A Taste of Heaven Read online

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Other Works by Penny Watson

  A Taste of Heaven

  Penny Watson

  A TASTE OF HEAVEN

  Copyright © 2015 Nina Roth Borromeo

  Cover Design: Stone Lily

  Cover Image: 123RF, Alena Haurylik

  Editorial: Helen Hardt

  Ebook Production: QA Productions

  All rights reserved. Except for the use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means is forbidden without the express permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Chapter One

  Sweet.

  Chocolate drizzle with a hint of orange zest.

  Salty.

  Toasted hazelnuts with a smoky crunch.

  Soft.

  Dollop of pudding with vanilla bean and bourbon.

  Sentiment.

  Indigo violas sprinkled over the plate like a wash of spring.

  Sophia Brown placed the dessert dishes in front of her guests, turning them so the pudding was at ten o’clock, the nuts in the center, the drizzle at five o’clock. She refilled glasses with champagne and sparkling cider. She returned to the kitchen to turn on the espresso machine. She listened to the clatter of silver, the murmur of voices, the hushed whispers of concern.

  “Em, are you sure your mom is doing okay? She looks thin to me. She might be cooking a lot, but I don’t think she’s eating a lot.”

  “She’s . . . quiet. Subdued. I would say that’s normal under the circumstances.”

  Sophia smiled at the censure in her daughter’s voice. The cub defends the mama lion.

  “I think she’ll do better now that spring is here. She’s already gardening, already back to the plant nurseries. That will cheer her up.” Cady’s sweet voice was brimming with hope. Cub Number Two, optimistic as always.

  “Well,” Mrs. Anderson replied, “that may be true. But it’s been a long, hard winter. And Sophia went through quite a dark period.”

  “She’s grieving, Mrs. Anderson. People grieve after losing a spouse.” Em’s voice was low.

  “Mom is doing all the right things. She’s seeing a therapist. She’s going to church. She’s staying busy,” Cady said.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Margaret Anderson answered. There was a hint of disbelief in her tone. “However, I think she needs to get out of this house. It’s full of memories that must be painful—”

  “Does anyone want coffee?” Sophia brought in the silver platter and placed it on the table. It was topped with cream and cubes of sugar and tiny spoons tied with satin ribbons.

  Her life was unraveling. Had unraveled. Was messy, and confusing, and in complete disarray.

  But hell if her table didn’t look picture perfect.

  At least one part of her life was still in order.

  ❦

  “So, you see, Mrs. Brown, if we don’t treat the grub problem now, you’re going to have a much bigger problem in a couple of months.”

  Sophia leaned against the picket fence and surveyed the leading expert in lawn care.

  “Uh-huh.” She kicked her boot against a post and a large clump of dirt flew off. “What’s the much bigger problem going to be?”

  The kid, probably no older than twenty-one years, shook his head sadly, as though the weight of the world had lowered itself onto his scrawny shoulders.

  “Your lawn will be completely decimated.”

  “Hmm. Completely decimated.” She wished those words had no meaning for her. Other than grubs. Other than her lawn.

  “So you want to kill the grubs?”

  “Of course. Of course we want to kill the grubs. Not only will they eat the roots of your turf grass, but they attract undesirable animals, such as skunks, which will rip up your whole lawn trying to eat the grubs.”

  If Sophia were inclined to smile, or even laugh, this young man would have elicited a chuckle. His pants were falling down, with boxer shorts proudly displayed over the waistband. He had several thick gold chains around his neck. Pimples on his cheeks. Oversized sunglasses perched on top of his head.

  “Mrs. Brown? You do realize the severity of this problem. Right?”

  “The grubs must be hungry. Don’t you think? After this long Vermont winter? No wonder they’re munching on the grass roots.”

  The lawn boy looked perplexed.

  “And the skunks are probably hungry, too. My front yard is like a grub smorgasbord for them. They must love it.”

  “Do you want me to kill the skunks, too? ’Cause I can do that.”

  “It’s a suburban cycle of life. I plant turf grass, the grubs eat the turf grass, the skunks eat the grubs, and I’m left with a pile of dirt in my front yard.”

  “Mrs. Brown . . . are you okay?”

  She was scaring the lawn boy.

  She was completely decimated. And not even the thought of crushing garden villain number one could perk up her spirits. Sophia glanced at the vegetable plot and all she felt was tired. A bone-deep I’m-never-going-to-get-over-this fatigue. That little thrill, the one at the beginning of spring when the first tender pea shoots broke through the soil, had disappeared. She wondered if it would ever return.

  If David were still alive, he would say something like “Pay the kid and get rid of the grubs.” She could picture him at the dining room table, with books and papers spread all over the place and his glasses falling down his nose. He’d been completely disinterested in the house and garden. That was her responsibility. He didn’t want to know about grubs, or talk about grubs, or think about grubs, unless they had something to do with the sociopolitical climate of medieval Europe.

  David probably wouldn’t have noticed if their front yard was a pile of dirt.

  That made her smile. The thought of David trudging through a pile of dirt to get to the front door, stepping inside, noticing the bottom of his pants covered with muck, and saying, “Where did this come from?”

  Sophia laughed. It was a comical thought, and so very David, Mr. Bumbling Absent-Minded Professor.

  “Mrs. Brown? So . . . are we on for the insecticide application?”

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. I’m going to feed the grubs and skunks this year. They deserve something to eat that isn’t poison.”

  The lawn boy looked at her as though she’d lost her mind. Which she probably had.

  ❦

  “Mom. Cady and I found a casting call today. In the paper. And we think you should apply.”

  Sophia looked up from her plate. She’d been counting rosebuds again. On the edge of the chipped Limoges china. When she glanced at the girls, she was surprised to find them both staring at her intently.

  “Casting call? For a film? I don’t understand.”

  Cady smiled. Her sweet, lovely smile. It was crooked. Ever since she was a baby, she’d had that lop-sided grin. Sometimes it looked like a smirk—off-
center and full of attitude. But eventually, as the baby grew up and began to speak and take care of her dolls and plants and the other neighborhood children, Sophia realized she didn’t have a smirk in her. Just pure, sweet thoughtfulness.

  Sophia needed to do a better job of hiding her melancholy. She would rather die than cause her daughters worry. And they were worried.

  “It’s not for a film. It’s for a reality television cooking show. They’re looking for amateur cooks. You would be perfect, Mom.” Cady pushed a newspaper in front of her.

  “I think you should do it. It will get you out of the house. It will be a good distraction.” Em bit her lip. Dispensing advice to one’s mother was a tricky business.

  “It will be an adventure.” Cady reached over and squeezed her hand. “You need an adventure. You gotta do it.”

  “We’re not taking no for an answer.” Emilia made eye contact with Sophia. Her daughter’s gaze blazed with determination.

  Sophia laughed. “You two are full of crazy ideas. I couldn’t possibly—”

  Emilia shook her head. “You could possibly.”

  “I agree. Why do you think this is crazy?” Cady spooned a large serving of raspberries with chocolate mint sauce onto her plate.

  Sophia took a deep breath and tried to gather the energy to respond to their good intentions. “Girls, I couldn’t possibly be on television. Look at me. I’m old. I’m haggard. I’m tired.”

  Emilia raised an eyebrow. “You’re forty-seven. You’re gorgeous. You need something new and different to energize you. This year has been brutal. You need to find your inspiration again.”

  How did she know that? How could a twenty-one year-old kid possibly know that?

  Sophia picked up the newspaper clipping. A production company was looking for amateur cooks to compete on a new show. The contestants needed basic cooking skills but not professional training or experience. It would take place over a one-week period during the month of August.

  “This is insane.”

  “You know what? That’s why you should do it. You need to get out of your rut. Do something insane!” Cady pumped her spoon above her head.

  “You’re a nut.” But Sophia laughed.

  Emilia picked up the paper and began to read.

  Do you love cooking? Do you enjoy experimenting in the kitchen? Are your dinner parties the most popular event in the neighborhood? Then, WE WANT YOU! Send in an application to the Vermont Culinary Institute. Show us your enthusiasm and your culinary creativity. Finalists must appear on Monday, August 3 for the commencement of filming. MAY THE BEST MAN WIN! See if you have what it takes to be part of our team for A TASTE OF HEAVEN.

  “Be brave,” Emilia said.

  Be brave.

  Be brave.

  Could you be numb and brave at the same time?

  “Carpe diem!” Cady said.

  Sophia was creative. But the enthusiasm part might be a problem.

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “You have no plans for the summer. You have nothing to lose. If you get eliminated on the first day, you come home and we’ll figure out Plan B.” Emilia, the voice of reason, was not going to let this drop.

  “She’s not going to lose. She’s going to win.” Cady shot the lop-sided grin at her mother.

  Em shook her head. “It’s not about the winning. It’s about the experience.”

  “I know,” Cady said. “But she’s still going to win. Mom has a kick-ass palate, and she can throw together an incredible meal out of nothing. Even though she tries to hide it, she has a competitive streak a mile long. Remember the ‘peony incident’ with Mrs. Long?”

  Sophia frowned. “There was no incident. Mrs. Long made a big deal out of nothing.”

  “Says the woman with ten thousand peonies in her garden.”

  They all laughed.

  “Okay, maybe there was a small incident. But there was no way in hell I was going to let a little old lady trounce my peony collection.”

  “Whatever you say, Mom.” Em turned to her sister. “I think you may be right. Mom’s going to win.”

  Cady nodded sagely. “Yep.”

  Sophia stood and began to clear the table. “I’ll think about it.”

  She was still contemplating the list of requirements—creativity, enthusiasm, competitive spirit. How about the ability to taste?

  It might be a wee bit of a problem to participate on a cooking show when everything tasted like cardboard.

  But that was something her daughters did not need to know.

  Chapter Two

  When did your identity as a couple usurp your identity as an individual? Not on your wedding day. The bride was still the center of attention. Not really during the first five years of marriage. You still had your own interests, your own social life. When the children were babies, your identity switched into someone’s mother, not someone’s wife. But slowly, carefully, persistently, in fits and starts, creeping through your life like a vine, that identity took hold. It put down roots, sent up tender shoots, until they turned tough and woody and only the explosion of an unplanned heart attack could shred them into compost.

  And then the fresh-faced bride from years ago was transformed into the melancholy princess, face creased, arms freckled, psyche wounded in strange ways.

  Sophia and David had become, Sophia . . . Sophia, the widow.

  Sophia, the lost soul.

  And even though it was a pointless task, because nothing could piece together the shredded stems, you still tried to fix it sitting in a trench of soil and earthworms and six-packs of basil seedlings.

  You still tried.

  “Mom!”

  Startled, Sophia glanced up. Her eyes were unfocused. She’d been holding onto a basil plant for possibly ten minutes? She had no idea.

  Cady and Emilia peered at her over the edge of the picket fence.

  “What are you thinking about? You seemed a million miles away.” Emilia hurried into the garden and gently extricated the plant from Sophia’s hand.

  Cady grabbed a trowel, dug a hole, and popped the seedling into the row. “There. All done. I think you’ve had enough sun today, Mom. You’re losing it.”

  Emilia and Sophia laughed.

  “The sun, huh? Is that why you think I’m losing it?” Sophia kissed her younger daughter on the top of her head, in the nest of dark curls, not unlike her own. But missing the silver slivers.

  Cady threw the trowel down. “Time for a change of pace, Mrs. McGregor. You’ve been gardening like a crazy person. And all you have to show for it is a bunch of muddy boots.”

  “That’s not true!” Sophia answered. “Soon you’ll be chomping on tomato bruschetta and singing my horticultural praises.”

  “Soon you’ll be a household name,” Emilia said. Her eyes shone with determination.

  Sophia turned, anxiety clawing at her stomach. “What have you done, Em?”

  “We signed you up.”

  “For the cooking show,” Cady added.

  “You wouldn’t do it on your own. So we filled in the application for you. The whole thing.” Emilia plucked weeds and tossed them into a pile.

  “We even sneaked a photo one day while you were gardening. You look gor-geous!” Cady waggled her eyebrows.

  “Do not throw a hissy-fit,” Em instructed. She linked her arm through Sophia’s and tugged her toward the house. “Time to pack. You passed the initial application part of the contest. You need to be there at eight a.m. tomorrow for filming.”

  Sophia dug in her heels. Literally, in the muck. And refused to move. “No. Absolutely not. You girls had no right—”

  “We had every right! Every right! Do you think we’re just going to sit here and watch you waste away, and—”

  “Cady, calm down.” Emilia censured her sister.

  Tears poured down Cady’s cheeks. “No. I’m tired of pretending everything is okay. While Mom stares into space holding a freakin’ basil plant for half an hour.”

  �
��Honey, please don’t worry.”

  “Oh, I’m way past worried.”

  Sophia wasn’t used to seeing this expression on her younger daughter’s face. She looked world-weary, much too knowing. It was breaking Sophia’s heart.

  “Mommy.”

  Oh, hell.

  “He’s not coming back. And you need to move on. With something new. Something to get you . . . excited about living again. Please. Just try this.”

  Cady was pleading with her. How could she say no? Even though the thought of this show was a nightmare.

  “You told us a long time ago you had a dream of going to culinary school, and opening up your own little place. Remember?” Emilia prompted. “Go have fun. Just think of all the stories you can tell.”

  “When I was afraid to go on that big sailing trip, you told me to grow a pair.” Cady grabbed her mother’s hands.

  Sophia sighed. “That was completely different.”

  Cady shook her head. “How? It’s exactly the same.”

  “You’re young. Your whole life is ahead of you. I want you to experience everything. My time has come and gone, honey. With or without your father, my days of exploring and sailing off into the ocean are done.”

  “Bullshit.” Emilia’s hands shook.

  Hell, now she’s angry.

  “I agree with Em. That is bullshit. It’s time to start over, Mom.”

  Tears leaked down Sophia’s face. Dammit. “I’m too tired.” Her voice was ragged. She was falling.

  “I know,” Em said. “I know you’re tired. You need to find some new energy. Doing the same old thing that you used to do when Dad was alive, it’s not helping. Just give this a try.”

  “What’s Plan B?” Sophia asked. She was afraid of the answer. Ship her off to an island? Electroshock therapy? Plastic surgery?

  Cady laughed. “Don’t look so scared. Plan B is a trip around the world. Actually, we’re planning to do Plan B with you no matter what happens with Plan A. We thought we could use some of Dad’s insurance money and travel to all the places we’ve dreamed of.”

  They were all crying now. And sitting in the dirt. They hadn’t even made it to the porch.