Taking a Chance

by Maggie McGinnis

  “You have a—wait—no, you don’t.” He smiled, then tapped the table in farewell. “Just don’t forget to live while you’re out here, Emma. You’ve got a once-in-a-lifetime chance to experience the most beautiful place on Earth. Can’t do that from an office, right?”

  —

  One week later, Emma closed her office door behind her and set out for the kitchen, determined to check off item number 49 from her to-do list. She’d had Horace’s cooking three times this week for lunch, and it was clear that the man needed either an assistant…or a new cookbook. She’d printed out some heart-healthy recipes, and was armed with her best smile and most understanding voice as she walked toward the stainless-steel palace at the end of the West Wing.

  It was three o’clock; she’d timed her visit to fall between lunchtime cleanup and dinner preparation. The man was busy, and according to Katrina, he was a guy you approached carefully, preferably with gifts in hand.

  Emma had no gifts except for the recipes, and she well knew that those were not the kind of gift he might appreciate, so she’d steeled herself for an encounter that could be awkward at best, and thoroughly unpleasant at worst. If she ticked off the head cook, she’d be banging pots herself, so this had to be handled delicately.

  She pushed through the swinging doors, expecting a low level of chaos on the other side, but it was oddly silent, except for some muted voices coming from the break room in back. Emma looked around at the pristine kitchen, wondering when, exactly, dinner got started. The only evidence that anyone was planning to feed anyone tonight was a neat double row of loaf pans with dishcloths over them.

  “Horace?”

  She turned the knob on the break room door and walked in, only to freeze in her tracks when she saw who was inside.

  “Hey, Emma.” Jasper waved casually from a chair at the wooden table, where he was parked with a laptop open. “How’s it going?”

  “Um, fine? Thank you?” She tipped her head. “What—why are you—where’s Horace?”

  “He doesn’t work Friday afternoons.”

  “So…who does work Friday afternoons?” She shook her head. “Never mind. I should know this. I’m sure I know this. I just—forgot.”

  “Gotcha.” He smiled quickly, then went back to his laptop, like it was no weird thing that a resident’s son would be hanging out in the break room of the kitchen, working. Or whatever he was doing.

  “Okay, never mind. The office is about two miles back that way, and I still get lost sometimes. Just tell me who works on Friday afternoons. Please.”

  “I do.”

  “Huh?”

  He looked up. “No need to look so appalled. I can cook.”

  “Not appall—wait—what? You cook? Here?”

  “Only Friday dinners.”

  This did not compute. How had she not known that? For goodness sake, for all the time Jasper spent here, she was going to have to get him his own room one of these days. Every morning he was here, having breakfast with his dad. Lots of times, she saw him again at lunchtime, and last weekend, he’d signed his father out for half the day Saturday, then had spent Sunday afternoon trading sections of the newspaper with him in the solarium.

  But working in the kitchen?

  She paused before she asked more questions, realizing maybe there was some sort of financial relationship at play here. Had Bette made an arrangement whereby Jasper did certain tasks here throughout the week in exchange for a break on his father’s room charges?

  Maybe the little coffee shop wasn’t as successful as it looked?

  “So, um, what are you making?”

  “Soup and homemade bread. Real homemade bread.”

  “Sounds good. Of course, any bread that isn’t Horace’s rolls sounds good.”

  Jasper laughed. “I have been after him about that recipe for months. He just doesn’t get it.”

  “Does the man have teeth? How can he not get it?”

  “No idea. But they make great hockey pucks for the floor hockey games on Thursdays, so they’re not totally going to waste.”

  She leveled him with a look. “You are not playing floor hockey with the cafeteria food.”

  “No. Definitely not. We have an OSHA-sanctioned microbe-free official nursing-home-issue hockey puck set. That’s what I meant to say.”

  “Exactly how long is the activities director scheduled to be out? Just asking?”

  “Awhile.”

  “And until then, I have ad-hoc-director you?”

  He shrugged, then smiled in a way that had probably melted the hearts of all of his teachers. This man hadn’t done a stitch of homework he hadn’t wanted to—she just knew it.

  “I wouldn’t call myself the ad hoc anything. Or director anything. I just like to help out.”

  “Well, as the acting director, I definitely appreciate it. I think. Jury’s still out on that, based on the stories I’m hearing.”

  “All lies.”

  “Maybe, but I’m reviewing the whipped cream budget when I get back to my desk. Just saying.”

  He laughed. “I run a coffee shop. I have cases of whipped cream at my disposal.”

  She rolled her eyes, then looked at the clock on the wall. “Any chance you’re thinking about starting that soup?”

  He waved a careless hand. “Everything’s all prepped. Just have to heat it up.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Not long. I’ve got teenagers working for me in the café. They get bored. I make them chop stuff. In exchange for the chopping, I sign their community service papers so they get credit for helping the esteemed residents of Shady Acres.”

  “Nice arrangement. They get paid and get service credit?”

  “Nope. I don’t sign the papers unless they come in off-hours. They learned that the first week they pushed those forms under my nose.” He smiled. “But they always come. They go out in the back kitchen, crank up their obnoxious music, and a couple of hours later, soup!”

  He made motions like a movie-version Italian grandmother describing her culinary creation, and Emma laughed.

  “Well, it keeps them off the tough streets of Carefree, Montana, so I guess it’s a win-win.”

  “It is.” His face grew serious. “And please don’t insult me by asking about freshness and refrigeration and health department regulations around food preparation and all the other things going through your director-brain right now.”

  Emma felt her face go warm as he put the stream of thoughts running through her brain into words.

  “I’m not—I wasn’t going to.”

  “Ha. Your face says otherwise.” He shut the laptop and looked straight at her. “My father’s one of the people who has to eat whatever I bring in. You can be sure I’d never risk the health or safety of anyone here. I may prepare the food off-site, but it’s done to the strictest of standards. Promise.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay? That’s it?”

  “Did you want me to argue?”

  “No.” He studied her for a long moment, like he was mystified that she hadn’t argued further. “Maybe. No. Definitely no.”

  “Listen, I’ve had Horace’s cooking. Survived it, might be a better word. If you’re willing to give up a Friday afternoon to come cook something edible for everyone, then I’m all for it.”

  “Good.” He motioned her out the door. “Now get outta my kitchen. I’ve got dinner to make.”

  Chapter 11

  Two hours later, a knock on her office door startled Emma. Before she could even look up, the scent of something heavenly hit her nose.

  “Madame Director, I’ve brought you some soup.” Jasper came through the door with a flourish, brandishing a white napkin over his arm and two bowls of soup balanced precariously in one hand.

  “Eez it dee French kind, given your new accent?”

  “It eez. Absolutement.” He smiled as he held up the bowls. “But it appears there is nowhere on this desk to put zee soup, so perhaps Mademoiselle
will join me in the courtyard for dinner?”

  “Join?” The word popped out of her mouth before Emma had time to pull it back, and one more time, she felt her cheeks flush. Good Lord, she hadn’t blushed so much around a man since—well, since ever.

  “You think I brought two bowls just for you?” Jasper winked. “I’m generous, but this is my soup we’re talking about. These are the last two bowls, and I’m having one of them.”

  “Of course. That’s not what I—never mind.” She shook her head, pushing away from her desk. “I would love some soup, thank you.”

  “Excellent.” He stepped back to let her pass through the doorway. “Lead the way.”

  “I can do that, but only because there’s an entrance to that courtyard in every hallway. Can’t get lost getting there.”

  They fell into step as she headed for the nearest courtyard door, and her stomach growled embarrassingly loudly, making him laugh.

  “Have you actually eaten anything today?”

  “Apparently not enough.” She reached the door and punched the exit code, then held it for him as he sidled through. “Where should we sit?”

  “Follow me. I have the perfect spot.”

  She smiled as she followed him, definitely not doing a full body scan as she did so. But truly. Who could help it? She couldn’t have him—didn’t want him, thank you—but she could look.

  He led her down a wide path edged with fruit trees until they reached a low table, and he set down the bowls. She slid onto a bench and picked up her spoon, leaning down to inhale the steam.

  “This smells heavenly.”

  “Thank you. Hope it tastes that good.”

  She blew on her spoon, then tasted it. Then she closed her eyes, transported back to her grandmother’s old Victorian on a sick day when her parents had been too busy to stay home with her.

  “Can I hire you for Monday through Thursday nights, too?”

  He laughed. “Horace would never stand for it.”

  “Well, I imagine you have a life and all, as well.”

  “There is that.” He smiled, stirring his soup. “So you’ve survived two weeks. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Ready to move out here yet?”

  “Um, no?”

  “Well, it’s still early days, I guess. You will.”

  Emma laughed. “Is this a thing? Some irresistible power Carefree has over people?”

  “Totally is.”

  “Ah. It’s one of those mystical vortexes? Area 52? Something in the water?”

  “Actually, the water has been blamed on numerous occasions. Whisper Creek water, in particular, but it seems to be a thing.”

  “Okay, what is this Whisper Creek that people keep talking about? My friend—who’s from Florida, by the way—told me I wasn’t to leave here without the Whisper Creek calendar.”

  Jasper rolled his eyes. “That damn calendar has ruined everything for normal men.”

  “What?” She laughed. “How?”

  “Have you seen it?”

  “Just a quick peek.”

  The lie rolled off her tongue without a hitch, but really? She couldn’t exactly admit to scrolling through the thing for a flipping hour the other night.

  Holy cowboys, Batman.

  “Whisper Creek used to be just another ranch with normal people raising normal cows and horses and such.”

  “And now it’s Playgirl Paradise?”

  He brushed a hand across his mouth like he was trying not to laugh. “So you’ve seen enough of the calendar.”

  “Well, I mean…it’s not exactly designed for skimming.”

  “Great. Even you.”

  Emma felt her eyebrows scrunch together. “What does that mean—‘even you’?”

  “Nothing.” He shrugged. “I just hoped maybe you were above the base exploitation thing, being that you’re a professional, well-educated—”

  “Warm-blooded woman?” She raised her eyebrows. “Because really, that’s kind of all it takes to admire that calendar.”

  “Fine. Enough about the calendar. They sell them in the general store if you need one…for your friend.”

  “Good to know. Thank you.” She spooned soup into her mouth. “I may need five or so copies.”

  “As I was saying, Whisper Creek used to be just a ranch. And no, they’re not a bachelorette paradise now. I mean, some weeks they are, but that was never the goal. It’s owned by the Driscolls—Sara and her sons, Cole and Decker—and they took it from a struggling run-down disaster to a really successful operation.”

  “Sounds nice.”

  “You sort of have to see it to believe it. It’s one of those postcard-perfect places that you’d never believe was run-down, not so long ago.”

  “So what was their secret? How’d they make such a success out of it so quickly?”

  He pointed to his head. “They made some risky decisions at the start, but they were the smart kind of risky. They turned the place into a guest ranch, and both brothers married ridiculously talented women who kind of breathed new life into things, and before they knew it, they were rocking a waiting list. Now it’s a full-on, all-the-bells-and-whistles place where you can ride all day and eat all night. And pause for yoga and a massage, if you’re in the mood.”

  “Sounds idyllic. Why am I staying at a sterile hotel at the edge of town?”

  “Good question, actually.” He looked up. “You know, with school back in session, their bookings have probably eased up. They might have space.”

  “It’s okay.” Emma shook her head. “It sounds like a place that’s perfect for people who have time to ride and do yoga and get massages. I’d never have time to take advantage of everything they have to offer, anyway.”

  “You’d never have time? Or you’d never make time?”

  “He says, with no judgment in his tone at all.” She raised her eyebrows again. “Not all of us have our own businesses or make our own hours.”

  “Noted. But I’m pretty sure, unless laws have changed significantly since I practiced, that you’re working far more hours than your company attorneys would be comfortable with, if they knew.”

  She processed the words as they flew by, then put on the brakes at one phrase. “Since you practiced? Were you an attorney? Are you one?”

  His jaw stiffened, and in that instantaneous, unconscious reaction, Emma had a feeling there was a long story behind whatever answer he was about to give.

  “Was. Past tense.”

  “And…now you’re a café proprietor?”

  “Coffee guy. That’s what I am. And it’s perfect for me.”

  “What made you leave law?”

  He took a deep breath, looking over her shoulder like he was sorting through possible answers, trying to figure out which one fit with this particular conversation.

  “Wasn’t perfect for me,” he finally said, in a tone that made it very clear he was done talking about it. “Now, back to you. Why elder care? How’d you choose this for a career?”

  “Well, doctoring and lawyering were already taken in my family. And I get motion sickness too easily to be a rocket scientist, so…my choices were limited.”

  “What’s your degree in?”

  “I have a few of them. I, um, I wasn’t a very decisive college student.”

  Yes, that’s why I have three degrees. Not because I was overcompensating at all. Not because I was desperate to prove I still had worth, after the monstrously stupid decision I made. Not because I was an empty, hollow shell of a human being afterward, and I was desperate to fill up my hours with anything to help me stop thinking all the time.

  Jasper laughed, and it startled her out of her thoughts, because her thoughts centered around the least funny period of her entire life.

  “Let me see if I can guess what they are.”

  She smiled tentatively. “Go for it. But I’ll give you a clue—only one of them has any relationship at all to what I’m doing now.”

 
“Healthcare administration, I’m assuming.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’m relieved you’re not in charge of my father’s home working with an anthropology degree or something.”

  “Close. Archeology.”

  “No way.”

  “It was my first one. My rebel degree. I was going to tour Egypt with a shovel and brush, discovering amazing things till I was an old woman.”

  He nodded slowly. “But let me guess—your sense of direction steered you away from that plan?”

  “Getting lost in the labyrinths is frowned upon. I needed to stick with something GPS-enabled.”

  “Like a nursing home.”

  “Like Florida,” she corrected. “It’s impossible to get lost in Florida, because you can only get, like, four hours lost before you crash into an ocean.”

  “So why did you need a rebel degree?”

  She looked down at the table, finding a dent that needed attention. It was kind of a personal question, if she chose to answer it honestly.

  “Maybe I just needed a rebel life for a while.”

  He looked into her eyes, nodding slightly as he pushed his bowl to the side of the table. “So what came after archeology?”

  “Business finance.”

  “You say that like it caused you actual pain.”

  Emma smiled. “It hurt my brain.”

  “Hard stuff.”

  “Oh, I had a 4.0 average. It hurt because it was deadly, horribly boring. There’s only so much how-to-make-the-rich-get-richer info you can take in before you see how screwed up our system is.”

  “So you didn’t finish?”

  “I finished. Have a shiny MBA to show for it, but I never framed it because I’m not proud of it, you know?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I think I’d still be proud of it, even if I didn’t like it all that much. Especially with a 4.0 to show for the work.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t know.” She fiddled with her spoon.

  “So what led you to healthcare, then? Why nursing home management?”

  “My gramma, actually.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Her voice went soft, thinking about the one person in her life who’d ever really gotten her. Gramma might have given birth to Emma’s father, but the resemblance ended at their blue eyes. On Gramma, they’d been laughing and bright. On Dad, they were ice cold even on the hottest July day.