Lynne Marshall - Cooking Up Romance

There’d been one problem though. He’d been called up for a six-month deployment to Afghanistan, so they’d have to wait at least that long before they could tie the knot. Going in, she’d known and accepted that this would be the life of a military girlfriend and future wife. What were a few months in a lifetime, they’d rationalized together to help make his leaving a little easier.

Two months after Greg had left, his parents called, sounding shaky and asking her to come to their house. Once there, they’d all been told together in person by an army major in their jurisdiction that Sergeant First Class Gregory Timberland had been killed by friendly fire. Lacy, though stunned, remembered thinking what a horrible job that major had, having to tell families the awful news. In his low and respectful voice with a slight tremble, the major had gone on to say that one of Greg’s own guys had killed him in a horrific mistake. It was an accident, of course, but nevertheless, who had come up with such a terrible term for what had happened? Friendly fire had to be the world’s worst oxymoron.

She couldn’t imagine the horror the other military guy—the one who’d made the mistake—must have felt when he’d realized what he’d done. At the news, she’d melted into a sadness so deep she couldn’t imagine ever seeing her way out.

The last time she and Greg had spoken over the internet had been two days before that earth-shattering news. Greg had been animated and full of life, and they’d made a few more plans for their wedding, laughed together, then said they loved each other. She’d loved him so much. Then he was gone. Along with all her dreams. The next few months had been a blur, and only after her father had insisted she get out of bed and stop acting like she’d died, too, did Lacy try to pick up her life without him. A task she couldn’t imagine pulling off.

That had been five years ago, and losing Greg still hurt. The flowers also reminded that she’d let her mother’s rose garden go to weeds after her father died. The place where Greg had proposed. Mom. Another person she’d loved and lost. Now guilt edged in along with the other sad memories. All because of today’s beautiful wedding grounds. She’d been blindsided with Greg’s memory and, worse yet, had let herself go there. Which led to thinking of losing her father and her mother. All the people she loved. Now she had to quickly wipe her eyes or run the risk of crying into the steak marinade. The memory was still too painful. But if she got the regular job at the senior housing building site, she wouldn’t have to take these wedding gigs anymore. Wouldn’t have to be reminded. So she’d do everything in her power to make sure she got that job.

Later, after the wedding and during the reception, a young woman, one of the hat wearers in pale blue head to foot, stood in the short line for a chicken wrap. She made a strange expression when Lacy handed the food to her, as if time had stopped for a moment when they looked at each other. After she took the wrap, the young woman started to step away, but quickly turned back. “Eva?” she said, sounding incredulous.

Lacy shook her head. “Uh, nope, I’m Lacy.”

“Oh.” The woman kept staring eerily at her. “Thanks.”

“I hope you like it.”

“I’m sure I will. Thanks.” She looked up again. “You look exactly like Eva.”

Absurd, right? Yeah, all redheads look alike . Heard that one a few thousand times before. Though under the circumstances, the wedding and all, plus the fact the young woman wore a really cool blue hat, Lacy wanted to be polite.

“Don’t they say everyone has a doppelgänger?” A nervous laugh escaped Lacy’s mouth as she said it, doing her best not to let on the young woman’s observation had unsettled her.

“Wow. You laugh just like her, too.” A dumbfounded expression accompanied the hat-wearer as she held the bag with the chicken wrap tight to her chest and walked backward, staring at Lacy the entire time until the crowd curtained her. Then the brunette’s hand, holding a cell phone, rose over a couple of heads.

Lacy swore she’d just had her picture taken.

Chapter Two

Sunday night, Zack sat at the kitchen table and caught up on some paperwork while his ten-year-old daughter, Emma, heated canned soup in a pot and made her one and only specialty—grilled cheese sandwiches.

“Dad, can I cut up some carrots and add it to the soup? It’ll make it more healthy.”

“Hmm?” Concentrating on organizing business receipts, he’d only tuned in for the last couple words. “Healthier,” he corrected. Their deal was, if she wanted to cook, which she wanted to do all the time lately, he had to be in the kitchen with her.

“Yes, that’s what I’m saying.” She let go a large and loud sigh, her current favorite thing to do whenever he corrected her or didn’t pay enough attention, which he’d just done both.

“Sure.” He laid down his pencil and pushed the pile of papers aside, because he had some making up to do and business could wait. Since his divorce, he’d made a promise to himself, on behalf of Emma, to be all he could be for his daughter. “I’ll watch.”

Another sigh, but she also smiled, a look he treasured. He stood nearby as she used the peeler and carefully cut small round pieces from the thin carrot, then tossed them into the heating chicken-and-rice soup. She smiled up at him again as she did, making his insides warm right up to his chin. How could his ex-wife turn her back on their daughter?

He squeezed her shoulder. “Good job,” he said, which garnered another smile from her.

Emma had the cutest overbite in the world, and he dreaded the day some friend might tease her about it and she’d suddenly be all about getting braces or those new invisible things. The condition affected her two front teeth as if her tongue—or thumb as a baby—had pushed them that way. Mild at best, the teeth only stuck out a tiny bit. And yes, she had sucked her thumb back then. Self-soothing, the pediatrician had called it. Soon enough, when she and her friends started taking selfies and she could compare her smile with theirs, she’d probably catch on and become self-conscious about the small imperfection. Why did everyone need to have perfect teeth anyway? He loved her just the way she was.

“You gonna watch me grill the sandwiches?”

“Of course.”

“I know how to be safe. When’s the last time I got burned?” Occasionally she’d test out being a preteen, and without a woman’s input he was often taken off guard.

“I can’t remember.” It was easy being benevolent with Emma. Come to think of it, he was the last person to get burned while scrambling eggs, but he didn’t need to remind her.

“You can set the table.” At ten she’d already learned to delegate—his kind way of avoiding calling his daughter bossy. He figured it was because Emma didn’t have a mother figure, and his guilt over that helped him put up with a lot. Not that she was spoiled. He cleared his throat. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready to start the sandwiches.”

He did a double take. “Yes, ma’am.” She looked like a natural standing on a footstool, fixing their dinner. When had she become so grown-up?

She’d had to suffer through his mediocre cooking since her mother left a year and a half ago. Mona was only so-so in the kitchen, too, so the poor kid didn’t exactly have the best training. Lately, though, Emma had discovered the Junior Chefs series on TV and had been nagging him to let her take cooking lessons. At ten? How would he even go about finding a person to teach a child cooking? The kids on that show probably had parents who were culinary geniuses. Was cooking an inherited trait? If so, sweet Emma was doomed.