by Shirley Jump
Stockton had everything he’d always wanted. And yet, an emptiness gnawed at him sometimes, long after the dishes were done and the food put away, he wondered if there was…
More.
Insane thoughts. He had the more, and then some. He just needed to remember to count those blessings instead of looking for others.
The back door opened, and a whoosh of cold air burst into the kitchen. “Goodness, when is winter going to end?” Samantha MacGregor stomped the snow off her boots, then whisked a few flakes from her blond hair. Even bundled in a winter coat, Samantha was still beautiful. Her cheeks held a soft pink flush, and a smile seemed permanently etched on her face. Clearly, marriage agreed with her. Ever since reporter Flynn MacGregor had come to town a little over a year ago, Samantha had laughed and smiled almost daily. She’d had a hard time of it the past few years between her grandmother’s illness and the full-time job of running the Joyful Creations Bakery. Stockton was glad to see his longtime friend find happiness.
“Considering it’s not even January yet, I’d say we have some time before spring returns,” Stockton said. “You have my cookies?”
She grinned as she undid a few of her coat’s buttons with one hand. The heat of the kitchen sometimes hit like a wave, nice in the winter, not so much in the summer, even with the A/C running. “Of course. Though I had to get up early to run this batch. Between the publicity from that article Flynn did on the shop, and your constant orders, I’m about ready to start a third shift.”
He chuckled. “Glad to hear business is good.”
“I could say the same to you.” She laid the boxes of fresh cookies on the counter. “So…how are you?”
“Fine.” He grinned. “I know you’re asking for a reason.”
“Am I that transparent?” Samantha laughed. “It’s just…well, I worry about you.”
“I’m fine,” he reiterated.
Samantha made a face. “That’s not what Rachel said when she called me from her mother’s house today. She said you were working yourself into the ground. She also said, and I quote, ‘I see my manicurist more often than I see that workaholic.’”
He sighed. He took a taste of the marinara sauce simmering on the stove, then reached for the salt and pepper, and added a dash of each to the stockpot. A stir with the ladle, then another taste with a fresh teaspoon. Perfect. Too bad life couldn’t be fixed as easily as a sauce. “Rachel and I disagree about my work schedule.”
“You know,” Samantha said, running a hand over one of the counters and avoiding Stockton’s gaze, “one would say that a man who doesn’t make a lot of effort isn’t very interested in a woman.”
Stockton cursed under his breath. That was the problem with having personal conversations with people who had known him nearly all his life—they were far too observant and far too vocal with their opinions. “Rachel and I were never really serious. In fact, I wouldn’t even say we were much more than friends.”
Samantha sighed. “Too bad, Stockton. Because I think you’d make someone a fabulous husband if you just reshuffled your priorities a little.”
“I’m fine,” he said for the third time, avoiding Samantha’s inquisitive gaze by doing the whole tasting-stirring routine again.
Samantha turned to some bundled foil dishes on the countertop. “Are these ready to go?”
“Yep. There’s a lasagna, a salad and a whole lot of bread. Thanks for making the delivery for me today. I wasn’t sure when I’d find time, what with Larry calling in sick again today. I hate to disappoint Father Michael.”
Samantha laid a hand atop the three tiers of leftovers. “The shelter really appreciates these donations, Stockton. Great food, cooked by a great chef, makes everyone feel better.”
He shrugged. “Just doing my part, Sam.”
“You do your part and then some.” She began buttoning her bright red coat, her gaze on the fasteners, not on Stockton. That, he knew, meant she was about to say something he didn’t want to hear. He’d been friends with Samantha most of his life and could read her as easily as the front page. “You know, I saw Jenna Pearson last night.”
Good thing Stockton had stepped away from the stove, or something would have ended up burned. Instead, he stood in the center of his kitchen, a gaping idiot completely unprepared for those words. And pretending they didn’t affect him at all.
It had been eight years since he’d seen her. Eight years since he’d walked out of her life. Afterward, he’d spent two years wandering Italy, learning Italian methods of cooking, but more, finding out who he was and what he wanted out of life.
This, he told himself, glancing around the expansive, gleaming kitchen, this was what he wanted. What he should focus his energy on—not a past that had returned to town. “Jenna Pearson back in town. Why?”
“She’s here to plan Eunice’s birthday party. The family hired her.”
Had Jenna come all the way from New York for that one job? Or for something else? He told himself he didn’t care. That he wasn’t going to see her either way. Their relationship had crashed and burned a long time ago, a disaster ending worse than anything he’d ever done in the kitchen. “Is she, uh, going to stay for a while? Or leaving right after the party?”
“She’s going back to New York right after the event.”
“Well, if you see her, tell her I said hello.” He didn’t really mean it, but it seemed the polite thing to say. And being polite was his best course of action when it came to his ex-girlfriend.
“You should tell her yourself,” Samantha said softly. “You know, you have that one-year anniversary coming up in a few days. Sure would help to have a party planner around to fine-tune things for you. Especially one you know as well as Jenna Pearson.”
“Don’t you have baking to do?”
Samantha grinned and tied the belt on her coat, then flipped up the collar. “Okay, I get the hint. I’ll go back to my work, and let you go back to avoiding the obvious.”
“And what’s the obvious?”
She opened the door, but didn’t step outside yet. “You’re wondering how long you can hold out before you go see Jenna.”
Jenna sat across from Betsy Williams, Eunice’s younger sister and owner of Betsy’s Bed and Breakfast, a veritable Riverbend institution. Jenna had known Betsy most of her life, and when she’d been little, had been just a little afraid of the stern older lady. Betsy was the kind of woman who kept her house in order, and expected everyone else to fall in line, too, whether they were just stopping by for trick-or-treating (ask right or there’d be nothing put in your pillow case but air) or riding bikes along the sidewalk (leave room for the pedestrians and cut out those crazy handlebar tricks).
With her customers, though, Betsy was another woman. Effusive and welcoming, she embodied the bed and breakfast she ran in her buxom frame, quirky shoes and hats, and endless supply of food. The entire Victorian house was decked out for Christmas, with little elves hanging from the crown molding, dozens of kitschy Santas in every nook, bright reindeer-decorated towels and even a reindeer-head umbrella holder. Jenna heard Betsy had started dating Earl Klein last year. Jenna wondered if finding love with the irascible garage mechanic had softened Betsy.
If it had, that softening was nowhere to be found today.
“You know I only called you because your aunt practically strong-armed me into it.” Betsy frowned.
Well. Betsy knew how to get right to the heart of the matter. Jenna swallowed. “I appreciate the opportunity—”
Betsy waved off Jenna’s words. “Mabel says you’re good at your job. I don’t know about that. I am not impressed so far.”
Jenna thought of the hours she had put into the party proposal. The time she’d spent trying to think of a unique menu, memorable centerpieces, quirky favors. She’d spent a half a day alone tracking down a vendor who could make a cake that would include a mechanical calliope in the center, one of the things Jenna had heard Eunice really enjoyed in her childhood. “I have lots
of ideas that I think—”
“I know what you think.” Betsy eyed Jenna. “You come in here, in your fancy New York clothes—”
At that, Jenna regretted choosing the Chanel suit and Jimmy Choo stilettos for the meeting. She’d thought the outfit would spell successful, competent. If anything, from that first step up the walkway in the designer shoes, she had probably alienated Betsy.
“—and think people like us need someone like you to show us what a good party is.”
“I never said—”
“You left this town, and I think you forgot what it’s like here. People around these parts don’t want something like this,” Betsy said, waving at the thick blue presentation folder emblazoned with the logo for Jenna’s company, Extravagant Events. “Folks here aren’t that fancy. I’ve been in the business of serving meals and making people happy for more than two decades, and one thing I learned long ago is that people come here because they like plain, simple food. That’s what Riverbend is all about. Plain and simple.”
Jenna shifted in her seat. Had she really thought this would be easy? That she could come in here, and Betsy would welcome her with open arms? “Miss Williams, roasted Cornish game hens are simple.”
“Maybe where you are, but not here.” She shook her head. “If folks can’t walk into the local SuperSaver and buy it, they sure as tooting aren’t going to know what to do with it if they see it on their plate. Why, they’ll say you’ve got pigeons on a plate.” She pushed the folder back toward Jenna, then crossed her arms over her chest. “You’ll have to serve something else.”
“If you don’t want the Cornish game hens, perhaps we could have a veal piccata or—”
“Do you know the only reason why the family decided to hire you?” Betsy didn’t wait for an answer. She leaned forward, her light blue eyes sharp and direct. “It wasn’t just because your aunt was blowing your horn. It was because you’re a local and locals know what Riverbend folks like.”
Jenna didn’t bother mentioning that she had left Riverbend years ago. That she’d never felt like a local, not in all the years she’d lived in town. Even after she had moved from the farm and into that yellow house with Aunt Mabel when she was seven, she’d always felt caught between two worlds—the one that had been taken from her in an instant and the new one she was expected to adjust to as easily as a duck slipping into a pond. A world filled with whispers and innuendos.
She kept mum about the truth—that she wouldn’t return to living here if it was the last town on earth. And that she’d only taken this job because she hoped for a glowing recommendation she could use to rebuild her business in New York. “I appreciate that, Miss Williams.”
The front door opened and Earl Klein stepped inside, ushering in a blast of winter’s cold with him. He shook the snow off his ball cap, wiped it from his jacket. “You wait right there, Earl Klein, and wipe your feet,” Betsy said. “I won’t have you tracking the outside in with those monstrous clodhoppers of yours.”
Earl scowled, but did as Betsy ordered, going so far as to take off his boots and set them by the umbrella rack. He hung up his coat, then crossed to Betsy’s side and pressed a loud, smacking kiss on her cheek.
She gasped and slapped him on the arm. “Earl!”
“And hello to you, too.” He grinned, then plopped onto the sofa beside her, his lanky frame dwarfing the rose patterned loveseat. He took off his grease-stained “Earl’s Garage” ball cap, went to set it on the coffee table, then saw Betsy’s horrified glare, and dropped it on his lap instead. He ran a hand through his gray hair, making what was already a mess into a disaster. “Why, if it isn’t Jenna Pearson,” he said with a friendly grin directed Jenna’s way. “Been a long time since you been back to this town.”
“It has,” Jenna said. At least someone was happy to see her.
“Well, we’re glad you’re here. Riverbend could use a blow-out bash,” Earl said. “And I reckon you’re the right one to do it.”
Betsy harrumphed.
“Now, Miss Williams, back to the menu,” Jenna said, opening the folder and pointing to the list of entrée options. “We could also try—”
“A hog roast,” Earl cut in. “Get a big fat porker from Chuck Miller’s farm. Slap that baby on a spit, stick an apple in its mouth and wham-bam, dinner is done.”
“A hog roast?” Jenna repeated. Surely she’d heard him wrong. They couldn’t possibly think a hog roast would be appropriate for an event like this. For one, how on earth would she get a spit and a several-hundred-pound pig into the hall? And moreover, why would she want to? “Mr. Klein, this will be a slightly formal affair and—”
“First off,” Earl said, leaning forward so far his knees bumped the coffee table, “don’t call me Mr. Klein. I’ve known you practically since you were running down the sidewalk in a diaper, Jenna Pearson, and you’ve always called me Earl. I don’t go for that fancy Mister thing. A man’s name should be one word, not two.”
The composure that had traveled with her from New York began to slip, not that she’d had such a firm hold on it lately. For years, Jenna had trained herself to be professional, calm, collected. To be a woman firmly in charge of her business and the situation. But in the past few months, that control had slipped out of her grasp, and now, with Betsy glaring at her and Earl throwing out crazy ideas, the last vestiges of control slipped away.
She bit her lip. Refused to cry. Refused to be anything but the can-do party planner she used to be. “Mr…uh, Earl, I really think we should consider something a little more…sit-down for Eunice’s birthday party.”
“Hell, you sit down to eat your roasted hog, don’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“And Eunice loves pork. Don’t she, Betsy?”
Betsy nodded. With enthusiasm. “She does indeed. We all do.”
Jenna had come to Riverbend with a nice, neat, typed and comb-bound idea of Eunice Dresden’s birthday party. When she’d talked to Betsy on the phone two weeks ago, she’d thought they’d been on the same page. Granted, Betsy had been cantankerous and unsure she wanted Jenna in charge of Eunice’s party, but Jenna had been sure once she presented the ideas, Betsy would come around. Somehow, she needed to get this derailed party back on track, without entrées that still had their heads and hooves attached. “I’m not sure a hog roast would work at the Riverbend Function Hall,” Jenna said. “It’s not quite the location for that kind of thing, and I’m not sure it fits the theme that we decided upon, the one that would celebrate the different decades of Eunice’s life. However, we could have something simpler. Italian food, for instance. A nice lasagna—”
“Stockton Grisham!” The name exploded from Betsy’s lips, echoed by a slap of her palm against her thigh.
“Stockton Grisham?” His name echoed in Jenna’s mind, sent a tingle down her spine—one that she ignored. She’d intended to get through her entire trip without ever mentioning him, and here she’d been in Riverbend less than twenty-four hours and he’d already been the subject of conversation twice.
For a man she’d worked hard to forget, he seemed to be in her every thought. Or at least determined to be there.
“Good idea,” Earl said, planting another noisy kiss on Betsy’s cheek. She slapped his arm, then blushed. He crooked a grin at her, one that cemented a dimple in his left chin. He scooted his wiry frame a few inches closer to Betsy. “That boy can cook.”
“Uh, I don’t think—”
“Then it’s settled,” Betsy said, in that no-argument way she had. “Stockton will make the food. Oh, Eunice is going to be so pleased. She loves Stockton’s cooking.”
Earl nodded. “Stockton’s the only one who can make food Eunice will eat, even when she forgets her teeth at home.”
Jenna spent another ten minutes arguing against the use of Stockton as a caterer, but Betsy and Earl were adamant. They were sure no one could cook for the locals like one of their own. “I guess Stockton is our chef,” she said finally, biting back a sigh
.
A smile spread across Betsy’s face, the kind of self-satisfied smile a cat might have once it had a mouse firmly under its paw. “Eunice is my sister, and she means everything to me. You will make sure she has the best birthday ever, or you’ll never plan another party in this town again.”
“It’ll be fine,” Jenna said. It would, wouldn’t it? After all, she’d planned hundreds of parties. She had the experience. It was the confidence that had deserted her in recent months. She could do this. She would do this. And in the process, show Betsy and the rest of Riverbend she was more than they’d ever expected her to be.
“Glad to hear it.” Betsy patted Jenna’s knee. “And I’m so glad Stockton will be a part of this. If anyone knows how to make a woman happy, it’s him.”
Jenna bit back her disagreement. She needed this job more than she needed to be right.
CHAPTER TWO
“WE’RE CLOSED,” STOCKTON called out when he heard the front door of Rustica open. “Come back at eleven, when we start serving lunch.”
“I’m not here to eat.”
Even from all the way in the back of the restaurant, Stockton recognized the voice. Heard the familiar husky notes. Even now, even after everything, his pulse quickened. Damn.
Stockton took his time laying the ladle in his hands onto the stainless steel counter and removing the apron tied around his waist, before he pushed through the double doors of the kitchen and out into the dining room. And saw her.
Jenna.
His gaze started at the bottom and worked its way up, gliding over the knee-high black leather boots hugging her calves, past the dark green sweater dress clinging to her curves, lingering on the smooth length of her black hair—she’d let it grow out, and now the silky tendrils danced over her shoulders, begging to be touched—and then, finally coming to rest on her heart-shaped face. Big green eyes, the color of jade, and dark red lips that he knew from experience tasted like honey.
