The Perfect Recipe for Love and Friendship Page 10

  He turned to her and smiled. “Exactly. In the winter, when the trees are covered with snow, it’s like driving through a tunnel. I used to pretend my mom was taking me to Santa’s village.”

  She laughed. “And when did you stop pretending that?”

  He grinned. “Is there ever a time when we should stop believing in magical things?”

  The moon seemed to dim, and the stars disappeared behind hazy clouds. This wasn’t her husband’s hand and this wasn’t her husband’s voice. And the future she had dreamed of, with a baby and the primroses and family dinners, was never going to happen.

  “Yes, there is a time,” she said quietly, and pulled her hand out of his.

  He stopped and stepped in front of her. “I know this whole thing sucks right now. I know it seems like every day is going to be gray and dark and impossible to get past, but you will get through it. You’ll find your life again. You’ll find yourself again.”

  “I don’t know if I want to,” she said. It was the first honest thing she’d said in a while, and voicing those doubts lifted a weight off her shoulders. With her mother and her sisters, she had exhausted herself pretending to be okay. But with Garrett, she didn’t feel that same pressure. She could be a mess; she could be a platypus—it didn’t matter. What she didn’t have to be was a woman pretending to be juggling all the balls of her life.

  The words began to tumble out, the truth she kept pushing down bubbling to the surface. “I thought I knew where everything was going, where we were going, but it turns out I was wrong. We weren’t on the same path at all.”

  “I don’t want to pry, and I won’t.” He looked down at her, an understanding smile on his face. For a moment, she wanted to lean into his chest, put her cheek against the silky Starry Night tie, and lay her burdens on another’s shoulders. “Even though you’re not going to find a rainbow and a lucky leprechaun on the other side, your days will get brighter and better with time.”

  “Ah, then you haven’t known many Irish grandmothers,” she said, affecting her best brogue. It lightened the mood and distracted her from the mile-high list of things she was avoiding. “If you ask my Gramma, there’s a leprechaun under every rainbow, waiting to make your wishes come true.”

  He grinned. “Then you do believe in the power of magic.”

  “I believe in the power of cookies. And cake.” She gestured across the street, half grateful and half disappointed their walk had come to an end. “Welcome to the best damned bakery in the greater Boston area.”

  A streetlight hung over the shop, its yellow puddle of light bouncing off the white paint and giving the small building an ethereal veil. This was the time Bridget used to like best—being at the bakery on the ends of the day, when the rest of the world was waking up or settling in and she was inside, coaxing batter and dough to life.

  “Charmed by Dessert? That’s a great name.” He glanced at her, brows furrowed in confusion. “But it looks closed, and I don’t think either one of us wants to stand out here until tomorrow morning.”

  “We don’t have to.” She pulled a key out of her pocket and led him across the dark and empty street. None of the other businesses were open, and the few houses scattered down the street—stubborn holdouts against corporate America—were shuttered and quiet.

  “You work here?” Garrett asked.

  “I used to, and as of today, I do again. My family owns this bakery. My mom and my sister work here.” She opened the door, and they stepped inside, while Gramma’s bell tinkled happily over their heads. Bridget flicked on a couple of lights and then slid behind the glass counter. “So, Mr. Andrews, what will it be? Although it is past the end of the day and quantities are low, we still have a few of Boston’s best chocolate chip cookies and some of our amazing nutty chocolate brownies and…looks like one slice of heavenly chocolate cake.”

  “That’s a no-brainer. Boston’s best chocolate chip cookies. Sounds like something that should be put in the city tour guide.”

  “It was, once.” She cupped a pair of cookies with a square of parchment paper and laid the treat on the counter. Garrett slid onto one of the red vinyl bar stools across from her.

  He reached for a cookie and then pulled back. “Wait. Aren’t you going to join me?”

  “Oh, I rarely eat anything here. If I did, I’d weigh twelve thousand pounds.” Just tasting the recipes alone probably added a thousand calories a week. “When I was a kid and had the metabolism of a freight train, I’d eat anything I could get my hands on. But those days are long past.”

  He held up a cookie and brushed it across her lip. Her gaze locked with his, and the cool air of the bakery heated. An awareness of him kindled in the space between them, drawing her closer. She inhaled the sweet scent of chocolate, the light fragrance of vanilla. “Don’t you know what they say?” he said, his voice low and rich. “Cookies eaten after dark have no calories.”

  That made her laugh. “Are you sure you’re a lawyer? Because to me, it sounds like you work for Cosmopolitan magazine.”

  “Share with me, Bridget.” He patted the bar stool beside him, the invitation for more than the cookie, for more than this moment. “Keep a lonely widower company.”

  Temptation whispered through the request, tugged at her. She hesitated, then slipped around to the other side and onto the stool. It creaked a little when she spun to the right, toward Garrett. The dim light darkened his hair, sharpened the edges of his jaw, made him seem almost…rakish. “This is breaking all my rules, you know.”

  And not just the one about not eating the bakery’s treats.

  “Breaking the rules once in a while is good for you.” He handed her a cookie and took a bite of his own.

  She waited to eat hers, watching Garrett’s reaction. She’d done that ever since she started working at Charmed by Dessert—watched the customer react to that first bite. If they smiled, it was better than any five-star review.

  She knew the instant the flavors hit his palate. Garrett closed his eyes, and then that smile of pleasure started, inching across his face one degree at a time. He swallowed and then opened his eyes and looked at her. “You weren’t kidding. Those are even better than the cookies my mom made when I was a kid, and she was a hell of a baker.”

  Bridget picked off a piece of her cookie and held it up in the soft light. A handful of ingredients, mixed and molded into something for people to enjoy. But to Bridget, this wasn’t just a cookie—it was a challenge she’d conquered. “I worked on this recipe for two years. Chocolate chip cookies are such a basic, simple thing, but I wanted mine to be more than that. I tried crispier, chewier, bigger chips, smaller chips, butter versus margarine. A hundred different combinations before I finally ended up with these. Not too crispy, not too chewy. Even distribution of chips and nuts, and a nice base dough that isn’t too sweet and has only a hint of vanilla.”

  He arched a brow. “I had no idea so much went into a cookie. It sounds like a science.”

  “It’s more like a gut feeling. I bake something, taste it, adjust it, bake another batch. I’m not always right. I’ve had a few bombs—just ask me about the butterscotch brownie debacle of 2010—but most of the time, I can sort of feel what’s going to make the recipe right.” She shook her head and let out a little laugh. “That sounds crazy.”

  “No. It sounds like your passion.” He leaned closer to her, his eyes dark and intent. She caught the masculine scent of his cologne, something that lured her in, then kicked off a surprising warmth deep inside her. “You are one hell of an interesting woman, Bridget O’Bannon.”

  That gut that told her when to add more vanilla and when to sprinkle in some cinnamon told her Garrett was going to kiss her. All she had to do was stay right where she was.

  And complicate her life further.

  So she backed up, sliding off the stool and wrapping the uneaten cookies in parchment paper. “It’s late. We should get going.”

  “Yes, we should.” He took his cookie and slid it into hi
s pocket. When she locked up the shop after they went out, the scent of disappointment hung heavy in the night air.

  FOURTEEN

  Sleep was a mean, fickle bitch.

  At night, Bridget tossed and turned, dozing in fits and starts, then waking up and reaching for Jim. Finding only air and cool sheets. For a moment, she could convince herself he was on a business trip, and then the truth would hit her, so hard and cold that she shivered.

  She’d barely slept in weeks, months now, and she was beginning to feel the insomnia weighing on her, quadrupled by the knowledge that she was avoiding reality. A little after three, she got up, paced the kitchen, brewed some tea, and sat down at the counter with the pile of unopened mail.

  So many bills. The electric company, the water company, the landscapers, the roofing company that had repaired a leak last winter…they went on and on. The business of living came attached to constant payment. She flipped through the envelopes but didn’t open a single one. Instead, she stacked them on the corner of the bar and dropped the dishtowel back over the pile. Out of sight, out of mind.

  She opened up Jim’s laptop—the firm had delivered it by courier immediately after his death along with a box of things from his desk—but the second Windows let out the start-up chime, Bridget shut the lid. Tomorrow, she vowed. Tomorrow.

  Far easier to get dressed and drive to the bakery. She could wrap her mind around tarts and cakes for a while and forget. That was really all Bridget wanted to do—forget that her husband had died, forget that she had to deal with this stuff sooner rather than later, forget that the one sister who had been her best friend hadn’t so much as called to see how she was. Just…forget.

  As she pulled up to the building, she thought of Garrett with a crazy mix of excitement and guilt. Two weeks ago, they had been inside the shop, and she’d both hoped he would and wouldn’t kiss her. Maybe it was loneliness, maybe it was attraction—Bridget didn’t know and trying to grasp the truth was like trying to catch a feral cat by the tail. He’d texted her a couple times, thanking her for the cookies and conversation. Asking to see her again. She hadn’t answered about seeing him again. Like that could-have-been kiss, she pushed it all to the back of her mind, into that crowded room of Things She Didn’t Deal With. Pretty soon, she was going to have to convert that thing into a skyscraper.

  The front of the shop was still dark, but a soft glow shone under the swinging door that led to the kitchen. Bridget pushed on the door, and it yielded inward with a slight sigh.

  When she saw Bridget, Nora jerked her head up and swiped at her face. She grabbed the rolling pin beside her and pressed it onto a circle of dough. The rolling pin shivered as Nora pressed, lifted, pivoted, pressed, lifted, in furious circles. “You’re here early.” Nora’s voice sounded thick.

  “So are you.” Bridget came around to Nora’s opposite side. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah, just overwhelmed with work.” Nora offered up a smile. It lasted only a second before fading. “You came back to work here at just the right time.”

  Bridget slid on an apron. Nora kept working the piecrust, hard and fast, like she was punishing it for something. “Nora—”

  “Why don’t you start on the cookies? Mrs. Twomey comes in on Tuesday mornings and buys three dozen chocolate chip for her quilting group, so be sure to make extra.”

  “Okay.”

  Nora didn’t want to talk. Bridget understood that.

  So she measured, mixed, and baked, glancing at Nora from time to time. While Bridget churned out cookies, pie after pie went in and out of the oven—caramel apple, French silk, coconut crème. Nora stacked the preorders in boxes and set the rest in the glass case in the front of the shop.

  Bridget sensed that Nora needed some time and space, to kick around whatever was weighing on her shoulders. A hundred times, Bridget opened her mouth to ask but stopped herself. Hell, she was already doing a damned good job of running from her own problems. Adding in someone else’s worries would only add to the pile she kept tossing under the dishtowel.

  While the cookies baked, Bridget put on a second pot of coffee and then started pulling ingredients from the pantry. Her mind whispered to her hands, the recipe creating itself one item at a time. Flour, sugar, cocoa powder, and then eggs and milk. She set a pan of water on the stove and assembled the base while the water worked itself into a boil. The dry ingredients first, watching them sprinkle through the sifter like snow. Then the wet, mixing them just until the eggs and milk had blurred into the chocolatey batter. As she stirred in the boiling water, the heat woke the cocoa powder from its dry slumber, scenting the air with chocolate.

  The world around Bridget disappeared. The kitchen narrowed to just this batter, just these baking pans. She buttered and floured a quartet of round cake pans and then divided the batter, watching the cocoa river settle into its new home.

  The cakes baked and cooled while Bridget finished the cookie orders and started on some muffins. A little after seven, a delivery truck came to the back door and dropped off stacked plastic baskets of warm, golden loaves. The breads had been Abby’s department, and every time Bridget saw a loaf of sourdough or a glistening knot of challah, she thought of her sister.

  “After Abby left, we started buying the bread from another bakery, even though it costs a lot more,” Nora said, her voice soft and sad as she slid the breads into place in the front case. “Ma said we were just too busy to make it ourselves without her, but I think she missed Abby and couldn’t bear to replace her.”

  Bridget thought of the space at the table, reserved for a father who had been dead for decades. “I don’t know about that. It’s like she’s been excised from the family.”

  “Not as much as you think,” Nora said. “Ma might not always handle things the most delicately, but she’s pretty hurt by Abby leaving.”

  Bridget scoffed. “Then maybe she should have been more understanding when Abby was here.”

  “Understanding? About what?”

  Don’t tell anyone. Promise me.

  The timer buzzed, and Bridget took the excuse to duck back into the kitchen to take cookies out of the oven and then start on the frosting for the cake. The weight of her promise seemed heavier today. Maybe it was being back in the bakery, with that sense of a piece missing every time she turned around. Abby should be beside them, laughing and creating. All these years, Bridget had protected her sister’s secret, but now she wasn’t sure why.

  Nora turned on the radio, tuning to an oldies station—when had the music of the ‘90s become oldies?—the notes and lyrics filling the silence of the kitchen. The radio was a forbidden item during the normal workday because their mother thought it made the bakery sound cheap, but whenever they’d had a chance, the girls had powered up some tunes to help alleviate the daily tedium. Toni Braxton yielded to a familiar Latin beat. A memory wove between the girls with the notes.

  Bridget grinned at Nora. Nora threw back her head and laughed. The song pulsed, tempting them to move. “Still remember how to do it?”

  Nora laughed again. “I don’t know.”

  “Come on, let’s try.” And there, in the middle of the flour and sugar and warm ovens, the two sisters stood hip to hip while “La Macarena” played in the background. By the time the second verse started, laughter rang in the kitchen, and the two of them gave up on any semblance of the dance. Their hands moved in sync, shoulders, waist, hips, hop, do it again.

  “Oh my God. How long has it been since we did that?” Nora asked when the song came to an end and a commercial for Bernie & Phyl’s Furniture played, with the same familiar shtick between the elderly owners, their Boston accents thick as they touted the decades’ old slogan of quality, comfort, and price.

  “Too long.” Bridget drew Nora into a hug, and for the first time in a long while, she could feel the bond she’d had with her sister begin to knit back together. The threads were still loose, tenuous, but there.

  “We should probably get back to work.” Nor
a’s eyes shimmered, and she gave Bridget a watery smile. “Because I think we make much better bakers than we do dancers.”

  “I don’t know. For a while there, we thought we could be the next New Kids on the Block.”

  Nora chuckled. “Yeah, too bad those Wahlbergs beat the O’Bannons to fame and fortune.”

  “Well, if we ever get the old group back together again…”

  Nora sobered, and the moment of lightness faded. “If we ever do.”

  Bridget loaded dishes into the dishwasher and set it to run. “Do you talk to her at all?”

  Neither of them had to say Abby’s name. She was always there, at the back of their minds, a ghost haunting their conversations. “I text once in a while. Sometimes she texts back. Sometimes she doesn’t.”

  “I keep expecting to see her, whipping up a dozen loaves of sourdough or a new flavor of bagel.”

  Nora nodded. The radio shifted into a news report, and Nora turned to fill tart shells with lemon cream. “Do you know why she left? Was it just over the fight at the wedding?”

  “There’s a lot more to it, Nora. A lot more.” Bridget started the mixer, adding in softened lumps of butter, cream cheese, peanut butter. She slowed the revolutions and added sifted confectioners’ sugar, alternating it with tablespoons of heavy cream until the buttercream frosting swirled in the bowl, thick and rich.

  As Whitney Houston sang a ballad in the background, Bridget stacked the round chocolate cakes, sandwiching them with the peanut butter frosting. The final coating of buttercream skimmed across the cake, smoothing as she spun the cake stand and ran a long flat knife along the sides. She stored the cake in the freezer while she whipped up a quick chocolate ganache. Then after the cream and chocolate sauce cooled, she retrieved the cold cake and drizzled the ganache over the peanut butter frosting. Dark chocolate rivulets ran down the sides of the cake and puddled on the stand. Bridget mounded a handful of crushed peanut butter candies on top and then stepped back.