by Hanson
In fact, everything about this evening seemed out of kilter. They’d gone out together many times, but usually not on a weeknight. Maybe her fatigue was catching up with her, but she had a hard time keeping her attention focused on his conversation.
“You look done in,” he said sympathetically after she’d picked away at the salad that came with her dinner.
“Things have been worrisome at work,” she said, although she knew that wasn't her reason for feeling tired.
They talked about Hope Haven throughout the meal, and Candace found it relaxing to focus on their mutual commitment to good health care. Both of them passed on dessert and were enjoying cups of decaf coffee when Heath brought up the subject of Brooke.
“Your little girl is growing up fast,” he mused. “She's getting as pretty as her mother.”
“Too fast,” Candace said. “I really don't think she's ready to have a party with boys.”
“I remember my first boy-girl party,” he said with a grin. “I was in middle school. I think it was a girl's birthday. Anyway, it was in her recreation room.”
“How did it go?”
“I’d classify it as a minor disaster. The boys stood around at one end of the room and the girls at the other. Finally her older brother threw a basketball at us, and all the boys trooped outside and chose up sides for a game. If the girls watched us, we didn't notice.”
“I suppose that could happen if Brooke invited boys,” she said thoughtfully.
“I have a suggestion if you want to hear it,” he said.
“What?” she asked, curious about whether he had a solution.
“Let Brooke invite the boys. I’ll help chaperone. If there's any problem, I’ll be there to help.”
“I don't know.”
“You did say it's at the Y, didn't you? If things go wrong, I can always get the boys to shoot baskets or something.”
“It's a lot to ask of you.” She let the idea set in.
“I’ll enjoy it. Most of the kids I see have broken bones,” he said with a laugh. “About Brooke's party, if you really don't want to invite boys, then that's what you should do. But I think the two of us could handle it without any problems, and you’ll make your daughter very happy.”
“There is that,” Candace said, feeling convinced against her will. “But if I stand firm, she will understand someday. Are you sure that you want to give up a Saturday evening to chaperone?” She was half convinced, but something still didn't seem right.
“I won't be giving up anything. You’ll be there, and it will give me a chance to see teens in action. My memories of those days are getting hazy.”
“You remember your first boy-girl party.”
“Only because it didn't go well.”
“Suppose I say yes, and Brooke's party doesn't live up to expectations. I hate to see her disappointed. She's looked forward to this party for so long.”
He shook his head, and a shadow of sadness passed over his features. “I’m no child psychologist, but I have read that children should experience small disappointments and frustrations so they can better cope with large ones when they’re adults.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that somewhere. I guess no mother can protect her children from all the bad things in the world.”
“No, but you can teach them to cope.”
What he said made sense. Maybe she was making too much out of a simple party. After all, it was only a couple hours, and Brooke would be so happy if she said yes to boys.
An old saying she’d heard ages ago floated through her mind: A man convinced against his will is of the same opinion still. Well, she was a woman and more importantly the mother of a soon-to-be teen. Maybe Heath was right. It might be better to let Brooke have the party her way, even if it didn't meet her expectations.
“You have a job chaperoning,” she said as they stood to leave.
“If it helps you, I’m happy,” he murmured, putting his hand on the small of her back.
She didn't want their time together to end, but she still had doubts about the party. Her confusion didn't end when Heath walked her to the front door and gently pressed his lips against her forehead before saying good night.
Brooke should have been in bed when Candace got home, but instead she was on the steps in almost the same place she’d been sitting when Heath came for Candace.
“Did you have fun?” her daughter asked as Candace hung up her coat.
“We had a nice dinner.” She wasn't sure it counted as fun, especially since Heath had convinced her to change her mind about the party. “I have news for you.”
“I was hoping!”
“Why?”
“You’ll be mad at me.”
“Brooke, what's up?”
“I called Heath.”
“And?”
“Nothing much. I mentioned that I wanted to have a boy-girl party for my birthday. Did he convince you?”
Candace felt strangely double-crossed. “Brooke, I’m not happy that you did that.”
“You know how badly I want a mixed party. My friends can't understand why you won't let me.”
Candace sat beside her daughter on the step, at a loss to know how to handle the situation.
“I was going to tell you that you could have boys,” she said in an unhappy voice.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
“Wait! I was going to change my mind, but you shouldn't have called Heath.”
“I know, but I was desperate. I’m not even sure some of my friends will come if it's just us girls.”
“That doesn't excuse going behind my back.”
“I told you the truth. You always say you won't punish us if we tell the truth.”
“I expect more from you. You’re not a baby anymore.”
“I’m sorry. I didn't know you’d be mad.”
“Oh, Brooke.” She hugged her daughter close and tried to think through the situation. Part of her was glad Brooke would even let Candace envelop her in a hug.
“All right, you can invite a reasonable number of boys, but I want to see your list first,” she said in a cautious voice. “And you have to make a promise.”
“Anything!”
“You have to promise that you’ll never go behind my back like that again. Not with your grandmother and not with Heath.”
“I promise. I didn't know that I was doing such a bad thing.”
“Now go to bed.”
“Thank you, Mommy!”
Brooke hugged her and dashed up to her room, her fuzzy yellow robe flopping behind her.
Candace sat for a long time, head in her hands, trying to sort out her feelings.
Chapter Nineteen
ELENA'S CO-WORKERS WERE ON EDGE WEDNESDAY morning, with good reason. They were still processing their roles in the preparedness drill, and so far there was no news about the woman in isolation. Everyone agreed that she must be seriously ill to stay in the hospital that long, but was she the first victim of a dreaded epidemic? Elena tried to stay optimistic, but it was difficult when everyone around her was worried.
“I heard that she has swollen glands and a strange rash,” one of the younger nurses said to Elena at the nurses’ station.
“Next people will be saying she has bubonic plague,” Elena said, feeling cross because the rumors were getting worse with each retelling.
“Do you think—”
“Absolutely not!” Elena looked around, relieved that no patients were wandering the corridor within hearing distance. “Please, think of how our patients will feel if they hear wild rumors like that.”
“I’m sorry,” the young nurse said. “I didn't think about that.”
Elena wanted to wring her hands in frustration, but maybe it was good that she was on the communications committee. Surely an important part of her job was to stop harmful gossip.
At least she had her regular Bible class to look forward to this evening. Cesar was never enthusiastic about having her go to it, but he didn't mak
e a fuss anymore. She didn't know whether he would ever share her faith in the Lord, but at least he respected her decision to be active in church.
So far he hadn't said more about the Sunday evening class. He didn't want to talk about it and turned a deaf ear when she tried to explain that the first lesson hadn't been antifamily. It was just a measure of the commitment early apostles had to make to spread the word.
She went to the cafeteria for lunch, alert for more rumors as staff members talked at the tables. Fortunately the scattered bits of conversation that she caught involved other topics. She didn't like the idea of heading up the rumor police, but she thought health care workers should hold themselves to higher standards than the uninformed public.
When she got home, Cesar was already there, sitting alone at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee.
“Where are the kids?” she asked.
“I sent Rafael to the store with Izzy to get one of those chickens that are already roasted and some deli salads. Thought it would give you a break from cooking for a change. I imagine you’re going to Bible group tonight.”
“Yes, that was nice of you to take care of dinner.”
He shrugged, and she knew him well enough to know that there was more than consideration behind the gesture.
“I wanted to talk to you.”
She guessed as much.
“I dropped in on Pastor Flynn during my break.”
“Oh, did you have a nice visit?” She held her breath wondering why he did that.
“I wouldn't call it nice or a visit. He said the same thing you did about that lesson. I guess he convinced me that the church strongly supports the family.”
“Is that all you talked about?”
“More or less. At least the man didn't pressure me to come to church.”
Elena knew the pastor was a wise man. “Is that all you wanted to tell me?”
So far he hadn't said anything that couldn't be said in front of their son and granddaughter.
“I guess.”
“Okay.”
But it wasn't okay. Cesar could be a hard man to read, and he didn't talk about feelings very often.
“That doesn't mean I intend to go through the whole series of classes. I only went because I wanted to spend more time with you.”
“I appreciate that.”
She wanted Cesar to get down on his knees and pray with her, but she knew that wasn't going to happen, not until he truly accepted the Lord as his Savior.
The kitchen door exploded inward, and Izzy rushed over to give her a hug.
“Daddy let me get salad with little marshmallows in it,” she happily announced.
“Here's dinner,” Rafael said, close on her heels. “The chicken is in an insulated sack, so I think we’re good to go.”
“I’ll set the table,” Elena said. “You two go hang up your coats and wash your hands.”
“I’d better do the same,” Cesar said without looking at her.
As she laid out their ready-made supper, Elena tried to pin down exactly what Cesar had been telling her. Was he less upset about the message in the Scriptures now that he’d talked to the pastor? Surely he must know that their church was very family oriented. Maybe he wanted to soften the blow when he refused to go to more classes.
Or maybe he was confused about how he felt and wanted her to say something that would help him sort out his reasons for rejecting the faith. If so, she had failed him, but she didn't know what else she could say or do to change his mind.
She silently prayed that her example would someday lead him to believe. Beyond that, she didn't know what else she could do.
Anabelle arrived home on Wednesday with more than enough time to change her clothes for the cooking class. Dr. Hamilton had asked her to meet with him after her shift ended. He wanted to go over some details of the drill that involved the Cardiac Care Unit, and she was always happy to cooperate with him. Not only was his wife a good friend and quilting companion, the doctor had given care and support when their daughter Kirstie was severely injured in a bicycle accident at age ten. He had taken the essential step of amputating her leg, but he’d also guided the family through her recovery. When he requested something, Anabelle never thought of refusing.
“You just made it,” Cameron said, looking pretty spiffy for a cooking class.
He was wearing a new blue-and-white-striped shirt he’d gotten for Christmas and, unless she was mistaken, he had ironed his tan cotton slacks.
“I’ll hurry and change. Aren't you afraid you’ll stain your new shirt? You don't know what we’ll be fixing.”
“Remember, Sherry provides aprons as part of the fee. Now you’d better hurry. Don't forget to wear shoes with toes. Don't want you dropping something and breaking a toe if you wear sandals.”
“It is March,” she said.
Anabelle wanted nothing more than to soak in a hot tub and let the day's tensions seep out of her pores. She was a good cook and didn't expect to learn anything of interest in the class, but she wasn't doing this for herself. If Cam became enthusiastic about healthy cooking, it was worth as much of her time as it took.
She quickly changed into an old pair of navy slacks and a yellow oxford shirt with sleeves she could roll up. Cam was wearing his navy peacoat and holding her dog-walking jacket when she came downstairs.
“Did you feed Sarge?” she asked, checking her watch to see that they had plenty of time to drive into town.
“An hour ago, and I put him out and brought him back in. The stove and the lights are all off, so there's nothing for you to check before we go.”
“We’re going to be the first ones there,” she said.
“Better than being last. It will give us time to look around in the store. Some of our kitchen stuff is pretty old. Look at the roasting pan that used to be your mother's. It has so many dings it looks like it was used for target practice.”
“We don't need a pan that large for the two of us.”
“You might need one for holiday dinners. Think about how our family has expanded.”
“For today, let's just concentrate on learning to cook more sensibly.”
She was right about being early. When they got to the Chef's Corner, they had nearly half an hour to wait before the class started. Cameron entertained himself by picking out a skillet that was guaranteed to last fifty years and a set of cooking utensils with sleek chrome handles that duplicated everything she had in a drawer at home. He insisted that nonstick surfaces were essential to a good cook. She tried not to groan out loud.
Finally the class members were all assembled at designated spots along a counter. One of the men, Barry, was a boyish-looking husband who was struggling to grow a beard with limited success. The class seemed to be his idea, since his wife snapped her gum and looked bored about being there. The other man was, politely put, huge, and Anabelle suspected that he was there because his wife, a tiny little woman with white hair and a youthful face, had insisted.
The other two women were probably in their fifties and seemed more interested in talking to each other than meeting the others or listening to the instructor. In fact, Sherry had to ask them to stop talking so she could begin the class, although she did it with good-natured courtesy.
There were a total of eight in the class, apparently enough to launch it, although Cam had been expecting the maximum number of eleven. Anabelle wished that the kitchen had stools to sit on during the lesson. She’d already been on her feet most of the day.
“I have a real treat for you today,” Sherry said after passing out white aprons that tied around their waists. She was wearing an adorable pink one with embroidered butterflies over a dress with frilly ruffles instead of sleeves. The teacher definitely qualified as the cutest. Anabelle wiggled her toes in her sturdy walking shoes and hoped the class didn't last too long.
“A sweet man who works in the supermarket meat department managed to get enough fresh tilapia for one of my favorite dishes.”
&nbs
p; “What's tilapia?” the gum-chewing young woman asked.
“It's a wonderful fish that came here from the Mediterranean and Africa. Now it's outstripped trout as the most popular fish to farm. Florida has outdoor ponds, but it can be grown anywhere in a system of filtered tanks. You surely do have a taste treat coming. The mild flavor is just about perfect for all kinds of recipes. Anyone on a heart-healthy diet should make the acquaintance of all kinds of fish, and this one is a good starter.”
Anabelle gave her credit for being well prepared. Everyone had a dishwasher-safe plastic cutting board with a generous sheet of plastic under it. Sherry went down the counter passing out disposable gloves, sharp knives, and scraping tools and then laid a whole fish on every board.
“Yuck!” the young wife said. “It's blue.”
“Just listen, Hope,” her husband said.
“This thing is enough to make me become a vegetarian,” she said, backing a few feet away from the counter.
“Just like people, they come in different colors: red, black, blue. One's as tasty as the others,” Sherry said cheerfully, apparently not at all disturbed by criticism.
“What are we going to do with these?” one of the older women asked. “They’re not cleaned.”
“Chefs worth their salt have to know how to clean and prepare their proteins. This will be fun once you get the knack.”
Anabelle didn't share her optimism. In fact, she very much wanted to shove hers over to Cam and let him do the messy part.
“Now this is the part of the class where you’ll be tempted to tune me out,” Sherry said, “but it's terribly, terribly important.”
She gave a short lecture on how to tell if fish were fresh and then went on to emphasize how important it was to wash utensils, cutting surfaces, and hands with hot soapy water after processing raw fish. Anabelle thoroughly approved of her advice even though she disliked cleaning fish. Cam was lapping up every word she said the way Sarge drank his water after a good run. She sighed and willed the woman to get on with it.
The young woman and the talkative pair went about cleaning the fish with noisy protests, making Anabelle even more determined to be businesslike, no matter how she disliked the job. She did learn how to remove the small pin bones in the fillet, useful information if she ever wanted to debone another tilapia—which was unlikely.
