by Melissa Tagg
You’re not the same man you were.
Maybe not. But he was the same man who, in a manner of days, had gone from begging her to let him stay in her class to willfully walking away. He couldn’t blame her for her disappointment. And he didn’t want to ruin her Christmas any further by annoying her now the same way he had all those weeks at the institute.
“I don’t know if it’s the disease or the diagnosis.”
Mom’s soft voice to his left hooked his attention.
“What’s that?”
“Your father. You’ve noticed how quiet he is. Alzheimer’s itself can alter a person’s personality. But I think it might be the reality of the diagnosis affecting him as much as anything.”
Mom’s gaze was on Dad, such profound sadness in her eyes Colin had to look away. But when he braved a glance back, the pain was replaced with a gentle knowing. “You don’t have to rehash the past with him, Col. He doesn’t need a fancy speech or a host of apologies.”
“Mom—”
Her palm flattened over his on the tabletop. “And neither do I. Save your pretty words for the girl you’re pining over.” At the drop of his jaw, she grinned. “Your new sister-in-law is talkative.”
“She was my instructor at the culinary institute.”
“So Maren said.”
“I brought her home with me.”
“So Maren said.”
“Then I quit the institute.”
“So you said.”
He’d explained the whole thing yesterday, had honestly halfway-expected Dad to shake his head, make some gruff remark about how he wasn’t surprised. How Colin rarely finished what he started.
Instead he’d only clamped his hand to Colin’s shoulder and said something about how maybe now he could help Drew farm the land. The land Drew had sold earlier this year. Colin had shared a look with his brother, harsh realization settling like bricks in his stomach.
Dad had left the table and now stood by the sink. His hand was on the faucet but he’d made no move to turn on the water.
“Just talk to him, Colin.” Mom patted his hand. “Tell him you love him. The memories from before are going to fade anyway. What we’ve got left are moments. So give him a good one.”
The truth in her words chipped at his heart, and he had to blink to tame the tears that threatened. Christmas spirit was proving hard to come by this year. But it might be Dad’s last. Another hard blink.
“We can leave this mess 'til after the service,” Drew was saying as he stood. He wrapped his arm around Maren’s waist, steered her toward the stairway.
“I’ll at least clear the table. I’m already dressed for church.” Colin rose, stacked as many plates in his hand as he could and joined Dad at the sink. He heard Leigh and Winnie moving behind him, the room eventually quieting.
“Dad?”
His father turned, crystal blue eyes—same shade as his own and Leigh’s—pierced straight into him. None of the vague fog Colin had noticed at least a couple times today. No disease staking its claim, at least for this sliver of time.
“What we’ve got left are moments.”
Maybe this was the blessing even in such a desperate prognosis—this opportunity to reconcile. To make an imprint in the present that neither the past nor the future could wash away.
“Dad, I wanted to tell you . . . that is, I’ve been meaning to say . . . ” Why couldn’t he find the right words? Mom had said to keep it simple.
Dad took the plates from his hand, lowered them into the sink, and turned. “Do you know what comforts me more than anything as I consider what lies ahead, Colin?” The skin of his hands pulled taut over rigid blue veins. “I am comforted knowing that no matter how I change, no matter what I forget or say or do or don’t do, your mother is going to keep loving me. When I’m at my worst, her care and compassion will be at its best.”
His voice was lucid and clear, firm and somehow soft. It was a tone he hadn’t heard in so long. Another blessing.
“She’s going to love me no matter what. Just like she always has. Do you understand what I’m saying, son?”
Yes, he understood. He understood. The layers in his father’s assurance were a balm for every thirsty depth of Colin’s soul. Tears pooled once more, relentless and more needed than he could’ve possibly imagined.
Another dad might embrace his son. Another dad might spell out the undercurrent coursing through his words.
But this was his dad. And this . . . it was enough. “I love you, Dad.”
“Good.” He turned on the faucet. “Now tell me about this girl I’ve been hearing about.”
His laugh was nearly a garbled sob. “Man, Maren has a big mouth.”
“Actually, Winnie’s my source, believe it or not. I’d decided my lecturing days were behind me, but if she’s as great as Winnie seems to think, I might have to whip out a new one. You’re just going to let her go?”
Colin squirted dish soap over the dishes. “Dad—”
“Take a cue from your brother, son. I wouldn’t mind seeing another good thing come from this disease. You finding happiness with a good woman? I’d call that a good thing.”
Bubbles rose up from the sink. “There are complications. Not the least of which is that up until just days ago she couldn’t stand me.” Probably couldn’t stand him more than ever now.
Dad sighed.
“What?”
“Just trying to decide whether to go into full guilt-trip mode. This might be my last Christmas, so if you want me to have a chance to meet her—”
“Dad! So not ready to joke about this.”
His father threw up his hands. “Then stop dragging your feet and—”
“Hey, Colin?” Drew whisked into the room, stopped when he saw them at the sink. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Colin wiped his hands on a towel. “No, actually you’ve got pretty great timing. You’re saving me from an inquisition.”
Dad chuckled behind him.
Drew ran his hand through his hair. “Just wondered if I could talk to you real quick before church. You and Leigh.”
Colin glanced at Dad. “Don’t look at me. I don’t know what it’s about.”
Drew grinned. “Don’t look so worried. This is one sibling meeting I think you’re going to like.”
Dusk had long since hooded the horizon by the time Rylan pulled up to the house. Christmas lights traced the line of the roof and every window watching her approach. She noted the other cars in the driveway. Which meant they were all here, not at church. Not yet, anyway.
Her boots clipped over the shoveled path leading to the front door. She carried her container of homemade Pop-Tarts in one hand. With the other, she pressed the doorbell.
Seconds later, the door opened.
“You came.” An overjoyed gasp. Mom’s.
And it was followed by her sister’s squeals.
And footsteps.
And arms all reaching for her at once.
Chapter 11
If Rylan Jefferson was lucky, tonight’s class—the last of the institute’s three-day extra credit holiday course—would fly by.
And if she was very lucky, her attention wouldn’t stray to the workstation on the right, second from the front just like it had the past two nights—expecting, hoping to see a man with a twinkle in his eyes and a dimpled smirk that said he was trying not to laugh.
A mess all around him.
Rylan took a breath and pushed into the classroom. “Good evening, student bakers.”
She strode to the front of the room, barely taking in the faces on either side of the center aisle—the most dedicated of her first-semester students. Sure wouldn’t have been her choice for how to spend her New Year’s Eve. But at least they’d be done in time for holiday parties and family plans.
Speaking of which, Rylan had her pick of gatherings tonight. Dakota and her husband had invited her along to a party over in Fort Collins. Mom and Dad were hosting a gathering at their hou
se down in Colorado Springs tonight.
Funny how much had changed since the night she went home. Since she decided to stop hiding away from her family. Finally let them in.
Rylan set her tote bag on the stainless steel table at the front of the classroom. She already wore her apron. Had already memorized tonight’s recipe—Bundt cake, perfect for New Year’s since the ring shape could symbolize coming full circle, an ending sliding into a new beginning.
But she’d decided to let the class play with their decorations. For once, she wouldn’t provide instruction on how to ornament the cakes.
Oh, how Colin might keel over from shock if he were here.
It should be easy—letting go of Colin Renwycke. After all, she had plenty to distract her. There was teaching, of course, and then there was figuring out what to do next since she’d turned down the interview with Chef Potts. It was probably the most impulsive thing she’d ever done.
But she couldn’t bring herself to regret it. It’d been somehow liberating.
A student cleared his throat. Right. Her class. She turned. Just focus on today, focus on teaching. Don’t think about—
“Colin!”
His name stumbled out as her willful gaze found his face. Right side of the aisle. Second from the front. Twinkle. Dimples.
No mess.
“I . . . you . . . you’re not supposed to . . .” Her words were flour and her voice a rusty sifter. Too many pairs of eyes watched as she just stood there, frozen as an icicle.
She’d checked the online class roster. She’d checked it a dozen times, never once seeing his name. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be in Iowa with his siblings or Arizona with his parents or . . . or somewhere doing something other than loitering in her classroom, watching her with those uncanny blue eyes.
“In the hallway,” she finally managed.
“Whatever you say, Teach.”
She didn’t know which was faster—her feet carrying her from the room or her heartbeat trying to pound its way out of her chest. She heard Colin moving behind her, the thrum of whispers.
She pushed into the hallway, moonlight beaming from the wall of windows opposite her classroom door. Snow fell in tiny tufts of white, draping like cotton sheets over the evergreens standing watch on the institute lawn.
“Almost as pretty as Iowa.”
She whirled around at the sound of Colin’s voice. “You haven’t been here the past two nights. You’re not on my class list.”
“Because I’m not in the class.”
“Then why are you—?”
“Because I know exactly how many days it’s been since you last told me you can’t stand me and glutton for punishment that I am, I kinda miss it.”
He shouldn’t stand so close or look at her so . . . expectantly. Patiently. Buoyantly. As if this moment was a late Christmas gift he’d been waiting a week to unwrap.
She reached her hands behind her to fiddle with the ties of her apron. Too heavy. Too warm.
Too tight a knot.
Colin had the grace not to grin. Instead, he moved behind her. “Do you know why I applied to culinary school, Maryland?”
Her hands dropped to her sides as he took over with the apron. “I should never have told you my full name.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “I applied to culinary school because I thought I’d finally found my thing. Everyone else always had a thing.” She felt him work the knot at her waist. “Drew with the woodworking. Dad and Grandpa with the farm. Leigh is an amazing pianist, did you know that? That antique piano in the dining room at Drew’s—she used to practice on it every day before she quit.”
The question of why Leigh quit flitted through Rylan’s brain. Another story for another day, she supposed. But, oh please, let Colin’s presence here mean there might actually be another day.
Hope, impossible to restrain, rose up from her stubborn heart.
The apron ties released, but Colin didn’t move from behind her. “I was wrong, though. Baking makes me happy, sure, and I might even be a little good at it.”
“More than a little,” she whispered.
“But I don’t have the career drive that other people do. That you do. Whatever professional ambition I thought I had, it was all just tied up in this need to earn my family’s respect. But it turns out the thing I needed even more, I already had—their love.”
Her soul latched onto the peace in his voice, in his words. She should tell him she’d reconnected with her family over Christmas, too. She should tell him how all it had taken was one step, one decision—no more holding back. She should tell him how freeing it’d felt to finally cry to her parents about Brent, talk openly with her sisters. To not just spill her own heart and hurts, but to listen to theirs, as well.
She should tell him everything. But her words were buried under mounting emotion.
Colin finally circled around to her front, gently lifted her apron over her head. “I’ve been helping Drew some with his start-up. Turns out Winnie doesn’t just love reading, but she’s super into comic books. I’m taking her to a Comic Con in March. I’m realizing I think I actually get more joy from helping the people I love do their thing than I ever have with any of my own botched attempts at some kind of professional ambition.” He dropped her apron to the floor and nudged it out of the way with his foot. “Which brings me to this.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded slip of paper. A check? He held it out to her.
“Paying me back for all the kitchen equipment you ruined?” How the joke made its way past her hammering heart, she had no idea.
“Take the check, Rylan.”
She unfolded it and gasped when she saw the amount. “Kitchen-Aid mixers are expensive, but—”
He quieted her with a kiss on her cheek. “It’s for your bakery, silly woman.”
Oh Lord, he smelled like cinnamon and pine, just like always. “I don’t understand.”
He kissed her other cheek. “Drew sold his farmland earlier this year. Originally he put the money into starting his business, but apparently he always planned to give Leigh and me a cut. That’s my cut.” His hands slid down her arms to settle on her waist. “He gave it to me on Christmas Eve. And I’m giving it to you.”
She couldn’t seem to make herself breathe. “You can’t give me this. You can’t. It’s too much.”
With a smile nowhere near a smirk—simply, solely, purely hopeful—he pulled her closer. “I know I’m getting ahead of myself, but there’s an empty storefront in Maple Valley. It’d be perfect for a bakery. Right across from the river. Turquoise shutters.”
She knew that building. She’d seen that building.
“Its windows overlook the Archway Bridge.”
“I like that bridge.” Really liked it. Might be completely and entirely crazy about it.
“I know it’s not the heart of Denver. You wouldn’t get the acclaim you could if you opened a place here. I know it’s totally out of the blue and would mean a major move at some point and—”
“Why?” She tipped her head to meet his gaze, trembling with so much elation she could hardly get the word out a second time. “Why?”
His arms wrapped around her and he leaned in to her ear, his voice barely a whisper. “Didn’t you hear the part about helping the people I love do their thing?”
There was no stopping the tears pooling in her eyes, tracing down her cheeks. The dam broke. “Colin, I have to go teach. I have to go stand up there in front of everyone and be composed and coherent and . . . and there’s no way. You couldn’t have waited until after? You had to disrupt the class just like always?” She sniffled as his arms tightened around her. “I really can’t stand you, Colin Renwycke.”
She felt his smile.
“I know, Maryland. I love you, too.”
And when he kissed her, the depth of his desire unfurling into every corner of her soul, warm and full of promise, Rylan Jefferson knew she was very, very lucky indeed.<
br />
Try blessed beyond measure. Enraptured. Enchanted. In love.
And the swirl of snow outside the window, the lights, the stars, the winter moon, none of it was any match for the joy finally at home in her heart.
THE END
Well . . . for now. :)
After all, there’s still Leigh’s story to tell.
Acknowledgments
Man, it is all kinds of fun to get to hang out with fictional people. But it’s even better thinking about all the real life people who make this storytelling thing possible. People like . . .
Mom and Dad, who so often invite me home to write (and to get spoiled with coffee and snacks and especially their encouraging presence) and, in Mom’s case, who gave this story its earliest read!
My cool author friend Hillary Manton Lodge who gave me the sound advice to binge-watch The Great British Baking Show as research when I first told her about this story idea. I’m now officially obsessed.
My wonderful critique partner, Lindsay Harrel, who gave this story an advance read. My awesome coworker and proofreader, Terri Simmons, who helped polish this thing. Speaking of which, all my coworkers at Hope Ministries, who are so kind to so frequently let me ramble about my “other life.”
My amazing author friends, Susan May Warren, Rachel Hauck, Beth Vogt, and Lisa Jordan, all of whom helped me nail down the back cover copy for this story. Why is writing just a few paragraphs about a story sometimes harder than writing the story itself?!
And so, so, sooooo many of you readers and reviewers who bless me more than you’ll ever know. Truly.
I’m thankful to each and every one of you . . . and to God, for giving me the joy of storytelling in the first place.
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