by Meg Maxwell
Lucy grinned and grabbed one by the stem, then carefully, her little pink tongue sticking out in concentration, placed it just so in the center of the whipped cream.
“We’d better let Ms. Hurley get back to work,” West said, mouthing a thank-you to Annabel. “What do you say, sweetheart?”
“Thank you, Ms. Hurley,” Lucy said.
Annabel kneeled down and smiled at her. “You can call me Annabel. And you’re very welcome. Enjoy your cake, but remember to save some for your dad.”
Tongue sticking out in concentration again, Lucy carefully carried the plate in two hands out of the kitchen to her table.
West looked at Annabel for a long moment, then seemed to realize he had an audience—Hattie and her assistant, Harold—and cleared his throat. “See you later at my place,” he said before disappearing through the door. He was back in a heartbeat. “For the cooking lesson,” he added, throwing a glance at Hattie and Harold.
Hattie could barely contain her big laugh while Harold smiled down at the potato chowder he was ladling into a bowl.
Annabel felt her cheeks warm but couldn’t help the chuckle. Yet as she thought about being alone with West Montgomery in his house, in his kitchen, standing shoulder to shoulder at the counter, the chuckle was replaced by honest-to-goodness fear.
How did you stop yourself from falling for someone you’d never gotten over to begin with?
* * *
When the last table at Hurley’s was cleared and the Open sign on the front door turned over, Annabel headed into the kitchen and cleaned up her station, the gloppy congealed lumps of white gravy that had fallen to the floor a particular pain in the neck. She was about to start on Hattie’s grill section when Clementine took the heavy-duty sponge out of her hand.
“I know West Montgomery is waiting on you at his house, so go ahead. I’ll take care of the cleanup.”
Annabel squeezed her sister’s hand in thanks. “That’s okay. You were on your feet all night, just like I was. I’ll do it.”
“Go ahead,” Clementine said, glancing at the clock at the wall—it was just past 9:00 p.m. “I don’t have a hunky guy waiting for private cooking lessons.” Clementine stared out the window for a long moment, her expression changing, and again, Annabel wondered what was up with her private younger sister.
“Clem, is everything okay? You can talk to me. You know that.”
“I’m okay, I promise. Just got some stuff on my mind that a good round of cleaning will help me work out. Go.” She pointed at the door. “Oh, wait. Maybe go after you wash the barbecue sauce out of your hair. And there’s a small piece of fried chicken on your shoe.”
Annabel hugged her sister—tight. She loved Clementine to pieces, but getting her to open up was like yanking teeth.
“I tried Georgia again on my break earlier,” Clementine said, “but I got her voice mail, as usual. I know she left the message saying she couldn’t come home just yet and was sorry, but what could be keeping her in Houston? What could be more important than Gram and Hurley’s?”
“Something must be going on,” Annabel said. She and Clementine had spent the past two nights trying to think of what that could be, but they were at a loss. The past few months, Georgia, a vice president of some fancy company, had been keeping to herself, checking in now and then with either Gram, Annabel or Clementine by phone or text and saying very little about her life. But not to come home now? Georgia was smart and strong, so Annabel had assured Clementine and their grandmother that Georgia must have a good reason for staying away and they’d just have to trust in her that she was doing the right thing for herself, even if it didn’t make sense to family back home.
Trying to shift her worried thoughts from her older sister to the lunch recipes Annabel had made copies of and put in a folder for tonight’s cooking lesson, Annabel headed upstairs to the third floor where the huge attic had long ago been turned into a bedroom for the three orphaned granddaughters Gram had taken in. Back then Essie Hurley had had the sections of the room painted in their favorite colors: lavender for Annabel, lemon yellow for Georgia and periwinkle blue for Clementine. Annabel’s pale purple area with its white accents and fluffy pink blanket was just as she’d left it at eighteen. She picked up the photo of her parents, her beautiful mother and handsome, tall father, then another of the six Hurleys, Gram included, and took a deep breath. She stared at sixteen-year-old Georgia with her long sunlit brown hair and green eyes and hoped she was okay, wherever she was, whatever she was doing. Then she realized she had only twenty minutes to get to West’s house. She stripped off her kitchen clothes, pulled on her old terry robe and took a quick, hot shower, her mind going to being in West’s house, alone with him.
* * *
Annabel drove the ten miles out to West’s ranch, the long paved drive lined with trees. The house came into view, and Annabel was surprised at how different the place was now. Instead of the run-down small home with peeling gray shingles that she remembered, the sprawling house was gleaming white in perfect condition with glossy black shutters and a red door, a wrought-iron weather vane with a rooster on the roof. A herd of cattle grazed in a dark pasture and another bunch was lined up in corrals, eating hay. Two geese waddled around, not bothered in the slightest by a big orange barn cat chasing a leaf in the evening breeze. West’s silver pickup was along the side of the house, and by the front door was a red bike with training wheels and a three-wheeled silver scooter. The porch light illuminated the well-kept front yard and Annabel could see the long circular loop West had smoothed out for his daughter to ride. A tire swing with purple and white polka dots was tied on a big old oak, and nearby was a child-sized table and chairs, two big stuffed animals on the chairs and a tea set on the table.
Annabel’s heart squeezed. She wondered if she’d ever have a little girl of her own. Over the past seven years she’d had only two relationships and both had failed miserably. Neither man had felt like...home, felt comfortable. But she’d tried, dating one for a month before he’d told her if they weren’t going to have sex he’d have to move on. He’d moved on. The next man, a fellow chef, had smooth-talked his way into Annabel finally losing her virginity, but it turned out he’d been working his way through the female staff at the restaurant they both worked at, and she’d been the one to move on, to a new workplace but not a new relationship. She’d decided to avoid relationships, hoping maybe one day the right guy would cross her path and she’d know it and not have to force it, not have to try so damned hard.
Four years. Four years since she’d been kissed. Touched. Held. Four years of thinking back to that night in the hayloft with West, no one ever coming close to making her feel the way she had that night. In love. And as though she were on fire. As though she were beautiful and sexy. As though everything that made Annabel Hurley who she was blossomed brighter. She’d felt more herself that night with West, that hour, than she ever had before or since. Getting over his betrayal, the heartbreak, throwing herself into two bad relationships with men who didn’t really care about her...she was better off alone, spending her evenings perfecting Gram’s recipes and thinking up business initiatives for Hurley’s. She would not let herself be drawn in by West, no matter how much her mind, heart and soul wanted him. He’d broken her once. That wasn’t going to happen again. Her grandmother needed her—depended on her, especially now that Georgia was God knew where.
Keep your head, she ordered herself, straightening her purposely unsexy ponytail, smoothing her purposely unsexy long-sleeved yellow T-shirt, tucked into purposely unsexy on-the-loose-side old jeans. She picked up her lunch-recipes folder and the bag of groceries she’d shopped for on her lunch break and headed up the steps to the porch. She forced herself not to glance over to the right just past the house at the barn, now a traditional red, where she and West had spent an unforgettable hour.
She took a deep breath and rang the
bell.
Seconds later, there he was, his expression serious as he ushered her inside, taking the bag of groceries. Before she could ask him if everything was okay, he headed toward the kitchen. She followed him through the living room, liking the two big red comfy-looking sofas, lots of throw pillows, a plush area rug, an enormous round wooden coffee table piled with kids’ books and action figures and a furry dog bed on which a beagle eyed her.
“Daisy’s not much of a watchdog,” West said as he led the way into the kitchen, the walls a warm yellow, the wooden cabinetry white and appliances stainless steel. He put the bag of groceries on the island in the center of the room, and Annabel placed the folder next to it, then looked over at West, who was holding up a bottle of red wine. She nodded and he poured two glasses.
“The more you can pack into tonight’s lesson, the better,” he said, handing her a glass.
She took the wine, wishing she could read his mind. Something was clearly bothering him. “Are you ever going to tell me why it’s worth one thousand bucks to make a chicken salad sandwich?”
He leaned back against the refrigerator, covered in his daughter’s paintings and school notices and quizzes, and took a long drink of his wine. “That’s complicated.”
Chicken salad was complicated? She waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. “Okay,” she said. “So let’s get started.” She dug into the grocery bag, taking out a rotisserie chicken. “At our dinner lesson, I’ll teach you how to roast a chicken, using the leftovers for chicken salad sandwiches the next day. But for now we’ll use a preroasted chicken. Rotisserie chickens are great when you’re in a hurry—”
He put his wine down and came over, standing so close she could smell his shampoo. He stared at the chicken. She realized he’d been a million miles away and had just clicked back to her. “I admit I buy those a few times a week. Quick and easy.”
“That’s fine,” she said, for a moment overwhelmed by his nearness, by his muscled forearm, his hand in his pocket. Annabel was tall, almost five foot nine, but West towered over her at six-three.
To stop focusing on his face, his body, the clean scent of him, she launched into a lecture about how long to keep a roast chicken in the fridge, then ticked off on her fingers the various lunches he could make from it.
“Aside from chicken salad, there’s tacos, stir-fry, po’boys, cold or hot chicken sandwiches and—” She stopped, realizing that he was staring out the window...at nothing she could see. He was definitely preoccupied. His gaze moved to the sink, where Annabel could see a cup with cartoon monkeys on it. “West? Are you all right?”
He paced to the window, then over to the refrigerator, where he stared at the photographs and watercolors his daughter had painted. Then he titled his head back and closed his eyes for a second.
Whatever was complicated about chicken salad was tearing West apart.
“This is what it’ll feel like,” he finally said. He paced the length of the kitchen. “This goddamned silence is what it’ll be like if they take her away from me. The lack of her, the weird quiet that comes from not hearing her voice, her saying ‘Daddy, look,’ every two minutes.”
He grabbed an apple from a basket on the island and hurled it into the sink so hard it bounced back and landed on the floor. Daisy came over and sniffed it, then stared up at West. He kneeled down beside the dog and buried his face in her brown bristly fur, picking up the apple and tossing it in the trash. “Damn it, damn it, damn it.”
Annabel froze, then kneeled down across from him and put her hand on his shoulder. “If who takes who away from you? Are you talking about your daughter?”
He stood up and walked across the kitchen, then back to the other side of the counter, bracing his arms on the sides. “Lucy’s maternal grandparents. Raina and Landon Dunkin. They think I’m unfit to raise Lucy. They say they’re going to fight for custody.”
She bolted up. “What? But anyone can see you’re a great father. I can see that and I’ve been back in town for three days. Even the little things—the way you played thumb war with her at Hurley’s tonight. Six times until your meals came. Letting her make a sundae out of her piece of cake.”
He dropped down on one of the chairs and took a slug of his wine, gesturing for Annabel to come sit. “The Dunkins would say she shouldn’t have had that piece of cake, that it’s too much sugar. But then I let her add whipped cream too. God, maybe I don’t think. Maybe I don’t know how to do this, how to be a good father.” His jaw was set hard, his expression grim as he leaned his head back and stared up at the ceiling.
She moved over with her own wine and sat down across from him. “Come on, a slice of cake? What could they really think is so terrible?”
“They came over earlier today when I burned my attempt at French toast—the kitchen was all smoky, the smoke alarm blaring. And before that someone at the pediatrician’s office tattled to them that Lucy was there today after falling out of a tree. She scraped up her leg pretty bad.”
“I’ve had a few smoky kitchens in my day, and I’m a chef,” she said. “It happens. And tree scrapes? That’s childhood.”
He seemed to calm down a bit, but then he stood up and started pacing again. “They think I’m unfit. And maybe they’re right. Maybe I’m not the best dad. I know I’m not exactly a mother. But I love Lucy more than anything in the world. They can’t take her from me.”
Suddenly she understood why making scrambled eggs and chicken salad was worth a thousand bucks. He wanted to be a better father to prove to the Dunkins that he could take care of his daughter.
“Should I stop her from climbing trees? Should I make her wear dresses like Raina wants? Should I hire a housekeeper and cook even though the last one told Lucy she was a bad girl for leaving her action figures on the rug instead of putting them away? Another one forgot Lucy was allergic to soy and made her some supposedly healthy smoothie and Lucy ended up in the ER. I’m doing my best and it’s not good enough. Never will be,” he muttered, then stalked out of the kitchen.
She trailed after him. “Surely if you talk to them, explain how much you love her, that you’re trying, that you’re taking this intensive cooking class—”
“I called Raina before I brought Lucy over to the restaurant tonight. I told her I was really working at this, that you were teaching me to cook. ‘Too little, too late, sorry,’ was all she said before hanging up on me.” He sat down on one of the red sofas, his head in his hands.
Annabel sat down beside him. She wanted to put her arm around him, assure him he’d get through this. Could the Dunkins really take his daughter away from him? The thought chilled her. She could just imagine what it did to West. “It’s not too late for anything. You’re a good father. You care. You’re paying me a fortune to teach you to cook for your child. You love that girl and that’s all that matters.”
“It’s not all that matters to the Dunkins. Apparently, if I really loved her, I wouldn’t have done X, Y or Z.” He turned and looked at her, his expression slowly changing from worry to determination. “But you’re right, Annabel. It’s not too late and I do care. So screw this useless moping. I’m not going to sit here and do nothing. I’m going to fight for my daughter. And one of those ways is to show them or the courts that I can take care of her. So let’s continue with the lunch lesson.”
And so they headed back into the kitchen, where Annabel taught him how to make chicken salad and baked chicken fingers, how to make a Cobb salad, how to make a perfect BLT. “Kids love chicken fingers,” she said, sliding the tray of them in the oven. “You can keep these in the fridge and heat them up for Lucy tomorrow. At the last restaurant I worked at in Dallas, I offered children’s cooking classes and the kids made these. I’ll bet Lucy would love cooking with you.”
“I saw how great you were with her at the restaurant,” he said. “You’d be a great mother. I’m surprised
you’re not married with two kids already.”
She stared at the floor, suddenly reminded that she’d better be careful of how much this man was getting inside her again. She made a show of looking at her watch. It was almost eleven-thirty. “I should get home,” she said. “Maybe you could ask the Dunkins to stay for breakfast tomorrow morning when they drop off Lucy—you can show them your omelet skills.”
“The smoky kitchen was the final straw. And they’ll take her directly to school anyway. But thank you, Annabel,” he said, holding her gaze. “I know I asked a lot of you and that I’m probably not your favorite person,” he added.
She froze for a second. “That was a long time ago.”
“Yeah.”
A flash of memory came over her, of West kissing her so hard her knees buckled, of desire she’d never felt before or since rushing over every inch of her body. She took in West’s warm brown eyes, the tangle of thick dark hair, the midnight stubble shadowing his square jaw. She tamped back the urge to reach a hand to his face. Get back on track, Annabel. The right track, she ordered herself. Your thoughts are headed for a derailment. She glanced down at her slip-on canvas sneakers to clear her mind of his face and body. Finally she looked back up. “You’re a good father, West. Anyone can see that.”
“Anyone but the Dunkins,” he said. He walked her out to her car, the moonlight casting shadows on his face. “Thank you again, Annabel. For everything.” He reached for her hand and squeezed it, a thank-you gesture, nothing more, but instead of letting go, he held on, his gaze moving from their entwined hands slowly up to her face, her lips, her eyes. He reached a hand to her cheek, and she leaned into his palm, her hand tightening on his.
And then he backed her slowly against the car, his mouth coming down on hers. She closed her eyes, reveling in the feel of his lips on hers. West, West, West, she thought.
