Page 9 of A Taste of Christmas Magic

Would Jessica come? His heart curdled. Irritated, he pushed the question far away.

“Tell me about the restaurant, Rustin.” Her voice was a soft invitation, and her mis-matched eyes shone.

“Time to go, Chloe. Key.” He held out his hand.

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t care.”

Instead of getting angry or defensive or tearing up, Chloe held on to the prep counter like she could stop him from tossing her out.

“I need your help.” She gulped in a breath. “You have a lot of experience cooking Southern food but also, I heard you’ve traveled. You could help me do something unique. Unexpected.”

She had his attention. No Maye had ever asked for his help. Demanded. Yes. Paid for his services, yes. Chloe’s delicate hands were now poised like a supplicant in prayer. His heart began to thud.

“It’s not just for me but Grandma Millie too,” she pleaded. “I need to pick your brain to cook something for the Movable Feast this year. Grandma Millie is really shaking things up. She’s insisting that the three Ms and I each run a separate event this year because the town’s growing and changing and we need to keep the traditions alive. And I can barely keep my panini sandwiches from burning to a crisp, so there’s that.”

She bounced up on her toes. “Please, Rustin. Please, please, please. You would create the most amazing meal, and, of course, Millie’s and you would be credited.”

She said the last part like it would seal the deal, and he could feel the shields she’d started to rattle, snap back into place.

Of course, the Mayes would want to cling to their power structure.

“She says we need new blood and…” Her voice trailed off, and for some reason she flushed bright red. “She said we need to keep the town traditions strong. It’s a challenge to all of us.”

The Maye’s and their challenges, he sneered. Would Jessica also approach him for his ‘help’? Then dread hit dead center.

“Miss Millie’s not sick is she?”

Chloe nipped her lip. “I asked. She said no?”

The question in her tone swirled the dread. Now Miss Millie selling him her diner made horrible sense, though he’d seen no decline in her these past few months as he’d buckled down and worked in near secrecy.

“So, will you help me come up with an entrée, Rustin? My first meeting with the hosting families is tomorrow afternoon.”

“You grew up in Millie’s kitchen. Surely you can plan a bite-size entrée to wow your guests into dropping enough dollars for a mortgage payment.” His bitterness tasted like ashes.

Chloe opened her mouth but then snapped it shut, clearly trying to organize her thoughts. “The feast benefits the Secret Santa program,” she said softly, and he fought his urge to cringe. His family had benefitted from that program his entire life. “And I’m sure you’re going to be courting the same folks to return to Millie’s Diner when you reopen.”

“You can read a cookbook, Chloe. Do it.” He tried to grab the key from her hand, but she clung to it as her determined gaze clung to him, full of fire and life.

“I need help, Rustin.”

“Not my problem.”

“Please, Rustin, please. I can’t fail Grandma Millie!”

He spun her around and pushed her toward the side door, where his trash and recycling was fenced off and where the deliveries would be arriving in another five to six weeks.

“Rustin,” she balked, but he kept the pressure steady, not wanting to hurt her but needing freedom and to breathe air without her fresh ocean breezy scent.

“Please,” she entreated.

“Get your own hands dirty.”

He closed the door and locked it. Turned his back on it and leaned against the steel, feeling like a jerk, but knowing he’d done the right thing. His survival instincts were honed.

*

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