“Come on, Leslie. Let’s let the horses out into the pasture.”
She pushed herself out of the patio chair, her face beaming. “Okay, Daddy. I’m coming!”
She chattered happily beside him as they walked. Rebecca had made quite an impression on his daughter. Leslie understood when someone treated her with condescension, though she couldn’t have named the feeling. But it was obvious Rebecca was genuinely interested in Leslie, and his daughter responded to that interest.
It was also obvious she was genuinely interested in his horses. He’d been impressed with the respect and kindness she’d offered his animals, and even more impressed with her lack of fear. He’d seen many people, both men and women, become intimidated by the sheer size of the animals. Once a horse smelled fear it knew it could walk all over the rider, figuratively speaking. Rebecca had spoken to each horse, whispering reassurances and scratching its nose. Even Angel, his own horse and the most temperamental of the lot, had been smitten with the girl. He’d allowed Rebecca to stroke his mane without so much as a single annoyed flick of his tail.
Jack firmly held Leslie’s hand as he opened the barn door and let each of the horses out of its stall. The horses somehow sensed that Leslie was different and were especially gentle with her, but even so, he was careful not to let her get too close.
As he watched the horses head out into the pasture, he contrasted Bridget’s daughter with his own. Rebecca was tall and strong with a quick mind and a ready laugh. He had no doubt she was capable of succeeding at anything she set her mind to. Leslie, on the other hand, had a sunny disposition but her health had always been fragile. And he’d had known since her birth that her capabilities were limited.
He cut off that line of thinking. It wasn’t fair to Leslie to compare her to Rebecca.
Still, if she hadn’t been born with Down syndrome, if she was normal...
He took a deep breath and held tightly to her hand. “I’m starved. Let’s go see what Gladys is cooking up for lunch. Are you hungry?”
“Yes!”
“Okay, Sunshine. Let’s go.”
Jack chastised himself all the way back to the house. He knew better. He’d learned a long time ago it did no good to wish for things that could never change.
* * *
Bridget washed mugs in the sink behind the bar while her mother poured coffee for their midmorning customers. At this time of day the patrons were generally older retired people, mostly men, who had a lot of time on their hands. They enjoyed getting out and visiting with each other every morning. For some, she suspected, coffee time was the highlight of their day.
She watched her mother mingling easily with the customers, sharing a laugh here or a bit of gossip there. Mavis really didn’t need the extra work of operating a coffee shop. Since Paradise was situated at the junction of two major highways, the motel kept her very busy, especially in the summer months. The bar was always a popular evening meeting place. Her mother offered coffee in the mornings as a service to the town, a place for these people to go. It was her way of pitching in for the community. Community had always meant a lot to Mavis, almost more than family. She sighed, feeling small and ungrateful.
The bell on the door tinkled and she looked up to see Celia and Gavin enter. The determined look on her sister’s face told her that something was up. What now? As they marched toward her, she steeled herself for another confrontation.
Celia spoke without preamble. “Gavin has something to say to you.”
More surprises. “What did you want to say to me, Gavin?”
“Not here,” Celia said quietly. She nodded toward the restaurant door. “In there. We don’t need the whole town to hear our conversation.”
Bridget led the way into the restaurant and closed the door after them. Gavin took off his ball cap, running his hand through his thinning hair. “I believe I inadvertently caused you some embarrassment and I’m very sorry.”
“You did? How did you embarrass me?”
He twisted his cap in his hands. “Just before you moved here Celia told me about your break up with Ben and his affair. It really bothered me that he treated you that way. I guess I told Jerry Wilson about it and he told his wife, Tina.”
Bridget stared at him. “You’re the one who told Tina about Ben’s affair with a younger woman?”
“Well, not Tina directly, but I’m the reason she got the information. Jerry and I were having a couple of beers and he was telling me about how his sister’s husband left her with two little kids, and one thing led to another and I spilled the beans about you.”
Her gaze flew to Celia. The pain in her sister’s eyes tore at her heart.
“I’m really sorry.” Gavin hung his head. “Can you forgive me?”
Looking at his dejected expression, and Celia’s pained one, all her righteous anger evaporated. She sighed. “Yes, of course. You may have loose lips but you’re still family.” She turned to her sister, her stomach churning. “I guess the real question is, can Celia forgive me?”
Celia sighed and looked away. Her chin quivered. “I don’t know, Bridge. I want to, but every time I reach out to you, you slap me down. I’ve been trying to reach you for years, but I don’t know anymore if having a relationship with you is worth the heartache.”
“I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions like that. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too,” Gavin said, putting his arm around Celia’s shoulders. “This is all my fault. If you want to be mad at someone, be mad at me, not your sister.”
Celia shook her head. “I’m not mad, just disappointed. And tired. I’m going to close the shop the rest of the afternoon and go home.”
She and Celia had their differences, but Celia had always been one of the only constants in her life. The thought of losing her sister terrified her.
“Please don’t go like this. Let’s talk for a while.”
Celia shook her head, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “I can’t. Not today.” She squeezed Gavin’s hand. “I’ll see you at home later.”
She hurried to the back door of the restaurant and left. Bridget stared after her. She’d been so quick to believe Celia had betrayed her. No wonder she was hurt.
“Don’t worry, Bridget,” Gavin said. “She’ll come around. Just give her some time.”
She nodded, not sure at all. Maybe this time the damage she’d inflicted was irreparable.
Chapter Five
Bridget finished rolling out her piecrust on the floured kitchen table, and held her breath as she attempted the next critical step. Gingerly, she lifted one end of the crust and then the other, carefully attempting to fold it in half and place it into the waiting pie plate in one piece.
No such luck. The delicate crust stuck to the table and ripped in half.
“Damn it, damn it, damn it.”
Nothing could frustrate her more than temperamental pastry. She slapped it into the pie plate, then scraped the remainder from the table and used it to fill in the gaping hole. After pinching it together with her fingers, Bridget examined her handiwork. The crust looked as if it had undergone major surgery. Hopefully, once she added the filling no one would notice the mess she’d made of the crust.
She prayed it would taste better than it looked.
Mavis emerged from the stairway linking the upstairs apartment to the bar below. “How’s it going?”
“Not great.” She poured the apple filling into the crust. “I’m a little out of my element here. I’m definitely not a pastry chef.”
“You’ll do fine,” Mavis said with confidence. “Once you set your mind to something, you’ve always been able to achieve it.”
It surprised her that her mother had so much faith in her, especially when she had so little faith in herself. She slipped the pie into the preheated oven. “I appreciate that, Mom, but I’ve made my share of mistakes, and not just with piecrust.”
“I know it’s tough right now, honey. But things will start to look better soon.”<
br />
She sank wearily into one of the kitchen chairs, her supply of optimism waning. What made her think she could pull off this luncheon for Jack? “Sometimes I think maybe I should have stayed in San Francisco and kept my job at the grocery store.”
Mavis raised an eyebrow. “Really? And how was that working for you?”
She remembered the monotony of her job as a checkout clerk, her daughter’s rebellious actions, and the exorbitant rent she’d paid on their crummy apartment and knew she’d made the right decision in coming to Paradise. Though it killed her to admit it, her mother was right.
“Point taken, Mom.”
Mavis squeezed her shoulder. “You know I’m thrilled to have you and Rebecca here with me. I just wish—”
“What?” she asked when Mavis didn’t continue.
She shrugged and gave a brief smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I just wish you could be happy here.”
“I’m happy.” But she knew what her mother wished for. Mavis wanted her and Rebecca to stay in Paradise permanently. She wanted all of them to be close, to be a real family.
It might not ever be possible. After three days Celia still wasn’t speaking to her, and each day that went by made her heart grow heavier. The only bright spot was Rebecca’s happiness at being given the opportunity to ride.
“I know working in the bar isn’t your ideal job. What if we reopened the restaurant? That would be right up your alley. You could serve whatever you wanted, be your own boss again. I could help you get started—”
“Stop, Mom!” She felt panic rising in her chest. “I don’t want to reopen the restaurant. I don’t want to stay here!”
She clamped her mouth shut when she saw the look of hurt in her mother’s eyes. First she’d upset her sister and now her mother. What was wrong with her?
They stared awkwardly at each other for a few moments until Mavis finally looked away.
“Well, I’d better get back to the bar before the coffee row boys starting helping themselves.” Her cheerful tone sounded forced.
She touched Mavis’s shoulder. “Mom, that was a very generous offer, but I need some time. I’m not sure what to do next.”
“I understand, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to push you into something you’re not ready for.”
She didn’t know if she’d ever be ready to run the restaurant. “I need to clean up here. When the pie’s done I’ll come downstairs and help you.”
“No rush. It’s a quiet morning, just the regulars.” She started to leave, but then turned to face Bridget once more. “What are you planning to do with the pie when it’s done?”
“I thought maybe we could have some for dessert at supper. I need to test it and decide if it’s any good, or if I need to adjust my recipe.”
“How would you like some unbiased opinions on your pie?”
“What do you mean?”
“You can test it out on the old boys downstairs.”
“The old boys? What, are they food critics now?”
“No, but they know a good apple pie when they taste one. I can promise they’ll give you an honest opinion, if that’s what you want.”
Was true honesty what she wanted? Her confidence in her cooking skills had taken a serious beating. The thought of withstanding more criticism was frightening. But if she was going to cook the luncheon for Jack’s guests, including this pie, she had to be prepared. Rebecca’s future depended on it. She took a deep breath.
“Okay, I’ll bring it down to the bar once it cools a little.”
Mavis smiled, clearly pleased, though Bridget didn’t understand exactly why. “Good girl. I’ll see you a little later.”
After she cleaned up the dishes, she pulled out one of her favorite cookbooks and pored over recipes while she waited for the pie to bake. At one time she’d had an extensive collection of cookbooks, but she’d given away all but three when she moved. She’d read cookbooks for relaxation the way other people read mystery novels. But in all the years she’d run the catering business, she’d never used a recipe from one of her books. She’d preferred to create her own unique dishes.
She no longer trusted her creative instincts. Better to use a tried, tested and completely safe recipe than something she made up on the fly. One good thing about apple pie; at least she was unlikely to kill anybody.
Bridget flipped through the pages of the book. Gladys had said they tried to use as many locally grown products as possible. What did they grow in North Dakota? The biggest crop was wheat. Wheat for flour and for pasta. Perhaps she could make fresh bread to serve with the meal. And pasta for her vegetarian dish. She felt a growing excitement for the project, one she hadn’t felt in a very long time.
When the timer on the oven sounded, it jolted her out of her reverie. She’d found several beef dishes that would work and also a couple of pasta dishes. A recipe for a lentil salad intrigued her. She could easily buy dried or canned lentils in the grocery store, but it might be interesting to get some straight from the field. She made a mental note to ask Gavin where she might be able to purchase some locally grown lentils.
Bridget took her pie from the oven and turned off the heat. It looked edible, and it smelled pretty good too. But the proof was in the tasting.
When it had cooled sufficiently, she ventured downstairs to the bar. Mavis smiled at her.
“Ah, there she is.” She placed dessert plates and forks next to the pie, and handed Bridget a knife. “Would you like to do the honors?”
She accepted the knife her mother handed to her. “Here goes nothing.”
Holding her breath, she plunged the knife into the pastry. Steam rose from the still warm pie, and the air filled with the sweet scent of apples and cinnamon. She divided the pie into eight small pieces, enough for herself and her mother and the six elderly, self-appointed food critics seated around the table.
Mavis passed around the dessert plates and then sampled her own piece.
“Umm,” she said. “I haven’t had homemade pie in ages.”
“So you think it’s okay?”
She swallowed, then took a sip of her coffee. “Yeah, I think it’s okay.”
Bridget’s heart fell. Okay wasn’t good enough. She waited for the others to finish, her stomach tied in knots.
“Well, it’s not bad,” George said, setting down his fork. “But it’s not as good as my Bertha used to make. The things that woman could do to a pie.”
“I remember Bertha’s pies, George.” Harvey wiped his grey stubbled chin. “She had a tendency to burn them.”
“Well, maybe,” George conceded. “But if you scraped off the burnt parts, her pie was excellent. This one seems to be missing something.”
Mavis folded her arms. “Do I need to remind you guys that you’re getting this pie for free?
“Well, you did ask for our honest opinions. Don’t blame us if you get them,” George said.
“He’s right, Mom. We did ask,” Bridget said. Though the old boys weren’t exactly holding back their criticisms, she needed to hear the bad news so she could improve her pie next time. “What did you think, Don?”
He set down his fork and turned to her with a thoughtful expression. “I think George is right about one thing. The pie is missing something.”
“And the crust could be a lot flakier. I’m afraid it was a little tough,” Bert offered. The others nodded in agreement.
She wasn’t altogether surprised by that remark. She hadn’t made pies in years and she’d never been particularly good at it. She took a bite of her own piece. The filling was oversweet, and the cornstarch she’d added to the filling as a thickening agent had done its job a little too well. The crust was, in a word, chewy. She’d definitely tasted flakier piecrust.
She gathered the dessert dishes, a couple still containing half-eaten bits of pie, and tried not to let her disappointment show. How was she going to learn to bake a decent pie before Jack’s luncheon?
“Well, thanks for your help. I appreciat
e your opinions.”
“Don’t get discouraged, Bridget,” George said. The old man’s shirt was missing a button, and the logo on his baseball cap was smudged with dirt. “That was a very good first effort. I enjoyed it very much.”
She found herself smiling at the old guy. From the state of his clothes and the way he talked about his late wife, he was obviously alone. Her heart went out to him, one lonely soul recognizing another.
She’d been lonely for a long time, she realized now, even while she was married.
“I appreciate that, George, but I really have to figure out how to make great pastry. This pie can’t be just good. It has to be spectacular.”
“You know who used to make a really good pie?” Don said. “My sister-in-law Martha. I’ll bet she could show you.”
The others nodded in agreement but Mavis frowned.
“Isn’t Martha Kowalchuk in the nursing home? She must be nearly ninety.”
“Ninety-one,” Don said cheerfully. “She was my older brother’s wife. The old girl outlived him by twenty years. So far.”
Bridget vaguely remembered Martha from summers past when her pies were featured in the local fair. She’d been good back in the day, but that was a long time ago.
“If she’s that old I don’t see how she could help me,” she said carefully.
George gave her an indignant look. “Just because someone gets old doesn’t mean they’re useless.”
“Martha still has all her marbles. It’s the rest of her that doesn’t work so well.”
“Maybe Bridget could visit her and ask about her pie recipe,” Mavis suggested.
“I’ll bet Martha would love to get into a kitchen again. She was quite a cook in her day.”
“But the kitchen here is upstairs, Don,” Mavis explained. “I don’t think she could make it up all those stairs.”
Don took a sip of his coffee. “Probably not. Why don’t you get that kitchen in there up and running?” He pointed to the door of the restaurant. “We could use a good restaurant in this town again.”
“You know I don’t cook. I don’t have anyone to run it. Besides, I don’t even have a stove in there right now.”
First and Again Page 5
