“Between different worlds,” Benny added. “And businesses.”
“Andpeople.” Olivia clapped. “Definitely a bridge. And while you make one, I’ll get those chocolate-covered strawberries ready. C’mon, Benny. Help me so these two can…create the connection.”
Gracie bit back a smile, looking over the prep table at Marshall. Did he see what they were doing or?—
“How can we make a bridge?” he asked, far more pragmatic than his little girl.
“Umm…with spun sugar? It will look like ice.”
“Beautiful, but…” He lifted his brows. “Spun sugar is not in my wheelhouse.”
“Don’t worry—it’s at the center of mine,” she assured him, standing up. “I just need to reduce some sugar, water, and corn syrup?—”
He flinched. “Corn syrup? Really?”
She just laughed and waved him closer to the stove. “Come on, I’ll teach you. And can I just say how great it is to have a couple of geniuses for kids?”
“It makes life interesting,” he agreed, standing to join her. “You sure there’s no substitute for that corn syrup?”
“Not in my kitchen, Mr. Hampton.”
Laughing, he followed her to the stove. As she brought out the ingredients to pour in a pan, Gracie marveled again at how comfortable she was in his company. Had she ever spent this much one-on-one time with a man and not blushed every second? He just made her feel so at ease.
“Didn’t you learn how to spin sugar in pastry school?” she asked.
“Pastry school?” He gave a noisy snort. “Self-taught, my dear. Well, mom-taught. But she was as good as any pastry chef. The health stuff came from years with trainers, but the baking? All credit to Germaine Lydia Hampton.”
“Really?” As she placed the pan on the heat, she looked up at him. “Tell me more about her.”
He leaned a hip against the stove, crossing his arms, a glint in his eyes. “My mother…” he started, a smile growing. “Well, she’s definitely where Olivia gets her…everything. Brains, relentless determination, and a spirit that I believe will conquer anyone and anything.”
Gracie laughed, fully agreeing with that take on Olivia. “All beautiful character traits, Marshall.”
“Amen.”
“You mom had time to bake, work in a hospital, and be a waitress?” She marveled at what that had to be like, especially raising a son alone in the inner city.
“She never slept, I swear,” he replied. “We had a tiny kitchen in an apartment but most days, if you closed your eyes, you’d think you were in a bakery as big and beautiful as this one.”
She smiled at the compliment, stirring the sugar and syrup mix, looking for the pale amber color she needed as he talked.
“Sweet and savory, she could make it,” he said. “Pound cakes with the tops cracked just right. Cornbread in a five-dollar cast-iron skillet she called the family heirloom. And, yes, I still have it. She seasoned that sucker to glossy perfection and I hope to give it to Olivia.”
She smiled at that.
“She always sang while she baked,” he added, getting her to look up.
“You hum.”
“I guess I do and probably the same songs—‘Come Thou Fount’ and ‘Go Down, Moses.’ To me, baking is deeply attached to Sundays after church where my mother was the loudest sister in the choir belting out gospel music.” He laughed, but she sensed a bit of an ache in the sound.
“She used to tell me baking was an extension of a good Sunday service,” he continued, clearly lost in thought. “She said people showed up mad or sad or tired, and you fed ’em—scripture or sweets—and their hearts softened enough to hear whatever they needed to hear. About grace. About being kind. About trying again tomorrow. Then she’d quote her favorite book.”
“The Bible?” she guessed.
“In general, yes. Matthew in particular. I think I had the Sermon on the Mount memorized before I knew my ABCs.”
From across the kitchen, the kids laughed and a spoon scraped against a metal bowl, but Gracie hardly heard it, mesmerized by Marshall’s voice and words.
