Page 33 of A Taste of Christmas Magic

Figures Miss Millie would find him in the kitchen avoiding everyone who milled around drinking the aperitif—at first, curiosity tugged at their expressions, and then pleasure.

Score for me, he’d thought, but the pressure on his chest and the ringing in his ears had increased as more people eagerly entered the restaurant, excited for the elegant evening to begin.

When he recognized the brother of the long-term mayor, then the mayor himself and his wife, a state senator, and then the former principal of the high school, he’d retreated rather than engaged.

Stupid. This was his restaurant. His new life. His stand. He was the chef. The owner. A man.

Not that despised punk they remembered.

“You always retreated here,” Miss Millie said fondly, walking around the kitchen that was so changed. “To work. To learn. To feel safe. It was your home.”

No lie. “Does it bother you, all the changes I’ve made?”

Miss Millie didn’t answer right away. She continued to take in the scope of the kitchen. He’d doubled its size from the previous narrow strip of two large fry grills, a double oven, two massive dishwashers, and a sink tucked in a corner.

“I knew you’d make it yours,” Miss Millie said finally. “It was time you came home, Rustin.”

The words sounded prophetic. He never thought he’d return to Belmont. He’d made a silent swear to himself, and yet the past year had tugged even as he’d worked in one of the trendiest rooftop restaurants in Charlotte.

But it hadn’t been his.

And the cities over the past ten years had become a monotonous cacophony of noise, demands, and posturing. More about reputation than the food.

“You belong here.”

“Here I am.” He held out his arms facetiously.

Hiding.

“I love the style,” Miss Millie nodded. “It’s unexpected yet assertive, unabashedly you. I’m not sure what to call it—industrial meets folk meets…” Her thin lips, glossed in the signature pink lipstick he’d never seen her without, twitched in a smile.

“I love how you incorporated pieces of the past in the restaurant. Pieces of a loom in the wall, tapestry spilling down.”

“Gift from Chloe. She and Rebekah came up with the idea. I wanted history and art from discarded junk that once had a purpose, function.”

Miss Millie nodded, then she pursed her lips and stared him down. “Rustin, you’ve come into your own. No more hiding.”

“Not hiding. Just catching my breath. Shouldn’t you be in your home welcoming your guests?”

“It’s Chloe’s night. I want her to have her moment. It’s past time,” she said under her breath.

Rustin agreed it was long past time for Chloe to shine. He could still hear her beautifully haunting soprano winging through an open window as he’d helped at the Madrigal Dinner.

Millieheel-toedacross his floor in her elegant purple pumps that matched her streamlined purple dress topped with a tailored lavender, ivory, and purple knit jacket with gold buttons. She swished open the door, and he breathed in a sigh of relief waiting to hear her pumps click out the door. Instead, the silence took a breath.

“You’re the chef, Rustin.” Miss Millie held the door open and pointed a thin, elegant finger at him. “Act like it.”

*

“Wow,” Jessica said,looking at Grandma Millie’s pristine kitchen. “You did it Chloe; really pulled off the night.”

Chloe was still buzzed with the success: no epic fails, no rescues launched. She and Jessica had worked as a team, and Jessica had played the part of hype-woman. She’d taken pictures, posted them, and had shared many with her sisters.

“It was a team effort,” Chloe reminded Jessica, who wore her flared silk trousers and matching wrap tunic that was still pristine despite her hard work behind the scenes. “I really had a good time,” she said, almost surprised to admit it. “Everything worked out.”

“You were a good leader.”

The flush of pleasure made her hop. “We all pulled together for the Movable Feast, just like always. You and me at Grandma Millie’s and Sarah and Meghan helped out Elizabeth Katherine.”

---