A Cowboy In The Kitchen. Meg Maxwell
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and saying very little about her life. But not to come home now? Georgia was smart and strong, so Annabel had assured Clementine and their grandmother that Georgia must have a good reason for staying away and they’d just have to trust in her that she was doing the right thing for herself, even if it didn’t make sense to family back home.
Trying to shift her worried thoughts from her older sister to the lunch recipes Annabel had made copies of and put in a folder for tonight’s cooking lesson, Annabel headed upstairs to the third floor where the huge attic had long ago been turned into a bedroom for the three orphaned granddaughters Gram had taken in. Back then Essie Hurley had had the sections of the room painted in their favorite colors: lavender for Annabel, lemon yellow for Georgia and periwinkle blue for Clementine. Annabel’s pale purple area with its white accents and fluffy pink blanket was just as she’d left it at eighteen. She picked up the photo of her parents, her beautiful mother and handsome, tall father, then another of the six Hurleys, Gram included, and took a deep breath. She stared at sixteen-year-old Georgia with her long sunlit brown hair and green eyes and hoped she was okay, wherever she was, whatever she was doing. Then she realized she had only twenty minutes to get to West’s house. She stripped off her kitchen clothes, pulled on her old terry robe and took a quick, hot shower, her mind going to being in West’s house, alone with him.
* * *
Annabel drove the ten miles out to West’s ranch, the long paved drive lined with trees. The house came into view, and Annabel was surprised at how different the place was now. Instead of the run-down small home with peeling gray shingles that she remembered, the sprawling house was gleaming white in perfect condition with glossy black shutters and a red door, a wrought-iron weather vane with a rooster on the roof. A herd of cattle grazed in a dark pasture and another bunch was lined up in corrals, eating hay. Two geese waddled around, not bothered in the slightest by a big orange barn cat chasing a leaf in the evening breeze. West’s silver pickup was along the side of the house, and by the front door was a red bike with training wheels and a three-wheeled silver scooter. The porch light illuminated the well-kept front yard and Annabel could see the long circular loop West had smoothed out for his daughter to ride. A tire swing with purple and white polka dots was tied on a big old oak, and nearby was a child-sized table and chairs, two big stuffed animals on the chairs and a tea set on the table.
Annabel’s heart squeezed. She wondered if she’d ever have a little girl of her own. Over the past seven years she’d had only two relationships and both had failed miserably. Neither man had felt like...home, felt comfortable. But she’d tried, dating one for a month before he’d told her if they weren’t going to have sex he’d have to move on. He’d moved on. The next man, a fellow chef, had smooth-talked his way into Annabel finally losing her virginity, but it turned out he’d been working his way through the female staff at the restaurant they both worked at, and she’d been the one to move on, to a new workplace but not a new relationship. She’d decided to avoid relationships, hoping maybe one day the right guy would cross her path and she’d know it and not have to force it, not have to try so damned hard.
Four years. Four years since she’d been kissed. Touched. Held. Four years of thinking back to that night in the hayloft with West, no one ever coming close to making her feel the way she had that night. In love. And as though she were on fire. As though she were beautiful and sexy. As though everything that made Annabel Hurley who she was blossomed brighter. She’d felt more herself that night with West, that hour, than she ever had before or since. Getting over his betrayal, the heartbreak, throwing herself into two bad relationships with men who didn’t really care about her...she was better off alone, spending her evenings perfecting Gram’s recipes and thinking up business initiatives for Hurley’s. She would not let herself be drawn in by West, no matter how much her mind, heart and soul wanted him. He’d broken her once. That wasn’t going to happen again. Her grandmother needed her—depended on her, especially now that Georgia was God knew where.
Keep your head, she ordered herself, straightening her purposely unsexy ponytail, smoothing her purposely unsexy long-sleeved yellow T-shirt, tucked into purposely unsexy on-the-loose-side old jeans. She picked up her lunch-recipes folder and the bag of groceries she’d shopped for on her lunch break and headed up the steps to the porch. She forced herself not to glance over to the right just past the house at the barn, now a traditional red, where she and West had spent an unforgettable hour.
She took a deep breath and rang the bell.
Seconds later, there he was, his expression serious as he ushered her inside, taking the bag of groceries. Before she could ask him if everything was okay, he headed toward the kitchen. She followed him through the living room, liking the two big red comfy-looking sofas, lots of throw pillows, a plush area rug, an enormous round wooden coffee table piled with kids’ books and action figures and a furry dog bed on which a beagle eyed her.
“Daisy’s not much of a watchdog,” West said as he led the way into the kitchen, the walls a warm yellow, the wooden cabinetry white and appliances stainless steel. He put the bag of groceries on the island in the center of the room, and Annabel placed the folder next to it, then looked over at West, who was holding up a bottle of red wine. She nodded and he poured two glasses.
“The more you can pack into tonight’s lesson, the better,” he said, handing her a glass.
She took the wine, wishing she could read his mind. Something was clearly bothering him. “Are you ever going to tell me why it’s worth one thousand bucks to make a chicken salad sandwich?”
He leaned back against the refrigerator, covered in his daughter’s paintings and school notices and quizzes, and took a long drink of his wine. “That’s complicated.”
Chicken salad was complicated? She waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. “Okay,” she said. “So let’s get started.” She dug into the grocery bag, taking out a rotisserie chicken. “At our dinner lesson, I’ll teach you how to roast a chicken, using the leftovers for chicken salad sandwiches the next day. But for now we’ll use a preroasted chicken. Rotisserie chickens are great when you’re in a hurry—”
He put his wine down and came over, standing so close she could smell his shampoo. He stared at the chicken. She realized he’d been a million miles away and had just clicked back to her. “I admit I buy those a few times a week. Quick and easy.”
“That’s fine,” she said, for a moment overwhelmed by his nearness, by his muscled forearm, his hand in his pocket. Annabel was tall, almost five foot nine, but West towered over her at six-three.
To stop focusing on his face, his body, the clean scent of him, she launched into a lecture about how long to keep a roast chicken in the fridge, then ticked off on her fingers the various lunches he could make from it.
“Aside from chicken salad, there’s tacos, stir-fry, po’boys, cold or hot chicken sandwiches and—” She stopped, realizing that he was staring out the window...at nothing she could see. He was definitely preoccupied. His gaze moved to the sink, where Annabel could see a cup with cartoon monkeys on it. “West? Are you all right?”
He paced to the window, then over to the refrigerator, where he stared at the photographs and watercolors his daughter had painted. Then he titled his head back and closed his eyes for a second.
Whatever was complicated about chicken salad was tearing West apart.
“This is what it’ll feel like,” he finally said. He paced the length of the kitchen. “This goddamned silence is what it’ll be like if they take her away from me. The lack of her, the weird quiet that comes from not hearing her voice, her saying ‘Daddy, look,’ every two minutes.”
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