Keli Gwyn - Their Mistletoe Matchmakers

Dot clapped and squealed. “It has whipped cream and chocolate curls.”

Marcie smacked her lips, and Alex nodded appreciatively.

“I made a cup for you, too, Gladys.” He handed her one.

“Why, thank you. It’s right fancy.”

“What about Aunt Lavinia?” Dot asked. “She likes cocoa, too.”

“I’ll take her some while you stay here and keep Miss Gladys company.”

Moments later, he entered the parlor, mugs in hand. He held one out to Lavinia, who was seated in Pauline’s favorite chair, gazing at the fire. “Here you go.”

“Thank you.” She took the cocoa and stared at it. “You don’t do anything halfway, do you?”

“What do you mean?” He sat in Jack’s wingback armchair and sipped the tasty beverage.

“This isn’t an ordinary cup of cocoa.”

“I thought the children would appreciate that.”

“I’m sure they do, but...” She set her mug on the side table and turned to face him. The sadness he’d seen all those years ago had returned. She must have been thinking about her sister. “You could have told me you know how to cook.”

So that’s what this was all about? “What difference does it make?”

“You said you know your way around a kitchen the way a bachelor does, but it’s obvious you know a lot more than that. I saw the pies you made. They’re not the work of a novice. Have you worked in a restaurant or something?”

He’d spent as much time as possible in the one inside his hotel, but he didn’t advertise that fact since many men thought of cooking as women’s work. The miners he served appreciated a man who could broil a steak or whip up a mess of beans, but they didn’t come west expecting to eat white fricassee chicken or ragout of onions. If they knew he was a trained chef, he would become a laughingstock.

“I don’t see why it matters, but I received some instruction.”

“Where?”

She was certainly persistent. That trait could serve her well when she encountered obstacles. He’d have to remember that, since she seemed to consider him one. “Back in Philadelphia. I made some wrought iron railings for a widow who’d been a student at Mrs. Goodfellow’s cooking school when she was young. She paid for the materials, but I offered her free labor in exchange for lessons.”

“Why did you want to learn? Few men would.”

He rubbed the chair’s smooth wooden arms. “I happen to enjoy cooking.”

“It’s certainly a useful skill. You’ve proven that.” She picked up her mug and took a sip. A bit of the whipped cream remained on her upper lip, but she swiped it off with a finger and popped it in her mouth. She pulled out her finger, stared at it and blushed. The heightened color did nice things for her fair complexion. “Forgive me. That wasn’t very ladylike.”

“We’re practically family. You don’t have to pull out the company manners for me.”

She gave him a look that made him wonder if he was sporting a whipped-cream mustache himself. “Although we share the same wonderful nieces and nephew, you and I are most definitely not related.”

Her formal tone, the same one she’d used at the wedding, grated on him. “I realize I’m not up to Crowne standards, but I’m a decent fellow.”

She took a sudden interest in her mug, running a finger around its rim. When she finally looked at him, the stiffness was gone. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it as an insult. Like you, I’m aware that we come from different worlds—and different places. That’s put us at odds, whether we like it or not. But I meant what I said yesterday. I’ll work with you to see that the children are as happy as possible throughout the holidays.”

“They’re looking forward to Thanksgiving.”

She nodded. “You’ve seen to that.”

Her statement sounded more like an accusation than a compliment. Could it be she was jealous of his relationship with the children? If that was the case, she had no cause for concern. He would see that they wrote to her once she returned to Philadelphia. In the meantime, he had to do something to make her feel more welcome. “Gladys shared your menu with me, but is there anything special you’d like me to make?”

His request earned him a hint of a smile. “Since you ask, did the woman who gave you lessons teach you how to make lemon meringue pie?”

“Of course.” Mrs. Goodfellow had been known for that particular pie. “I’ll whip one up right away.”

Lavinia stood, mug in hand, and he shot to his feet. “I’ll go see how the children are doing.” She crossed the room, paused in the doorway and turned to face him, wearing a warm smile. “Thank you, Henry.”

“My pleasure.” He liked seeing her happy. She would only be here a few weeks, but perhaps he could add a little joy to her life—before she faced the future and the difficult parting that was to come.

* * *

A tempting assortment of savory scents filled the air the following afternoon. The dining room table, although much smaller than the one at which Lavinia had eaten her Thanksgiving dinners back home, was groaning under the weight of the dishes already on it as Henry carried in yet another.

Clad in a black cutaway coat, white shirt and white silk cravat, he looked as fine as any waiter in her father’s restaurants. He’d even draped a white linen cloth over his arm. The children, their eyes as big as their dinner plates, delighted in his performance.

She had to admit he’d impressed her, too, both with his cooking and his appearance. More than once, she’d caught herself staring at him, which wouldn’t do. He might be an incredibly handsome man, as well as a talented one, but he was also the man intent upon exerting his rights as the children’s guardian.

He found a spot to squeeze in the gravy boat, surveyed the spread and nodded at her. “All’s ready for your dining pleasure, milady.”

Dot tugged on Lavinia’s sleeve. “Why did Uncle Henry call you that?”

Alex answered before Lavinia could. “It’s what a waiter in a fancy restaurant calls a fine lady.”

“How do you know?” Marcie asked. “You’ve never been to a place like that.”

“My friend Frankie went to San Francisco, and he told me.”

“Frankie fibbed. He’s never been there. His sister told me so.” Marcie gave her head a toss and stuck her pert little nose in the air.

Gladys put a finger to her lips and frowned. “Shh. Children in fancy restaurants don’t squabble.”

Henry removed the cloth from his arm and took his place at the head of the table.

Lavinia waited until the children were quiet to speak. “Your uncle put a lot of work into this meal. What do you say to him?”

The children chorused their thanks.

She sent Henry a smile. “I’ll add my thanks to theirs. Everything looks and smells great. Would you like to say grace?”

“I’d be happy to.” As soon as all heads were bowed, he began. “Thank You, Lord, for this meal we’re about to enjoy and the special people around this table. We think of two loved ones who are no longer with us, and we thank You that they were in our lives for as long as they were. Be with us in the year ahead, guiding us in the paths You would have us take. In Your name, I ask these things. Amen.”

Silence followed, broken by sniffles from the girls. Even Alex swiped at his eyes. Lavinia struggled to breathe, which was not an easy task given the ache lodged in her chest. Unable to speak, she grabbed the nearest bowl, scooped some mashed potatoes and helped Dot do the same.

Henry picked up the serving fork and carving knife. “Who wants a drumstick?” His well-timed question dispelled the fog of grief that had descended. Excited chatter soon filled the room.

They lingered over the meal, enjoying the delectable dishes. Lavinia sampled each one. Although everything tasted good, she agreed with Marcie. Stuffing was her favorite, and Henry’s was the best she’d ever had. His cooking was on par with that of the chefs her father hired for his restaurants.