From Scratch (27 page)

“Hey, what was that for?” He stared at his older brother.

Mac leaned back into the booth, stretching his arms along the top of the bench. “You want to tell me what rabbit is chasing circles in that brain of yours?”

Sean relied on Mac's advice in all areas of his life from applying to the Police Academy to buying his house to his final purchase of his prized drill, but this was different. Maggie trusted Sean with her deepest secrets and he didn't want to break Maggie's confidence just so he could get the advice of his big brother. “Just work stuff. I have a case that's weighing a little heavy, but nothing I can't handle.”

“If you say so…”

“I do.”

A bell clanged twice at the bar and all heads swiveled toward the owner in his bow tie and suspenders. “Hey all, we've got a local boy in here tonight whose been doing some pretty spectacular things up in Minnesota.” He slapped Joey on the back. “Welcome our most famous customer of the evening, outfielder, Joe Taylor.”

The restaurant erupted into applause and vocal chatter.

Sean looked at Mac and they simultaneously rolled their eyes.

Joey gave his goofy wide grin and took a small slip of paper and a pen from a woman in the sudden crowd surrounding him.

“Guess we won't get our popcorn anytime soon.”

“That boy needs an ego setback.” Mac stared at his brother. “He's got more talent in his pinky finger than you and I combined, and yet he's not working at his game or giving back in any meaningful way.”

“He's still pretty young. He'll figure it out sooner or later.”

“I just hope sooner comes before later or we‘ll have our hands full in about twenty years with a washed-up old ballplayer who talks about the good old days and doesn't have a penny or a meaningful relationship to show for it.”

“When did you become a relationship expert?” Sean chuckled.

Mac lifted a single shoulder. “I don't know. In the past few weeks, I've watched Bent's two daughters, as different as a hockey puck and ballet shoes, try and deal with the death of their father and how they are supposed to move forward. Georgie, the one I've known forever, has been taking it all in a stride. Loved her dad. Knew he loved her. Loves the Lord. Sweet kid. But her sister, Charlie, excuse me, Charlotte, is another animal all together. Daddy abandonment issues. A mother who would drive St. Teresa insane. No faith in anything. And a real pain, too. I guess it's all made me appreciate what we had as kids. What we have as brothers, even as adults. I'm thankful for the foundation Mom and Dad gave us—in church, on the farm, in Gibson's Run. I just wish Joe could see that everything he's chasing after is going down a path of heartache and pain.”

“I know. I worry about him. He could do so much for so many because he can hit a round ball with a round bat. I just wish he could see it, too.” Sean glanced over his shoulder.

Joey was signing autographs, posing for pictures, being adored by dozens of people he didn't and would never know. He appeared happy, but only on the surface.

“Not a lot we can do for him tonight,” Sean mused.

Their waitress appeared with two steaming pies and slid them on the table between Mac and Sean. “Here you go, boys. Is there anything else I can get you?”

Sean handed Mac a plate and gave a little head nod toward Joey. “You could whisper to our brother that his food is here.”

Mac lifted two square pieces to his plate, the cheese stretching to remain attached to the balance of the pizza. “Or you could not tell him and we could eat all of this deliciousness ourselves.”

She chuckled, sliding a pen behind her ear. “I've been serving you three boys since you were barely tall enough to see over the table. You've always made me laugh.” She turned and made her way to Joey.

“Eat fast,” Mac mumbled through a mouth filled with cheese and pepperoni.

Sean shoved a square slice into his mouth. The hot cheese nearly scalded the roof of his mouth, but the sweet, tender crust and subtle sauce made suffering worth it. “Mmm. I can't believe I forget how good this pizza is.”

“Slingshots me back to childhood…sweaty baseball games…Dad.”

“…Dad…” An image, really just a smile, brushed across Sean's mind. His dad always seemed bigger than life, wise and happy. The one word to describe Frank Taylor was…wise. He missed his dad, even twenty plus years after his death. Sean wished he could draw on some of that famous Taylor insight now. He wished he could ask him what to do about Maggie.

Joey dropped onto the bench beside Sean with a thud, empty popcorn basket in hand, and shoved a piece of pizza into his mouth in one bite. “Oh, my good-wiss. Id's sooo…g-wood,” he mumbled through his full mouth.

Mac threw a napkin at him. “Hey, mom taught us all better than that. I don't need to have your spray on my pizza.”

Sean felt a wide grin stretch across his face. He loved his brothers. With all of their faults, his included, he wouldn't want to call anyone else on the planet siblings. He knew he could trust them with his life. And Maggie's. Maybe he could get a little Taylor wisdom after all.

“Guys, I need some advice.”

20

“Just dot those reindeer with a single chocolate bit for an eye. You can use a toothpick or a long skewer.” Maggie called out to Jenna from the back of the walk-in.

“Got it,” Jenna yelled over the industrial mixer and the upbeat harmonies of the Broadway soundtrack they'd chosen for the evening. Both agreed that Christmas music was wonderful, but after twelve hours a day, even elves needed a palate cleanser.

Maggie balanced a tray loaded with eggs, butter, and milk as she walked out of the cooler, slamming the door shut with her foot. She weaved between various makeshift cooling stations and slippery smatterings of flour. Mopping tonight would be a chore, but Maggie couldn't remember the last time she was so happy.

Since Thanksgiving evening, she felt free and alive in ways she hadn't since before her parents' deaths. Even when she was Mary Margaret Sloan—living all over the country—she never shared who she really was for fear of Mitchell finding her. But now that Sean knew everything, she was walking on clouds.

She had her music back, her joy, and she belted out the “la-la-la's” of the musical's upbeat song. She slid the heavy tray onto a side counter, grabbed Jenna's hands, and started to spin her around the messy kitchen as she sang.

Jenna put up a hand, giggling and out of breath. “Whew, I haven't moved that fast since the last time I took an exercise class.”

“I just love this song. It's so peppy and ridiculous.” She lifted the tray and glanced over her shoulder at the dozens of reindeer Jenna was decorating. “They look as if they'll come to life with a simple snap of a rein and the rolling belly of a chuckling Santa. You'll put me out of a job before you know it.”

“I don't know about that, but it's so much fun.” Jenna leaned forward and dotted the final eye on the last reindeer on the tray. “How long until these will be dry enough to pack, do you think?”

Maggie heaved the industrial mixing bowl filled with dough for the raspberry shortbread bars and waddled to the last clear counter space. The bowl landed on the table with a muffled thud. “Whew, that will give your arms a workout.” She glanced at the cookies and looked at the clock. “Probably about an hour? Do you need to go? I'll be fine to finish up.”

Jenna shook her head and wiped her hands against her flour- and butter-caked apron. “I just wanted to run a pizza home to Ty. He's been studying non-stop from the time he gets home until he can barely keep his eyes open. I'd like to take him some dinner, maybe a few cookies, and be back before we pack up all of these delectable goodies.”

Maggie flipped the bowl over, tugging the heavy dough onto the stainless steel surface. “I think that sounds wonderful. I'm just going to bake this shortbread crust and mix up the chocolate-chocolate cookies Mr. Paul requested, and then we'll be in the home stretch. Maybe only another hour or two tonight. I can't thank you enough, Jenna. Between you, Cassie, and Robert helping, my stress level has been reduced from a hundred to a steady twenty-seven.”

“It's my pleasure. What does it say about me when I am more excited about Christmas break than my students because I get to work at the coolest shop in town?” She yanked off her apron, tossed it in the laundry basket, and lifted her coat from the rack. “I should be back in less than an hour.”

“Take your time. You barely get to see Ty. Tell him thank you, again, for me.”

“You got it.” Jenna flashed her a quick grin. Stopping, she leaned backwards, holding the door open and letting the cool air battle against the billowing heat filling the kitchen. “I almost forgot. Cass said that some guy came by today to see you. Left you an envelope at the front. Cassie said he was super cute in a Clark Kent kind of way. Should the good chief be worried?” Jenna lifted an eyebrow.

“Hardly. Thanks for letting me know. Now, go see your husband.” She waved a dough encrusted hand to shoo Jenna out the back door.

“Roger that.”

The door slammed shut and Maggie focused on spreading a quarter-inch layer of shortbread in prepped jelly roll pans. A fleeting thought about locking the door chased through her mind, but her hands were covered in sticky globs of butter, sugar, and flour.

She smoothed the surface with a wide off-set spatula, careful not to overwork the shortbread and make it tough. The ovens were pre-set and steaming hot as she slid the four trays in. She flipped the egg timer to ten minutes and washed her hands.

She lifted a clean dishtowel from the rack near the sink and then thrust the door open with her hip and scanned the café counters for an envelope. The space nearly sparkled. Hiring a couple of college kids was a genius plan. They were great. Maybe, they would be interested in working some Saturdays or for the summer? She tossed the dishcloth over her shoulder and shook her head. No need to get ahead of herself.
Get through Christmas, girl. One step at a time.

She poked around the register, a couple of coffee sleeves, a few customer copies of credit card slips. She would have to remind the kids to throw those in the shredder. But no envelope.

Where could it be? Who would leave her an envelope? Clark Kent good-looking? Probably Marshall Smith. Maggie chuckled. “More Superman than Clark Kent, but whatever.”

Poking out from under the register, she saw the tip of white and tugged the thick business envelope into her hand. Nothing was written on the front. The envelope was heavy. She tore off the end and slid a stack of photos into her hand.

Bile burned up her throat as her smiling face stared back at her, glossy and shiny. The picture was of her in her apartment. Not blurred through the window or choppy between blinds, but a clear, high resolution shot of Maggie in her kitchen laughing. She dropped the stack onto the counter and they scattered like leaves in the wind. Her breaths came in small shallow bursts. Every cell in her body was alert, burning. Blood beat in her head. Her heart pounded. Cold sweat beaded across her neck and forehead.

One picture peaked through from the bottom of the pile. She slid it out with two fingers, gently, as if it might burn to touch. Her profile was framed in a thick red heart. The other person in the photo was scratched out with hundreds of small scrapes, wiping the face until only white paper showed. She didn't need to see the face to know it was Sean. The picture was from the night of the Policeman's Ball, the night he'd first kissed her.

The back door. Dropping the photo, she shoved through the swinging door and ran to the heavy metal exit. Slamming the lock into its shaft she leaned against the door.

Run.

She ripped off her apron and threw it on the counter. She crashed into the long table and barely noticed the tear in her cotton pants as she shot up the back stairs that connected to her apartment on the third floor. The keys in her hands clinked together as she shakily unlocked her door. With a forceful thrust, the warped entry door slammed against the living room wall. She skated through the walkway closet, yanking a full backpack from the shelf and skidded to a stop in her bedroom.

She ripped off her t-shirt and pants and yanked on jeans and a hoodie that were folded in the bag. Jerking the ponytail holder from her head, she wrapped her hair in a tight coil, fitting a tattered ball cap onto her head and grabbed a fleece jacket from the bottom of the bag. She checked the remaining contents quickly: two burn phones, a thousand dollars in cash, a new ID with a matching credit card, a box of auburn hair dye, and keys to a beat-up truck, registered in Indiana, purchased two weeks after Mitchell's release. Zipping the bag closed, she tossed the backpack over her shoulder and skidded to the open door.

“Hello Mary Margaret.” The voice, slow, deep with a hint of New England on the edges, caused every hair to stand at attention on the back of her neck. Her body went rigid with the ice running through her veins. Wishing her mind was playing a horrible, awful trick on her, she turned. Her eyes locked on the face that had haunted her nightmares, both sleeping and awake, for a decade. She swallowed, her throat suddenly thick and dry.

He leaned casually against her kitchen island. His gray-and-black tweed jacket topped a crisp white button down shirt. His jeans were dark blue—stiff with the crease of the salesroom floor. He seemed broader, more muscular. His hair was nearly buzzed, not the slick coiffed mane she remembered. A light day's growth of beard shaded the slight pallor of his face, but did little to diminish the sharp angles of his cheekbones. But his eyes were the same. Cold, steely gray. Narrow and piercing from behind wide black framed glasses.

“Mitchell.”

A slow sneer curled the corners of his lips. He uncrossed his arms and slithered across the living room until he stood steps from her. He drew a long finger down her cheek. His touch on her was only for a second, and yet she instantly felt the need for a scalding shower. But she didn't move. She knew he wanted her to run. Her running was part of his game, made him punishing her justified. So she stood, rooted to the ground.