Christina Skye - The Accidental Bride

Jilly peeked through the door. A short man was sitting at a postage-stamp-size desk. Cookbooks lined neat shelves all the way to the ceiling. “Check. The cake is baked.” He tapped on a computer as he spoke. “We’ll start the decorations tomorrow. You still planning for one hundred guests?”

There was more silence, broken by the soft tapping of computer keys. “Will do. Come by at lunch. I made that ginger ice cream you like.”

The chair creaked again and Jilly heard the typing resume. She knocked on the door.

“Come on in. It better be important. I’ve got a wedding menu to finish.”

Jilly stepped inside. “Sorry to bother you, but I’m hoping to get some information about your cooking retreat classes. They start today, but I can’t find any signs posted. I thought I’d ask back here.”

The resort’s executive chef swiveled his chair around slowly. “Cooking classes?” His ruddy face slid into a grin. “Very funny. Wait a minute.” He tilted back in his chair, studying Jilly. “Do I know you?”

“I don’t think so. I arrived last night.”

The chef drummed his fingers on the tidy desk. “I recognize you now. You’re Jilly O’Hara of Jilly’s Naturals. I read an article about you last week. Look at these.” He opened a drawer and rummaged excitedly, then pushed a jar across the desk. “Mango Chipotle Salsa. A mix made in heaven. I used it last night as a basting sauce for grilled pork. So why are you here at Lost Creek Resort?” He made a kissing motion to the air. “Why aren’t you in your kitchen producing more great salsas?”

Jilly liked him instantly. She had to smile when he pulled three other flavors of Jilly’s Naturals products from the drawer. “It’s kind of … an enforced vacation. I’ve been a little under the weather, and my friends set up this trip as a surprise. But they told me I was going to a cooking retreat. There aren’t any classes here?”

“Sure, but not for cooking. Somebody must have made a mistake.”

No cooking? That couldn’t be right, Jilly thought. Could her friends have been confused?

Maybe she should call Caro and—

The chef broke into her tangled thoughts. “Nothing serious, I hope. About you being under the weather.”

“No. Just working too hard—you know how hectic it can get in a kitchen.”

“Tell me about it.” He held out a beefy hand. “Name’s Ralph MacDermott. My friends call me Red. Not for the hair, but because I burn. It’s the Irish in me. Tell me what you think of the resort so far.”

Jilly took the cup of tea he poured from an electric pot behind his desk. “Everything’s beautiful. You’ve got a nice, tidy kitchen. Very clean and well organized.” In politeness she didn’t add that it was also cramped and forty years out of date. But cooking magic came from people, not appliances.

“We manage pretty well, most of the time. Ski season gets a little crazy. Skimageddon, we call it.” He sipped some tea and then studied her some more. “Had a chance to look at the menu yet?”

“No. I fell asleep last night. The air here is amazing.”

“It will take off ten years, and that’s a fact. Have a croissant.” He pushed a plate of golden pastries across to Jilly. “You must be pretty busy with your restaurant and your food line. How did you manage to get away?”

Jilly’s smile faded as she remembered her fall in the kitchen and the cascade of bad news that had followed. Right now her business was shaky. A friend from cooking school was filling in temporarily, but she couldn’t ask him to help out forever. Soon she’d have to make a decision.

She could let go of her dream and sell everything. Or she could go back to the job that she loved, knowing it could kill her.

What kind of choice was that?

Jilly decided that her call to Caro could wait. She was having too much fun talking shop with another chef. “I delegated. I’m trying to learn better management skills.”

Red refilled Jilly’s cup. “And your friends signed you up? Nice idea. They definitely sent you to the right place to relax. Sure, we’re not Jackson Hole or Aspen, but for my money, I’ll take Lost Creek any day.”

He searched through a folder, then glanced up at the wall clock. “How about I walk you over to the building where our workshops are held? It’s just down the hill, but the path can be confusing.” He flipped off his computer and stood up.

“You’ve got a kitchen to run,” Jilly said. “If you can give me directions, I’m sure—”

“No way. You’re a celebrity,” Red said firmly. “You get the grand tour.”

AS THEY WOUND PAST CEDAR-and-glass buildings, Red filled Jilly in on the town’s history, dating back to a rough-and-tumble mining camp in the last century. It was clear that he loved the place. Between questions about produce sources and trends in southwestern cooking, he grilled Jilly about future plans for her salsa line. She managed to be polite despite her fears about the future of her business, but she was relieved when they finally stopped at a big redwood structure with stained glass windows.

Now maybe she would get some answers.

Red glanced at his watch. “Here’s where the classes meet. But it’s a little early. You have time to get breakfast.”

“I never eat much breakfast. The croissant was perfect. Besides, I want to see about the retreat. If it’s really not geared to cooking …” Her voice trailed off. She looked around curiously as a young woman with a big wool bag strode past, red Keds flashing beneath purple leggings. Two more women rounded the path, both carrying big fabric totes.

Jilly studied their bags. They had big pockets on both sides. Jilly had seen bags like those before.

Caro carried one. It held her current sock project. And extra balls of yarn.

Stitch markers.

Long wooden needles.

Jilly closed her eyes.

They hadn’t. They couldn’t.

Had her devious friends signed her up for a knitting retreat instead of a cooking school?

SHE WAS GOING TO SKEWER them for this!

Jilly shot from surprise straight into fury. They had tricked her with images of cutting-edge cooking techniques and hot new chefs. They’d lied to her.

They’d signed her up for knitting camp. A bunch of old ladies with blue hair and arch support shoes, Jilly thought furiously.

Oh, she could knit if she had to. She knew the basic moves. But it had never been fun or relaxing for Jilly, and each project attempt left her crazy with impatience.

There was no way she’d be going through that door into those classrooms. Over her dead body!

Red was staring at her in concern. “Are you okay? It’s not cooking, but our retreats are very popular. We’ve sold out three years in a row. You’re lucky your friends could find you a spot.”

“ Lucky? Not from where I’m standing. I knit like a surly second-grader, so my friends tell me. I’m going to kill them for this,” she muttered.

“Hey, you might like it. Kinda soothing to see all those needles bobbing around. My wife used to knit. I lost her last year to cancer.” The chef cleared his throat. “What I mean is, you should give it a try. I can introduce you, if you want. I know all the teachers by now. We bring pie and chocolate down every afternoon at break time.”

Jilly tried to rein in her temper, aware that her friends had set this up with good intentions. They wanted her to rest and they figured this was the best place for it.

But she needed to cook, not knit. She needed to stand at a big 34-inch stainless steel stove finessing salsa and coaxing European butter and dark chocolate into sinful new concoctions.

Jilly rubbed a hand over her face, processing the shock. She was a terrible knitter. It brought out the impatient teenager in her, and that was never a good thing.