Chapter Seven
Things had gone to hell in a handbasket.
At least, that’s what Granddad kept saying.
Over and over and over again.
As matter of fact, he’d said it so many times, Willow thought she’d lose her mind if she heard it just once more.
She didn’t have the heart to tell him that.
He meant well.
He really did.
It was just that the apartment wasn’t big, and the room they were preparing for Miracle was small, and the two of them had spent way too many minutes trying to assemble the easy-to-assemble crib that she’d purchased last night.
“Easy-to-assemble” must be code for never-going-to-happen.
Except it had to happen, because Alison was coming for a home visit in exactly fifteen hours.
After church on Sunday. Noonish.
God! What had she been thinking when she’d agreed to foster Miracle?
She hadn’t been thinking.
She’d been feeling all those ooey-gooey emotions that Adeline claimed to have experienced the moment she’d laid eyes on little Alice.
Only Miracle wasn’t Willow’s baby, and the ooey-gooey feelings were best left out of the equation. She was doing this because . . .
Well, because she’d been asked, and because she’d spent months taking classes to prepare to do just exactly what Alison had asked her to do.
Plus, she couldn’t forget the way Miracle had looked when Jax had lifted her from the box—tiny and frail.
She hadn’t looked any better after surgery.
Willow frowned, grabbing a screwdriver and trying to tighten the screw that was supposed to hold the crib together.
No luck. She touched the crib, and it wobbled like a drunken sailor on a storm-tossed ship.
“You know what the problem is, doll?” Granddad asked, holding the instruction sheet at arm’s-length and squinting as he tried to read it.
“You forgot your reading glasses?”
“Nah. I can see just fine. The problem is, too many cooks.”
“Granddad, it’s nearly eleven o’clock at night. I’ve been up since five. I’m too tired to decipher one of your riddles.”
“What riddle? I’m stating it plain as can be. Too many cooks spoil the broth and too many hands ruin the crib.”
“You’re saying that we’ve got one person too many working on this job?” she asked, hoping that was what he meant, because once he left, she’d close the nursery door and forget the mess until morning.
God help her if she couldn’t figure it out then, because poor Granddad sure didn’t seem to be able to lend a hand.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“You’re right. Why don’t you—”
“I’m glad you agree. I’ve been thinking about those bonbons you made the other day. The ones with the rum-soaked cherries inside?”
“What about them?” It had been the one recipe she’d had fantastic success at. The only recipe.
“I sure could use a couple. This is hard work, putting baby beds together. A guy like me? I need my sustenance.”
“I’ll make some more tomorrow. You go home, and when you—”
“Go home? Now, who said anything about me leaving?”
“You said there was one too many cooks.”
“Right. Only the one too many is you. I love you dearly, Willow, but you’re not quick at bed-building.”
Neither was he, but she loved him too much to point it out.
“Maybe not, but I can’t let you put this together while I—”
“Go make me a couple of those bonbons? Of course you can, because if I have to get the snack myself, my hip just might give out on me. You know I’ve been up and down the stairs six times the past few days, right?”
“I thought you were recovered enough to do that.”
“That’s what the doctor says. The leg?” He patted his right thigh. “It’s not convinced. The hip? It likes to try to trip me up. If I fall again . . . well, I might not recover this time.”
“Uhmmm-hmmm,” she said, and he scowled.
“Now, what in the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Just that I don’t think that hip is going make you fall, and if you did fall, you’re too stubborn to do anything but get back up and go right back into the kitchen.”
“After I finished putting this damn thing together,” he added, and she smiled.
“Granddad, really, you don’t have to do this for me.”
And she’d really rather he not, because going down into the kitchen and making chocolate at this time of night was absolutely out of the question.
The shop at night? Alone?
It wasn’t going to happen.
“I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for the baby.”
“You don’t have to do it for her, either. She’s not being discharged until Friday. And that’s only if she continues to improve.”
“And that caseworker lady is coming tomorrow. What if she doesn’t approve the apartment? What if she puts her hand on the crib and it falls into dozens of pieces?”
“Then I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.”
“Bull crap. This is meant to be. I feel it. Right here.” He tapped his chest. “Now, you go make me some chocolates, and I’ll put this thing together. If we’re both quick, I can be home by midnight.”
He took the screwdriver from her hand, nudged her into the hall.
“I could make you grilled cheese instead,” she offered. “You love grilled cheese.” She didn’t have the ingredients on hand to do it, but a drive to the grocery store wasn’t out of the question. Not like going down to the shop was.
“I had grilled cheese for dinner.”
“When’d you eat dinner?” Chocolate Haven had been busy for hours on end. One customer after another after another. Most of them wanted chocolate and the story about Miracle being found behind the Dumpster.
Most had offered to pay for the story when they paid for the chocolate.
Willow had declined politely so many times, she’d decided to post a sign on the front of the register—NO INTERVIEWS. After they’d closed down the shop, they’d headed to Spokane to see Miracle. Then, of course, they’d come here to put the easy-to-assemble crib together. There’d been no stop for dinner, and no mention of eating.
Apparently, because Granddad had been fed.
“A friend brought it for me.” His cheeks were pink.
A blush?
Was her grandfather actually blushing?
“A female friend?” she asked, wondering if that friend was Laurie Beth from the diner. Both her sisters had mentioned that she and Byron had a thing going on.
What kind of thing, neither was willing to say.
They sure as heck hadn’t used the word dating.
She’d have remembered that.
“What’s it matter?” he replied. “I had dinner. I want chocolate, and if you don’t feel like making it, you can just grab me a couple of whatever we have left from today.”
“There’s not much. We sold out of almost everything.”
“Second day in a row,” he said, a hint of pride in his voice. He loved the shop almost as much as he loved his family, and seeing it doing well always made him happy. “Now, how about we implement my plan? Because you look tired, and I’m feeling it. I want to get this crib built, so we can both catch some sleep!” He closed the door with a quiet snap, turned the old-fashioned skeleton key in the lock.
She could stand in the hall for the next twenty minutes, or she could go make him the bonbons.
She sighed, grabbing her coat from the closet and shoving her arms into the sleeves. She’d been cold for days, the chilly air seeping into her bones and settling there.
Hopefully, the baby would be warm enough in the apartment. Willow had had the radiator serviced to make sure that it was running properly. She’d also paid to have the living room fireplace inspected.
It had checked out, so she’d purchased wood and stacked it in the box beside the fireplace. She had a lighter high on the mantel, kindling in another box. A throw folded over the rocking chair Brenna had brought from the house she and her husband were restoring.
There were diapers in the cute changing table Janelle had purchased. Ointment, clothes, wipes, bottles. All those things had been provided by the community, brought in by the boxload until Willow had finally said enough.
Miracle wouldn’t be there forever.
Just a couple of months. Maybe a lot less than that.
Jax had called that morning. He’d said they had a few leads that they were following up on. God willing, they’d locate Miracle’s parents.
Until then, Willow was a temporary solution to the problem.
Temporary.
She kept reminding people of that.
Her sisters. Her mother. Her old high school friends. Reporters who stopped in for the story. Church ladies. Deacons. Shop owners from nearby towns who wanted to be part of the excitement. She told every single one of them that Miracle wasn’t staying for long, because she needed them all to remember it.
Eventually Alison would find a more permanent placement. Then Miracle would move on to some other town and some other family.
That was the truth, and Willow had spent just as much time reminding herself of it as she had everyone else.
Because, honestly, Jax had been right.
If she wasn’t careful, she’d get her heart broken.
She stepped out onto the landing, inhaling cold, crisp air and the familiar scent of home—pine needles, snow, and wood-burning fires.
Home?
Funny that she should think of it that way after all the years away. She’d settled into Seattle life and into its weather, and she’d never really thought about what she was missing—the dry, clean air, the clear sky, the beauty of nights like this one—stars speckling the black sky, the moon hanging low on the horizon.
God! It was all so stunning!
How could she have not remembered that?
She stood where she was for just a minute, letting the night settle quietly around her. She went quiet, too, her heartbeat slowing, her breathing evening out.
There was nothing to fear in the shop.
Nothing that could hurt her, anyway.
She could make a few bonbons. Maybe more than a few. They’d nearly doubled their sales the last few days, and there was no sign of that letting up.
Prep work began at five, but if she got a head start on it, maybe she could sleep until . . .
Church.
Tomorrow was Sunday, the shop was closed, any bonbons she made could be shared with friends rather than bought in the store. There was no need to make a huge batch. Just a few for Granddad, a few for friends.
None for her.
She was getting sick of the smell of chocolate, the taste of it, the feel of it on her hands.
Who was she kidding? She’d been sick of it before she’d even arrived.
Granddad sensed it. Or, more likely, he’d guessed based on her abysmal track record with the family fudge. She was batting zero, and the mess from her attempts wasn’t pretty. At last count, she’d wasted a few hundred dollars’ worth of fine chocolate and heavy cream. The Dumpster was becoming a graveyard for chocolate crap, and she was becoming the head undertaker.
After her last failure, she’d turned to the Bitter Cherry Bonbon recipe. Her grandmother had taught her how to make it when she was eight, and she’d wondered if she’d lost the touch for that as thoroughly as she’d lost her fudge-making abilities.
She’d been shocked and pleased when she’d produced beautiful glossy confections.
Granddad had been pleased too.
Maybe there’s hope after all, his overzealous appreciation seemed to say.
“Not hardly,” she muttered, finally taking the first step downstairs. The alley was dark, the exterior light turned off to discourage curiosity-seekers. The caution tape had been pulled down that morning, and there was nothing left to tell the story of Miracle. No box. No snow patted down by a dozen feet. The alley had gone back to what it had always been—a passageway between Main Street and the back lot.
Bitter wind swept through it, scattering bits of debris laid bare by the day’s bright sunshine and dry weather. The snow had melted, and the air held just a hint of balmy spring—cut grass, blooming fields, life springing up from the thawing ground. She hadn’t planned to be there to see it happen, but now that she’d agreed to foster Miracle, anything was possible. Spring. The beginning of summer.
She wanted to be angry about it. She wanted to regret it. She wanted to feel like she’d left her home, and she was desperate to return to it. After all, she loved her job and her little rental house. She had a good life, good neighbors, good friends.
She didn’t have family, though.
Not in Seattle.
She didn’t have sisters who stopped by to help shape chocolate hearts or plop pretty little robin’s egg–colored white chocolates into tiny coconut baskets. She didn’t have a mother setting flowers on her dinette table, cleaning her kitchen when she didn’t have time, sticking her nose into every plan she made.
It should have annoyed Willow.
She’d lived independent of her mother’s micromanagement for years, and she’d forgotten how insidious it could be.
Somehow, though, she’d found herself more patient with it than she’d expected. She’d found herself looking at her mother’s face and seeing a softness that hadn’t been there when she was a kid. Or maybe it had been, and she’d just been too caught up in her own drama to notice.
She’d reached the back door of the shop, and she unlocked it, all her good feelings slipping away. This was the part that she didn’t like. It was the one thing that she dreaded every moment of every day.
Walking into the empty shop.
Flicking on the lights.
Expecting him to be there, waiting in the shadows of the hallway, telling her that they hadn’t finished for the day.
Every night, she dreamed about it.
Every. Damn. Night.
God! Would she ever put it behind her?
Irritated, she grabbed ingredients from the pantry, slammed them on the counter, went to work as if everything in her life depended on making the most perfect bonbons in the whole damn world.
* * *
A long day had turned into a long night.
Jax had spent most of it over at the Bradshaws’ place, talking to Sunday and Matt’s renters. Nice kids. All three of them. There were supposed to be four. One was working in Spokane. At least, that’s what her housemates and husband said. She was the one Jax most wanted to see.
Three trips to the farm. Three people who were consistently there. One who was not.
That made him suspicious, so he’d stuck around, asking questions about the organic business the group was trying to start. Something to do with natural fibers and eco-friendly clothing.
He turned off the highway, following the country road that led into town. He wanted home almost as much as he wanted a juicy hamburger or an oversized milkshake.
When had he eaten last?
Noon, maybe? When he’d stopped in to check on Vera and Jim and been handed a slice of homemade bread covered in Vera’s famous grape jelly.
His stomach growled at the memory, and he was half-near tempted to drive over to the house, slip in through the back door, and cut himself another slice.
Jim slept restlessly, though, and he didn’t want to wake him.
No. He’d go home and rummage through cupboards that he knew were bare. He hadn’t had time to run to the store.
Who was he kidding?
He never had time for that.
He microwaved canned soup or popped bread in the toaster. He might have made an egg last week, but his kitchen usually stayed spotless, the fridge boasting a couple of bottles of water and whatever food items Vera handed him on his way out her door.
He turned onto Main Street, eyeing the dark façades of the shops there. Everything closed down by nine in the winter. In another month or two a few places would stay open later—the custard shop, the five-and-dime, the diner.
He passed one after another, heading deeper into town and closer to his street. Closer to Chocolate Haven, too. It was up ahead, lights glowing from the shop window.
He didn’t mean to stop.
He meant to drive by, turn onto his street, continue along the windy road until he reached the oversize Victorian.
Big enough for a family, Vera said almost every other day.
He never bothered to correct her.
Why break her heart by saying he’d never have one?
He pulled around to the back of the store, saw movement in the shop window. Willow? Probably.
And he should probably not get out of the car and knock on the door, because it was late, he was tired, and he’d told himself a thousand times that he was going to keep things professional between them.
No more looking into her eyes.
No more wondering about her secrets.
No more of anything that could get him into trouble.
But he was there. The light was on, and he had a piss-poor track record for taking his own advice.
He climbed out of the car, knocked on the door.
It swung open, and she was there. Hair pulled back in a tight braid, body encased in another one of those soft knit dresses. Apron hanging loose around her neck, the strings batting her thighs as she stepped back and let him in.
“I saw your lights,” he said, turning her around so he could tie the strings, his fingers skimming over fabric warm from her skin. Heat shot through him, and he stepped back, because if he didn’t, he’d do something stupid. Like cup her face in his hands, tell her that he’d spent the better part of two days thinking of all the reasons why he needed to keep his distance, and then remembering all the reasons why he didn’t want to.
“I saw your car. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have opened the door. Most people don’t stop for chocolate this time of night.” She smiled, a quick turn of lips that only barely lightened her somber expression.
“You okay?” he asked, because he could see that she wasn’t. Her freckles were dark against pale skin, her eyes were deeply shadowed. Her hand shook as she ran a hand over her braid, smoothing it down over her shoulder. He wanted to capture her hand, hold it steady, tell her everything was fine.
But, of course, that would be as stupid as stopping for a visit at eleven o’clock at night.
“Just making some Bitter Cherry Bonbons for Granddad. He’s upstairs putting together a crib.”
“Your inner lawyer is coming out,” he commented, walking to the counter and lifting a bowl of dark chocolate bits. “You want this melted and tempered?”
“I was just getting ready to do it.”
“See what I mean?”
“About?”
“Your inner lawyer. I ask a question. You sidestep it.”
She’d already set the double boiler on the counter, and he poured the chocolate in, grabbing a wooden spoon from one of the drawers. This was the one thing he’d actually learned to do when he’d worked with Byron. Tempering chocolate—candy making 101.
“Is that what I’m doing?” she said, and then laughed. “I guess you’re right. It’s a bad habit.”
“So, should I ask again?”
“If I’m okay? You can see I am.” She gestured toward the ingredients on the counter. “Just busy.”
“I hear the shop has been busting at the seams the past few days.”
“You hear right. We haven’t had a break. Both my sisters stopped by to help. Chase skipped a day of school. Granddad nearly took his head off for that one. I don’t think he’ll repeat the mistake.”
“He might not think it was a mistake. He loves your family.”
“He is our family. We don’t separate based on last name,” she responded, popping the lid on what looked like a jelly jar filled with candied cherries.
“Bitter cherries?” he asked as she set several on a baking sheet lined with wax paper.
“Rum-soaked. Very sweet with just a hint of naughty. Try one.” She held it out, and he took it from her fingers, popped it into his mouth, felt a quick burst of warmth on his tongue, before he tasted the bittersweetness of the cherry.
“God!” he said. “Who invented that?”
“I don’t know, but my grandmother created this recipe. Layers and layers of chocolate over bitter cherries. That’s what she told me when she taught me how to make it. Of course, I was only eight, so she didn’t let me taste the final product. We use candied cherries and dark chocolate for the ones we sell in the store. These are special. They’re my grandfather’s favorite, and Grandma Alice only made them once a month. She’d keep a few for Granddad and sell the rest to her best customers.” She washed her hands, opened another jar, set more cherries on the pan.
“So,” he said, the taste of cherry and rum still on his tongue, the scent of chocolate in his nose, the feel of that damn soft dress lingering on his fingers. “You’re saying we’re going to pour chocolate over the top of those?”
“Layers of chocolate. We pour. Wait. Pour more. It takes a while. Which is why Granddad sent me down here to do it. He wanted to get rid of me.” She leaned across him, grabbing a bottle of vanilla from the counter, her arm brushing against his abdomen, her cheeks going bright red.
“Sorry about that,” she murmured, moving back into her space.
Too bad.
He was enjoying her being in his.
He scowled, stirring the chocolate with so much force a couple of pieces jumped from the pot and bounced across the floor.
“Don’t stir it, Jax,” she said, pouring the vanilla into a bowl with what looked like milk or cream. “Just let it melt.”
“Right. Why did Byron want to get rid of you?” he asked, nabbing another one of the cherries, his stomach rumbling with happiness as he chewed it.
“The easy-to-assemble crib isn’t all that easy to assemble.”
“Maybe, because it’s late, and you’re both tired?” he suggested, and she shrugged.
“Probably, but try telling Granddad that. He’s caught in a battle that he’s determined to win, and I was just cluttering up the battlefield.” She opened the fridge, pulled out a carton of eggs and a container of heavy cream.
“Eggs in the chocolates?” he asked as she cracked a few into a bowl.
“Eggs in your stomach,” she responded. “You look hungry.”
“And you look like you don’t need to be making me eggs.”
“You’re tempering chocolate for my recipe. We’ll call it even.” She beat in cream, added a dash of salt and pepper, poured it all into a buttered pan.
She was quick.
She was efficient.
She was beautiful.
And he couldn’t quite stop noticing that.
She finished the eggs, held out a plate and fork.
“You have to eat in the front of the house. We don’t want to break any health codes.”
“Is this your way of getting rid of me?” he asked.
“If I’d wanted to do that, I’d have never opened the door,” she responded, giving him a gentle shove toward the hallway. “Go. I have to pour the chocolate before it cools.”
He went, because it seemed a safer bet than standing in the kitchen, the taste of bittersweet cherries on his tongue, the warmth of Willow’s back still on his fingers.
Yeah.
Safer.
Maybe not as fun.
He sat at one of the small wicker tables near the storefront window. Someone had set up a display there—a little white baby carriage filled with flowers. Next to it sat a silver display stand that had been covered with all kinds of chocolates earlier in the day.
A shadow moved in front of the glass, and he tensed, all the old habits from his time working in LA jumping into place, his hand sliding to his gun belt. His body up and moving toward the light switch before he realized who was outside the window.
Not some criminal hoping for a clear shot at a cop.
It was Byron. Tall, a little stooped, his face pressed close to the glass.
He spotted Jax, winked, waved, and walked away.
“Interesting,” Jax said.
“Talking to yourself?” Willow stepped into the service area, a small plate in her hand, two glossy chocolates bouncing around on it. Not because she was walking. Because she was shaking.
He grabbed the plate, led her to the seat he’d just abandoned.
“Sit,” he said.
“So I can stand back up and go in the kitchen? I’ve got another layer of chocolate to put on the bonbons, but I wanted you to have some dessert.” She pulled away, flicked her braid over her shoulder, acted like she wasn’t shaking from head to toe.
Maybe she thought he hadn’t noticed.
Or hoped it.
And maybe she thought he was too polite to mention it if he did.
She was wrong.
On both counts.
He snagged the back of her apron, stopping her before she could walk away. “What’s going on, Willow?”
“I was just asking myself the same thing.” She didn’t turn around, just stood with her back to him, that red braid settled right in the middle of her narrow shoulders. “I mean, one day I’ve got a great job in Seattle, a cool rental house that I love, a life that is predictable and easy and nice. The next . . .”
“What?”
“The next, I’m making eggs and chocolates for a guy I should be avoiding, working in a shop I hate, caring for a baby who’s going to tie me to a town that I really need to escape.”
“You could go back to Seattle,” he suggested, not touching on any of the particulars, because what could he say?
That he should be avoiding her, too?
That he wanted to know why she hated the shop that she’d grown up in?
That the baby was only tying her to the town because she was allowing it?
“I guess I could.” She finally turned. “But that would mean leaving things unfinished.”
“Someone else can finish the chocolates, foster Miracle, help your granddad.”
“And make you eggs?” she asked, a hint of a smile on her lips.
“I know how to make my own eggs, Willow. I also know how to fight the monsters that come out in the darkest hours of the night.” The words slipped out, completely unintended, because he’d made it very clear to himself that her problems weren’t his, that her crap was hers to deal with.
She didn’t need a hero, and he didn’t want to be one.
So, they were on the same page, working the same angles, just running into each other and connecting, because it was a small town and there weren’t a hell of a lot of ways to avoid each other.
Except for, maybe, driving past the shop instead of stopping in when the lights were on.
“There’s no such thing as monsters,” she said, but they both knew it was a lie.
“Who was he?” he asked, because—damn it!—he wanted to know.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She strode to the threshold of the hall, came to a dead stop there, her hands fisted as if the thing she feared the most was just in front of her.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. Pretending otherwise is as useless as keeping your silence has been.”
“You know the thing about silence, Jax?” She spun around, and he could see the tears in her eyes, the stark whiteness of her face and her lips. “It gets bigger and uglier and harder to break. Eventually, it’s its own kind of monster. Eat the damn chocolates, okay? I’ve got work to do.”
She ran through the hall, and he could hear pots banging, water running, boots clicking on the tile floor.
He knew what he should do—leave.
Now. Before things got complicated.
Hell! Things already were complicated.
He glanced at the chocolates, lifted one from the plate, Willow’s words still hanging in the air.
Eat the damn chocolates.
He popped it in his mouth, let it explode in fiery bits of rum-soaked cherry and sweet creamy chocolate.
Yeah. He knew what he should do.
He also knew what he was going to do.
He grabbed the last bonbon and headed back into the kitchen.