Читать книгу A Cowboy In The Kitchen - Meg Maxwell - Страница 9

Chapter Three

According to Clementine, at 6:30 p.m., prime dinnertime, every table at Hurley’s Homestyle Kitchen should be taken, a line of folks waiting on the porch, where waiters would circulate with complimentary sweet tea and Gram’s beloved smoked and spiced nuts. Now, at that exact hour, she and Clementine glanced around the dining room, Annabel worrying her lower lip and Clementine furious.

“This is how everyone supports Gram after fifty years? By staying home because she’s ill and not doing the cooking?” Clementine asked, shaking her head.

“Well, Gram is Gram,” Annabel said, watching through the back window as Olivia Piedmont and her husband craned their necks into the kitchen, saw Gram’s assistant cook, Hattie, and her helper, Harold, and then pointed across the street to the Sau Lin’s Chinese Noodle Shop. Not that Annabel wanted to take business away from Sau Lin’s, which had been around a long time too, but Hattie had been cooking beside Gram for thirty years. And now here was Annabel, who’d learned to shred chicken and create a killer barbecue sauce by the time she was eight.

Five of the fifteen tables were taken. Five. And when Lindy, one of the waitresses, rolled out the dessert cart to tables two and four, only one person ordered a piece of the special chocolate fudge pie.

Every day that continued like this meant Hurley’s Homestyle Kitchen would be in big trouble within two months. Tonight, after the cooking lesson, Annabel would spend some time coming up with an idea to bring in business. That was the constant talk at staff meetings at the three restaurants where Annabel had worked in Dallas—everything was about retaining patrons and bringing in new ones. But here in Blue Gulch, there wasn’t exactly the same competition to study as there had been in Dallas. If people quit Hurley’s because the best cook in the world was no longer doing the cooking, all the initiative in Texas wouldn’t help.

Annabel would just have to up her game and try, try, try. A menu board listing the delectable specials outside. A Facebook page with photos that would have mouths watering. A new children’s corner with games and toys and mats and maybe Annabel could hire a sitter for the section. She felt a little better already.

Except when Danielle Tolliver and her Tuesday night book club meeting got up to leave, Annabel overheard Danielle whisper to one of the women that the chicken-fried steak’s gravy just wasn’t the same.

Annabel had made that gravy. Maybe it had too much Dallas in it, not enough Blue Gulch. She had to remember she was home now, that people like old-fashioned, good food, not newfangled spices in thinner sauce. No one was counting fat grams at Hurley’s.

Deep breath taken, Annabel was about to head back into the kitchen when she froze, her heart speeding up, unable to take her eyes off the man who’d just walked through the door of the restaurant. West Montgomery. He held his little girl’s hand. Clementine walked over with a smile and led them to a table overlooking the hill out back with its wildflowers.

Annabel should go over and say hello and thank him—he must have gotten up early and silently gone to work on the Hurley’s Homestyle Kitchen sign, because the sign was freshly painted and the loose cobblestones fixed. A man of his word. Instead she waved, then scurried into the kitchen, her reaction to the sight of West, the gorgeousness of him, scaring the bejesus out of her.

Hattie was on the grill, her assistant, elderly Harold, on sides and salads. Annabel was helping both of them and in charge of sauces and kitchen management, and was trying her best to become a better baker. When Clementine came with the Montgomery order—roast beef po’boy for West and a children’s mac and cheese for Lucy—Hattie was so busy with a special-ordered fish that Annabel took care of West’s and Lucy’s orders.

She was making their dinner. Which felt very...domestic. A fantasy poked in her head about what it would be like to live with West and Lucy. A thought she forced out of her head. West had hurt her so bad seven years ago that she wasn’t sure she’d ever let herself fall in love again. Granted, he’d been a grieving mess that night and she shouldn’t blame him too harshly, but she couldn’t help it. He’d put a halt to things with her, then had been doing the same things with Lorna Dunkin out in the open, not caring if she saw them or not.

That was who West was; she had to remember that. People always showed you who they were loud and clear, right? That was what Gram always said. So why did West not seem like a thoughtless jerk? She peered through the little window on the door to the dining room and caught West helping Lucy color on her children’s place mat. That wasn’t a sign of a jerk.

She thought of herself at eighteen, alone and lonely and out of her element in Dallas, trying so hard to fit in and eventually succeeding while feeling...empty. Now she was back home where she belonged and she wasn’t about to let herself want West Montgomery again. No matter how many cobblestones he fixed or how many times he played thumb war with his daughter at Annabel’s favorite table in Hurley’s. No matter how much she wanted to join them.

The moment she peered out the window into the dining room, West happened to see her and waved her over. She was covered in gravy stains and had flour in her hair, but such was the life of a cook.

She weaved her way through the tables, smiling at the Henry family, catching one of the waiters’ eyes to refill water on table three, and stopped in front of West and his daughter’s table.

She kneeled down beside Lucy. “Hi, I’m Annabel Hurley. I’m one of the cooks here. I hope you liked your macaroni and cheese.” Considering there was only a scrape of cheese left in the bowl, she felt safe putting the girl on the spot.

“It was really good,” Lucy said. “We were going to have French toast, but it burned because Daisy ate my crayon.”

“Long story,” West said, ruffling his daughter’s hair. “Want to split a piece of chocolate layer cake?” he asked Lucy. “That looks amazing,” he added, upping his chin at the delectable dessert heading over to another table.

“Yes!” Lucy said. “With whipped cream and a cherry on top.”

“She wants everything to be like a sundae,” West pointed out.

Annabel smiled at the adorable girl. “How would you like to come into the kitchen and help me make your sundae cake?”

The girl slid out of her chair. “Yes!”

Lucy slid her hand into hers, the sweet gesture poking at her heart. West glanced at their hands and smiled at Annabel, following them into the kitchen.

After introductions to Hattie and Harold, Annabel led Lucy to the dessert table, holding three chocolate layer cakes, four kinds of pie and a big plate of butter cookies. Annabel sliced a piece of cake, then brought Lucy over to the walk-in refrigerator, where the girl spun around with her mouth open.

“I’m in a refrigerator!” she exclaimed.

Annabel laughed and pointed out the tub of whipped cream, which she put in Lucy’s outstretched hands, and then they headed back to the dessert table. Annabel handed her a scoop, and Lucy dug in and released a perfect mound of whipped cream on the cake. “Now for the cherry so it’s a real cake sundae.” Annabel held out a basket of cherries.

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.”