Kate scanned the rest of the list, her gaze stopping at the specification for two cups of burgundy wine. She opened the refrigerator door and took out the bottles she'd set in that morning to chill. "Papa, you have two white wines. Burgundy is red. Do you have another one somewhere?"
"Mama always uses white."
Of course she does. Hence the expression, white as a ghost. She smothered a giggle at her silly joke.
"So which one do I use? These are different kinds."
Papa studied the bottles then shook his head. "I don't remember. I'll go ask her."
"Okay."
Okay?! Kate stiffened. For just a second there she'd almost bought into Papa's delusion. Maybe that lilac scent was some kind of hallucinogen, olfactory LSD.
She stood frozen in place, one hand on the cookbook, the other clutching a bottle of wine, and watched Papa leave the room. His footsteps crossed the dining room, mounted the stairs, went down the hall to his bedroom, and then she heard the sound of his door closing.
Should she go after him? Was he going to hold some kind of séance and try to contact Mama? Was he going to have a conversation with himself?
Before she could decide on a course of action, she heard the door open and his heavy tread coming back down the hall, down the stairs, returning to the kitchen.
He walked over and selected one of the wines. "Cook with this one, drink the other."
Kate licked her dry lips. Papa looked as normal as he always did, totally composed and happy. Not like a man who'd just been to visit a ghost.
Maybe he had some of Mama's notes in his bedroom, and he'd gone up and consulted her wine list.
Maybe. But that would mean he was lying, and she'd never known Papa to do that. Certainly he wouldn't lie in order to convince her he was seeing ghosts. Any sane person would do the opposite.
She took out the big iron skillet and turned on a burner on the gas range.
"I'll chop the green onions," Papa volunteered.
"Thank you," she said numbly and had to resist an urge to wrap her arms around him and hold him tightly so he couldn't slip away.
Instead she took out the bacon and laid six slices in the skillet.
When she had the bacon and green onions cooked and draining on a paper towel with the chicken breasts browning in the skillet, Papa instructed her to begin the pie crust, the recipe marked by a paper clip.
Kate could feel the panic creeping up her spine even as the perspiration crept down it. She studied the page Papa indicated.
Pie crust. Four ingredients. How tough could that be?
"Sift flour and salt into a bowl," she read. "Add half of the shortening and cut it in with a pastry blender or two knives until mixture looks like coarse meal. Cut in remaining shortening until it looks like large peas?" Her voice rose another octave with every word past the pastry blender.
Papa smiled at her panic. "Use the next recipe, the one where you pour in the oil and milk at the same time. Mama says it's just as good and a whole lot less trouble."
"Oh."
The pie crust proceeded reasonably well until time to get it in the pan. Between trips to the stove to turn the chicken, she followed the directions explicitly, pressing the dough into an uneven, lopsided circle with a rolling pin while squeezing the torn parts back together. The result wasn't great, but she supposed it could have been worse. Anyway, it was going to go underneath the pie, not on top. Nobody would see it.
She consulted the recipe again, folded that circle twice, laid it in the greased pie pan and unfolded. Or tried to.
For the first time in too many years to remember, Kate thought she might burst into tears as she surveyed the shreds of pie dough. Even Papa looked dismayed.
"I'd better go talk to Mama," he mumbled.
Kate sank into one of the kitchen table chairs and laid her head in her hands. She'd known before she came to Briar Creek that things could be bad, but somehow she hadn't quite believed it, hadn't wanted to believe it. This was bad and getting worse. The whole situation was totally out of control.
Papa was losing his mind, talking to Mama, getting cooking directions from her, directions his daughter couldn't follow, and in a few hours her childhood friend, Luke, who'd grown into a sexy man she barely recognized, would come over expecting dinner and would find total chaos and inedible food and what did she care if he did? He'd left her all alone, hadn't written or called once in all those years, and now she was supposed to cook dinner for him?
She bit her lip, focusing on the physical pain to control the hysteria that threatened to bubble up and overtake her.
"It's okay, Katie-girl." Papa wrapped one big arm around her and stroked her hair.
He was still taking care of her when she should be taking care of him.
She lifted her head and forced herself to smile. "I know. I'm just a little tense. I'm not accustomed to this cooking business."
"It's going to be fine. Mama says to throw out that batch of dough, mix it up again and put it between two sheets of waxed paper to roll it. Then peel off one, plop it in the pan and peel off the other."
The method worked perfectly.
Every time she had a question or a problem, Papa went upstairs to consult Mama and returned with the right answer.
Papa couldn't cook. What the heck was going on?
When he went up to ask a question about the stuffed mushrooms, Kate tiptoed into the hallway to where the telephone sat in a built-in niche. She waited tensely for a few seconds after she heard his door close then quietly lifted the receiver. Papa had a phone in his room. He could be calling someone in town to ask the questions, though, again, she'd never known him to be deceitful.
All she heard was a dial tone.
Papa's door opened, and he started down the hallway.
Kate hastily hung up the phone and raced back to the kitchen, her heart pounding. Had he somehow known she was going to listen on the extension and not made a call this time?
But again he had the correct answer to her question.
Did Papa have a split personality who was a gourmet chef?
She tore spinach for the salad and resolved not to think about it until this dinner was over. Even if it was edible...which was highly unlikely...she was going to have to decide if she was thrilled at the thought of seeing Luke again or if she was dismayed or if she was dismayed at being thrilled.
And she still hadn't decided what to wear.
Oh, yes, she had. Her cut-offs.
Or maybe the long turquoise halter dress. Not because it looked great with her hair or because it was slenderizing, but only because it was cool and the house was hot.
She ripped a spinach leaf in two with a vicious tear. That argument would be all well and good for someone outside her head, but she couldn't hide her motivation from herself. She wanted to look good for Luke.
Okay, so she was on an ego trip...wanted to impress an old friend who hadn't seen her in years.
Nice try, but if that was all it was, her knuckles wouldn't be turning white.
This was nuts. She never obsessed about her appearance. Maybe she was over-compensating since Luke had been the first—and only—man to break her heart. There had to be a logical reason for her strange attraction to him. If she'd paid more attention in psych class, she'd surely be able to figure it out.
But she hadn't. She'd been far more interested in her business and computer classes, something tangible rather than the vagaries of the mind.
So the best she could do was ignore the whole thing for the short time period she'd be in contact with him. She had plenty of other problems to occupy her mind what with Papa bringing Mama in as a cooking consultant. At least he hadn't asked her to set a place at the table for Mama.
Yet.
***
Jerome sat on the edge of the bed to pull on his best boots, getting dressed for Katie's dinner.
Emma tsked. "Jerome, you really need to buy some more socks. You've got a toe sticking out of this pair, too. People will think I don
't take good care of you."
"Now, Emma, who's gonna see my socks except you?"
Emma fisted her hands on her hips. "Jerome!"
"Okay, okay, I'll buy some more socks. Katie'll probably give me some for Christmas if we wait."
Emma rolled her eyes.
He stood and tucked the tails of his green, western-cut shirt into his blue jeans.
"Jerome, you're still the best-looking man I've ever known," Emma said.
He smiled at the image of the faint aura just behind him. He could barely see his wife in the mottled glass of the ancient dresser mirror. "Emma, I think you're blinded by love, and I'm awful glad you are."
Emma laughed softly and planted a tingling kiss on his cheek. "You're the one whose eyesight's failing. But you're right about the love part. I do love you and our little girl. She and I had a nice visit today. I haven't had a chance to tell you what with all the dinner preparations."
Jerome lifted one eyebrow. "You had a nice visit? I wish I'd been here to see that. What happened?"
"She was standing at your door, looking in, and I was sitting on the bed. Leo came in for me to pet him, and she came after him, though I like to think part of the reason she came in was because she sensed I was here and wanted to talk to me. A girl needs her mother when she's thinking about getting married, especially if she's thinking about marrying the wrong man. Anyway, she sat on the bed and I held her in my arms, just the way I used to when she was a baby, and we reminisced."
"About Luke?"
"Mostly." Emma sighed and walked over to the window. "I don't think she's ever completely recovered from his leaving her when they were children."
Jerome drew a comb through his remaining hair. "I know she hasn't. That was hard on her. She was so brave about it, not wanting to worry me, but I knew."
Emma sighed. "I felt so helpless. She cried herself to sleep every night and was so distraught, I couldn't get through to her. Then she built that barrier around her, and we were never close again."
Jerome turned and planted a quick kiss on his wife's cheek. "Somewhere inside, she's always known you were still there. Don't go thinking you've failed her. You've done a great job."
Emma smiled. "Things are getting better. I'm pretty sure I made contact last night when she was asleep and again this afternoon. Not like it used to be when she was little, but being with Luke is having a good effect on her. Those two have been given another chance. It's up to you and me to keep them together long enough for them to realize that. You and I just need to give them an extra little nudge."
Jerome chuckled then wrapped his arms around her. "A little nudge? Emma, sweetheart, do you think you might be confusing a little nudge with a giant shove?"
"Whatever it takes, Jerome. We'll do whatever it takes to get those two stubborn people back together so they can be as happy as we've been."
"Yes, we will, Emma. Whatever it takes." Jerome held his wife as tightly as he could without his arms passing through her. Only one thing marred the moment. When their daughter's happiness was assured, would Emma's special dispensation be up?
All those years ago when Katie was just a baby, Emma's return until Katie was raised, until she found her true love, had seemed a long time. But the years had flown and he was no more ready for her to leave him than he had been the day of her car wreck.
Nevertheless, she was right. They'd do whatever it took to be sure their Katie was happy.
Chapter Seven
Luke sat on the faded, comfortable sofa sipping iced tea and talking to Sheriff while Katie made final dinner preparations in the kitchen.
"Whatever she's doing in there smells wonderful," Luke said. "The way she talked yesterday, I expected bologna sandwiches."
"Katie can do anything she sets her mind to. She just needs a little encouragement sometimes to kind of jumpstart her on something new." The older man leaned back in his recliner. "How'd it go at Homer Grimes' place today? You were sure out there a long time. What's his problem now?"
"Somebody ran a tractor down four rows of soy beans and totally destroyed that part of the crop. He wanted me to rush right over and arrest Seth Flanders, but there wasn't any evidence that Seth did it."
Sheriff frowned. "I know those two old codgers have hated each other for years, and I don't doubt for one minute that Seth painted that frown face on Homer's barn. Heck, Homer's barn needed painting anyway. Seth just gave him a head start. But I can't see Seth destroying something that Homer depends on for his livelihood."
Luke shrugged. "I went over and questioned him. Of course he denied knowing anything about it. Why do those two hate each other? They've lived on adjacent farms since they were kids, haven't they?"
"Yep. Sure have. Used to be best friends, then one day they weren't. Nobody knows what started the feud. Seth claims he doesn't know, either, and that he tried to end it a lot of times. One thing's for sure, Homer's not ready to shake hands and make up."
"That's a shame. Two old men, all alone...does either one of them have any family?"
"Nope. Seth was married once a long time ago, but she ran off to California with some traveling salesman passing through the town before they had a chance to have any kids. You're right. It's a crying shame they can't get along."
Katie appeared in the doorway wielding a wooden spoon like a baseball bat, her expression slightly frantic, her skin shiny and translucent from the heat, her hair a little wilder than usual as if to coordinate with her expression.
She was beautiful.
"It's ready, guys," she said. "As soon as you sign a waiver, we can eat it."
Sheriff chuckled as he slid from his chair. "It's not like you to be so modest, Katie-girl." He clapped Luke on the back. "I tell you, Luke, this is going to be one of the finest meals you've ever eaten."
Katie grimaced, casting an appealing glance at Luke. "We've got peanut butter sandwiches for backup."
Sheriff motioned Luke ahead of him, so he followed directly behind Katie into the dining room. She was wearing a dress that tied around her neck and left most of her back bare. He'd seen Katie's back a thousand times when they were growing up, but for some reason tonight he couldn't pull his gaze away from the slight movement of her shoulder blades as she walked, the porcelain shade of her skin, the way her back tapered down to her slim waist.
She was close enough he could smell the spicy scents of the food she'd been cooking as well as that honeysuckle fragrance that was the essence of Katie.
She was close enough he could touch that bare skin if he just lifted his hand.
She stopped abruptly and turned to him with an apprehensive look on her face, and he thought for a minute he'd been caught admiring her erotic back.
Then he realized she was waiting for his reaction to the room where they'd never eaten in all the years he'd known her, the room where dust usually lay thick on the formal table.
Tonight the rich wood of that table gleamed in the light from the overhead chandelier which had also been dusted. The table was set with the china he'd only seen in the past decorating the interior of the hutch, and three cloth napkins rested in three polished silver napkin rings.
Katie had set a gorgeous table, but that wasn't what caught his attention.
In amazement he noted the stuffed mushrooms and spinach salad already on their plates, the food in the serving dishes, the wine and the pie on the sideboard.
Katie had prepared all his favorite dishes, even bought his favorite wine.
Had he mentioned his preferences to Sheriff? He didn't think so. It wasn't something that came up in casual conversation.
Sure, he used to think he and Katie could read each other's minds, but not in that much detail. And in those days his favorite foods had been hot dogs and Cokes.
But somehow she knew and had gone to a lot of trouble to please him. He felt a little embarrassed. While he'd been mentally yowling around her door like a tomcat in heat, she'd been planning this special meal for him.
He made a fi
rm resolution to keep his mind off her bare back and her...well, all those other parts of her that sent his blood rushing straight to his lower extremities.
Extremity.
"What's the matter?" Katie asked. "Why are you frowning? You haven't even tasted it yet."
"Nothing's the matter. It looks wonderful. I'm not frowning. I'm just a little surprised."
Hurt followed by anger flashed in Katie's blue eyes as she plopped down at the table and jerked out her napkin.
"Not at your cooking skills," he hastily added, taking his seat across from her. "Just the food choices. How did you decide on the menu?"
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