Bliss and the Art of Forever (A Hope Springs Novel) Read online

  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 t
he 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.

  THREE

  “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.”

  “It can,” Brooklyn said, though even when Artie had been alive she’d much preferred the practical gifts he’d given her year-round. Potted hibiscuses to plant along the side of their garage. A brand new cherry-red stand mixer just because she’d mentioned wanting one. Once he’d given her a fountain pen and a stack of yellow legal pads, knowing how she was with notes and lists and ideas she tended to jot on scraps and leave everywhere.

  But Jean was just as practical as Artie had been, and rather than dwell on her loss, or Brooklyn’s, or what might have been had death not interrupted, she reached for Brooklyn’s hand and squeezed before pushing back her chair and asking, “Should we fill our plates?” then leading the way to the room set up with chafing dishes and signage—both decorative and descriptive.

  The café’s buffet of tossed salad with a selection of homemade dressings, fresh-baked hot rolls with sweet cream butter, local honey and jams, and piping-hot casseroles had Brooklyn realizing she’d skipped breakfast. Visiting Two Owls on an empty stomach was a very big, very bad mistake.

  Today’s entrées were vegetable lasagna, chicken spaghetti, and stacked pork enchiladas. Brooklyn knew from previous visits that Kaylie’s father, Mitch Pepper, was the one who smoked the pork for hours before shredding it. His wife, Dolly, used a recipe handed down through generations of her family for the chicken dish. And the zucchini in the lasagna came from the Gardens on Three Wishes Road. The organic farm was owned by Kaylie’s sister-in-law, Indiana, making Two Owls truly a family affair.

  Brooklyn scooped up a small serving of each and added a roll to her plate along with a pat of butter and a spoonful of peach jam. She’d come back for salad later. Maybe. If she had room after the bread and the casseroles.

  On the brownie bar, along with Cow Bells’ vanilla bean and butter-brickle ice cream, was a new Ultimate Chocolate Brownie Cake and Two Owls’ Number Ten Brownie Special. That one was packed with coconut and pecans, infused with orange zest and cayenne pepper, and topped with dulce de leche. Rumor had it Kaylie had been inspired to create the flavor combination by the man who was now her husband—a local contractor named Tennessee whom everyone called Ten.

  Jean dished up a small plate of chicken spaghetti, then helped herself to a brownie and a slice of cake, topping each with a scoop of vanilla bean, an unabashed fan of having dessert first. Brooklyn would’ve done the same had she not already planned to spend the afternoon with multiple brownies in front of the TV at home.

  “How’s the packing going?” Jean asked, once they were seated again.

  Buttering her hot roll, Brooklyn nodded. “I’m getting there. And I’m so glad I gave myself two whole semesters to do this. It’s amazing the clutter that accumulates after twelve years of living in one place.”

  “Try thirty-two years,” Jean said. “Curtis and I bought that house in 1983. I don’t have enough time left in my life to go through everything I own. And I honestly don’t want to,” she added with a laugh. “So many things we didn’t need. So much money wasted. I would
love to go back and do it over again.”

  “You don’t really think that, do you?” Brooklyn asked, having wondered often why she and Artie had bought so many books, only to read them once, and DVDs to replace VHS tapes, then left them sealed in their cases.

  “We could’ve spent it so much more wisely,” Jean said, scooting her dinner plate to the side. “Instead of Curtis investing in baseball cards and buffalo nickels and hand-tied fishing lures and electronics, we could’ve traveled like you and Artie did. Though I doubt getting rid of Curtis’s hobbies would’ve funded us farther than Arkansas.”

  Brooklyn smiled. “It can definitely be costly, which is why I’m cutting all the corners I can. And if I sell my larger furniture pieces instead of storing them, I’ll have that much more money to work with. Honestly,” she added, reaching for her fork, “I’m debating getting rid of everything but what I’ll need for the trip and the possible extended stay.”

  “Which side is winning?” Jean asked, scooping up a bite of brownie and melting ice cream with her spoon.

  “I’m not sure.” Brooklyn cut into her lasagna, shaking her head, wishing this decision were as easy as the one putting her on a plane four months from now. “If I knew when I was coming back, or even if I was coming back . . .”

  “You have to eventually, don’t you?” A concentrated frown. Another bite of dessert. “You can’t stay in Italy forever.”

  Why not? The words sat for several seconds on the tip of her tongue. “I haven’t thought much beyond June tenth, to tell you the truth.” June 10th. The two-year anniversary of Artie’s death. The date had been creeping up on her for months, and she was so ready to put it behind her.

  “And come September?” Jean asked. “You’re not going to miss those cherubic little faces looking up and hanging on your every word?”