Falling into Forever (Wintersage Weddings Book 1)

by Phyllis Bourne

  “In terms of Thanksgiving in Wintersage, it’s already too late. The two best chefs in town aren’t taking any more orders, so finding someone to prepare a good meal won’t be easy.”

  A snort came from her father’s direction. “Too bad I didn’t manage to finagle an invitation from Fred King for Thanksgiving dinner.” He turned to Sandra. “Did I mention Ivy prepared a five-course meal while we were there? It was superb.”

  Sandra pressed her lips together. She loved her Dad, but today he was bouncing on her last nerve like a kid on a trampoline.

  Ever since she’d returned home from college and refused to come to work at Woolcott Industries, he’d constantly compared her to the Kings’ daughter. The digs had become even more frequent since Ivy had married an executive from her father’s company.

  Ivy was perfection in the daughter department, while Sandra had descended from Daddy’s girl to a big disappointment in her father’s eyes. Nothing she did pleased him. All they seemed to do was butt heads.

  “Ivy’s dinner tasted like it came out of a Michelin starred restaurant. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven with every mouthful,” Stuart continued. “And that pie!”

  Sandra bit the inside of her lip, hoping her mother would shut him down again.

  Instead, Nancy licked her lips. “Which one? The salted caramel chocolate pecan pie or maple bourbon sweet potato pie? Goodness, they both practically melted in your mouth, didn’t they?”

  “The entire meal did. And to think Ivy made everything from scratch, after putting in a full day helping run their family business.” Stuart leveled his gaze at Sandra.

  “I run a business, too, Dad,” Sandra countered, although she knew it wouldn’t matter. “I love what I do, and I’m very good at it.”

  He shook his head. “This isn’t about loving what you do, it’s about living up to your potential. When you were in school, I’d brag on you to Fred King every time you brought home your grades. He’d be so envious. Now he’s the one boasting about how his daughter’s efforts have resulted in record profits for their business. Not to mention she’s also a wife and mother.” He exhaled. “Guess who’s the jealous father now.”

  Sandra swallowed the lump rising in her throat. She could show him statements proving Swoon Couture had also raked in sizable profits. She could also reveal, depending on the outcome of next week’s election, that she was in the running to design the inaugural ball gown for the wife of Massachusetts’s next governor-elect.

  But she didn’t.

  Sandra already knew he wouldn’t be impressed or proud.

  Besides, she’d had enough of family for today. At this point, her best course of action was to get rid of them.

  Now.

  “Well, I know you two were eager to be going,” she said, mentally shoving them toward her front door. “I’ll take care of the dress alterations.”

  Her parents didn’t budge. They were apparently still too overwhelmed by Ivy’s cooking to take the hint.

  “She doesn’t even bother with recipes. Just uses a pinch of this and a little of that,” Nancy said.

  “That girl’s amazing,” Stuart exclaimed. “The Kings definitely don’t have to be concerned about their holiday dinner, because their daughter can do it all.”

  Sandra’s fingers dug into the garment bag still in her arms. She kept her lips pressed together in a firm line as her father smacked his lips loudly.

  “Just thinking about what Ivy could do with a turkey, stuffing and all the trimmings sets my mouth to watering,” he said.

  “Actually, she mentioned jerk turkey was on the menu for Thanksgiving,” Nancy added.

  Sandra stifled a grunt, along with an overwhelming wave of jealously, which was ridiculous. So what if the Kings’ daughter was a great cook, and Sandra wasn’t?

  It had nothing to do with her. She had nothing to prove.

  Then why did she feel that it had everything to do with her, and she had everything to prove?

  Stuart raised a questioning brow at his wife. “I could try to wrangle us an invitation to the Kings’ Thanksgiving table. It would be terribly pushy, but worth it.”

  Nancy shook her head. “We can’t do that. What about the rest of our family? I’ll get to work ordering our holiday dinner as soon as I get home. It won’t be Ivy’s jerk turkey, but...”

  Just when Sandra thought the sensible adult in her had reined in her jealousy, the green-eyed monster inside her broke rank.

  “I’ll cook,” she blurted out.

  “What did you say, sweetheart?” her mother asked.

  The words continued to bubble out of her mouth of their own accord. “We can have Thanksgiving at my house this year,” she said. “I’ll do the cooking.”

  Two pairs of surprised eyes swung toward her. Sandra was sure her own eyes reflected surprise, as well.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Her father howled with laughter.

  When the laughing subsided, he brushed at the tear rolling down his cheek and rested his arm on her shoulder. “Thanks, anyway, but none of us wants to spend the holiday doubled over in the bathroom, or even worse, getting a visit from the fire department.”

  He burst into another laughing fit, while a giggle her mother had apparently been holding back escaped.

  Sandra tried not to feel insulted. Admittedly, she did have a track record in the kitchen that indeed made her offer laughable.

  If she was completely honest with herself, she wasn’t a cook. She didn’t even own a pot or pan. Breakfast was usually coffee and a granola bar. Lunch consisted of a gourmet cupcake from the bakery and dinner was either a hastily eaten deli sandwich or salad in her boutique’s studio.

  “Don’t pay us any mind,” her mother said, with a wave of her hand. “It’s just, you and the kitchen...”

  “Are a match made in hell,” her father finished.

  Sandra looked on as her parents collapsed into yet another bout of laughter. Increasingly irksome laughter that would have made a less tolerant daughter boot them the heck out of her house.

  Instead, Sandra cleared her throat. She’d show her father she was no joke and that there was a lot in her for him to take pride in—starting with Thanksgiving dinner.

  “I’ve got our holiday meal covered,” she said firmly, “including a delicious jerking turkey.”

  “That’s jerk turkey,” her mother corrected.

  “Regardless, I’ll expect you two, along with our entire family, here on Thanksgiving Day, ready to eat.”

  Then she made a mental note to figure out what exactly she had to do to make a turkey jerk.

  Chapter 2

  “I know, Dad,” Isaiah Jacobs answered for the umpteenth time.

  His old man was spoiling for a fight, but he wouldn’t get it. Not today. No matter how hard he tried. Not with the news Isaiah had been blindsided by just two days ago still sinking in.

  Isaiah tightened his grip on the old Ford pickup’s steering wheel and navigated the winding state road leading back to Wintersage. He was barely a week into civilian life, but tension stiffened his posture as if he was awaiting a fleet admiral’s inspection.

  “I don’t need you hauling me around like a soccer mom, either,” Ben Jacobs groused. “I drove myself back and forth for six weeks of treatments. I can certainly do it this last week.”

  “I know, but I’m here now, and I want to drive you.” Isaiah’s conciliatory tone belied the fact that he hadn’t given his father a choice in the matter. He’d parked the old pickup, which he’d driven back in high school, crossways, blocking the door to his parents’ four-car garage.

  “It’s bad enough your mother’s got me on this god-awful macrobiotic diet. She also banned me from my own office. Threw the fact it’s technically her family’s business in my face and dismissed me like s
ome grunt. After all these years.”

  Isaiah glanced at the passenger’s seat. His father’s arms were crossed over his chest and weight loss had made the mulish set to his jaw more pronounced.

  “Mom’s trying to look out for you,” Isaiah said. “And as far as work goes she just insisted you take sick leave. Like she would have done with any Martine’s employee in your situation.”

  “I’m not any employee.” The elder Jacobs’s thunderous baritone rattled the windows of Isaiah’s old truck. “I’m president of that damn company.”

  A president who had been outranked by Martine’s Fine Furnishings’ worried chairwoman, Cecily Martine Jacobs, who’d resorted to a power play to force her husband to make his health a number-one priority.

  “Mom’s doing what she thinks is best to—” Isaiah began.

  “Don’t need mothering or smothering,” his father interrupted. “I’m not some kid. I’m a grown man.”

  So am I. The words sat unspoken on the tip of Isaiah’s tongue.

  The logical part of him understood his folks’ reasoning for not revealing his father’s status as soon as they’d found out, camouflaging it in every email, phone call and Skype chat. They hadn’t wanted to worry him.

  However, the son in him wished he’d been told immediately that his father had been diagnosed with prostate cancer two months ago. Instead of being blindsided by the news his first day home in three years.

  “Don’t need you patronizing me, either,” Ben groused. “We may have the same military rank, Lieutenant, but I’m still the parent here.”

  Keeping his eyes on the road, Isaiah stuck with the same noncombatant phrase he’d repeated all afternoon.

  “I know, Dad.”

  His mother had warned him that while the course of radiation therapy wasn’t painful, it had left his father fatigued and ornery.

  “And we should have taken my Benz instead of your old truck,” his father added. “When was the last time this beater was taken through a car wash, anyway? The neighbors are going to think I’ve hitched a ride with some backwoods hillbilly, instead of a decorated navy lieutenant.”

  “Retired lieutenant,” Isaiah corrected.

  A harrumph came from the passenger’s seat. “Who the hell retires at twenty-nine years old?”

  I do, Isaiah thought.

  Like his father and grandfather, he’d gone from Wintersage Academy to the U.S. Naval Academy in Annapolis. Isaiah had graduated a commissioned officer and dedicated the next seven years of his life to the navy, proudly serving his country.

  Now, for the first time in over a decade, he was a free man. No longer weighed down by tradition, expectations or duty, he was finally going to follow his own life plan and fulfill his long-held dreams.

  Ambitions he hadn’t shared with anyone.

  Actually, there was one person who knew, he thought. They’d even made plans to pursue their goals, together.

  But that was a lifetime ago.

  Before he could banish it, a faint recollection of a teenage girl with deep chocolate skin and a long raven mane swept up in a high ponytail popped into his head.

  Sandra Woolcott.

  Isaiah felt the corner of his mouth quirk upward in a half smile at the sweet memory of the first girl to claim his heart. He’d driven along this same road, in this same truck, with a brand-new driver’s license in his pocket and Sandra in the passenger’s seat.

  He could almost hear her laughter as the wind freed her hair from her ponytail and her hair whipped around her face that long-ago spring day.

  Isaiah had traveled the world and dated his fair share of women, but he’d yet to come across one more beautiful than Sandra.

  Curiosity replaced his musings, and he wondered how her life had turned out. Had she pursued their big plans on her own, after he’d put family expectations and tradition ahead of his own desires and her?

  “Hey!” His father’s strident tone jarred him out of his reverie. “Have you been gone so long you forgot your way home? You were supposed to make a left at the intersection.”

  “I know, Dad.”

  Staring through the windshield at the gray skies, and trees nearing the end of their autumn peak, Isaiah banished thoughts of Sandra to the back of his mind, chalking up the out-of-the-blue flashback to being back in Wintersage.

  Ben heaved a drawn-out sigh. The one he used when he was on the brink of losing his patience. “Son, if you say ‘I know, Dad’ to me one more time...” His father’s voice trailed off.

  “Sorry,” Isaiah said.

  “Well, aren’t you going to turn this heap around?” Ben groused. “Or do I have to drive us home.”

  Isaiah shook his head. “We’re not going home yet. So just sit tight.”

  “We’re headed downtown?” Ben asked after Isaiah made a left turn.

  He nodded, bracing himself for inevitable blowback.

  “For what? To give the town busybodies something else to gossip about?” his father protested. “‘Poor Ben Jacobs. He looks like a scrawny chicken,’” he mimicked. “Then they sanction their tongue wagging by tacking the words bless his heart on the end of every juicy tidbit.”

  “You may have lost a few pounds, but you look fine,” Isaiah said.

  His father rested his chin on his chest. “I have my pride, son,” he said finally. The volume of his usual booming baritone was so low Isaiah strained to hear.

  He swallowed hard, pushing a lump of emotion down his throat, and along with it the urge to turn his truck around and take his dad home.

  “Give me ten minutes. After that if you still want to go home, I’ll be more than happy to drive you.”

  Isaiah slowed the truck to the lower posted speed limit as they approached the downtown area near the waterfront. Main Street, usually bustling with tourists and traffic during summer and early autumn, unfurled before him, with only a few residents walking along it.

  As his father appeared to be mulling over his offer, Isaiah continued, “Life is short for all of us. Don’t let something as trite as pride keep you from enjoying every moment.”

  He caught his dad’s nod in his peripheral vision as he pulled the pickup into an open parking space in front of the bakery. The place had changed ownership in the years he’d been away. A purple awning hung over the storefront window, which boasted a red, white and blue placard asking citizens to vote Oliver Windom to the state house of representatives in the upcoming election.

  Both of his parents had raved about the new baker in their emails. His mother was partial to the cinnamon rolls, while his father was wild for the cupcakes. Their enthusiastic reviews had Isaiah raring to try one.

  He climbed out of the truck. His first instinct was to go around to the passenger side and help his father, but he decided not to push his luck. Instead, he leaned into the cab.

  “Coming?” he asked.

  “But what about your mother and that miserable diet?”

  “You telling her about this?”

  A blast of cold wind and the aroma of cinnamon-laced baked goods wafted through the truck’s open door. His father’s nose twitched.

  “No. I don’t think I’ll mention it to her, son.”

  “Good,” Isaiah said. “Neither will I.”

  Ben bounded from the truck with more energy than Isaiah had seen in the few days he’d been back. His father stopped short at the bakery door. He frowned, and then grunted at the sign in the window. “I wouldn’t vote to elect Windom dogcatcher,” he grumbled.

  A rush of heat and more heavenly smells greeted them inside the bakery. Isaiah’s stomach rumbled, reminding him he’d only picked at his breakfast and skipped lunch altogether.

  “Ben!” A woman clad in a purple apron with the bakery’s logo etched on the front greeted his father with a warm smi
le. “Long time no see. Where have you been keeping yourself?”

  His father mumbled something about being busy, not quite meeting the woman’s eyes.

  “Well, it’s good to see you. I thought I’d lost one of my best customers to some cockamamy low-carb diet.” She turned to Isaiah. “And this must be the son you’ve told me about, because he looks just like you.”

  His father perked up, any self-consciousness pushed aside by his deprived sweet tooth and the array of cupcakes on display behind the glass case. He briefly introduced Isaiah to the middle-aged woman called Carrie, before the two launched into a discussion about her latest culinary creations.

  “I know you’re partial to the red velvet.” Carrie held up a cupcake heaped with white frosting and red sprinkles. “But you’ve got to try my new salted caramel and corn candy cupcakes.”

  Ben pressed a finger against his lips as he glanced from the cupcake in her hand to the ones in the display.

  “I’m only baking the corn candy ones until Halloween, on Friday. After that they won’t return until next year,” she coaxed.

  “I’ll take two of the corn candy,” Isaiah said, not sharing his father’s indecisiveness.

  Carrie put two cupcakes smothered in orange icing and topped with corn candy on a purple plate. Isaiah’s stomach rumbled again as she placed them on the counter.

  “Okay, give me one of the salted caramel,” his father finally said.

  “One?” Carrie raised a brow. Ignoring his request, she placed two of the oversize cakes on a purple plate and handed it to Ben.

  Isaiah retrieved his wallet from his back pocket and pulled out a twenty to pay.

  Carrie shook her head, refusing it. “It’s on the house. Thank you for your service, son.” She glanced briefly at his father and back at him, understanding brimming in her warm brown eyes. “And for bringing one of my favorite customers back.”

  Isaiah nodded and returned his wallet to his pocket.

  “Have a seat,” she continued. “I’m brewing a fresh pot of coffee. I’ll bring some over when it’s done.”