“Although,” she muttered, “Rhoda did mention something about the next stage of development. I wonder…”
She shook the thought out of her head. No need to think up grandiose schemes.
Turning her attention back to the magazine, she studied the avant-garde look so many of the two-page glossy ads touted. I can take photographs that are every bit as eye-catching and creative as these. As a matter of fact, I’m even better than most of these photographers. She lifted her chin in defiance, though the eyes in the photographs only offered vacant stares in return.
“Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.” The words of Proverbs 31:30 mocked her.
“Lord, why must You chastise me? You know I love You. Don’t I have a right to my own dreams? Is it really wrong to want a little success in this world?”
But what is success?
The question disturbed her. What is success, really? Unwilling to search her soul for the answer, Gwendolyn pushed the question out of her mind.
She turned over a page and saw an ad for whipped topping. A luscious-looking slice of pie stared at her from the page.
She gasped. “Oh no! I forgot all about the dessert I promised Sebastian!”
Panic gripped her. Where would she find a recipe? She had no cookbooks and no experience. “Where’s Mom when I need her?”
She picked up the phone and called her sister’s house, where Mom and Dad were visiting.
“But of course I don’t have my cookbooks here with me,” Mom answered after Gwendolyn told her about the dilemma.
“Mom! I thought surely you’d be making dinners for them. You always tell Sarah how much you want her to learn to cook like you do.”
“I know, but it seems ever since they visited New Orleans last summer, Josh has taken a liking to Cajun food. That’s just not my thing. Although…” Her voice suddenly became too cheerful. “I do enjoy eating it while I’m here. Sarah has mastered seafood gumbo, and it’s quite spicy.”
Gwendolyn knew her mother’s code word—spicy—meant that she’d be hitting the antacid later. “Hmm. Sarah just walked into the room, huh?”
“Yes indeed!” Mom sang.
“Well, you’re doing the right thing to be a good mother-in-law to Josh. I’m sure he appreciates it.”
“I know he does. And I really do love Sarah.” Even though Sarah was in the room, Gwendolyn knew her mother meant the compliment.
Gwendolyn talked to her sister, her brother-in-law, their two kids, and Dad. Making dessert was getting quite expensive. Finally Mom got back on the phone with a new suggestion. “Why don’t you call your friends, honey? I’m sure someone must have a good recipe.”
Gwendolyn laughed. “My friends? You mean the ones who eat fast food every night? They think cooking means you zap leftovers in the microwave. I don’t think so.”
“You have a point,” Mom conceded. “I have another idea. You’re always talking about how great the Internet is. Why don’t you try there?”
Gwendolyn snapped her fingers. “The Internet. Hmm. I suppose I could do a search and come up with something.”
“I’m sure you could.”
As Gwendolyn contemplated the possibilities, the notion that she might find something worthwhile grew. “Great idea, Mom! You’re the best. Call me when you get home, okay?”
Moments later, a search yielded results. “Cynthia Lyons’ Online Cooking School. Hmm.”
She studied the teaser for the school. Pictures of dishes Cynthia taught her students looked good enough to serve at the best gourmet restaurants. “I can’t believe this class is free.” Gwendolyn looked at a picture of a cookbook. “Maybe I’ll buy a copy of her book. In the meantime, I’ll see what help I can get by e-mail.”
Dear Cynthia,
Hi! I’m a new student who just enrolled in your school tonight. They said I could e-mail you so here I am!
I’m in a pickle. Cute food-related joke, isn’t it? I’m in a desperate pinch. Sort of like needing a pinch of salt. Hey, I’m on a roll! (Maybe a cinnamon roll? Ha-ha.) Anyway, I need a recipe quick!! I promised my new boss I’d make him a super dessert. Problem is, I don’t have a good recipe! I need to have the dessert by Monday morning. So really, I need to make it Sunday night at the latest. Not much time!
Can you give me any suggestions? It needs to be something easy. Cooking is not my forte. I guess if it was, I wouldn’t need your school!
Thanks for your help.
Gotta dash—like a dash of pepper! Ha-ha!
Yours,
Gwendolyn Warner
Now, if only Cynthia Lyons, whoever she was, would come through!
The next day after church, Gwendolyn eagerly checked her e-mail. A message from Cynthia awaited!
Dear Gwendolyn,
Welcome to the class! I trust you will enjoy learning new ways to cook. I do happen to have a recipe I’ll be happy to share with you. It’s for key lime pie. Not too exotic, but different enough that your new boss should be favorably impressed. You can use graham cracker crust, but if you really want to wow him, you might try a traditional piecrust. Nothing beats a flaky, homemade piecrust, especially if your boss’s mother or grandmother made her own pies.
“She sure did—and does!” Gwendolyn assured the absent Cynthia. “At least, that’s what I’m willing to bet since he’s the son of a bakery owner.”
She kept reading.
The recipe I’ve included is foolproof. I’ve used it many times myself, and my students have all been pleased with it.
Happy cooking!
Cynthia
Gwendolyn printed out the recipes and examined them both. Neither looked too difficult. “Excellent!” She lifted her fist in the air with triumph.
She cleared a section of the kitchen counter and got out her ingredients for the piecrust. How hard could making a piecrust be? She had watched Mom make piecrusts for years. All she did was throw together a little flour, water, and a few other ingredients, chill the dough awhile, and roll it out. Voilà! A beautiful crust. She could certainly do the same. Mom would be so proud!
She noticed that Cynthia’s recipe called for vinegar. “Vinegar, huh? Hmm,” she wondered. “Does a ‘t’ mean a teaspoon or a tablespoon?” She measured out a teaspoon. “That hardly seems like anything. I’d better try a tablespoon. And I think I’ll add a little more for good measure.”
The dough rolled up into a nice ball, just as the recipe promised. Gwendolyn placed the bowl in the refrigerator to chill for two hours. She’d take a break and make the pie filling, then roll it out and be all set.
Not until later when she was preparing to complete her cooking task did Gwendolyn realize that she should have made sure she had plenty of eggs on hand. The recipe called for four eggs, but she only had three left.
“That shouldn’t matter,” she reasoned. “Eggs are so tiny. I’ll just use what I have.” She looked at the clean counter. “But first, to roll out the pie dough.”
She set the oven temperature to 400 degrees to cook the crust. After dividing the dough in half, she attempted to roll it out. Why wouldn’t the roller run smoothly over the dough? Why was it sticking to the roller, and to the counter? What a mess! Then she remembered she was supposed to flour the rolling pin and the counter.
Gwendolyn rolled and rolled, but her crust didn’t look anything like her mother’s. The dough was the ugliest she had ever seen. And the thickness varied from place to place. The buzzer let her know the oven had reached the preset temperature.
“Well. It’ll just have to cook until it’s right.” She placed her ugly piecrust in the oven and hoped for the best. “Besides, no one will care once the filling’s in.”
Even though she used only three eggs, the pie filling didn’t seem any worse for the lack of one little egg.
“This sure is soupy,” she noticed after adding the juice. “Oh! It says a half cup, not a cup.” She shrugged. “Oh, well. It should congeal just fine anyway. Bu
t I wonder why it isn’t green like a lime. I’ve never seen such an anemic color. It looks more like a watered-down lemon than anything else. This won’t do at all.”
Gwendolyn thought about what to do. “I know.” She snapped her fingers and searched her cabinet. “There it is. Green food coloring.” She was glad she had helped her niece color Easter eggs the previous year. “I’ll use some of that.”
She added one drop to the pie mix and stirred, but it didn’t turn the nice shade of green she expected. She added another, and another, and several more, stirring after each round. Instead of a beautiful shade of emerald green, the mixture turned a strange shade of aqua. “This is bound to look better once it’s done cooking.” Cheerfully she placed the pie into the center of the oven and waited.
Lord, I know this is trivial, but please let this pie turn out okay.
When the pie came out at the appointed time, Gwendolyn nearly shrieked. The color hadn’t improved at all. If anything, cooking brought out the blue even more. Even worse, the crust was black around the edges. Gwendolyn tried to flake off as much of the burnt portion as she could with a butter knife, resulting in minimal, if any, improvement.
She groaned. “What am I going to do?”
Her kitchen clock told her the hour was almost midnight. She had no choice. Her new boss would feast on this very pie the next day.
The next morning, Sebastian stood beside his kitchen sink and drank a tall glass of orange juice blended with a raw egg. “Wonder if Gwendolyn drinks juice for breakfast?” he muttered.
At that moment, he realized he had been thinking of the photographer with chocolate-colored hair and matching eyes ever since he’d met her. “Gwendolyn. Gwendolyn Warner. Why does she haunt me? Why do I wonder about everything about her—even what she eats for breakfast?”
The only answer was Sebastian’s basset hound whimpering for his own breakfast.
“Aren’t you glad you don’t have to worry about such nonsense, Cookie? All you have to think about is sleeping and getting fed every day.” Sebastian poured his pet a healthy portion of premium dog food and set the hound’s monogrammed bowl on the floor. “Here you go, boy,” he said, giving Cookie a quick rub behind the ears.
As the dog chomped his food, Sebastian journeyed into the largest of three bedrooms in the house he occupied. The four-year-old house had been custom-built on a parcel of land that had been part of Grandpa’s farm before he started the bakery business. Though modest, when Sebastian approved the plans, he knew the house would be too large for a bachelor. He had not built the home for himself, but for the wife and family he hoped to have one day. Still, Sebastian was in no hurry for One Day to arrive. Though women pursued him, even calling to arrange dates, Sebastian had not found any of them alluring enough to cause him to break his quiet stride of life.
Opening the door to his walk-in closet, Sebastian pondered several suits, shirts, dress pants, and jeans. On the days he had sales calls to make, the decision to dress in a suit was automatic. Sebastian mused that perhaps a suit was no longer required in a world of casual Fridays, but he clung to tradition out of pride, stubbornness, and, though he was loath to admit it, a desire to be different.
Yet today was not a usual business day for the VP. Today he was scheduled to visit a photo shoot, just to be sure it was going according to plan and, as Mother liked to say, “To remind them that DairyBaked Delights is paying the bill.”
Sebastian had been present during other shoots, but those had only involved Reginald and Bernie. The animals wouldn’t have cared if Sebastian appeared in a bath towel. But an elaborate set, with a professional model—well, that was something altogether different.
Having finished his breakfast, Cookie joined his master in the bedroom. The dog nuzzled against Sebastian’s bare leg.
“You’re no help at all.” Nevertheless, Sebastian chuckled and gave his buddy a playful pat on the head.
Cookie waddled to his customary position on the oval beige rug beside Sebastian’s bed, closing his eyes for an early morning snooze.
“Decisions, decisions.” Sebastian pulled a dressy blue shirt off a cedar hanger. Standing in his shirttails, he debated whether to wear a pair of dark blue chinos that had been faithful friends since the day they were purchased. “No one else will be wearing a suit,” he told Cookie. “I’ll fit right in.”
The dog opened one eye. Looking at his master, he wagged his tail in approval.
Sebastian twisted his mouth. “On second thought, I am the one paying the bill.” The idea prompted him to don a dark blue suit and matching tie. “There. That’s better.”
As he perfected a Windsor knot, Sebastian had a horrifying thought. “Cookie, do you realize this is the first time I’ve ever put on more than one change of clothes for work?”
“Ummm hmmm,” Cookie seemed to say.
“What do you think has happened to me, boy?”
He whimpered.
“Yeah, maybe you’re right. Although I never thought I’d go for such a tall, thin woman. She looks like a model.” He pursed his lips. “The kind of model my sister always admired.” Bittersweet images of his older sister came to mind. “Do you think I’m making a big mistake, boy?”
This time, not even Cookie gave him an answer. Sebastian was on his own.
Meanwhile, Gwendolyn waited anxiously for Pansy to arrive. Just that morning, someone named Hal, who said he boarded Pansy and Bernie, called to ask for directions from his farm in Haymarket. So someone else would be bringing DairyBaked Delights’ mascots. Had Sebastian forgotten all about the dessert? Strange, she felt sorry that she might not be seeing him after all. If he didn’t show, at least after the shoot she could console herself with a big slice of pie. Somehow, the thought didn’t comfort her as much as she thought it might.
Two hours later, Sebastian arrived at the warehouse. He was glad he didn’t have to venture all the way into Washington. Though the city offered excitement, he had no desire to enter the frenzy full-time. Trips to the Corcoran Gallery of Art and plays at the Kennedy Center gave Sebastian the cultural infusions he needed without the everyday hassle of urban living.
Gold hands on the black face of his watch confirmed that Gwendolyn must already be an hour into the photo shoot. Rushing, lest he miss the entire session, Sebastian pulled into the first generous parking space he saw and made his way into the dumpy building. He didn’t have to note the room number. A catchy tune would have led Sebastian in the direction of Gwendolyn’s studio even if he had not visited in the past. He knocked on the door loudly enough to be heard over the music. As he waited for a response, he noticed that the song, a tune he didn’t recognize, mentioned Jesus. And not as a swear word. The singer was praising His name!
The volume was turned down so he could no longer hear the words, just a faint tune. He heard footsteps as someone approached the door, and then Gwendolyn answered.
“Mr. Emerson! I was wondering when you would show up.”
He looked around, pretending to search for his father. “Dad? Are you here?”
“Sorry.” Her face blushed a pretty shade of peach. “Sebastian.”
“I would have been here sooner if not for the traffic. I-66 was terrible,” he responded, referring to the highway used by commuters heading into Washington from the western suburbs.
“No matter. We haven’t started yet. You arrived at just the right moment,” she smiled and gushed, leading him into the room where the photo session was to occur.
He looked at his watch. “You haven’t started yet?”
“The model is still in hair and makeup.”
“Still?” Sebastian glanced once again at his watch.
The melody of her laugh echoed in the studio. “You’re spoiled since Pansy doesn’t need much preparation to look cute. But hair and makeup for real models takes forever!”
“I see,” Sebastian muttered, even though he didn’t. As he followed Gwendolyn to the set, he noted her slim figure and gorgeous mane of hair. “I’l
l bet if you were the model, you wouldn’t take more than five minutes,” he blurted.
She turned her head just enough so he could see her eyes and answered. “Are you kidding? I’d take all day!”
“I find that hard to believe.” Sebastian found himself enjoying the light banter. Already, Gwendolyn had made him feel relaxed, as though he, not she, should have been feeling nervous. She seemed just as at ease as she had the first day they met in his mom’s office. Nothing he said or did ever seemed to intimidate her. He found her self-confidence both impressive and charming.
Glancing about the room, he noticed Pansy contentedly chewing her cud. A handsome young man was stroking the side of her neck. A vague feeling of jealousy ripped through Sebastian, taking him by surprise. “Who is that?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Gwendolyn apologized. “That’s Fernando, my assistant.”
Fernando sent him a cocky grin and waved.
“I’d be lost without Fernando,” Gwendolyn said.
“I’m sure.” Sebastian had taken an instant dislike to Fernando. No man had any business being that handsome. He couldn’t help wondering if Gwendolyn shared his opinion.
“Do not listen to my beautiful boss lady, Mr. Emerson,” Fernando protested in a strange accent that seemed to mock a character in a mafia movie. “She flatters me.”
Unwilling to think about Fernando any longer, Sebastian looked for Bernie. As soon as their eyes met, the dog let out several loud barks and rumbled until the cage shook.
Sweet Surprise: Romance Collection Page 29
