Bliss and the Art of Forever (A Hope Springs Novel) (8 page)

It wasn’t Addy’s mother. It was Addy’s teacher. Brooklyn Harvey was standing on the sidewalk outside. She waved when she saw him looking at her, then wrapped her arms around herself and waited. And once he’d tamped down the dread that still lingered, he found himself smiling. Found himself drinking her in and his emotions settling. It shouldn’t be this good to see her. Though why in the world she was here . . .

She had to be cold. It was near midnight, and they might be in Texas, but it was the Hill Country and still February 14. Her sweater didn’t appear thick enough to do its job, and though she had on jeans, she wasn’t wearing socks with her flat slip-on shoes. He headed for the door, turning the locks at both the top and the bottom, and pushing it open.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think about you being all locked in,” she said before he even got out a hello. “Though that answers that question.”

“It’s just a lock,” he said, the cold rushing in and chilling him. “No big deal. Hang on. Let me turn down the music. What question?”

“Whether or not you wear chef whites.”

It was so out of the blue, it left him looking down at his white coat and the stains of his work, at his black-and-white checkered pants Addy said were like her PopPop’s crosswords, and wondering if she’d come for a particular reason, if she had something to say she couldn’t do over the phone. If it was about Addy and couldn’t wait.

“Is that what you came here to ask me? What I wear to work?” If so, he supposed it was better than asking him what he slept in.

Still standing near the door, she shook her head.

Well, something had brought her here. Once he’d turned down the music, he headed back to where she waited, and asked, “Are you okay?”

“It’s not that important,” she said. “And it could’ve waited, but I was thinking about it, and I couldn’t sleep . . .” She pushed her hair from her face, tucked one side behind her ear, and shrugged.

“What is it?”

“I thought of a way for you to make up for all the class parties you’ve missed.”

That’s why she was here? Though the question he should be asking was why was she thinking of him while in bed? Was he the cause of her insomnia, or what she’d hoped would be a cure? “How ’bout I just promise to do a better job of keeping up next year?”

“You could do that,” she said, canting her head as she studied him. “Or you could do a demonstration for the class. Show them how you made the candies you brought to story hour.”

“A demonstration.” He tried to wrap his mind around the idea. “Like here?”

Walking farther into the shop, she gestured toward his kitchen. “I know the window looking out over the register is one-way glass. What about the one on the side facing the shelves? The one behind the drawn blinds? That’s a regular window, yes?”

He nodded.

She nodded, too, the motion an indicator of working out logistics. “There are only fifteen children in class. We always have three chaperones on our field trips. Mothers, fathers.” She paused, added, “Grandparents.”

Touché.
“And you?” Because if he did this it would be for her. Addy would be bored silly; she’d seen it all before. And he couldn’t imagine holding the interest of fourteen kids his daughter’s age.

“And me. Of course.” She looked up at the speakers in the ceiling, her brows drawn into a thoughtful vee. “Do you have one of those headsets like the chefs in Williams-Sonoma or HEB use for their cooking classes?”

“I don’t, but I can get one.” And then hope like hell he could figure out how to broadcast from the kitchen.

“That would be great, but only if it’s not too much trouble.” Her eyes were sparkling when she looked at him again. “Otherwise we’ll work up a script.”

“A script.” Did she have an answer for everything?

“Just something simple,” she said, waving one hand. “You explain to me beforehand what you’ll be doing, and I’ll do my best to describe the steps.”

“I’m used to explaining things to Addy. I can probably make it pretty clear.” Then he realized what he’d said and cringed. “For the kids, I mean. Not for you.”

“Don’t worry. I knew what you meant,” she said. “Let me look at my calendar on Monday, then we can set up a date convenient for you.”

“Can’t wait,” he said, and headed to the back hall for the mop since the Roomba had docked itself not long after Brooklyn arrived.

She laughed, a sound that said she saw right through him. “It’ll be fun. I promise.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m thinking you skipped your college classes that taught you about fun.”

“I didn’t skip a single class in college,” she said, arms crossed as she leaned against the corner of the kitchen’s two walls.

“Exactly my point.”

“Spend enough time with me,” she said, her shrug self-deprecating, “and you’ll see that fun is not, and never has been, my middle name.”

He had a hard time believing that. He’d seen her excitement in the kitchen when he’d given her the candy on Thursday. Right after he’d seen the thrill of the ride in her eyes as she’d pulled off the helmet and shaken out her hair.

“In that case, can I sell you on the fun of doing dishes?” He asked the question jokingly; it was easier to keep things lighthearted than address the elephant in the room: What was she doing here at nearly midnight?

But she took it to heart. “Sure,” she said, pushing away from the wall. “I’m happy to help if you need it.”

He stood for a moment with the mop in his hand, listening to what sounded like a rumble in the distance. “You don’t have to. That was just next on my to-do list. Lena does her best to keep it together when things are slow, but today was a mess.”

“I don’t mind. Whatever you need help with. Really.” Then she stopped, as if realizing he’d checked out of the conversation, and asked, “Callum? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.” He shook off the distraction. “I just thought I heard . . .”

“Heard what?”

“Nothing.” Because that’s what it had been. Nothing. “Sounded like a Harley, but it’s gone. It’s been a long day. I’m punch-drunk.”

She gestured over her shoulder with her thumb. “I can go—”

“No.” He shook his head. “Don’t. Please stay. But I’ll do the dishes.”

“You want me to clean up the shelves?” she asked, as she glanced around. “Dust and straighten things up?”

“Sure. Okay.” He didn’t want her straightening the shelves, but even more than that he didn’t want to be left alone with his imagination. “There’s a box of cloths in the far bottom cabinet, but don’t worry too much about any of it. Lena will do it all over her way when we open again Tuesday morning.”

Brooklyn laughed. “Having only seen her the one time, that doesn’t surprise me. I got the sense she’s incredibly efficient.”

“Efficient’s not even the half of it.” The day Lena Mining had walked into his life he’d been able to let go of his worries about keeping the showroom running. Lena did that with whip-smart competence, allowing him to focus on his products. And the customers didn’t seem to mind her multiple piercings, or the blue, pink, and purple chunks of her hair. “I can’t imagine dealing with Valentine’s Day without her.”

“Do you believe in Valentine’s Day?”

He looked over to where she squatted in front of the cabinet, not sure what she was asking. “Do I believe it exists? Do I believe people spend an exorbitant amount of money in the name of love? Do I believe Addy gets the biggest kick ever out of reading the words on conversation hearts?”

She glanced up, her black-framed gaze curious. “Is that a yes?”

“Do I believe there should be a single day set aside to celebrate love?” he asked, realizing as he did that he’d never actually been in love. He’d made love to a lot of women. He’d had fun with a lot of women. But the emotion had always been out of reach. He wasn’t sure he knew why. “I’m all for anything that makes people feel good. It’s not like giving a girlfriend flowers or candy on February fourteenth means her guy loves her any less the next day.”

“If he loved her at all to begin with”—she toyed with a stack of chocolate bars imported from Hungary, then lined up their edges—“and didn’t give the gift expecting something from her in return.”

Sex. She was talking about—or avoiding talking about—sex. “I suppose that happens, but I’m just here to sell chocolate. Speaking of which . . .” He let the sentence trail, and she finally turned to look at him. “Did you buy any today?”

“Chocolate?”

He nodded. “I heard you talking to yourself when I came to your class on Thursday. You said you might.”

“Oh. Right. That was mostly to keep from buying a cat.”

“A cat?”

“It’s a long story. A dull and boring story.”

“No chocolates then.”

“Candy, no. Though I had plenty of brownies leftover from lunch with a friend on Friday. Today I cleaned a little. I packed some. I figured since I’ve got enough time to go through everything before I leave, I need to do it right.”

Packed. It was too soon for her to be packing for her trip. And a trip overseas, even one with no set return, didn’t require her going through everything which meant . . .

“You’re moving?” he asked, his heart in his throat nearly blocking the words.

“I think so. I might be. I haven’t decided.”

“Brooklyn . . .”

She answered with a soft laugh. “It’s complicated. I’m not sure when I’ll be back, which is why I didn’t want the district holding my job. And really. My only ties to Hope Springs are sentimental. I don’t have any family here. I lost touch with a lot of our friends after Artie died, and even more since. I’d miss Jean, of course. And others. But maybe it’s time to move on.”

The idea of Brooklyn being alone . . . he stared at the section of the floor he thought he’d just mopped, but it was dry, so he went over it again, slamming the mop head into the baseboard hard enough for the handle to bounce back and jab him. “What are you doing with your house?”

“That’s where it gets complicated. I haven’t decided whether to sell it or to rent it out.”

“I guess that depends on whether or not you want to live there when you come back. If you come back.”

“I’ll end up somewhere eventually.” She said it with a shrug. “But in the meantime I’m going through everything I own, tossing a lot of things. I still have Artie’s tools, and most I’ll never use. I don’t even know what half of them do. I need to do something with those, at least.”

He’d been renting the loft he and Addy called home for almost five years now, and they’d lived there on a shoestring, the money from Bliss going back into the business. Keeping to a budget meant moving would be a piece of cake. He couldn’t imagine living for decades in the same house as his parents had done and sorting through years’ worth of accumulated possessions.

He checked the supplies for the espresso machine in the cabinet beneath, then sponged out the sink before getting back to his mop. “I read somewhere that if you haven’t used something in a year, toss it.”

“I read the same, but for six months.”

“That’s kinda brutal. I’ve got T-shirts I haven’t worn in six months.”

Wiping down a shelf that held several books on the history of cacao, Brooklyn laughed. “Then you’ve got a more extensive wardrobe than I do.”

“I just have a lot of ratty T-shirts. I’ve got some I wore in high school.”

“And they still fit you?”

He shrugged. “Depends on your definition of
fit
.”

Smiling, she moved to the next shelf and dusted around the demitasse cups used for sipping-chocolate. “It’s what to do with the things I’m keeping that’s the problem. If I hang on to the house, I’ll just close it up and everything can stay there. But if I rent it, or sell it, I need to rent a storage space, too.”

“So the packing is just proactive? In case you do move or rent?”

She nodded. “It’s easier to go through everything now than at the last minute. Just in case. I’m looking at it as a long-overdue spring cleaning.”

“How do you feel about having someone else live there?”

“If I still own it, you mean?”

“Own it and rent it, or sell it. Either way you won’t be there and someone else will. Does that bother you?”

“I’ve never really thought about it like that,” she finally said. “But, no. I don’t think so.”

“The place isn’t a shrine, then?” he asked, thinking about her living there with her husband, then living there alone, falling out of touch with friends . . .

“A shrine? To Artie, you mean?”

“Or to the life you lived with him.”

“Like I said, I still have some of his things.” Her hands stilled for a moment before she finished repositioning the cups. “But no. No shrine. Just things we owned together.”

That seemed a lot healthier than her continuing to worship the ground her husband had walked on. And thinking that made him feel like a jerk, especially since what lingered of her relationship with the man she’d been married to wasn’t any of his business.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t curious. “You and your husband lived here a long time? In Hope Springs?”

“Eleven years.” She dusted behind the row of fair-trade cocoa powder canisters. “I’ve been here now thirteen. We both lived in Austin when we met. I was finishing up grad school. He worked for the AFD. We moved here the year after we married. He would work a twenty-four-hour shift, then be off for forty-eight. He liked the separation of work and home.”

“I get that.”

“You never did tell me how you ended up here,” she said, turning from the shelves and holding a dried cacao pod from a decorative tray of several.

“I came here for Addy,” he said. She’d asked him on Thursday night in her kitchen, and he’d managed not to answer her then. He wasn’t sure how much he wanted her to know about his past, but he was already feeling exposed, and since she was being honest . . .

“I’d been bartending in San Francisco, and I crashed with the owner and his wife for a while. Me and Addy both. I used the kitchen in his bar to run my business for about a year, most of that online.”

“Adrianne must’ve been just a baby then,” she said, facing him, the dust cloth crushed in her hands.

He nodded. “Straight from the hospital into a crash pad with her old man.”