Chapter Three
R ustin stared at the kitchen’s side door as it spookily moved inward. Chloe walked through still wearing the ugly brown medieval costume that made her look like she’d been trussed up in a burlap sack from the feed store.
“How’d you get in?” He growled like some feral animal. Not polite, but the Mayes irritated him. Chloe rankled less than the others, but with her otherworldly vibe and unblinking blue-purple stare—the iris of one eye was darker, more purpled than the other—she’d unsettled him when they’d been kids. She’d followed him like a puppy as a kid, totally irritating him, and that was the seed of a lot of teasing. But he’d also felt protective of her, which had irritated him more.
Chloe was a Maye, even if she had a different last name. She’d grown up with Miss Millie in her elegant mansion, steeped in family privilege and tradition. Chloe didn’t need his sympathy or anything else.
She grinned infectiously. Her face scrunched—a little like a pug. Her slightly off-colored eyes light up, and her smiled stretched to reveal small, straight, white teeth, and more gum than it should. She didn’t have Jessica’s beauty, but she had something that drew him, but he resisted. Too much history. And Chloe still looked like she had as a kid: knowing, mischievous, inviting him in on the joke. And her smile invited him to smile back.
She dangled a key and swung it back and forth on a key chain shaped like a music note.
“Give it here.” He held out his hand. This was his kitchen. His home. He owned it. He was the boss, and no Maye could come and go as they pleased. He’d covered all the windows for a reason, even though he’d despised shutting out the light. No Maye could assuage their curiosity without his permission. He’d only discussed his plans with Miss Millie.
“Grandma Millie gave it to me a few years ago. I sometimes meet the early morning delivery vans before I head to the high school for work—or at least I did.” Her voice cracked with uncertainty.
“What are you doing here Clo Beau?”
She would not soften him. He’d get the key back tonight.
“Eeeeew.” She made a dead-on impression of the yuck emoji that nearly made him smile. “I can’t believe you remember that wretched nickname! I never looked like a boy! Never! Right? I didn’t? And that was the nicest thing people teased me with.”
He crossed his arms. Name-calling should be beneath him. He’d certainly been called too many unpleasant and often unwarranted names before he’d lit out of Belmont the day after he turned seventeen.
“Okay,” she acknowledged as if he’d spoken. “It was a bad haircut. And yes, I looked like I had a case of mange.”
He stared at her, astonished that she kept digging deeper. Mayes never admitted they were wrong.
“And no one let me forget it. But I was eight .”
“It’s late,” he said, unwilling to be amused. “I gotta close up.”
And that was all the explanation he’d give her, even though her eyes and mouth rounded, full of questions.
“Hand over the key and get on home to your glittering mansion in the park.” He could taste the bitterness and worked to dial it back.
“You can’t boss me around, Rustin.” Chloe stuck out her pointy chin, and that small act of defiance made him want to grab it. What was wrong with him? He wasn’t that tired, or desperate. Playing games with a Maye was suicide.
“And you can’t kick me out of Millie’s. I can close up for you if you have some hot date with a pillow or something else.”
He bit back a sigh. She’d never had a filter. Why should he think twelve years would have given her one?
“I need to think, and this is where I do my best—” She finally looked around the kitchen, her gaze ping-ponging. “What?” She moistened her bottom lip and turned in a circle, taking in all of the space. “I knew Grandma Millie was remodeling, but everything looks so different.”
She reached out and touched the massive, distressed metal island that separated the open kitchen from the main dining room. The island was hinged so that it could form a bar for more seating.
“Wow,” she breathed, turning a slow circle, and he had the urge to grab her, throw her out. “It’s…it’s how I always imagined you.” She smiled at him. “But why…?”
“It’s not Millie’s anymore.” The words shot out of his mouth before his brain kicked in.
Damn. I’m not ready!
Chloe’s mouth dropped open like a cartoon character.
“Rustin,” she whispered, her creamy complexion with the starburst of freckles on her nose and cheeks paled to milk. “What do you mean?”
Now he’d done it. He’d wanted to wait until everything was finished. Until January’s opening night when he’d rip the paper off like it was a birthday present and shout out a big F-ing ta-daaaah!
He mocked his need for secrecy and glared at her stonily.
“Rustin.” Her delicate fingers grazed his forearm, and he felt singed.
He closed his eyes, ignoring the appeal in hers.
“Rustin, tell me what’s going on.”
He owed her nothing. He didn’t want her here.
“Please.”
A lot of people had thought he was selfish. Arrogant. Uncompromising. Critical. Harsh. True. But he was no liar, unlike many of the Mayes and the men in his family.
“Millie’s made no announcement?” Tension threaded his voice. She’d promised not to. They’d each had their reasons.
“No. Just that she was closing to renovate. We respected her privacy, and there’s been a lot of buzz but no flies.”
This town. The people. The sayings. He felt bone weary. Why had he wanted to come back here? He’d intended to stay in Charlotte. Rebekah, his manager and assistant, had wanted to stay in the city. So had his brother, Lucas. But the startup costs in Belmont were less than half of Charlotte’s. And he owned the building here. He never could have swung that in Charlotte.
“Why was everything kept secret?” Chloe asked, puzzled. “No surprise Mr. and Mrs. Maye were not pleased with the secrets or Grandma Millie remodeling. But it’s her business. Still, I’m sure they would have scowled if wrinkles weren’t a concern.”
“Doubt she can with the pounds of Botox she’s been darted with over the past decades.”
“Be nice,” Chloe chided, but she giggled, and the sound shot clean through him.
Maybe Chloe hadn’t entirely bought into the Maye mythology. Not like the others. Not like Jessica.
“I’m not nice, Clo Beau,” he warned, shutting down all thoughts of the past.
“I don’t believe you,” she stated simply. “Since I’m here, show me around and tell me what you and Grandma Millie have been up to,” she invited.
So, she really didn’t know everything yet. Rustin weighed the risk. He knew Chloe was the odd Maye out. Everyone knew that. She didn’t even have the Maye last name, but she’d definitely been raised and cared for by Miss Millie. Whenever she took the Maye sisters out for a treat or excursion or volunteer work party, Chloe had been there following in Jessica’s beautiful, elegant, regal wake.
“No.”
“Are you the chef?”
“No. Yes.”
“Glad that’s cleared up.” She looked around the kitchen—gleaming, commercial-grade appliances, vintage pendant light bulbs dangling over a metal island that he’d spent hours washing in an acid bath, polishing, and sealing. He was particularly proud of the reclaimed wood that formed the support tresses so that the second floor could be a loft bar and separate dining space.
“The lights are gorgeous.” Chloe walked over so that the light cast a golden glow around her, making her, too, look vintage, ethereal. “The color highlights the rust inherent in the metal, making the island or bar or whatever you call it look like a work of art.
Rustin was proud of the lights. They were custom. Too spendy and the first non-kitchen items Rustin had chosen. The bar had taken weeks to get right.
For a moment, pride pushed forward. Basking in her approval and awe was far more appealing than being cursed out by his team and the construction crew for his exacting perfection.
Idiot.
He’d worked too hard and come too far to let Chloe mouth off to her sisters so that they’d all descend before The Wild Side was ready to open.
Would Jessica come? His heart curdled. Irritated, he pushed the question far away.
“Tell me about the restaurant, Rustin.” Her voice was a soft invitation, and her mis-matched eyes shone.
“Time to go, Chloe. Key.” He held out his hand.
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t care.”
Instead of getting angry or defensive or tearing up, Chloe held on to the prep counter like she could stop him from tossing her out.
“I need your help.” She gulped in a breath. “You have a lot of experience cooking Southern food but also, I heard you’ve traveled. You could help me do something unique. Unexpected.”
She had his attention. No Maye had ever asked for his help. Demanded. Yes. Paid for his services, yes. Chloe’s delicate hands were now poised like a supplicant in prayer. His heart began to thud.
“It’s not just for me but Grandma Millie too,” she pleaded. “I need to pick your brain to cook something for the Movable Feast this year. Grandma Millie is really shaking things up. She’s insisting that the three Ms and I each run a separate event this year because the town’s growing and changing and we need to keep the traditions alive. And I can barely keep my panini sandwiches from burning to a crisp, so there’s that.”
She bounced up on her toes. “Please, Rustin. Please, please, please. You would create the most amazing meal, and, of course, Millie’s and you would be credited.”
She said the last part like it would seal the deal, and he could feel the shields she’d started to rattle, snap back into place.
Of course, the Mayes would want to cling to their power structure.
“She says we need new blood and…” Her voice trailed off, and for some reason she flushed bright red. “She said we need to keep the town traditions strong. It’s a challenge to all of us.”
The Maye’s and their challenges, he sneered. Would Jessica also approach him for his ‘help’? Then dread hit dead center.
“Miss Millie’s not sick is she?”
Chloe nipped her lip. “I asked. She said no?”
The question in her tone swirled the dread. Now Miss Millie selling him her diner made horrible sense, though he’d seen no decline in her these past few months as he’d buckled down and worked in near secrecy.
“So, will you help me come up with an entrée, Rustin? My first meeting with the hosting families is tomorrow afternoon.”
“You grew up in Millie’s kitchen. Surely you can plan a bite-size entrée to wow your guests into dropping enough dollars for a mortgage payment.” His bitterness tasted like ashes.
Chloe opened her mouth but then snapped it shut, clearly trying to organize her thoughts. “The feast benefits the Secret Santa program,” she said softly, and he fought his urge to cringe. His family had benefitted from that program his entire life. “And I’m sure you’re going to be courting the same folks to return to Millie’s Diner when you reopen.”
“You can read a cookbook, Chloe. Do it.” He tried to grab the key from her hand, but she clung to it as her determined gaze clung to him, full of fire and life.
“I need help, Rustin.”
“Not my problem.”
“Please, Rustin, please. I can’t fail Grandma Millie!”
He spun her around and pushed her toward the side door, where his trash and recycling was fenced off and where the deliveries would be arriving in another five to six weeks.
“Rustin,” she balked, but he kept the pressure steady, not wanting to hurt her but needing freedom and to breathe air without her fresh ocean breezy scent.
“Please,” she entreated.
“Get your own hands dirty.”
He closed the door and locked it. Turned his back on it and leaned against the steel, feeling like a jerk, but knowing he’d done the right thing. His survival instincts were honed.
*
Chloe kicked the door and then pressed her back against the cold steel. That had just happened. She’d been Rustined —pushed out and shut down.
“Same as it ever was,” she muttered.
She kicked the door again with her heel just to vent the last vestiges of her frustration, but she was already feeling childish even as she tried to prove she was all grown up. Chloe looked up at the waxing moon, clouds scuttling across its pale face. Rustin was a beast.
She laughed. Maybe that made her Belle.
“As if.”
She couldn’t imagine a woman capable of taming Rustin.
She walked home, contemplating her next move. She could ask Grandma Millie, but that would defeat her bid to prove her independence and value. She’d said she’d run tomorrow’s meeting and create a memorable entrée for the Movable Feast. And yes, she would have help during the event, but she would be running the show, and her pride was on the line in a way it often wasn’t.
She imagined her cousins would jump in filled with advice, anticipating her failure.
“Not my first fallback to Google,” she muttered, not convinced Google would impress this crowd. She could hire a caterer; lots of hosts did, although they claimed the recipe was a family one or from a famous chef, but they would guard it with their lives.
But that felt like cheating.
Conferring with Rustin felt right. Having him work beside her in Millie’s historic home would publicly welcome him back and ease his transition to being the new chef at the hugely remodeled Millie’s Diner. He’d probably totally overhauled the menu.
She walked along the part of the Riverwalk path that was finished, then she turned around to see where Millie’s had been. Sorrow pierced her heart. She’d grown up in that diner. It was a fixture. A place of comfort. The new look was edgy, interesting, and elegant in an industrial way, but it didn’t have the same come in, lay down your troubles, and enjoy soup or a sandwich or fish or fried chicken plate vibe.
The building was shrouded in darkness, mystery. Land had already been excavated for another development along the Riverwalk, incorporating one of the abandoned mills into what was going to be loft-type apartments, retail stores, offices with river views, a park, and connecting paths for biking, running, and walking. The new development would have a riverfront park with activities for families—river floating, paddle boards, kayaking—and it would connect to the small, historic downtown.
“But that does not solve my lack of culinary skills,” she said aloud. Rustin’s refusal to help irked her, but she wasn’t giving up. He was talented. He’d taken the shot Grandma Millie had given him and had made a name for himself. And judging from Jessica’s reaction, he was still going to receive a heap of bless his heart scorn.
Besides, working with Rustin would ensure that she would show the three Ms and Grandma Millie that she could solve her own problems. Tackle a traditional and elegant event that raised funds for local families in need to have a Christmas, and score! Her messed-up football analogy made her smile.
She wasn’t giving up on her Rustin plan, although she was sort of running out of time. The meeting was tomorrow, and she had to ensure that everyone had their menus and cooking and serving plans and that the subcommittees were on track. She’d planned enough concerts, field trips, school events, and lesson plans that she felt more confident in that area. She might still resemble a woodland fairy, but she was a strong teacher.
She’d come at Rustin from a different angle, make it harder for him to refuse. If they worked together on a menu, he’d hopefully see her as a woman, not Millie’s oddball granddaughter. And she’d gain some cooking insights. And have eye candy to feed her fantasies for months.
Chloe paused at the intersection where the historic district started. To the left she could see the downtown: three blocks of cute shops and sidewalks lined by replicas of old gas lamps. The street was anchored by a large, old-fashioned clock, which was one of the landmarks in which locals took a lot of pride.
She didn’t feel ready to cut across Maye Downtown Park to return to her carriage-house apartment. She was still too riled. Cold. And she still wore the dumb costume. No wonder Rustin hadn’t taken her seriously.
She needed to think of a recipe for tomorrow. Maybe if she cooked something early in the morning, she could take it to Rustin for advice, and he’d take pity on her and help.
Or throw me out again.
But she was not going to give up so easily. She wouldn’t let Grandma Millie down with an uninspired entrée that had guests complaining and demanding their money back and forever cementing her reputation as the odd and unsuccessful Maye.
“I can do this. I have to do this,” she said, and even as she put power in her voice, she felt failure creeping behind her. Had her biological mother left a string of failures in her wake culminating in an unwanted, unloved baby?
Chloe walked along the massive wrought iron fence that circled the estate. She trailed her fingers along each bar as she’d done many times as a child imagining her mother standing outside the gates early on that Christmas morning twenty-six years ago. What had she felt? Fear? Regret? Guilt? Relief?
And what had she done afterward?
“Don’t think. Don’t think.” She stopped and squeezed her eyes shut. Grandma Millie had always shut down speculation about her biological mother.
“We are your family,” Grandma Millie had always soothed, her voice and attitude never wavering.
But Chloe felt like she’d been wavering her entire life. She had to stop. To change. To take a stand and make it stick. Taking the job at the high school teaching English when she’d really wanted to pursue opera in Europe had been her sticking to something realistic, familiar, and safe.
Grandma Millie wouldn’t have to worry about her if she stayed in Belmont. She could take care of Grandma Millie if she got sick. And Chloe loved living in Belmont. She had singing opportunities in church and with the Belmont Women’s Choir. Plus she could pour her passion into her vocal students and the acapella choir she directed at South Point Abbey.
And now she was going to take a risk and step up to take her place socially alongside her cousins. She just needed a recipe for the Movable Feast.
“And a miracle,” she said opening her eyes and continuing to walk, taking comfort in the solid feel of each bar.
“A miracle,” she repeated, nearly smacking herself on the forehead for not thinking before of Grandma Millie’s mini-home library.
Twenty-five years ago, the Belmont Library Society had gifted Grandma Millie with a small replica of her house, crafted by students at the high school woodshop, who’d also painted it to match. The cute library had three shelves. The bottom shelf was generally stocked with children’s books. The middle shelf held fiction and mysteries, and the top shelf had everything else: self-help, nonfiction, and…cookbooks!
Chloe had often borrowed from and donated to this small library over the years, and she’d never failed to find a book she needed or wanted. Growing up, the library had almost felt mystical in that it would answer her thoughts or soothe the fears storming around her brain. She placed her fingers reverently on the doorknob, closed her eyes and whispered a prayer.
Chloe eased the doors wide and breathed in the scent of wood, paper, and, she liked to think, a little magic.
She opened her eyes and stared, shocked. The shelves were empty except for one book leaning drunkenly against the side. Curious, she pulled it out, marveling at its buttery-soft leather cover with some kind of silky thick ribbon binding it all together.
She cradled the book in her arms and read the cover, barely illuminated by the waxing moon.
Food Is Love
Recipes for
Southern Love Spells
“Ask and ye shall receive,” Chloe said, loving the mystery of it all, the drama. Had Grandma Millie put the book here knowing that Chloe would be out of her depth and regularly perused the shelves of the mini library?
“The plot thickens…dum, dum, dum, dummmmm,” she hummed under her breath and opened the book. She could make out handwriting, ingredient lists, and even some sketches.
She leafed through a few pages, her heart hammering with hope. Surely it was a sign.
“You got this, girl.”