The Cinderella List (6 page)

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  Faith in God
  

Marlo studied the List thoughtfully, her gaze falling on each line and recalling many of the conversations she and Jenny had had over the years. Her sister’s memory was good—in her hurriedly written note, she hadn’t missed a single quality required of Marlo’s current-day Prince Charming. The silly childhood game had somehow managed to grow up right with her.

Angela’s unexpected announcement had only underscored her single state. It had also brought up her time with Jerry and her own thwarted wedding. The pain might be gone, but the promise she’d made to herself remained. Never would she do to another woman what the “other woman” had done to her.

After a couple of restless hours, Marlo did the only thing she knew would keep her mind off the ridiculous games her mind
was playing with itself. She baked. There was nothing more therapeutic than kneading bread dough.

It’s the twenty-first century,
she mused, as she thumped a fist into the risen dough and felt the soft resistance against her knuckles.
Women don’t need a man to be complete.
She punched the doughy mass again. What were her friends thinking?

She already knew the answer to that question. They were thinking that because they were content in their marriages, they wanted her to be happy, too. The teasing had all been in good fun. It was just too bad she wasn’t having any.

It was the Lord who planned her days and hours, and Marlo wanted to listen to Him, not her changeable emotions. Doing that when she’d met Jeremiah was the biggest mistake of her life. When—if—she did meet someone, Marlo prayed that God would make it clear that she wasn’t treading on someone else’s territory.

While the bread was in the oven, she whipped up a batch of cookies, took a shower, put extra-strength gel in her hair and pulled it into rebellious spikes. Then she slipped into a T-shirt and bib overall shorts. Looking all of sixteen years old, she padded barefoot downstairs to remove the bread from the oven and bake the last of the cookies.

She flinched when the doorbell rang. Surely Angela hadn’t come back to rub more salt in her wounds. That would be just her luck.

Jake Hammond stood on her top step looking debonair and perfectly at home, holding a silver serving tray and a whisk. Jake was probably the only man in the world who could make kitchen utensils look inordinately masculine in his hands. A small shiver went up her spine. Excitement? No, she told herself, she was simply chilly.

“What are you doing…?” Then she remembered her manners. “How nice to see you, Mr. Hammond. Can I help you?”

“I found these things in my kitchen. I tried to drop them off at Dining with Divas, but the shop was closed. I hope you don’t
mind that I brought them here. I thought perhaps you’d need them soon.” Her mind locked at the idea of him going to such effort when a telephone call would have sufficed.

“W-would you like to come in?” Marlo stammered finally, overtaken by a host of conflicting emotions. The man was holding a whisk, she reminded herself, not a bouquet of roses. Handsome, great smile, good manners, thoughtful… Items on the List swirled in her brain.

“Don’t mind if I do.” He sauntered into her house and it suddenly felt crowded, as if he’d taken all the space and air it had to offer. Jake’s obvious athleticism was apparent beneath khaki trousers, and a caramel-colored polo shirt did something rather spellbinding to his eyes. “It smells awfully good in here.”

His gaze traveled around the room, a place that could only be described as a foodie’s residence. There were poster-size prints of loaves of bread and decadent desserts like tiramisu, flan and strawberries with whipped cream. Placards that proclaimed dozens of ways to cook with chocolate hung in her living room like most people displayed family portraits. The elegant but genteelly worn furniture were beloved castoffs. It was as cozy, charming and idiosyncratic as he’d expected.

“I’m making bread and cookies. Would you like some?” she asked politely, as if it was the least she could do. The timer sounded on her stove. “There are the cookies now.”

“Absolutely.” The invitation delighted him. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had homemade bread?”

“It was on Saturday actually. With the bruschetta we served.”

“Homemade in an actual home, then. When I was a little boy, my grandmother baked a lot. Now she and my grandfather travel most of the time, doing touch-and-goes out of the ranch. My mother thinks too much time in the kitchen is beneath her.” He
missed the homey, domestic woman she’d once been. Now she was a world-hopping, Nordic-walking vegetarian. For a man who liked comfortable, homely things, it had been a big adjustment. Being good in the kitchen was an
upward
status symbol in his mind. The triumph of the stables was wonderful, but he often wondered if his parents lost themselves somewhere in that success.

He moved through the house, stopping to study the contemporary-looking line drawings framed over her fireplace, charmed by the quirky, eclectic mix. “These are unusual.”

“My nephew drew those when he was three. Unfortunately, Brady’s attention span is brief. Five minutes at something is an eon to my nephew.”

Jake noted that she sounded wistful, especially when she added, “I always want to see potential in those childish sketches, because Brady has a lot of challenges to overcome. I have dozens of uncompleted drawings, so I decided to frame a few. You’d be surprised how many people comment on my taste in modern art.”

“And savvy, too.” He didn’t try to hide his amusement. “Usually, you have to pay big money for things that look like this.” The smile that spread across her face brought her back from some dark thoughts he didn’t understand. She was beautiful when she smiled.

He paused at the bookcase which divided the living room from the dining area. On the living-room side were books that revealed Marlo’s eclectic interests. Bibles and devotionals, deep-sea diving and mountain climbing, Chihuahuas and Great Danes, the classics and comic strips, South American authors and the North Pole—hints, no doubt, at her paradoxical personality.

The other side of the bookcase revealed an entirely different side of Marlo, he observed. If she didn’t have every cookbook every published, she was well on her way. James Beard and Julia Child rested comfortably with
Birthday Cakes for Toddlers, Salsa Extravaganza
and
Sushi for the Timid.

“You can tell a lot about a person by the types of books they own,” Jake commented, as he sidled toward the kitchen counter and slid onto a tall stool. Marlo trailed after him and automatically poured him a mug of coffee.

“What do my books say about me?”

“For one thing, you are very spiritual. I also gather that you are diverse, eclectic and interested in a wide variety of subjects.” She was complex. Jake liked that in a woman.

“At least you didn’t tell me I’m a confused mess. After this day, that’s certainly how I feel. I had friends here for a luncheon, and it didn’t turn out quite as planned.” Jake watched her face. It was obvious that she thought she’d said too much, and she clamped her lips together, as if to prevent another extemporaneous word from slipping out. He left the statement alone, instinctively knowing something important had happened, and sensing that she didn’t want to talk about it. Deftly, she changed topics. “I apologize about the whisk. I would have come over to pick it up.”

As Jake studied her, she put her hand over her heart as if to protect herself from his gaze. She was as uneasy as a new colt that had not been handled properly, shy and jumpy but no less adorable. Jake’s curiosity—and interest—grew.

“That’s not the only reason I came. I wanted to know if you’d thought any more about what we discussed the other night. I wanted to give you a little time, in case you wanted to reconsider your answer.”

“That’s nice of you, but I’ll be there at the hippotherapy program. I keep my word. Besides, it’s a chance for me to see what it’s all about. I want to see what it does for the children. Maybe my nephew would benefit from it.”

“A woman who keeps her promises. I like that.” The more he learned about this woman, the more he liked what he knew.

W
aking up from a delicious dream about Jake Hammond, Marlo opened one eye, stared at the ringing telephone and willed it to be quiet. Regretting that she’d turned off her answering machine, she rolled over twice, enveloping herself in bedding like a tortilla wrap, wormed an arm free of the blankets and picked up the phone. “This is Marlo’s answering machine,” she growled. “Marlo is sleeping. Call back later. No, call back on Monday. Late. Not before 7:00 p.m.”

“You have a very strange message on your machine, Miss Mayfield,” a silky, perfectly awake male voice responded. “Now be a good answering machine and go wake up your owner.”

Her eyes popped open wide, sleep banished. “Very funny,” she groaned. “Haven’t you heard of Saturday? Sleeping in? A day off?”

“All highly overrated. Especially on a beautiful day like this. Would you like to meet my horses today?”

“Really? You mean it?” She flipped back across the bed, unwrapping herself.

“The hippotherapy program will be up and running soon. I’d like to show you what I have planned.” Jake’s voice was as tempting as the Pied Piper’s tune.

No sales pitch needed here,
Marlo thought. The man could melt her with a sentence. Besides, if it could help kids like Brady, she was all over it. But there was no need to look overeager, either. He didn’t need to know just how much she enjoyed being in his presence.

“Frankly, I’m flying under the radar right now,” he continued. “If the program is in place before my father realizes the extent of it, he may just leave it alone.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.” Jake seemed to formulate his words carefully. “I have an equal share in the business, so Dad’s voting power is no more or less than mine, but I’d rather not have to remind him of that.”

Marlo’s impression of Randall Hammond was one of a determined, unbending, intimidating personality with a military air and manner, an inflexible man who probably wouldn’t accept a setback or defeat easily—even at the hands of his own son.

“I’ll pick you up in thirty minutes. Wear something comfortable. We’ll stop for breakfast on the way to the stables.”

Before she could reply, he ended the conversation.

Wondering what she’d gotten herself into, she stretched like a tabby in the sun. Thirty minutes? She sat up, stuffed her bare feet into a pair of fuzzy, pink slippers and shuffled to the bathroom.

The phone was ringing again when she stepped out of the shower some minutes later. This time it was Lucy.

“I’m going shopping. Want to come with me?”

“Sorry. Another time.” Marlo studied herself in the bathroom mirror as she talked. Her dark hair curled and spiked around her face and her cheeks were rosy from the heat of the shower. “I’m going to Hammond Stables for a tour.”

“Whoa. He’s smooth. And fast. He’s invited you already?”

“He has an ulterior motive. He’s racing to get his hippo
therapy program up and running. Don’t think for a moment that this is about me.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Hello? Did you notice how Sabrina hung all over him the other night? And how he didn’t once brush her off? Besides, she told me she was planning a wedding,” Marlo said, “and I don’t doubt it for a moment. Even if the groom is a little reluctant, Sabrina will make it happen. There’s no way on earth I’d get in the middle of that relationship. You know me better than that.”

“Then why are you so willing to help him? I’d spend my energy on someone with marriage potential.”

“Because life is about more than dating and mating. He’s onto something with the horses. My motivation, truth be told, is Brady. I’ll tell you about it later if you promise not to announce it all to the Bridesmaid Club.”

“I want to know every detail. It almost makes me wish I weren’t going shopping…
almost.
”

By the time Marlo had pulled on a pair of blue jeans, a white shirt and a woven leather belt, her doorbell was ringing. She grabbed a baby-blue, zippered sweatshirt out of a drawer and, lacking boots, slid her feet into tennis shoes and hurried to answer the door.

Jake was standing on the porch, looking as yummy as ever. Marlo was definitely in big trouble.

“You don’t give a girl much chance to pretty up, do you?” Marlo accused, as she stepped onto the front porch and closed the door behind her.

Jake smiled, pleased with her natural appearance. Her hair was still damp and the only makeup she’d had time to apply was a bit of lipstick. She was utterly unconscious of how much simplicity became her. With her dark hair, long eyelashes and faintly tanned complexion, she was as naturally lovely as a woman
could be. He approved. It was a delightful change from the high-heeled, blood-red, heavily made-up, high-powered female architects at his firm.

“I want to get to Franco’s before the food is gone.” He tucked her arm around his and she didn’t resist.
A good sign,
he thought.

“I have plenty of food here. Want me to scramble some eggs?” She skipped to keep up with him as he strode down the sidewalk. “I also make a mean frittata.”

“I know you can cook. You do it all the time.” He smiled down at her from his six-foot-two height. “I’d like to give you a break.”

He watched her nose wrinkle. “You don’t like that idea?”

“Are you a mind reader or something?”

He laughed at her dismayed expression. “I work with horses every day. I’m always watching for subtle signs of what’s going on with them. It’s second nature now, I guess.” He opened the door of his hybrid car and helped her in.

“I’m not sure if it’s a compliment or not, to be as easy to read as a four-legged animal.” Marlo buckled her seat belt and leaned back.

“I suppose that depends on how much the one doing the comparing likes horses,” Jake said, as he slid behind the wheel. “When I compare a person to a horse, it is a major compliment for the human.”

Mollified, Marlo settled into the seat. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be unappreciative. It’s just that because Lucy and I cook so much and are pretty good at it, it’s hard to find a restaurant that genuinely surprises or pleases us. If we eat out it’s at a sushi place or an Asian fusion spot, food we don’t normally make ourselves. I don’t mean to be a food snob, but usually I prefer my own food to eating out.” She blushed prettily.

Jake liked a woman who blushed. It seemed rare these days. “Oh, ye of little faith,” he chided. “I appreciate your honesty. But don’t worry. You’ll like this place, I promise.”

“Franco’s. I don’t think I’ve heard of it.”

“Good. Then it will be a surprise.” Jack adeptly navigated an on-ramp to the freeway and took a deep, satisfying breath of fresh air.

It was easy to relax in her presence. There were no uncomfortable gaps and edges that were sometimes present with people who didn’t know each other well. Being with Marlo felt natural, as though they were meant to spend time together. Jake was surprised at just how much he liked the idea.

Franco’s was a narrow structure wedged between two gray-block warehouses. On the left was a long-term storage center, and on the right a furniture rental business with a pathetic brown-and-beige-plaid hide-a-bed, a chipped side table and a lamp with a tipped shade in the window.

“Somehow, I didn’t expect this would be your kind of eatery.” Marlo sat straighter in her seat and took notice.

“A working man’s café. The best kind.” He pulled into the single available parking place, slid the key from the ignition and turned to grin at her.

“Your eyes crinkle when you smile, you know,” she said. Then, appearing to realize she’d been a little too candid, clapped her hand over her lips.

“Is that good or bad?” Jake found himself enjoying this.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so blunt. I just meant that you aren’t much like your father, are you?” She frowned. “There I go, doing it again, putting my foot in my mouth. I only meant that you’re very cheerful and easygoing. It was supposed to be a compliment.”

“No offense taken.”

He watched her closely as they walked into Franco’s restaurant. It was a garish combination bistro and truck stop. The counter stools were filled with men wearing denim shirts and jeans. There was not a tie or a pair of wingtips in sight. Several
men looked at Marlo with interest, and Jake found himself moving protectively near her. He took her hand, which felt warm and tiny in his. She didn’t protest, so he moved a little closer. Skittish fillies required a good deal of patience.

Tacky artificial grapevines wound across the ceiling, down several cheap artificial pillars and circled the cash register. More important, the pastry case was filled with the most delectable-looking pastries Jake, at least, had ever seen.

“Franco used to cook on a cruise ship,” he explained, seeing the bewildered expression on Marlo’s face. “Just wait.”

At that moment a small man with a bald head and fuzzy black mustache sailed out of the back carrying a pan of caramel rolls bright with the glistening sheen of a buttery caramel topping. He put the pan on the counter, dished up two plate-size rolls and presented them to Jake and Marlo with a flourish. She held the plate to her nose and breathed in the aroma. Jake was almost positive that he heard her murmur, “Exquisite, just like Chanel No. 5.”

“Eggs, Jake? Rhubarb fritter, French toast? Steak?”

“Whatever you feel like, Franco. Today’s special is fine. Just beware, my friend Marlo is a caterer, so she’s hard to impress.”

That, he realized later, was like waving a red flag in front of a bull.

Marlo was still eyeing the fresh-squeezed orange juice and fruit compote when one of the waitresses brought them a pile of sausages and bacon and a basket of still-warm-from-the-oven muffins.

“There are omelets coming, and Franco has a coffee cake he wants you to try,” the woman informed them. “And save room for some caramel-walnut bread pudding. It’s a new recipe, and he wants your opinion.”

“I take back any concerns I might have had about eating out with you,” Marlo told him between bites. “I’ll do this with you anytime.”

“Anytime?” He watched her eyes flicker with an unspoken emotion and noted that she hesitated—but only slightly—before answering.

“I guess not
anytime.
This place closes for the night, doesn’t it?”

“It’s a breakfast and lunch place. He usually closes about 3:00 p.m. unless there’s something special going on.” Jake put his hand on top of hers as it lay on the table. “I’m going to remember that, Marlo. Don’t be surprised when I call.”

“I have never eaten a breakfast as wonderful as this one,” Marlo declared some time later, as she pushed herself away from the table.

And Jake had never experienced this kind of breakfast companion before. She’d approached every bite of food with a sense of anticipation and delight, savored each flavor on her tongue. He could have been eating with a food critic from the
New York Times.

“I remember my first breakfast in Poland,” Jake said, as he polished off a fat omelet filled with vegetables, along with a steak and hash browns. “You can imagine my surprise when the waiter brought me a Polish sausage with mustard and a hunk of bread and nothing else. My stomach churned all day as a result. That was years ago, of course.”

“Do you travel a lot? My closest brush with Poland
is
the sausage.”

“My firm does a lot of projects abroad, but I avoid them if I can. Ever since I had the idea about the hippotherapy program, my heart isn’t in the travel.” He waved a piece of crisp, golden bacon and Marlo surprised him by leaning forward to bite into it. He plucked a leftover sausage off her plate in retaliation.

“I grew up in a house of privilege. What I wanted, I got. Cars, horses, education, you name it. What I’d always taken for granted was beyond the dreams and expectations of most people. And
some are born with even more significant strikes against them—kids with disabilities and physical issues, for example. I finally realized that I could no longer live with myself if I didn’t give back some of what I’ve been blessed to have.”

He flushed, wondering if he’d said too much. It was too easy to talk to this woman. “Sorry. I don’t mean to bore you with my ‘aha’ moments about being a spoiled rich kid.”

“Don’t be sorry.” She put her hand over his. “I only wish more people would have those moments.” He could feel her light touch and the warmth of her fingers on his. Then Franco came by with a fresh pot of coffee. Jake was sorry when she pulled back away. Her touch was like the rest of her—light, ethereal, warm.

“How about you, Marlo? What drives you?”

He watched her put cream into her coffee and stir it thoughtfully. “My faith. My family. Doing what is right. How I am to follow Jesus.” She blushed and looked at him, as if checking to see how he was taking this.

This was important to her, Jake knew. He leaned forward on his elbows and nodded encouragingly.

“I always felt a little defective, considering that I’ve always done things the hard way, like a salmon swimming upstream, until I realized that the Bible is full of backward examples.”

“How so?” Though she seemed to expect it, he wasn’t uncomfortable with Marlo’s statement.

“God’s famous for taking unlikely, unqualified people and using them for His purposes. He has people backing into their potential all the time. Look at Paul, for example. He persecuted the church. He was practically a terrorist, but he ultimately became a missionary and defender of the church. If there was hope for Paul, there certainly is for me.”

“And look what happened to Peter, a simple fisherman.”

“You
do
understand.” Her expression brightened and grew more animated.

Jake felt like the proverbial moth being drawn to the flame.

“Jesus is all about love. It seemed to me that using my gift, my cooking ability, and running my business with the intent to serve and to bring joy—and to show love in my own unique way—was a good place to start. I want to be a first-class caterer of course, but I also want to be known as the caterer who cares.” She paused. “‘The caterer who cares.’” Marlo rolled the words across her tongue as if she tasted them. “Maybe that should have been our business logo.”