An Accidental Love Story: A sweet, heartwarming & uplifting romantic comedy (Falling into Happily Ever After Rom Com)

by Ellie Hall

  Thinking about the past and the way my father left us, losing my mother, then what sent me away from Oma, makes me think that I’m no different than him. Even with my career as a fixer, a healer, I’m just as broken.

  The screen door opens and Lottie drops a bag on the table in front of me. “Just the doctor I was hoping to find here.”

  I leap to my feet. “Are your stitches okay? The chin is tricky. They can pull easily.” I grip her jaw and angle her chin toward the kitchen light.

  Her hand slides into mine, warming me, assuring me.

  “My stitches are fine.”

  “Why do you need a doctor?”

  She adjusts to face me and slides her arms around my torso. “I meant that I need you, silly. Calling you doctor just sounds,” she shimmies her shoulders, “foxier.”

  Heat tips my ears.

  “But seriously. I need your help. Word on the rink is the Storm is going to win and someone ordered two hundred cupcakes for the afterparty. It wasn’t Jared pranking us. I checked.”

  “Stay away from him.”

  She shakes her head. “He’s the one who better stay away from me. The Ice Wizard assured us it wasn’t him. If so, it would be just my luck he’d order them then skip out on paying to exact revenge.”

  “No, your luck would be that you earn enough money to fix the roof. The guys said an anonymous donor left five thousand dollars in an envelope after hours.” I keep my lips flat, revealing nothing.

  “I heard, but let’s not talk about luck and jinx it.” She points to the bag on the table. “A very considerate and talented person donated aprons for our endeavor. They say Cookie & Cupcake with one of each sewed on the pockets. Tie one on and let’s get to work.” She does so and then does that wackily cute little curtsy of hers. “It’s much nicer than the one Zoe wears that says Pour some sugar on me.”

  I kiss her on the top of the head.

  “She also has one that says This is how I roll with a rolling pin across the front and one that read May the forks be with you. No doubt a nod to Star Wars.”

  I put on the apron only because Lottie asked me to and because I can tell Oma is the one who made them. There’s no mistaking her careful stitching. I would know, she taught me. I also would wager she ordered the cupcakes, expecting whether we win or lose, we’ll celebrate.

  Lottie smirks. “Lookin’ good. Now roll up your sleeves, wash your hands, and start sifting the flour. We have a lot of work ahead of us if we’re going to have these ready for the game.”

  For the next couple of hours, I sift at least twenty pounds of flour, command the mixer, and scoop chocolate cupcakes, vanilla, and the twist of the two—called the perfect storm.

  Inspired by Oma’s albums, I take a photo, getting a selfie of Lottie and me baking. Her milkmaid braids frizz around her head, but her smile is gleeful.

  While the cupcakes cool, we clean up and then prepare the frosting. Surrounded by so much sweet, I crave something savory and check in the fridge. I sniff the contents of a pot. “Hmm. I think Oma made the traditional herring dish with potatoes and cabbage into a stew? Questionable, but edible.”

  “I’ve been living off licks of frosting and batter, so ladle me up.”

  I warm the stew then fill two bowls. “The scent reminds me of winters and returning from hockey practice and home. Not here. Latvia.”

  “Do you consider Latvia home?” Lottie asks.

  I shrug. “I talked to Oma earlier, and it’s like some of the things that happened there are catching up to me now, like they’re starting to make some sense and I’m experiencing a kind of delayed understanding, all these years later. But I don’t think growth is measured in meters or inches but by time. I never really felt like I had a family, but almost everyone at the Ice Palace welcomed me back like a brother.”

  “As the saying goes, you can’t pick your family but you can pick your friends. Also, you can pick your nose.”

  I practically shoot soup out of my nose I laugh so hard.

  When we’ve regained our composure, Lottie says, “Tell me about Latvia.”

  “It’s in northern Europe, on the Baltic Sea.” I feel warm and dreamy, from the oven and soup or like Oma must when thinking about the faraway land. “We lived just outside Riga, the capital. When I think of home there, I think in color. The yellow kitchen, green painted brick, blue skies, and bronze. It’s a place bathed in timeworn light.”

  “Sounds beautiful.”

  “Then there were the smells of baking bread, caraway, and molasses. The sounds of church bells and singing. The only thing I rarely heard was my voice. That, I grew into here.” When my mom got sick and then passed, I’d stopped talking. Hockey helped but then Sanderson thrust me back into relative silence.

  “Then you left.” Worry or concern tinges her voice.

  I sift through memories as I did with the flour, translating those early days from Latvian to English to fluid speech. “At first it was lonely here. Don’t get me wrong, the new smells, sights, and tastes were exciting, but nothing I could savor because there was always an undercurrent of being foreign. I was young, but having to learn the language and all the little things that are second nature made me feel out of place until everyone realized I could play hockey. Then they welcomed me.”

  “I doubt that was the only reason.” She nudges me with her elbow. “Once you open up and get talking, you’re rather charming. I’m lucky to have met you.”

  Lottie’s smile reminds me of the sunrise and when the frayed edges of the world come into focus. The place where the ocean meets the sky forms a seam, weaving the past and present together, and blazes bright in a symphony of citrine, tangerine, apricot, and amber shades of light.

  That night, I drift between being awake and asleep. Not ideal since I have a playoff in a matter of hours. It’s like my brain is on the edge of understanding something important after years of dwelling in between.

  When I finally get up, the glass-blown barometer on the wall downstairs suggests the pressure is low, signaling rain. Out the window, thick clouds push away the cheery blue patches of sky. Vinegary brine replaces the sweet scent of cupcakes.

  Oma chops large quantities garlic and dill. “Oma, this isn’t Soviet-era Latvia. We can go to the store and buy pickles, huge vats of them if you’re so inclined.”

  She lines up at least a dozen jars, sanitized and drying from a large bath of boiling water. “Not pickles as fresh as this,” she counters, shaking her head as though mortified I’d suggest such a thing. With her crooked fingers, she points to the basement door. “Go get me the beets from the cellar.”

  I groan. “They taste like dirt.”

  We’re both disagreeable, but I don’t argue, because she’s right, everything she cooks tastes delicious. Her food nurtures a kind of growth that isn’t me moving upward and outward, but closer, to her, to my family and roots.

  Lottie joins us just as Oma finishes with the cucumbers and moves on to making a cold soup with the beets, adding onions, radishes, egg, and more dill. “Good morning,” she says with Magnolia at her heels.

  I kiss her cheek and pass her a bowl of cereal, assuming the savory Latvian food isn’t what she had in mind for breakfast.

  Oma slouches into the chair next to me, her eyes watery even though the photo albums are back on their shelf and the tear-inducing tang of onions is gone.

  “Oma, are you okay?” I ask in perfect Latvian.

  Her eyes glisten. “Some days you will be sad. You’ll feel bad for no apparent reason. There is a word for this in English.” She switches languages. “Funk.”

  Lottie and I both gawk because at first, it sounded like she swore with her thick accent.

  Still, in English, she says, “People think they always have to be happy. A little sadness from time to time is good for the soul. It tells you who you are, what you’re made of, and reminds you that you’re strong. It tells you what is important and washes away what isn’t. It shows that you care about something.” He
r exhale lowers her shoulders. Then to me, she says, “I want you to know that I care…about you.” Her edges soften further and I realize the pickles, the soup, and everything in this kitchen are gifts for me.

  Confusion creases my mind, but my body knows exactly how to respond because whether I’m in between or lost completely, this is something I’ve been waiting years to hear, possibly all my life. I spring toward her, lifting her into my arms, hugging her tight and all I can whisper is, “Thank you,” in English then in Latvian I add, “I care about you too.”

  A smile lightens the lines on her face and she nods. “This funk, sometimes it goes away. Sometimes you have to live with it for a time until something else makes sense. You have to make happiness a choice.”

  Concern hides behind Lottie’s tight smile. It matches my own. My grandmother has been cold and distant my entire life. Why is she suddenly opening up? Maybe the dog is helping or perhaps it’s us.

  “You’d better get ready. Big game later. It’s the calm before the Storm,” Oma says.

  It takes a moment to register that she just made a joke.

  We all laugh, washing the worries from my mind.

  Before Oma exits the kitchen, she walks over to Lottie and pats her arm. “I like you too, dear. My grandson found a woman that makes him smile. He is very lucky.”

  And for now, I am.

  19

  Sweet and Sour

  Lottie

  It’s Saturday night. The playoffs. The buzz particular to a game that means something to a team and to a community, energizes the air as the arena fills with fans.

  Zoe appears with a banner she made advertising the purpose of the bake sale and a bin of cookies—chocolate chip by the scent wafting when she passes.

  I help retrieve the other two bins. When I get back inside, Rusty exits the locker room, dressed in hockey gear from the waist down. I wave and call, “Good luck.”

  He rushes over and picks me up so my head is a few inches above his. Apparently, his arm is fully healed. Not expecting the show of affection, I squeal with delight and let’s be honest, alarm. He’s in hockey skates and I already have a split chin.

  He spins me around and I drop an inch or two to kiss him.

  “You’re my good luck,” he says as he lowers me down. He smiles before another player claps him on the back and they disappear into the locker room.

  While Zoe and I set up, the opposing team and their fans aren’t quiet about how they’re going to “Blow out the Storm,” and otherwise kick their butts.

  Zoe laughs it off, saying loud enough for passers-by wearing the Kings’ red and gold, to hear, “Lots of big talk usually means a weak game. We’ll see who’s going to get whooped out on the ice.”

  I’m no stranger to the hockey world, having shared an arena with teams when I was younger, but compared to the relatively civilized world of figure skating, the energy tonight is craziness—fans are not afraid to get in each other’s faces, talk trash, or otherwise be belligerent.

  “Trust me. It’s always like this. But try to find some sweetness where you can.” Zoe tests a lemon crinkle cookie and hands me the other half. “The Kings are the Storm’s biggest rivals. They’ve always had a fierce competition. It turned ugly back when Rusty still played on the regular and has only gotten worse. Every year it’s something new like a mascot stolen, cheap shots taken, girlfriends swapping teams, and juvenile behavior encouraged by the fans. I’m sure we’re in for an interesting if not entertaining night.”

  A guy walks through the door with gold and red face paint, bellowing about how the Storm is going down.

  Zoe clicks her tongue. “Case in point.”

  Before the game even begins, we sell out of brookies—Zoe’s brownie-cookie combo.

  She says, “In a way, they kind of resemble hockey pucks, no wonder they’re a hit.”

  “The hockey-themed cookie cutters are on their way and we haven’t tested the puck-style cookie sandwiches yet. Don’t worry, I’m taking notes,” I say, passing her a twenty for change.

  “Well, I love what you did on the top of the cupcakes with the crossed pretzel sticks and chocolate chips to resemble pucks. You’re super creative.”

  “We make a good team and so do they.” I point to the rink.

  Everyone in the bleachers stomps and claps as the players take to the ice. We watch through the Plexiglas window, cheering extra loud when Rusty comes out.

  I wish I were cool, confident, and fully trusted that there weren’t underlying feelings between Zoe and Rusty. Lately, I have no reason to think otherwise, but they have a past and Zoe is fun, carefree, and doesn’t do things like trip over hockey sticks and fall flat on her face.

  The puck hasn’t even hit the ice and already two guys brawl.

  She mutters, “I had a feeling it was going to be this kind of night. The good news is Rusty will be in his element. The bad news is he will be in his element.”

  I’m not quite sure what to make of that but have never seen him play at full power. I recall her describing his position as an enforcer. By the looks of the guys in red jerseys, I have no doubt they’re all tough, but then again so are the Storm.

  The score is tied after the first period with only several minor penalties on our team and one major penalty from the Kings, but the ref quickly puts out the flames.

  “Get your game face on, first intermission here we come,” Zoe warns when a draft of cool air gusts through the door and into the warm room.

  The line for Cookie & Cupcake is still long when the buzzer sounds for the game to begin again.

  We watch as Rusty dominates and the Storm scores another point. The period breezes by until one of the guys on the Kings does something Zoe calls butt-ending. I think it involves the hockey stick. She yells into the glass separating us from the arena—her face red and her fists flying in the air. Amused by how seriously she takes it, I get us each a large drink from the Snack Box to help cool her down and accidentally spill mine when I stumble into one of the open tubs from the cookies—thankfully it was empty. And now I’m soaked. I brought Rusty’s sweatshirt, the one with his name, and change into it. I still haven’t asked Oma for her proven method to remove blood stains. Now, I have soda on yet another sweater to contend with too.

  Zoe gives me a long, surveying look and I get the feeling she used to wear this sweatshirt to games. A jangly feeling rattles in my chest, threatening to drop into my belly, but I tell myself I have nothing to worry about. What they had is in the past. I have no real reason to think otherwise, especially not when she refills my soda.

  As the night progresses, we make a good team, hustling through orders during the last intermission, but fans have quickly realized fresh baked cookies and cupcakes are far superior to the prepackaged snacks usually sold at the Snack Box and the line snakes toward the pro shop.

  A sturdy guy with a bristly mustache, who could be a hockey player himself, orders a couple of brookies. His clenched fists tell me that he’s not happy his team is losing.

  “I’m sorry, we’re all out,” I stammer, anticipating that’s not going to improve his mood.

  “The sign says brookies.” He points a thick finger at the sign posted behind us as if I didn’t know it was there. “Chocolate chip and brownies make best friends in a rich, buttery, cookie brownie hybrid you’ll love.” His slur and the waft of beer on his breath suggest he could probably use some water and a good night’s sleep to go with his concessions order.

  “I know. I’m sorry. We sold out. Next time we’ll have plenty.” I smile apologetically.

  “Want chocolate chip and brownie, together.” With his ratty beard and low brow, if he had a club and a bone stuck through his hair, he’d resemble a prehistoric man.

  I lift my hands, palms up, shrugging. “We also have chocolate and vanilla cupcakes.” Nervous, but not surprised at how adamant he is, given he’s a King’s fan, my words come slow and staccato.

  “Cuh-puh-cah-kes,” he teases. “Dumb chick d
oesn’t keep track of her inventory.”

  Caught off guard, my stomach dips and my cheeks verge toward crimson.

  Zoe is instantly at my side. “Is there a problem?”

  “Your sign lied. Says brookies for sale. If you’re out you should write sold out. Waited for the last fifteen minutes and now the game is about to start again.” His face is nearly as red as mine is, but whereas I might cry, he looks as though he’s about to have a tantrum.

  “She said she was sorry. There’s no need to be disrespectful.” Zoe’s voice is as strong as the fists forming in her hands.

  He inclines his head, towering over Zoe, purposely looking down on her. “And what is a little girl like you gonna do about it?”

  It’s possible we both see red at the same time. In sync, we pick up our drinks, splashing them in his face.

  “That ought to cool you off, sweater face,” she says.

  I smirk.

  With wide eyes that don’t match the bite in his voice he spits, “Couple of puck bunnies, you can keep your crapcakes.” He stomps toward the rink and an ice cube drops from his shoulder.

  Zoe and I burst into a fit of giggles and give each other a double high five.

  She says, “Don’t mess with Cookie & Cupcake if you don’t want things to turn sour.”

  When the final buzzer sounds, the Storm is up three points and takes the win. The arena thunders with applause. It’s absolute mayhem and no wonder they need a new roof. The clapping and cheering alone could blow it off.

  Zoe bangs on the glass as the guys take their winning lap. Eventually, everyone filters out, but the chaos continues as if no one wants the night to end.

  While we pack up, Zoe says, “Are you going to the gong show?”

  I tilt my head.

  “A celly.”

  I shake my head, not understanding.

  “Hockey lingo. It’s a party to celebrate the Storm’s win. You should come. Usually, they’re pretty fun after a game like tonight.”

  This is another occasion when I feel out of my element, far from Rusty’s life, and highlights the one they shared.