From Scratch (12 page)

“I was just wondering…”

“You were wondering why I tried to slit your belly open like a fish?”

His mouth lifted and his shoulders relaxed as he crossed his arms. “Naw, I get you were freaked, and when you're ready you can tell me why.”

Relief washed through like a tidal wave. Her cheeks burned. Once again, she was thankful for the shadow of night. “Oh, OK.”

“I was wondering where that voice has been hiding.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maggie,” he said as he lifted his hand, brushing a loose curl behind her ear and sending a trail of tingling heat down her cheek. “I don't think I have ever heard a voice more beautiful than yours. I know I'm not a great judge of talent, but even I could tell the last place you should be headlining is a broken-down kitchen behind a bakery in a town no one outside of Columbus, Ohio has heard of.”

She tried to recall anything prior to the stranglehold of terror when she looked up and saw thick rimmed glasses and jet black hair superimposed over his face; his hands clapping with the same slow, eerie, nauseating rhythm that haunted her for nearly a decade. “I was singing?” She stared at the pool of water below and squeezed her arms around her middle.

“You don't remember singing?”

“Sometimes I sing when I am alone.” She kept her attention on the murky water. “It's not a big deal. I bet you sing in the shower.”

He moved to her side, leaning his elbows on the fence. “What I do in the shower is not defined as singing. Screeching, maybe, but definitely not singing. What I heard you doing…honey, that was ethereal.”

Ignoring the gentle flip of her heart at the easy endearment, she lifted a single eyebrow. “Ethereal? What am I, the singing dead?”

“No. I meant angelic.” He chuckled.

“Chief, you should know by now, I'm no angel.”

“I know. Even more reason for my surprise. How could that voice come out of you?”

“Hey!” She punched his shoulder.

“What I meant to say was that I was surprised that someone so beautiful on the outside could also generate such beauty from within.”

“Nice save.”

“I was a closing pitcher. Saves are my specialty.”

The last thread of tension broke and she was once again at ease. “Pitcher, huh?”

“Yep, my sinker got me through college and a couple years in the minors.”

“Did you ever play in the majors?”

“Nope. I wasn't that good. I was just an OK college player, but pitchers get some special looks, so I was drafted out of school and spent a couple years in the minors. My shoulder was fairly shot by the time I closed out season number two playing for this Double A team in the Carolina League. I knew if I ever wanted to comb my own hair when I was forty, I should hang up my cleats and try something else.”

“I'm sorry. Did you always dream of playing baseball?”

“I guess. My dad was a big baseball nut. He used to play catch with Mac and me all the time. I guess baseball was something we kept doing to keep his memory alive.” He dropped his gaze. “To this day, if I hear the clean snap of a fastball in a catcher's mitt, I can still smell my dad's cologne.”

“What a wonderful gift.” Her heart puddled at the image of a little tow head with a mitt bigger than him sitting at his daddy's feet learning all about their game.

“Yeah, I guess it is.”

“So you played in college. Did your brothers keep playing?”

“Joe still plays. He was the one with all the talent. Broke into the majors about five years ago. He's a centerfielder.” Sean named the team and Maggie, despite her teaspoon worth of baseball knowledge, was suitably impressed.

“Mac was really good, too. He was a catcher, so he could see the game better than Joey and me. He made it longer in the minors. He was what they call a journeyman ballplayer. I think he played one or two games in the ‘Show,' but he found his true passion on the business side. The owner of the last team he played for became a mentor to him. Mac now runs the baseball operations for that team as well as acts as general counsel for the guy's holding company.”

She knew that the youngest Taylor was a professional athlete. Anyone who'd ever spent more than ten minutes in Gibson's Run knew about the legendary Joe Taylor, but she'd never heard much about the elusive Mac Taylor. “Lawyer, huh? I guess baseball worked out for him.”

“Hey, don't get too impressed. I can still rev up some heat and throw a fastball past him. Emphasis on a single fastball. He's just a pudgy old suit now.”

“Noted. Maybe I should watch out for that fastball myself.” She gazed at him. “Regardless of what your brother is doing, I think you have achieved something quite remarkable here. You can feel the vote of confidence this place has in you. You have to be the youngest chief this town has ever had, and yet, I never hear anyone mention your age. They just talk about how good you are at what you do. For the whole town to be blind to your age is quite a testimony to your achievement.”

“I don't know about youngest, but it is a nice, safe little town and I like to keep it that way.”

“Well you do a fine job, Chief.”

“And I am smart enough to know when someone is purposefully shifting the conversation away from herself. Weren't we talking about your singing ability before we got side-tracked on the talented Taylor brothers?”

She turned toward her apartment. “It's getting late. I should get home. Early morning,” she spoke with an exaggerated yawn. She began walking, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her jacket.

“Hey Maggie, wait up.” His hand squeezed her shoulder, stopping her forward direction.

She turned.

He lifted his other hand to her shoulder, softly caressing her upper arms.

The wall she kept rebuilding in her heart began to crumble once again.

“Maggie, why won't you talk about yourself? Why don't you trust me?”

She wanted to tell him everything. She wanted to close the space between them and wrap her arms around his waist, rest her head on his chest and sink into his protective embrace. She wanted to pretend for a few minutes that her whole world wasn't held together by of the barest thread. But life—her life—wasn't about getting what she wanted. She couldn't afford to give people her trust. Her life was about survival, and despite her weakness, she had to keep the secrets. She pivoted away from him and unlocked the door to her shop. “I trust you just fine, Chief. I just don't feel like recapping my life story. History is history.” The tinkle of the welcome bell echoed through the empty space. “Thanks for walking me home.” She turned to face him with a practiced, over-bright smile. “I can take the bag.”

He came into the shop and leaned against the long table. Why wasn't he moving? He needed to go. At that moment, she craved being alone like it was the last brownie in the pan. She needed space to rebuild the protective barriers that her dinner companion had eradicated. Her shoulders dropped. She closed the space between them and yanked on the handle of the bag, but he didn't release his grip.

With the flip of his wrist, he tugged her toward him. She landed awkwardly against his chest, the air thrust from her lungs. He tilted her chin up, forcing her gaze to meet his, the warm, welcoming depths offering comfort and something beyond her understanding. His thumb traced the soft line of her jaw. “Maggie, I like you. You are a beautiful, exasperating, fascinating woman with more layers than a wedding cake. And, I am interested in all of them, the ones I can see and the ones hidden beneath the surface. Regardless of how long it takes, you will trust me. God sent you into my life, all loud and demanding, and I'm not about to let you shut me out because you are scared of something you won't share with me.”

A shiver shimmied through her as his hand slid to the nape of her neck, gently drawing her face closer.

“Maggie-girl, this is fair warning. I am not backing off. I am officially playing the game and I always play to win.”

Her lids fluttered shut as she waited for his lips to drop to hers. As the bag's sudden weight dropped into her hands, she stumbled forward in the space he'd just filled. She struggled to open her eyes and saw the long table in front of her. She slowly spun on her heel, dragging the bag in her wake. She looked up and her foggy brain cleared.

Sean shoved his hands in the pockets of his GRPD jacket. A twinkle of a smile twisted at the corner of his lips. “Goodnight, Maggie.” He went out her door, crossed the street, and then disappeared around the corner of the police station.

“Oh, dear. I'm in trouble with a giant, capital ‘T.'”

10

The boom of the tribute cover band completing their sound check trailed behind Maggie as she elbowed the swinging door that connected the ballroom and the back prep room. She dropped the three empty pans into one of the multiple crates she had used to transport all of the individual desserts to the party.

Jane had settled on a mix of high-end desserts and simple classic treats, but no multi-tiered cake. Praise Jesus! Driving boxes of individual desserts and pastries the forty-five minutes of freeway between Gibson's Run and downtown Columbus was significantly easier than navigating the bumps and bruises of the trip with a cake.

She lifted the two-foot chocolate centerpiece from the cooler. With measured steps, she walked back through the swinging door to the ballroom. If she could assemble this piece without mishap, the rest of the set-up would be a breeze. She could be on her way home to her second-hand sofa, a cup of tea, and a luxurious night of reading before the first police officer arrived.

The music tickled her ears and flooded her mind with memories of lazy days in Sam's car a lifetime ago. She released a deep breath and willed her tears to retreat. She didn't have the time or the energy for an unplanned trip to the past. Her priorities were in the here and now.

Balancing the wide box, Maggie maneuvered the obstacle course of tables. The dessert station was elegantly draped in navy and cream tablecloths. Each of the serving dishes and display trays was artfully arranged, some already laden with desserts. She laid the large box on a prep table the staff had thoughtfully set up for her use. Slicing the tape binding the box, she lifted the lid to reveal the nine separate pieces of molded chocolate that would form a large police badge inside a hollow outline of the state of Ohio. She had molded a large piece to look like a swooping ribbon with the FOP initials and the date etched in the surface. To complement the whimsy of the homecoming themed event, she had a football with a king's crown circling the end. The showpiece was intricate, but nothing compared to what she had completed in her final exam for cooking school. That particular piece had received a passing grade and a glowing recommendation, which landed her a job at a high-end Columbus hotel and eventually led to her own shop.

God had given her an escape route and a whole new life.

And she wasn't about to waste it. She arranged the pieces and slid the main components into the structure's framework. She set the final touches in place and then stepped back and surveyed the chocolate for any defects or possible opportunities for failure over the next five hours.

“Oh, my, it is beautiful!”

A broad smile stretch across her face as Jane Barrett walked toward her. “I think it will hold.”

Jane gave her shoulders a quick squeeze as she took in the chocolate centerpiece. “I knew you were good, I mean, I've tasted your work. But this is beyond spectacular. This is art.”

The compliment glided through her ears and into her heart. “Thanks.”

Jane dropped her arm from Maggie's shoulders and took a slight step away to survey the rest of the table.

Maggie's mom had told her before one of the annual family Christmas parties that a table should be interesting, with lots of different levels, so that all of the food would get a fair shake. “But don't get too fussy, Sweet Girl, all the bits are going to the same place.” How many times had her mother called her that lovely old nickname? If she closed her eyes, she could almost smell her mom's classic perfume.

“Well, Maggie,” Jane said, hugging her clipboard to her chest. “This is magnificent, and yet, so subtle. You have certainly outdone yourself. I adore the footballs filled with mousse. They turned out fabulous. I love, love, love the cherry pies, and are those oatmeal raisin cookies? My dad may melt into a pool of slush at your feet. And the sheriff badge cookies…are they shortbread or sugar?”

“The badges are shortbread. The FOP symbols are sugar—chocolate sugar cookies. And, yes, I may have promised your dad some oatmeal raisin cookies.”

“Genius. You've managed to give everyone something that is bound to be their favorite. From fruit to chocolate, you've hit all of the major dessert categories. Both upscale and homespun. I am very impressed.” Jane scanned a mysterious list of details on her clipboard. From her tightly coiled bun to her sleek, black sheath that accented and concealed in all the right places, Jane was the perfect picture of a behind-the-scenes event planner.

“Jane, you look amazing and calm. How do you do it and in those heels? And what happened to the hockey cheerleader outfits?”

“Millie finally bent to my will and we opted for professional rather than costuming. Praise my dear sweet Jesus!” Jane glanced down at her four-inch nude heels. “The shoes? The platform under the foot-bed helps.” She snapped her fingers. “And as far as the event, well, I love it. It's such a joy to throw parties and it's even more fun when you are spending other people's money.”

“You make it seem effortless. No one would know you took over this event only a few weeks ago.” Glancing around the beautifully decorated room, Maggie could almost envision it filled to capacity with happy guests. “This place looks amazing. You'd never guess that this place was a cavernous ballroom with putrid carpeting from 1987 only two hours ago.””