9
Adam dropped his gaze to Caden’s feet—anything to keep from watching her eyes.
“You noticed that?”
“It wasn’t exactly other-planet obvious, but yeah, I noticed.”
He rubbed the back of his bent neck, trying to massage away the knot that had settled right between his shoulders. But it only twisted tighter as the silence dragged on.
This was his own fault. He’d opened the door for her. He shouldn’t be surprised that she’d walked through it. But it didn’t mean he was eager to divulge all of his secrets.
Still, she wasn’t going to give him answers unless he gave her a few of his own. It was the same with Levi, who held his left arm and the numbers tattooed there close to the vest. But with every shared meal, game of checkers, and walk around the inn, Adam got closer to those secrets, to that story.
A slice of his history might coax Caden into sharing a slice of her own—something beyond the glimpse of insecurity she’d shown him in the past.
And he was interested in a slice of just about anything Caden wanted to offer.
“Did you want to go to the winery with Bethany?”
“Yes.” She frowned, so he pressed on. “Well, I wanted to go to the winery anyway.” His clarification earned him a half smile.
“I could see it on your face when she asked.”
“And you thought I wanted to spend time with Bethany?”
“A little bit, but I hoped not.”
Her blatant honesty was like the sun shining on his soul, warm, comforting. “It had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with—”
“Having a drink.”
He nodded. “You know the feeling?”
“No. I’ve never liked the taste. Not beer or wine or the hard stuff. None of it. But when I was growing up, one of the girls in my class, her dad liked it. Too much.”
He bit the inside of his cheek and crossed his arms over his stomach, hoping that someone who had never known the wrenching pull of alcohol wouldn’t think less of someone who did. “I can relate.”
“But you’re so . . .”
“Sober? Handsome? Addicted to coffee?”
Her chuckle was a pity laugh at best. “I was going to say young.”
“Oh, alcohol is an equal-opportunity thug. It sucked me in at twenty-one.”
Her forehead wrinkled, and she pulled on her left ear. Squinting eyes seemed to be trying to picture him that young, that stupid, but she was clearly coming up short.
“I was in a fraternity at the University of Tennessee. We were supposed to be about community service and civic responsibility. We were actually about seeing who could drink more than the other brothers and then laughing when he fell down the stairs, too wasted to walk.”
She cringed, and he felt it at his very core.
And he hadn’t even told her the worst of it. That was a bigger slice than she needed. Or wanted.
“Not my finest moments. In fact, ninety percent of my regrets are from my last two years at school. I went to a lot of parties, woke up with a lot of hangovers, and skipped a lot of class.”
“How did you ever graduate?”
“I was always a pretty good writer, and that last year was mostly journalism classes and articles for the student paper. Somehow I managed to get to class enough to pass, but I’m pretty sure I was drunk the whole time I wrote my senior thesis.”
He’d intended to shock her, but instead of surprise her face was filled with compassion. She clearly didn’t understand.
“I was a fairly high-functioning drunk, but there was always a can in my hand and a bottle on my nightstand.”
“Why?”
He looked away, following the outlet that jutted into the ocean, and tried to find the words to explain. “I thought it would help me get through the stress of school and work and finding a job in the real world. And then it was just easy. It felt good.” And it would make him feel good again.
He wiped a hand down his face. He hadn’t been searching the table by his bed in the hazy space between awake and asleep as often this week. But right now, as he spoke about why he’d been persistently drunk, he craved the relief burning down his throat, its fingers slipping through his chest until every part of him relaxed. Until his brain numbed and eventually forgot.
He needed to get to a meeting.
“But you don’t drink anymore?”
“No.” Please don’t ask me why.
“Why?” A gust of wind picked up her hair, whipping it around her head, and she wrestled the short locks back into place, tucked behind her ears. “How bad did it get?”
There was no half-answer to that question. The truth was too terrible to speak aloud. He’d give anything to be able to forget the day of the funeral. But of all the memories that alcohol had stolen, that wasn’t one of them.
“Bad.”
She waited for him to go on, and he met her gaze, silently begging her to change the subject. But she held him rapt with those blue sapphires, nodding at him as though she could get him to keep going through her own force of will.
Finally she whispered, “The kids I’m teaching think Seth and Marie are going to replace me with Bethany.”
“What?” Adam sputtered for air, trying to keep up with the hairpin turn. “They wouldn’t. They love you. You’re an amazing chef.”
“That’s sweet. But I’m not professionally trained, and I’ve never run my own restaurant. I have a stable of breakfast recipes, but Bethany could open an all-day restaurant out of the Red Door’s kitchen. It wouldn’t have to be just for guests, and . . .” She definitely had more to say, but she seemed to struggle to find the right words. Opening and closing her mouth twice, she crossed her arms and hunched against the breeze kicking up from the water. Finally she sighed. “I’m afraid I might not be the chef the inn needs.”
Sadness rang through her voice, twisting his heart with it.
He could relate. He’d spent his whole career certain of one thing—his ability to write the story. And a little more than a month ago, that had been stolen in one explosion. Caden worried that she couldn’t produce what the Sloanes needed from her. He knew he couldn’t produce what his editor demanded.
“I’m pretty sure Bethany is going to suggest that Seth hire her instead. And it makes sense. From a business perspective, it could be good revenue.”
“But those kids in your class, they seem to love you.” It was hard to tell if the glow on her face came from thoughts of her students or the perfect angle of the sun. “Why would they think you’d be replaced?”
“Because their parents do.”
“Does everyone know everything about each other in this town?”
“Pretty much.” She flashed a sad smile at him. “It’s not so bad until you’re the one everyone wants to get rid of and you can literally feel the weight of every gaze on your back as you’re singing in church.”
“That’s why I usually prefer being drunk in a church.”
He’d meant it as a bad joke, but she latched on to something in his tone, cocking her head to the side and studying his face. She could see right into his heart, and he desperately needed shutters to keep her at a safer distance.
Slowly, thoughtfully, she nodded. “You were drunk in church? Is that why you stopped drinking?”
Such an honest question deserved an equally honest answer. But getting the word out was harder than he’d thought it would be. “Yes.”
At a light touch on his forearm, he glanced down. She pressed her hand there, willing some sort of strength into him, a spark traveling right to his heart. Squeezing his eyes shut, he opened his mouth and tried not to think about the words that flowed out so quickly.
“It was my parents’ funeral. Eight years ago. I’d won—well, they were coming to visit me at school. There was an accident. It was raining and a truck swerved into their lane.” He wrinkled his nose and rubbed at his forehead as the scene played out in his mind again. “I couldn’t face their funeral without a six-pack. I just couldn’t.
“I was late getting there, and the minister had already started the eulogy. So I stumbled down the aisle and tripped over my Great-Aunt Muriel into the family pew. My brother sat next to me, practically steaming. He was so mad at me. Before the wake, he pulled me aside and got right in my face and told me to get sober or get out.”
Her hand squeezed his arm, but she didn’t look away. And she didn’t say anything.
“I deserved much worse. He should have disowned me—well, he sort of did.”
“But you were . . . what? Twenty-two?”
He nodded. “I was stupid and immature, but I disrespected my parents and every person who showed up to honor their memory. That isn’t an easy thing to forgive.”
“Have you talked to your brother about it?”
“We haven’t spoken since.”
She looked uncertain for a moment and then threaded her arms around his waist, yanking him into a hug both unexpected and healing. Frozen for a moment, he reveled in the simple joy of being held. As a man in an inflexible career, he didn’t get hugged very often, except by women who wanted more, offered more.
But there was no doubt about Caden. She offered only comfort and a friendship that he hadn’t even known he needed.
Wrapping his arms around her shoulders, he rested a cheek on the top of her head and inhaled the fresh scent of the surf that clung to her, underpinned with the ever-present cinnamon and nutmeg.
A strand of hair escaped from behind her ear, dancing on the wind, and he reached for it, tucking it back into place. As he dragged his thumb along the edge of her ear, her body grew tense. Suddenly she jerked away and clambered over the edge of the rock, dropping five feet to the sand below.
“We should probably go.”
She practically ran to the car.
The next week Caden set out the ingredients for a highly unusual Monday afternoon class.
Gone were the typical recipe cards outlining one meal. Instead there was a pile of cards—every recipe different, every one featuring lobster.
Marie knocked on the door frame like she needed permission to enter her own kitchen. “What’s on the menu today?”
“Nothing exactly.” Caden unpacked another bag of groceries.
“That’s a lot of food for nothing.”
Caden looked at the counter heavy with packages and chuckled. Pasta and rice. Cheese and Kane Dairy eggs. Bread and flour. Sugar and spices. A hundred staples filled every available surface of the tile counter from sink to fridge.
“Mark Crowder offered me a couple lobsters from his last catch, so I thought we’d do a little experimenting today. See what the kids might want to enter in the lobster cook-off.”
“They’re all entering?”
Caden nodded. “It was part of the deal when we started. It’s a final exam of sorts.”
Marie’s lips twisted, like she was fighting hard to keep a smile at bay. “You ever worry they might beat you?”
Her pulse skittered, a strange weight settling on her chest. “Not until right now.”
“I was kidding. You’ve got this in the bag.”
“You think so?”
“This is your year, Caden. You know it, and the whole town knows it. You’re going to put the inn on the map.” Marie crossed her arms over her chest. “What are you going to make?”
She ducked her head, shifting a box of elbow pasta to the back of the counter and pulling three red potatoes to the forefront. “I’m not sure. I haven’t thought about it too much.”
That wasn’t exactly the truth. Actually, it was more of a bald-faced lie.
She’d spent every night of the last week wide awake, staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out what would beat Bethany. She could go traditional with a straight-up lobster tail and butter, but the judges—especially the guest celebrity chef—would expect something more exciting. Menu items like lobster macaroni and cheese were overdone. She’d seen a recipe for a lobster paella recently. That was unusual and exotic. But it seemed to miss the heart of the island, and the guest judge would certainly be looking for that.
Caden’s lobster corn chowder had been a hit with Aretha and Jack, if the usually quiet man’s profuse praise was to be believed. He’d sought her out at the grocery store a few days before, his footsteps following hers up and down the aisles until he finally tapped her shoulder. “That soup.”
For a long moment she thought that was all he would say, his gaze falling to the basket in his hand and staying there. So she gave him a little nudge. “Which soup?”
“The chowder.”
“Oh, did you like it?”
He nodded quickly. “Had two bowls myself. I was so full Aretha nearly had to roll me to bed, but it was worth every bite. So creamy, so rich. And those biscuits. Never had anything like those cheesy garlic biscuits before.”
She didn’t have the heart to tell him that they were a knockoff of the biscuits served at a large seafood chain. Of course, she’d tweaked the recipe over the years, adding a dash of paprika and replacing the garlic powder with fresh garlic.
“I’m glad you liked them, Jack.”
“I almost asked Aretha if she’d ask you to teach her how to make them. But it would hurt her feelings.”
Caden’s cheeks blazed. “Aretha is a lovely cook. I learned a lot in her kitchen.”
“Of course. I know I’m a lucky man.” He winked at her, the love for his wife clear in his eyes.
“Next time I make a batch, I’ll be sure to save a few for you.”
“You’re a sweetheart.” He winked again and then disappeared around the end of an aisle.
Her lobster corn chowder and biscuits never disappointed. But Bethany had won with a seafood chowder two years before. If the judges remembered—and Bethany was sure to remind them—she’d lose points on originality.
“Well, you should start.” Marie’s voice made Caden jump, dragging her mind back to the present. “Thinking about what you’re going to make, that is. When Bethany was here the other day, she sounded like she’d already decided.”
“Oh?” Caden tried to sound nonchalant despite the rapid and immediate increase in her heart rate. She failed miserably. The real question of the hour bounced around her mind like a fly trying to escape through a closed window.
Did she try to talk you into dumping me and hiring her?
“She said she’s been practicing with her recipe, mixing it up. And she’s looking forward to impressing the guest judge.”
“Any idea who it is?” Again she tried for nonchalance, a casual question. Again she failed. Her face felt too tight, like she’d fallen asleep on a sunny beach. Her palms grew damp as her fists tightened to match the clamp around her lungs.
Marie shook her head. “She only said they were going after a chef from Toronto. Apparently he owns a handful of restaurants that cater to the upper crust. It sounds like he might be working on a TV show too.”
“So what you’re saying is, he’s way out of my league.” And her chances of impressing him were less than none.
“Our league.” Marie walked across the room and purposefully bumped into Caden’s side.
Except they weren’t exactly from the same small town. Marie’s life in Boston had been defined by the elite. Before she escaped to PEI, she’d dined at the best restaurants and picked out her wardrobe at Fashion Week. Her summer home had been bigger than the Red Door, and her future had been guaranteed.
“You forget that I know where you came from.”
Marie conceded the point with a simple nod. “But this is my league now.”
“What else did Bethany say?” The question popped out before it was fully formed in her mind, and she immediately wanted to pluck it from where it hung over them.
“Not much.”
Marie didn’t seem to think anything of the question, and Caden clamped her mouth closed to keep from asking what she really wanted to know. Had Bethany asked for her job?
“She asked for a donation for the fund-raiser.”
“Oh?” That was old news.
“We’re going to give away a two-night stay.” She nudged Caden with her elbow. “The bids will be flocking in if only for the food.”
Caden gave an obligatory laugh just as footsteps pounded up the stairs and the screen door squeaked.
“Ready for us?” Ford asked before he made it out of the mudroom.
“Always.”
The kids filed in like troops for inspection, backs straight and chins high. At least there were no pointed elbows and urgent whispers today. They all greeted Marie with a quiet, “Hi, Mrs. Sloane.”
Marie wasn’t much older than Caden—only a few years—which prompted the question, why didn’t they call her Miss Holt?
Then again, Marie was from away. Caden had known this group too long for formality.
“Looks like you’re going to have a fun class today,” Marie said. “I’ll leave you to it.”
“What’re we making?”
Caden waved to Marie before giving the group a pointed look. “That, Whitney, is entirely up to you.”
Five matching frowns appeared, clearly for different reasons.
“Why does Whitney get to pick?” Jeanie shot her sister a hard glare.
Whitney quickly agreed. “I don’t want to pick.”
“Where’s Adam? Will he be here this afternoon?”
“I think we should make waffles again,” Ford mumbled. In response to several curious stares, he rolled his eyes and heaved a great sigh. “I tried to make them for my parents on Sunday. They tasted like socks.”
Caden couldn’t hold back her laughter and waved her arms to silence all the chatter. “Calm down.” Pointing a finger and a direct gaze at Whitney, she said, “You are choosing what you are making.” Then she turned to Ford and repeated the phrase. And again and again until she completed the circle.
Her pronouncement was met with narrowed eyes and one tiny voice. “So we’re all making something different?”
“Exactly. You’ve got to start thinking about what you’re going to make for the lobster cook-off.”
“Do we really have to enter?”
“Yes.”
Ford shrugged. “It’s not like we’re gonna win.”
“If entering was about winning . . . well, you all know I’ve never won. Does that mean I shouldn’t enter?”
“But at least you have a chance.” Gretchen twirled one of her chestnut curls around a finger. “You’re good.”
“And you will be too. It takes practice. And experience. And when I’m too blind to read my recipe cards anymore or too weak to lift a lobster quiche out of the oven, I expect you all will still be winning the cook-off.”
“Ditto.”
They all spun toward the deep voice coming from the dining room. Adam stepped in, his grin easy and making every girl in the room titter as much as their mothers and grandmothers had at Aretha’s.
“Do you mind if I steal your teacher for a minute?”
Caden’s stomach dropped straight to her shoes, and her heart hiccupped as he pointed into the other room.
This was no big deal. He just needed to talk with her.
Her throat went dry, clearly disagreeing.
Really. This was nothing unusual. They talked all the time. In fact, they had talked a dozen times since the beach. Just the two of them. Alone in the kitchen. Before the rest of the inn woke up. That morning they’d even made plans to visit the East Point Lighthouse the next afternoon.
But this was different. This time he had singled her out while she was busy. He was pulling her from her responsibilities to talk with him. This was important.
Like maybe he was going to put his arms around her. Again. And she’d be able to hear the quickening of his heart beneath her ear. The smooth cotton of his simple gray T-shirt against her cheek.
Except, he wasn’t going to hug her. Definitely not. Or touch her hair. Or stare at her mouth with that crooked little grin on his own.
Or make her want him to be her first kiss more than she wanted to save her job.
Oh, Lord. She needed some help and a good reality check.
Even if he did try—which he definitely wasn’t going to—she’d probably take off at a dead sprint.
Again.
She’d been doing such a good job of not thinking about him or their walk on the beach. Or the way he smelled like sunshine and aftershave. It was so much easier to focus on Bethany and the inn and helping Marie. But suddenly, as she came face-to-face with an intentional moment alone, her nerves packed up their bags and took off for parts unknown.
Beating her head against the kitchen counter sounded less painful than walking into the dining room with him, but with five pairs of eyes trained on her every move, she could do nothing but point at the stack of recipe cards. “Look through those, and when I get back, we’ll start cooking.”
Adam swung the door closed behind her, leaning in until her heart stopped. His wide shoulders blocked her view of anything else, and she stumbled back into the slate-blue wall, catching herself on flat hands at her sides.
“Are you okay? You look really pale.”
Terrific. She was dreaming about kissing him. He thought she looked like a wilted carnation. “I’m good. It was just warm in there.”
“Good.” He stabbed a hand through his hair and looked over his shoulder. “Listen, I know we made plans for tomorrow. But I can’t make it.”
“Sure. Of course. Yeah. You have plans and stuff.” Her right arm flapped in front of her, and his eyes followed it in confusion.
“No. I . . .” He sighed and rubbed his middle knuckle beneath the tip of his chin. The clench of his jaw made a muscle jump, and suddenly he wasn’t the only one concerned.
“Adam, what’s going on? Are you okay?” She reached for him but yanked her hand back at the first sign of warmth.
He clamped his lips closed until they nearly disappeared, then squeezed his eyes closed in a matching move. “I’m fine. I hate breaking plans with you, but there’s a meeting tomorrow, and I need to be there.”
“A meeting?”
“Oh.” It popped out before she had time to figure out how she was supposed to respond. “I mean . . . um . . .” She tried to name whatever she was feeling and compare it to the feelings she was supposed to have. But it was all new. She’d never been ditched for AA. Cuter girls and bigger parties? Sure. But after what he’d confided to her on the rock, she knew this wasn’t a brush-off. He needed some encouragement from people who understood the struggle. In the end, she only offered another “Oh.”
The muscle in his jaw relaxed a fraction. “Don’t have a lot of friends going to meetings?”
“Actually, you’re definitely the first.” She pressed her palm harder against the wall at her back. “But it’s no big deal. We’ll make it to the lighthouse another time.”
“Are you sure?”
“For sure.”
He nodded a quick thanks. “I’ll see you in the morning anyway.”
She watched him walk away before returning to the kitchen, wishing she had something that could help him. Wishing she knew how to tell him how much she needed him to write about the Red Door. But she didn’t. For now, she only had a kitchen full of expectant students.
“All right. Everyone have your recipes picked out?”
They waved white cards.
“What are you going to make for the cook-off?” Whitney asked.
“That’s a secret.” One she was going to have to figure out. Soon.