A Summer to Remember

by Marilyn Pappano

  “Yes, ma’am, it is. I just got into town on Friday.”

  Her gaze skimmed over him, stopping for a moment on his ponytail. “I’m guessing it wasn’t the Army that brought you here.” There was a gleam in her eyes when she put a flip-flop-decorated porcelain mug of steaming coffee next to the plate.

  “No, ma’am. I’m looking to settle down.” He offered her a ten-dollar bill, and she counted the change into his palm.

  “Well, I hope we see you again. By the way, I’m Patricia.”

  “Elliot.” He returned her smile and would have tipped his Stetson if he was wearing it just for the added charm factor, but instead he picked up his breakfast and carried it to a table near the front windows, where he could keep an eye on Mouse.

  His first bite of roll was enough to make him moan if he hadn’t been in public. His first impression was sweet and walnutty and chewy, thanks to the raisins in the filling, followed by a moment of pure sensory pleasure, then the explosion of the cinnamon: heat and spice and bite. Incredible.

  A customer left, and Patricia came out from behind the counter to retrieve the dishes and wipe the table. “How’s that roll?” she asked.

  He gave her a thumbs-up before wiping his mouth. “Ceylon cinnamon or Vietnamese cassia?”

  “You’re the first customer who’s ever asked that. Vietnamese cassia.” She rested one hand on the back of the chair opposite him. “Are you a baker?”

  “I learned to make biscuits when I still needed a footstool to reach the counter. Cakes came after that, but piecrusts had to wait until I started fifth grade.” If Emily were there, she’d point out that he hadn’t grown much since then, but Patricia was too polite to comment on his lack of height.

  “Aw, my kids would help me in the kitchen sometimes, but none of them grew up to like cooking. Luckily for me, they still like to eat.”

  He sipped the coffee, hot enough to scald his tongue, and nodded appreciatively. “Excellent coffee.”

  “It’s kind of an Oklahoma product. We try to source locally as much as we can. The coffee is shipped straight from the estates in El Salvador to a roastery in Tulsa. Lucy, my partner”—she gestured toward the kitchen—“drives to Tulsa every Saturday to pick up the beans, and we grind them as we need them.”

  “The only way,” he said with a grin, though if he was in bad enough need of caffeine, he would chew the beans and be happy.

  She shifted position, folding her arms across her middle. “Are you married, Elliot?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “From southern Oklahoma?”

  “Texas.”

  Her grin was sly. “That’s what I said.” She winked, then pulled out the other chair and sat. “Do you have a job here?”

  “No, ma’am, I’m looking.” His gut tightened. He’d never worked in a bakery a day in his life, but instinct said he would like this place, just as he’d known right off he was going to like Fia. He couldn’t think of much he’d rather do job-wise than spend his shift working with food: making it, serving it, cleaning up after it. If he could get a job here, if it might pay a living wage, it would be the best damn luck he’d ever had, other than surviving his tours in combat.

  It, and meeting Fia, would be like coming home.

  He nodded at the Help Wanted sign. “I was figuring on putting in an application when I finished here.”

  Patricia’s smile widened, and she went to the counter, where she could see her partner through the pass-through. “Lucy, do we have application forms?”

  A younger woman, face framed by dark hair, appeared at the window, looking perplexed. “Um, no. I didn’t think…It was on my list…” After a moment’s search, she called, “Let me see what I can find online.”

  Elliot hid his grin behind the coffee mug. He liked the informality of their approach. If he had his own place, he would get sound advice for financial matters and depend on gut instinct for everything else. He’d spent a lot of years honing his instincts. Why not use them?

  “We just put the sign up this morning,” Patricia confided as she sat down again. “We opened in February and didn’t plan on hiring anyone at least until summer, but things have been pretty busy. Lucy’s trying to plan her wedding in June, and I can’t run the place alone while she’s honeymooning, so we decided we’d better get moving. So, Elliot, do you cook, or is baking your talent?”

  “Bread is my talent, but yes, ma’am, I’m a pretty good cook, too.”

  Delight spread across her face as Lucy hurried out from the kitchen. “His specialty is bread, Lucy. How cool is that?”

  “Great! I make a killer no-rise bread, but I can’t do a decent loaf of anything else to save my life.” Lucy extended her hand. “Lucy Hart.”

  “Elliot Ross.” He shook hands with her, then she thrust out a sheet of paper ripped from a spiral notebook. “My printer doesn’t want to print today. We really just need the basics anyway.” As she was walking away, she said, “Can’t stay. I’m making crepes.”

  He took the sheet, and the ink pen Patricia offered, and scanned the page. Lucy hadn’t been kidding. In a column down the left she’d scrawled Name, Address, Phone, Date of Birth, Social Security Number, and Hours Available. There were no blocks for the twenty or so jobs he’d held in the previous couple years, no block for his Army service, so it took him only a couple minutes to fill out, even with his hesitation over the address line.

  “Like I said, I just got into town Friday, so I don’t have a permanent address yet, but the cell phone’s always on.” He slid the paper and pen across to Patricia. “Anything you want to add?”

  She skimmed it and returned it. “An emergency contact, please.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He wrote Emily’s name, cell phone, and identified her as his sister.

  “I’m impressed that you know her number from memory. My kids are lost without their smart phones. When I tell my grandkids of family reunions where we ate and played baseball and hide-and-seek, they say, ‘Oh, Grandma, what about the Internet?’” She snorted. “I think our youngest generation is losing its ability to communicate face to face.”

  “I agree, ma’am. But on the good side, my sister lives in New Mexico, and I’ve spent time in Iraq and Afghanistan, but I still get to see my nieces and nephew grow up, read to them, sing to them.” It was the only way he could be a regular part of their lives without moving to New Mexico, whether it suited him or not.

  She squeezed his hand. “I know. I’ve gotten to do the same with my grandbabies. Oh, and forget the ma’am, Elliot. I spent twenty years as an Army wife, and I have been ma’am’ed enough for a lifetime.”

  Lucy called Patricia from the kitchen, and she stood. “Though I have to admit, ma’am from a handsome Texas cowboy has a whole other appeal than when it comes from an eighteen-year-old private.”

  He’d been one of those eighteen-year-old privates, too, so he’d gotten a double whammy of respect drilled into him. He wasn’t sure it was even possible for him to call a woman his mother’s age by her first name.

  While Patricia took care of business in back, Elliot scooped what was left of his roll onto a napkin, picked out the raisins, and ate those himself. With the uncanny sense she had, Mouse’s head popped up above the dash, and her tail and everything else began quivering. Good dog, though: She didn’t bark. She knew she would get the treat, sooner rather than later, and would wait patiently for it. In the meantime…

  “She’s gonna drool all over my truck,” he murmured.

  “I hope you’re talking about your dog and not your girlfriend,” Patricia teased as she returned.

  “My girlfriends don’t drool.”

  She gave him a long look head to toe, then murmured, “I may be from a whole different generation, but I know that’s not true. I’ve got a few single friends who would very much appreciate looking at you, seeing that grin, and hearing that voice. But don’t worry. We’ll give you a chance to meet someone on your own before we start matchmaking.” She patted his upper
arm the way Emily often did, but without the force of a full-fledged punch behind it, the way Emily’s often had. “We’re about to get busy here, so you go give that pretty little puppy a treat and come back around two thirty. Lucy will have time to sit down and talk with you then. Does that sound good?”

  “You bet, ma—Patricia.” He stood and reached for his dishes, but she brushed him away. Picking up the napkin-wrapped roll, he thanked her, then went to the truck. By the time he got the door open, Mouse was standing in her seat and, yep, there was drool trailing from there to the console to the dashboard.

  “Man, you’re lucky I’m such a sucker for cute,” he said as he handed her a chunk of roll, then reached in back for baby wipes and paper towels. She inhaled it, then sat—barely—for the next. He was pretty sure she would have eaten the napkins and licked the seats if he hadn’t been faster, scooping her into one arm while he cleaned her mess.

  That done, he had about four hours to blow. He could go back to the lake or check out the bakery’s competition. He could look for other Help Wanted signs to cover his bases if he struck out with Lucy. Instead, he reached for his phone. After two rings, a sweet voice picked up.

  “Hey, Fia. It’s Elliot. Is there any chance I can buy you lunch today?”

  * * *

  Fia had plenty of those times when her brain told her mouth to stay shut and her mouth ignored it, so it was no surprise when it happened again. Brain ordered her to say no to Elliot’s invitation; she was still a little shaky, her vision still a little blurred.

  But Mouth went ahead and said, “I’d like that,” and Fia was siding with Mouth.

  She’d stayed home all day yesterday, either in bed or curled up on the couch, and missed Elliot and Mouse and all her friends at Therese’s welcome barbecue for Marti’s niece. Patricia had brought her a plate of food on her way home with grilled chicken, a garden salad, roasted baby red potatoes, and a bowl filled with Lucy’s special angel food cake with fresh strawberry sauce. Fia was grateful the choices hadn’t included any barbecue sauce, salsa, onions, garlic, or tangy dressings, and she’d managed to eat most of it, despite the queasy state of her stomach.

  She’d appreciated Patricia’s thoughtfulness more than she could say. Her own mother had never done anything nice for her, so it was still a surprise every time someone else’s mother did.

  But she’d still missed being at the party, seeing her friends, meeting Cadence. She’d felt left out, and she hated it. That so wasn’t the strong, independent person she used to be.

  “Are you at work?” Elliot made no effort to hide his pleasure that she’d agreed, and that warmed her all the way through. Scott had been that way, too, unabashed about the things that made him happy. He’d never tried to play cool or hard to get. He saw something he wanted, and he went for it.

  “I’m working at home today.” Since her body had begun its relentless betrayal, she’d switched jobs at the gym from trainer to general problem solver and paper handler. She didn’t love the desk job but was happy her boss had done his best to keep her on staff when he so easily could have booted her to the curb.

  “Do you want to go out or should I bring something?”

  Staying in was probably safer in physical terms for her. Though she’d showered, shaved her legs without so much as a nick, and gotten through all the payroll forms for April—it was amazing what an eighteen-point computer font did for blurry vision—she still wasn’t a hundred percent.

  No doubt, though, out was safer in emotional terms. When it was just the two of them in a small, private space, it was impossible to avoid the intimacy that came naturally. And there was a heck of a lot of intimacy in the wings just waiting its chance. Who knew which spark would set it off?

  Still, Mouth wasn’t listening to Brain. “Do you mind coming here?”

  He laughed. “One thing you’ll learn about me, Fia: If I offer to do something, I won’t mind doing it. I’m pretty easygoing, but I can dig in my heels like the most stubborn critter in the world when I need to. What would you like?”

  He reeled off choices—Mexican, Italian, Chinese, Greek, barbecue, fish—and she reeled off answers: too spicy, not her favorite, too heavy, too unfamiliar, too tomatoey, not her favorite.

  “Okay, you tell me what you want, and I’ll bring it.”

  After a moment’s thought, she replied, “I think I need comfort food. Soup, chicken and noodles, macaroni and cheese.”

  “I can make chicken and noodles as good as my grandma’s. I’ll stop at the store, then be there in ten.”

  After hanging up, she closed the lid of the laptop and set it on the coffee table, then stood, stretching out the kinks from the morning’s work. She was steady on her feet and felt good enough to care how she looked, so that was progress. She changed from T-shirt and shorts into a dress, finger-combed her short hair, and even dabbed on a bit of foundation, blush, and mascara before her doorbell rang.

  Her stomach took a tumble, and for the first time in twenty-four hours, it wasn’t due to nausea. She gave herself a quick once-over in the mirror hanging on the back of the bathroom door—hair looked good, mascara wasn’t smeared, dress covered everything it was supposed to—then she walked more quickly than she normally would have to the front door.

  For an instant, she stood there, mentally repeating warnings to herself: This couldn’t go anywhere; she wasn’t the woman she used to be; Elliot wanted a woman for a lovely fling or a lifetime; either way, she wasn’t looking to become anyone else’s burden.

  But none of that stopped her from grinning ear to ear when she opened the door. He held Mouse’s leash in one hand, a grocery bag in the other, and wore jeans, a buttoned-up shirt, and boots, and took her breath away with nothing more than his presence on her stoop. Lord, was there anything better than the giddiness when a woman first began falling for a man?

  The satisfaction of living happily ever after with him, a solemn voice whispered in her head. Of not having to dress up or be on her best behavior and knowing he still loved her. Of facing him with morning breath and bed head and knowing he still thought she was beautiful. Of losing her temper and wishing mightily that she’d never met him but still loving every awful thing about him.

  Falling in love with Scott had been incredible, but being in love with him, living day to day, through good and bad and nothing special, had been the real reward.

  Why are you thinking about me when Elliot’s standing right in front of you?

  Bittersweetly, she pushed back the memories and crouched to scratch Mouse’s chin. “Hey, sweetie, I’m glad you came over and brought your person with you. Come on in.”

  Elliot switched the groceries to his other hand, then gave her a hand up. Oh, she loved the warm touch and easy strength of a helping hand. The old Fia had never needed one, but she’d sure been happy to take it. In her growing-up world, men had rarely raised a hand unless it was to smack whoever had annoyed them. Her father had never opened a door for her mother, carried a load for her, or helped her around the house. He’d been the king, commanding others to do everything for him, unable to even pronounce the word chivalry, much less practice it.

  When she was on her feet again, a smile spread slowly across Elliot’s face. “Hey, you,” he said in a low, intimate voice.

  Shivers danced down her spine, and her stomach looped crazily. Trembling, she stepped back, the move sadly pulling her arm free of his hand, and she offered another smile that wasn’t quite as steady as the first. “Hey.”

  “I’m glad you agreed to see me.”

  She could protect herself, play it cool, brush it off, but she didn’t. So she was tempting herself with something she couldn’t have, not long-term. That was okay. Feeling this way was definitely worth any pain that might come later. “So am I.”

  He followed her inside, disconnected Mouse’s leash, and carried the groceries into the kitchen, where he unpacked a large carton of chicken stock, a package of chicken, and a bag of frozen noodles.

 
Sitting on a bar stool, Fia leaned across to pick up the noodles. “Your grandma’s chicken and noodles, huh? So your grandma is Mrs. Reames?”

  He stuck his tongue out at her. If they were a little bit closer, she could bite it. Or kiss the mouth it came from. “Actually—well, no, she wasn’t, but she used Reames noodles. Remember, she had a ranch to run and a family to keep in line. Now, me, normally I’d buy a whole chicken and simmer it slowly all afternoon with carrots and celery and onions, and I’d make the noodles by hand, and after I stripped the tender chicken from the bones, I’d cook it all in the steaming fragrant broth until the noodles were just perfectly tender, and then…”

  He was looking at her, but his hands were making quick work of tearing open the chicken package, setting two breasts, two wings, and two thighs on a paper towel. He knew she couldn’t bring herself to look away from him—she could see it in the amusement in his eyes—and he knew, too, that talking about his attention to detail in cooking was inexplicably making her warm from the inside out.

  “And then,” he repeated before mimicking setting a big bowl in front of her, waving away imaginary steam with one hand, and adding, “you would be transported away by the best chicken and noodles in the whole universe. But since I have a job interview at two thirty, Grandma’s chicken and noodles will have to do.”

  He turned to rinse the chicken pieces then, and she waved away some imaginary heat of her own, wondering if she could turn the air conditioner low enough to get her internal temperature back to normal. “Cool about the interview,” she said, really meaning it. No matter what happened, or didn’t, between them, Tallgrass with Elliot was a better place than Tallgrass without him. Besides, he needed that home. That place to belong. “Where is it?”

  “A little bakery where I had breakfast this morning. The best cinnamon roll I’ve eaten since the last time I made my own. Name’s Prairie Harts and—”

  “Ohhh!” Almost immediately, Fia clapped her hands over her mouth as he whirled around. “Sorry about that. I don’t usually interrupt. I don’t usually squeal, either, at least not since I was twelve. But I know them—Lucy and Patricia. They’re two of my margarita girls.” When no comprehension appeared in his eyes, she added, “My Army widow friends. My family. They’re the reason I’m here.” And she meant that in every way possible.