By Thursday I’m beyond ready for Ralph to return to the office. It’s not that the tasks I’ve been given are hard, but they become nearly impossible to finish when Eric sends me new ones every twenty minutes. No wonder Ralph can’t get anything done.
At least this is my last breakfast. Ralph’s vacation has finally come to an end and he will be returning to work on Monday. Hallelujah! Now if only I could get this stupid lock to open.
Finally a click and the door swings in. I’m in full shiver mode when I close it behind me. The thermostat is down the hall, and I turn it on, even though I know it will be stifling hot as soon as the oven gets going.
I move to the dining room, fumbling through the instructions Nora texted me an hour ago. Nora’s dad was taken to the hospital late last night, so it’s up to me to get the entire breakfast started before Pete shows up, which hopefully is soon since I’m already running fifteen minutes late.
Thankfully it’s a simple meal today. A tub of yogurt, granola, fresh fruit that’s already cut up, and muffins that take less than thirty minutes to bake. I set my purse on the cooking counter and head for the pantry, where the pans and dry food are stored.
Palm over the handle, I tug and it doesn’t move. I tug and tug, but it’s no use. The pantry’s locked, the shiny chrome newness making it very clear the lock will not be opened with the only key I’ve been given.
My heart begins a slow, panicked beat as I check the time. All the supplies are in that room.
This is when a normal person could rationalize, think about obvious places to hide a key, but my mind doesn’t work that way. It’s why I barely made it through school and quit junior college after just one year. I can’t process the mundane, only the random anomalies.
Like I remember that Mike has connected earlobes that are too small for his face. Or that Nora likes to salt in a line, left to right. But I can’t for the life of me remember an essential detail like where Pete said they kept the stupid pantry key.
“It will be fine,” I tell myself and try to take a calming breath. “Call Nora.”
I dial with shaky fingers but get her voicemail. Next I try texting, then stare at the screen when it’s obvious she’s not going to answer.
Think, January, think . . .
I rush to the bulletin board at the back of the room. Pete once mentioned a list of seasonal volunteers with their phone numbers. Surely his is on there, as well. I find the faded paper behind a church flyer and nearly rip it from the wall. My eyes scan every line searching for Pete’s, but a different name pops from the page.
Dillon and Rebecca Kyle. The number is wrong, and the name next to his feels all wrong too, but it’s enough to ease some of the rising hysteria.
I scroll my contact list and dial his cell. Please pick up. Please.
He answers immediately, his voice thick with sleep. “You okay?”
“Do you know where the pantry key is?” I say faster than a normal person should speak.
“Slow down.” The phone jostles and crackles as if he’s moving. “What key? What pantry?”
I don’t know why, but something about his voice makes me sink into a nearby chair, tears I didn’t even know I was fighting now blurring my vision. “At the breakfast the church serves. I’m supposed to make muffins, and everything is locked inside the pantry.”
Dillon’s voice comes back smooth and slow. “January, take a deep breath, okay?”
“Okkaay.” I do as he says, already feeling ten times more in control.
“Go to the refrigerators and open the door farthest to the right.”
I follow his instructions and open the door. A cold blast of air hits my cheek. “It’s open.”
“Up on the right, inside the butter tray, there should be a key.”
I reach up and sure enough my fingers hit metal. The relief is almost enough to make the tears spill over. “I got it. Thank you.”
“Are you there by yourself?”
I shut the refrigerator and walk to the pantry. The key slides in easily. “Yes, but Pete should be here soon. At least I hope so. Nora said she texted him the situation.” My breath is steady now, and my heart calms further when I see all the supplies I need.
“I’m on my way.”
“Dillon, you don’t have—”
“I’m on my way. See you in a few minutes.” With that, he ends the call, and I’m so glad he’s coming I can’t even find a reason to be annoyed by his pushiness.
Steady once more, I grab a huge bowl, two massive boxes of muffin mix, and a stirring spoon. My arms are full when I finally leave the pantry and set all the equipment on the counter. Nora taped step-by-step instructions on the muffin boxes, and I go to the stove and set the oven to preheat.
I systematically follow each directive, adding and mixing when needed until smooth batter clings against the bowl. Muffin pans lined with paper sit on the counter, and just when I’m ready to start filling them, a loud bang makes me fling a spoonful across the room.
The bang comes again, harder this time, and I think I hear my name being called. I wipe my hands, rush to the door, and open it to a scowling Dillon.
“Why didn’t you answer my call?”
“You called?”
He takes in my flour-soiled clothes, then my hair that’s likely in just as bad of shape, and a smile I’m completely not used to seeing covers his face.
“You’re a wreck,” he says.
“And you’re the most tactless knight in shining armor I’ve ever met.”
He chuckles and follows me into the kitchen. It’s then I see what he must: the batter streak across the refrigerator, eggshells on the floor since I was too rushed to pick them up, the usual pristine counter filled with empty boxes and sprays of powder.
“Remind me never to let you cook in my kitchen,” he says.
“Shut up.” I hit him, twice because it feels good, and then sigh at the absurdity of the morning. “I thought you came here to help.”
“I did.” He eyes the empty serving counter and pulls an apron from a stack of several. Not once did I notice those hanging there. “You get the plates and stuff out, and I’ll finish the muffins.”
“Are you sure you’re qualified?”
He ties the strings around his back. “I’m a single thirty-year-old man. Cooking is kind of par for the course.” His reminder that he’s unattached brings me back to the volunteer list and his ex-wife’s name. Rebecca. Somehow knowing it makes her more real, and I yearn to ask how long they were married and why it ended.
Dillon would answer truthfully if I dared to bring it up. He’s a man with no secrets, no apologies, and no nonsense. But I also know he’d take my inquiry as an invitation to do the same to me. Probe into my past, ask me deep, meaningful questions I don’t want to think about. So I keep my mouth closed and go back to the pantry and to the task at hand.
We work in companionable silence, and it’s amazing how much calmer and warmer the place seems now that Dillon is here. He moves through the kitchen like he’s spent his childhood coming here, and before long the serving counter is ready, the kitchen is once again clean and batter-free, and the last batch of muffins is baking away in the oven.
He leans against the counter, waiting for the timer to buzz. I stack the last of the napkins near the plates and sidle next to him.
“I couldn’t have done this without you,” I say. “Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome.”
I catch movement in my peripheral and flinch.
He freezes, and I realize it’s his hand, centimeters from my face.
“You have batter.” His fingers continue moving forward until they press against the tender skin under my eye. “Right here.”
“Oh. Thanks.” I duck away and grab a clean towel from the drawer. Once it’s doused with water, I use it to scrub my face and get the last of the breakfast off my clothes.
I finish as he’s pulling the muffin trays from the oven.
“So what made you think to call me?” he asks, turning the knob to off. “Any of the staff could have helped you . . . including Cam.”
Oh. I hadn’t even considered that option.
“Six-thirty in the morning is a little early to be randomly calling the people I work with. Besides, your name is on a volunteer list they had on the wall.” I don’t mention that Rebecca’s is, too. “I guess I’m lucky they haven’t updated it.”
His gaze is unflinching. “I guess you are.”
The door in the hall squeaks open, and I hear Pete before I see him. He’s singing a Beach Boys tune about Rhonda. I can only imagine it has something to do with whatever crazy creature he’s decided to bring today. Even more strange is that I’m looking forward to finding out.
“Come on, this will be good.” I tilt my head toward the dining room. “I have a new image when I hear the word crazy.”
Dillon must be curious as well, because he follows me out of the kitchen just as Pete walks through the double doors.
He holds up what could only be described as a rodent with a heart-stamped ribbon tied in a huge bow around its neck. “Meet Rhonda Pearl. My chinchilla.” Pete moves closer and bounces his eyebrows. “Now, come on, squirmy, you can’t possibly be scared of this cute little thing.”
I cross my arms, and Dillon laughs louder than I’ve ever heard him laugh before.
Pete redirects his focus to my companion, and his smile grows twice its size. “Well, look at this. The prodigal son is home.”
“Not quite, but it is good to see you.” Dillon walks over and hugs the older man, careful not to disturb the animal in his hand. Then he actually pets the furry thing. “Hello, Ms. Pearl.” His voice changes to sound like every ridiculous pet owner I’ve ever heard. “You’re so sweet. Yes, you are.”
A snort of disbelief bursts from my throat. Who knew that big, broody Dillon would turn into mush over a little furry animal?
“Ms. January doesn’t like animals too much,” Pete says to Dillon as if I’m not in the room.
“I don’t dislike them,” I say defensively. “I just have never been around any. Nor do I usually encounter them in a place that serves food.”
“And she’s moody today,” Pete says.
“You should’ve seen what she did to the kitchen.”
“Heeeellloooo. Standing right here.”
“Well, look at you getting all fiery. It’s nice to see there’s someone who can push you out of that shell of yours.” Pete winks at me, then glances toward Dillon with a look full of implication. “Especially when he obviously enjoys doing it.”
My stomach tumbles, but Dillon brushes off the implication like it’s no big deal, which makes me feel stupid for reading anything into one of Pete’s offhanded comments.
“Come on, old man,” Dillon says, slapping him on the back. “I think Jan’s had enough teasing for one morning. We have a breakfast to serve, and you’ve already gotten out of the hard stuff.”