Lighting Candles in the Snow
Page 1
Contents
Chapter One
Asparagus Risotto
Chapter Two
Cottage Cheese and Celery for One
Chapter Three
Karoline’s Brownies with Fudge Topping
Chapter Four
Suzie’s Chocolate Fudge Cake for a Crowd
Chapter Five
Aggression Cookies
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Homemade Chocolate-covered Cherries
Chapter Eight
Brown Rice Casserole
Chapter Nine
Spicy Chicken Wings
Chapter Ten
Mrs. Rahimian’s Curry Comfort Potatoes
Chapter Eleven
The Best Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Lower Calorie, less decadent, Pear and Bleu Cheese Soup
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chocolate No-Bake Cookies
Chapter Seventeen
Salt Water Taffy
Chapter Eighteen
Mountain Woman Trail Mix
Chapter Nineteen: Mrs. London’s Story
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one: Mrs. London’s Story
Chapter Twenty-two
Hot Spinach Pasta
Chapter Twenty-three: Mrs. London’s Story
Chapter Twenty-four
Jeremy’s Pancakes
Chapter Twenty-five: Mrs. London’s Story
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Mrs. London’s (Nonny’s) Pulled Pork Barbecue
About the Author
Acknowledgements
WiDo Publishing
Salt Lake City, Utah
widopublishing.com
Copyright © 2012 by Karen Jones Gowen
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written consent of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design by Tracy Jo Blowers, Urban Wild Media
Cover Graphic Design by Lisa Marek Olson, Fat Cat Art Studio
ISBN: 978-1-937178-22-2
Also by Karen Jones Gowen
Farm Girl
Uncut Diamonds
House of Diamonds
To my loving husband, Bruce,
whose support and devotion mean the world to me.
And thank you for being so much more like Shawn McGill than like Jeremy London.
Chapter One
Unlike most weekdays, today I couldn’t wait to get home. Jeremy had texted me earlier that he’d be running late. It was okay. No big deal. I had plenty to do beforehand.
Leaving the office before five? My successful getaway involved ignoring the ringing phone and making a beeline for the door, attracting raised eyebrows from co-workers, the random high five and a nod of approval from Mr. Everett, my boss, as we passed in the hall.
“Nice to see you excited about going home, Karoline,” he said, smiling in that wise, grandfatherly way he had.
No wonder he had such success in his career. The man exemplified sincerity and confidence, exactly what’s needed when dealing with other people’s money.
I stuttered a few explanations about how I would take care of this or that file in the morning as soon as I got in, top priority, but Mr. Everett stopped me with a shake of his head.
“Don’t apologize for anything. It’s a special day for you and Jeremy. Enjoy your evening and forget about work for a change.”
I thanked him and hurried out to my car before I lost my nerve and turned back to the office for just one more look at—No! I wouldn’t give another thought to the unfinished business on my desk and those dozens of calls going straight to voice mail. I’d take care of it tomorrow.
To avoid the freeway with its five o’clock rush hour logjams I took the side streets, where I fumed at every red light and each slow car that made me hit those red lights. What normally took me twenty minutes at seven in the evening stretched into forty-five. Waiting at yet another stopped intersection, I regretted leaving work early. I could have stayed another hour, hour and a half, and still made it home at the exact same time with this ridiculous rush hour traffic.
At last I reached our neighborhood, the Trolley Square area located just east of downtown Salt Lake. Before turning down my street, I stopped at the market to purchase the key dinner ingredients.
Entering the store, I took a few deep breaths as I grabbed a cart. Okay, time to think about food.
I selected two thick t-bone steaks from the meat department before cruising through produce to find fresh asparagus and those mushrooms I wanted. I liked the large ones loose in a bin that can be sliced, sautéed in butter and spooned generously atop the grilled steaks, where they are then slid casually around the meat to serve also as a side dish. In my mind’s eye I saw exactly how I wanted our celebratory steak dinner to look on the plates.
The asparagus was for a fabulously creamy risotto recipe I was dying to try with Arborio rice and white wine, both of which I had on hand in our pantry. From the market bakery, I chose a loaf of their specialty French bread baked fresh each morning—a basic white flour bread that tastes amazing just plain with butter.
No dessert, because last week when we discussed it, Jeremy had promised to handle that. I had hinted at strawberry cheesecake, but he didn’t say, except that he was planning a surprise.
Today was our sixth anniversary and unlike years four and five, following the Incident, this year had been a good one. We had come to terms with our apparent childlessness and thrown ourselves into work. If destiny denied us the opportunity of parenthood, we could at least find fulfillment through flourishing careers.
Thanks to our crazy schedules we didn’t spend much quality time together. Still, Jeremy and I had fallen into what I saw as the pleasant routine of a moderately content, if not happy, young couple.
Once he finished his revisions, and after I trained the replacement for my old position and learned everything about my new one, we’d take a long vacation. A trip for our anniversary would have been nice, but neither of us could possibly have managed to get away right now. Maybe later this summer, perhaps August—or in the fall. Winter might be good. When it’s cold and snowy we’d escape to somewhere warm and lie on the beach, the two of us relaxing under a tropical sun, leaving our problems behind. We could plan it this evening during dinner, something to talk about as we lingered at the table.
A lovely dinner at home was the ideal way to celebrate our anniversary, more intimate than going out. Jeremy and I sitting down at home together for a prepared meal of fresh ingredients was a rare treat. It would signify a fresh start for our relationship. Tonight, I wanted everything to be perfect.
When I arrived home, I laid the steaks in a pan with soy sauce, sprinkled them with salt, pepper, and minced garlic and refrigerated to marinate. I tidied up the kitchen and set the table with cloth napkins, our wedding china, and candles. After I changed my clothes, I’d wash the mushrooms and slice them in advance. As soon as Jeremy called to tell me he was on his way, I’d sauté them and start the risotto. But first I opened a blueberry yogurt to tide me over, sitting down at the table to admire the layout.
I finished the yogu
rt and tossed the container in the trash, wiped down the counter one last time and went to the bedroom. I hung up my skirt and jacket and changed into jeans and a sexy blouse. I rubbed lotion on my feet and slipped into my favorite strappy gold sandals, dressy yet comfortable.
Jeremy still hadn’t called or texted to say when he’d be here. I had talked to him on my way home—while waiting at one of those endless red lights—when he assured me it wouldn’t be long. Giving him time to finish up his edits and then stop at the store for his surprise dessert, I figured he should get home by seven or eight at the latest.
Between the hours of seven and eight, I called and texted him countless times with no response. At eight-thirty, the yogurt had long worn off and I considered breaking into the French bread. Jeremy had no sense of time, although when he finally picked up at 8:45 I suspected that wasn’t the issue.
He sounded vague and distant. “Oh yeah, babe, I’m nearly done. See you soon.”
He was in a rush to get off the phone. Something wasn’t right. I could hear it in his tone, in the way he brushed me off, shut me out, and reassured me in one breathless sentence. “Things are going good, Karoline. I was on such a roll, lost track of time, but I can’t talk now, my phone’s cutting out. See you later. Don’t wait up.”
Don’t wait up?
I rang again, repeatedly, his recorded voice a mocking whisper in my ear: Hey. It’s Jeremy. Leave a message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.
Well, screw that. I eyed the steak, marinated and ready to go. As the asparagus steamed, I broiled the meat. No longer in the mood to try something new, I decided to skip the risotto. I sliced the bread and buttered two pieces, eating them while watching the steaks. I wanted mine medium. Jeremy liked it rare. I left his in an extra ten minutes to get it thoroughly well-done.
I remembered hearing a marriage expert say once on TV that the first sign of a marriage in trouble is when the wife no longer cooks for her man, that the woman preparing food for those she loves is a prehistoric symbol of love and nurturing. When that ends, the marriage is all but over.
Maybe the expert was right. The first time I’d cooked for Jeremy in ages and I was deliberately ruining his ten-dollar cut of meat. I tossed it on his plate to dry out further while I consumed mine in burning silence.
I was a fool not to have seen this coming. Or maybe I had, while burying myself in work to avoid problems at home. We both worked long hours on opposite schedules, rarely seeing each other, our conversations happening through text or brief phone calls.
In the past, Jeremy had been troubled with complicated issues—addictions. After the Incident, when he promised to change and had attended those counseling sessions, his behavior improved. I figured he was cured.
I reflected back on those many late nights he spent at the library or the coffee shop, or at the bar winding down after a long session with his manuscript. Where was he, really? How long had the lies been going on?
As I gnawed on my t-bone steak, I made the decision. The same one I reached after the Incident, when I had lacked the will to follow through, when I had listened to his apologies and accepted his assurances. This time I would do it.
I set down my knife and fork and pushed away my plate. Leaving out his overcooked steak as a sign of our ruined relationship, I abandoned the kitchen. I needed something to do, to take my mind off the rage building inside.
I paced, wanting to go for a run. I could be gone when Jeremy got in. He’d wonder where I went; he’d be here alone, abandoned. Let him see how it felt for a change. I’d saunter in late, casually, like my being gone when we had a date for our anniversary was of no significance. “Oh, I went for a run,” is what I’d say. Maybe I’d stop by Trolley Square, wander the shops, killing time, staying out a good long time to make him sit and stew.
But if he didn’t get home before I did, my plotting would be for nothing. What if I was out for two or three hours with him still not here when I got back? That would put me in a really bad mood. I decided to stay right here and put myself in position for when he arrived. To confront him instead of avoiding him. I had avoided for long enough. Tonight would be me facing up to things.
I scanned the bookshelves in our living room and pulled out Misery by Stephen King, a favorite of mine that seemed highly appropriate. Jeremy was a writer and I, who had at one time been his biggest fan, wanted to murder him. No, wait. First would come the torture, the chopping of appendages and at last the killing by slow, painful death.
As the evening hours faded into late night, I distracted myself with Stephen King’s tale of the best-selling novelist who crashes his car on a remote mountain road, who would have died had he not been rescued by Annie Wilkes. Until he realizes that his biggest fan is not an angel of mercy after all, but a deadly psychopath.
At midnight I carried my book to bed. Doubt set in. Perhaps my accusations were misplaced. Maybe there had been an accident and I should call hospitals instead of fuming and condemning and suspecting betrayal. Might I be overreacting?
A person can go for years believing. And then one day an event acts as a trigger and brings enlightenment, when insignificant clues add up to create the full picture. I had been blind, whether by choice or accident it didn’t matter. Because now I knew.
Other nights alone at home I had wondered, suspected, but always stopped myself from thinking too hard about it, finding it easier to believe that our marriage remained solid, that Jeremy still loved me the same as ever. He was merely a workaholic like me, who found it impossible to break free when the work flowed. This I could understand and so our marriage worked despite the differing schedules. Such were the lies I had told myself deep into the night when doubts crept in.
The first trigger was when I caught him. . . . Never mind. Best not to reflect on the day that altered our relationship forever. After the Incident came the Promise—which I shouldn’t have trusted. When a man has the kinds of problems that plagued Jeremy, oaths of fidelity and vows to change only prolong the inevitable.
Tonight was the second trigger. At last I faced the inevitable. I would not allow a third.
Asparagus Risotto
(May you have better luck with this than I did. Maybe some day I’ll try it.)
1 pound asparagus
3 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon butter
½ cup chopped shallots
1 cup Arborio rice
½ cup dry white wine
3 cups chicken broth
½ cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese
Salt and pepper to taste
Prepare the asparagus by breaking off and discarding the tough ends (about the last inch of the spear). Cut into 1- to 1½-inch pieces (tips longer, base shorter). If your asparagus are especially large, cut into even smaller (bite-size) pieces. Bring a saucepan with a quart of water to a boil. Blanch the asparagus pieces for two minutes. At the end of two minutes, use a slotted spoon to remove the asparagus pieces to an ice water bath to shock the asparagus into a vibrant green color and to stop the cooking. Drain from the ice water bath and set aside.
In a 3 or 4 quart saucepan, heat 3 Tbsp butter on medium heat. Add the shallots and cook for a few minutes until translucent. Add the rice and cook for 2 minutes more, stirring until nicely coated.
While the shallots are cooking, bring the chicken broth to a simmer in a saucepan.
Add the wine. Slowly stir, allowing the rice to absorb the wine. Once the wine is almost completely absorbed, add ½ cup of chicken broth to the rice. Continue to stir until the liquid is almost completely absorbed, adding more broth in ½ cup increments. Stir often to prevent the rice from sticking to the bottom of the pan. Continue cooking and stirring rice, adding a little bit of broth at a time, cooking and stirring until it is absorbed, until the rice is tender, but still firm to the bite, about 15–20 minutes. (If you need more broth, use water, or the cooking water from the asparagus.) Remove from heat.
Gently stir in the Parmesan cheese, the remaining 1 teaspoon butt
er, and the asparagus. Add salt and pepper to taste. Serve immediately.
Serves 4.
Chapter Two
They were the blackest of hours. Wavering between fury, sorrow, confusion and depression, I chose anger.
At ten minutes past two, I heard the sound of a key in the lock. The front door opened then clicked shut, followed by the familiar thump as Jeremy dropped his backpack by the hall closet. There was the scuffling sound of his shoes.
Heading to the kitchen first, I supposed. He’d want to assess things before coming to the bedroom. Certainly the dried-out bread, the gummy mushrooms and the over-cooked steak would send a clear message.
Finally he entered the bedroom, acting surprised to see me sitting up in bed with the reading lamp on. “Oh, hi, Karoline. You still up?”
He paused at the door and again as he entered the room, haltingly, as though unsure of himself. Jeremy never lacked confidence or lost control. I could tell by his rare hesitancy that he was shaken to find me waiting. Typically when he came home during the wee hours, I was asleep. I liked to get up early, not stay up late. Perhaps it was our opposite sleeping patterns that had first created the wedge between us.
He sat on the corner chair to untie his running shoes. Not that he had been running. Jeremy never worked out. He was slim but sedentary, sometimes going for days with nothing but black coffee.
“What did you expect?” I replied in what I hoped would come across as a chilling, offhand tone. Instead, my voice came out shaky like a little girl about to cry.
Sudden revelations like the kind I had tonight are emotionally exhausting. In the course of a few hours I had gone from excited and hopeful to concerned, to disappointed then devastated, to anger and on to complete understanding of what my husband was and what I must do about it.
Jeremy took off a shoe and examined it. “Hey, I am sorry about tonight. It was the craziest thing. I was at the library until it closed at nine, you know, completely caught up in my edits. It was a great session, I was on a roll. There was no way I could stop at that point. I decided to go on to the coffee shop to finish up. Guess I lost track of time.”