CHAPTER 15
Willa was surprised how many cars and motorcycles clogged the farm’s driveway and what turned out to be their makeshift farm-stand parking lot. She parked on the road rather than risk getting boxed in. She had one plan: get in, give her contribution to the barbecue without any repeat of the goat incident, and then, after some pleasantries and light mingling, making a clean getaway.
It wasn’t that she thought she’d dislike Hudson’s family. If they were like Hudson and Kimber, she was sure they were wonderful: fun, friendly, kind. Hudson had made it clear that they were interested in meeting her.
It wasn’t meeting the other islanders, either, or the fact that she’d be meeting relative strangers. She couldn’t count how many parties, charity functions, and meet-and-greets she’d been to, even hosted, with Steven. Celebrations had been his life’s blood, once upon a time.
She closed her eyes, sitting in the still car for a second. She wasn’t avoiding the barbecue because of Steven, either, she acknowledged—and that was a bittersweet insight. She’d always miss Steven. The two years that had passed since his death didn’t change that. But his passing wasn’t dictating her choices, and it wasn’t like she was living with his ghost, no matter how she recognized that memories still floated around her like steam ... sometimes wisps, just a scent, sometimes strong enough to burn.
No, it was all the cookbook: the deadline, the pressure, the sheer necessity. She ought to have said no to the party. She could’ve made some excuse, made it up by bringing food some other time. After the deadline. But Hudson had asked her, with that hint of a dimple and those twinkling eyes and that rakish smile, and she’d heard her traitorous voice agreeing before her brain caught up with what she’d said.
She knew by this point it was attraction, especially after he’d basically called her out on it and admitted the same. She wasn’t a fool. But the sensation was so alien and rusty that it was like relearning a language she hadn’t spoken in decades. She hardly had the time to focus on anything, and she still wasn’t sure what she’d do with the knowledge even if she did have the mental bandwidth for it.
She didn’t deny it came in useful for the cookbook, though. At least, that’s what she told herself. The sexy chefs in the TikToks made her smile. Hudson, when he lifted his shirt to wipe the sweat from his forehead and revealed that six-pack? Made her gasp . Her mouth went dry again, her brain fritzed out, and her heart slammed itself against her rib cage like a prisoner railing against containment.
For the love of God, find some modicum of chill.
She pulled it together. She would tentatively let herself feel ... whatever this thing was , in the safe confines of her home, after she got what she needed to done. Otherwise, there was no way she could get the cookbook written. She’d just ... admire him.
Respectfully.
From a distance.
And not today.
Even if pulling it together was like trying to throttle a rocket—sometimes it got loose and overwhelmed her.
When she finally felt like she’d pulled herself together (and when she realized her food needed to get to a freezer as soon as possible), she headed out. She had a brand-new batch of goat-cheese-and-honey ice cream made with what she’d initially saved for herself from the basket, now contained in an extra-secure plastic tub. She’d also made a burnt caramel sauce for it, and a test run of some chili-watermelon popsicles, taking inspiration from Hudson’s original skewer suggestion. They both seemed perfect for summer and great for a picnic.
She glanced at her phone for the time. Half an hour, she told herself, then back to working on the damned cookbook.
There was an eclectic mix of partygoers at the crowded farm. Music played from speakers she couldn’t see. Two charcoal grills were going ... burgers, some kind of ribs maybe, from the smell of it. There was a keg nearby. It was flanked by some men and women in leather vests with patches and things that suggested they belonged to the motorcycles in the lot, but they all seemed friendly, interacting with people in Mariners T-shirts or tank tops. The age range was wide. There were teenagers tucked in corners, laughing and messing around. There were some young kids chasing each other with water guns. Even a few babies dotting the crowd, being handed around and fussed over.
She noticed a little nervously that the goats were running loose, and an assortment of those assembled—bikers, teens, and casual civilians—were trying to corral them back in their barn, with a varying degree of success, as the goats tried desperately to get at the food. When the crowd let out a roar of success at finally capturing the rascals, she couldn’t help but smile.
It was idyllic. Fun. She wasn’t surprised by Hudson’s family having a happy gathering, although she was surprised by how the simple sweetness of the scene hit her. In some ways, it made her miss her friends from their restaurant days in the Bay Area, before the foreclosure and before Steven’s condition had gotten bad enough to have them move down to LA. In other ways, it made her wish that she could slide into this community and just fit , like slipping into a warm bath.
Maybe when the book’s done ...
She made her way to the front of the house, intent on finding the kitchen. In her experience, the kitchen was the heart of any party, and the frozen desserts wouldn’t keep themselves cold.
“You made it!”
She glanced over to see Kimber. She had a drink in hand and had been hanging with a few others that looked her age, with dyed hair, piercings, tattoos. They sent her friendly smiles and nods. Kimber looked thrilled.
“Hi,” Willa returned with a warm smile, Kimber’s obvious fondness making it impossible to do anything else. “Okay to put these in the freezer? Or do you have an ice chest?”
Kimber’s eyes went wide. “Is that more of that ice cream?”
Willa nodded, and Kimber looped an arm through hers. “Come with me. I can’t wait to try this!”
Willa found herself drawn into the farmhouse. It was bigger than hers, or at least looked that way from the outside. The kitchen was on the ground floor, and as she’d expected, it was crowded with people laughing and talking. Food was laid out on the large square kitchen table as well as the kitchen counters.
“Grandma,” Kimber said, interrupting a conversation, then smirked and nodded at Willa.
The woman was wearing a tank top and a pair of jeans. Her gray hair tumbled around her shoulders. She wasn’t wearing makeup that Willa could tell, and she had laugh lines from obvious decades of merriment. Her blue eyes twinkled, just like Hudson’s.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Willa said reflexively, then handed over the food with both hands. “Ah, you’ll want to get that in the freezer ...?”
“Not before I get some!” Kimber protested, and the grandmother shook her head but laughed.
“Greedy. Get us both bowls,” she instructed before turning back to Willa. “I’m Marigold, but you can call me Mari. Can I get you a drink? We’ve got some fresh blackberry-mint margaritas going.”
“They sound weird,” Kimber added over her shoulder as she scooped out two bowls from the container. “But they’re good. Did you want some of this?”
“No, thank you,” Willa said, first to Mari, then Kimber. “The small container is the sauce for it, by the way. It’s, um, a burnt caramel.”
Both Mari and Kimber cooed. The other people in the kitchen, mostly women, looked at her curiously.
Mari’s smile widened, almost impossibly. “This is Willa! She’s Caroline’s great-niece—you remember Caroline, the one who made those baby blankets and had the Swedish meatballs for potlucks? Willa just moved into her house.”
There was a chatter of happy, excited acknowledgment, with people saying “hello” and “welcome,” and some random offers of “if you need anything,” which made her chest warm. She nodded back, feeling shy but grateful.
“Hudson’s doing repairs at her house,” Mari added, but her expression seemed ... smug? Maybe not that—she didn’t seem the type—but the little sentence seemed to convey more meaning, and Willa wasn’t sure why. “He invited her to the barbecue.”
The way the kitchen went into a stunned silence made Willa freeze, especially when all of them immediately stared at her.
“ Really ,” someone drawled. Mari nodded with satisfaction.
Then, just like that, questions and comments exploded around her.
“Are you moving to the island permanently, then?”
“What do you do for a living?”
“Hudson, really?” a woman said to Kimber, shock clear in her voice. “But ... he never ... she’s an islander! He’s never been with anybody from the island! He just, y’know, goes off island for, erm, fun!”
Mari glared at the woman, who immediately reddened and headed out the back door, mumbling something about checking on her husband, since he was helping to man the grill.
“This ice cream,” Kimber said, obviously trying to change the subject, “is amazing, Willa.”
“Thanks,” Willa said, feeling uncomfortable. Did people think she and Hudson were dating? Or ... was he so anticommitment that him expressing potential interest in anyone was a matter of conversation? It was hard to tell. She wasn’t even sure how she felt about it. Small towns were hotbeds of gossip, weren’t they? She only had Hallmark and romances she’d read when she was super stressed to go off, so she wasn’t entirely sure. “That means a lot, coming from you. Your dad’s mentioned some of your farm-stand products, with the berries and such. I’m impressed.”
Another person laughed. “You should try her cookies!”
Kimber rolled her eyes.
“You bake?” Willa smiled, feeling a true kindred spirit.
“Sometimes, when I feel like it,” Kimber said. “I made chocolate chip cookies.”
“Those are my favorites,” Willa admitted. “I don’t make them that often, and I feel like now, too many people write them off as too basic, but they’re classic for a reason. I’ve got a recipe that’s a mix of Smitten Kitchen’s and J. Kenji López-Alt’s versions. Can I try one?”
For the first time, she saw the self-assured young woman actually look embarrassed. “Right. About that ...”
The assembled group burst into laughter. Willa wondered if she’d somehow accidentally stumbled into a faux pas but couldn’t for the life of her figure out what it was.
“They’re, uh, edibles.”
Willa didn’t put it together. They were cookies. Of course they’d be edible?
The confusion must’ve been clear on her face because Kimber laughed awkwardly. “That means they’ve got weed in them.”
Kimber seemed so uncomfortable—as if she was expecting Willa to judge her, and that she was going to be found wanting—that Willa immediately felt bad. She liked Kimber, and had since she’d met her. She just had this liveliness, this confidence. It didn’t seem right to put her in the position of being judged at all.
Willa had never had weed. For that matter, she’d rarely drunk, really, and in college, she’d been a bit too uptight to do much more than that. Steven hadn’t indulged, either, since he’d hated the sensation of smoke in his lungs and felt that weed “ruined the flavor” too much to make it worth his while to consume orally.
What the hell? She could always walk home if she needed to, she reasoned, or get an Uber. Or maybe she could consider letting someone else give her a lift.
She shook her head at herself. By a specific “someone else,” if she was honest. She didn’t take favors from just anyone, but she felt pretty confident that Hudson could drive her.
She didn’t feel as bad asking him to help, for a good cause like this, if she needed to.
“I’d love to have one, if you’re offering,” she said bravely, and the responding smile on Kimber’s face was worth it.
“They’re ... I mean, they’re not gourmet or anything,” Kimber hedged after retrieving a plastic container from a high shelf in one of the kitchen cabinets. “But they’re okay?”
She broke the cookie into fourths, for some reason, putting it all on a napkin.
Willa popped one of the pieces in her mouth. She couldn’t help it ... after years around chefs, after helping Steven open his own restaurant, after hearing shoptalk—hell, after her food science degree—she automatically went into analysis mode.
“I do mean to, um, adjust the recipe,” Kimber said when Willa hadn’t said anything for a while. “I know it’s not quite right, but I don’t know what to fix. Maybe more chocolate chips?”
“It’s not that,” Willa mused. “It’s interesting. You really get that grassy flavor ... very vegetal. Not that it’s a bad thing,” she rushed to reassure her. “I think if you amped up the other flavors ... Do you brown the butter?”
Kimber shook her head. “Did you want a glass of milk to go with it?”
“That’d be great,” Willa agreed, and Kimber turned away to get her a mug. She ate another quarter.
“That’ll give it more of a nutty flavor, stronger,” Willa said. “And let the dough sit overnight. Freeze, if possible. That’ll make a difference. I like making my own brown sugar, going a bit heavier on the molasses too. Those could all help. I wonder if there’s something—not to mask it, exactly, but to use as a counterpoint ...”
Willa frowned thoughtfully, then ate the other two pieces. In her mind, she could already think of the adjustments, and the challenges. Marijuana was a strong flavor. She wondered if it would work better in something savory, herb heavy, to disguise it.
“Maybe I could have another one?” Willa asked. “I’ll be able to pin it down.”
Now everyone was staring at her again, and she winced, suddenly feeling self-conscious. She wasn’t even sure how much marijuana cost, and she was asking for more. Good grief, had she completely lost her social skills?
“Willa,” Mari said carefully, “you have had edibles before, right?”
“Actually, no,” Willa said. “Why? Is that a problem?”
Kimber went pale. “Shit,” she breathed.
“Oh, dear. I think you’ll be staying with us tonight, sweetie,” Mari added.
Fear suddenly gripped Willa. It literally hadn’t occurred to her that it would be a problem—she’d focused on the cookie, not on the special ingredient, at least not past how it tasted. She’d figured it was one cookie. “Is this going to be bad?”
“No,” Mari said in a confident tone that was belied by the concerned look she swapped with Kimber. “But we’ll be keeping an eye on you. Just in case.”