His hand was warm and comforting where it rested on my arm. I wasn't sure if it was right for me to accept his comfort, but at the moment I'd take all I could get.
"Why are you here?" I whispered. "In Beaverton. After all this time, why come here now?"
He stared down at me a moment. "Well, the cat was out of the bag, so to speak. You knew about me. And I didn't like the idea of just letting things stay the way they were between us. I figure you have questions, and I have answers. I'd like to get to know you, Andy. Directly this time, not through third parties. And I want you to know me. I'm not asking you to like me, just to be open."
I stared up at him. Damn, that was a reasonable request, and I'd feel like a total shrew if I denied it. I cleared my throat and asked, "Does that mean you're staying in town?"
"For a while at least. Anyway, my wife is already settled here. I don't think she'd like to be uprooted right now."
"You're married?" I squeaked. It had never occurred to me that he'd be married. Hell, he could have a whole passel of kids for all I knew.
Griffin looked surprised. "Recently, actually. I thought the two of you were already acquainted."
"Oh, zat we are, dahling." Lacey L'Amour minced into my room and put an arm around my father's shoulders. The diamond-encrusted wedding band on her left ring finger caught the horrible fluorescent lights. "Isn't zat right, Andee?"
My eyes slid shut again. "I think I'm going to be sick."
* * *
It took a week before I was cleared to leave the hospital. On my request, Jones had held up Rochelle's burial until I could attend. I felt I owed it to the other woman to be there to honor her memory.
The small graveside service took place on a blustery February morning. Kaylee and her mom were there along with Donna and her husband, Pops and Aunt Cecily, Mimi, Lizzy, and Jones. Jacob Griffin had offered to pay for Rochelle's funeral, since she'd been in town on his errand, but Lizzy had turned him down. I was grateful to her, since that meant Mr. and Mrs. Griffin had no reason to attend. That was one situation I didn't want to think about. Kyle showed up in his sheriff's uniform, but he spent more time casting longing looks at Lizzy. Eventually Aunt Cecily shooed him off.
Since he was the only one who'd known her, Jones spoke to honor his ex. It was brief but heartfelt, and I think it gave him a sense of closure to honor her memory and help put her to rest. Everyone was gathering at the Bowtie Angel afterward, but Jones insisted on driving me home to rest.
"Where is home?" I asked him as we drove. "I don't really know anymore."
"Well, in this case, it's the A-frame, since I promised to let Roofus out." He turned up the road toward my rental. "For me though, home is wherever you are, Andrea."
My eyes, which were already red rimmed, filled with tears. "Don't make me cry again. I feel as though I'm half drowned already."
I'd expected him to smile and make some glib comment. Bantering was our way. Instead, his knuckles turned white where they gripped the steering wheel. Suddenly, he pulled over to the side of the road and turned to face me.
"What?" I asked, concerned. "Malcolm, what's the matter?"
He huffed out a breath and cast me a sidelong look. "Marry me?"
I blinked. "Say what now?"
He sighed. "Andrea, I know this isn't the right time or place. This isn't how I wanted to propose to you. When I proposed to Rochelle, I did everything right, the way it was supposed to be done. And look how that turned out."
I couldn't contain a grimace.
"But that isn't us. Our relationship has never been tidy. It has never made any sort of sense. We're chaos personified, and I wouldn't want it any other way. I don't have a ring for you, but that doesn't change the fact that this feels right to me, right now. I know I want you to be my wife. Marry me?"
I sat there, unable to blink, to move, to breathe. I felt as if I were floating somewhere far distant and watching the two of us, wondering what would happen next.
"Okay," I breathed and then slammed back to full awareness.
His lips twitched. "Is that a yes?"
"Technically, I think it's more of a why the hell not, but that's what you get when you propose on the way home from your ex's funeral." I slapped him on the arm. "Idiot, you are an idiot, and I love you, Malcolm Jones."
He leaned over and claimed my lips, careful of my casted arm. "Let's go home and eat something exceptionally bad for us."
One thing was for sure, the man with the smoking-hot accent knew the quickest route to my heart.
Cannoli Cake
You'll need:
1 package vanilla cake mix
4 eggs, brought to room temperature
1/2 cup miniature chocolate chips
Frosting:
16 oz Mascarpone cheese
3/4 cup confectionary sugar, sifted
1/4 cup half-and-half
2 teaspoons almond extract
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup sliced almonds
1/2 cup miniature chocolate chips
Prepare and bake cake mix according to package directions along with extra eggs. Mix in 1/2 cup miniature chocolate chips. Cool for 10 minutes before removing from pan to wire rack to cool completely.
In a large bowl, beat the Mascarpone cheese, confectioners' sugar, half-and-half, and extracts on medium speed until creamy (do not overmix).
Frost sides and top edge of cake with 2 cups frosting.
Press almonds and remaining chips into sides and top of cake. Refrigerate until serving.
**Andy's note: Mimi would faint if she knew I used a boxed mix, so we'll just make this our little secret.
* * * * *
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* * * * *
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Former navy wife turned author Jennifer L. Hart loves a good mystery as well as a good laugh and a happily ever after is a must. When she's not playing with her imaginary friends or losing countless hours on social media, she spends her free time experimenting with both food and drink recipes and wishing someone else would clean up. Since she lives with three guys and a beagle, that's usually not the case. Her works include The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag series and the Southern Pasta Shop Mysteries.
Visit Jennifer L. Hart online at: www.jenniferlhart.com
* * * * *
BOOKS BY JENNIFER L. HART
Southern Pasta Shop Mysteries:
Murder Al Dente
Murder À La Flambé
Misadventures of the Laundry Hag Mysteries:
Skeletons in the Closet
Swept Under the Rug
All Washed Up
Damaged Goods Mysteries
Final Notice
Other Works
Who Needs a Hero?
River Rats
Stellar Timing
Daisy Dominatrix
Redeeming Characters
* * * * *
SNEAK PEEK
If you enjoyed this Southern Pasta Shop Mystery, check out this sneak peek of another funny, romantic mystery from Gemma Halliday Publishing:
SOUTHERN PEACH PIE & A DEAD GUY
by
A. GARDNER
CHAPTER ONE
My first encounter with a southern guy isn't going so well. So far I've admitted I have never tried sweet tea, and my big toe is a little too long for the shoes I am wearing. Nice one, Poppy. Now he is going to think I am a weird westerner with a foot fetish. I try hard not to look down at my black, high-heeled boots. Why am I the only one on campus wearing any black?
"My name is Cole," the man says with a grin on his face. I reach out to shake his hand. My palms are sweating just like every other place on my body. I haven't even turned thirty yet, and I'm already having hot flashes. It is going to take me some time to get used to this heat.
"Poppy Peters,"
I reply. I wipe my forehead and underneath my eyes. I bite my lip when I see a bit of smeared mascara on the side of my finger. It is so humid my makeup is melting off. "Is it always this hot here?"
"Welcome to Georgia." Cole chuckles and shrugs as we walk towards the student bakery. Cole is one of the first students I bumped into at the registration office. His lemon-colored T-shirt shines bright compared to his dark skin, and his impressive physique makes me look at him twice. His eyes are intriguing—an even mix of blue and green.
As we walk, I can't help but admire how lush the vegetation is on campus. Every tree outstretches towards the sidewalks, providing a much needed break from the glaring sun. The patches of grass remind me of ocean waves, if the ocean sparkled like emeralds. Even the flowerbeds near the Administration building had bundles of purple and orange wildflowers that couldn't be contained.
"What's that smell?" I ask. "And don't say it smells like fresh meat. I heard a teacher in the Registrar's Office use that joke about a hundred times."
"I'll show you."
I follow Cole across campus until the heavenly smell of baked bread and sugary doughnuts grows stronger. I long for that smell sometimes. It takes me back to my schoolgirl days when I spent my weekends in the kitchen with Grandma Liz. My Grandma Liz came to Calle Pastry Academy when she was in her early twenties. I imagine her tiny frame and long, dancer legs. It's a miracle that she came to this school and still stayed so thin.
"Whoa," I blurt out. My eyes widen when we come to a historic-looking building with brown-orangey bricks and tall windows that line up across the front. Through the glass I see a bustling bakery with a long line of students and campus visitors extending through the front doors and outside onto the sidewalk. I join Cole at the back of the line and discreetly adjust my black top and dark blue leggings. A serious change in wardrobe is in order if I plan on staying here.
When I was in high school, Mom always told me that I wore too much black. Ballerinas like me were supposed to be light and dainty, like an airy piece of sponge cake with non-fat whipped cream (no more than a dollop). Although I was one of the top dancers in my grade, I guess I looked too much like a slice of chocolate torte.
"This is the student bakery," Cole says. "We'll all be working here as part of our culinary training. A friend of mine came here a couple years ago. He told me all about it." He lifts his chin and speaks more formally than I'm used to.
"No kidding."
"Uh-huh." He keeps a grin on his face, and clasps his hands neatly in front of him. "The kitchen I work in back home isn't nearly as big as this one."
"And where is home?" I ask. I have him pegged for somewhere here in the South. I can hear it in his voice. Plus, he's way too polite.
"Atlanta," he answers. "Not far from here. But I grew up in Louisiana."
"Gotcha." I inhale another whiff of cooling pastries, and it makes my stomach rumble.
"What about you?" I can see him eyeing me as he pretends to look at something across the quad.
"Oh, I'm just your classic Oregonian ballerina looking for a fresh start."
"Ballerina?" he comments. "You don't look like a ballerina."
"Yep," I laugh. "That's what my over-bearing instructor Elena Povska said right before I fell on the bar and injured my back."
"Ouch."
Cole has that same look on his face that I've seen way too many times. His eyes are soft and sympathetic, and he's trying not to cringe. He's probably imagining my back cracking and me yelling on the floor in pain.
"I always hated it anyway." I grab a strand of my dark hair and look around at the rest of the student body. I stand out here. It feels like high school all over again, except my mom didn't send me off with a packed lunch of tuna on wheat, three pieces of celery, and a sugar-free breath mint. The dancer's diet.
"What about cooking? How do you feel about that?"
"I love it," I respond. "You know, my grandma came here. I always wanted to be just like her."
We move forward in line.
"Really," Cole says. "What does she do now?"
"After she graduated, she went back to Portland and opened her own bakery. My dad sold it after she passed away."
"Sorry to hear that," he replies.
"Circle of life." I brush off the subject and move on to avoid having to hold in any tears. I hate crying in public, even if it is only a little sniffle. "So are you going to be living on campus?"
"The program is so intense that I think just about everyone is."
"Right," I mutter. "Please tell me all the apartments have some wicked AC units or industrial fans or something?"
"Chill," he jokes. "You'll get used to the heat."
I laugh as we finally move indoors to the most coveted part of the line. I take a deep breath and close my eyes as I step across the threshold, enjoying the cool air against my cheeks. Cole watches me with a twisted smile.
"Do you think they'll let me stand in the freezer for a few minutes?" I say quietly.
"Newbies." Cole shakes his head. "What is the weather like in Oregon?"
"Portland is nothing like this." My eyes pop open when I smell something glorious. Something that teases my taste buds before I even see it. "I smell pie."
"The school's famous peach pie," Cole adds. "We will be learning how to make it pretty soon."
"I've never made a pie that smells like that. It…I don't even know how to describe it."
"It speaks to your soul?" he guesses.
"Soul food," I laugh. "Very funny."
We take a few steps towards the register, and I see the entire display of pastries and baked goods sitting neatly behind the glass. The rest of the bakery is smaller than I expected. There are a handful of café tables and a community board with flyers hanging on the wall. Most customers take their treats to-go. Most of the building is kitchen space. I move closer to get a better look at the assorted flavors of pies, buns, doughnuts, and Danishes. I don't see any labels. Only a chalkboard behind the counter with today's flavors written on it.
"Oh-my-gosh," I gasp, being careful not to drool all over my brand-new top. "It's like the ultimate PTA bake sale in here. I've never seen so many sugary things in one place."
"Don't kill me, but you only have a few minutes to decide what you want. It's almost our turn to order."
"How in the world am I supposed to do that?" My insides start to panic like they used to right before a curtain call.
"Well," Cole says, placing a hand on the counter. "Have you ever had a beignet?"
"Based on our initial sweet tea debate, what do you think?" My eyes jump to a pan of gooey-looking cinnamon rolls with orange icing. "What are those?"
"Buzz's rise and shine orange rolls," he answers. "The founder's son came up with the recipe."
"So many choices," I comment. I tap my heel against the tile floor and get a glance into the kitchen, as a student comes out with a pan of hot blueberry scones. My stomach churns a little as I think about putting on my chef's apron and joining in on the dough kneading and doughnut frying.
"What will you have?" Cole nudges my shoulder. I realize that I've been daydreaming the past few minutes, and now it is time for me to place my order. I'm oblivious. If I had the cash on hand I would order one of everything.
"We'll take two beignets, one of those hot blueberry scones, and an orange roll for Miss Indecisive." He pulls out his wallet and pays before I can object.
I place my hands on my hips and watch as he collects our box of baked delights.
"You forgot the coffee," I joke. I drink coffee like I drink water. It was the only way I could practice ballet ten hours a day and still stay standing. Cole hands me a napkin and the orange roll I stared at while in line. "Thanks, you're a peach."
"You're different from other women I've met here so far," he comments. He takes a bite of his beignet and quickly wipes the powdered sugar from his lips. We snag the last open café table and sit down across from each other.
"I know," I reply
with a mouth full of citrus icing. Dang, that is good. My eyes dart to a sign pinned on the community board as I chew. It flaps in the breeze whenever someone opens the bakery door. "It's the high-heeled boots, right? They're a little too Goth for my taste, but I had to have them."
"No." He grins. "I like the boots. Keep the boots." He breaks the blueberry scone in half and hands me a piece. I see steam rising from the center and the rich, royal blue color of the blueberries inside. "How does a ballerina end up in a place like this? Aren't you guys all about working out all day and eating tofu?"
"I hate tofu," I reply. The paper on the community board waves as a breeze drifts through the front door. At first I only glance at it, but then my gaze freezes on two words that are printed in all caps. MISSING STUDENT. I stare at the picture on the poster of a younger looking student named Tom Fox who, according to the poster, went missing last semester. Underneath Tom's picture that was copied from his student ID there is a contact name and phone number for a woman named Brooke.
"Uh, Poppy?" Cole chuckles.
I realize that I have been studying the poster of Tom Fox instead of listening to Cole. He's staring at me curiously.
"Sorry." I tilt my head towards the community board. "Do students disappear often around here?"
"There's at least one per semester," he jokes. "But, honestly, stuff like that happens at every school, doesn't it?"
Not one this small.
"Maybe."
"Anyway," he continues. "Back to my question before you spaced out. Are you a culinary genius and you're just not telling me?"
"Okay, fine," I admit. "I've never worked in a kitchen before, but I'm a fast learner." I pause from devouring my orange roll and think back to my dancing days. I hated them. Every morning I would wake up wishing I had followed the advice that Grandma Liz gave me before she died. She told me to do what I love and the rest would all fall into place. Some of my best memories are baking with her. Grandma Liz was fearless. Anything I asked her to make she would try, and it always turned out to be amazing.
Jennifer L. Hart - Southern Pasta Shop 02 - Murder À La Flambé Page 21
