A Taste of Heaven Page 15

  “You mean, like a Scottish guy?”

  Sophia and Cady broke down into giggles.

  “Hey! Don’t leave me out of this conversation.” Emilia turned up, wiping her hands on an apron. “So spill. What’s going on, Mom?”

  Sophia looked at her girls, standing side-by-side, so beautiful, a mix of her and David and their very own spirits. She reached out and grabbed their hands, squeezing them in reassurance.

  “I just want you both to know. I love you. And thank you. This competition has been good for me. I forgot that I can do things on my own. I forgot that I’m . . .” She took a deep breath. “I’m . . . me. Not just part of ‘David and Sophia.’ But Sophia. Alone. And that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. It’s the new thing. And I have to embrace this and make it good. For all of us.”

  The girls slid their arms around her and leaned against her shoulders. They sobbed quietly, and she just held them and let them cry. Let all of them cry for what was lost, what was new, what was coming.

  Emilia wiped the tears from Sophia’s cheek. “And the Beast? Elliott? Do you trust him?”

  “Yes, I do. He is incredibly strong-willed, and sensitive, and authentic, and”—and intense and passionate and exciting and—“yes. I trust him.”

  “Mom, I think he needs you.” Emilia summed things up as usual.

  Sophia stared into her older daughter’s eyes, dark and insightful and shocking in their spot-on assessment of people and places and things. “I think you’re right.”

  “Ladies!” A shout from the kitchen had them all turning to the doorway. “Who’s ready for lunch?”

  “I’m ready,” Sophia answered without hesitation.

  And by God, it was the truth.

  ❦

  “So, Chef Adamson, what do you do when you’re not cooking?” Cady twirled strands of linguine around her spoon and dipped it into the creamy red sauce.

  “I sleep.”

  “Seriously. You cook and sleep . . . that’s it? I find that very difficult to believe.”

  “Believe it, Daughter Number Two.”

  Cady turned to Sophia. “Why does he keep calling me Daughter Number Two and chuckling?”

  Sophia smiled. “Because he calls his ex-wives Wife Number One, Two, and Three. He’s funny like that.”

  “You have three ex-wives?” Emilia whistled.

  Elliott did not look amused. “Aye. It’s true. I spent about ninety-five percent of my time on the restaurants and five percent on the marriages. Clearly, five percent is not enough. That was a mistake. My wives deserved better.” He swallowed a sip of his red wine. “And ninety-five percent wasn’t enough for the restaurants either. I’m not doing very well in either arena.”

  “You’re such a good cook. Why aren’t your restaurants doing well?” Cady asked.

  “Because Elliott ignores his customers, the space, the ambience, and all the other details that go into running a restaurant. Except the food. Isn’t that right, Beast?” Sophia wondered how Elliott would respond to the cold, hard truth.

  “Who told you that? Helene?” he barked.

  “Who’s Helene? One of his ex-wives?” Emilia whispered to her mother.

  “No, Helene is an opinionated French busy-body,” Elliott said. He scratched his beard in annoyance.

  “Helene is an accomplished chef and a wise woman. And I think down deep inside of Elliott he knows she’s right.”

  “Bah.”

  “I’m a design student. Did you know that, Elliott?” Cady smirked. “Guess what my final project was this semester? Designing a restaurant!”

  “That’s nice,” he said with no inflection whatsoever.

  “I’ve been managing a café on campus for the last year,” Emilia added.

  “God save me from opinionated and interfering women,” Elliott whispered under his breath.

  “If Elliott weren’t such an ogre, he could pick your brilliant brains and perhaps come up with some new ideas for his failing restaurant,” Sophia said.

  His gaze snapped up. “I need money. That’s all. Money.”

  “You need a lot more than money, Elliott. You need some new inspiration.”

  “I like cooking Scottish food, Sophia.”

  “I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about all the other stuff.”

  Elliott contemplated the ceiling and counted to ten. Em and Cady giggled the whole time.

  “So, Elliott, you’re all about Scottish food? Is that all you do?” Cady asked.

  “All? Aye. Traditional preparation. I pay homage to the old ways, the true ways. I’m not into molecular gastronomy and other gimmicks.” He crossed his arms belligerently.

  “Don’t you get bored with that?” Em asked. “I thought chefs liked trying new things.”

  Elliott rolled his eyes. “Bored? No. I respect Scottish tradition. I don’t need to elevate the food or update the food. When I hear chefs talking about that it drives me insane.” He spat out the words. “Why does Scottish cooking have to be elevated? Are the old ways not good enough? I respect years of tradition. That’s my cooking approach, and it will be until the day I die.”

  Emilia opened her mouth to ask another question, but Elliott cut her off.

  “Do you know that Cock-a-Leekie soup dates back to the sixteenth century? I remember butchering chickens with my mum and making the stock just the way she did with my nana. With leeks and smoked bacon and fresh herbs bundled up—a bouquet garni. The old ways are the best ways.”

  Em sat quietly as Elliott took another sip of wine and glared at Sophia, daring her to argue with him.

  “It’s like the Christmas light thing. With Dad. When we tried to get him to switch to the little white lights,” Cady said.

  Em laughed. “Oh my God! I forgot about that.”

  Elliott frowned. “What lights?” he asked.

  Cady continued, “We had these old Christmas tree lights. You know, the big ugly ones that are all the colors of the rainbow? The opposite of subtle and elegant. They were clunky and old-school.”

  “They belonged to Dad’s parents, and we inherited them,” Em said. “My father loved those things. They reminded him of his childhood.”

  Sophia smiled at Elliott. “And he refused to update the tree.”

  Cady nodded her head. “We had a huge family fight. Mom, Em, and I wanted to get the elegant little white lights and try something new. Dad was appalled. He refused.”

  “Stubborn. I like that,” Elliott said. He smiled at Sophia and she smiled back.

  “Oh yeah. Stubborn. Dad said those lights were good enough for two generations of Browns, and we didn’t need the fancy ones. So that was the end of it. All of our friends had twinkly white lights on the tree, and we had the big fat clunkers.” Emilia shook her head.

  “And still do,” Cady said.

  Elliott stroked his beard. “I think I would have liked your father. He sounds like my kind of guy. Tell me more about him.”

  “What do you want to know?” Cady asked.

  “How did he deal with three interfering busybodies?” Elliott asked straight-faced.

  Emilia grinned. “We called him the Bumbling Professor. He was always knee-deep in papers and work and assignments. He spent most of his time reading and writing.”

  Cady nodded. “It’s true. He would be reading, and Mom would be dusting the table, and he would just lift the book at the exact second she needed him to. And then she’d dust under him. They were like a well-oiled machine.”

  Elliott poured himself more wine. “So he worked, and Sophia took care of the nest.”

  “Mom takes care of everyone,” Emilia said.

  “Yep. She took care of Dad, and us, of course. And the neighbors.” Cady glanced at her mother.

  “And her old friends from college.”

  “And the lady who checks us out at the general store.” Cady giggled.

  “And the baby birds that fall out of the trees into the garden.” Emilia high-fived her sister.

&nb
sp; Sophia laughed. “Enough. You guys are making me sound like Mother Teresa. I’m not that selfless. Please.”

  “I sort of think you are, Mom,” Cady said. “You can’t help yourself.”

  “Cady is right. You take care of everyone. Even me. You’re worried about me, aren’t you? My wives didn’t even worry about me, Sophia. They couldn’t have cared less if I went up in flames over the gas stove.” Elliott reached for her hand.

  “Maybe that’s because you treated them like assistants, Elliott. You reap what you sow. You’re lucky you didn’t wake up one morning with a big machete sticking out of your back.”

  “I had to make a choice. My career. Or a family. The wives knew what I was like when they married me. They knew my first love was the kitchen.”

  “That sounds lonely,” Cady said.

  “I’m too busy fucking up my restaurants to be lonely,” he grumbled. “Yes, well, evidently I’m reaping now. No wives, and a restaurant on the brink of collapse. If I don’t win this contest, maybe I can get a job as Baldwin’s sous-chef. What do you think, Sophia?”

  “Never. You are the monarch of your kingdom, Beast. You just need to surround yourself with some talented friends. And treat them well.”

  Elliott smiled as he dug into his second plate of pasta. “Did I already say, ‘save me from interfering women?’”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “All right, ladies. Time for another cooking lesson. Your mother has informed me that all three of you have a ‘wicked sweet tooth.’ Is this true?” Elliott unwrapped the organic chocolate he’d purchased at the farmer’s market.

  “Aye!” Cady cheered. “Mom makes fabulous desserts. And Em and I are the happy recipients of her experiments.”

  Elliott stilled his hands and glanced at Sophia. “Your mother does make fabulous desserts. That’s why I’m here right now.”

  Em frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Sorry, dearie, not allowed to discuss that. It’s in the contract. On with the lesson. Today we’re going to be making a delicious Scottish specialty—orange chocolate mousse. With whisky of course.” He looked at the girls. “Are both of you old enough for whisky? Good,” he said without waiting for an answer.

  Cady giggled. “Yum. I love chocolate mousse.”

  “So do I,” Em agreed. “What can we do to help?”

  “I need four eggs separated, and an orange rind grated.”

  Sophia nudged his hip. “What about me?”

  He nudged hers back. “I have a few ideas.” He growled the words, low and soft in her ear.

  Sophia felt a blush spread from her neck up the side of her face.

  Elliott cleared his throat. “But if you’re talking about the recipe, how about whisking some egg whites.” He pushed his hip against her again.

  All she could think about was heat. His massive body was like a furnace in the middle of her kitchen. He leaned down and nuzzled her lips, brushing his beard along the corner of her mouth.

  “You taste like chocolate, Elliott.” Sophia licked her lips and wished for one selfish moment that they were alone.

  “You taste like forbidden fruit, sweet Sophia.” He pressed his lips flush against her ear, so that only she could hear his words. “When do I get to taste you again? I can hardly wait.” He bit out the words, soft but edged with desperation.

  Sophia felt her soul fill with joy. Perhaps she was taming this beast after all.

  “Ahem!” Cady swatted her mother on the butt with an old dishrag. “Let’s not turn this into that kind of lesson. I thought we were making chocolate mousse?”

  “Yeah,” Emilia said. “There’s no kissing in the Forget-Me-Not Café. That’s an automatic disqualification.”

  Elliott reluctantly pulled his attention away from Sophia and faced the girls. “What’s the Forget-Me-Not Café?”

  “Mom’s old dream. She thought about opening a bistro in town. I even painted a sign for her. But then Grandma got sick and dad became head of the history department, and she got too busy. Now we call her kitchen the Forget-Me-Not Café.”

  “Is that true, Sophia?” Elliott regarded her with a thoughtful expression.

  “Dreams from long ago.” She shrugged and refused to look him in the eye. Afraid he would see too much this time. See that it wasn’t such a toss-away dream, and that maybe the disappointment still stung.

  “So you sacrificed a career for your family. And I sacrificed my family for a career.”

  She glanced up at him, shocked by the quiet intensity of his words.

  Was it true? They stared at each other, her hands still clutching the whisk and his fingers gripping the whisky bottle, holding on for dear life. He held onto something comforting, something Scottish. And what was she holding onto?

  Cady boosted herself onto the counter and peered out the window. “Hey! I have a good idea. The garden is packed with Viola. Let’s make some candied violets for the dessert. That will look adorable on top of the chocolate mousse.”

  Sophia was thankful for Cady’s interruption. She ripped her gaze away from Elliott and smiled at her youngest daughter. “Good idea, honey. Let’s make Elliott play with flowers for a change.” Her voice wobbled a bit.

  Elliott set down the bottle of whisky and wrapped his arms around her from behind.

  Maybe she hadn’t hid the disappointment as well as she thought. She leaned back against his hard chest and sighed.

  “You’ve raised a whole family of garden sprites, I see.” He whispered the words into the top of her hair. “Do you put flowers on everything?”

  Sophia smiled up at him. “Everything edible.”

  “We like to accessorize,” Em said.

  “Your food?” Elliott shook his head.

  “Why not? We have tons of flowers in the garden, and they make Mom’s desserts look gorgeous,” Cady said.

  Elliott rolled his eyes. “I think your daughter would like Jenny the Blogger. The two of them could accessorize all the platters for dinner.”

  “Hm. I’m not too sure about that,” Sophia answered. “But I agree about the candied violets. Let’s teach Elliott something today.” She turned in his arms. “What do you think, Chef Adamson? Are you ready for a lesson?”

  He barked out a laugh.

  “I don’t know about this,” Em said. “Elliott seems a bit heavy-handed. He’ll probably beat the shit out of those flowers.”

  Cady shook her head sadly. “Yep. Turn them into compost.”

  Emilia folded her arms across her chest. “I suppose we can try to teach him some cooking techniques. But we’re going to need a lot of patience.”

  Elliott chuckled. “I can see you ladies won’t be satisfied until I’m dancing in the garden with you. Fine. You can teach me how to make candied violets, and I’ll get you all drunk on good Scottish whisky.”

  And so they did. The three Brown women showed Elliott how to pluck the flower heads off Viola tricolor and line them up on a sheet of parchment. They painted them with egg whites and water and giggled as Elliott sprinkled sugar on the blossoms. He sang a naughty Scottish ditty while he worked, and Em and Cady made up some new lyrics that had him roaring with laughter.

  And when the mousse was done, flavored with orange and whisky and topped with violets, the four of them toasted their success by devouring the desserts, flowers and all. They stood in the kitchen and licked the bottom of their bowls. The afternoon sun slanted in through the windows and turned Elliott’s dark blue eyes into the color of sea glass. Eyes that followed Sophia as she moved about the kitchen, cleaning pots and putting away the dishes. Eyes filled with promises, dark and deep and delicious.

  And even though Sophia knew they hadn’t imbibed enough whisky to get tipsy, she felt a little bit drunk.

  In a good way.

  ❦

  “And this one?” Elliott pointed to a photo on the mantel. “Where was this taken?”

  “That was taken in Bermuda. On my honeymoon. I was twenty-four.”

  “David
looks smitten with you. Look at him, ignoring the turquoise sea, eyes only for you.”

  “Hmm. For a few minutes, maybe. Until the latest issue of Medieval History arrived in the mailbox.”

  Elliott chuckled. “It’s hard to compete with decapitations and blood-thirsty monarchs.”

  “Yes, it is.” Sophia lifted another frame. “This is one of my favorites. The girls in their little rowboat on the Cape. They were looking for mermaids.”

  “An admirable mission.” Elliott slid an arm around her waist.

  The girls were out with friends, having a beer at the local pub. So she and Elliott were alone. It was odd to be alone with a man other than David in this house. And one with such a huge presence, big and bold. And sexy. She kept seeing his head between her legs, bobbing as he feasted. With so much enthusiasm and noise. She wanted that again. She wanted it tonight.

  Elliott squeezed her hip. “I was nervous about coming here. I thought I would feel uncomfortable in your late husband’s home. Like an interloper. But this house feels like your house. I don’t sense him that much.”

  “I guess you’re right. It’s always been a woman’s home, with the three of us. David would usually steal away to his office at the college. Or curl up in the corner and read.”

  She pointed to the recliner. “That was his usual spot. The reading nook. With his chair and his little side table. And the lamp that illuminated his bald spot.”

  Elliott rubbed his bare head. “That might be the only thing the two of us have in common.”

  “In some ways, we were leading parallel lives. I did my thing, and he did his thing. But his quiet presence was always comforting to me. It was always there, making me feel safe. And when it was gone . . .”

  “What happened?” Elliott kissed her forehead.

  Maybe the distraction of Sophia’s life was good for him. It temporarily dismissed the anxiety of tomorrow’s final.

  “What happened? We were all just plugging along. You probably think this life—my old life—was boring as hell. Gardening, cooking, visiting with the girls.”

  “I think it sounds lovely. You held your family together all those years. And you’re still doing it. Don’t downplay your strength, Sophia.”