“I bet your friends would love to see you again. How about you give Eloise a call and talk to her about it? Maybe find out what they’re planning for the festival. I’m sure it’s something big, since it’s including the town’s hundred and twenty-fifth anniversary celebration.” Something Abby was hoping to capitalize on whenever she could.
“I still have all those old photo albums your great-grandmother kept from when they’d come here on vacation. Maybe the club could use those.”
“It can’t hurt to ask. Come on. Let’s get you on the phone. I’ve got cooking class in about an hour.” She tugged her away from the dining room window and Grandpa Bob’s bench.
“You’re a good girl, Abby. My boy and your mother would be so proud of you.”
“Thanks, Gran.” A pang of regret struck as Abby thought about her parents’ rings. “I had a good example to follow. Now how about we start mending some fences with your friends?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“I’M DOING PRETTY well for my second day at boot camp, aren’t I?” Pride swelled within Abby at the mildly impressed expression on Jason’s face when she finished naming all the cooking utensils and equipment he’d lined up on the counter. “I bet you thought you’d trip me up on the food mill.” She tapped a finger on the handle of the stainless steel appliance that could pass as a medieval torture device.
“You’re stalling. You still haven’t told me what you use it for.” He spoke in the same tense tone he’d started the day with. The smile she’d begun to get used to had gone into hibernation. Abby was carefully contemplating unexpected ways to blast him out of his sour mood.
“Soups, mashed potatoes.” She ticked them off on her unbandaged fingers. “And tomato sauce.”
“At least now we know you won’t get lost in the kitchen without me.” He busied himself putting items away.
“Are you going somewhere?” Her stomach dropped. He wasn’t abandoning her already, was he? Not after she’d stayed up until 1:00 a.m. reading the book she’d dubbed Cooking for the Culinarily Challenged and aced Name This Utensil right down to the lemon zester and garlic press. “Did you decide to go back to New York?”
“Hardly,” Jason scoffed in a tone that told her she’d hit the nail on the head with her second question. “I’m not going back. But I’m not always going to be with you, Abby. I’ve read up on the competition. You’ll be on your own. No sous chef, so the more you know, the more you learn now, the better prepared you’ll be for whatever they throw at you.”
“A sous is a cook’s assistant, right?”
“A chef’s assistant, yes.”
“What’s the difference?” She ignored her promise not to touch anything without permission and slipped her recently burned hand around the handle of a whisk. Not even she could do much damage with that. “A chef and cook both cook.”
“There’s about a hundred thousand dollars’ tuition worth of difference.”
“Could you possibly say that with a touch more condescension?”
“That’s the second time you’ve called me a snob.” Finally, some life sparked in his eyes as his jaw tensed. She could see where he’d intimidate people, but where some withdrew when attacked, he struck out. “I might not act how you think I should, Abby. I might not see things how you do with those rose-tinted glasses of yours, and I might not be great with folks, but that doesn’t mean I’m turning my nose up at everything.”
“Not everything, no.” She’d certainly tapped an overly sensitive nerve, hadn’t she. A nerve he didn’t want touched. One that needed to be exposed. She should back off and let him deal with things on his own. She didn’t need this, didn’t need his problems on top of hers, but Abby had never been able to turn away from someone in pain. Whether Jason Corwin wanted to admit it or not, he was hurting. She moved closer. Pushed harder. He needed someone to. “Remind me again how much dinner would cost me at your restaurant.”
“That’s—different. That’s not here.” He slapped a dish towel onto the sink. “New York’s a different world.”
“A world you miss.”
“Yes. No.” He dropped his head forward for a moment before he seemed to shake himself free. “No, I don’t miss it. I don’t have the drive anymore.”
“I don’t believe that.” Abby moved up behind him, a hand poised to reach out, to comfort, but she closed her fingers and kept her distance. “You come alive in this room, Jason. You’re almost a different person. I’ve seen it, even in the few days you’ve been helping me. Yes, you’re fighting it and no, you may not want it, but cooking is a part of you. It’s who you are. So maybe you’re not ready to go home to New York and maybe you won’t be for a long time, but it would be a real shame if you closed that door forever.”
The internet had given her more information than she needed about the infamous Corwin brothers. One charming and energetic, the other—the one standing in front of her—brooding and brilliant and now oh so alone.
She saw that now that she’d watched some of their shows. How she’d love to meet the Jason she saw on-screen with his brother. Their affection for one another was palpable; it made her as the viewer want to be part of their family, part of their lives, even if it was only making a meal from a recipe they’d created.
She’d fought the temptation to watch the video showing Jason’s brutal decline in front of millions of viewers. When his pride wouldn’t allow him to own up to what would be a life-altering mistake.
He’d looked so...lost.
He was still lost.
“I know all about the seven stages of grief, Abby,” Jason said. “Why do you think I’m standing in the middle of a hotel kitchen in Butterfly Harbor when everything that’s ever meant anything to me is all the way across the country?”
“Because you’ve found yourself inexplicably drawn to the hotel’s manager?” She fluttered her lashes at him when he looked at her. “Ah, there’s that irritable super grouch I’ve come to appreciate. You’re here in Butterfly Harbor because you haven’t decided whether you want to fight for what you have left.”
“First a snob, then a grouch, now a coward.” He went to the fridge and pulled out a large glass bowl filled with eggs. “Am I moving up or down the food chain?”
“Depends on your point of view.” Good. Anger, even irritation, was an improvement over wallowing. “I get that you’re working through a lot of stuff, Jason. And I totally respect that, but I have to tell you, you’re draining my energy.” She tapped her fingers on the counter as she waited for him to respond. “You can’t talk to your family, you can’t talk to your friends. Do you even have friends?”
“I never had the knack David did when it came to making them.”
That explained so much. “Well, you can talk to me. Use me as a sounding board. Get all this emotion out so you can do something other than brood in my tower room like the Phantom of the Kitchen. Or is it something else? Did one of those nasty reporters write another snarky article about you? Do you need your Super Chef ego stroked? Cook me something, oh, honored one.”
“I’m curious.” He stared at her. “These things you say, do they pop into your head on their own or do you keep a notebook somewhere? We’re in a kitchen, Abby. Boundaries need to be set. This isn’t the place to get personal.”
She stared at the ceiling and let out an overly dramatic sigh. “The jaws of life couldn’t get you to open up. This isn’t personal. It’s a conversation and advice from someone who’s trying to be your friend. I thought you went for a run this morning. Should I send out a search party for your missing endorphins?”
Did he have to look at her as if she’d sprouted a second head? “I have never met anyone like you before. Where do you come up with this stuff?”
“I read books. Come on, Jason. Friends talk to each other. Let me help.”
“You really thi
nk we’re friends?”
“You watched me puke. Trust me, we’re friends.” She grabbed hold of his arm with both hands and shook him hard. “Do I need to give you a time-out? Talk to me! Or shove that bad mood of yours aside and let’s get back to—oh.” She looked down at the broken eggs on the floor.
She pressed her lips tight as a giggle escaped. She covered her mouth, but the laugh must have shown on her face.
“That’s not funny,” Jason said, but as he looked down, too, his lips quirked. You’d think he’d hurt something if he cracked a smile.
“Give it a couple more seconds.” The laugh escaped, and soon, she had to drag in a breath to stop from choking. The more she stared at his face, the more she saw him struggling to figure out how he should react. Her giggles got worse. “Come on. You’re almost there. There’s nothing wrong with laughing in the kitchen, Jason.” She nudged him again and sent another egg crashing to the floor. “Come on! Laugh!”
“Okay.” His chuckle felt like she’d been presented with a gold medal. “That’s enough.” He retrieved a handful of paper towels, hesitated and then pushed them into her hands. “Your mess, you clean up.”
“Fine.” She swiped at the dampness on her face and crouched down. “What happened this morning, Jason?” She mopped the floor and soon discovered raw eggs weren’t exactly easy to scoop. Yuck. “Did someone in town say something to you? About the cheating thing?” She was beginning to think they needed a code name for it.
“Even if they did, it couldn’t be any worse than what my own father said. He couldn’t remember being more disappointed in me. Which is saying something, given our history. Especially since he’s the only reason I entered that stupid contest to begin with.” He slid down the side of the workstation, bracing his arms on his knees as he watched her struggle with the eggs.
“I read somewhere that it was your brother who was supposed to compete.”
“Which is why I stepped in. My father convinced me that I’d be honoring David. Instead, I disgraced both of us and the company. And made it ripe for a takeover.”
“And all this was a while ago, right? So what happened today that set you off?”
He hesitated, as if discussing this morning’s events was more difficult than something that had happened months ago. “Paige asked me to sign her copy of All the Best. It brought back...memories. Of David.”
“Good ones?” Abby sat back on her heels as his grief washed over her.
“One of the best.” He steepled his fingers, his elbows resting on his knees. “First time in a long time I’ve thought of the good times.”
“Good memories put you in a bad mood. And you think I’m odd.” Her teasing tone triggered a flicker of amusement in his sad blue eyes.
“Yesterday you asked me why I became a chef. I became one because it was David’s dream. We did everything together. Same schools, same jobs, same girls. Not at the same time,” he added when Abby groaned. “I never wanted to do anything else, because I knew whatever we did, we’d be great together. He loved the family business and he was so good at it. He could charm anyone, any occasion. The two of us with our grandfather, it was the perfect fit, even though I always felt as if I were more along for the ride while David drove.”
Unease uncurled in her stomach as she finished swiping up gooey egg yolks and dropped them into the garbage can. “That can’t be true. You might think it is, but given how well you two did, there’s no way it wasn’t a team effort.”
“Yeah, but that’s the problem, isn’t it? There’s no more team. There’s nothing, and I don’t know if that’s ever going to change.”
“So let nothing happen for a while.” She took another swipe with a new batch of towels before throwing them away and crouching down in front of him. “Maybe it’s time you stop focusing on everything you’ve lost, on all those things you can’t change. The past is the past, Jason. It always will be. There’s no fixing it, but you can move beyond it. Maybe the road you were on with David isn’t meant to be traveled alone. It’s time you find a new one.”
“Now who’s channeling the little green guy?”
Her entire body jolted when Jason took hold of her hand, twirling his fingers around hers. He stared at her in such stark concentration she could see the grief mingling with sorrow in his eyes.
This shouldn’t feel right. She shouldn’t want him to touch her, to hold her. She shouldn’t want to comfort him and help him get through his loss. And yet...
At this moment, she didn’t want anything more.
“I’ve always been David’s little brother. By six minutes,” he clarified when she frowned. “He had six minutes on me and never let me forget it. I don’t know that I know who I am without him.”
“I’ll tell you who you are. You’re Jason Corwin.” She lifted her other hand and touched his cheek, her fingers tingling at the feel of his beard. It was softer than she’d expected, especially given he wore it like a shield. “Maybe for now that’s enough.” She hoped she had something to do with how the heaviness seemed to be lifting off him. “You don’t have to decide anything today. Or tomorrow. Or even next week. There’s nothing you have to do except be you. And maybe help me kick some cooking butt. So stew on that.”
He arched a brow.
“I’ve decided my new goal in life is to torture you with puns. Skewer you with tomatoes? Maybe fry you in oil? Or we can get back to my cooking lessons, because our time is running out. What was next on your agenda?”
His smile returned. “Scrambled eggs.”
“Oh! Hmm.” She gripped his fingers tight and leaned in, inhaled the scent of ocean air mingled with roasted coffee on his skin before she plucked up an errant eggshell. “I’m ahead of the game with cracking the shells. What’s step two?”
* * *
THERE WAS NO way on this green earth Jason would tell Abby she’d been right two days in a row. It would set a precedent he had no intention of sustaining.
Doing nothing had never sounded more productive. He’d never not done something before. He wasn’t sure he knew how. His entire life was in flux. Walking away from everything he’d helped to build over thirty-one years was a loss unto itself, and that was on top of David’s death.
It was as if Abby giving him permission to grieve had unlocked a door he couldn’t pry open. She seemed to understand everything. And now, because of her sledgehammer personality and dogged determination, the floodgates in his head—and heart—had burst open. He was thinking more clearly, as if a fog had lifted.
Nothing about his visit to Butterfly Harbor had gone as expected. Everywhere else he’d managed to avoid...people, but apparently even he had his limits when it came to a lack of socialization. Finding something as productive as teaching Abby to cook—and, yes, he had to admit it had an element of fun—felt far better than dwelling on all those things he couldn’t do anything about.
His father had given an interview to yet another tabloid show this morning, but this one hadn’t had the same explosive effect as the previous ones, either on the internet or with him. With each day that passed, Jason was finding it easier to put the past where it belonged: behind him. And Butterfly Harbor was helping him do that. The people here truly didn’t care about what he’d done. They did, however, seem inordinately curious about what he was doing now. He’d met so many people and shaken so many hands in the last few days, he was beginning to feel like a politician. Plenty of Abby’s fellow residents were interested in his thoughts about the festival and wanted the inside scoop on Abby’s participation in the cooking competition. Butterfly Harbor felt like another world, far removed from the real one that was obsessed with success, celebrity, headlines and ratings.
Except the real world would soon be coming to town. The coverage for the By the Bay Food Festival could kick up all the dirt that was finally beginning to settle.
He’d done his research. It wasn’t only his former producer who would be overseeing the production and Abby’s cook-off, but a number of his former colleagues, not to mention at least one judge who had been sitting on the other side of the table when Jason had been exposed as a cheater.
He couldn’t risk tarnishing Abby’s chances in the contest by publicly showing his support. Even staying in the shadows might be dangerous for her. He couldn’t risk whatever burning embers of scandal might reignite and take Abby and Butterfly Harbor down with it.
This place didn’t deserve to be put in the spotlight for the wrong reason. He didn’t want to become the story. Again.
Abby had sounded panicked this afternoon when she’d thought he was leaving, but her protests had gotten him to thinking she should be made aware of his plans. He couldn’t stay much longer. Which meant he needed to hurry her lessons so he could break away free and clear. And soon. Before the festival began. Before his past caught up with him.
A quick inquiry at the front desk had him forgoing the complimentary wine and cheese offering to follow the darkening path around the Flutterby’s extensive property. The earlier breeze was a bit chillier now as his feet crunched in the thick covering of dead leaves coating the overgrown trail.
He should have done more exploring. This patch of acreage felt as if he’d stepped into some sort of secret garden, complete with run-down cottage dwellings, black iron fencing and yards screaming for attention. He went left at the fork in the path and headed up the small hill, a garden exploding with midsummer color that glowed even in the starry moonlight.
There was nothing overgrown, run-down or depressing about this little house.
A dim light glowed from inside the curtained window as he pushed through the trellised gate. Wide mismatched flagstones led to her front door, which was flanked by a collection of equally dissimilar potted plants that he realized had been a tad neglected.
He knocked on the door, wincing as the sound exploded into the silent night. She pulled the thin lace aside and Abby’s pixie-perfect face peeked out at him.
Recipe for Redemption Page 9
