Cooking Up Trouble Series
Book One
Thyme for Love
Pamela S. Meyers
Cat Chat Press
Thyme for Love
First Edition, OakTara Publishing ©2011, by Pamela S. Meyers
Second Edition, Cat Chat Press ©2015 by Pamela S. Meyers
Visit Pamela S. Meyers at www.pamelasmeyers.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews and articles, without the prior written consent of the author.
Cover Design by Ken Raney, http://kenraneyartandillustration.blogspot.com/
Interior Design by Polgarus Studio
Author Photo © Emilie Hendryx, http://www.eacreativephotography.com
Published by Cat Chat Press
Scripture within the text is taken from The Holy Bible, New International Version, NIV, Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc. used by permission.
This book is a work of fiction. When real establishments, organizations, events or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements and all characters in the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.
To my Life Group who has
faithfully prayed for God’s blessing on my writing.
And for Ed who has encouraged me and prayed for my writing for many years. The bull rider in the story is for you, cowboy.
Acknowledgments
First and foremost I give thanks to God Almighty, who called me to write even before I knew Him as my Lord and Savior. He has been faithful to me and blessed me as I’ve grown spiritually and as a writer.
Thanks to Lois Fleming, my writing professor at Trinity International University, who told me I had what it takes to be published. The seed was planted, Lois. It took a while, but here is the fruit of what you saw when I lacked the vision.
To American Christian Fiction Writers who, over the past decade or so, has provided me with all necessary to achieve writing success. ACFW, you rock!
Thanks to Karen Wiesner, who took this fledgling author under her wing when this story was only a figment of my imagination and taught me how to write a mystery. Karen, I’m so grateful we reconnected so I could give you a copy of this book.
Thanks to my critique partners: Tammy Barley who took the time to edit this story when her own editing business needed her, and thank you to my dear friend and writing buddy, Ane Mulligan who critiqued a later version of this novel and helped me take it to the next level.
Thanks also to Jerry Steinke of Steinke Funeral Home in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. Jerry spent a chunk of his day explaining the procedures that would be followed in Wisconsin around a suspicious death. Your explanations helped tremendously, Jerry.
Chapter 1
The kitchen door opened, and I came face to face with a ghost. Not a Scrooge’s Christmas Past kind of ghost. More like the Ghost of Long-Lost Love. Bronze complexion, espresso-dark eyes, hair as black as licorice, and the new addition of a short beard that grazed his jawline—Marc Thorne looked as gorgeous as he had when he walked out of my life the day before college graduation.
Limp as overcooked pasta, I gripped the island’s granite counter, its rock-solid support my only hope of not toppling off my four-inch-too-tight heels. Why now? I opened my mouth to speak, but a vise-like grip on my chest had squeezed out every ounce of air.
Marc stepped closer, and a whiff of his citrusy aftershave tickled my nose. Thankfully he wasn’t wearing the spicy fragrance I’d always liked. One sniff of that stuff and I’d have been transported back to a time I preferred to keep dead and buried.
“April? What are you doing here?”
What was I doing here?
I forced a ragged breath into my lungs. “I’m waiting to interview with . . . Mr . . . Gomez for the chef position.”
“Galvez.” His voice cracked.
“You’re right. Galvez. Ramón Galvez.” How many times had the man’s name run through my head recently? As many as the number of restaurants I’d interviewed within the past two weeks. If I had been taken straight to Mr. Galvez’s office instead of the kitchen, I might not be facing this blast from my past that I’d tried for eight years to despise. And what was Marc doing in Wisconsin? He was supposed to be in California working with His Helping Hands Ministry. At least that was his plan. His carved-in-granite plan.
Like mannequins in a department store window, we faced each other with set-in-plastic smiles. His features, tanned by his Argentine heritage on his mother’s side, and mine no doubt pasty white from shock. His gray slacks fit his build as though tailored for him. The navy and red striped tie, slightly loosened, the button-down shirt, its top button undone, and its sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms exuded a form of business casual.
A chill filled the room. Did he work here? I pulled my eyes away from my personal version of Back to the Future and mentally said good-bye to Rescaté de Nino’s made-for-a-chef kitchen. The granite counters all around, a pair of microwaves, commercial-sized dishwasher. They’d done a wonderful job bringing the century-old mansion’s kitchen up to date.
My gaze rested on the six-burner stove—complete with an induction top—I’d been drooling over for the past fifteen minutes. A dull pain filled my chest. None of that mattered anymore. Not if Marc worked for Rescaté. Day after day I’d be reminded of how I’d lost him to something else. Good-bye chef job.
I faced him. “Why are you back in Wisconsin?”
His puzzled expression dissolved as his stare bore into me. “Didn’t your aunt tell you?”
My back stiffened. “What does she have to do with anything? Tell me what?”
“I’ve been in Canoga Lake and working here since last summer when Parker Montclaire willed the mansion to Rescaté. Almost a year now. It’s been good to be back home.” He flashed the smile that used to send me soaring to the moon and back. “As the assistant director, I’m in charge of corporate sponsors.” The left corner of his mouth twitched. “Whoever gets the chef job will be working with me.”
My portfolio hit the floor, and its contents scattered across the terracotta tiles like autumn leaves. Marc squatted and gathered up the papers while I stood by like an inert lump of dough, my face heating. In less than one minute the man had managed to discombobulate me. I needed to get a grip.
He straightened and I reached for the papers, expecting him to hand them over. But he was too busy reading my resume. My pulse ramped up. He surrendered his right to my personal business eight years ago. “May I?”
He looked up at my outstretched palm. His face reddened. “I, um . . . sorry.” He placed the documents in my hand, his fingers brushing mine in the exchange.
Was that my tremble, or his? “Am I . . . to interview with you?”
Please, Lord, no.
“Not this round.”
Jolted back to reality, I mentally started counting. By the time I got to three, I was good as long as I avoided Marc’s eyes. I had to deal with the truth that Mr. Galvez could walk in any moment, and here I was acting like a twit. Not much of a professional image. I wanted to leave in the worst way but, if only on principle, I had to go through with the interview, and not let Marc’s presence throw me off balance.
I laid the papers across the island counter. Resume first, then the photos of my best culinary creations, followed by the letter of recommendation from a chef at Canoe, one of Atlanta’s finer restaurants. Last, the letters from my instructors at the Atlanta School of Culinary Arts. I gathered them into a stack
.
“I came to tell you Ramón is running late and to show you the way to his office in . . .” Marc pulled a cell phone from his breast pocket and looked at the screen. “Two minutes. Let me help you with that.” He replaced the phone and gripped the papers.
“Thanks. It’s okay.” I pulled against the force of his grasp.
“We need to get going.”
“That’s why you ought to let go.” I said, as politely as possible, through my clenched jaw.
He released his hold, and an awkward silence hung in the air as I slid the documents into the portfolio’s pockets, then faced him. “Ready if you are, Dr. Thorne.”
Color drained from his complexion, and he lowered his gaze. “It’s just mister.”
Just mister? No PhD? Fire heated my gut. If I couldn’t have influenced him to change his carved-in-stone plans for a doctorate, what—or who—did? I shot a mental prayer to God for control and forced a smile. “That’s quite a bombshell.”
He jammed his hands in his pockets, but not before I noticed his ring finger was as naked as a plucked chicken. Not good. He should be married and unavailable. “So, no PhD, no Helping Hands, no California, and no wedding ring. Fill me in.”
“Still nosy as ever I see.” He jingled his coins. “I’ve asked your aunt about you several times. I thought she said you were a CPA in Atlanta. Odd she didn’t mention to you that I’m back in Canoga Lake and working here.”
I ignored his reference to my penchant for knowing details about my friends’ lives. I always called it caring. Marc had called it nosy, but in an endearing sort of way. At the moment my concern was more with my Aunt Kitty who had always been more girlfriend to me than aunt. Wouldn’t even let me call her ‘Aunt.’ Seemed she was playing matchmaker. Again.
Funny how she happened to tell me about this job opening, making it sound like a perfect opportunity. So perfect I drove all night from Atlanta not to miss out. No wonder she had me make a promise before she left on an over-night road trip with a friend that no matter the outcome of my interview, I wouldn’t leave until she returned. Anyone but my aunt, and despite my being awake for almost 24 hours, I’d be on the road back to Georgia faster than an ice cube could melt in a microwave.
I ran my tongue over my lips, certain the color had long been eaten off. “Kitty may have mentioned you were here and I forgot.” Yeah, right. Like I’d forget my aunt telling me that my former fiancé worked next door to her house. The house that always welcomed me like a warm cozy quilt and a cup of chamomile tea whenever I came to Canoga Lake. The house I’d no longer be able to visit with the mansion next door harboring a ghost from my past.
“Well, she didn’t mention you were applying for the chef job either. I didn’t know until a few minutes ago.” He rocked back on his heels. A mannerism he always manifested when he was uneasy. The notorious left eyebrow twitch wouldn’t be far behind. “So what’s with the chef gig?”
I shrugged. “Corporate takeover. You have fifteen minutes. Here’s a box. There’s the door. Two weeks later, Kitty told me about Rescaté’s chef position. Dad’s pushing me to work for him again in Chicago, but slaving under his thumb once was enough. Not to mention I’m trying to ditch the numbers game.” Unable to bear Marc’s probing stare, I turned my focus to the stove. “When Kitty told me about the chef job, I decided it was time to chase my dream.”
“Did you prepare the food in those photos?” He nodded at my folder.
I lifted my chin. “Of course.”
I don’t remember you wanting to be a chef.”
That hurt. How many times had I said . . . “I mentioned it about a hundred times. Actually catering is my goal. Maybe call it Lovin’ Spoonfuls from April Love.”
His eyes creased at the corners. “What about “Somethin’ Lovin’ from April Love?”
I couldn’t help but chuckle. “That’s a good one.”
“Guess it’s a good thing I didn’t give you my last name after all.”
My spine stiffened. “I still could have used my given name. At least my aunt didn’t forget my aspiration. She’s my biggest cheerleader.”
“Same here. Without her character reference, I doubt I’d have gotten the job. She’s one of Rescaté’s major donors. Supports three kids in Chile and one in Guatemala.”
With the jerky motions of a robot, I picked up my portfolio. Marc or no Marc, the reason for my being here was clear. The interview with Mr. Galvez was a favor to my aunt, a mischievous 70-year-old with more energy than a room full of preschoolers. If only she’d channel that energy into something else besides trying to resurrect a relationship that was better off dead and buried.
We stepped into the wood-paneled hall and turned right. Although we didn’t say another word, the silence was more awkward than golden. How could it be otherwise when the only man I ever loved, the man I’d tried unsuccessfully to loathe and forget, had just turned my dream come true into a nightmare?
We came to another corridor and stopped. Marc settled his dark-chocolate gaze on me. “I’m sorry for what happened with your papers back there. Ramón’s suite is that way at the end of the hall.” He pointed down the passageway to my left. “I think you can find it okay.”
I fought my way out of the irresistible lure of his stare. Was this goodbye already? But, he did say he was to show me the way, not take me there. Just as well. He probably no more wanted me as a coworker than I wanted him. Maybe he was sent to the kitchen to feel out the candidate first, then phone Mr. Galvez his thoughts before the interview.
“I’m sure I’ll find it.” I turned toward the office suite at the end of the corridor and began my best imitation of a dead woman walking. “Good seeing you again.”
“April?”
I pivoted.
A hint of a smile teased his lips. “I don’t forget everything. Happy birthday.”
If I’d been born on any other day except Christmas, I’d have been impressed. But rarely does anyone forget when you’re born on April Fool’s Day and your name is April.
“Thanks.” Today was turning out to be some kind of big 3-0. I’d rather be dining on grubs.
“Maybe we can go out sometime and catch up.”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll call you.”
I nodded and returned to my solitary walk. Call me? If I were smart, I’d be on my way south before the phone had a chance to ring. But my traitor heart told me if he called, I’d be there. Hopefully, he wouldn’t.
I had only the time it took to walk the approximate 50 or 60 feet to Ramón Galvez’s door to gather my sensibilities. I slowed my pace, which was already a crawl thanks to the stilettos that had me wishing I had a balance pole like tightrope walkers use. Wasn’t this chef gig, as Marc called it, the open door from God I’d thought it to be? How could something sound so right and turn wrong so fast? Surely God didn’t intend for me to work under the man I’d been trying to forget for eight years. I’d be polite with Mr. Galvez, say how worthy Rescaté de Niño’s mission to support needy kids was, and withdraw my name from consideration, beating them at their own game.
I glanced at several of the black-and-white photos lining the corridor wall. Faces of the kids Rescaté supported through its individual donors. A few of the children managed toothy grins, but most projected serious expressions, reflecting the hardships of their young lives.
A lump of regret pressed against my heart. What happened to the joy I’d felt at the opportunity to use my cooking skills for such a worthy endeavor? This wasn’t about me or Marc. It was about those kids. If I wanted this job and the door of opportunity still beckoned, what was to stop me? Marc Thorne didn’t control my life anymore. And that was all the more reason to pursue the position. With shoulders back I continued my walk. I couldn’t wait to put on my spanking new chef coat and whip up some empañadas.
Arriving at the carved wood door to Mr. Galvez’s suite, I gripped the brass handle and pulled. The new April Love was back. Gone were calculators and spreadsheets. Hell
o sauté pans and chopping knives.
The administrative assistant’s desk stood empty, but who needed a formal announcement when one was expected? My footsteps fell silent on the plush carpet as I crossed toward the open office door—the gateway to my dream come true, and the first day lived as April Love, in-house chef.
A voice called out, “Well, it’s about time.”
Had Marc detained me longer than he should? I picked up my step.
“If the money isn’t in Rescaté’s account by next week, all bets are off.”
I stopped short.
“I’m not afraid to blab.”
A string of anger-laced Spanish filled the air. Words probably best left in a language I didn’t understand. I glanced over my shoulder at the outside door. Overhearing the private conversation was accidental, but staying to hear more was wrong.
“Your threats don’t scare me.” At the icy tone, I flinched.
“I’m only going to say this once. If any harm comes to me, my people will know who’s responsible. You’ll pay, mi amigo.”
My stomach quivered. Was I in the right place? I tiptoed closer to the man’s door and read the nameplate. Right place, wrong time.
A loud crack sounded, and I visualized a phone receiver slammed into its cradle. What was I doing? I couldn’t be found lurking here like a spy in a Tom Clancy novel.
Moving faster than I ever thought possible on stilettos, I darted for the hall door and clutched the handle. One more moment and it would be as if I’d never been there. Maybe I wasn’t. Maybe I’d wake up any second now and still be in Atlanta working for Keystone Financial. Still trying to get through one whole day without thinking about Marc. Still dreaming of becoming a chef.
Thyme for Love (Cooking Up Trouble Book 1) Page 1
