Ella paused and pushed her glasses up. “Can you cook?”
“I know my way around a kitchen and a spice rack.” No thanks to his mother. Cooking hadn’t been a required skill in the Harrington household. He’d learned in grad school, trying to impress a pastry chef who lived in his apartment building. He’d never won over his neighbor, yet he’d had fun in the kitchen and enjoyed attempting new recipes and creating different flavors. He cooked at home more nights than he ate out and often brought the leftovers to work for his staff.
“We don’t have a spice rack.” Doubt and disappointment coated the earlier hope in Ella’s voice.
“But we do have a spice drawer.” Sophie pointed at the cabinets.
She’d leveled up the positive beat in her tone, but in her eyes he still saw the skepticism over his culinary skills.
“We have a cooking drawer.” Ella touched Brad’s arm. “The spices share space with the measuring cups and spatulas and spoons.”
“How did you cook a spicy stir-fry?” Brad asked.
“We were too lazy to go to the store.” Sophie restacked the cookery books as if that was the end to Sunday-night surprise. “So we improvised.”
Brad cringed. Improvised was the culinary equivalent to deconstructed, and never a good sign on those TV cooking shows he watched every night.
Sophie avoided him, edging around the table rather than crossing in front of him to return the cookbooks to the shelf. She wouldn’t look at him. He’d already guessed from the last ten minutes that she probably wasn’t the best cook on the West Coast or even the city block. Not that it mattered. She was trying to build something special for Ella. She was making memories for herself and her niece: good memories that lasted.
A warning flared inside him, telling him these memories belonged to Ella and Sophie, not him. But he barreled on past the exit-now sign flashing in his mind, very much determined to add to their memories. Yes, Sophie’s stove was more vintage than practical. He’d bet the temperature in the oven hadn’t been calibrated in over two decades. And if he guessed correctly, only two of the four burners worked. Yet he wanted to make dinner here with them. Against all good sense and logic and rationale, he wanted to experience prepping and cooking in this kitchen with this family.
“How about this?” Brad grabbed a cookbook from the top of Sophie’s stack, enjoying the surprise in her gaze. “Sophie, you play around with the laptop and the cameras. Ella will introduce me to the spice drawer and help me do a Sunday-night surprise Brad Harrington style.”
“That’s a lot of work.” Sophie reached to take the cookbook from Brad. “We can call The Boot, and Ella—”
“Will help me locate everything I need after we discuss our menu.” Brad firmed his grip on the cookbook as Sophie pulled harder.
She refused to release the cookbook and he refused to give it up. And then he knew. Maybe it was the hesitancy in her gaze or the firm set to her mouth or her white-knuckled grip on the cookbook. But he knew this wasn’t a tug-of-war over takeout or home-cooked. This was about control and giving that up inside her own home. He softened his voice and added, “You’ll be within jumping distance if we get into any trouble, which we won’t.”
“I know I can’t light the stove.” Ella jumped from her chair and crossed to Sophie’s side. “But I can do a lot of other things.”
The determined confidence in Ella’s voice impressed Brad and tugged at his heart. The tension drifted from Sophie’s face. She tugged once, then released the cookbook. “The pots are under the sink. It’s the only cabinet tall enough.” She pushed Ella’s chair into the table and adjusted the towel before it slipped off the rack and onto the floor. “We usually cook at the kitchen table. It’s easier for Ella to reach.”
“Or she could use the stool at the counter, near the sink. Closer to the water,” Brad suggested.
Sophie rounded on him and gave him a silent are-you-nuts glare.
Ella interpreted the tense silence. “I won’t fall. I do balance activities in gym at school.”
“You aren’t at school, you’re near a hot stove,” Sophie countered.
“Ella won’t fall. I won’t burn myself.” Brad opened the laptop on the kitchen table and plugged it into the wall socket beneath the table so Ella wouldn’t trip on the cord. “But if it makes you feel better, you can sit here at the table and watch your video footage of this afternoon while we cook. After we have dinner, then we can continue our conversation from earlier.”
Sophie made a show of dragging out the chair and plopping down as if under duress. Her fingers punched at the keyboard, but he figured she’d rather be poking at him. He’d invaded her kitchen and reminded her that he hadn’t forgotten about her unwanted customer. He was two for two at rattling her. And there was time left in the evening. Brad smiled before switching his focus to Ella. “Did you pick out those apples in the basket on the counter?”
Ella nodded. “I tested each one for soft spots.”
“Then we have dessert.”
Ella frowned. “Those are my healthy snack before dessert.”
“Not if we bake them into a pie.”
Ella beamed. “We can do that?”
“Definitely,” he said. “But we need supper first.”
Ella tapped her chin. “I like noodles with butter.”
Brad opened the refrigerator and spotted the package of chicken breasts and a bag of shredded mozzarella cheese beside a premade pizza crust. He had a protein. “Where do you keep those noodles, Ella?”
Ella opened two cabinet doors. “My friend Charlotte has a closet with all their food in it. You can walk inside and everything.”
“Pantries come in all sizes. As long as you have certain staples, you can make dinner.”
“Do we have staples?” Ella whispered.
Brad picked up a can of tomato sauce. He preferred crushed tomatoes or, even better, a dozen fresh Roma tomatoes from the farmers’ market. But he’d make it work. “How do you feel about chicken Parmesan?”
“Does it come with noodles?” Ella asked.
“Any kind you want.”
Ella opened a box and picked up a dry noodle. “Bow ties are my second favorite.” Closing the box, she reached for another one. “These are my favorite. I like the twisty shape.”
“I like those, too.” Brad grabbed another can of pasta sauce from the cupboard and closed the door. “Now it’s time to show me that cooking drawer.”
The joy in Ella’s smile was enough to tell Brad that he’d made the right choice in staying. Now if he could only get Sophie to stop punching the keyboard and join in the fun, then the evening might be a resounding success.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SOPHIE PACED ACROSS the kitchen and shoved the cooking drawer closed, the five steps hardly enough to release her irritation. The drawer had to be kept closed or Ella might run into it. Not that Ella was leaving Brad’s side anytime soon. They didn’t appear to even know Sophie was still there. From the flattening of the chicken breasts with a small hammer, as Sophie had never owned a mallet, to the seasoning of the bread crumbs, Ella and Brad kept their heads together, moving in tandem like a well-choreographed team.
Ella stood on a stool in front of the counter, her attention fixed on Brad’s instructions, nodding when he paused and repeating each step back to him. At his praise, her thin shoulders straightened and pride blossomed across her cheeks. Brad secured Ella in his embrace, standing behind her with his arms framing her on either side as they worked together to roll out a piecrust.
Sophie chewed on her lip. Buying a piecrust in the pan already assembled wasn’t a bad option, and, even for store-bought, the crust tasted perfectly acceptable.
Ella’s joy filled the kitchen, bouncing around the teapots on the swirl of her laughter. “I’m making a real pie.”
&
nbsp; Brad’s gentle encouragement stamped a deep imprint on Sophie’s heart. She needed to close down her senses, protect herself and Ella from his charm and strength. But with every breath, she inhaled the enticing aromas from the chicken Parmesan baking in the oven. Heaven help her, she’d never known her kitchen could smell quite this delicious. And the delight in Ella’s expression and the kindness in Brad’s hooked her, pulling her away from the laptop over and over again.
But this wasn’t reality. And she needed to bring all of them out of this culinary fantasy before bad things happened, like a kitchen fire or lost hearts.
Sophie moved over to the pie-assembly station and picked up an apple peeling. He’d even shown Ella how to peel an apple in one loop. He’d seriously downplayed his skills in the kitchen. And Sophie had seriously downplayed his effect on her. But she’d find her focus; she had to. “I imagine you’ll be having mangoes and pineapple from Baja soon. Unless you intend to travel north first, but that would mean colder weather.” The apple peel twisted around Sophie’s fingers like a chain twisting around her emotions. Brad glanced at her, a curious glint in his gaze. Everyone needed this reminder, so she plowed on. “You are sailing south first, right?”
Brad picked up the pie dish and shrugged. “I haven’t quite mapped out my exact course.” Then he steered the conversation back to Ella and their impromptu cooking lesson. “Now we press the dough into the pie pan.”
“Then the filling and then the top.” Ella brushed her hands together. “Brad knows how to cook so many different foods, Auntie. He’s gone to so many places.”
Awe and admiration colored Ella’s voice. But apple pie was classic American fare. Sophie didn’t need to be well traveled to chop up apples and dump them in a premade piecrust. Thank you very much. Then she noticed Brad had assembled a barrier of cans around the cutting board as markers for Ella to know how far to roll the pie dough. But anyone could’ve thought of that to help Ella.
Brad waited while Ella felt around the pie dish for the size and then together they lifted the dough into the pan. But his ease with Ella... Not everyone managed that with her niece, and more often their discomfort and uncertainty revealed itself. Brad didn’t treat Ella as if she was a fragile keepsake best left on the shelf, but just like any other kid. Yet the teamwork, the trust Ella seemed to have in Brad and his trust in the little girl, in turn, continued to both weaken and irritate Sophie.
Ella and Sophie were the team. They only trusted each other. That’s how it’d always been. And how it had to be now for the good of everyone.
“If only we had vanilla ice cream.” Ella helped dump the apple mixture on top of the crust.
“There really aren’t many things better than warm apple pie and ice cream,” Brad added.
Sophie crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not going out to buy ice cream.” She definitely wasn’t leaving these two alone. She might return and find Brad moved into the guest bedroom and her bags packed.
Ella pouted until Brad suggested they all go out to get ice cream after dinner.
Sophie knocked her head back against the wall, jarring that chain around her emotions. He was too accommodating. Too considerate. Too everything. But she’d locked herself away. She was untouchable. Still, she should’ve ordered takeout or accepted Ruthie’s invitation for dinner at Rustic Bistro. This was fast becoming more than a simple dinner.
Brad opened the oven, dipped a chunk of bread into the pan and handed it to Sophie. She blew on the steaming sauce, then took a bite and lost her focus. Forgot about feeling displaced. Forgot about those locks and chains. And tumbled into the culinary wonderland Brad had created.
Two servings, a glass of wine and a quick trip to the corner market later, Sophie still hadn’t quite recovered her focus or located new dead bolts for her emotions. She couldn’t recall the last time Ella had requested seconds of any meal that wasn’t takeout. She couldn’t recall having so much fun cleaning up. And she couldn’t recall what her kitchen was like without Brad in it. She shook her head, blaming the wine for her memory failure.
This was only a moment and, like all moments, it had to end.
Sophie watched Brad cover the pie with tinfoil. “You can leave it out. I’ve figured out how to justify a second piece.”
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “How’s that?”
“Kay left more silent-auction items in the downstairs entryway this afternoon. I’ve been storing everything in the attic to keep it out of Ella’s way.”
He rubbed his stomach. “If I help carry, can I have more pie, too?”
“Whoever carries the most stuff can have the biggest piece.” Sophie headed down the hall, stopping in Ella’s bedroom to tell her they’d be in the attic. Once again, she blamed the wine for the happy skip in her step.
Four trips and over three hundred and fifty steps later, Sophie adjusted her grip on a tin of assorted pet toys and blankets.
Brad followed her into the attic, carrying a box with a spa gift basket and a movie night goodie package. “Where do you want these?”
“Under the window.” Sophie set her pet tin on top of another box and started rearranging things. Thanks to Kay, the items for the silent auction had doubled.
“You’ll need a larger attic soon.” Brad edged a stack of donations closer to the wall and left to retrieve the last box from the entryway.
She wasn’t about to stop Kay from collecting more items. She wanted the gala to be a success. She stepped back to give Brad more room and bumped into reality. The smack of her elbow against her grandmother’s armoire cracked through the illusion of the evening, the stinging pain angling her attention back to her plans.
Brad wasn’t part of her plans. He wasn’t part of her future. Her future was uncertain. And every minute she didn’t concentrate on finding her father and getting her money, she failed to secure a future for herself and Ella.
She ran her hand across the antique armoire. “How much do you think someone would pay for this?”
Brad opened the armoire’s etched doors and pulled out the drawer inside. “It’s solid, real wood. Well crafted.” Brad inspected the matching dresser and headboard. “Beautifully maintained.”
And the last of her grandmother’s possessions. All that remained of the woman was there in the attic. “It was my grandmother’s. All handmade by my grandfather.”
The only tangible connection Sophie had to the grandfather she’d never met. Even as kids, Tessa and Sophie couldn’t fill the void their grandfather’s passing had carved inside their grandmother. In the detailed lines and intricate patterns of the furniture Sophie had discovered the love and true happiness shared between her grandparents. When Sophie wrapped her fingers around the thick bedpost, she stopped resenting her grandmother for refusing to let Sophie believe in the impossible. When she traced the curved edges on the side table, she understood that a tragic loss had made her grandmother a realist and that she’d only wanted to prevent Sophie and her sister from suffering the same pain. The pain of dreams broken, hope shattered and love lost. “The sharp edges on the coffee table and thick bedposts were too dangerous for Ella. I worried she’d trip as a toddler and hit her head. I didn’t want to alter the furniture so I moved it up here.”
“It’s your history.” Brad scrutinized the bedside table. “Why would you want to sell it?”
Sophie knelt in front of a matching pair of bookshelves and flipped through one of her grandmother’s blank journals. Friends and family had gifted her grandmother floral-covered notebooks on every birthday and holiday. But her grandmother had stopped writing after her grandfather’s death, as if there was nothing worthwhile to commit to paper, not even the upbringing of two lost granddaughters. “Feels like it’s wasted up here in the attic. Useless.”
Which was what Sophie refused to be. She wouldn’t be useless. Her future wouldn’t be blank
. She now had a backup plan to find the funds to keep her and Ella in their home: sell Grandmother’s furniture and any other valuables that might be discovered in the attic.
“If you’re serious, I know someone who could give you better advice than me.”
The vintage furniture in Mayor Harrington’s office had been authentic. She imagined the entire house carried a similar look. No imitations or replicas for the Harringtons. Sophie smiled at Brad. “Your mother?”
He shook his head, his eyes wide, as if he’d never considered his mother an authority on furniture or anything else. “No, my admin’s partner is an interior decorator and she designs furniture on the side. They’ll know what to do—estate sale, internet listing, auction.”
“Thanks. I’d like to talk to her.” Sophie skimmed through another journal. More blank pages, but various newspaper clippings had been tucked inside. The highlighting on one caught Sophie’s attention. She tugged it free and read a short blurb about the arrest of Henry Mason, whose real name was George Henry Callahan.
Sophie stared at the yellowed clipping and remembered the “who will Daddy be today” car game she’d played with her parents and sister as they’d driven to new towns, found new apartments. But she’d only been five or so at the time, and her memories were unreliable. She’d been an innocent child enjoying the name game. But this old highlighted article signaled much more. Was it possible her grandmother had kept track of George Callahan’s aliases? Her grandmother hadn’t been a child playing a game. She’d been a mother tracking her son’s misdeeds.
Sophie stuck the clipping back in the journal and set it on top of the bookshelf to look through after Brad left and Ella fell asleep.
Brad glanced over at her. “Your sister won’t want this stuff, will she?”
Sophie struggled not to snort. She’d already ignored several calls and texts from Tessa that week, certain Tessa only wanted more money. Sophie wanted Tessa to make a claim and it wasn’t on the antique furniture. Her sister needed to claim Ella and accept her responsibilities as the girl’s mother. “It’s not really her style.”
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