Bliss and the Art of Forever (A Hope Springs Novel) (5 page)

The thrum of his bike vibrated behind her as she drove. The headlight pierced her car’s back window like a beacon. His following her made her strangely anxious, when having spent the last hour with him, she should feel completely at ease. He wanted to make sure she got home safely. That was all.

She’d been getting herself home safely for years. Yet having Callum behind her, his big bike, his big body, his hands . . . what was wrong with her? He wasn’t coming home with her to take her to bed. He was just being kind, she told herself, pulling into her driveway and hitting the button to open the garage, reminded again, as the door slid up, that she needed to replace the lightbulb.

She parked inside. She turned off the car. She climbed out.

He cut the bike’s engine, and she turned into the stillness, her steps in sync with the beat of her heart and loud on the driveway’s concrete. She should tell him thank you. Tell him good-bye. But those weren’t the words she found tumbling into her mouth as she walked to where he straddled his bike.

“Would you like to come in? I can make you an espresso. Or I have Tia Maria. And illyquore. I don’t think I have any Kahlúa, though I could open a bottle of wine . . .” And then she stopped because all she was doing was rambling about coffee liqueurs, and because he was standing now, and swinging his leg over the seat.

“I’ll pass on the alcohol, but will take you up on the caffeine. I’ve got a long night ahead.”

She answered with a nod and reentered the garage. Callum followed, and once he was inside, she hit the switch to lower the door. It creaked down behind him, and the last thing she saw before she was swallowed up by the darkness was the silhouette of his heavy boots moving toward her.

Clearing her throat of the nerves tickling there, she felt for the deadbolt and unlocked it, flipping on the lights as she stepped inside. She was across the room, having hit the button to heat the water in the espresso maker, when Callum closed the door.

“Do you work through the night often?” she asked, pushed to fill the silence. Being alone with him was trouble enough. Being alone with him in her kitchen . . .

The espresso maker hissed and steamed, then pounded the water through the capsule’s packed grind. “Only a couple of times a year. Valentine’s Day. Christmas. Oh, and Mother’s Day, so three. I lucked out with Halloween. I’m too expensive. Though I do make some outstanding sugar skulls for the Day of the Dead.”

What she wanted to know was how he’d fallen into making candy. What she said instead was, “I’ve got sugar and cream. Or I can steam milk and pour it in.”

“I’m good with straight up,” he said, then a grin pulled his mouth sideways. “Or ‘yucky like dirt’ as Addy calls it.”

“How did you two end up in Hope Springs?”
Two
, because she was not going to ask about Adrianne’s mother. “I know your parents live in town but I’ve always wondered if they played a part in your decision to open Bliss here.”

He leaned against the counter beside her, his arms crossed. “You’ve wondered about me? Always?”

She was going to have to watch what she said around this one, she mused, handing him the tiny cup, the layer of crema atop the coffee visible through the clear glass, then gestured toward a chair at the table.

He took the cup from her hand, then took a seat while she made herself a latte. When she joined him, she’d found enough of her wits to answer. “I teach your daughter. I’ve met your parents. You’re a famous chocolatier and you operate from the Texas Hill Country. Of course I’ve wondered about you.”

There. He couldn’t possibly pick through her response and find anything to tease her with. Could he?

He sat sideways to the table and he crossed his legs, his elbows braced on the chair arms, his drink held with the fingers of both hands as if he were playing an instrument. He made for such an incongruous picture. The
GQ
elegance of his posture. His
Sons of Anarchy
garb. His messy Heathcliff hair.

His hands were so large around the tiny espresso cup, and she thought about the delicate work he did with those long fingers, the exquisite chocolates he made. Thought about him running a brush through his daughter’s long blond hair at bedtime. Thought about the children she and Artie had decided together they would never have because of the dangerous work Artie did.

They’d been right not to start a family, and she didn’t regret their decision at all. How Callum managed on his own . . . then again, he had his parents close. She had no one left. It wasn’t hard to understand how she’d fallen into a rut, when she had obligations to no one, and she was content with so little. “Mostly I’ve wondered why it took until today for you to visit Adrianne’s class.”

“You can thank my mother for that,” he said, frowning as he stared down into his cup. “She signed me up for the story hour.”

Interesting. “That doesn’t explain where you were for the last six months. You know. At Halloween and at Christmas, when your parents were there for Adrianne.”

“Working mostly,” he said, sighing as he shrugged. “I didn’t find out my mother had signed herself up for the Halloween or Christmas parties until after the fact. I mean, I knew about the parties from Addy, but not that I could’ve come. I’m new to this kid-in-school parenting thing, remember? And it’s not like I’ve got neighbors keeping me posted.” He leaned his head to one side and popped his neck, did the same on the other.

The motion gave her a better view of his neck and the words tattooed there. Which had her wondering again about the scales on his abdomen. And that thought had her hiding a private smile behind her cup as she brought it to her mouth. “You do go through the papers I send home, don’t you?”

“Sure. Of course. But on the days I keep Addy with me, my mom usually stops by the shop after school to see her, so she goes through them first. She doesn’t like my setup at Bliss. She thinks Addy would be better off staying with her until I get home.”

Brooklyn hated that his mother’s meddling had her rethinking her opinion of Shirley Drake, and threw out a bone. “Still, having your parents near has got to be a good thing.”

“It’s been good for Addy for sure. I mean, it’s not like she wouldn’t have survived day care. We all did. But my folks are great to step up at the last minute. Plus having them around has helped give Addy a good sense of family, and more stability, since otherwise it’s just the two of us against the world.”

There it was. The perfect opening. She could ask about Adrianne’s mother and not feel as if she was stepping over the bounds of his privacy.

But not once had he, or his parents, or even his daughter, hinted at the woman’s existence, leaving Brooklyn to hold her tongue. “It’s good that you’re close with them,” she said, but then his mouth twisted again and she found herself adding, “If you
are
close with them.”

“They’re my parents,” he said, and shrugged. “There’s close. And then there’s . . . close. As in way too far up in my business. My mother, anyway. Though with my best interests at heart, she says. And Addy’s.”

“I guess that’s just how it is with families.”

“Depends on the family,” he said, leaving it at that as he drained his cup, set it on the table, and got to his feet. “Thank you for the coffee. It should get me through a few hours at least.”

She set her own cup next to his and stood, too, resisting the urge to smooth down her hair, to check her sweater for wrinkles, to press the fabric of her pants with her palms. “I’d tell you not to work too hard . . .”

He smiled, a grin of deep dimples and eyes already too tired as he looked down at his feet. “I’m a lost cause.”

“I don’t believe that,” she said, showing him out of the kitchen and through the living room to the front door. “Be careful,” she said as she opened it.

“And you,” he said, stepping out onto her porch.

“Me?”

“In Italy.”

“That’s four months from now.” She couldn’t bear the thought of this being their final good-bye. “You can come to Addy’s end-of-year party and tell me then.”

“We’ll see,” was all he said, leaving her with a wave, then walking down her driveway to his bike, and drawing her gaze to his stride, loose and rolling, his hips, his legs, his very tight—

“No.” She whispered the word and shut the door, leaning her forehead against it and listening as Callum started the bike. Listening as he roared down the street. Listening until there was no more of him to hear.

She would not do this to herself—
she would not!
—tease herself, torture herself, with something her leaving meant she couldn’t have. Even if she feared it might be the very thing she wanted.

TWO OWLS’ ULTIMATE CHOCOLATE BROWNIE CAKE

For the cake:

½ pound room-temperature butter

2 cups granulated sugar

2 large eggs

2 cups all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon baking soda

6 tablespoons Dutch-processed cocoa powder

½ cup buttermilk

½ cup sour cream

1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 350 degrees (F).

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

In a large bowl, cream the butter and the sugar with an electric mixer until light and fluffy. Add the eggs and mix until thoroughly combined.

Into a medium bowl, sift the flour, the baking soda, and the cocoa powder.

In a small bowl, whisk together the buttermilk, the sour cream, and the vanilla.

With the mixer on low, add the dry ingredients and the liquid ingredients to the butter/sugar/egg mixture in three alternating batches. Divide the batter evenly between the pans.

Bake for 30–35 minutes, or until an inserted tester comes out clean from the center of the cakes, and the edges begin to pull away from the pans’ sides. Transfer the pans to a cooling rack. Once cooled, carefully remove the cakes.

For the frosting:

1 stick softened butter

¼ cup sifted Dutch-processed cocoa powder

8 ounces cream cheese

1 pound sifted powdered sugar

2 tablespoons buttermilk

1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

Using an electric mixer, combine the butter, the cocoa powder, and the cream cheese at low speed, mixing until thoroughly combined. Increase the speed to high and cream the mixture until light and fluffy. Reduce the speed to low, slowly adding the powdered sugar, the buttermilk, and the vanilla.

Beat until the mixture is smooth. Frost the top of one cake layer. Cover with the second layer and spread the remaining frosting evenly over the top and the sides.

“I’m so sorry I’m late.” Having hugged and helloed her way across the Two Owls Café dining room, Jean Dial tucked sunglasses with lenses the size of chrysanthemums into a nearly bottomless tote. A watch with a sunflower face battled two or three bracelets for real estate on her thin left wrist. She hung the bag on her chair back, but not before digging out two paperbacks. “Have you read either of these?”

“Ooh, I don’t know. Let me take a look.” Brooklyn scanned the titles and gave the back copy a cursory glance—the settings were Wales, 1157, and York, 1069—then said, “I don’t think I have.” She set both in the seat of the chair beside her with her purse. “Thank you. And you’re not late. It’s five minutes till noon.”

“I was at the hairdresser’s so long I guess it just feels that way. Pearl took a while to get started”—Jean patted the back of her silver bouffant, the charms on her bracelets jangling—“what with Maxine Mikels already in rollers and Peggy Butters getting a permanent wave. There was so much chatter, I’m surprised I didn’t come out looking like Bozo the Clown. Of course, it didn’t take Pearl long to finish, or me long to get out of there, once Shirley Drake came in and started carping on poor Vaughn. That man is a saint, yet all Shirley’s done since he retired is find fault with everything he doesn’t get done, and everything he does.”

Though she’d lived in Hope Springs for thirteen years, Brooklyn had yet to give up the Austin salon she’d trusted with her hair since grad school. She needed little more than a monthly trim, and enjoyed catching up with her college roommate when in the city, but her relationship with her stylist was sacred. It would be easier to grow her hair down to her feet than replace her.

And it was easier to think about doing so than let the mention of Shirley Drake have her mind drifting to Callum. “That surprises me. About Shirley. I’ve met them both, Shirley and Vaughn, at school functions, and they’ve seemed very much the happy couple.”

Jean gave her a knowing look. “And how many times did Shirley pat Vaughn’s wrist or knee and correct something he said? Or did she do all the talking, and not give him a chance to get a word in edgewise?”

At the time, Brooklyn had simply assumed Shirley Drake was intent on making a good impression as Adrianne’s grandmother. But Jean’s comments coming on top of Callum’s remarks about his mother last night . . . “Let’s not talk about the Drakes. Let’s talk about how fabulous you look, as usual.”

Taking the compliment in stride, Jean shook out her napkin and spread it across her lap. Woven by Kaylie Keller’s best friend, Luna Caffey, née Meadows—the name behind the designer scarf line Patchwork Moon—the napkins and place mats coordinated perfectly with each room’s color scheme. This particular eating nook, once a sitting room in the converted Victorian, was done up in the pale yellows and greens of spring. It was Brooklyn’s favorite.

“I’m done teaching,” Jean said, straightening the rings she wore on her pinkie and index fingers. “I sew and I garden. I don’t know why I put myself through all this teasing and spraying . . . oh, who am I kidding? Of course I do. Their names are Maxine and Peggy and Pearl. It’s hard to imagine going more than a couple of weeks without hearing the latest buzz.”

“Anything good?” Brooklyn asked, smoothing her napkin and wondering what she would be doing when she reached Jean’s age, whose gossip she would want to hear, what friends she would have to replace the ones with whom she’d lost contact.

“Oh, just what they think their husbands are doing for them tomorrow for Valentine’s Day. All those surprises that don’t ever seem to surprise.” Eyes cast down, Jean lined up the cutlery just so on either side of her placeholder plate. “I never have been a fan of celebrating love with jewelry and candy and lingerie. Give me a good ol’ bottle of bourbon any day. But I’ve also been without Mr. Dial for thirteen years. And that can make a difference.”