Lakeside Romance (3 page)

Did this woman ever breathe between sentences? Another time, he might've found her rambling endearing...

He straightened and reached for the stack of books. He turned them over to read the titles on the spines, then curled them into the crook of his arm. “Did Billy put you up to this?”

“Who?” She shot him a questioning look.

“Never mind. So let me see if I'm understanding you correctly... You're looking for someone to help you teach teenagers to cook?”

She rubbed her hands over the red creases the stack of books had left on her arms. “Yes, actually. Are you interested?”

Placing his free hand in the front pocket of his jeans, he laughed and shook his head. “No. Not in a million years, sister.”

“But—” Her brows knitted together.

“I'm sorry.” He handed the cookbooks back to her. “If you'll excuse me, I have to take some food to my uncle.”

Even though Gran would lecture him on his rudeness, he closed the door and walked back to the kitchen, not waiting to see if his babbling neighbor continued to stand on his front porch.

The last thing in the world he wanted was to hang out with a bunch of teenagers. No, thank you. He wasn't going down that road again.

He flicked the heat off under the sputtering soup, stirred it a final time and then ladled some into several glass bowls. After packing the single servings into a shallow box along with the bread, Alec carried the food out the back kitchen door and followed the sidewalk trailing behind his house to the garage.

He dropped the food off to Uncle Emmett at the Lakeside Suites and spent forty minutes listening to Emmett grumble about getting kicked out of his home. In an effort to placate him, Alec promised to stop by the house to get a particular book. Having moved into the assisted-living apartment last weekend, Uncle Emmett still insisted he needed certain things from his home, despite the family's insistence that he downsize.

Alec unlocked the dead bolt and pushed open the front door of the yellow house with white trim and a wraparound porch. The scent of neglect and abandonment permeated the air. Or maybe that was Alec's guilt eating at him. Maybe he should've tried harder to help Emmett stay in his home. But the decision was out of his hands and it wouldn't have solved the problem—Emmett's doctor said his uncle's health required assisted living.

Despite the midafternoon sunshine, darkness shrouded the room. He pushed back the outdated drapes and hefted open the window, hearing the pulley weights thunk, and then stepped back to allow waves of fresh air to filter out the staleness. Sunlight straddled the stacks of magazines and towers of books while dust motes scattered across the heavy maple furniture that had been as much a part of this house as the occupants.

Uncle Emmett and Aunt Elsie had purchased this house over fifty years ago, but after Aunt Elsie's death, Emmett couldn't bring himself to make any changes, including canceling her subscriptions to her favorite painting magazines.

With their only child having been born with Down syndrome, Uncle Emmett needed someone to oversee his assets. In case anything happened to him, Emmett had signed the house over to Alec years ago. He'd done so with the promise that Alec would sell it and ensure the money went into Gideon's special-needs trust so he could continue living at Jacob House, a local residential home for adult men who required special care.

Alec searched the shelves, found the book his uncle had requested, closed the windows and then let himself out of the house, locking the door behind him.

Half an hour later, he parked his car in his garage. With the engine still idling, he pressed his head against the headrest and sighed. A jazzy tune crooned from the satellite radio station, but the upbeat tempo did little to raise Alec's mood.

An unsettling feeling knotted his stomach. After returning the requested books, he'd had another conversation—more like an argument—with Uncle Emmett about Alec's desire to get the Dutch Colonial home listed quickly. Getting it on the market by the end of summer needed to be his highest priority, but he couldn't even think about listing it until the place was cleaned out and repaired. The higher the selling price, the more money for Gideon.

He just didn't see how he could find the time to get it done. He could talk with Gran and Chloe to see if they'd be able to pitch in, but Gran wouldn't be able to do the heavy lifting and constant bending at her age. Plus, between teaching piano lessons, running church activities and spending time with her Tea Grannies—a group of older women at her church who made it their mission to play matchmaker to the singles in the community—he couldn't ask her to help out. His sister had her hands full with her early-learning child care center, especially with her annual state inspection coming up. Maybe he'd have to consider hiring someone, but bringing in an outsider to rummage through his family's things didn't really sit well with him.

He'd find someone... He had no choice.

Climbing out of his car, he closed the door, silencing the trumpet sounds from the radio. He glanced at the yellow Beetle parked in the other stall.

Wait a minute...

What if he
did
agree to teach his neighbor to cook? Would she be willing to help him out in return? But asking her was crazy. He knew nothing about her.

But Gran and Chloe knew her. After learning about the fire-alarm episode, both reassured him Sarah wouldn't be any trouble. They'd spent the next twenty minutes singing her praises.

He did know her brother, and Caleb was an upstanding guy, not to mention a Shelby Lake police officer.

Maybe asking wouldn't be so bad. She could always say no.

He took the stairs to Sarah's apartment two at a time and rapped his knuckles against the door.

Music blared. A crash sounded, then a muffled cry before the door was wrenched open.

His neighbor greeted him with something brown splattered across the front of her shirt.

“Bad time?”

She popped a hand on her hip and cocked her head. “You know, I don't think there's ever a good time when you put me in the kitchen. Come in.” Pulling the door open, she moved aside to let him in.

He stepped inside and slid out of the way so she could close the door. “I don't want to keep you from...whatever it is you're doing—”

She pushed hair off her face with the back of her wrist and glanced toward the kitchen. “Creating a disaster, apparently.”

“I stopped by with a proposal for you.”

She lowered her head, batted her eyes and fanned herself with her hand. “Why, Mr. Seaver, it's a bit sudden, don't you think? We've only known each other a few days.”

He rolled his eyes and shook his head. What a scatterbrain. Maybe this wasn't a good idea after all, but he was running out of options. He braced his hand against the door frame. “I need help getting a house ready to list on the market by the end of summer. You need someone to teach you how to cook. What do you say about helping each other out?”

Her eyes widened. “Are you serious?”

“More than you know.”

“Why the change of heart?”

“I don't have a lot of options right now.” Alec dragged a hand through his hair. “Someone is relying on me. I won't go back on my word.”

“That makes two of us.” Sarah crossed her arms and tapped her index finger against her chin. Then she flashed a bright smile. “I'll do it. I'll help with your house, and you can help my teenagers learn to cook.”

He lifted a hand. “What? No. I said I'd teach you to cook. It's up to you to pass your skills on to them.”

She shrugged. “But I'd need you in the kitchen with me so I don't screw things up or set off more smoke alarms. Two hours each afternoon, and I'll give you the same amount of time each evening with your house.”

More than anything, he wanted to turn around and head back down the stairs, taking his absurd idea with him, but he couldn't handle having the same argument every time he visited his uncle. “Fine. I'll give you a few basic lessons, and I'll be on hand to help you out.”

“Really? Just so there's no misunderstanding—you're sure you want to do this?”

Want to? Of course not. But he needed help. “Yes, I'll be a regular ole Henry Higgins.”

“Who?” She frowned.

“Henry Higgins. You know—the professor from
My Fair Lady
who taught Eliza Doolittle how to speak properly.”

Sarah wrinkled her nose. “I'm not crazy about old movies.”

“Not old. Classic. Apparently you have more to learn than cooking.”

“When would you like to start?”

He glanced at the stain spreading across her shirt. “The sooner, the better by the look of things.”

Sarah stuck out her hand. “I accept your proposal, Professor Higgins.”

Alec shook her hand.

What had he just agreed to?

Chapter Three

I
f Sarah didn't need Alec's help so badly, she'd turn around and walk out the door. When he'd suggested cooking lessons in exchange for preparing his uncle's house to be placed on the market, he hadn't mentioned she'd be walking into an episode of
Hoarders
. Maybe for good reason.

And now he stood behind her, blocking her escape.

She set her bucket of cleaning supplies on the floor by the door and moved deeper into the abyss, wrinkling her nose. The air settled around her with the odor of mildew and vapor rub. The wooden floor creaked beneath her flip-flops as she stepped carefully onto a bare spot on the worn area carpet. She balanced herself on one foot while she searched for another space to step.

The image of jumping from rock to rock to cross the stream behind her childhood home slid out from a closeted corner in her mind. Finding there was no free floor space to move to, Sarah put her other foot down almost on top of her first, stayed put and turned in a slow circle to take in every angle of the cluttered living room.

Her gaze roamed over the rows of books spilling from the natural oak cases built around the door frame. Mismatched framed watercolor paintings in various sizes hung on the faded floral-papered wall behind a couch buried under throw pillows and knitted afghans. Towering stacks of magazines and newspapers lined a narrow path that led into another room. Heavy drapes concealed the sunshine that peaked through the gap and begged to light up the room.

She tried to keep her jaw from gaping like a trout, but she doubted she'd succeeded. A shudder shimmied down her spine.

She wasn't trying to judge, but she just couldn't wrap her head around the chaos. Sure, she needed things organized and put in their places. Otherwise, her brain simply couldn't function. And obviously not everyone had to be like her, but still... Seriously, how did people live like this?

She dragged her fingers through her hair, then waved a hand over the room and looked at Alec. “I'm not gonna lie—I expected some light housekeeping. Maybe some basic organization. Or even some staging. But this...”

Even as her voice trailed off, the knots in her stomach cinched tighter. She needed the outreach program to be a success, but if those teens depended on her to help them cook, they were all in trouble. Somehow she'd have to figure out how to tackle this job.

Did Alec hope she'd take one look at his uncle's house and bail? Set her up to fail so he could get out of helping her? If so, why even bother extending the offer? But he seemed so sincere, almost desperate.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and pushed away from the wall separating the entryway from the living room. “I know. Uncle Emmett was a bit of a pack rat.”

“Pack rat?” She laughed and shook her head. “Alec, I'm sorry to say, but this borders on hoarding.”

“Oh, come on. It's not that bad.”

“Okay, maybe not, but there's no way I can have this house ready quickly, especially with everything else going on at the moment. Has it always been like this?”

“No.” Alec moved behind her into the living room. “After my aunt Elsie died and my cousin Gideon moved into Jacob House, Uncle Emmett couldn't bring himself to cancel her magazine subscriptions. And she wasn't here to pick up after him or nag him to get rid of things. Little by little, things piled up. He surrounded himself with memories of her.”

“How long were they married?”

“Forty-eight years.”

“That's a long time.”

“Yeah. Emmett is actually my great-uncle. His wife was my grandmother's oldest sister, but we've always been close.”

Yeah, she could see that. “Where's your uncle right now?”

“Visiting his son, Gideon, at Jacob House, but he moved recently to the Lakeside Suites. Those apartments are small, so he had to downsize drastically.”

Sarah moved to the couch and sat on the edge. She rested her elbows on her knees and cupped her jaw. “So how do we pack up forty-eight years of memories?”

“Emmett asked the same thing.”

“What did you tell him?” She peered up at him.

He shrugged. “I didn't have an answer.”

Neither did she.

Standing, she waved a hand over the piles of magazines. “What are you thinking of doing with all of this stuff...all of these memories?”

“Uncle Emmett took a few things with him like his favorite recliner, a few photos, a couple of Aunt Elsie's watercolors, one of her knitted afghans and some of his favorite books. The rest will have to be boxed up and stored for now.”

“And then what? Instead of storing everything, what about donating it or maybe have an estate sale? That way you won't have to deal with it later. And quite honestly, some of it needs to go in a Dumpster or be taken to a recycling center.”

Alec tossed his hands in the air and walked away, his back to her. “Oh, sure, let's just pile everything on the front yard and let strangers root through his things.”

She put her fisted hands on her hips and rolled her eyes. “Puh-lease. That's not what I meant, and you know it. You asked for my help... It was just a suggestion.” She moved to the bookcase and removed a couple of volumes. Running her hand over the embossed covers, she turned and held one up to him. “These books are gorgeous. Some are in excellent condition. You might be able to find a collector interested in purchasing them.”

“How can we give it all away like the memories mean nothing?” Alec dragged a hand through his hair, then scrubbed a hand over his face. “You know what? This was a mistake. Thanks for taking the time to come by, but I don't think this arrangement is going to work. I'll figure out something else. I'm sorry for wasting your time.”

Sarah slipped the books back in place and held her palms up to him. “Now just hold on a minute. I'm not going to walk away just because you're ticked at my suggestions...suggestions you asked for, by the way. I meant no offense. Let's just chill a minute and figure this out.”

She wasn't about to let him walk out on her now. She would see this through. Prove to him she could do this.

Alec walked over to the fireplace and picked up a framed decades-old candid shot of his aunt and uncle sitting on the dock at the Shelby Lake beach. “This was their first house—their only house—as a couple. I spent so much time here when I was growing up. To see it stripped piece by piece and sold for quarters at a yard sale... I can see why Uncle Emmett hated to leave.”

“This stuff...” Sarah picked her way to the fireplace to stand next to him. She waved a hand around the room. “They're just things. Yes, it's so easy to get emotionally attached, but they're temporary objects. The memories will last forever.”

He held his silence for a moment, as if thinking over her words. “You're right,” he finally said. “I spent the morning convincing Emmett he needed to let go of the past. Here I am going on like an idiot. I guess we're both sentimental fools.” He returned the photo to the mantel.

Sarah touched his arm. “There's nothing wrong with that as long as you don't allow your past to keep you from facing your future.”

* * *

Alec needed to relax, but how could he when he had to teach this woman basic skills in just a few days? She'd burned popcorn. And now she expected to have enough skills to teach a bunch of kids? At least he'd be around to supervise.

He didn't have time for these lessons, but he wasn't about to go back on his word, especially since Sarah had battled him to help with his uncle's house even after he'd freaked out on her. Man, he was an idiot. Once they finished with the house and the cooking lessons, he'd put some necessary distance between them.

Truth be told, he wasn't used to having a woman in his kitchen. At least, not
this
kitchen. With the brick backsplash, cabinets painted a shade of navy that reminded him of Shelby Lake, copper countertops and the wood laminate flooring, it looked nothing like the bright and airy white kitchen he'd shared with Christy for almost two years.

That was the point.

The only part he'd brought from his past into this new space was his continued love of cooking to music.

But not today. With Sarah in his kitchen, the radio stayed off so he could focus on teaching her.

At first he'd worried he was getting more out of their bargain, but jerking his eyes back to the present showed him a messy mound of onions that stretched across the cutting board and looked nothing like the small pile he'd cut to demonstrate.

“No, Sarah, don't hack the onion. Cut it.” Alec didn't mean for his voice to sound so harsh, but patience wasn't always his strong suit.

Sarah's head jerked up. “I am.”

“No, you're not. You're beating it with the blade of your knife. Let me show you again.” Alec reached for another, plopped it on the cutting board, and then stood next to Sarah. “Slice it through the root. If you cut it off, it'll start to bleed, and that's what causes you to cry. Allow the weight of your knife to work for you. Then place the onion flat on the board. Keep your knife pointed toward the root and slice through it. Solid strokes. Then turn your knife and slice through the middle and top. Hold everything together and slice evenly. You'll end up with nicely diced pieces.”

Instead of copying him with the other half of the onion, she turned and looked up at him. Thick lashes fringed her eyes—eyes so close he could see the burst of sunlight in the field of green. Freckles dotted the bridge of her nose. Her lips parted slightly as if she were about to say something. If he lowered his head—

He jerked his thoughts out of dangerous territory. What was he doing? Why was he even thinking that way? How could he do that to Christy? To the life they shared? The blatant betrayal of his late wife's memory speared his gut.

He released the knife and stepped back. “Uh, do it like that, and you'll have even cuts instead of liquefying your onions.”

Sarah dropped her gaze to the pile on the cutting board. “Yeah, I'll, um, do it that way.”

She turned back to the counter and picked up the knife. Her cuts slowed and were more meticulous.

Alec washed his hands, then gripped the edge of the sink. The rhythmic tapping of the knife competed with the rain pelting the open kitchen window above the sink. A breeze drifted across the sill and ruffled her already tousled hair. His blue apron fell almost to her knees, but it didn't quite cover her white T-shirt and yellow skirt.

A couple of minutes later, the chopped pile grew. “Onions are diced. Now what?” She laid the knife down and then moved to the sink to wash her hands, her arm brushing his.

He stepped away, giving her some room. “Leave them there for a couple of minutes. Now we need to slice the sausage. Do you remember what I said about slicing?”

She raised an eyebrow and dropped a hand on her hip. “I'm not a total idiot, you know. I do know how to slice.”

He grabbed another board and set it in front of her. “Fine, then let's get to it. This soup's not going to make itself.”

For their first lesson, Sarah had requested that they make the same zuppa Toscana he'd made for Uncle Emmett. After showing her how to read the recipe and explaining which cooking tools to use, they'd made a list of the ingredients, which Sarah had picked up at the store.

Having her in his kitchen might have been a mistake. But if he was going to teach her to cook, he needed the right tools—his tools. Her knives consisted of a paring knife and a couple of serrated steak knives. If only he could get rid of her fragrance of wildflowers, which was wafting through the room, curling through him and flaying open those wounds best left covered.

She pulled the link of Italian sausage out of the package and flopped it onto the cutting board. She picked up the French knife and started to cut.

“Not that knife.” Alec pulled a utility knife out of the block and handed it to her, handle first. “Try this one. You'll have more control as you slice through the sausage. Be careful—it's sharp. How did you become an adult without learning to cook?”

She took the knife and started sawing at the sausage. “Growing up we had a housekeeper who prepared our meals. Mrs. Nelson wouldn't allow anyone in
her
kitchen. When I left home, I ate in the dorm cafeteria, ordered takeout or lived on cereal and freezer meals.”

He shook his head. “You have so much to learn. Frozen foods are filled with sodium and preservatives. You need to cook nutritious meals.” Catching her action, he stifled a groan and schooled his tone. She wouldn't learn if he kept barking at her. “It's not a log, Sarah. You don't need to saw it. That knife is sharp. Pierce the casing with the tip of the knife and slice through it in a single cut. Like this.” He took the knife from her and demonstrated. Just as he'd done with the onion. After handing it back to her, he pressed his back against the sink to watch. Once he was sure she wasn't going to lose an appendage, he turned around to wash the other cutting board.

“How did you learn to cook?”

He dried the cutting board, then slid it back into place on the shelf between his stove and refrigerator. “By reading recipe books and watching cooking shows on TV. I did it to help out my mom after my dad was killed, but then I found out I enjoyed it.”

“You lost your dad? I'm sorry.”

“Thanks. He was a marine killed in friendly fire when I was fifteen.”

The knife clattered against the board as Sarah sucked in a sharp breath. “You weren't kidding about the knife being sharp.”

“I don't kid about knives.” He turned to see her about to bring her bleeding index finger to her mouth. He grabbed her hand. “No, don't. You've been handling raw pork.”

Still holding on to her, he pulled her to the sink and flipped on the water. He pumped hand soap onto her palm. “Wash your hands while I grab a Band-Aid.”