You?” Callee chuckled, her temper swallowed in a chasm of disbelief. She’d never seen Quint do anything in the kitchen except help himself to coffee or a meal someone else had prepared. “Since when?”
“Since I was a kid. I used to watch Mama making dough, and one day she let me help. It was like shaping clay. I had a knack for it. She showed me how to hone the skill. I got pretty darned good at it, if I do say so myself.”
Callee felt gob-smacked. Molly had begged her to fill in at the pie shop as a pastry chef when she knew damn well Callee couldn’t bake a pie, when she knew damn well her son could? What the hell? “Why is this the first I’m learning of this secret talent?”
He glanced away. “It’s embarrassing.”
“Seriously?” Did he even know the definition of embarrassing? Her temper flared anew. Telling your friends that your husband would rather fish than celebrate your wedding anniversary together was embarrassing. Telling your friends that your husband didn’t want you anymore…that was embarrassing. But being able to bake a pie like his mother? That was a God-given talent that he should shout from the rooftops. She did not understand why this was a secret. “Is it that you think real men don’t bake pies?”
“Well…yeah.”
Her hands went to her hips. “There are a lot of famous male pastry chefs, I’ll have you know.”
“That’s not the point.” He mumbled, discomfort stark in his eyes.
Something in that look cut through her fury and raised a slew of insecurities about her own baking skills. Mrs. O’Reilly’s home economics class flashed into her mind, and she groaned inwardly. She’d been full of junior high expectations, thinking to prove her grandmother wrong about her kitchen skills, and she’d learned to scramble eggs, make coffee, and could even bake a potato. And then came the pie class. Callee chose to make a peach pie, which had resulted in a lumpy crust and a soupy filling. Although Roxy had dried her tears and tried to console her, Mrs. O’Reilly’s appalled expression lodged in Callee’s head and reinforced every cooking criticism her grandmother ever laid on her. Callee had transferred classes and never learned to cook.
She sensed now that something similar had occurred to Quint, something that had left him with an indelible emotional wound. “What happened?”
“Nothing.” He tried to shrug it off. “It was just, you know, junior high, and I began playing sports. No more time to bake pies. That’s all.”
She wouldn’t feel this strong sense of empathy if that was all. She shook her head. “No…there’s more…”
He sighed. “I made the mistake of mentioning at basketball practice one day that I was helping Mama bake pies for the church bake sale. It was a charity event. The proceeds were going to sponsor a couple of needy families for Christmas dinner and presents.”
As he remembered a smile appeared, and Callee realized he’d liked doing something for a family less fortunate than his. She pictured him as that teenage boy torn between being macho with his pals and doing something that many would consider unmanly. “It was a commendable cause.”
“Yep. But I should have kept it to myself.”
She sensed where this was headed. She knew firsthand exactly how cruel kids could be to one another. Having her grandmother as her only parent in grade school had brought out the bully in some of her classmates, but her mother had taught her that what others thought about her didn’t matter as much as what she thought about herself. Nobody can hurt you unless you let them. Those words saw Callee through a lot of her grandmother’s negative rhetoric. Just not all of it. “So your teammates started teasing you?”
He nodded. “They were brutal. Name-calling went on for weeks.”
“And you never baked another pie…”
“Nope.”
Callee couldn’t speak. She’d never baked another pie either, until Molly tried to teach her, and that had been another disaster, but Quint had something she didn’t. A talent. And he’d been wasting that talent.
Quint cleared his throat. “Long story short, I can probably be a temporary pastry chef if we can’t find anyone else before tomorrow night. My skills are pretty rusty, but maybe it’s like riding a bike. Once you know how, you never forget.”
“I guess.” Callee wouldn’t know as she’d never had a bike. And her mind wouldn’t stop reeling back to the question she needed answered. “Is that what your mother was trying to get you to tell me? That you could bake pies? If so, why did she insist I fill in for her when you were the obvious choice?”
He met her gaze, and she could see the reason made him squirm. “After what I’ve put her through since Dad died, I don’t think she trusts me to follow through.”
Any more than I do, Callee thought, having worried about exactly that. But that didn’t excuse Molly or Quint for not telling her that Quint could bake pies. “So, in other words, your mother wanted me to be your babysitter?”
His neck turned the color of ketchup. “Hell no. But I wouldn’t be surprised if she hoped we might…you know.”
Callee didn’t know for a few seconds, and then she recalled the odd phone conversation she’d overheard Andrea having and suddenly even that made sense. “She’s playing matchmaker? Hoping we’ll kiss and make up?”
He looked as though he didn’t think that was such a bad idea, and something inside her leaped with joy, while something else screamed at her to run as far and as fast as she could. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t walk out that door, check out of the hotel, and start for Seattle right this minute.”
Quint swore. “Please don’t do that. I need you.”
Callee just looked at him. “I needed you once, too, but that didn’t seem to matter to you.”
“I was an ass.” His face was awash in sincerity, his voice husky. “I would give anything to go back and do things differently.”
She didn’t believe him. Couldn’t risk believing him. She shook her head, fighting tears, feeling betrayed by him and by Molly.
“I promised to keep my distance. I swear I will honor that.” He crossed his heart. “Besides…can you really walk away with Mama as ill as she is?”
That was the question, and she’d already answered it. Even if Molly hadn’t tricked her into staying and working at the pie shop with Quint, she was going to stay until Molly had surgery.
“Callee, I really do need your help to find a pastry chef. I don’t want to bake pies for a living. I’m not comfortable with anyone else knowing I can bake a pie.”
Callee walked to the sink, her mind churning. He’d kept this old skeleton in his closet as though it were a murder he’d committed, not even comfortable enough to confess the secret sin to his wife. Quint’s reluctance to broadcast his ability to bake pies might seem preposterous to some, but Callee had a different perspective on it. The only one who knew she was going to give cooking school another try was Roxy, and if she failed this time, no one else needed to know. If and when Quint wanted to share his “secret” skill with the world, he would reveal it, not her.
She made up her mind. She would stay, would help Quint, but only because Molly needed her to. She faced him. “Maybe we should make a list of what pies you want to make for the pre-event, dig out the recipes, and make sure we have all the ingredients.”
“Thank you.” His sexy grin threatened to melt her resolve, but he made no move to grab her and hug her like he used to do whenever she gave him good news, although she felt as if he wanted to.
He said, “One pie I’m including is Mama’s sweet cherry pie. It’s her specialty and the mayor’s favorite. Folks will expect it. The mayor will expect it.”
Cherry pie? In May? “Quint, Flathead cherries aren’t in season yet.”
“The cherries are in the freezer. This is a twist on Mama’s original recipe. She calls it Frozen Sweet Bing Cherry Pie. The recipe is in the office, she said, in her favorite cookbook.” He walked into the office and returned a minute later with the recipe on a loose sheet of paper. “Found it.”
Callee was amazed. Given the gazillion cookbooks in that office, she would’ve had no idea which was Molly’s favorite. “What pies besides the Bing cherry are you considering?”
“Let’s just concentrate on one pie for now.” He spread the cherry pie recipe on the work island along with a recipe for dough. He crossed to the sink and rolled his shirtsleeves to his elbows, revealing his strong, tanned forearms, and a wayward longing swept through her. He began washing his hands, talking to her over his shoulder. “I want to see just how rusty my crust-making skills are.”
She pulled her gaze from his arms, pulled her mind from the dangerous yearning. He was going to bake a pie. This she had to see. “Right here and now?”
“Yep. Are you still willing to assist?”
“That depends on what assisting requires,” she said, suddenly reluctant, the old insecurities ready to attack her. She joined him at the sink and washed her own hands, savoring the tiny bump of their shoulders, the fleeting graze of fingers and hands beneath the rush of water. The sensations, as intimate as new lovers discovering each other, reminded her of the beginning of their romance—before reality set in and differences reared their ugly heads. Before his father died.
She turned off the tap, wishing she could shed all sensuous longings for this man. She couldn’t change what didn’t work between them. But she so missed the feel of his warm, inviting skin, and although she didn’t want to think about that, she couldn’t seem to stop. There was something oddly seductive about being alone with him in this kitchen.
He grabbed a towel and dried his hands, also seeming a bit ill at ease. Maybe it was that he was about to try making his first piecrust in years. Or maybe he, too, felt the tantalizing hum in the air. He tossed the towel to her. She caught it and dried her hands as he turned away, and her gaze snagged on his amazing backside. Damn. Stop it. Look somewhere else. Think about something else. Where the hell had she put that chilled water? There. She crossed the room, grabbed the bottle, and downed a gulp. Quint was peering into the freezer.
She kept her eyes on the back of his head, not daring to look lower. Safe territory. Except that lock of ebony hair curling over his collar captivated her. He needed a haircut. Bad. Her fingertips itched for a pair of scissors as a memory of one particular haircut flashed into her mind, rocking her back in time.
The bathroom in their master bedroom. The air, steamy with the aromas of peach shampoo, spicy bath gel, and unbridled sex. She was replete with a delicious feeling coursing through her veins and passion for this man who was her husband, filling her heart to the edge of overflowing—a magical sensation only intimate lovers experience.
Quint had sat on her makeup stool, a towel wrapping his lean waist. She bent forward over his back, teasing her fingers through the hair on his chest, tracing it down his flat belly to where it disappeared into the towel. He grinned at her reflection in the mirror and reached behind him, playfully slipping his hand inside her robe and between her legs. Her body responded to his every touch, every stroke, need coiling deep in her core.
Laughing, she kept threatening to take a chunk of hair out of the back of his head if he didn’t stop. But she didn’t want him to stop. And he didn’t. Soon the scissors were slipping from her hands, the robe falling to the floor, his towel gone. Her blood began to sizzle at the high-def memory.
Oh my God. Stop. She cleared her throat, but her voice croaked when she asked, “What do you need me to do?”
A good assistant always deferred to the chef. Just like a willing lover.
He grabbed a package of frozen and pitted dark red cherries from the freezer and emptied it into a huge glass bowl. “At room temp, this should thaw in an hour, hour and a half.”
“Okay,” she said, determined not to stare at him or to have any more erotic memories as he bent and began to dig in the refrigerator. She spun toward the cupboard that faced the Sub-Zero and, for the first time, noticed a built-in CD player. She considered turning it on, but Quint interrupted the thought.
“Aha. There’s the butter.” He placed two sticks of unsalted butter on the work island. “Do you know where Mama keeps the flour, salt, and sugar?”
“Oh, you know what?” She crossed to the linen cupboard and withdrew two chef coats, one small and one that must have been Rafe’s. “Before we go any further, I suggest we put these on. Baking pies can get messy.”
Quint grinned at her, that engaging heart-stopping grin, as she helped him adjust the coat over his broad shoulders. The air between them crackled like heat lightning. His gaze slipped to her mouth, and her mouth tingled in response, and then a jackhammer pulsed through her veins, making her body ache for his touch. His kiss.
He leaned down as though he meant to oblige her mouth, but instead he whispered, “Damn it, Callee, I’m only human. If you don’t want me to kiss you, stop looking at me like that, or I won’t be responsible for what happens.”
She straightened, heat suffusing her cheeks. Had she lost her mind, mooning over him like a lovesick school-girl? Feeling sorry that he hadn’t ignored her stupid rules and ravished her on the center island? She swigged water from her bottle to cool her jets.
He busied himself cutting the two sticks of butter into cubes and placing them on a dish.
She fumbled the buttons closed on her chef coat, her hands still shaky, her body still trembling. Part of her wanted to dwell only on the good things in their marriage, but it hadn’t been all bliss. Too many times he’d let her down, let her know other things and other people were more important. She did a quick read-through of the crust recipe. “Should I get out a food processor?”
“Sure.” He placed the dish of cubed butter into the freezer. “Mama always says the secret to flaky piecrust is ice-cold butter. It should stay in here around thirty minutes. Overnight is even better, but we don’t have that kind of time.”
She avoided eye contact, still grappling with her poise. It occurred to her that if there were responses to their ads, then they would be doing interviews tomorrow. And those interviews would include having the applicants make pie-crust. “While you’re working on the dough, I’ll cube more butter for use tomorrow.”
“Or you could watch and learn.” His voice held a teasing smile.
“Professionals have tried to teach me and failed.” Her chest felt tight, her palms damp. “Even Molly tried to teach me.”
“Don’t fret. I won’t make you participate…if you don’t want to.”
Relieved, she set about slicing the butter while Quint took a couple of trips to the pantry, bringing flour, sugar, and salt to the work counter. Then he went through the drawers and cupboards, locating a rolling pin, pie plate, and measuring cups and spoons.
Callee watched him measure two and a half cups of flour into the food processor, add a teaspoon of salt, and a teaspoon of sugar. He set the food processor dial to pulse, mixing the dry ingredients. Then he filled a measuring cup with ice water and placed it next to a tablespoon. He glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes had passed since he’d placed the butter into the freezer.
“I’ll get it,” she said, putting the freshly cubed butter into the freezer and taking the one Quint had prepared to him. He added the cubes to the processor. He hit the pulse button. Seven times the whirling started and stopped. She looked at the mixture in the processor. “Is the butter supposed to look like small pearls?”
“It is. Next I add ice water one tablespoon at a time, pulsing until the mixture just begins to mesh.”
He pulsed and tested.
She moved closer, totally focused on his technique.
He demonstrated. “If you pinch some of the crumbly dough between your thumb and forefinger, like this, and it holds together, it’s ready. Otherwise, add a touch more water and pulse again. Too much water equals tough crust.”
Teeth-crunching tough, like her piecrust. In her defense, though, the school hadn’t had food processors. She’d made her crust by hand, and she had no feel for kneading.
Quint dumped the mealy mixture onto the marble surface of the island. “The marble keeps the dough cool and the butter from melting.”
Callee watched Quint work the dough with the heels of his hands, pushing it into the marble countertop.
He looked at her and grinned. “You want to try it?”
She shook her head, not about to jinx this process. “No, thanks.”
The gentle movements of his big hands coaxing the floury mix into something solid fascinated her. Why was this so easy for him and so difficult for her? If only she’d known that he could bake pies, she might have found the courage to tell him about her dream of becoming a chef. Too late now. But when things between them were good, it would’ve been like discovering you and your best friend shared a secret passion for Lady Gaga music. Not something you’d ever discussed, but then one day the happy secret came out and enriched your friendship…or your marriage. Divorce, she was starting to understand, wasn’t a decision reached in the heat of the moment. It was a breaking down of communications that accumulated over time.
Quint, she realized, had stopped kneading. She asked, “How do you know when the consistency is right?”
He shrugged, gently shaping the dough into two disks. “I don’t know really. It’s something I can feel, but the trick is to not over-knead.” He sprinkled some flour around the disks, and then he wrapped each in wax paper and placed them into the Sub-zero. “These need to refrigerate a good hour. Like the butter cubes, it’s better to prepare the dough a day or so before using, but tonight an hour will have to do.”
Callee checked on the cherries. “These are thawing nicely.”
“Great.” He began tugging off his chef coat. “Why don’t you clean up the flour and, if the cherries are thawed before I get back, then go ahead and mix the filling?”
Mix the filling? Her eyes widened. He said, “Is that a problem?”
“Of course not. I can follow a recipe.” This wasn’t brain surgery, after all. Just because her peach pie filling had turned out runny didn’t mean this filling would. “Where are you going? To the hospital?”
“Not yet.” He brushed flour from his jeans. “I thought I’d run after some chow. Anything special you want?”
“Whatever. You choose.” The pie samples seemed hours ago. She was hungry, too.
* * *
Without Quint, the pie shop seemed eerily quiet. She didn’t like being alone. She’d felt so displaced since leaving Quint; nowhere seemed like home and now, with Molly almost dying, the sting of loneliness ached worse than ever. She phoned Roxy and they chatted for half an hour before Roxy had to run. Feeling the loneliness again, Callee glanced at the CD player. There was already a disk inserted. She switched it on. Loud Latin music spilled from the speakers, startling her. She hit the volume knob, easing the sound to a pleasant level. She wouldn’t have thought Molly was into this kind of music, but maybe the CD belonged to Rafe. The strings and horns were upbeat. She couldn’t understand the words, but had no doubt this album was one of love songs.
She hummed along as she cleaned the work counter. She spread out the infamous cherry pie recipe and began reading. It was handwritten in a crisp printed script. The title was not Frozen Sweet Cherry Pie as touted, but rather Great Grandma McCoy’s Secret Recipe for Frozen Sweet Cherry Pie. A small ruby red juice stain painted one corner. A strange sensation came over Callee. She was holding onto a piece of Quint’s family history, passed from one generation to the next, long before he was born, long before his parents married. No telling when the stain had come into being.
She couldn’t imagine having a connection to generations past, not even one based on something so simple as a recipe. Her family history was a mystery. She would never know who her birth father was, her mother hadn’t seemed to know any stories of their ancestry, and her grandmother shunned the subject as though it were a scandal. Callee was left accepting that nothing lasted forever. Not even family. But she was holding proof to the contrary.
She rubbed absently at the stain. The concept of ancestors connected to her through something as simple as an old recipe felt as alien as a walk on the moon might.
She shook off this musing and concentrated on what she was doing. The recipe had been updated through the years. Not surprising, really, since there were more varieties of flour, sugar, and other ingredients than when the original recipe was created. Not to mention a more health-conscious America. And there were wonderful gadgets that made baking much less time-consuming, like food processors and cherry pitters.
Callee gathered the ingredients listed on the recipe. She measured the called-for amounts of sugar, corn-starch, salt, lemon juice, almond extract, and a dash of cinnamon, then poured everything onto the cherries as directed and gently tossed until blended. The aroma brought a memory of the first time she’d met Quint’s parents. Molly had insisted he bring her home for Sunday dinner. The kitchen had smelled of ripe cherries and pot roast. She’d been so nervous and wanted them to like her so badly that she’d knocked over the gravy bowl, ruining the white tablecloth.
Molly and Jimmy McCoy laughed and told her not to worry about it. That kind of thing happened all the time in the McCoy household. She’d loved them instantly and taken them into her heart as they’d done with her. She missed Quint’s dad so much that grief could still sneak up on her when least expected. He had been the only real dad she’d ever known, and their time together had been so very short. A tear rolled down her cheek. She hugged herself, trying to touch that sad spot that felt like a hole in her middle. She was blessed to have known him, blessed to have happy memories of being loved unconditionally despite her shortcomings.
She was just washing up when Quint returned.
Delicious smells trailed in with him, issuing from the red-and-white bags he carried. Her spirits lifted with one look at the logo. “You went to Thai Palace?”
“I did.”
“I haven’t been there in forever.” Not since the last time they were there together. Thai was her favorite, not his. But about twice a month, he indulged her preference. “I’ve been craving it. Thank you.”
He grinned, pleased with himself. “Glad to accommodate, ma’am. But that’s not all. I also picked up a bottle of your favorite vino.”
He set the bottle on the countertop and started searching drawers for an opener. Alarm bells went off in her head. Wine? Quint didn’t care for wine. He only drank it when beer wasn’t available. Why was he being so good to her? Maybe she shouldn’t question his motives, but just enjoy his thoughtful gesture.
They ate at one of the round tables in the café. Dessert plates served as dinnerware. Coffee cups as wine glasses. She used the complimentary chopsticks. He couldn’t get the hang of them and preferred traditional silverware. Their conversation stayed neutral: the weather and Molly. She swallowed the last of a spring roll, followed it with a sip of wine, and said, “I have the pie filling ready.”
“Great.” Quint scraped back his chair and stood. “The dough should be ready, too.”
This was the part she wanted to see, Callee thought, gathering their dishes. Her blood tingled in anticipation, and she had a sudden and surprising realization. The idea of watching Quint roll pie dough into a crust that was a work of art actually excited her. Turned her on. She found it sexy as hell. Romantic, even.
Given this new insight about herself, she had better watch her step.
She carried their plates and silverware to the sink. He followed with the wine bottle and their cups. Quint removed one of the disks from the Sub-Zero. “It needs to sit at room temp for roughly ten minutes, until it softens enough to make rolling easier.”
He glanced at the wall clock, then offered her more wine. She declined, carrying her cup to the sink. She didn’t tell him she’d polished off a whole bottle by herself the night before, but she wasn’t about to overindulge two nights in a row. Or to let wine release her inhibitions worse than the sexy memory and her new insight already had.
She donned her chef coat and offered him his. He put it on. Hers had specks of cherry juice in a connect-the-dots pattern that might be a star. His was still pristine. Not even any butter grease.
He refilled his cup with wine, then set the bottle on a back counter. He placed the marble rolling pin and pie plate on the island. Callee read over the crust recipe again. “Are you going to use parchment paper?”
He eyed her with a “I thought you didn’t know how to bake a pie” expression. She laughed. “It’s mentioned here on the recipe.”
“Mama started using it a few years ago. She says the parchment paper allows for minimal handling of the dough—less handling, lighter crust. Do you know where she keeps it?”
“No, but it must be in one of these drawers or cupboards.” She searched while Quint floured the rolling pin.
Callee found it in an upper cupboard. She ripped off two large sheets of parchment paper and brought them to Quint, slipping them onto the counter. She stood so close to him their arms grazed. She flinched, but didn’t move away. She watched him sprinkle flour lightly on the sheet, then place a disk of dough in the center of the paper.
He began to pound the dough with the rolling pin, explaining, “This is called ‘rapping.’ Do this until the dough is about six inches in diameter, like this, then lightly dust flour around the mound, cover with the second sheet of parchment, and roll to a size an inch or so larger than your pie pan.”
“You really haven’t forgotten,” she said, impressed. He made it look so easy. Was it that easy? Could she really learn to do this?
“Are you thinking maybe you could do this?” He gazed down at her, bemused, his smile disarming.
“No,” Callee lied, startled that he’d read her mind and ignoring the warm shimmers racing across her skin. “I can’t…”
“You can, Callee. I believe in you.” His eyes darkened with something that heated the shimmers to a dangerous level. “Let me teach you…”
He stepped back, silently urging her to take his place. She shook her head. “No, thanks.”
“Ah, come on,” he pressed. “Give it a try…”
“I’ve tried and been shown—”
“Not by me.”
Callee’s gaze fixed on the mound within the parchment paper, her throat dry, her palms damp. It was dough. It couldn’t get the best of her…if she didn’t let it. Reluctantly, she moved to where Quint had stood. He said over her shoulder, “Now, grasp hold of the handles of the rolling pin.”
She wiped her hands on the chef coat and then gripped the handles of the marble rolling pin. They felt like ice against her palms, while Quint’s breath felt like a summer breeze on the back of her neck. He said, “Okay, now start at the center and roll toward the edge, keeping the pressure even.”
She started, then inexplicably froze. His hands came down on hers as he leaned over her, their bodies spooned. Her heart began to race. His cheek touched hers, his mouth near her ear, his voice husky. “Keep the pressure even. Like this. That’s right.”
He leaned into her and away from her with each extended roll, his body heat like a comforter she wanted to snuggle. She didn’t mean to nuzzle his head, but she did, and the next thing she knew…
“Oh, God, Callee,” Quint groaned, spinning her into his arms, his mouth finding hers, his body meeting hers. A fiery rain of irresistible sensations washed through her, burning away her resistance.
She kissed him with all the need she’d suppressed for months and months and tore at his chef’s coat as he tore at hers, their lips locked in an ever-deepening reunion. His hands were in her hair, hers were in his. He tasted of red wine and Thai food and smelled even better. Her sweater vanished, followed by her bra, and his shirt, his belt, his jeans. He pulled her naked torso to his, eliciting a gasp of pure pleasure at the ached-for feel of his body. Her nipples were rock hard against his chest, his arousal against her thighs.
She didn’t remember kicking off her boots, or her jeans, or her panties. Every breath, every touch, raised her higher and higher toward the heavens, and she didn’t want it to ever stop.
Quint swept the parchment paper, piecrust, flour, and rolling pin from the island. The ensuing crash brought Callee to her senses with a bang. Dear God, what was she doing? She shoved against Quint’s shoulders, tore her lips from his, and pushed him away, panting. “No. No. I don’t want this.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” His words came out in a breathless rasp.
Callee gathered her clothes, tugging them on, humiliation and embarrassment scorching her insides. She glanced at the mess on the floor. It was just like their marriage. It had started out as something wonderful and ended up thrown away. She left him standing there, naked, aroused, and making no attempt to cover himself. He looked perplexed and angry and sexier than any of her memories.