Page 70 of Cottage on the Bay


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This was a home where people lived, not just existed.

“Grandpa says you’re the best chef in Montana,” Tommy announced from his perch on a stool beside the kitchen island.

Paul’s chest warmed at the nine year old boy’s enthusiasm. “Your grandpa is being generous. I just know how to follow recipes.”

Frank emerged from the pantry carrying a bag of potatoes. “Don’t let him fool you, Tommy. Paul’s being modest. He owned some of the finest restaurants in California.”

“That was a long time ago,” Paul said, accepting the potatoes and setting them on the counter. “Before I figured out that impressing food critics mattered less than feeding people well.”

He’d brought supplies from his own kitchen. A honey-glazed ham he’d prepared yesterday, containers of his grandmother’s green bean recipe, and ingredients for the bread pudding that had been a Christmas tradition in his family for three generations. The rest they’d prepare here, using what Frank and Isabel kept on hand.

Tommy hopped down from his stool. “Can I help?”

“Absolutely.” Paul handed him a vegetable peeler. “You’re on potato duty. Think you can handle it?”

The boy’s face brightened. “I peel potatoes for Grandpa all the time. He says I’m getting really good at it.”

While Tommy settled at the sink, Paul began organizing the ingredients they’d need for other Christmas dishes. He worked differently here than he did at the restaurant. There was no rush, no ticket times to beat, no pressure to execute flawlessly. Just the quiet pleasure of creating something that would nourish people he cared about.

Frank washed his hands and joined them. “Susan said you’re happy to do most of the cooking. I offered to help, but she insisted you had everything under control.”

“I find this relaxing.” Paul measured flour into a bowl for biscuits. “After the chaos of the BioTech events and the Welcome Center gathering, cooking for a small group feels like breathing.”

“Well, I’m glad you enjoy it. I wasn’t looking forward to roasting the turkey Isabel bought.”

Paul glanced across at the oven where the turkey in question was baking under a special brandy marinade. He grinned when Frank followed the direction of his gaze. “It’s just as well turkeys are my specialty.”

Frank selected a knife from the wooden block and began trimming green beans. “I’m grateful you’re doing this. With everything happening to Matt, we wanted to make sure Lynda knew she wasn’t alone today.”

“None of us are ever alone,” Paul said quietly. “That’s what Susan’s taught me.”

The words hung in the kitchen air, carrying more weight than Paul had intended. Tommy looked up from his potato peeling, his young face curious.

Frank’s expression softened with understanding. “Susan’s special, isn’t she?”

Paul nodded, unable to find adequate words. How did he explain that Susan had cracked open something in his heart that he’d sealed shut for twenty years? That her patience with his grief over Michelle and Sophie, and her gentle insistence that he deserved happiness again, had changed him?

“I didn’t think I’d find this,” Paul admitted, keeping his voice low. “After Michelle left, I convinced myself that being alone was safer. Easier. The consequences of loving someone and failing them again seemed too enormous to risk.”

Frank set down his knife and turned to face Paul fully. “But you risked it anyway.”

“Susan didn’t give me much choice.” Paul smiled despite the tightness in his throat. “She showed up at my restaurant and wanted to know my thoughts about starting cooking classes. From that moment on, I thought that maybe I hadn’t destroyed my ability to be part of a relationship, even if it was friendship.”

“There’s always hope,” Frank said with the conviction of someone who’d learned that truth firsthand. “Sometimes it just takes the right person to help us see it.”

Tommy finished peeling his third potato and held it up for inspection. “Is this good, Paul?”

“Perfect.” Paul accepted the potato and added it to the pile. “You’ve got real talent. Maybe you’ll be a chef someday.”

The boy beamed. “Grandpa says I should try lots of different things before I decide what I want to be.”

“That’s wise advice.” Paul began cutting the potatoes into even chunks, each piece falling into the waiting pot with a satisfying plop. “Your grandpa’s a smart man.”

They worked in comfortable silence, moving around the kitchen with surprising coordination. Tommy absorbed everything with the eager attention of a child who felt included in something meaningful.

This was what Paul had imagined family could be like. An easy cooperation, a sense of belonging, and a knowledge that he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

The ham went into the oven to warm beside the turkey. The potatoes boiled on the stovetop. There were some vegetarian salads in the refrigerator, and fresh bread under a red and white checkered dishtowel. Paul’s bread pudding waited for its final baking. And to top everything off, green beans simmered with bacon and onions the way his grandmother had always prepared them.