by Kent, Alison
Brooklyn looked from Callum to Lindsay to Shirley, then to Callum again, his gaze fixed fast on hers and making the skin at her nape grow damp. He was frowning, but with concern, not annoyance, his eyes sharp and bright. “What happened?”
“The girls were running—”
“The girls were being little girls,” Shirley interrupted before Brooklyn could finish. “Nothing more.”
Callum pulled Adrianne away from his mother and squatted in front of her. “Addy? Tell me what happened.”
“Me and Kelly were chasing Andrew Patzka because he broke her snow cone and we almost caught him but we ran in front of Mr. Bean and he nearly fell and Ms. Harvey stopped us and told us not to run inside and Grammy yelled at Ms. Harvey—”
“I most certainly did not yell,” Shirley said to her son as Callum stood. “I asked Ms. Harvey to let me deal with my granddaughter.”
“Now, Shirley. You know that’s not true. You didn’t ask Brooklyn to do anything,” Dolly put in from Brooklyn’s side. “In fact, I’m quite certain I heard you say you didn’t care what she said.”
Brooklyn reached for Dolly’s arm to keep her from adding more, but all Shirley Drake did was huff and turn to Callum. “Well?”
“C’mon, Addy,” Callum said, his jaw tight as he ignored his mother and grasped his daughter’s hand. “Let’s go find Mr. Bean and apologize.”
“Does Kelly have to apologize, too?” Adrianne’s eyes grew even wider than they already were as she looked at her father, her emotions nearly breaking Brooklyn’s heart.
“Kelly most certainly does,” the girl’s mother said, turning away with Callum, the two walking to the Hope Springs Emergency Services booth, where Alva Bean, who worked as a 911 dispatcher, now sat chatting with several city employees.
That left Brooklyn to return to the refreshment table with Dolly, but the two women had only gone a couple of steps when Shirley moved to block them. “I don’t appreciate being made to look like a fool in front of my son.”
“Was that directed at me?” Brooklyn asked. “Because I didn’t say a word about you to your son, and if you were speaking to Dolly, she did nothing but repeat what you said to Adrianne.”
“I told you before,” Shirley said, lifting a warning finger, her eyes behind her narrow black frames as harsh as her voice, “you need to stay away from Callum.”
Brooklyn had no idea how she’d misjudged this woman so completely, but she was through holding her tongue. “And I told you, I have no interest in Callum beyond his being the father of one of my students.” But then the devil sitting on her shoulder made her add, “Though if there were more to our relationship, it would be our business, and not your concern.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Ms. Harvey. That is precisely where you are wrong.” Shirley came closer. “Everything my son does affects my granddaughter, and Adrianne’s well-being is most certainly my concern.”
“It’s mine as well. Which is why it was important to me that she understood what she had done wrong then, when it happened, not later when things had calmed down.”
“It’s not your place to discipline her.”
“I didn’t discipline her. That’s up to her father, not me. But if Callum has a problem with my talking to her, I’ll apologize to him.” Because she owed this woman nothing.
“See that you do,” Shirley said, then turned away, her kitten-heeled mules slapping against the gymnasium floor, before Brooklyn could gather her wits to respond. And, really, what was there to say? Callum’s mother had made up her mind: Brooklyn was coming between her and her son.
The rest of the evening was uneventful, Brooklyn shaking off the tension and doing her best to enjoy the night—and the huge sliced-brisket sandwich, with potato salad and baked beans, Mitch Pepper set in front of her when he brought a similar plate to his wife.
Brooklyn didn’t have much of an appetite, but she appreciated the kindness and dug in, Mitch entertaining her and Dolly with a story of feeding a young Kaylie her first plate of barbecue until both women were laughing around mouthfuls of food. And she’d actually gone two whole minutes without thinking about her encounter with Callum’s mother, when he arrived to remind her.
“You okay?” he asked, his hands on the table as he leaned close to her, leaving Mitch and Dolly to their conversation.
“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?” she asked, taking another bite of potato salad, then reaching for her napkin with a shrug. She didn’t know if he was here to complain about her overstepping with Adrianne, or to thank her for acting as quickly as she had, or to buy a piece of cake.
“My mother,” was what he finally said. “Several people heard you and her talking after I left, and wanted me to know what she’d said.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, frowning down, his eyes angry, the tic at his temple a visible beat. “I’m sorry for that, and for not thanking you sooner. You helped prevent what could’ve been a pretty nasty accident.”
Funny how benign his posture, yet how dangerous the look in his eyes. “So was she right? About me needing to stay away from you?”
His jaw tight, he circled the table to hunker at her side, staring down at the floor. “She’s rarely right about anything. Not anymore. And as far as you staying away from me?” He shook his head, reached up and rubbed at his jaw, then lifted his gaze. “She couldn’t be more wrong. I really don’t know what’s going on with her—”
“She’s jealous.”
His mouth pulled curiously sideways, his dimple carving deep. “Jealous?”
“Of my time with you. My time with Adrianne. Though jealous probably isn’t the right word. Resentful might be better. Maybe even scared.”
Scraping a hand over his jaw, he shook his head. “I’d argue, but I’m not sure I’d get very far.”
“Because you know I’m right,” she said, reaching for a snickerdoodle the size of her hand in an effort to change the subject. “Cookie?”
“No thanks,” he said with an exasperated groan. “I’m going to have an entire Oreo cake to deal with.”
Part of her wanted to laugh. Part wanted to say I told you so. “So Adrianne won the cakewalk?”
“I’m not sure won is the right word. But, yeah. Addy got her wish. And I guess my mother got hers. She gets to be the good guy in her granddaughter’s eyes. And I’m the bad guy who made Addy apologize.” He shook his head. “I have got to get a new babysitter.”
He looked so exhausted, dark half-moons under his eyes, the worry of a father, the regret of a son. Oh, Brooklyn. What have you gotten yourself into? “Actually, there is an after-school program at the elementary. I didn’t even think to mention it earlier today when you were talking about Adrianne’s care and feeding.”
“Really?” he asked, his tone a mixture of hope and relief.
“It might be too late to get in this year but it wouldn’t hurt to check.” She couldn’t believe she was going to say it, but she added, “Lindsay Webber could tell you about it. She leaves Kelly there when the hospital has her on days.”
“Huh. Thanks.” And then he gave her a twisted sort of grin. “I guess information about the program went home at the beginning of the year?”
“I’m pretty sure it went home at registration before school started.”
Callum bit off a curse. “If I’d paid more attention to what was going on with Addy and school instead of Bliss . . .” He shook his head, cursed again. “Yeah, my mother got her hooks in deep, but I let her. And I don’t need to be unloading on you. Sorry, and sorry for earlier, and thank you. I should’ve been paying better attention instead of stuffing my face with barbecue.”
“Mr. Bean is okay,” she said, realizing the depth of her investment in Callum’s emotional battle. Realizing, too, and regretting, how soon she’d be pulling up stakes. “That’s all that matters.”
Just then, Grady Barrow came running up to Callum’s side. “Hey, boss,” he said, in a perfect imitation of Lena while giv
ing a jerk of his chin to toss back his hair. “The Gatlins are about to announce the winners of the dessert competition.”
Callum got to his feet, chucking the boy on the shoulder. “Well, I guess we’d better go see whose ass I’m going to kick the hardest.”
“Sweet,” Grady said, and trotted off, the soles of his sneakers squeaking against the gym’s floor.
“You coming?” Callum turned to ask.
“Of course.” Though she shouldn’t enjoy his including her as much as she did. But just for tonight . . . “I’ve been waiting to see what you entered since Dolly mentioned that you had.”
He gave her a sheepish shrug. “It was a sort of last-minute thing.”
Now she was curious. “Do you really think your candy can kick the ass of any brownie Kaylie Keller decides to whip up? Or stand a chance against Peggy Butters’s salted caramel macarons?”
He very nearly pouted. “Doesn’t sound like you have much faith in my abilities.”
He was so cute when he sulked. “Well, Jean did share the Bourbon Peach chocolate with me, so if you entered that one, I could see you having a chance.”
“Nope. I entered the candy I made for you. The coffee cherry.”
He’d entered her candy? The candy he wasn’t going to make more of? The candy he wasn’t going to sell? “I didn’t think you saved the recipe.”
“I didn’t, but I made a whole tray. I actually made several whole trays, trying to get it right.”
“And you entered them here instead of giving them to me?”
“I gave you the best in show,” he said, then he held out his hand and she took it, thinking this might just be the greatest carnival of her entire life.
SHIRLEY DRAKE’S OREO CAKE
For the cake:
¾ cup all-purpose flour
¼ cup Dutch-processed cocoa powder
⅝ teaspoon baking soda
⅛ teaspoon salt
½ cup + 2 tablespoons granulated sugar
½ cup + 2 tablespoons sour cream
⅓ cup vegetable oil
1 large egg
½ teaspoon pure vanilla extract
Preheat oven to 350 degrees (F).
Grease and flour one 9-inch round cake pan and line with parchment paper, coating with nonstick spray.
Into a large bowl, sift the flour, the cocoa, the baking soda, and the salt.
In a medium bowl, whisk together until smooth the sugar, the sour cream, the eggs, the oil, and the vanilla.
Stir the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients until thoroughly combined. Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake for 20–25 minutes, or until an inserted tester comes out clean from the middle of the cake.
Cool the cake in the pan for 15 minutes. Carefully remove the cake from the pan and cool completely on a wire rack.
For the frosting:
40 Oreo cookies (or more/less to taste)
4 cups whipping cream
2 tablespoons granulated sugar
1 tablespoon pure vanilla extract
Chop the cookies into pieces. Set aside.
In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with a whip attachment, or using an electric mixer, whip two cups of cream on medium-high speed to soft peak, then spoon into a large bowl and refrigerate.
In the same mixer bowl, whip the remaining two cups of cream along with the sugar and the vanilla to soft peak. Fold into the already-whipped cream along with the chopped Oreos.
Slice the cake in half horizontally, creating two layers. Place the bottom layer on a serving plate and spread with one-third of the whipped cream and Oreo mixture. Top with the second cake layer and use the remaining whipped cream and Oreo mixture to frost the top and sides of the cake.
Chill the frosted cake for two hours before slicing to allow cookies to soften. (If transporting, carry the cake in an insulated shipping box with a frozen chill pack beneath the serving plate.)
ELEVEN
“You know,” Jean said the next morning from inside Brooklyn’s garage. “You should think about wearing cobwebs in your hair more often. It’s a very fetching look. A bit like St. Birgitta’s cap.”
“Thanks,” Brooklyn said, not sure she wanted to look like the founder of the Bridgettine nuns. Reaching up, she brushed away the mess, praying she didn’t find spiders. Though she had no one to blame but herself if she did. She was the one who’d let the arachnids have their way.
After a cloudy Friday night, Saturday had turned out bright and gorgeous, a perfect day to antique shop in Gruene, or read a book in the backyard hammock, or drive through the Hill Country with the windows down. Doing so on a Harley would’ve been even better. The sun shining, the wind whooshing by, the scents of cedar and juniper and pine in the air . . .
Instead she was cleaning out her garage. Or at least continuing the chore that would take a month’s worth of weekends. She’d already donated most of Artie’s smaller tools she had no use for, many going to Keller Construction via the Second Baptist Church earlier in the week.
Before listing the larger saws and drills and whatevers in the Hope Springs Courant, however, she’d invited Jean to take photos for her sons and anyone she thought might have use for the items. Photos involved moving things to where she could shoot them from all sides.
After two years of the pieces sitting untouched, there were a lot of cobwebs, and too many dust bunnies to count, and so much dirt Brooklyn wanted to hang her head in shame. Artie had kept the garage as clean as a firehouse; she couldn’t remember the last time she’d swept it.
Jean walked around what Brooklyn thought was some sort of grinder. It was on a stand and together the pieces weighed what felt like a ton, and though she was certain Artie had used it, she had no idea what for. Sharpening knives or lawn-mower blades? Was that a thing one did?
“If either Jeffrey or Paul are interested in any of these items,” Jean said, “you will take their money. I won’t let you give away a single nail. Artie no doubt paid a handsome sum for whatever in the world everything in here is.”
“I’m glad I’m not the only one clueless, though not knowing makes me feel like I should’ve been more involved in what he was doing,” Brooklyn said, suppressing the sense of guilt that had taken root this morning when she’d opened the garage door and watched the day’s sunlight hit the corners.
“Now, Brooklyn. Did Artie know what to do with every gadget in your sewing room?” Jean asked, not even waiting for an answer. “Of course he didn’t. This was his domain. That’s yours. I’m not saying he couldn’t sew on a button. I’m quite sure he could. And if he’d had need to fill a bobbin he would’ve learned. Just like if you’d ever had a need to do something with this,” she said, gesturing toward the grinder, “you would’ve done the same.”
Leave it to Jean to use logic against Brooklyn’s misgivings. “I guess you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right. I’ve lived long enough and well enough to teach even that Justin Beaver a thing or two.”
Brooklyn smiled, letting the mistake, which knowing Jean might very well have been on purpose, stand. And then she was stopped from saying anything else by the rumble of a motorcycle engine coming close.
Jean heard it, too, cocking her head and grinning broadly. “I believe you may have a visitor on the way.”
That, or she was hearing the same phantom Harley Callum had imagined last Saturday night. Still, she couldn’t deny the rush of pleasure she felt at the sound. It was that crush thing again. That illicit thrill of his thinking about her when she could hardly get him out of her mind. “He’s unexpected, if so.”
“Those are the best kind,” Jean said, taking a final picture of the grinder, then pocketing her phone. “I’m going to head home and get these sent to the boys, and to Alva, too. He may know someone who could use these things. I’ll let you know what they say.”
“Okay,” Brooklyn said, her mind elsewhere, primarily on the state of her cobwebbed ha
ir and clothes that were smeared with almost as much grease and dirt as the floor. "Thanks."
Moments later, Callum pulled into her driveway and shut off the engine, though every nerve in her body continued to zing to the thrum. He swung his leg over the bike and stood in profile as he reached for his helmet, his legs encased in faded jeans, heavy black boots on his feet, a tight T-shirt hugging his torso, his arms, his chest.
She closed her eyes, breathed deeply, opened them again in time to see him pull off the helmet, to see his hair shake free. He was wearing it loose today, and it fell in tight red-brown waves to the base of his neck, though not quite to his shoulders. He turned toward her then, lifting one hand and raking it out of his face. His smile very nearly killed her.
Another deep breath and she walked to the front of the garage. “Looks like you came by at just the wrong time.”
He glanced over her shoulder, leaving her to look at his T-shirt. It was another worn long past its prime, and all the better for it. “For helping out a friend, you mean? Never the wrong time for that.”
“It’s Saturday. You should be making chocolate.”
“I’m still basking in the glow of last night’s dessert competition win. Besides, Bliss isn’t even open yet. I can spare a few.” He looked around the garage. “And you’ve got some kind of job on your hands.”
She did, but he had his own to get to, if not now, then later, and unless he had time to ride back to the textile district, shower, and change . . . “It’s my mess, I’ll clean it, and you didn’t come here to help, so . . .”
“I came to see if you wanted to make chocolate tonight,” he said. “Addy’s sleeping over with Kelly. I thought I’d play with some flavors.”
Because, of course, for Callum Drake, work was play. “You want to make chocolate. In your free time.”
