by Melissa Tagg
Which it seemed he did, considering the almost smug tilt to the grin he tried to tamp down. He sobered, though, with his next words. “You’re also my teacher.”
There . . . there was the clincher. He was right. He might be closer to her in age than her traditional students. They might’ve formed an unlikely friendship in the past days of close quarters and working side by side. But she’d bet every high-end baking utensil in her kitchen there was some culinary institute policy in some employee handbook somewhere that promised repercussions for student-teacher relationships that went beyond, well, a student-teacher relationship.
And so, with little more than a shared look of understanding, they’d stepped into the hallway. Hadn’t said another word about it since.
Didn’t mean she hadn’t thought about it. At night when she was trying to sleep. During the day whenever Colin looked particularly handsome as he kneaded dough or washed dishes.
Right now as he abandoned the bags of groceries and proceeded to give the others a play-by-play of the science to puff pastry making. “What happens is, after all the folding and rolling, you have literally hundreds of paper-thin layers of butter trapped between hundreds of paper-thin layers of dough. When it’s the oven, the liquid in the butter and the dough evaporates into steam, the butter melts into the dough, and the steam puffs up the leftover gaps. That’s how you get a light, flaky pastry. It’s all about evaporation.”
He ended up at Rylan’s side when he was done. “You see, Ms. Jefferson, I always pay attention in class.”
She had to look away from his eyes, lest her stupid heart not listen to her nagging brain and her fingers tremble while she folded her dough into thirds.
“Never thought I’d see the day when I got a science lesson from Uncle Colin.” Winnie rocked on her stool.
“If I’ve heard Rylan say it once, I’ve heard her say it a thousand times: baking is as much about science as anything. Pure chemistry.”
She swallowed as she reached for the French rolling pin, trying to ignore the subtle, but enticing scent of Colin’s aftershave.
“Of course, she’s not entirely correct.”
Rylan paused with her palms pressed over the pin pressed over the dough. “Is that so?”
“It’s also about exploring the untested. Trying new flavor combinations. Experimenting. Putting two ingredients together you never would’ve expected and giving it a go, seeing what happens, even if you don’t have a recipe card or a logical, scientific explanation for what you’re doing.”
She couldn’t make her hands move. She needed to roll the dough. Then fold it up and turn it over and roll it again before the butter got too soft. This was a long enough process, what with needing to chill it for a good twenty or thirty minutes every couple turns or so and—
“Speaking of which, I had this idea.”
Colin was leaning closer to her now and she was uncomfortably aware of Leigh and Maren watching. Colin’s tone was as nonchalant as could be, but surely they could hear her stomach doing acrobatics.
“I know how much you like recipe cards, so I wrote it down. It’s in one of those bags.” He cocked his head toward the grocery sacks he’d set on the kitchen table. “I can take over here if you want to check it out.”
“All right.” She handed over the rolling pin, stepped away. Willed her common sense to kick in as she moved to the table.
“Hey, Rylan, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Maren’s voice followed her. “How is it you could ditch Denver for several weeks right at Christmas? You didn’t have any family plans?”
“Am I allowed to call you nosy, Mare, or are you still too new to the family for that?”
Rylan grinned at Colin’s scolding as she dug through the first bag. He’d already started rolling the dough, the muscle in his arms evident as he made much quicker work of the step than she would’ve. “It’s okay. Uh, actually my immediate family is all in Africa right now. My older sister, Carolina, worked with Doctors Without Borders for several years and she goes back to volunteer at a medical center in Ethiopia at least once a year. This year her husband and kids went with her and my parents got the idea of everyone joining them, doing a safari, that kind of thing. My younger sister, Dakota, and her husband are both travel photographers, so they didn’t have to think twice.”
No recipe card in the first bag.
“Why didn’t you go along?” Leigh asked the question.
“I just . . . um . . . ” It was easier to riffle through the second bag than look up. “It wasn’t great timing for me. They’re actually flying home the day before Christmas Eve, though, so if I want to join them then . . . ”
She waited for the next question as she unloaded the grocery bag so she could get to the recipe card she saw at the bottom. They’d want to know about that if.
Too bad she didn’t have a single answer that didn’t sound pathetic. It’s too many happy, successful people in one place. I always feel like the loser of the group. And of course, there were the inevitable questions: “Are you dating anyone? Whatever happened with Brent?”
The sad thing was, she knew her family didn’t mean to make her feel as they did. Every one of them had texted or called at some point in early December to ask her to reconsider going to Africa—or at least drive from Denver down to Mom and Dad’s in Colorado Springs on Christmas Eve once they were all back in the States.
They just didn’t realize the depth of her hurt over the bakery, the extent of her pain over Brent. Maybe because you’re never willing to talk to any of them about it.
But wouldn’t that just make it worse? It was hard enough trying to get through a holiday without constantly comparing her life to theirs. If she opened up about her emotions, they’d surely respond with sympathy. But sympathy too often felt like pity.
And she simply wasn’t sure she could handle it.
But Winnie didn’t ask the question Rylan expected. “Carolina? Dakota? Why didn’t you get a state name, Rylan?”
“Actually my name is Maryland.” She pulled the recipe card free and when she glanced up, it was to see everyone looking at her. “Mary would’ve been the obvious moniker, I guess, but I’ve always kind of liked to do my own thing.”
“Maryland Jefferson.” Colin said her name as if just meeting her for the first time, the barest half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He looked to the card in her hand and then back to her. Waiting.
She read the card. If you’d expel me—just temporarily—you wouldn’t be my instructor anymore.
Her eyes darted to his. Without breaking eye contact, he picked up the flattened dough and slowly turned it over.
She flipped over the card. And if you’re not my instructor anymore, I can ask you on a date.
The oven was pre-heating. Which meant the kitchen was warm. Which meant maybe Leigh and Winnie and Maren wouldn’t think anything of the heat rising in Rylan’s cheeks just now.
“Well, guys,” Colin said, “after I get this rolled and then folded again, it’s going in the refrigerator for awhile. There’s not much more to see here at the moment.”
He’d effectively dismissed everyone from the kitchen. And she couldn’t believe it, but within a matter of seconds, they all emptied from the room. Maren said something about finding Drew out in the woodshop. Winnie seemed to welcome the escape lest she face any further science lessons. Leigh’s shift at the restaurant started in half an hour.
Just like that, it was Colin and Rylan and the card in her hands and a Well? that seemed to hang in the air.
“Maryland Jefferson,” he said her name again.
“My dad’s very patriotic.” She glanced at the dough. “You should get that in the fridge.”
“You should tell me what you think of my latest creative idea.”
He reached for a roll of plastic wrap, encased the dough and placed it in the refrigerator, all while she tried to get her brain to work. Expel him. Temporarily. Date. And then he was standing in front of her. “Pretending
nothing’s changed isn’t working for me, Rylan. Just one date. Just to see. Friday night? It’d be fitting—the two-week anniversary of the Baked Alaska incident.”
“Disaster, you mean?”
He took the recipe card from her hand and slid it into the front pocket of her apron. “You can call it whatever you want, Maryland. Just kick me out of your class, so I can take you on a date.”
She couldn’t have said no if she wanted to. “On one condition.”
“That I not call you Maryland anymore?”
No, because when it came out of his mouth, it didn’t sound nearly as stiff and formal as it’d always felt whenever anyone else said it. “That you talk to your brother.”
An unfair request, perhaps, since she’d gone to great lengths to avoid her own family. But anyone with eyes could see he still longed for reconciliation, despite their altercation in the woodshop.
Colin’s forehead pinched. “You drive a hard bargain.”
“It’s what you really came home for, Colin.” Part of it, anyway. And oh, she hoped when he saw his dad next week, he’d get whatever else he needed.
“All right, then. So I’m officially—temporarily, let’s not forget that part—officially, temporarily expelled?”
She stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “You’re so expelled.”
He was doing this for Rylan.
Maryland Jefferson.
He’d thought it wasn’t possible to be any more surprised by the woman. But she was named after a state and she wanted him to talk to Drew. So, he’d talk to Drew. He found his brother in the basement.
“Hey, Drew.”
Drew jerked his head up and bashed it on the low slant of a pipe. A musty scent draped in the chilled air of the unfinished space. Cardboard boxes and plastic tubs sat in clusters and piles, turning the basement into a veritable maze. Finally, he’d found the one corner of the house Drew hadn’t gotten around to working his magic on.
“Need something?” Drew pried open a large tub, scanned its contents.
Typical Drew question. Tended to think the whole world needed him.
Not helpful, his instant mental sarcasm. He was here to mend bridges. Apologize for however long it took to convince Drew that this time, this change, was for real.
“Maren said you’re going to bring up all the Christmas decorations. I thought I’d help.” He’d spent two hours assisting Rylan with her pastry first, shaping Palmiers and listening to her complain about how the sugar-rolled desserts weren’t nearly dazzling enough.
This demonstration for Chef Potts next week had her so stuck in her own head. She was too close to her every effort, completely devoid of objectivity.
Which is exactly how he’d come to feel about the unexpected about-face in their . . . situation. He’d thought he could wave it off, ignore it, pretend the kiss had never happened. Enjoy their surprise friendship and leave it at that.
Maybe if it had only been a kiss, he could’ve. But it was probably about time he admit that the bewildering, gradual turn in his feelings toward Rylan—Maryland—Jefferson had begun much earlier than that. Probably around week two at the institute when she’d gone on an extended tirade about his marzipan mousse in front of the rest of the class without realizing she had streaks of apricot compote running down her sleeve.
He’d found her harsh and unfeeling and irritating.
And fiery and appealing, he realized now. He just hadn’t let himself acknowledge it before.
But even amusement with a heady side of physical attraction might not have been enough for him to rethink the decision to back away from whatever might be happening between them. No, what had him unable to sleep, incapable of focusing, wondering what kind of idiot walked away from a girl—woman, she’d been quick to correct him—like Rylan wasn’t just the fact that she was prettier than she knew.
It was the softness he’d discovered beneath her prickles. The kindness. The way whenever conversation had turned to Dad these past few days, she didn’t push or pry but let him know with simply a look that she was there for him.
Too, her determination. She’d found career success—something he’d never experienced himself—only to lose it all. She’d had her heart broken by some idiot named Brent. And yet, she hadn’t stopped dreaming.
“Colin? I asked if you could look in that box over there. I’m hoping it’s all the tree ornaments.”
Colin shook away his wandering thoughts and stepped around an old upholstered chair, fabric covering torn and faded. This must be where Drew stored the furniture he intended to restore eventually. He found the box Drew indicated and checked inside. “You’re right. Ornaments.”
“Perfect. Now I just need to find the one with the lights. My wife is obsessed with twinkle lights.”
“You like saying that, don’t you? ‘My wife.’”
Drew’s attempt to hide his over-sized grin was entirely unsuccessful. “Guess I do.”
“Hey, remember when we made these?” Colin held up two ornaments made of felt and pipe cleaners. Santa and Rudolph.
Drew skirted around an old padded bench that used to sit in the entryway, if Colin remembered correctly. “Yeah, we fought over the hot glue gun.”
“And Leigh told on us.”
“And then Mom ended up finishing mine for me when I got distracted building a house with the pipe cleaners.”
“Guess I’m not the only house-builder in the family.” Drew reached for one of the ornaments, the expression on his face reflecting so many memories of the past. So many worries for the future.
“I’m sorry about everything, Drew.”
“Colin—”
“No, you gotta let me get this out. My love life depends on it.”
Drew cocked his head.
“Kidding. Kind of. But I’m serious. I’m sorry for all the times you had to bail me out—jail and otherwise. I’m sorry about never letting you know where I was or what I was doing. I’m sorry about the parties and the reckless frat boy behavior, the drinking and the girls and . . . ” It had all been so stupid at eighteen, nineteen, twenty. But how could he have let that lifestyle stretch so far into his adulthood? “I’m sorry about blowing you off last year when you gave me the opportunity to work the farm with you.”
“We were never meant to be farmers, either of us.”
“But you were thinking of me, my life. And Leigh. You moved back to Iowa with the sole purpose of helping us get our lives back together, and instead of being grateful you still hadn’t given up on me, I pushed you farther away.” Unlike Leigh, who’d been smart enough to take the second chance Drew offered.
“I would never give up on you, Colin.”
He looked up to Drew. Saw such firm sincerity it nearly undid him.
“Just like I hope you’ll never give up on me. Someday I might learn how to stop barging in and thinking I know the answers to everyone else’s problems. If there’s anything the past couple weeks have taught me, since I found out about Dad, it’s that any control I’ve ever thought I had is flimsy and fake. A false comfort when what I really need is to learn to trust a God who offers something better than answers.”
“What’s that?” Colin swallowed. He hadn’t thought about God in a long time, other than to assume he most likely looked at Colin the way his father had so many times. Sheer disappointment.
“Hope,” Drew answered without hesitation.
“That a miracle will happen and Dad will be healed and everything will be fine?” Would Drew be offended by the trace of disbelief in his tone?
Drew only clasped his arm. “Maybe. But also, that even if not, he’s still good and faithful and willing to be our ultimate comfort and peace if we’ll let him.” And then in a move that surprised and completely overwhelmed him, Drew embraced him. “I love you, little brother. I’m sorry about laying into you the other day.”
It was over in less than seconds, and then Drew was once again sidestepping boxes and filling his arms with Christmas decorations. He
was halfway up the rickety basement steps before Colin could speak past the lump in his throat.
“Drew, I . . . ” He swallowed another rising swell of emotion.
“I know, I know, you love me, too. Can you grab that box of ornaments when you come up?”
Drew was letting him off. Saving this conversation—and Colin—from dissolving. But the moment was no less weighty for it. And as Drew disappeared up the stairway, he couldn’t help the prayer that mingled with the peace-filled relief filling every corner of his soul.
God, show me how to be like Drew. A man who found the right words when they were needed most. Who made a difference in the lives around him.
A man who was there for his family.
But as he lifted the box filled with Christmas decorations, the thought hit him for the first time: Was it even possible to be the brother and uncle he longed to be—the man he longed to be—all the way from Denver?
Chapter 9
“Whoa, this wasn’t at all what I pictured when you said Sleepy Hollow.” Rylan reached for the strands of hair fluttering around her face, the whispers of a gentle wind feathering over her face.
And she’d thought the first half of this date was perfect.
Enchanting. She’d actually used the word enchanting to describe the candlelight dinner in the town square’s lit-up band shell, a space heater for warmth, twinkle lights and sparkling snowfall for company.
But this?
Colin reached into his car and pulled out a travel mug. He’d stopped at the farmhouse before making the twenty-minute drive south of town. He’d insisted she add another layer of clothing while he prepared homemade hot chocolate.
He placed her mug in her mittened hands. “What did you picture?”
He’d said he was taking her to a place called Sleepy Hollow and her brain had gone immediately to The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. “The story of Ichabod Crane. You know, the superstitious schoolmaster who encounters a Headless Horseman at a cemetery bridge. Always creeped me out. Even the Disney cartoon version gave me nightmares as a kid. I haven’t been able to carve a jack-o-lantern since.”
