On A Cold Winter's Night

by Leanne Burroughs

  Her stomach lurched as the crowd drew closer to her table. Was that Bonny? What on earth would he be doing here? Wasn't he in Cincinnati?

  * * * *

  Joel's mind reeled as his eyes met hers. What was Annika doing here? He looked down automatically. Sure enough, there was food. Some kind of pudding or meringue, it looked like.

  Two of the other judges noted something amiss, and turned from Annika to Joel. “Is something wrong?” one of them asked. “Do you know each other?"

  Joel exhaled and looked away. He scratched his cheek.

  * * * *

  Annika's eyes blazed as she looked at him and he failed to return her gaze. “No,” she said, not quite looking at the judges who addressed her. “No, I don't believe we do."

  The judges looked toward Joel, and raised their eyebrows at him. Aware of the silent, watchful crowd, they nodded at Annika, indicated that she should wait for their return, and led Joel away by the elbow.

  Annika had no intention of hanging around. There was a conflict of interest here and her entry would be pulled from the competition. Plus, there was no way she could face Joel. Ignoring her audience, Annika slid her almost-prize pudding back into the warmer and box and left the building.

  The drive home took forever. Once there, she put the pudding into the refrigerator, disengaged the buzzer at the front door, turned the phone's ringer off, and crawled into bed fully clothed. She pulled the comforter loosely over her head and gave vent to her tears. At first they ran silently over her cheeks, but as her grief swelled, they became a flood. Obviously, she'd not known Joel as well as she thought. What qualifications did a writer have to judge a cookery competition? She'd been a fool to take his word without verifying it. Gone were the days when a man honored his word. “You play too safe, Annika.” Her mother's words rang in her ears. Apparently, she didn't play safe enough.

  When she finally dragged herself out of bed for a plate of dry crackers and a glass of water, she noticed a handful of messages on her answering machine. She erased them without listening and unplugged the device. Sleep didn't come easily that night.

  The following days were difficult. Christmas was less than a month away and she usually transformed The Smorgasbord with traditional Swedish ornaments. She couldn't do it. She went to work but avoided being in the public area and ordered Kjell and Lukas not to let Joel into the kitchen to see her. When the wait staff asked about the lack of Christmas decorations, she half-heartedly directed them to the storage area and gave them the freedom to do what they liked to make the restaurant more festive.

  She felt dead inside. Never had she felt so alive as when she'd been with Joel, and now couldn't seem to shake the lethargy and introversion that overtook her. While paper snowflakes clung to the restaurant's windows, bowls of clove-studded clementines and ribbon-wrapped cinnamon sticks formed table centerpieces, and a simple green wreath on the front door welcomed guests, she understood that The Smorgasbord's prime adornment, she herself, was missing. A Christmas tree bedecked with red, green, and gold felt stockings over the fireplace, and white pillar candles and spruce twigs on the mantel could not hide the fact that her light had gone out of the eatery.

  Annika's last two classes of the fall semester were uninspiring and she didn't care.

  * * * *

  In the meantime Joel tortured himself with if onlys. He'd known he'd have to confess the true nature of his occupation to her sometime —the “soup to nuts” thing had been inspired but misleading. He hadn't expected their relationship to take off so fast and the longer he'd been with her, the more awkward revealing his “secret” had become. Now things were a complete mess.

  * * * *

  When Mamma called to invite Annika to dinner, and to bring her fella, Annika had the dreaded task of telling Mamma that Joel was in the past. And Mamma had the distinction of being the one person to whom Annika divulged the whole story.

  "The avskum,” said Mamma. “And to think he accepted my hospitality.” She offered to come right over but in the end was dissuaded after Annika promised to visit on Sunday, and to bring her rice pudding.

  "I want to sample your dish, alskling. And we must go to church. It's the Feast of Saint Lucy, you know."

  "Saint Lucia?” Annika groaned. “Already? I can't, Mamma."

  "I won't hear of you missing the feast day,” said Mamma. “Not over a man. I know you're hurting, but what is that saying? Well living is the best justice?"

  "Living well is the best revenge."

  "Exactly. We can walk at the back of the procession, if you like."

  Annika sighed. Mamma wouldn't give up. Holidays must be celebrated, no matter what.

  "Good, then. It's settled. Rolf and I will pick you up at six."

  * * * *

  Mamma pointed to the girl who headed the parade. “Doesn't Margarita look lovely?"

  Annika had to admit she did. Robed in white, as all the girls and women were, the teen wore a crown of candles on her head as she led the group into the church. They broke into “Santa Lucia” as they entered the sanctuary. Annika's eyes welled with tears as she reflected on the young woman for whom the day was named. Lucy had been a young woman in Rome during the reign of Emperor Diocletian, a vicious persecutor of Christians. When Lucy consecrated her virginity to God and refused to marry a pagan, giving her dowry to the poor, her would-be husband was enraged and betrayed her to the authorities. Annika shivered and pulled her stole around her more closely as she thought of the torture the poor girl had endured. She trembled again and felt her mother's reassuring arm go around her shoulders.

  "It's okay, alskling."

  Annika nodded and directed her attention to the platform. The pastor, in red vestments reserved for this occasion, reminded the congregation of Saint Lucia's story and the reason for its continued remembrance. “. . . the patron saint of the blind, let us remember to use our eyes for the glory and honor of God. May we have perfect vision . . ."

  Annika looked down at her hands and saw the white sleeves of her gown. Perfect vision? One might say a vision of loveliness, like a bride. Oh, how love for Joel had blinded her. And now, without him, her world had dimmed. She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer of repentance for her foolishness.

  After all the carols had been sung and Brigitte and Rolf finished exchanging greetings with their friends, the threesome headed back to her mother's house. As they pulled into the driveway, Annika was surprised to note lights blazing in the kitchen.

  "You left your lights on, Mamma?"

  "Don't you think a house looks friendlier when it's lit up, alksling?” Mamma relieved Annika of her casserole dish and walked ahead of her up the path. When they were all safely inside, she set the rice pudding on the hall table and took off her coat.

  Annika sniffed the air. “The house smells wonderful,” she said, as she shrugged off her stole. “You made saffron buns?” She looked past her mother into the living room and drew in a sharp breath.

  What was Joel doing here?

  Annika reeled backward and clutched for the door handle, but her mother grabbed her arm and barred the way. “Talk to him, Annika. Please. Listen to him. Do you think I'd have had the quality of marriages I've had over the years if I hadn't been willing to talk?"

  Annika snorted. “But you know what he did to me. How he lied.” She looked at her mother. “And anyway, what about Juergen?” she asked, reminding her mother of her one failure.

  Mamma smiled sadly and desisted. “It's up to you. Your happiness is at stake."

  Annika crossed her arms and walked slowly into her mother's living room. The Christmas tree, beautifully decorated with ‘candles’ of all shapes and sizes, stood in its traditional place in the corner. Annika held herself erect, unswayed by its beauty, and looked at Joel defiantly. Mamma—tactful for once—made herself scarce.

  Joel stood up. Annika saw the dark circles under his eyes before he bowed his head.

  He indicated the kitchen. “Will you eat with me?” he
asked.

  "Eat with you? I don't even know you,” Annika spat. “Who are you?"

  Joel sighed deeply. “You have no idea how sorry I am. About everything.” He made a sweeping gesture toward the kitchen with his arm. “Please."

  Annika marched ahead of him without speaking.

  Someone had taken great care to set the table with fine china and crystal. The food was ready to serve. Joel pulled Annika's chair out for her and she sat rigidly.

  Joel let out a deep breath. “I need to talk first.” He sat nearby, but refrained from touching her. “Is that okay?"

  Annika raised her eyebrows. “I thought you went to Cincinnati,” she accused. “I suppose there's no Francesco.” She gave a one-shoulder shrug. “No book. No editor. No deadline. Why did you make it all up?"

  Joel put his head in his hands. “I know it looks bad. Terrible. But it's not quite as bad as you think. I tried to call you. I tried to see you."

  Annika turned her head away from him, so he wouldn't see the welling of tears in her eyes.

  "I'm sorry about the competition.” He reached out hesitantly to touch her shoulder and removed his hand when she flinched.

  "The competition? The competition is the last thing I cared about. I cared about you.” She laughed dully. “Silly me."

  Joel shaded his eyes and breathed loudly. When he spoke again, his voice was soft. “I'm sorry, too, that I didn't tell you that most of my writing is for gourmet magazines. I was glad when you didn't recognize my name, when you were interested in me for me, and not what I know about the industry. You figured out that I'm the Star Tribune's ‘undercover food critic,’ as well?"

  Annika looked over her shoulder at him in disbelief. She turned toward him, trembling with anger. “You're the undercover food critic?"

  "Guilty, as charged.” He ran a hand through his curls and shook his head woefully. “Your mother, Freda, Mrs. Nillson, Kjell, were all among those who called or e-mailed to suggest The Smorgasbord. It's a fabulous place, Annika. It's why I wanted to meet you and get to know you better."

  "And when did you plan to tell me all of this?” Annika asked, her voice shards of ice.

  "I don't know. It just got harder and harder the longer we went on. The whole thing with being ‘the undercover critic’ is to conceal one's identity. I had to sign a confidentiality agreement. It was a conflict of interest to date someone I'd reviewed."

  Annika shook her head in bewilderment. “That makes no sense. You reviewed me before we started going out."

  "I know I made a mess of things, Annika. I'm so sorry. The truth is, I was afraid.” She arched an eyebrow at him and he nodded. “After the mess with Frankie's mother, I didn't trust myself to love again. I didn't trust love.” He sighed. “I've gone a lot of years with a fence around my heart. Somehow you managed to crawl under the barbed wire, and it frightened me."

  "So there is a Frankie."

  "Yes, there's a Frankie. And I did go to see him. I just got in the night before the cook-off. I told Francesco all about you, and he's eager to meet you, assuming you'll take me back."

  Annika sighed and rubbed her eyes. “What about the book?"

  "On the subject of food, of course.” He reached for something on the table. “I printed off what I've sent my editor. You're welcome to look at it if you like."

  Annika reached out her hand and took the sheaf of papers he offered.

  "Here,” he pointed out, flipping over the title page. “This is the dedication I hope will be included."

  Annika looked at it and read softly, “To my dearest Annika. ‘If music be the food of love, play on.'” She let the book rest on her lap and brought her hands up to her mouth.

  "As far as the competition goes,” Joel continued. “Even if you didn't care about it I'm sorry if I cost you a blue ribbon, or the grand prize, or whatever. If I'd known you were going to enter, I'd have declined the invitation to judge. You have to believe that.” Anxiety and hope mingled in his blue eyes.

  "I didn't tell anyone I'd entered the contest. I hadn't competed in years and I wanted to surprise everyone when I won—if I won. I wish you'd been more upfront about your work.” She turned her attention to the covered dishes on the table and lifted the lids off them. “Did you have something to do with these?"

  "Yeah. For the last couple of weeks Kjell's been adding to the teaching you gave me. And when your mother called two days ago to give me a piece of her mind, we thought we had a venue we could legitimately get you to."

  "Wait a second. That night—when we had dinner here. You purposely called the fiskbullar ‘fishbuller,’ didn't you?"

  Joel hung his head. “Yeah. Listen, I'm a man. I'm not perfect. And I'm not proud of myself."

  "Good."

  "—Anyway,” he went on, “after your mother calmed down and I was able to talk to her, she agreed to let me use her kitchen tonight."

  "Why?"

  "I guess she saw that I was truly repentant and completely miserable without you. And don't forget, she knew how happy we were before I got cold feet and started acting like an idiot.” He reached for Annika's hands and she allowed him to hold them in his own.

  "Can you forgive me? I love you, Annika. I may have blown our relationship, but I really want to make it up to you, if you'll give me the chance."

  Annika lifted her hand and cupped the side of his face.

  "I want to spend the rest of my life loving you,” he whispered hoarsely.

  "What are you saying? You seem to have no trouble speaking your mind. Make yourself plain.” She smiled, as a mixture of emotions swirled through her. Hope, love, pain, joy.

  He got down and kneeled before her.

  "Annika Samuelsson, my dearest love, will you marry me and make me the happiest man on the planet?"

  Annika laughed as tears of pure happiness streamed down her face. She wiped them away on her white sleeve.

  "I'll marry you, Bonny,” she whispered. “Yes, I will. Remember I said all I wanted for Christmas was you? It's going to be a happy Christmas, after all!"

  * * * *

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Baked Rice Pudding

  * * * *

  1/2 c. uncooked regular rice 2 eggs, separated

  1 c. water 2 2/3 c. milk

  1/2 c. sugar 1 T. lemon juice

  1 T. cornstarch 1/2 c. raisins

  dash salt 1/4 c. sugar

  * * * *

  In a medium saucepan, stir together rice and water. Heat to boiling, stirring once or twice. Reduce heat; cover and simmer 15 minutes without removing cover or stirring. All water should be absorbed. Heat oven to 350 degrees F.

  In a mixing bowl, mix 1/2 sugar, cornstarch and salt. Beat egg yolks slightly. Add yolks and milk to sugar mixture, and beat with a rotary beater. Stir in cooked rice, lemon juice and raisins. Pour into ungreased 1 1/2 quart casserole dish. Place in pan of very hot water (one inch deep).

  Bake, stirring occasionally, or until pudding is creamy and most of the liquid is absorbed (about 1 1/2 hours). Remove from oven.

  Increase temperature to 400 degrees F. Beat egg whites until foamy. Beat in 1/4 c. sugar, one Tbsp. at a time; continue beating until stiff and glossy. Drop by spoonfuls onto pudding. Bake 8-10 minutes or until meringue is golden brown. Serve warm.

  * * * *

  Serves 6-8 people.

  * * * *

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Praise for

  Highland Press Books!

  Holiday Op—“Get ready for special operations men the way you've never seen them before. For holiday adventures you'll never forget, be sure to treat yourself to this wonderful collection by Avocato, Nina, Elizabeth,

  DeVane and DeAngelo."

  ~Christina Skye

  * * * *

  The Mosquito Tapes—Nobody tells a bio-terror story better than Chris Holmes. Just nobody. And like all of Chris Holmes’ books, this one begins well—when San Diego County Chief Medical Examiner Jack Youngblood discovers a stra
nge mosquito in the pocket of a murder victim. Taut, tingly, and downright scary, The Mosquito Tapes will keep you reading well into the night. But best be wary: Spray yourself with Deet and have a fly swatter nearby.

  ~ Ben F. Small, author of The Olive Horseshoe, Preditors & Editors To

  Ten Pick

  * * * *

  Cynthia Breeding's Prelude to Camelot is a lovely and fascinating read, a book worthy of being shelved with my Arthurania fiction and non-fiction.

  ~ Brenda Thatcher, Mystique Books

  * * * *

  Romance on Route 66 by Judith Leigh and Cheryl Norman —

  Norman and Leigh break the romance speed limit on America's

  historic roadway.

  ~ Anne Krist, Ecataromance Reviewers’ Choice Award Winner

  * * * *

  Ah, the memories that Operation: L.O.V.E. brings to mind. As an Air Force nurse who married an Air Force fighter pilot, I relived the days of glory through each and every story. While covering all the military branches, each story holds a special spark of its own that readers will love!

  ~ Lori Avocato, Best Selling Author

  * * * *

  In Fate of Camelot, Cynthia Breeding develops the Arthur-Lancelot-Gwenhwyfar relationship. In many Arthurian tales, Guinevere is a rather flat character. Cynthia Breeding gives her a depth of character as the reader sees her love for Lancelot and her devotion to the realm as its queen. The reader feels the pull she experiences between both men. In addition, the reader feels more of the deep friendship between Arthur and Lancelot seen in Malory's Arthurian tales. In this area, Cynthia Breeding is more faithful to the medieval Arthurian tradition than a glamorized Hollywood version. She does not gloss over the difficulties of Gwenhwyfar's role as queen and as woman, but rather develops them to give the reader a vision of a woman who lives her role as queen and lover with all that she is.

  ~ Merri, Merrimon Books