Always the Baker, Never the Bride Page 7

  Christening her new key to the back door of the hotel kitchen, Emma beamed as she let herself in and punched in the security code on the wall pad, then locked the door behind her again. She grabbed a Coke Zero out of the refrigerator, and then hopped up on the prep table in the middle of her kitchen before popping the top and gulping down half the contents of the can. She looked around at the place, her brain humming with plans for the tea room and the upcoming weddings, so consumed that she jumped when she realized she wasn’t alone.

  “You scared me!” she exclaimed. “How long have you been here?”

  “Hours,” Jackson replied and nodded toward the can of Coke Zero resting on her knee. “Can I have one of those?”

  “Help yourself.”

  She watched him as he yanked open the refrigerator door and pulled one of Fee’s orange sodas from the door. He looked good in his street clothes, she decided. Smiling, she realized she never would have imagined the weekday Jackson Drake in a pale chambray shirt, tails out, and black jeans that were worn through at the knees His Nikes had seen better days, and Emma liked his dark hair a little tousled the way it was just then.

  He leaned against the counter and threw back several gulps from his drink before asking, “So, what are you doing here today? It’s your day off.”

  “I was a little restless,” she told him. “My head was all full of cakes. What about you?”

  “I got to wondering about converting that back room into a consultation room for people who come in to book their weddings. Don’t you think we should have somewhere that they can go without having to seat them in the restaurant or out in the courtyard?”

  “I didn’t know there was a back room,” she told him. “Where is it?”

  “Right off the entrance to the restaurant.”

  “I thought that was a supply closet.”

  “No, it’s a whole room with built-ins and plenty of room for … well, come on. I’ll show you.”

  Emma’s tennis shoes squeaked as she hopped down from the table, and she followed Jackson through the swinging door and off to the right. He pulled the oak door open and the two of them stepped inside.

  “I figure it’s about twelve feet by twelve feet,” Jackson told her. “We could put a table and chairs over there, and then maybe a couple of comfortable chairs or a sofa over there.”

  Emma looked around, catching his vision. “Oh, you know, we could get some really nice still photographs of a few of my wedding cakes, maybe a couple of Anton’s specialty dishes, and we could frame them and hang them on that wall. I have a friend who is a wonderful photographer.”

  “Maybe we could have your friend create some albums for them to look through, add in some sample menus for the receptions, that kind of thing,” he added. “You know, this could really be a functional room.”

  “That was a pretty great idea you had,” she told him with a grin.

  “You know, you’re right,” he said, returning her smile. “I normally save my strokes of brilliance for weekdays, so this is a Sunday bonus.”

  “Those are always a nice surprise.”

  “I’ll get Norm working on converting this room first thing tomorrow,” he remarked as they headed out of the room. Then suddenly, he stopped so unexpectedly that Emma smacked right into him from behind.

  “Ohh. Sor—”

  “Back!” he exclaimed, then he barreled backward, taking Emma right along with him, back into the office before he yanked shut the door.

  “What is it?” she asked. “What’s going on?”

  Jackson spun toward her, and there was barely a break of air between them as he shushed her with an urgency that confounded Emma. She took two steps away from him.

  His masculine scent was resolute with hints of wood and spice and underlying notes of citrus. Emma breathed it in casually, and then held it there for a moment.

  “Emma’s nose always knows,” her mother used to say, and it was true. If she hadn’t become a baker, Emma might have been a professional nose for a perfume company.

  “Why are we hiding?” she whispered, and Jackson turned two shades of embarrassed.

  “Ah.” He didn’t seem to want to tell her, but then he admitted, “My sister’s just arrived.”

  “Which one?”

  “George.”

  “Oh.” She nodded. Georgiann really was the sister most likely to induce hiding.

  “You’re a little afraid of her too?” she asked.

  “Afraid? No.” He looked at her with an odd arch of his eyebrow. “No. She’s got her son-in-law with her.”

  She considered that for a moment and then asked, “You’re afraid of him?”

  Jackson sighed. “Not afraid. I’d just rather avoid him if I can. It’s a long story.”

  “Ohh.” Emma sounded as if she understood, but she really didn’t, so she started to inquire further. “I don’t think I—”

  The door flung open just then, cutting her words clean in two.

  “Jackson, I thought that was you,” Georgiann crooned. “What in the world are you two doing locked up in here?”

  “Hello, Jackson,” the young man beside her said, and then he smiled at Emma with an aura of sweetness, not very scary at all. “Hello.”

  “Emma Rae Travis,” Georgiann announced. “Meet my son-in-law. Reverend Miguel Ramos.”

  Jackson figured Emma must have thought he was some kind of heathen, running for cover at the mere sight of a pastor! He wished he could explain, tell her that it wasn’t like that.

  Well. Not exactly.

  Miguel was a good man. He’d officiated over Desiree’s funeral, said the most beautiful things about her, and then he’d phoned Jackson every week for months afterward just to see how he was doing. But all of those encouraging words about how God had a plan and how God turned all things to good if you believed, no matter how impossible that might seem— those words acted as an irritant against Jackson’s wounded heart.

  He didn’t want to hear that God had a plan; not if that plan included taking away the only woman Jackson had ever loved completely, who had somehow been able to see past all the garbage, straight into Jackson’s shell of a soul, and love him in return. He never was one of those hearts-and-flowers believers in soul mates or destiny, but the fact was that Desiree had been the one and only love of Jackson’s life. When she was taken from him, he was left with nothing—or so it had felt for a very long time. So platitudes from a young pastor with a beautiful wife and two small children, words that said God had a plan and that Jackson would somehow recover after losing her felt as hollow as he did. After a while, he associated that vacant feeling toward God with the messenger. With Miguel.

  When he bought The Tanglewood and set it up as the wedding destination hotel that Desiree had dreamed it could be, Georgiann had come up with the idea of bringing Miguel on board as the official wedding pastor. She’d been campaigning for the idea ever since, and Jackson had been able to consistently avoid the meeting she wanted to arrange. Three Sunday mornings in a row, the two of them had shown up at his house after services. He’d felt like a Class A jerk, hiding out in his home office until they finally stopped ringing the bell, but he just couldn’t face Miguel and his God is good mentality. Maybe one day, but not yet.

  So with that in mind, he’d left home early that morning, hiding out at The Tanglewood, certain that he’d outsmarted them. But as usual, Georgiann had shown who was really boss in the outsmarting department.

  “I just had a feeling we’d find you here,” she said as the four of them gathered around a bistro table in the courtyard.

  “I was just taking care of some planning with Emma,” he explained. Never mind that it had been an impromptu meeting rather than a scheduled one.

  “I really wanted to put you and Miguel together to talk about him performing the weddings here.”

  “What’s to talk about?” he asked casually. “We’d love to have you on board, Miguel.”

  “I’m happy to hear that,” Miguel repl
ied. “I’ve been trying to reach you to find out how you’ve been doing, but—”

  “You know,” he interrupted, “this place has taken up every bit of time I ever thought I had. In fact,” and he glanced at his watch for good measure, “I have to get going right now, but it was really great to see you again, and I’m glad to know you’re on board. George will take care of all the details with you.”

  “Wait a second, Jackson,” Georgiann exclaimed. “Where on earth are you off to?”

  He stared at her, not an answer in sight.

  “We’re going shopping!” Emma piped up.

  “Shopping?”

  “Yes, I know a couple of great thrift stores where we can get some vintage china and linens for the tea room.”

  Georgiann arched an eyebrow and deadpanned, “Jackson is shopping for linens.”

  “You know how he is about budget,” Emma teased. “He’s afraid I’ll go overboard, so he’s strictly there as my financial watchdog.”

  Relief flooded Jackson’s senses, and gratitude pinched inside his gut as she asked him, “Can we get going now? I really am in a time crunch today.”

  “Jackson—”

  “Sure, sorry,” he said. “Miguel, good to see you again. And George, I’ll talk to you tomorrow. We have a ten o’clock with Anton about the menu, right?”

  “Uh, yes.”

  “I’m parked right out front,” Emma said as they made their getaway, just loudly enough for Georgiann and Miguel to hear. “I know right where we’re headed, so I can drive.”

  “Be sure to set the alarm when you leave,” Jackson called to them over his shoulder, but he didn’t dare turn all the way back and risk meeting Georgiann’s stare. He already felt the full heat of it on his neck.

  Outside, Emma headed straight for a bright red Mini Cooper, and Jackson wondered if his six-foot frame was going to fold down enough to fit inside. It was a challenge, but he managed it. Once inside, Emma turned over the engine, and the two of them sat there in silence, staring straight ahead. Emma’s hands clutched the steering wheel; Jackson’s were curled into fists.

  “Why did you do that?” he asked softly.

  In the close quarters, he felt the shrug of her shoulders. “You said you were avoiding Miguel. I thought I’d help.”

  Jackson’s mouth twitched. “I guess you’ll want to know why.”

  “Not particularly.”

  Curious, he turned in his seat and looked at her. “Really?”

  She let go of the wheel long enough to turn her hands over. “I’m sure you have your reasons. But your sister doesn’t strike me as one who takes that into consideration when she wants your ear.”

  Jackson let out a little laugh. “No. She’s not.”

  “Listen,” she told him, tucking a wisp of straight, silky hair behind her ear, “I know all about family pressure. If you’d ever met my mother, you’d understand.”

  Jackson grinned, watching her closely as she grabbed the rectangular tortoiseshell eyeglasses from the drink holder in front of the gearshift. Without looking back at him, she unfolded them, placed them primly on her nose, then pulled the parking brake, pressed down the clutch and shifted into first.

  “We’ll start at a shop I know nearby,” she told him, her hands placed firmly on the wheel. “If we don’t find anything there, we can make a run out to Alpharetta. There’s a great little place over there that’s—”

  “You mean we’re really going shopping?” he blurted.

  “We told them that’s where we were going,” she said with a sniff. “They’ll expect us to come back with something.”

  Jackson couldn’t think of a thing to say back to that. Facing forward again, he pushed the seatbelt buckle into place and leaned back against the red leather seat with a sigh.

  I guess I’m going … shopping.

  And from the looks of things, he’d be getting there at a snail’s pace. Emma Rae Travis drove like Jackson’s 83-year-old grandmother.

  Emma’s Cashew Fudge Brownies

  Preheat oven to 350 degrees

  2 sticks butter

  2 cups granulated sugar

  4 eggs

  1 cup cocoa powder

  1¼ cups flour

  1 teaspoon salt

  1 teaspoon baking powder

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  ½ cup halved cashews

  Melt butter and pour into large bowl.

  Add sugar and cocoa, mixing with wooden spoon or rubber spatula.

  Add eggs and vanilla, continuing to stir.

  In separate bowl, sift flour, salt, and baking powder, then add dry ingredients to bowl and stir in cashews.

  Mix well, and pour mixture into 9” x 13” baking pan.

  Bake for approximately 30 minutes.

  After cooling, cut into small squares.

  Layer two squares and fill with cocoa icing, then frost top and garnish with cashew halves.

  7

  Emma couldn’t stifle her pride as Blythe set down the tiered crystal service of sweets atop the large center table in the courtyard. She’d asked the English-born server she’d hired to make this dry run as close to perfection as possible, and Blythe had not disappointed her. Wearing a ruffled white apron and white gloves, she created a scene straight out of Remains of the Day.

  “Cashew fudge brownies, a specialty here at The Tanglewood Inn,” Blythe said in her very proper English accent. “And we have fruit tarts in apricot and blueberry; petit fours in red velvet, lemon and hazelnut cream; traditional English shortbread cookies; and fresh strawberries drizzled in dark chocolate.”

  Madeline swooned, while Susannah and Georgiann beamed beacons of sheer pleasure. Emma and Fee casually lowered their hands beneath the Battenberg tablecloth and tapped out a silent low-five of victory.

  “Well, honey, this has just been magnificent,” Madeline said as Blythe filled her cup with hot tea. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

  “One cube?” the server asked, offering a square of sugar held by sterling tongs.

  “Thank you,” Madeline replied with a nod. “I just wish Jackson was able to break away to enjoy this.”

  “He’s up to his chin with permits and licenses until after four o’clock,” Susannah told them.

  “Maybe we could put together a doggie bag,” Fee suggested, “and deliver it to his office door.”

  “Oh, I don’t think—” Madeline began.

  “What a wonderful idea!” Georgiann chimed, cutting short Madeline’s objection. “Would you do that, Emma?”

  “I hate to interrupt him, but if you think—”

  “Anyone who can get my bruthah to go shopping for table linens, well. There’s a magic to you, child.”

  “I’m sorry,” Susannah interrupted. “You did what?”

  “This girl managed to get Jackson Drake out on a Sunday afternoon, shopping for these very platters and linens that you see here.”

  “No, you didn’t,” Madeline exclaimed.

  “I saw it with my own eyes, Sissy.”

  “Is this true?” Susannah asked, leaning over toward Emma. “How on earth did you do it?”

  My reward for saving his rear end.

  “It was two hours out of his life. No big deal,” she said instead.

  The three women chuckled as if Emma had delivered a savvy one-liner. She turned and looked at Fee, who gave her a shrug.

  “Put together a little of everything on a tray?” she asked.

  “Sure.” Fee took off immediately for the kitchen.

  “Oh! Fee?” Fee came to a full stop and looked back at her. “He doesn’t like tea. So can you put on some coffee?”

  “You got it.”

  When she turned her attention back to the table, all three of the women were staring in disbelief.

  “What?”

  “He doesn’t like tea?” Georgiann repeated.

  “We talked about it when we were shopping. He’s not a tea drinker. Just coffee, strong and black.”

  “Sh
e’s right.” Susannah glanced at Georgiann.

  “Indeed.” Georgiann turned to Madeline.

  “Mm-hm,” Madeline said with a nod.

  It was no wonder that Jackson tended to hide from the women in his life every now and again, Emma thought. If there was a closet or a back room close enough, she might consider ducking into it now herself.

  “You know,” Georgiann said, tapping her index finger against her chin, and Emma held her breath for whatever might come next. “I think you’re right about that Fee. I like her.”

  “I love Fee!” Norma chimed in.

  “She’s not nearly as frightening as she looks.”

  Emma grinned, deciding not to tell her that it depended on the day whether Fee was frightening or not.

  By the time Emma reached the kitchen, Blythe had prepared a beautiful presentation with one of the tiered trays Emma had purchased at the thrift store. The top layer offered chocolate-drizzled strawberries, the second was covered with finger sandwiches, while the bottom tier displayed an array of desserts set in tiny scalloped papers. Fee put the final touches on a small platter bearing a steaming cup of coffee, utensils, and a creased linen napkin.

  “Shall I deliver this?” Blythe asked her.

  “No, I can do it.” Emma said.

  Fee helped her balance the coffee tray atop her palm, and then she picked up the food service by the sterling triangle at the top. “Back in a minute.”

  The elevator, glass on one side, looked out over the courtyard, and Emma watched the threesome of women with their heads together right where she left them as the car glided up to the fourth floor. She wondered about their conversation as Georgiann chattered fifty miles per hour, and then the three of them tossed their heads back and laughed.

  “Knock, knock,” she sang softly from the doorway of Jackson’s office.

  He looked up from the stacks of paperwork in front of him, narrowed his eyes, and then waved her inside.