Home for the Holidays (2 page)

“I've checked into a hotel in Charleston.”

Collier pointed to her half-empty glass. “Do you want another drink?”

“No thank you. One's my limit when I'm the designated driver.”

His fingers tightened on her hand, then eased. “What if I become your designated driver tonight?”

Iris's confidence soared. Collier had a quiet assurance, a sense of strength. She was thrilled that he had made this night so easy for her.

“Did you drive here?” she asked. Collier nodded. “What are you going to do with your car if you drive me home?” she asked Collier.

“I'll arrange for someone to bring me back to pick it up later.”

Iris was certain Collier detected her wildly beating pulse under his fingertips as his gaze met and fused with hers. “If that's the case, then I'll have another one. But first I want to know why folks call you Scrappy.”

Collier released her hand and leaned back in his chair. “I used to fight a lot as a kid. Hardly a day went by when I didn't scrap ass.”

“You were a bully.” She meant it as a question, but it came out as a statement.

He shook his head. “I never bullied anyone. I just didn't back down when it came to a fight. If someone stepped up to me, then they got popped and dropped. It ended once my father sent me to military school. The structured environment taught me discipline and to control my quick temper. At thirteen I left home a tall, skinny kid and came back, at eighteen, twenty pounds heavier and confident enough to know that I didn't need to use my fists to settle a conflict. Even though I've changed, folks still call me Scrappy.”

Iris digested this information, wondering whether the anger and aggression from Collier's childhood lay dormant where it could surface without warning, praying she hadn't targeted a crazy man. “Does it bother you you're still called Scrappy?”

He ran his forefinger down the length of her nose. “No, only because it reminds me of what I used to be like.” Pushing back his chair, Collier stood. “I'll go get your drink now.”

Collier hadn't known what to expect when Iris invited him to come upstairs to her apartment, but it wasn't the furnishings in the living and dining rooms resembling luxurious lodgings for those on African safari. The colors of white, tan, and black predominated. Rattan chairs, a sofa, and a love seat covered in Haitian cotton cradled accent pillows in animal prints. Zebra-, leopard-, and giraffe-printed area rugs were scattered about the wood floor, and intricately carved mahogany masks and framed watercolors of African women in native and ceremonial dress were exhibited on stark white walls above the wood-burning fireplace.

“I like what you've done with your place.”

Iris slipped off her shoes, leaving them on the straw mat near the door. “Thanks.” She smiled at him. “Would you like some coffee?”

A slight frown creased Collier's forehead. Maybe he'd misread her signals. Did she want sex or was she just looking for someone to talk to? After all, she'd admitted she'd gone to Happy Hour to meet someone new.

“Sure,” he said.

“How do you take it?”

“Black. The stronger the better.”

Iris smiled. “Come talk to me while I make it.”

Collier stared at the gentle sway of her hips as he followed Iris into the galley kitchen. The all-white space was spotless. Lounging casually against the entrance and crossing his arms over his chest, he watched as she switched on a single-cup coffee brewer.

“Why did you invite me home with you?” He knew his question had taken her by surprise when she nearly dropped one of the mugs she'd taken off a rack.

“You want the truth?” she asked.

He didn't move. “Of course.”

She pulled back her shoulders. “I went to the club tonight with the intent of meeting someone.”

He blinked slowly. “How often do you pick up men?”

A nervous smile trembled over her lips. “Tonight was my first time.”

“Why tonight?”

Iris assumed a similar pose, crossing her arms under her breasts. “You're the first man in more than three years I could carry on an intelligent conversation with and not worry about him trying to get me into bed with him and—”

Collier held up a hand, stopping her words. “Don't say anything else.”

“Don't you want to know why?” she asked.

“No, because I also have a confession to make. When I saw you standing at the bar, the first thing that went through my mind was what did I have to do or say to convince you to sleep with me.”

Iris frowned. “I suppose I was wrong about you.”

Collier took a step toward her and cradled her face between his hands. He lowered his head, brushing a light kiss over her mouth. “No, you're not. But there's nothing wrong with two consenting adults sleeping together.”

Iris's eyelids fluttered. “You're right, but I'm not ready to sleep with a stranger.”

He kissed her again. “I don't have a problem with that.” After a military career spanning eighteen years and seeing many of his buddies die in combat, he believed in living in the moment. And because of his career, the thought of a relationship with a woman was something he'd avoided for most of his adult life.

Releasing her face, he walked over to the coffeemaker and turned it off. “I think I'm going to pass on the coffee.” Turning on his heel, he walked out of the kitchen and the apartment. He took out his cell phone and punched in a number. Fifteen minutes later one of the owners of Happy Hour maneuvered into the parking lot to drive him back to the club. Collier managed to forget about Iris as he caught up with people he hadn't seen in years. But the image of her beautiful face and her sexy body kept coming back to him once he was alone again in the hotel bed. He was able to recall with vivid clarity the sound of her smoky voice, the scent of her perfume, and the softness of her lips when he touched his mouth to hers. He fell asleep with a smile on his face just thinking about it.

Collier opened his eyes, his heart pounding painfully in his chest, his body drenched in sweat as he struggled to surface from the invisible demon holding him in its vicious grip. The nightmare had returned. It'd been several weeks since the last one, and it was always the same. The blast, a ball of fire scorching the earth, the shrapnel from the exploding Humvee, and the horrendous screams from the men burned beyond recognition from a roadside bomb. Gritting his teeth to keep from screaming for the horror to stop, he sat up, swung his legs over the bed, and stumbled in the direction of the bathroom.

He lost track of time as he sat in the tub with a spray of icy cold water beating on his naked body. It was only when Collier began to shake uncontrollably that he turned off the water and rested his head on the side of the tub. His mind cleared and he realized he was no longer in Afghanistan, but stateside where he was safe from sniper fire and improvised explosive devices. He didn't remember climbing out of the tub or returning to the bedroom to fall facedown across the bed. This time when he fell asleep, it was without the dreams that kept him from a restful night's sleep.

I
ris woke at four thirty, opting for a warm bath instead of her usual shower. As she played the sponge over her body, she couldn't help wondering what it would feel like to have Collier's hands following the same path. It was hard to imagine letting an utter stranger into her house, but he'd made certain she made it home safely and left without making a scene. Too bad he was only going to be in Charleston for the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday weekend.

The transformation from seductress to working woman was complete when she pulled on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeve tee; she'd exchanged the stilettos for running shoes, and a rich moisturizer for her skin type and clear lip gloss replaced the dramatic nighttime makeup. Today, her hairstyle was more Peter Pan than Halle Berry. Nothing about her outward appearance bore any resemblance to the woman from the night before.

Locking the door to her apartment, she walked down the staircase, opened the outer door, and stepped out into darkness. Sunrise was still more than an hour away. Streetlights revealed the local chamber of commerce had finished putting up Christmas decorations along Main Street. Meanwhile, merchants had gotten a jump on the holiday season when they decorated their doors and plate glass windows with colorful lights and decorative wreaths a week following Halloween. A few had placed pots of poinsettia on tables and countertops. The residents of the island were also into the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday spirit, with a steady stream of customers coming into and calling the Muffin Corner, placing orders for cakes, pies, and cookies.

It'd taken a year, but Iris's lifestyle had become the personification of simplicity since relocating from Baltimore, Maryland, to Cavanaugh Island, South Carolina. Instead of getting into her car and driving ten miles to work, she now walked three blocks from her apartment to the Muffin Corner. Here on the island there were no traffic lights, stop signs, or traffic jams. Her sound sleep wasn't shattered by honking horns or an emergency vehicle's wailing sirens. The streets and roads were safe enough to navigate regardless of the hour. After spending her childhood as an Army brat, moving from one base to another, she had finally put down roots in a place to her that actually felt like home.

Forty-five minutes before she was scheduled to begin working, Iris opened the rear door to the bakeshop tucked into a row of stores off Moss Alley. An early start meant she could finish early and then return home to make her own desserts and prepare side dishes for Thanksgiving dinner. Light from the kitchen illuminated the floor in the storeroom, while cool jazz blared throughout the shop. She knew who'd come in early by the music choice. Mabel Kelly preferred jazz while her husband Lester favored new age.

She took off her running shoes, pushing her sock-covered feet into a pair of white clogs, and then slipped on a white chef's jacket with an embroidered muffin over the breast pocket. Covering her hair with a matching cotton cap and with several pairs of latex-free gloves filling the patch pockets of her jacket, Iris entered the industrial stainless steel kitchen.

A smile parted her lips as she watched Mabel sway to the melodious sound of a soulful sax. Mabel stood barely five foot and claimed a pair of wide hips and slight bowlegs. She flaunted her Gullah roots as a direct descendant of slaves brought to the island to cultivate rice when South Carolina was still a British colony. Mabel's fifth-generation grandfather had been credited with developing a method for draining swamps and diverting the water to irrigate rice paddies.

Although Mabel and Lester had been married for nearly twenty years, the couple didn't have any children. Iris never asked, yet Mabel did feel comfortable to disclose she never wanted children because from the age of fourteen she had to help her father raise six younger siblings after her mother got hooked on drugs. Iris didn't know if Mabel had opened up to her because she wanted Iris to reveal her own past, but she hadn't. Once she'd closed the door on her marriage, she vowed never to open it again. Only Tracy knew what she'd gone through after a year of abuse from her ex-husband, and with no help from her mother-in-law, she finally found the strength to start life anew.

“Good morning!” Iris shouted over the music.

Mabel turned around, flashing a gap-toothed grin. “Mornin'! Let me turn down the radio so we don't have to shout at each other.” Like Iris, she'd covered her braided hair with a white bouffant cap. She lowered the volume on the radio resting on a table near the walk-in refrigerator/freezer.

“It's nice to see the Christmas decorations up on Main Street.”

Mabel made a sucking sound with her tongue and teeth. “Folks belonging to the chamber cut the fool at the last meeting when they told the board they wanted Main Street decorated before, not
after
Thanksgiving. Personally I feel it puts everyone in a more festive mood when seeing the decorations.”

Iris nodded in agreement. In some of the larger, more populous cities she'd noticed Christmas decorations going up in early November. “Where's Lester?”

“He'll be along directly,” Mabel reported, as she resumed cutting out piecrusts. “I told him he'll have to handle the customers today while you and me fill pie orders. What do you plan as the cookie of the day?”

“Butter pecan shortbread.”

Closing her eyes, the older woman shook her head. “I love me some shortbread cookies.”

“They're also my favorite,” Iris confirmed. At least once a week she made up a large batch of basic shortbread and sugar cookie dough.

When first hired, Iris was given the responsibility of assisting Lester making pies and decorating theme cakes, while Mabel's repertoire included muffins, doughnuts, scones and quick breads. Now, Mabel's muffin and Iris's cookie of the day were customer favorites. She glanced over at the bulletin board littered with order slips.

“How many orders do we have?” she asked Mabel.

“Eighteen.”

Iris estimated it wouldn't take more than four hours to make eighteen pies. The Kellys had devised a method of putting the ingredients for the crusts in an industrial mixer with a dough hook, then running the dough through a large machine resembling a pasta maker, turning the kneaded dough into thin, flaky, buttery sheets, which were placed on a flour-dusted butcher block table and cut in circles to line nine-inch, deep-dish pie plates. Each sheet yielded six crusts. All of the fillings, made on the premises with fresh ingredients, were stored in the refrigerator in airtight, half-gallon glass jars.

Iris removed the pushpins in nine of the orders, sorting through them. “I have two apple, two cherry, one peach cobbler, and four sweet potato.”

“Don't forget to make a few for yourself,” Mabel reminded Iris as she crimped the edges of a pie shell.

Opening the refrigerator, Iris removed a plastic container labeled
SHORTBREAD DOUGH
and another with finely chopped pecans. “I think I'm going to make a potato pie with a sweet pecan crust.”

Mabel's flour-covered fingers stilled. “Oh! That sounds decadent. Can you make one for me?”

“Sure. If I have time, I'll make some tartlets to put in the showcase. If they go over well, then we can add them to the pie choices.” Daily Muffin Corner favorites were muffins, doughnuts, and cookies. Pies and cakes were always special orders.

“Remember we're closing at noon today,” Mabel reminded Iris. The bakeshop would open again Thanksgiving morning from seven to noon for customers to pick up their orders.

“I want to leave before noon because I need to make desserts for my dinner, but if you don't mind, I can make them here after we close.” Iris knew she had to leave by two, which would give her enough time to return home to shower and change her clothes before driving to Tracy's house to meet the school bus before three thirty.

Mabel sucked her teeth again. “Child, please. You know you don't have to ask. Besides, I know one of these days you're going to leave us to go into business for yourself, and mark my words, you're going to do very well.”

Iris went still. How did Mabel know? She'd heard about the Gullah superstition that people born with a caul, or a membrane covering their faces, had the gift of discerning the future. She wondered if Mabel was clairvoyant because she hadn't uttered a word to anyone; not even her parents or brother knew she wanted to start up her own business.

“Why would you say that?”

“You remind me of Lester and me after we graduated from pastry school. For years we worked our butts off for a hotel chain baking for catered parties. I got tired of the frantic pace before Lester did. It took a while, but I finally convinced him to move back here and open our own bakery. You're much too talented to hide your gift under the proverbial bushel.”

Slipping on a pair of gloves, Iris turned the cookie dough out onto a sheet of waxed paper, covered it with another sheet and rolled it until it was approximately a quarter-inch thick. She knew she would have to tell the owners of the Muffin Corner she planned to quit once she bought a house where she'd convert space to use as an industrial kitchen. Mabel had just given her the opening she needed to reveal her future plan.

“You're right. I have thought about it. Eventually I would like to design wedding cakes exclusively.”

Mabel cut out another crust. “You can do that here in the Cove.”

Iris met her eyes as she picked up a star-shaped cookie cutter. “But wouldn't that compete with you and Lester?”

“Not if we go into business together.”

She gave her boss a skeptical look. “Are you talking about a partnership?”

There came a pregnant pause, and then Mabel said, “Yes. Lester and I bought the vacant store next door, believing we were going to expand. We changed our minds when the recession hit everyone hard here on the island. Although we've tried renting it out, no one has come forward.”

Iris was hard-pressed not to cut a dance step. However, seconds later her newfound joy dissipated like a drop of cold water on hot coals. Something just didn't add up. Why would the Kellys hire her, then a year later approve of her becoming a competitor?

“I'm confused,” she told Mabel.

“What about?”

“Lester is known as the ultimate cake man. Do you think folks will patronize me if I open a shop next to yours selling cakes?”

Mabel removed her gloves, tossing them in a nearby plastic-lined wastebasket. “I have a confession to make.”

Iris listened, stunned, as her employer revealed why she'd hired her. Lester had been diagnosed with the onset of debilitating rheumatoid arthritis, and as it progressed, he wouldn't be able to stand or sit for prolonged periods.

“RA runs in his family,” Mabel continued. “His momma, daddy, and several of his cousins also have it, most of them walking with canes before they were fifty. Dr. Monroe has prescribed anti-inflammatories for Lester, but he doesn't like to take them because they upset his stomach. I can manage making cookies, doughnuts, and muffins, but there's no way I can fulfill all of the pie and cake orders. Even now Lester's not able to keep up. That's why I hired you to help him. Eventually all of our special order customers will be referred to you, and I'm willing to let you have the space rent-free for the first two years in return for thirty percent of your sales.”

Iris paused, replaying what Mabel had just outlined in what sounded to her like a
Shark
Tank
pitch. She knew she couldn't give Mabel an answer until she weighed all of her options: operating out of a shop meant she could continue to rent her apartment; the money she would've spent to install an industrial kitchen in a house would be used in the shop; and if Mabel agreed, she could buy the store, using the property as a business tax deduction. Her mind worked overtime, contemplating a business arrangement that could prove conducive and advantageous to both her and the owners of the Muffin Corner.

“Let me think about it over the weekend, and I'll let you know sometime next week.”

Iris took a break at nine thirty and left the shop through the rear door. Sitting on a wooden box, she pulled out her cell phone and called her brother, hoping to catch him before he and her niece got on the road to drive up from Florida to spend the holiday weekend with her. As a business owner himself—he taught veterinary surgery at the University of Florida College of Veterinary Medicine, while running a successful veterinary practice in Gainesville—she wanted his take on Mabel's proposal.

Much to her surprise, Evan actually answered. She listened intently as he outlined the pros and cons of entrepreneurship. “Thanks for the advice,” she told him. “You've given me a lot to think about.”

“If you're going to incorporate, then you're going to have to come up with a name for your business. I have to go now because I'm scheduled to perform emergency surgery on a champion show dog.”

“I thought you were driving up today.”