The Chesapeake Diaries Series (12 page)

“Great.” She took a container out of the fridge. “We’ll have the chicken.”

She moved the cookie trays from the stove top and found a pan into which she spooned the soup. While it heated she cleaned off a spot at the table and set two places. Grady sniffed the air and looked into the pan, where chunks of chicken were warming in a fragrant yellow broth thick with rice.

“This smells homemade,” he observed.

“You get points for that,” she told him.

He shrugged. “Do I lose points if I admitted I sometimes make soup for myself at home?”

“Actually, that would earn extra extra points. I think it’s great when a guy can make stuff. It says a lot about him.”

“Like what?”

“Like, he can take care of himself. Guys who can’t do for themselves …” She made the thumbs-down sign. “And it says that he’s not hung up on some macho image of himself.” She smiled. “Too mucho macho …” Another thumbs-down. “Besides, a guy who can make his own soup will never have to depend on a woman—or worse, wait for a woman to do it for him, and that is very liberating, as far as I’m
concerned. I really like a guy who does things for himself.”

“I feel the need to confess I only know how to make two kinds of soup.”

“Which two?”

“Potato, and beef with vegetables.”

“Good ones. Nothing to be ashamed about there.” The soup began to boil and she turned down the heat. “Seriously. I’m impressed.”

“Thanks, but you should know that liberating someone else never entered my mind. Winters are harsh where I live. You can be snowed in for a long time. There was a clear choice between learning how to cook and starving to death.”

“Whatever the reason, I like it.” She brought the pan over to the table and spooned soup into the bowls. “I’ve known too many men who expected women to do everything for them. From my stepfathers right down to my …”

She paused. “Well, let’s just leave it at that.” She placed the pan back on the stove, then returned to the table with a plate of corn-bread squares and sat across from Grady. “Did you teach yourself to cook after you went to Montana?”

“No, actually, our mom died when we were all fairly young. Our dad never seemed to get the hang of getting home in time to make dinner for us kids.” He hastened to add, “I’m not criticizing him. He was in the Bureau and passed up several promotion opportunities so that he could be home most nights, but he rarely made it by dinnertime and he wasn’t much for putting meals together once he got there.”

“So who cooked for you kids?”

“Sometimes one of our aunts came over, but most of the time, our older brother cooked dinner. Mia was too young when Mom first passed away. Mia never did like to cook.”

“I think she still avoids it as much as possible. Beck is pretty good, though, and Hal is even better.” She stirred the soup to cool it. “I learned to cook early because I grew up in a home where I learned that if I wanted to eat, most nights I’d have to take care of myself.”

“Did your mother work?”

“Sometimes. Mostly when she was between marriages.” Her smile was touched with a bit of irony. “Mom was never one to do for herself what she could get someone else to do for her, so she was fine with me taking over.”

“I see.” He saw that, to her credit, Vanessa wasn’t interested in following Mom’s example.

“She also liked to go out after work, and sometimes she forgot that she had a child at home.”

She grew quiet and seemed to be concentrating on the rice in her soup. They ate lunch mostly in silence after that, and returned to baking as soon as they’d finished eating. By late afternoon, they’d completed their share of the wedding cookies. Vanessa mixed up a batch of glaze and frosted a few cookies, which she left out on the counter to dry.

“I’ll try to stack them when I get back tonight to see if they stick together,” she told Grady as she checked the time. “Meanwhile, we’re due for the rehearsal in a little more than an hour.”

He glanced at his watch. “I better get back to the
Inn. Andy was going to stop by for me at six forty-five.”

She grabbed several cookies from the counter, wrapped them in a napkin, and handed them to him with a smile. “For your service.”

“Thanks. I was wondering how I was going to manage snitching a few.”

“You’ll have to let me know how they measure up to your mom’s.” She walked along with him to the front door. “Thank you so much for giving me a hand today. If you hadn’t come over, I’d be up all night trying to finish my quota.”

“I was glad to help,” he said, and realized he meant it.

She unlocked the door and walked outside with him, pausing to deadhead a tulip here and there.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you later.” He paused at the end of the walk. “Thanks for lunch.”

“You’re welcome.” She straightened up, a handful of dead petals in one hand, and dazzled him with a smile. “Thanks again for your help.”

He nodded and began his walk back toward town, thinking that everything he’d assumed about her had been pretty much wrong. He chastised himself for being as bad as Mia, making assumptions based on incomplete information. He had to admit that, at second glance, he’d found nothing fluffy about Vanessa. She’d come across as independent and strong, if somewhat guarded, but a woman who stood on her own two feet. He couldn’t help but wonder what else he might find if he got the chance to take an even closer look. He almost wished he was going to be around a little longer.

Funny the way some things come back to you, he
thought. Some memories come when you hear a certain song, some with the sight of something that reminds you of another place, and sometimes, like today, with the hint of something that takes you to another time. Until today, he hadn’t even realized how closely he associated lemons in general—and those lemon cookies in particular—with his mother and his childhood. Maybe it was because he’d lost her when he was young, but one of his most vivid memories was of them all in the kitchen when it was time to bake, with the three boys and Mia around the table, each with a job to do. Brendan was the oldest, so he always got to break the eggs. Andy got to measure the flour and sugar, Grady got to cut out the cookies, and Mia got to pick them up off the table and place them on the cookie sheet. There had been an innocence to those times, a closeness to each other and to their mother that had held them together for years after they lost her.

Mia remembers, too
, he realized. That’s why it was so important for her to bask in those memories as her wedding day drew near, why she wanted to share that special treat with her guests, why she wanted to dwell on those days and surround herself with the best of her childhood. Before she left on her honeymoon, he was going to have to thank her for pulling him back with her, so that he could bask in them, too.

Chapter 7

The outdoor wedding rehearsal—held on Thursday night rather than Friday because of a scheduling conflict with the officiant—had proceeded without a hitch, from the procession up the aisle to the string quartet’s playing of Clarke’s “Trumpet Voluntary,” to the recessional Vivaldi’s “Spring.” Was there anything more perfect than violins playing at dusk on the shores of the Chesapeake, a lone sailboat silhouetted against the setting sun? Vanessa couldn’t think of anything that even came close.

She stood at the makeshift altar and watched a smiling Mia walk up the aisle between Grady and Andy.
There will certainly be no dearth of eye candy at this wedding
, she thought. She caught Grady’s eye as he drew closer with his sister on his arm. There was something in the way he hovered over Mia that Vanessa found endearing.

Reverend Quinn explained how the ceremony would proceed on Saturday, then put them all through their paces one more time.

“I think that after the ceremony, on the way back down the aisle, Dorsey should walk with Andy, and
Vanessa should walk with Grady.” Mia stood on the grass at the front of the imaginary aisle they’d all just walked a second time. “See, when they walk me up the aisle, they move to stand on the side.”

“The father of the bride usually returns to his seat in the front aisle,” the minister told her.

“I know, but they’re not my father. I want them to stay up here with me.”

The minister shrugged. He obviously knew better than to argue with a bride about where her brothers would stand during the ceremony, whether they were standing in for their father or not.

“So after Beck and I walk back down, the matron of honor—that would be Annie—meets up with the best man—that would be Hal—here”—Mia pointed to a spot in line with the center of the aisle—“and they start to walk together. Then, Andy, you meet up with Dorsey, and after they start walking, Ness, you meet up with Grady. Okay?”

Everyone nodded.

“Anyone have questions?”

No one did.

“Great. Let’s head on out to dinner,” Beck told the group. “Everyone has a ride? Good. See you all in the bar in about ten minutes.”

Vanessa chatted and laughed with the other members of the bridal party as they made their way to the parking lot, then led the line of cars back into town for the rehearsal dinner at Captain Walt’s, a local landmark that had started life as a waterman’s shack and had been added onto over the years.

One by one, the cars pulled into Walt’s lot, and one by one, the members of the party filed into the bar for
a predinner drink on the house since their room was still being set up. Vanessa ordered a glass of white wine, and sipped it while the others crowded around the few available stools. It was the first time she’d taken part in such an event and she felt more an observer than a participant. She knew that by the time most people were her age, they’d taken part in any number of weddings, funerals, christenings—all those rites of passage that were based around family and tradition and ritual. She had none of that in her past. She couldn’t decide if she felt more included than excluded, or vica versa.

The one thing she had decided was that Grady Shields was no tongue-tied recluse who needed to be led around by the hand.

She’d been on edge from the minute Mia had called her that morning and told her that Grady was on his way over to pitch in with the cookies. Vanessa hadn’t wanted him there—hadn’t invited a man into her house since she moved in, other than Hal, Beck, and the occasional workmen—but before she knew it, he was standing on her front steps and she’d had to let him in. Far from being the shy dolt his sister had described, she’d found him funny and easy to be with and sexy. Definitely sexy.

Watching Grady now, with his fingers curled around the neck of a bottle of beer, she felt a tension growing inside her and twisting into a knot. She liked the way he looked—well, who wouldn’t?—and she liked the way he laughed. Add that to the fact that he hadn’t been the least bit hesitant to admit to his cooking skills, and that he’d spent almost the entire day cutting out little heart shapes in cookie dough just
because it would make his sister happy on her wedding day, even though he’d probably wished to be somewhere else, and you had one damned attractive package. Certainly Vanessa was attracted.

He was such a contrast to the men in her past. God knew that neither of her ex-husbands had so much as opened a can on their own. Make their own soup? Wash their own dishes? Ha! In her dreams!

As if he’d read her mind, he glanced over at her and smiled.

“Do you need a drink?” he asked.

She held up her wineglass in response. He grabbed a basket of peanuts from the bar and made his way toward her, stepping between Andy and Connor, who were arguing over who would kick whose butt at darts later that night. As Grady drew closer to Vanessa, he held the basket out to her.

“No, thank you.” She shook her head. “If I’m going to eat anything before dinner, it’s going to be the artichoke-and-crab dip.”

“It’s good?”

“The best ever.”

“In that case …” He handed the basket to Andy to return to the bar.

“You won’t be sorry you saved the room,” she promised.

“Dinner, everyone.” The hostess waved them to the private room Hal had reserved.

Grady stepped to the bar to put down his empty bottle, and Vanessa lingered a moment, waiting for him while trying to appear not to be. Suddenly she had the strangest sensation of someone’s eyes boring into her. She glanced around the room but saw no one
who appeared to be looking in her direction. Still, the feeling was almost overwhelming, strong enough to accompany her into the room where their dinner would be served.

Vanessa stood in the doorway, her discomfort momentarily edged aside while she studied the table. As she’d requested, the centerpiece was low and long and packed with all of Mia’s favorite flowers: white hydrangeas tinged with green; lush, fragrant dark pink peonies; fat pale pink rosebuds, all set off by the drama of purple anemones. At each place setting was a gift bag in either lime or navy—the primary wedding colors—tied with a floppy pink satin bow. Into each Vanessa had tucked a
DISCOVER ST. DENNIS!
mug, a jar of honey from a local farm, a box of truffles from Sweetie Pie’s, the confection shop that opened last fall, a walking map of St. Dennis, and a certificate good for breakfast on Sunday morning at Let’s Do Brunch, the newest eatery in town. At the last minute, she tucked in one of the snow globes from the gift shop on the first floor of the Inn at Sinclair’s Point. Beneath the glass dome was a perfect likeness of the Inn, right down to the Adirondack chairs that overlooked the Bay. Shaking it, watching the white whirls engulf the stately old building, reminded her that she’d first arrived in St. Dennis on just such a snowy day.

“The flowers are lovely and so is the table,” Mia whispered in her ear. “I see your touch in everything.”

“I may have suggested a little something here and there.” Vanessa straightened a bow on one of the bags. “But Olivia did the flowers.”

“After you told her what the centerpiece should look like.”

“I merely mentioned what you like.” Vanessa smiled modestly. “Olivia did the rest.”

Once everyone found their place at the table, there were toasts and speeches, the most memorable being from Hal.