He reached across the granite counter and covered her hand with his own. “You want to know the real reason I came here last night?” he asked.
She arched a brow. “I’m pretty sure I already do.”
Isaiah chuckled. “Maybe that was part of it, and it turned out to be a wonderful reason. However, it wasn’t my sole purpose.”
He gave her fingers a squeeze, and she looked down at their joined hands. “You and I once shared a special closeness that went beyond a teenage romance. We were true friends,” Isaiah said. “The main reason I came here last night was because I’ve missed you, Sandra. I’ve missed my best friend.”
She studied his face. “We really were best friends, weren’t we?”
Her question was more of a statement. Still, Isaiah nodded his head as she continued.
“Having Janelle and Vicki still in my life made me forget you were more than just a boyfriend to me,” she said. “I could always go to them with whatever was on my mind, but it was you I told the most important stuff. Things I carried deep down inside.”
And he’d hurt her, Isaiah thought. Ancient history neither of them had brought up. Not yet.
He pulled her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her open palm. He’d felt the same as she had. He’d never shared the hopes and dreams he’d revealed to her with Tony or the guys he’d hung out with in high school, or even the friends he’d made at Annapolis.
“I’m only in Wintersage until the day after Thanksgiving, but until then I’d really like to have my best friend back,” he said. “For just a little while.”
Isaiah waited as Sandra appeared to mull over what he’d said. Her answer shouldn’t mean this much to him, but for some reason it did.
“I’d like that,” she said finally. “I’d like it a lot.”
Isaiah busied himself with the breakfast cleanup so she wouldn’t see just how happy it made him to have her friendship again. Even if it was only for the next few weeks.
“Anyway, if you need someone to talk to about those troubles you mentioned earlier, I’m as good a listener now as I was back then,” he said, as he topped off both of their coffee mugs.
Sandra shrugged. “It’s a long, silly story, but the upshot is I made a bet with my father I could pull off cooking Thanksgiving dinner.”
Isaiah struggled to keep his expression neutral. “Could you repeat that?”
“You heard right,” Sandra confirmed.
He took a long sip from his mug. “Unless you’ve somehow learned to cook over the past decade, and by the looks of your kitchen I’m guessing you haven’t, why?”
Sandra blew out a sigh before spilling the entire story. With coffee mug in hand, Isaiah leaned against the counter and listened. So she’d become a designer, after all, he noted when she got to the part about old man Woolcott dismissing her sketches. Isaiah resisted the urge to interrupt and instead made a mental note to ask more about Swoon Couture later.
After all, they had the next month to catch up, he reminded himself.
“Wow, you do have a situation on your hands,” he said, when she was done. “What’s your plan?”
Sandra climbed off the stool and padded barefoot from the kitchen. She returned moments later carrying a load of cookbooks in her arms.
“I checked these out of the library yesterday.” She dumped them on the breakfast bar and sat down again.
Isaiah picked up a few of the books and quickly thumbed through them. They were authored by top chefs made famous through television food channels, and the covers featured picture-perfect feasts.
“These look pretty intense. Maybe you should try something less complicated, like a roast chicken?”
“No can do.” Her high ponytail swished from side to side as she shook her head. “With his prized Chevelle in the mix, my dad was specific on the menu.”
Isaiah’s eyes widened as Sandra listed Stuart’s requests, from the turkey basted in that sage butter seasoning to sweet potatoes and an apple-laden dessert.
“Uh-oh,” he muttered.
“That about sums it up.” Sandra propped her elbows on the counter and dropped her chin between her palms.
Isaiah winced. “Maybe the five dates with that Dale guy will go quickly.”
As the words tumbled out of his mouth, he hoped he was long gone by the time she had to make good on the wager. They were only friends, but after last night he didn’t want to think about his friend out with another man.
“If I’m lucky,” she said, “he’ll want to bring my dad along, because he’s the one Dale really wants to impress.”
A beep sounded and Isaiah looked at the jacket he’d draped over the other bar stool. He walked around to the side Sandra was sitting on and retrieved his phone from his jacket pocket. “Excuse me, I’m just going to take a peek at this text. Then I’ll put it on silent.”
Isaiah glanced down at the screen. It was a message from his father. His parents had decided to stay over in Salem for the rest of the weekend. He stared at the message and debated whether to call them.
In the end, he silenced the phone and placed it back in his jacket. His father had looked tired, but otherwise fine when his parents had left yesterday. Now he apparently felt good enough to stay over a few extra days.
Besides, Salem was just minutes away.
“You okay?”
Isaiah looked up to see Sandra staring at him, concern creasing her features. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“The expression on your face says different.” She placed a hand on his forearm. “Friends, remember?”
“Friends.” Isaiah nodded. He took her hand in his and sat on the stool next to her.
Smoothing a palm down his cheek, Sandra echoed his words to her moments ago. “I’m as good a listener now as I was back then.”
Isaiah wasn’t usually one to unburden himself to anyone, so he was surprised how easy it was to talk to her about his father’s diagnosis. It was also good to know parts of their old relationship had remained intact despite time and, he thought, past hurts.
“Poor Ben. Was that text message about him? Is he in the hospital?” Sandra hit him with a barrage of questions.
Isaiah had forgotten how much Sandra had liked his father when they were dating. The feeling had been mutual, although his dad had thought they were too young to be so serious about each other at the time.
“Goodness. I can’t believe you let me go on about a dumb bet when you’re coming to grips with your father’s cancer,” she said, before he could answer any of her questions. “I’m so sorry. I never would have—”
Isaiah placed a hand on her shoulder to stop her, and then, changing his mind, pulled her into his arms instead. He kissed the top of her head. “You had no idea he was sick,” he said. “Hell, I didn’t either until I got home last week.”
Sandra looked up, pinning him with her brown-eyed gaze. “Is he going to be okay?”
The son in him was still anxious about the strong man he’d always looked up to, but was reassured after hearing what the doctor had to say during his father’s appointment earlier this week.
“I think so,” Isaiah said. “They caught it early, and he completed radiation therapy yesterday. His doctor was optimistic about his prognosis.”
The worry lines creasing Sandra’s forehead eased as he told her about his father’s epiphany and his parents spending the Halloween weekend in Salem.
“Anyway, he and my mom relived their first date last night, and today they’re visiting some of the attractions they missed yesterday.”
Sandra smiled, an unmistakable gleam of mischief in her eyes. “So with your folks away all weekend, what do you have planned for today?”
She stepped out of his embrace and undid the sash on her satin robe. She was naked underneath, and as beautiful as she
looked with it on, he could hardly wait to strip it off.
He scooped her up into his arms and over his shoulder in one swift movement.
“Hey!” she called out, between giggles. “What are you doing?”
“First, I’m taking you back to bed.” His long legs ate up in a few strides the short hallway leading to her bedroom. “Then later, I’m going to help you win your old man’s Chevelle.”
“Really?” Sandra asked from over his shoulder.
“Really,” Isaiah confirmed, against his better judgment. “I’m going to teach you to cook, or die trying.”
* * *
The next morning, Sandra rested her hand on the handle of her stocked refrigerator.
“You can do this. You can do this.” She closed her eyes briefly as she repeated the mantra.
When they’d finally gotten out of bed yesterday, she and Isaiah had spent the afternoon in the housewares section of a Boston department store buying cookware. Next stop was a grocery store for basic staples, which had morphed into two full shopping carts of what Isaiah had deemed the essentials for human survival.
She glanced at the red canister on the kitchen countertop. He’d also picked up a small fire extinguisher, “just in case.”
Exhaling, Sandra yanked open the fridge door. She pulled out eggs, milk and butter. During their first cooking lesson, the day before, Isaiah had suggested assembling all the ingredients before she started to cook. He’d started out simple, by demonstrating how to make the French toast they’d eaten for dinner.
Today, she was to do the actual cooking under his watchful eye.
When he’d returned to his parents’ house earlier for a change of clothes, after spending a second night in her bed, Sandra decided to surprise him. She stared at the glossy picture in the cookbook of easy recipes they’d picked up during their shopping trip, and sighed. The recipe called for five minutes of prep time and ten minutes of actual cook time.
Isaiah had texted her a few moments ago; saying he was on his way back to her house. She’d have a scrumptious platter of French toast waiting when he walked through the door.
“You can do this,” she whispered, forcing memories of old kitchen snafus from her head.
She turned back to the cookbook. “It’s foolproof. Just like the book says.”
Sandra cracked four eggs into her new mixing bowl and carefully measured out the correct amount of milk. She whisked them together and poured the results into a shallow dish.
She switched on the stove burner to melt the half stick of butter she’d already placed in the skillet. Although the recipe stated medium-high heat, Sandra lowered it to be on the safe side.
She did not want to screw this up.
The next step, of soaking slices of bread in the milk and eggs before transferring them to the skillet, went fairly quickly. Still, as the bread cooked, Sandra couldn’t help feeling as if she’d forgotten something.
She looked at the recipe again. Cinnamon!
Sandra opened the cabinet door and grabbed the red spice. She quickly sprinkled a liberal amount on the sizzling bread, before flipping it with the spatula.
“Good save.” She swiped the back of her hand against her forehead.
Shortly afterward, Sandra beamed down at the finished product on the kitchen island. The toast was singed in a few spots and didn’t smell quite the same as Isaiah’s had yesterday, but otherwise it was a pretty good effort for a beginner, she thought.
She was pulling maple syrup from the cabinet when a knock sounded at her door.
“Perfect timing.” She grabbed Isaiah’s hand and pulled him inside. “I’ve got something for you.”
He waggled a brow. “Again?”
Sandra laughed and pinched his khaki-clad ass. “Later,” she said. “Meanwhile, I have a surprise.”
She led him into the kitchen, where her first fiasco-free meal awaited. She could barely contain her giddiness as she watched his reaction to what was essentially a meal a child could cook.
“Wow.” Isaiah looked down at the plate and then scanned the kitchen.
Sandra grinned and shook her head. “No spatters. No fires. No explosion.”
He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her to him, and she encircled hers around his neck.
“Good job.” He kissed her lips. “I’m proud of you.”
Sandra froze. A sense of déjà vu washed over her. He’d held her in his arms and uttered the same words the day she’d told him she’d been accepted into the summer program to study fashion design at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago.
It had all been part of their big plans for the future.
After the summer program, Isaiah was to remain in Chicago for his freshman year as an art major at the prestigious school, while she had hoped to be accepted there after finishing her senior year at Wintersage Academy.
“You okay?” he asked.
Sandra gazed up at the face of the man she knew so well, yet didn’t know at all. Friends, she reminded herself.
And ancient hurts had no place in friendship.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” She brushed off the unwanted intrusion from the past, refusing to let it ruin her morning or her accomplishment. She turned her attention to the French toast Sunday brunch awaiting them on the kitchen counter.
“I think all I ever needed cookingwise was a good teacher.”
“Well, your instructor is starving.” Isaiah kissed her again before releasing her from his embrace.
He chuckled and seated himself at the breakfast bar. “I never thought I’d ever say this to you, but feed me, woman.”
Sandra divided the bounty between two plates and watched Isaiah smother his share in maple syrup. She picked up her fork, but placed it back on her napkin. She was too excited to eat.
She didn’t want to miss Isaiah’s expression after he took the first bite. His visceral reaction would tell her what words wouldn’t—what he really thought.
Isaiah cut into the syrup-laden toast with his fork and speared a huge bite. He smiled at her before wrapping his lips around it.
Sandra didn’t take her eyes off his mouth as he chewed once, then twice.
“Aargh!” His anguished cry reverberated off the walls of the small kitchen, and his eyes bulged out of his head. Tears welled in them as he hurriedly snatched his napkin.
Stunned, Sandra could only stare. She watched him cover his mouth as he undoubtedly deposited the bite into the napkin. Then he leaped from the stool, as if it were an electric chair set on sizzle, and dashed to the sink. He turned the cold water on full blast and stuck his head under the faucet.
He took several desperate slurps of cold water before coming up for air.
“Milk,” he croaked.
Sandra quickly grabbed the carton of milk from the refrigerator, and Isaiah snatched it from her grasp. He turned it up to his mouth and took a long, greedy gulp.
Dozens of possibilities went through her head. Could he be allergic to one of the ingredients she’d used? She dismissed it. He’d eaten the exact same thing yesterday.
“Good Lord. What did you put in those?” Isaiah gasped after he’d finished off the carton of milk.
His face was bright red, along with his eyes, which were still tearing up.
“I—I used the same ingredients you used yesterday,” she stammered.
“Show me,” he said, his voice still raspy.
Sandra quickly reassembled the items on the counter. She stood by as he scanned them, before zeroing in on the small jar of cinnamon.
He picked it up and turned it around to read the label.
“What’s wrong? Did the cinnamon go bad?”
A smile lit Isaiah’s teary eyes, and he made a noise that sounded like a rusty chuckle. “Something li
ke that.”
He held up the jar.
This time Sandra read the label, and her stomach dropped.
“‘Cayenne pepper.’” She reread the words aloud and then remembered hastily grabbing the seasoning after she’d initially forgotten to add it to the toast.
She touched her fingertips to Isaiah’s mouth. “You poor baby. I’m so sorry.”
He pursed his lips in an awkward attempt to kiss her fingers. “It was just a little mix-up,” he said. The bright red blanketing his features had abated, but his eyes were still watery.
He opened the cabinet, pulled out the real cinnamon and compared the two. Both small glass jars were the same size, and the labels were the same color.
“The pepper is a shade or two brighter, but I can see where someone could easily get them mixed up,” Isaiah said.
Sandra shook her head. She’d been so careful, yet she’d still managed to screw everything up.
“My dad was right,” she said. “Mason knows his way around a kitchen better than I do. I need to call off this stupid bet right now, before I inadvertently poison my entire family.”
She turned to leave the kitchen. She was calling her father right now, and this time she wasn’t going to let her pride stop her from pulling out of their wager. Even if it meant having to endure five miserable evenings of Dale’s company.
Isaiah took ahold of her arm. “It was an oversight, Sandra.” His long fingers slid downward until he was holding her hand. “No real harm done.”
She swiped away a stray tear leaking from his eyes with the pad of her thumb. “How can you say that after I—” she began.
Isaiah answered the question before she could finish it. “Because I believe in you.” His voice still held a raspy edge from the pepper. “Once you put your mind to something, anything, there’s nothing you can’t do. You were the one who got us both through trigonometry. You also rescued my sophomore year science project, remember?”
Sandra nodded as she recalled helping collect and analyze data. “How microwave radiation affects different organisms,” she said.
Falling into Forever Page 9
