“I’ll take the biggest one, of course,” Braxton booms.
Gertrude cackles and rubs her hands together. “That’s the hardest one. Yer gonna regret it, I reckon.”
“Take yer food and go,” Gill says with a wave of his arm. “Yer kitchen is upstairs where we’ll be serving ye all seven courses in two hours’ time. See, there are four portions; we’ll be having our own date down here. So…we will do our part. Don’t ye go messin’ up yers.”
We’re quick to grab our paper bags and head up the tall, narrow staircase. While the main level kitchen had more of an industrial vibe with a selection of stoves, fridges, and cooking areas, this kitchen has a homier feel.
“I can’t believe we’re making their food, too,” I say. “That’s a lot of pressure.”
“You’re right.” Braxton is the first to uncover his items. “Chicken Cordon Bleu?” he sounds shocked.
“Oh,” I say, “that’ll be good.”
“Yeah, if we don’t mess it up,” he says. “What’s in yours?”
I pull a handful of items out of the bag. A container ofpopcorn kernels, butter, brown sugar, and baking soda. “Caramel popcorn,” I say with a grin.
The setup surrounding this date—entering the unknown, meeting the odd chefs, and preparing to cook a meal together—has formed anusagainstthemtype of thing. Big boy and the wee little thing against Gertrude and Gill. Will the novice cooks measure up to the professionals?
Still, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous about how things would go after dinner. What if I want to prolong the evening by heading to the bed and breakfast, and Braxton says he doesn’t feel the same?
Don’t dwell on it,I tell myself. As Jeb Nobly would say,no man ever crossed a bridge before he came to it, but many have, in their attempts, missed out on where that bridge could lead.
I haven’t recalled that line for a long time, but it definitely fits in this moment.
I look over all the ingredients, determined to focus on the dinner date for now. “Well,” I say, glancing up to meet his gaze. “Let’s do this.”
15
Braxton
We start with the Chicken Cordon Bleu, pounding the chicken breasts, slapping on the ham, topping it with Swiss, and rolling those babies up tight. Once they’re baking at three-hundred-fifty degrees, we move on to the popcorn.
“So you’re from a family of all boys,” Maggie says to me.
I puff my chest and clear my throat. “You mean men.”
She grins while pulling an air popper from the pantry. “Which of you guys likes to cook most?”
The answer is easy, but the subject matter is complex at best. “Did you know we lost one of our brothers afew years back?” I ask. Perhaps Kirsten already shared this tidbit with Maggie.
Enlightenment flutters through her eyes. “Now that I think of it, yes. I’m so sorry. Was it...” She seems hesitant to finish the sentence.
“Drugs,” I say. “Anyway, Blaine took a home economics class in middle school and developed a passion for the culinary arts.” I chuckle. “One year, they taught him to make English toffee. He came home wanting to make it for all the neighbors and friends for Christmas. My mom was hesitant, saying it’s a complicated recipe and a lot of things can go wrong. But he insisted, did it anyway, and let me tell you—he nailed it.”
I sniff, affected by the pride in my own voice. I was always rooting for Blaine, sensing the underdog syndrome he fought trailing after three older brothers.
“You should have seen his face. We have a picture of it somewhere: Blaine wearing this huge grin, proudly hovering over cellophane bags tied with ribbons and bows. He had on our dad’s apron since it was, you know, not frilly like Mom’s. Said something about bumpers, barbecues, and beer.”
Maggie lets out a soft laugh and rests a hand on my shoulder. “That’s a sweet memory,” she says.
A wave of emotion threatens my composure. “Yeah,” I say with another sniff. Maggie is easy to talk to. Too easy. I find myself wanting to open up to her in ways that are foreign to me where women are concerned. That’s not how I usually operate. My forte is one of mystery and allure. Keep personal things close to the chest. Give only what I have to.
“What about you?” I ask, already detecting the aroma ofsavory ham wafting from the oven. “Who likes to cook more—you or Kirsten?”
She shrugs. “Honestly, it’s a toss-up. Both of us had to fend for ourselves quite a bit. My mom wasn’t exactly the motherly type.”
I spin to lean against the counter and face Maggie, whose hand is draped loosely over the jar of unpopped kernels. I want to hear more about her past. I want to know how, after a childhood so messy, Kirsten and Maggie turned out so well.
