Chapter 9 #3
“Oh, recipes? Hmmmm, I’m not sure.” Harvey frowned. “But I know we have a lot of old books. Historical texts and some such. I could look back there. See what I can find.”
It had been a shot in the dark, but Rocco was disappointed, anyway.
“Sure, if you have time.” Rocco shrugged. Nearly wondering if he should just tell Harvey to forget it.
“No, no,” Harvey said, “come on. We’ll look together. It’s just back here.” He gestured towards the back of the museum, and Rocco figured it wouldn’t hurt to follow.
The room was small and packed to the gills with stuff. File cabinets on one side and a large bookshelf, rising nearly to the ceiling, on the other. “That’s a lot of books,” Rocco said.
“And I haven’t spent much time cataloging them. There could definitely be something in here.” The optimism and hope in Harvey’s voice was catching, to say nothing of his enthusiasm.
For the next ten minutes or so, Rocco stood next to him and scanned book spines, looking for anything that could possibly deliver some kind of recipe.
He was even willing to settle for any kind of record of food that had been served in the town.
But Harvey had something so much better for him than that.
“Aha! I think I’ve got exactly what you’re looking for!” Harvey sounded excited as he pulled it from the shelf and Rocco looked over at the book in his hand.
It was old, at least twenty or thirty years old, and an amateur kind of production, spiral bound, with a generic font announcing it was the Christmas Falls charity cookbook from 1997.
The laminate on the corners was peeling, but when Rocco took it and started to flip through it, he could see recipe after recipe, and many of them had names associated with them that he recognized.
There were two recipes from a Mabel Clark, who must be Murphy’s grandmother, who Marlene had told him was famous for her pies.
“This is perfect,” Rocco said, holding the book like it was gold. “Is there a copy machine somewhere where I can make a few copies or scans?”
“I can do you one better.” Harvey put a hand on his shoulder. “I think this cookbook should go home with you.”
Rocco looked at him, shocked. “I couldn’t possibly—”
“No,” Harvey interrupted gently. “You should. At least for now. Take it home. Study it. Then when you’re ready, bring it back. But really, no rush. Nobody was looking for this. Nobody even knew it was here.”
“I’ll take good care of it,” Rocco promised.
Harvey smiled. “Of course you will.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to put it in . . .some kind of protective . . .”
Harvey shook his head. “It’s history, sure, but it’s living history, Rocco. And I know you won’t be careless.”
“I haven’t been here long enough for you to know that.” But Rocco was smiling, too, Harvey’s trust a balm for the remainder of the hurt he’d felt after Taylor had kissed him.
“You’ve been here long enough to know the town gossip mill is robust enough to tell us everything we need to know,” Harvey said, winking. “Pumpkin spice notwithstanding.”
“Well, that’s really nice of you,” Rocco said. “And if anyone asks, it is back.”
“I’ll make sure to tell anyone who asks,” Harvey said with a firm nod. “Anything else I can help you with?”
“Nope,” Rocco said. He couldn’t deny it; he was excited to be able to look through the cookbook and see if there was anything he could use.
“Awesome. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to swing by,” Harvey said.
“I definitely won’t,” Rocco said.
A few minutes later, he was walking back to Jolly Java, the cookbook burning in his hands. He stepped inside the coffee shop, made sure that Rebecca didn’t need any help, grabbed a coffee and his notebook and then settled at a table in the corner.
He was about two thirds of the way through the book, deep into the dessert section, making notes and jotting down ideas and page numbers, when he saw it.
Rocco froze.
It could be a coincidence but he knew, deep down, that it wasn’t.
The almond cookie recipe by Teresa Hall had to be from Taylor’s mom, and these had to be the same cookies he’d talked about her baking. The cookies that had given him that sweet-pained look deep in his eyes when he’d tasted Rocco’s marzipan latte.
Rocco looked up. Knowing what he should do, even though he wasn’t sure he wanted to get his ass kicked again by the universe.
“If you really think so,” he told it. “But I’m not so sure.”
That was a lie though. He was sure. He wouldn’t have been so fucking disappointed by the aftermath of their kiss if he wasn’t sure. If he wasn’t convinced, deep down, in a place he couldn’t deny even if he wanted to, that Taylor was someone special.
That he wanted Taylor to be someone special to him.
“You talking to yourself out there?” Rebecca asked.
“Sort of,” Rocco said wryly. “To the universe. To fate. Maybe even to Taylor.”
Rebecca approached his table and made a face. “Are you finally gonna talk to him?”
He’d not been able to hide his post-kiss bad mood from her, so he’d admitted they’d had a little hiccup and he was giving himself some space from the guy.
She’d been supportive but also said that she thought she’d never seen him happier than when he was with Taylor.
And that was the kicker, wasn’t it?
It was true.
“Yeah,” Rocco said and picked up one of the schedule flyers he’d shoved into his notebook, noting next weekend’s events, then pulled his phone from his pocket.
Up for some Carol-oke this weekend? he texted Taylor.
He didn’t say anything about the kiss. What else was there to say about it, other than he desperately wanted to do it again? And this time have it mean something?
Maybe Taylor didn’t agree, but how could he if Rocco didn’t convince him to change his mind?
I am, Taylor texted back almost immediately. I was thinking about you.
And that, Rocco decided, was the universe telling him he’d made the right call.