The Marriage Recipe (19 page)

“Oh.” Rachel had to admit she was disappointed. She'd be working and wouldn't get a chance to see him. She'd missed him. Terribly. Sure, it had been her choice to return to New York and get her life back. But she was starting to wonder how much of a life it really was.

She'd found love and walked away from it. How many nights had her fingers hovered over the keypad of her cell phone, ready to dial his number? She'd closed the device each time and tossed it aside in frustration.

“Well, I just wanted to check on how you're doing. Loretta and I have eight-thirty dinner reservations at Tavern on the Green. A little late, but the best we could get.”

Rachel stood, disbelieving. This was it? The entire visit? Pop in, pop out? “Will I get to see you again?”

Kim shook her head. “Probably not. Today we went shopping and toured the Empire State Building. We have such a full schedule. We want to travel to Ellis Island in the morning and track our ancestors. We have to be up pretty early. On Sunday morning we're visiting some museum the moment it opens. Loretta knows the name.”

“It was good to see you,” Rachel said, disappointed that her grandmother wasn't spending more time with her.

“You don't make it home often enough, so I wanted to at least stop by and say hello while I was in your neck of the woods.”

“I'm glad you stopped by,” Rachel said.

“Me, too. I miss you, dear. More than you'll know,” Kim said, giving Rachel another hug.

And with that, her grandmother left, and soon Rachel wondered if she'd been there at all. About a half hour later, she unlocked her door to admit the neighbor girl, who went away disappointed that Rachel wasn't up to the club circuit that night.

Rachel picked up her cell phone. Then set it back down. Then, determined, she picked it up again, flipped it open and pressed the keys for the number she knew by heart. It rang once before voice mail answered.

“Hi. You've reached Colin Morris. I'm sorry I'm not available to take your call, but if you leave your name and number after the beep, I'll return your call as soon as possible.”

Longing consumed her. She'd missed hearing his voice. So where was he? She'd let him go, so she had to prepare for the worst. He was probably on a date. Maybe he just didn't want to talk to her. She closed the phone, reminding herself that she'd always made her own choices. No one had ever persuaded her to do otherwise. Her melancholy was her own darn fault.

 

C
OLIN STARED
at the phone. The number that had come up on caller ID was none other than Rachel's. She hadn't left a message.

Should he call her back? Take the call as a small gesture? Would hearing her voice improve things?

Here it was, Friday night, and he was having dinner in the country club's golf-course bar—aptly named the Nineteenth Hole because this was a place where those getting off the course lingered. After parking his plane following his return trip from New York, Colin had played nine holes himself. Golf was a sport you could do alone and no one would think you a loser with no friends.

His father had been the one who'd suggested taking the four-day weekend, under the guise of getting his mother and Kim Palladia to Manhattan, of course.

Colin pushed his plate away. He'd finished and the bartender snagged the remains of his dinner. “Wrap this?”

“No,” Colin said. Again, he stared at the phone number, then, with a resigned sigh, put the phone back in his pocket. He couldn't bear to talk to Rachel when the answer would've been the same. She wasn't coming back.

 

“R
ACHEL
! W
E NEED
more chocolate chip cookies for the front display case.”

Used to the refrain, Rachel dusted her hands on her apron. “On my way.” She'd been about to start mixing the chocolate cake batter, but that would have to wait.

“And Rachel. As soon as you do that and get those cakes in the oven, then I need you to…” Bertha rattled off a long list. Rachel nodded her acceptance of the assignments and kept her resentment hidden. She wasn't afraid of hard work, but her current boss was a slave driver. Bertha's attitude was that all her employees should be grateful they had jobs, and that if they messed up, they could easily be replaced. Case in point—Rachel had taken the job of someone who'd been fired. She grabbed the cookies from the storage tubs and began to prepare a tray. If this were her kitchen, she'd be more organized. For the volume of business Bitsy's did, it amazed Rachel how inefficient the place was—for example, taking her away from mixing so she could load cookie trays.

Someone should know ahead of time what was needed in the front showcases, not just realize that things were empty after the last pastry was sold. Bitsy's restocked as necessary, not first thing in the morning, like Kim's.

Rachel brought the new tray out front and removed the old tray first. She noted that sugar cookies were low. And she knew that in less than half an hour she'd be forced to stop what she was doing and return to the display case again.

She carried the empty tray back to the kitchen. “I probably should have brought sugar cookies out, as well,” she told Bertha.

“There are still some left, and I'll tell you when to do things. That's my job. You concentrate on yours. You're already behind.”

Perhaps it was Bertha's tone. Perhaps it was that the past few weeks hadn't been what Rachel had expected of her return, but something inside her snapped. She was tired. Exhausted. Crabby. And not willing to take any more.

“I'm behind because you keep interrupting me to give me more things to do. I could have carried two trays out there. That would have saved time.”

“Are you questioning me?” Bertha retorted, disbelieving.

“I'm saying you yourself could be more efficient,” Rachel said tartly. She glanced at the clock. It was only eleven-fifteen. She'd worked only forty-five minutes so far. It was Monday and her shift didn't end until six. She had the rest of the day, the rest of the week, the rest of the month and the rest of the year to tolerate this—

Suddenly, life became crystal clear, as it had that moment in Alessandro's when she'd thrown the cake on Marco. The problem wasn't this kitchen, or Alessandro's or even Marco. The problem was Rachel. To misquote President Harry Truman, the buck stopped with her.

She'd been forgetting that. It wasn't a place that made you happy; it was the people who occupied that place.

She'd needed the anonymity of New York in her twenties to make mistakes, to develop her own culinary skills away from the high standard that her family set.

Kim's Diner was a destination and a home for half the town. If she'd remained in Morrisville after high school, she'd never have emerged from under her grandmother's shadow. Here in New York she'd learned to make bear claws better than her grandmother's. Harold wouldn't lie about something like that, and Kim wouldn't have repeated the statement unless it was true. Her grandmother had wonderful culinary skills. But Rachel had taken Kim's recipes and improved them.

Rachel had spent her birthday alone, no cake, no candles, no party, no presents. But she was thirty now, a grown-up. Her own woman. Her own chef. And she didn't need to let her dream die in this city where power trips could be the norm.

For the first time she realized she wouldn't run away anymore. It was time to run
to
something. She'd be entering the race late, but hopefully, she could still cross the finish line and have everything she'd ever wanted.

“I quit—” Rachel announced.

The shocked expression on Bertha's face was priceless. She actually stammered. “Y-y-you can't quit. You're in the middle of a cake.”

Rachel shrugged as the oppression and stress lifted from her shoulders and she was no longer weighed down. The moment was a revelation. “You're the supervisor. You finish it…. Oh—and mail my final paycheck. Have a great day.” Rachel turned on her heel, dropped her apron in the bin and grabbed her purse.

She wasn't wanted at Bitsy's anymore, there was a place Rachel
was
wanted. Somewhere she belonged, with a man who'd loved her enough to let her go. Rachel glanced at the clock in Times Square as she headed for the subway. She'd return for her car and her belongings later in the week. Right now, she needed to hurry. She had a plane to catch. She was flying home.

 

T
RUST HIS MOTHER
and Kim to be late, Colin thought as he stood outside his plane. Not that they would be going anywhere soon. He was flying under visual flight rules, and the early-afternoon storm forming meant takeoff would be delayed.

He glanced at his watch. One-forty. Forty minutes behind schedule and about to be a lot more. No use worrying about takeoff now.

He let his irritation go, calming himself. His mother and Kim weren't to blame. He'd seen for himself on his visit to Marco's attorneys the horrors of New York City traffic. Plus today was a Monday, it was lunchtime and there were more than a few road-construction projects on the Jersey Turnpike. He could be waiting for quite a while.

He just itched to get back in the air. He made one more circle around the Cessna 182. He had to admit he loved his plane—His phone buzzed, and he pulled it out of his pocket. But the call wasn't from his mother, letting him know where she was in traffic.

“Where are you?” the familiar voice demanded.

It was Rachel.

“Hello to you, too,” he said. She was obviously extremely frustrated about something. Well, that made two of them.

“Sorry. Hi. Are you still on the ground?” she asked.

He glanced around. “Yeah. Your grandmother and my mom are running late.”

“Where?” she asked, and he could hear the relief in her voice.

“On the tarmac, waiting for your grandmother and my mother to arrive and for the weather to clear.

“At the main terminal?” she pressed.

“No.” He named the aviation company where he'd parked his plane and refueled. “Why?”

But she'd already disconnected. Colin stared at the dead phone in his hand, considered calling her cell, then simply closed the case. He didn't have the stomach for any more games. Just hearing her voice, albeit brief and sounding crazy, had been painful enough.

 

R
ACHEL RACED OUT
of the main terminal at Newark Airport. Once she'd boarded the train at Penn Station, she'd made pretty good time to New Jersey.

Everyone knew that the trains moved faster than the auto traffic, which is why she hadn't hailed a cab. But she did now, directing the man to take her to the aviation company Colin had named. Ten minutes later the cabbie had dropped her off outside a large building and she headed toward the glass doors. She had no idea what was inside, but she wasn't afraid to ask questions and demand answers. She grasped the door handle the moment the wind picked up and the first raindrop fell.

“Rachel?”

She turned around, and saw her grandmother exit a big black Lincoln town car. Rachel went over to her. “Hi, Grandma. We need to get you inside. It's starting to rain.”

“I can tell.” Kim stepped aside to let Loretta Morris exit. Another fat raindrop fell and the women rushed inside just as the skies opened. “What are you doing here?” Kim asked. “You didn't have to come see us off.”

“I'm hitching a ride home,” Rachel declared. “I quit my job and I'm moving home. That is, if you'll still have me.”

“This is rather sudden,” Kim said. Loretta made her excuses and went to find the ladies' room.

Rachel knew her behavior appeared erratic. “Yes, it seems crazy, since I just got back here, but I know what I'm doing. Seriously. Please.”

“Of course. I'd never turn you away, and Harold will be happy you're back to stay. He hasn't been the same since you stopped baking for me,” Kim said. She appeared a bit smug, as if secretly pleased by something. “Are you sure this is what you want, though? What about New York?”

“I'm ready for something new,” Rachel replied, relieved. “I guess a big city is just that when you don't have anyone to share it with. Oh, and remember that comment about Harold being happy, especially when you and I discuss the future of Kim's. I have a few ideas I'd like to try out.”

“And I'm ready to entertain them,” her grandmother said, cracking a wide smile. She hugged Rachel. “Welcome back.”

Rachel trembled. One battle down. The next was the hard one, with no certain outcome.

By now Loretta had returned to the aviation company lobby, with its large lounge full of comfortable couches. A receptionist sat behind a huge counter.

“Oh, coffee. I want some of that,” Loretta said, eyeing a restaurant-style coffeemaker with a fresh-brewed full pot.

“Help yourself. All beverages are complimentary,” the receptionist said. She checked her screen. “Your plane is parked just out those doors and two down to the left. Very easy to reach, but with this weather, I have no idea when you'll take off,” she said, addressing the older women.