemed just about as nervous as she was.

  Something about that was really endearing to her.

  “Well then. You like hot and spicy. What do you think about saucy?” She took out three plastic bottles she’d filled with her hot sauce experiments earlier.

  He gave a surprised laugh. “You’re good at this. Saucy is good.” He met her eyes. “Bring it on.”

  She hated to be so cliché in her visceral reactions to him, but she couldn’t help it, her chest went tight and a tremor ran straight down her core. “All right then.” She took the pretzel and tore off three small pieces, aware of the light overhead and how it happened to be shining down directly onto her cleavage. Her shirt wasn’t overly skimpy, but it was flattering. Thank God she hadn’t just gone with a plain T-shirt.

  “This one is medium-spicy.” She picked up one of the pretzel pieces and squeezed some deep orange-ish red sauce onto it. The smell of onion hit her first, then the peppers and the mellowing of roasted garlic, sea salt, and finely milled black pepper.

  His hand touched hers when he took it from her. “You make hot sauce yourself? I never thought about doing that from scratch.”

  “I’m not sure I would have if it weren’t for the rats,” she said, then smiled. “Let me explain.”

  “Please.”

  “I didn’t want to put poison all over my kitchen or restaurant so I googled it. Turns out they hate hot stuff, so there was a suggestion to puree a bunch of peppers and, you know, sort of splat it around. On the trash, in the alley, wherever they are.”

  “Makes sense.”

  She nodded. “But I got a ton of peppers, so I decided I’d splat some and make the rest into sauce. Go ahead, try it.”

  He did. “Mmm.” He nodded while he chewed. “Man. That’s good. A little smoky.”

  “Alderwood smoked salt and a tiny bit of chipotle.”

  “I like it. I’d buy it.”

  “Not too much heat?”

  “Maybe not quite enough.” He picked up another piece. “The next one is hotter?”

  She shrugged. “Hotter or sweeter, it’s up to you. There are two of them.”

  “Surprise me.”

  If there was a strategy to be played here, she didn’t know what it was, so she just went with logic and started with the savory one. “Here you go.” She handed it over to him.

  He tried it. Again he closed his eyes and chewed thoughtfully. “Nice. Really dances on the tongue.” He didn’t smile, but that dimple dented in his cheek.

  She suppressed her laughter. “It is a tango for the tongue for sure. It seduces one into taking another bite, and then another, before they even realize what they’re doing.” She dipped a pretzel piece into the other cheese and topped it with the hot sauce. This time when she held it out to him, he leaned in so she could feed it to him.

  “I see what you mean about the cheese,” he said. “It’s mild, perhaps understated, but the sauce adds some zip.”

  “The sauce is cooked so there’s no sharp edges on the flavors, everything melds together.”

  He tore off more pretzel and dipped into more of the cheese. “It’s like really, really good macaroni-and-cheese cheese.” He paused and looked puzzled. “If you know what I mean.”

  “That’s a good idea.” She made a mental note to put macaroni and beer cheese on the menu. It was something that always caught her eye when she saw it. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it herself. “Now the last one.” She picked up the last of the pretzel and put the sweet hot sauce on it.

  “That’s it!” he said, two seconds after tasting it. “That is incredible.” He stopped and thought for a moment, then nodded. “The first impression is sweet, then it heats up until you think it’s going to be too much, then poof it’s gone.”

  She couldn’t help smiling. She’d actually been really proud of that one herself, but she wasn’t sure if anyone else would like it. “You really like it?”

  “I love it.” He put some directly on his finger and tasted it again, then nodded enthusiastically. “You need to bottle this and sell it.”

  “Come on.” She rolled her eyes. “Everyone thinks their spaghetti sauce or elderberry wine or whatever is the best and they should bottle and sell it.”

  “But yours is. I’ve never had anything like it.” He took another bite. “What’s in it?”

  “Grasshoppers.”

  He cocked his head.

  “And wolf spiders,” she added.

  He smiled, his relief clear. “You almost had me.”

  “It’s been done. But not by me, I promise.”

  “Grasshoppers are the new protein,” he said. “Or is that crickets?”

  She screwed her face up. “Both. Grasshoppers in tacos. Crickets . . . somewhere, I’m not sure.” It was hard not to gag at the thought. “I saw it on Shark Tank. I’m proud to say this is a cricket-free restaurant.”

  “The people who came up with it probably made a fortune.” He laughed and had still more sauce. “So this is sweet. Some sort of fruit, right? Not just sugar.”

  She nodded. “Mango and peach.”

  He looked surprised. “No kidding.” He tasted it again. “Got it. Now that you tell me, I can taste them. What kind of chilies?”

  “Mostly fresno. A cherry pepper here, a poblano there. A little habanero.” She hadn’t gotten enough fresnos, so the truth was she just used everything she had. Fortunately she’d written it down. “Some honey too. Seasonings.”

  “But there’s something I can’t quite put my finger on.” He tasted more then looked at his finger and said, “No pun intended.”

  She smiled. “Curry.”

  “Curry.”

  “Yup.” She nodded. “I needed something to segue between the sweet and the savory and I thought of curry.”

  “It’s incredible.”

  “Wow, you’re actually selling me on my own sauce.” She upended the bottle and put a few drops on her own finger. It was just as good as she’d remembered, exactly as he’d said, with the heat that snuck up and away. Suddenly her mind reeled with the possibilities. She could use it as the base for a barbecue sauce and start serving pulled pork on the menu. That, with the beer cheese, Aja’s cheese soup, and the biscuits Margo had made, she had a theme developing suddenly.

  “I
never knew anyone who made their own hot sauce,” Brice commented. “Though I honestly haven’t known many people who could boil water. Cooking isn’t a big activity in law school.”

  “Then you’re lucky to have me.” She hadn’t meant to say that. Her face went scarlet immediately, she knew it. She could feel it. “I mean, the restaurant. Where you can come eat anytime.”

  “What about if I took you someplace else so you didn’t have to do the cooking?”

  “You mean . . . what do you mean?” She didn’t want to make any assumptions. There were too many ways for that to go badly.

  “Look, I’m out of puns. But you are hot, and spicy, and saucy, and all of those things, and I would really like to take you out and talk without you having to bring me food and pour my drinks.”

  “I would like that. A lot.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Margo

  Margo had felt unreasonably excited after the night Max accidentally called her. There was a spark between them, she knew it. Or at least she was almost sure.

  Just not sure enough to make a fool of herself.

  If he wanted to, he could have asked her to dinner, suggested a movie, or even just taken her up on her offer to have him over when they’d talked about how dark it was getting in the farmhouse at night. Though it had only taken moments for him to decline, it had been enough time for her to imagine preparing a gingerbread cobbler and pouring some of the Irish cream she’d made into aperitif glasses to enjoy in front of some candlelight. It would have been so romantic.

  But Max wasn’t interested in a romantic anything with her. Maybe she’d waited too long to really feel this way, always taking him for granted as a friend. In college, when she’d felt the first stirrings of what she was feeling now, he’d steered her toward the huge mistake that had been JB.