by Lisa Jordan
Sarah touched his arm. “There’s nothing wrong with that as long as you don’t allow your past to keep you from facing your future.”
* * *
Alec needed to relax, but how could he when he had to teach this woman basic skills in just a few days? She’d burned popcorn. And now she expected to have enough skills to teach a bunch of kids? At least he’d be around to supervise.
He didn’t have time for these lessons, but he wasn’t about to go back on his word, especially since Sarah had battled him to help with his uncle’s house even after he’d freaked out on her. Man, he was an idiot. Once they finished with the house and the cooking lessons, he’d put some necessary distance between them.
Truth be told, he wasn’t used to having a woman in his kitchen. At least, not this kitchen. With the brick backsplash, cabinets painted a shade of navy that reminded him of Shelby Lake, copper countertops and the wood laminate flooring, it looked nothing like the bright and airy white kitchen he’d shared with Christy for almost two years.
That was the point.
The only part he’d brought from his past into this new space was his continued love of cooking to music.
But not today. With Sarah in his kitchen, the radio stayed off so he could focus on teaching her.
At first he’d worried he was getting more out of their bargain, but jerking his eyes back to the present showed him a messy mound of onions that stretched across the cutting board and looked nothing like the small pile he’d cut to demonstrate.
“No, Sarah, don’t hack the onion. Cut it.” Alec didn’t mean for his voice to sound so harsh, but patience wasn’t always his strong suit.
Sarah’s head jerked up. “I am.”
“No, you’re not. You’re beating it with the blade of your knife. Let me show you again.” Alec reached for another, plopped it on the cutting board, and then stood next to Sarah. “Slice it through the root. If you cut it off, it’ll start to bleed, and that’s what causes you to cry. Allow the weight of your knife to work for you. Then place the onion flat on the board. Keep your knife pointed toward the root and slice through it. Solid strokes. Then turn your knife and slice through the middle and top. Hold everything together and slice evenly. You’ll end up with nicely diced pieces.”
Instead of copying him with the other half of the onion, she turned and looked up at him. Thick lashes fringed her eyes—eyes so close he could see the burst of sunlight in the field of green. Freckles dotted the bridge of her nose. Her lips parted slightly as if she were about to say something. If he lowered his head—
He jerked his thoughts out of dangerous territory. What was he doing? Why was he even thinking that way? How could he do that to Christy? To the life they shared? The blatant betrayal of his late wife’s memory speared his gut.
He released the knife and stepped back. “Uh, do it like that, and you’ll have even cuts instead of liquefying your onions.”
Sarah dropped her gaze to the pile on the cutting board. “Yeah, I’ll, um, do it that way.”
She turned back to the counter and picked up the knife. Her cuts slowed and were more meticulous.
Alec washed his hands, then gripped the edge of the sink. The rhythmic tapping of the knife competed with the rain pelting the open kitchen window above the sink. A breeze drifted across the sill and ruffled her already tousled hair. His blue apron fell almost to her knees, but it didn’t quite cover her white T-shirt and yellow skirt.
A couple of minutes later, the chopped pile grew. “Onions are diced. Now what?” She laid the knife down and then moved to the sink to wash her hands, her arm brushing his.
He stepped away, giving her some room. “Leave them there for a couple of minutes. Now we need to slice the sausage. Do you remember what I said about slicing?”
She raised an eyebrow and dropped a hand on her hip. “I’m not a total idiot, you know. I do know how to slice.”
He grabbed another board and set it in front of her. “Fine, then let’s get to it. This soup’s not going to make itself.”
For their first lesson, Sarah had requested that they make the same zuppa Toscana he’d made for Uncle Emmett. After showing her how to read the recipe and explaining which cooking tools to use, they’d made a list of the ingredients, which Sarah had picked up at the store.
Having her in his kitchen might have been a mistake. But if he was going to teach her to cook, he needed the right tools—his tools. Her knives consisted of a paring knife and a couple of serrated steak knives. If only he could get rid of her fragrance of wildflowers, which was wafting through the room, curling through him and flaying open those wounds best left covered.
She pulled the link of Italian sausage out of the package and flopped it onto the cutting board. She picked up the French knife and started to cut.
“Not that knife.” Alec pulled a utility knife out of the block and handed it to her, handle first. “Try this one. You’ll have more control as you slice through the sausage. Be careful—it’s sharp. How did you become an adult without learning to cook?”
She took the knife and started sawing at the sausage. “Growing up we had a housekeeper who prepared our meals. Mrs. Nelson wouldn’t allow anyone in her kitchen. When I left home, I ate in the dorm cafeteria, ordered takeout or lived on cereal and freezer meals.”
He shook his head. “You have so much to learn. Frozen foods are filled with sodium and preservatives. You need to cook nutritious meals.” Catching her action, he stifled a groan and schooled his tone. She wouldn’t learn if he kept barking at her. “It’s not a log, Sarah. You don’t need to saw it. That knife is sharp. Pierce the casing with the tip of the knife and slice through it in a single cut. Like this.” He took the knife from her and demonstrated. Just as he’d done with the onion. After handing it back to her, he pressed his back against the sink to watch. Once he was sure she wasn’t going to lose an appendage, he turned around to wash the other cutting board.
“How did you learn to cook?”
He dried the cutting board, then slid it back into place on the shelf between his stove and refrigerator. “By reading recipe books and watching cooking shows on TV. I did it to help out my mom after my dad was killed, but then I found out I enjoyed it.”
“You lost your dad? I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. He was a marine killed in friendly fire when I was fifteen.”
The knife clattered against the board as Sarah sucked in a sharp breath. “You weren’t kidding about the knife being sharp.”
“I don’t kid about knives.” He turned to see her about to bring her bleeding index finger to her mouth. He grabbed her hand. “No, don’t. You’ve been handling raw pork.”
Still holding on to her, he pulled her to the sink and flipped on the water. He pumped hand soap onto her palm. “Wash your hands while I grab a Band-Aid.”
Sarah lathered her hands and rinsed. “It’s a minor cut. I’ll wrap a paper towel around it.”
“You’re working with food. It needs to be clean and covered.” Alec folded a paper towel and pressed it against the cut. “Hold this to get the bleeding stopped. I’ll be right back.”
He strode down the hall to the master bathroom. Rummaging through the medicine cabinet for the box of bandages, he kicked himself for letting his mind wander. He should’ve known better than to get distracted. If he lost focus, then someone got hurt.
He pulled out the last two and tossed the empty box in the trash. Leaving the bathroom, he turned off the light. As he passed his dresser, Christy smiled at him from her crystal frame.
His breath caught in his chest, and he nearly dropped to his knees. The Band-Aids fluttered from his fingers. He reached down and picked them up, then braced himself against the doorway. Sarah’s humming drifted down the hall.
Why had he invited her into his kitchen?
His lonel
y, vacant life of going through the motions without Christy wore on him, but he’d had his chance at love once. He couldn’t risk his heart a second time. The pain of losing her had gutted him. And he couldn’t go through that again. He needed to keep his distance from Sarah.
Chapter Four
Keep it simple, Sarah.
How many times had Alec repeated that phrase over the past week?
Simple. Right.
She glanced at the clock hanging over the sink. Where was he anyway? He promised to be here an hour ago. She’d tried to stall as long as she could, but the teens were getting antsy.
The group of twenty teenagers, aged thirteen to eighteen, were assembled in the Shelby Lake community center kitchen and were currently swatting each other with dish towels and singing into spatulas as if they were auditioning for The Voice. Daniel Obenhaus and his brother, Toby, stood off to the side, talking to each other while taking in the ruckus created by everyone else.
Sarah pulled in a deep breath and raised her hands in the air. “Hey, everyone, let’s settle down and get back to work. Now it’s time to practice some of what we learned this morning.”
Once she had all eyes watching her, she shot another glance at the clock, murmured a silent prayer and pulled cartons of eggs out of the industrial-sized side-by-side refrigerator. She set them in the middle of the long worktable in the middle of the room, opened a carton and reached for an egg. “This morning we talked about the importance of good nutrition. Eggs are cheap, and they offer protein and nutrients. I’m going to demonstrate how to crack one.” She hit it gently on the edge of the bowl and pried the shell apart. The whites and yolks slid into the stainless-steel bowl without taking even a sliver of shell with it. She smiled and resisted breaking out into a happy dance. At home, she’d even attempted cracking them with one hand the way Alec did and managed not to create too much of a mess.
Scanning the group surrounding three sides of the table, she picked up the whisk, and then she beat the yolk into the white. “This is called beating the egg. We’re adding air into our egg mixture while getting it as smooth as possible. You can use a whisk like I am, or a fork...either one works.”
Fifteen-year-old Amber Jennings, whose dad worked at the Shelby Lake Police Department with Sarah’s brother, Caleb, tossed her blond braid over her shoulder and raised her hand. “Miss Sarah, my mom just like cracks the eggs into the skillet and scrambles them with a spatula. Why do we need to like mess around with bowls and whisks and stuff? Makes more dishes to wash.”
“Amber, your mom’s way is totally fine. And I hear you about having extra dishes to wash. But beating isn’t just for eggs. As we progress throughout the summer, we’ll create other dishes that use this technique, so if you learn how to do it in the beginning, then we can continue to build upon those skills to make more challenging dishes.” Or at least that’s what Alec said when he’d reviewed the lessons with her. Hopefully her words carried more confidence than she felt.
“The only time anything gets beaten in my house is when my old man goes on a bender.” Brushing his shaggy brown hair out of his eyes, seventeen-year-old Garrett laughed and elbowed the kid next to him. “Know what I’m saying?”
Despite the kid’s teasing tone, truth sliced through his words. In her career of working with youth, Sarah had seen too many bruises that came with ready excuses. She’d have to keep a watchful eye on this group. These kids weren’t young men and women she’d been associating with on a regular basis through the church’s youth ministry. Most of them didn’t attend church. But she hoped to forge those lasting relationships by the end of the summer and draw them into her youth group.
Having worked with youth in community outreach programs in her former church, Sarah had approached Pastor Nate and Melissa with her idea after Christmas—instead of inviting kids and hoping they would come to church and get involved in the youth program, she suggested the church go to them and offer life skills they could take back to their families. Melissa jumped at the idea immediately. They’d spent months securing grants, preparing the curriculum, rounding up volunteers and spreading the word.
Sarah exchanged a quick look with Mindy, her volunteer for the week, and waited a moment until she captured Garrett’s gaze. She smiled, but the firmness of her voice relayed the promise in her words. “Garrett, the only beatings happening here are the ones with the food.”
His eyes dropped to the toes of his beat-up purple Converse shoes, but then his head jerked up and a smile spread across his face. He shoved a hand in the pocket of his baggy shorts and waved at her with the other. “Aw, Miss Sarah, I was just messin’ with you.”
She reached for another egg and rolled it in her hand. “How about you start messing with this egg and show me some of those smooth skills I know you’ve got?”
Garrett swaggered to the table, amid his friend’s heckling and hooting, trying to act as if he was doing her a favor, but for a second, he looked at her with softened eyes as if to thank her for the reassurance of her words.
She gave him a barely discernible nod and handed him the egg, giving his fingers a slight squeeze in the exchange. She stepped back, giving him a little space, and watched as he broke the egg with one hand and then beat it smooth with practiced strokes.
“Great job, Garrett. This isn’t your first time, is it?”
“Nah, my mom...she works in the kitchen at the Lakeside Lodge. I’ve been cooking since I was a little kid.”
“Great. You’ll be a huge help this summer.” She pointed to the stacks of stainless-steel bowls and a basket of whisks. “Okay, friends, grab your bowls and whisks. Let’s practice beating your eggs.”
The sounds of eggs being cracked against bowls and the scraping of whisks against stainless steel filled the oversize kitchen. Whites splashed across the table and a couple of yolks landed on the floor.
Sarah pressed her back against the counter and tried not to glance at the clock for the third time in ten minutes. Crossing her arms over her chest to tamp down the building frustration at Alec, she gave the teens space to do as directed. “Once your eggs are beaten, I’ll show you how to scramble them.”
Some of the teens were siblings like Daniel and Toby, who lived with their grandma and attended her church. Others were only children. And some like Amber, who had working parents and younger brothers and sisters at home, could benefit from the skills being learned over the summer.
And while they were here, with her, they were safe. If they learned nothing else this summer, they’d know they were loved. And worthy. They mattered. That was one aspect of the program she guaranteed.
A throat clearing behind her caused her to jump. She turned to find Alec standing in the doorway, wearing a red polo shirt with Seaver Realty embroidered on it. With a tight smile on his face, he shoved his hands in his tan trouser pockets.
Instead of jumping down his throat at his lateness, she smiled and schooled her tone. “Hey, glad you could make it.”
“Yeah, sorry I’m late. Something came up at work.” His gaze darted around the room, his jaw clenching. “How’s it going?”
She waved a hand over the crowd. “We haven’t set off any smoke alarms.”
“Yet.” A slow smile spread across his face as he pointed to the square box above the door. “Good thing, too, because these smoke alarms are tied into the city fire department.”
“Good to know. Anyway, to answer your question—we’re off to a good start.” With Mindy at the table lending the teens a hand, Sarah turned her back to them and lowered her voice. “Your suggestion about beginning with breakfast was a hit.”
“Told you it would be. Teach them the basics and build up from there. Eggs are one of the simplest things to cook...for most people.”
“Hey, I didn’t burn that third batch.” She struggled not to stick out her tongue.
�
�You’re right. Those had a slightly less charred taste.”
“One of these days I’m going to knock your socks off with my cooking, Mr. Seaver.”
“I may be on Medicare by the time that happens, Ms. Sullivan.” His teasing tone melted away some of her anxiety. She was so afraid he wasn’t going to show, and then she’d have been left to her own devices. That was a disaster in the making.
“You scoff at my abilities now, but you’ll see... I’m a fast learner.” He didn’t need to know she’d been poring over cookbooks and watching cooking shows in her spare time. Or see the amount of burned food she’d thrown away, making her bank account cry. At least she hadn’t set off any more smoke alarms this past week.
She slipped an apron off the hook by the door and tossed it to him. “Now that you’re here, suit up. You can help us with the next step.”
He caught the apron with his left hand, but his mouth tightened and his nostrils flared. His eyes darted around the room. A ragged breath squeezed from his chest. Color drained from his face.
She cocked her head and frowned. “You okay?”
“Hey, Miss Sarah, who’s the dude? Your boyfriend?” Garrett winked and nudged his buddy.
“No, Garrett, he’s my...friend who will be helping us with cooking this summer.” Sarah reached for Alec’s arm and tried to pull him deeper into the kitchen, but he stood his ground. He stiffened and shook off her hand while taking a step back.
Was she jumping to conclusions with that last identifier?
She and Alec were friends, weren’t they? Over the past week of cooking lessons, they’d developed a sort of rapport. His growling lessened in the kitchen, so that was good, right?
“Well, your friend’s about to split.”
Sarah turned to find Alec stalking to the door. “Excuse me a minute, guys.” She left the kitchen and hurried after him. “Alec, wait up. Alec.”
