Bliss and the Art of Forever (A Hope Springs Novel) (20 page)

“You coming?” Callum turned to ask.

“Of course.” Though she shouldn’t enjoy his including her as much as she did. But just for tonight . . . “I’ve been waiting to see what you entered since Dolly mentioned that you had.”

He gave her a sheepish shrug. “It was a sort of last-minute thing.”

Now she was curious. “Do you really think your candy can kick the ass of any brownie Kaylie Keller decides to whip up? Or stand a chance against Peggy Butters’s salted caramel macarons?”

He very nearly pouted. “Doesn’t sound like you have much faith in my abilities.”

He was so cute when he sulked. “Well, Jean did share the Bourbon Peach chocolate with me, so if you entered that one, I could see you having a chance.”

“Nope. I entered the candy I made for you. The coffee cherry.”

He’d entered her candy? The candy he wasn’t going to make more of? The candy he wasn’t going to sell? “I didn’t think you saved the recipe.”

“I didn’t, but I made a whole tray. I actually made several whole trays, trying to get it right.”

“And you entered them here instead of giving them to me?”

“I gave you the best in show,” he said, then he held out his hand and she took it, thinking this might just be the greatest carnival of her entire life.

SHIRLEY DRAKE’S OREO CAKE

For the cake:

¾ cup all-purpose flour

¼ cup Dutch-processed cocoa powder

⅝ teaspoon baking soda

⅛ teaspoon salt

½ cup + 2 tablespoons granulated sugar

½ cup + 2 tablespoons sour cream

⅓ cup vegetable oil

1 large egg

½ teaspoon pure vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 350 degrees (F).

Grease and flour one 9-inch round cake pan and line with parchment paper, coating with nonstick spray.

Into a large bowl, sift the flour, the cocoa, the baking soda, and the salt.

In a medium bowl, whisk together until smooth the sugar, the sour cream, the eggs, the oil, and the vanilla.

Stir the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients until thoroughly combined. Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake for 20–25 minutes, or until an inserted tester comes out clean from the middle of the cake.

Cool the cake in the pan for 15 minutes. Carefully remove the cake from the pan and cool completely on a wire rack.

For the frosting:

40 Oreo cookies (or more/less to taste)

4 cups whipping cream

2 tablespoons granulated sugar

1 tablespoon pure vanilla extract

Chop the cookies into pieces. Set aside.

In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with a whip attachment, or using an electric mixer, whip two cups of cream on medium-high speed to soft peak, then spoon into a large bowl and refrigerate.

In the same mixer bowl, whip the remaining two cups of cream along with the sugar and the vanilla to soft peak. Fold into the already-whipped cream along with the chopped Oreos.

Slice the cake in half horizontally, creating two layers. Place the bottom layer on a serving plate and spread with one-third of the whipped cream and Oreo mixture. Top with the second cake layer and use the remaining whipped cream and Oreo mixture to frost the top and sides of the cake.

Chill the frosted cake for two hours before slicing to allow cookies to soften. (If transporting, carry the cake in an insulated shipping box with a frozen chill pack beneath the serving plate.)

“You know,” Jean said the next morning from inside Brooklyn’s garage. “You should think about wearing cobwebs in your hair more often. It’s a very fetching look. A bit like St. Birgitta’s cap.”

“Thanks,” Brooklyn said, not sure she wanted to look like the founder of the Bridgettine nuns. Reaching up, she brushed away the mess, praying she didn’t find spiders. Though she had no one to blame but herself if she did. She was the one who’d let the arachnids have their way.

After a cloudy Friday night, Saturday had turned out bright and gorgeous, a perfect day to antique shop in Gruene, or read a book in the backyard hammock, or drive through the Hill Country with the windows down. Doing so on a Harley would’ve been even better. The sun shining, the wind whooshing by, the scents of cedar and juniper and pine in the air . . .

Instead she was cleaning out her garage. Or at least continuing the chore that would take a month’s worth of weekends. She’d already donated most of Artie’s smaller tools she had no use for, many going to Keller Construction via the Second Baptist Church earlier in the week.

Before listing the larger saws and drills and whatevers in the
Hope Springs Courant
, however, she’d invited Jean to take photos for her sons and anyone she thought might have use for the items. Photos involved moving things to where she could shoot them from all sides.

After two years of the pieces sitting untouched, there were a lot of cobwebs, and too many dust bunnies to count, and so much dirt Brooklyn wanted to hang her head in shame. Artie had kept the garage as clean as a firehouse; she couldn’t remember the last time she’d swept it.

Jean walked around what Brooklyn thought was some sort of grinder. It was on a stand and together the pieces weighed what felt like a ton, and though she was certain Artie had used it, she had no idea what for. Sharpening knives or lawn-mower blades? Was that a thing one did?

“If either Jeffrey or Paul are interested in any of these items,” Jean said, “you
will
take their money. I won’t let you give away a single nail. Artie no doubt paid a handsome sum for whatever in the world everything in here is.”

“I’m glad I’m not the only one clueless, though not knowing makes me feel like I should’ve been more involved in what he was doing,” Brooklyn said, suppressing the sense of guilt that had taken root this morning when she’d opened the garage door and watched the day’s sunlight hit the corners.

“Now, Brooklyn. Did Artie know what to do with every gadget in your sewing room?” Jean asked, not even waiting for an answer. “Of course he didn’t. This was his domain. That’s yours. I’m not saying he couldn’t sew on a button. I’m quite sure he could. And if he’d had need to fill a bobbin he would’ve learned. Just like if you’d ever had a need to do something with this,” she said, gesturing toward the grinder, “you would’ve done the same.”

Leave it to Jean to use logic against Brooklyn’s misgivings. “I guess you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. I’ve lived long enough and well enough to teach even that Justin Beaver a thing or two.”

Brooklyn smiled, letting the mistake, which knowing Jean might very well have been on purpose, stand. And then she was stopped from saying anything else by the rumble of a motorcycle engine coming close.

Jean heard it, too, cocking her head and grinning broadly. “I believe you may have a visitor on the way.”

That, or she was hearing the same phantom Harley Callum had imagined last Saturday night. Still, she couldn’t deny the rush of pleasure she felt at the sound. It was that crush thing again. That illicit thrill of his thinking about her when she could hardly get him out of her mind. “He’s unexpected, if so.”

“Those are the best kind,” Jean said, taking a final picture of the grinder, then pocketing her phone. “I’m going to head home and get these sent to the boys, and to Alva, too. He may know someone who could use these things. I’ll let you know what they say.”

“Okay,” Brooklyn said, her mind elsewhere, primarily on the state of her cobwebbed hair and clothes that were smeared with almost as much grease and dirt as the floor. "Thanks."

Moments later, Callum pulled into her driveway and shut off the engine, though every nerve in her body continued to zing to the thrum. He swung his leg over the bike and stood in profile as he reached for his helmet, his legs encased in faded jeans, heavy black boots on his feet, a tight T-shirt hugging his torso, his arms, his chest.

She closed her eyes, breathed deeply, opened them again in time to see him pull off the helmet, to see his hair shake free. He was wearing it loose today, and it fell in tight red-brown waves to the base of his neck, though not quite to his shoulders. He turned toward her then, lifting one hand and raking it out of his face. His smile very nearly killed her.

Another deep breath and she walked to the front of the garage. “Looks like you came by at just the wrong time.”

He glanced over her shoulder, leaving her to look at his T-shirt. It was another worn long past its prime, and all the better for it. “For helping out a friend, you mean? Never the wrong time for that.”

“It’s Saturday. You should be making chocolate.”

“I’m still basking in the glow of last night’s dessert competition win. Besides, Bliss isn’t even open yet. I can spare a few.” He looked around the garage. “And you’ve got some kind of job on your hands.”

She did, but he had his own to get to, if not now, then later, and unless he had time to ride back to the textile district, shower, and change . . . “It’s my mess, I’ll clean it, and you didn’t come here to help, so . . .”

“I came to see if you wanted to make chocolate tonight,” he said. “Addy’s sleeping over with Kelly. I thought I’d play with some flavors.”

Because, of course, for Callum Drake, work was play. “You want to make chocolate. In your free time.”

“It’s the only time I have to experiment,” he said, and shrugged. “And Addy’s going to be gone. What else am I going to do?”

“I don’t know,” she said, because she wanted more than anything to have fun with him—
Dear Lord, do I want to have fun with him
—but since she was leaving she wasn’t sure doing so was a good idea. “Go for a long ride? Move some of your things to your house? Watch a ball game with your dad? Read a book?”

He seemed to think about her suggestions, then shook his head. “I’d rather make chocolate with you.”

It was the
with you
that got to her. The words floated in front of her eyes, dancing there, spinning round and round until she was dizzy with the idea. “I’m not sure I can. The garage is going to take me all day—”

“Then let me help.”

“It’s chaos in here. You’ll get filthy.”
Oh, how weak that argument sounds.

“A little dirt never hurt anyone.”

She gave him a look. “We’re not talking about a little.”

“You, Brooklyn Harvey”—he leaned close and grinned—“worry too much.”

He really needed to stop being so persuasive. And so incredibly cute. “What about your work chocolate, as opposed to your play chocolate?”

“I put in the overnight on Monday and cranked out an extra batch every day this week.” His gaze curious, he walked farther into the garage. “Like I said. I’m good. And I’ve got Lena to let me know when I’m not.”

Did he ever worry about anything? Of course he did. She knew he did, leaving her to take his word that he wasn’t worried now. “Fine. But don’t blame me when you can’t fill all the orders that come in once everyone finishes what they bought for Valentine’s Day.”

“No blaming. Promise.” That grin again. That
with you
still dancing. “Now what do you want me to do?”

They spent the next hour going through the tools in the garage. Callum knew the purpose for everything he picked up, and for the larger pieces she couldn’t move and didn’t recognize. She told him to take anything she hadn’t offered to Jean’s sons that he thought he might be able to use, but he was reluctant.

“I’m gonna wait till I get moved, pick up what I need as I need it.”

If it was a matter of pride, doing things for himself, that was one thing. But if he didn’t want what she had to give because her things had belonged to Artie . . . “I’ve got an entire home improvement store here, and it can be yours for free. Don’t you think it’s kinda dumb to spend the money?”

“Thanks, but no.” He was shaking his head. “I’ve been making my own way a long time.”

Still she argued. “Taking what I offer doesn’t obligate you to me. I’m not going to haunt you and exact payment.” But when he cocked his head and looked over, his expression one of finality, she said, “Okay. Craigslist it is.”

“I’m sure Craig and his list will snap up everything Artie had.”

So it
was
about Artie, she mused, trying to decide if that hurt her feelings, or if this was one of those molehill-and-mountain situations she needed to let go. “Jean and I were looking through things earlier, trying to decide what might be worth holding on to, but all I’ve ever used is a hammer and a screwdriver and a pair of pliers. Maybe the stepladder. And the tire pump.”

This time he started in the back left corner of the garage and walked her through everything she owned. How he’d come to know the workings of machines she couldn’t even identify . . . well, he was a guy, with guy genes, and he had belonged to a motorcycle club.

Oh, she knew the saws and the drills, and was well versed in using the lawn equipment, but she only had a vague idea of what one might do with a lathe, and couldn’t imagine she would ever need a bench vise, a floor jack, an optical level, or even one of the five tool belts hung with ridiculously specific single-purpose gadgets, even though she did set aside a very cool laser measuring device.

It was noon when they reached the door that led into the kitchen. And as cool as it was outside, she was sweaty, grimy, and in desperate need of something to eat and to drink. “Would you like some lunch? I make a mean turkey club. Or do you need to get to work?”

“I’d love a sandwich,” he said, adding, “or three. But yeah. I do need to head to the shop. And check in with my dad. He’s got Addy today.”

His dad. Not his mother. “Three I can do,” she said. “You can take them with you, though I’m not sure you want to go to work looking like that. I think you’re even filthier than I am. And your T-shirt’s an insult to rats everywhere. That grease is never going to come out.”

He tucked his chin to his chest and looked down. “One less item to wash. One less item to pack. Though you may have to feed me in the garage.”

“Just dust off. You’ll be fine. Except maybe your hair. It’s as cobwebby as mine was earlier. C’mere.”

He moved closer and she reached up, brushing the sticky strands from his temple. They caught on the backs of her fingers, and she reached higher to clear away more of the web, her hand slowing as she realized she was making things worse because she wasn’t paying attention to the spider’s work at all.