Page 62 of Whisking It All

She remembered her mother arguing with her own parents about going to those dinners instead of Mass, the way her mother’s parents would rage about Steph’s need to repent, their demands that she ‘stop playing house’ and ‘marry the boy already’ so Tessa would no longer be a bastard. She remembered asking her mother what ‘bastard’ meant as they drove to the Hart family home for dinner, her mother’s mascara smudged around her eyes where she’d been rubbing at them. She remembered the way those arguments flavored every meal her father’s parents had served—chicken pot pie with a side of guilt, Sunday ragu seasoned with a dash of casual condemnation.

Jamie kept on talking, oblivious to Tessa’s bitter walk down memory lane. “When I opened the restaurant, Louise gave them to me. ‘Passing the baton,’ she said. I hosted family dinner at the restaurant every Sunday using these recipes—with some modifications of my own—until they moved to Florida. Turn the cards over.”

She glanced at him in question, but did as he asked. She read the words scribbled on the back of the card over and over, gasping when she realized what they meant. One by one, she flipped over the cards, each one covered in the same neat handwriting.

“Louise liked to note when she’d made a meal for a special occasion, to help her remember,” Jamie explained.

Tessa read the lists of dates, each one accompanied by a note: TJ’s fifth birthday dinner; celebrating Steph getting her GED; Ethan’s first day on the job at Nuthatch; TJ’s first day of kindergarten; TJ’s first loose tooth; TJ’s most expressive stick figure drawing; TJ’s first time swimming in the ocean, TJ, TJ, TJ... On and on, the everyday moments of her first eight years documented in her grandmother’s handwriting alongside the food they’d eaten that day.

“I think she’d want you to have them,” Jamie said.

“Thank you,” she said, the words thick. A tear slipped down her cheek and she dashed it away, hoping he hadn’t seen.

But then he was there, setting the box down and wrapping her in his arms, his chin resting on the top of her head. She pressed her face into his shirt and breathed in the cedar and soap scent of him.

“Why would she do that?” she whispered into his chest.

His arms tightened, hands pressing into her back. “She loves you.”

“She wanted us to leave,” she repeated the only truth she’d known her whole life.

No one had wanted Tessa and her mother to stay in Aster Bay except Ethan; everyone had wanted them to go. That’s what her mother had always said. But what if she’d had it wrong? Was it possible that the guilt and condemnation hadn’t actually been passed around the dinner table in her father’s family home alongside the rolls and salt shaker? Was it possible she and her mother had brought that baggage in with them, forgetting to leave it behind when they’d hung up their jackets and scarves on the coat rack in the front hall?

“She didn’t,” he said, softly.

The deep timbre of his voice reverberated through her where their bodies were pressed together. His thumb stroked across her lower back in barely-there movements, each arc sending fizzy tangles of comfort and longing through her blood. When he swallowed, she felt the working of his throat against her forehead.

“And everyone is glad you’re here now.”

She tilted her head up to meet his gaze, still clutching his shirt, still tracking the maddening strokes of his thumb. “Everyone?”

He held her gaze and swallowed again. For a moment she considered pressing her lips to his Adam’s apple.

“Everyone,” he repeated, his voice low and rough.

His eyes heated, the green gone liquid and lush. She tightened her grip on his shirt as his hands flexed on her lower back, like he was straining to keep from digging his fingers into her. The tip of his nose skated against hers, and she let her eyes drop closed, anticipating the heat of his lips on hers.

A plate shattered in the other room and they sprang apart, as though the sharp pieces of ceramic dishware had fallen at their feet and not on the other side of the double doors. Tessa backed up until she hit the edge of the counter, bracing her hands behind herself on the lip of the sink. He stared at her with wild eyes, breathing heavily through his nose.

He’s your father’s best friend, she reminded herself. He’s not yours to have.

After what felt like an eternity, she broke their eye contact, gesturing to the still-full sink behind her. “I should clean this up.”

“Right.” He blinked as though coming out of a dream and took another step back. “Right. I should get back to the restaurant.”

“Thank you. For today. For all of it.”

He met her eyes again with such intensity it felt like the wind moving over her. “You’re welcome.” He turned to leave, but after only a few steps, he turned back to her, his hands dug deep in the pockets of his jeans. “This was an incredible opening, Tessa. You should celebrate.”

She gave a self-deprecating chuckle. “I’ve got a bowl of popcorn and an episode of Brilliant British Bakes with my name on it tonight.”

His eyes narrowed, like she’d said something that required contemplation rather than revealing how lame her idea of a celebration was. After a second, he shook his head, clearing the thought. “Right. Well, enjoy.”

She watched the door swing shut behind him and tried very hard not to think about how sad she was to see him go.

Chapter 19

WhiskyBusiness: Hey. Sorry for the radio silence. It’s been a hectic day.

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