A Recipe for Reunion

Second time’s the charm!

Nothing about working with his former high school crush, Stephanie Stephens, is ideal. Still, if Aaron Caruthers intends to save his grandmother’s bakery, he must. Good thing he has a lot of ideas he can’t wait to implement. He never imagines Stephanie would have her own ideas for the business. Or that they would clash with his!

It doesn’t take working with her long for Aaron to realize his impression of Stephanie as a helpless ex-cheerleader is way off. And the more of her kindness and strength he sees, the more attracted he is! Now to convince her…

It was freezing out here.

Maybe Aaron had trapped Stephanie on the porch deliberately so that she’d agree to his terms quickly. “What’s your grandmother’s stake in the business?”

“She owns the whole shebang. I’m basically acting as her business manager.”

“So only she can fire me.”

Aaron opened his mouth to form an objection, but then closed it. “Yes. She’s our boss.”

It must’ve killed him not to have seniority over her. If anything, she should have seniority over him.

“All right,” she said, holding out her hand. “Consider me your new assistant manager.”

Relief flooded Aaron’s stormy eyes. As he squeezed and pumped her hand, a pulse of something thick and hot blew through her.

Oh, no. Hell, no. She was not attracted to Aaron Caruthers. They weren’t just out of each other’s leagues; they were playing different sports.

Dear Reader,

Welcome back to Everville, New York, the town where my second book, Back to the Good Fortune Diner (Mills & Boon Superromance, January 2013), was set. I’ve gone back in time to a few months before Tiffany arrived to tell the story of how the county’s best roadside bakeshop became the very popular Georgette’s Bakery and Books.

Everville’s motto is The Town That Endures. To me, enduring means accepting change. As the wife of a civics nut, I enjoy learning about what makes communities work. As the town evolves, so, too, do the lives of Aaron Caruthers and Stephanie Stephens—the bookworm and the cheerleader who never thought they could be a match.

I love to hear from readers! Visit me on Facebook, Twitter (@VickiEssex) and my website, vickiessex.com, and watch out for more stories from Everville!

Happy reading!

Vicki Essex

A Recipe for Reunion

Vicki Essex

www.millsandboon.co.uk

VICKI ESSEX likes eating baked goods, but isn’t great at baking them. She loves books, and isn’t a bad hand at writing them. To be showered with cookies, say hello to her at vickiessex.com, find her on facebook.com/vickiessexauthor and follow her on Twitter: @VickiEssex.

I’d like to thank my agent, Courtney Miller-Callihan, for being awesomely supportive and for really grokking me. *cookies*

Thanks to my editor, Karen Reid, whose insights are always, always helpful.

And as always, thank you to my darling, brilliant husband, John, whose magnificent brain inspired Aaron’s eclectic tastes and polymathic genius. I couldn’t do this without you, magoo.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

Two months ago...

NO ONE WAS eating her goodies.

Stephanie racked her brain trying to figure out why. She’d baked all the treats herself, tailoring each recipe to meet her friends’ varied preferences and dietary restrictions: gluten-free chocolate cupcakes and dairy-free carrot muffins; nut-free cookies, a plate of soy-free bite-size brownies and three different pies because Lilian didn’t like lemon meringue, Susan loathed pecan and Karen thought apple was “boring.”

The last time she’d seen all her high school girlfriends together had been Christmas four years ago. Yet, instead of being excited, a weird sense of disappointment had dogged her all evening. While everyone else was busy chatting, talking over each other like a gaggle of geese, she got the feeling that if she waded into the fray, she’d be nibbled and pecked to death.

But she had volunteered to host this holiday shindig, so she couldn’t hide behind the food forever. Steph brightened her smile and picked up a plate of sugar cookies, painstakingly frosted in B. H. Everett High’s blue and gold. Brandishing the treats and armed with good cheer, she circulated. She might not be the best convocation...conservation...talker, but she was a damned good baker.

“Well, it’s not like I don’t want to come back to Everville,” she heard Janny say wistfully. “But Mark’s job is in Cleveland, and my business is flourishing. I wouldn’t have clients here.”

“Yes, nice as it is to come home, I’d never move back,” Cristina proclaimed. “Rumor is the property values in town are taking a dive. I’m not sure about the new mayor, either—I mean, I wasn’t the biggest fan of Bob Fordingham, but at least we knew what to expect from him.”

“Cookie?” Steph thrust the plate out. Janny and Cristina each politely took one.

“Steph, we were just talking about the new mayor,” Cristina said. “Cheyenne Welks, right? What’s she like?”

She shrugged. “What’s to tell? She comes to Georgette’s every day at eight for a large black coffee and usually gets a plain croissant.”

“But I mean what are her policies like?” Cristina clarified. “I’ve heard that she’s been spending a lot on infrastructure—like that big water main project.”

“Oh, I don’t really follow politics,” she said. She’d noticed all the construction in town, of course, but she didn’t have to drive through it on her way to work so she didn’t pay it much attention. “But she’s really nice.”

Cristina touched her arm. “Thanks for hosting, by the way. It’s nice of your parents to let us hang out here, considering all the times we’ve trashed their home.”

“As long as we don’t throw up in the pool again,” Janny added jokingly.

“Like old times, eh? Glad to know some things’ll never change.” Steph found herself inexplicably irritated as Cristina bit into her cookie. “Mmm. This is good. Catered?”

Steph perked up. “I baked them.”

“Oh.” Her long lashes flickered. “Still working at Georgette’s then?”

“Yeah.”

Silence dropped between them as heavily as an anchor. “She’s still...around?”

“Oh, yeah. I don’t know anyone who’s as energetic as she is at her age. She’ll outlive us all.” She laughed a little too loudly. This was the third time she’d answered this question today. In fact, if her friends’ queries were any indication, her life could be summed up in three statements.

I work at Georgette’s.

I’ve been there five years now.

Yes, Georgette’s still alive.

“So, what are you guys up to?” she asked to relieve the silence that stretched between them like yeasty dough.

Cristina launched into the story of her life—college, husband, career in interior design, a vacation in Hawaii, plans for kids. Janny’s story was nearly as glamorous—two daughters, a house and a massage therapy practice in Cleveland.

Steph took it all in with a smile, clutching the plate of cookies as she suppressed her envy. Years ago she would’ve lightly punched her friends in the arm and exclaimed, “So jealous!” It was hard to joke about it now.

As she moved off, she reminded herself it’d been her choice to stay in Everville, that her family was here and that she loved the town and working for Georgette. Okay, so she wasn’t living in the big corner house on King Street that Mr. Merkl owned, the way she’d always dreamed, with three kids, a dog, a cat and a swing set. But it hadn’t been her fault that Dale hadn’t kept his promise to marry her after college. Still, everything she needed was right here in her hometown. She should be happy.

She was happy.

“I’m catching the red-eye back to LA,” she overheard Cindy say as she approached. “With the wedding coming, my condo renos and my practice on the go, I’ve got way too much happening to stick around here.”

“You’re going to have a heart attack if you keep up this pace,” Teri warned.

Cindy snickered. “I live for interesting times. I can sleep when I’m dead.”

“I don’t know how you do it,” Steph interjected, passing the cookies around. “I like my sleep way too much.”

Cindy tipped her head side to side, declining a cookie. “You have to keep moving if you want to stay on top. LA’s not like Everville.”

Steph quirked an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, c’mon. You’ve been all over the place. You know that small-town upper New York State isn’t exactly a busy cultural and business hub. Frankly, I’d go nuts if I had to come back here permanently. I mean, everything here opens at ten and closes at six.”

“I’m up at four every morning to bake,” Steph said stiffly, belatedly realizing her schedule had nothing to do with the rest of the town’s business hours.

Cindy’s smile was toothy and unflinching. “Good for you.”

It was her tone that had grated on her, Steph concluded much later, after everyone had gone home and she was left to clean up the half-empty wineglasses and leftovers. Everyone had con...condo...condensation...

Given me that pitying attitude, she huffed. They’d all used that tone that said, “You poor thing, working like a dog, stuck in Everville and not even married!”

It was ridiculous, she knew, to even think any of her friends thought that about her. She couldn’t know for sure what any of them felt.

And she hadn’t expected those strange, sorry looks. The girls of the cheerleading squad whom she’d once considered sisters had all grown up, branched out and moved on. They’d changed, and they saw her as still living in the past. She’d always thought she was a good judge of character, but she didn’t know them anymore, and they didn’t know her. Why had she insisted on this reunion? Nostalgia? Loneliness?

“Leave those.” Helen Stephens nodded at the empty glasses in her hand. “I’ll call Lucena and have her clean up.”

“I can do it, Mom.” Stephanie loaded the stemware into the dishwasher. “I’m not dragging Lucena in on her day off. I had the party here, so I’ll be the one to clean.”

Helen’s brow furrowed as if she was worried her only daughter might trip and fall on a wineglass. “I just don’t want you to wear yourself out.” Her expression eased as she beamed around the house. “You did such a lovely job with all the decorations and food—” she gestured toward the console table in the foyer “—but you forgot to hand out your treat bags.”

Steph sucked in her lower lip. As everyone was leaving, there’d been so much chaos as her friends scrambled for their coats and purses that Steph had nearly forgotten all about her take-home party favors. Many of her friends had refused anyway because they were on diets or “couldn’t have those around the house.” The statement baffled her. Who couldn’t have cookies around the house? But she didn’t press the matter. She wasn’t about to admit she’d taken their rejection personally, either.

“I’ll bring them to the seniors’ home tomorrow,” Steph said. Then she pictured the residents reaching for the plates only to remember their blood pressure, their sugar intake, their weak stomachs and numerous food allergies. The nurses probably would have to throw out the treats to ensure no one tried their luck.

Steph had spent three whole days baking twelve dozen cookies, all of them her original recipes.

They were her life’s work—and they’d been rejected. Dismissed.

Like Steph.

“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” Helen laid a hand on her daughter’s arm, and Steph snapped out of her haze.

“Nothing.” She looked away to hide her sudden tears. “Maybe I am a little tired.”

Helen drew her away from the table. “Then leave this all for tomorrow. Lucena can take care of it—that’s what we pay her for.” She urged Steph toward the stairs. “Go take a nice hot shower and get some rest. You don’t want bags under your eyes.”

“But, Mom...” She nearly tripped as her mother hustled her along.

“Go on, baby.” She stopped abruptly and cupped Steph’s cheek, an almost manic look of love shining in her face. “As long as you live under this roof, you don’t have to worry about a thing.” The words were uttered in a low coo, but Steph felt something more behind them this time, as if her mother knew exactly what was wrong and would fix everything.

That’s what she did. She fixed everything.

Helen shooed her up the stairs the same way she had throughout Steph’s high school years. As fast as Steph climbed, though, she felt as though she were sinking deeper into the rut of her life. In the seven-hundred-square-foot suite that was her bedroom, she shut the door behind her and leaned against the door frame.

Cold winter light gleamed off all the surfaces. Her mom had filled the suite with mirrored furniture, saying how she loved the way it made her daughter look like a queen standing in her diamond palace. Steph had loved it, too, but right now she thought the room looked sterile, the light casting weird shadows across the walls and distorting her image in every reflection.

It used to be easy to simply go to her room and whittle away her worries with a manicure while watching a DVD, followed by a shopping trip into town. That’s what she’d done since she was a teen.

But she wasn’t a teen anymore. She was thirty...and still living at home with a closet full of designer clothes, the latest in home fashions and anything else she could ever want or ask for. She had a job to give her days meaning and show the world she wasn’t just a princess waiting for her prince to sweep her away. She volunteered at the old folks’ home and at many charity events her parents supported. She had a well-padded bank account, a pretty nice car, a loving family and not a care in the world.

But it wasn’t enough.

Something had to change.

Now.

* * *

“I’M SEVENTEEN MINUTES AWAY,” Aaron Caruthers declared over the hands-free cell phone, keeping the rumbling U-Haul truck at a steady forty-five miles per hour along the gray, slush-slickened road. His life’s possessions rattled around the interior, and he winced every time he hit a pothole. He hoped he’d used enough bubble wrap.

“Oh, Aaron, you didn’t need to call me to tell me that. I’d rather you have all your focus on the road.” Georgette Caruthers’s tone held a note of anxiety only her grandson could detect above her voice’s buttery warmth.

“I didn’t want you worrying. Traffic was heavier than expected out of Boston, and I stopped to help a lady change her tire just outside the city.”

“Well, aren’t you the superhero?” His grandmother chuckled, each word curling with the slight English inflection she’d never shaken. “Was she pretty? Did you get a phone number?”

He laughed. “She was married and very pregnant. I actually stopped because her baby bump flagged me down.”

“You’re a good boy, Aaron. Thanks for calling. I’ll have a nice cup of coffee and your favorite bran muffin waiting.”

“You’re the best, Gran. See you soon.” He hung up and focused on driving, knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel.

Even though the road here had been paved and widened, with additional barriers, signs and reflective markers delineating the solid cliff face rising up on the turn, Aaron always took this particular stretch slowly. He never took chances here—or anywhere, for that matter. He brought the truck down to thirty, leaned on his horn as he made the turn to alert any oncoming drivers, then sped up once more as he caromed around the corner.

His shoulders gradually slackened, the tension draining away as he moved past the spot where his parents had been killed in a car accident. He hated that stretch of the highway. He could’ve taken the long route to avoid it, but frankly, that road wasn’t any safer. At least he knew exactly what to expect on this route to Everville and how to deal with any emergency that might crop up.

Fourteen minutes later, the truck rumbled past a new hand-painted sign that said Welcome to Everville: The Town That Endures. He slowed as downtown hove into view. The buildings were painted blue-gray by the early evening light, prettily framed between wrought iron latticework streetlamps and small piles of flecked snow. As he pulled onto Main Street, the pavement gave way to gray-brown mud and gravel that splashed and scattered beneath his tires. Bright orange pylons and construction signs jutted from the ground like oversize, mutated flowers in a post-apocalyptic small-town Americana landscape. His gran had said the town was undergoing a massive renovation as the old sewer mains and pipes were replaced. It was a good thing his grandmother’s bakery was on the road outside town; he couldn’t imagine how this construction affected businesses in the area.

Change is good, he reminded himself. Even if it was a little scary.

Gran’s house was just off Main Street. He pulled the truck onto the curb as Georgette opened the door to the bungalow. Warm light spilled into the street. He hopped out of the cab.

“It’s so good to see you...and all in one piece.” She opened her arms.

“You shouldn’t be out in the cold in your condition,” he said, hugging her.

“Pshaw. I’m not that frail, Aaron. Come inside. There’s plenty of time to unpack later. I asked some friends to come help.”

“You didn’t have to do that.” Since Gran was in no shape to carry anything heavier than a plate of biscuits, he was grateful for assistance, even if he wasn’t wild about near-strangers poking into his personal belongings. Pretty soon, everyone would know he was back. It’d been a while since he’d been home. The fishbowl of small-town living was something he’d have to get used to all over again.

The bungalow Aaron had grown up in hadn’t changed since he’d first moved in when he was barely eight years old. The immaculate carpets were still that odd shade of pink-gray, which went with the floral wallpaper and powder-white floral-themed light fixtures throughout the house. The place had always reminded him of a wedding cake. Gran still had the same furniture, too, meticulously kept despite those years of having a school-age boy living under the same roof. Then again, Aaron had always been a neat freak. He hated messes.

Georgette slipped off her shawl, and Aaron flinched. Gran had always been dancer thin, but seeing how her clothes hung off her now shocked him. And she moved so much more slowly. He followed her into the kitchen, insisting on getting his own coffee though she fussed over it. Nothing in here had changed, either, from the glass-fronted cabinets to the chintz-pattern china. The aroma of coffee and baking permeated the air.

Aaron made her sit while he took out the cream and sugar. Everything was exactly where it had been all those years ago. Muscle memory took control as he poured coffee into the mugs he’d always thought of as his and Gran’s. The promised muffins were warming in the oven, and he put two on chipped saucers for each of them.

“How are you feeling?” he asked as he sat.

“Tired. I’ve got a headache most days. Nothing serious.”

“Of course it’s serious.” He took her hands. “You’ve probably already heard this enough from everyone else, but I’m going to say it again. There’s nothing minor about a minor stroke.” She wouldn’t quite meet his eye, which made him worry. “Are you having any loss of sensation still?”

“In my left hand.” She flexed it, just barely, and he frowned. “The physical therapist will decide whether or not I need to work on it.”

“Of course you need to work on it. I’ll make sure they give you something.”

She tucked her hand beneath the table. “Aaron, really, I’m fine. You didn’t have to pick up your life and move back here.”

“I wanted to. And I couldn’t let you be on your own.”

She waved a hand, but not as vigorously as her protest might have warranted. “I just don’t want you worrying over me. You have a life in Boston.”

“It was time for a change.” He kissed her on the forehead. “Besides, it’s worth coming home for your baking.” He grinned as he broke the bran muffin and bit into the warm, moist pastry. People had laughed when at ten years old he’d declared bran muffins were his favorite thing Gran made. He hadn’t been into sugary treats, which apparently was heresy for the grandson of a baker.

Gran had understood. Aaron was simply more practical when it came to his diet. He was practical when it came to everything, and moving home to take care of Georgette was the best and most practical solution to her long-term care. He would never abandon her to a facility full of strangers. She’d taken him in and raised him after his parents’ deaths. He owed her, and he was happy to do whatever necessary to make her happy and comfortable.

For however long she had.

He washed the suddenly dry bite of muffin down with a sip of coffee. “So how’s the bakery doing?” he asked, bracing for a fight. Gran had lived and breathed that bakery for years. She and Grandpa had opened it right after they’d married, and she’d kept it running since his death more than twenty-five years ago.

“The bakery’s fine,” Georgette replied. “I have help these days, and I’m delegating more responsibility. Otherwise, I’d be there right now.”

Gran had always been a bit of a control freak and workaholic. For her to give up any part of the business was major. Aaron put down his mug and leaned forward. “Financially speaking, how are you doing?”

His grandmother’s eyes flicked around the room like a trapped bird searching for an escape. It was a moment before she responded. “We had a good Christmas season. Valentine’s was a little slower this year, but...” She shrugged.

Aaron sighed. He would have to look at the books himself. Gran rarely shared her problems with him. He hadn’t realized until high school how tight things had been, and then he’d done whatever he’d been able to help get the business out of the red. After he’d finished college he’d learned the reason for all that debt had been that his grandmother had been putting aside everything she could for tuition.

“Really, I am happy to see you.” Georgette touched his arm. “But I feel terribly guilty for taking you away from your life. What are you going to do for a job in Everville? I’m not sure there’s much call for real-estate lawyers here.”

“Well, I did say I was ready for a change.” Which wasn’t far from the truth. He was good at what he did, and probably would’ve slaved away at his firm for the rest of his life had that phone call from the hospital not come. But the moment it had, he’d been prepared. Part of him had always been prepared with a plan B, an exit strategy.