CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Third X-Mas Club Meeting.

Thursday night. One more meeting and then Christmas.

Yesterday, on the winter picnic, she’d had the best muffuletta ever—maybe even better than the one she’d had at a quaint little restaurant in New Orleans when Josh had taken her there for their tenth anniversary.

Cullen, the Culinary Knight, had shared a freshly made one—bread included—with her while they sat on a huge old Appalachian quilt that had belonged to his grandmother. He’d brought wassail in a huge thermos. Wassail with a muffuletta? Who did that? The man was full of surprises, she’d give him that.

He told her he’d learned to cook watching the Food Network, and because he traveled a lot, he’d also picked up dishes from faraway places, and found recipe books to help him learn.

He looked young and carefree when he talked about cooking and food. But he held his secrets like a sacred recipe against his chest.

She wondered what he’d fired up in the lodge kitchen tonight. The weather had turned cloudy and rainy, but no sleet was predicated. Just a cold, howling wind that sounded like ghosts moving through the aged oaks, firs, and giant magnolias.

Veronica arrived a little early. Lulu woofed as she recognized the scents and sounds of the woods. Rain dripped in a symphony of different drums against the almost leafless trees and trink led through the heath-bald lining the nearby streams.

“We’re here,” she said to Lulu. “So, calm down.” She held the dog’s leash in one hand and her umbrella in the other.

Veronica couldn’t say she liked this old place, but lately, it sure held a spot in her heart. She’d looked forward to tonight.

Cullen hadn’t kissed her, but that sweet touch of his lips on her cheek had gone straight to that warm spot inside her heart, a spot that had long been barren and dormant.

That spot still burned with a need she’d forgotten.

They entered the double doors, and she smelled the forest inside the lodge. Hillman’s truck sat out front, so he must have come early to help Cullen. Those two had become chummy, being the only males in this pack of expats. She spotted more greenery from the forest, holly leaves with red berries curled against the massive chunk of mantel wood. A potted baby fir sat next to the entryway.

The whole place smelled of lemon and forest.

Not a bad combination.

She shook out her umbrella and unleashed Lulu. The dog woofed and headed for the kitchen.

“Hello, girl.” Cullen’s voice reached her waiting ears, and Veronica did the same thing as Lulu. Her ears perked up and she wanted to dance in a circle.

What had come over her?

Then she looked up and saw him strolling toward her, wearing a blue wool sweater that matched his eyes, his jeans worn in all the right places, his boots Italian and broken in.

Her heart upped its tempo and beat a whole lot faster.

She refused to cave. “You clean up nice,” she quipped, memories of cinnamon and wine mixed with apples and spices dancing through her head.

“And you look amazing.”

His gaze moved over her hair, her throat, her lips.

“I do have some decent clothes left in my closet,” she said in what she hoped was an aloof tone.

Red.

She’d chosen a red-wool turtleneck dress and butter-colored scrunchy boots—thank you, Michael Kors.

“The hair—all upswept and perfectly untidy.”

“A messy bun. Easy.”

“Easy to tug down,” he said with a tempting smile.

“Take me to the kitchen,” she replied. “I’m starving.”

“I know that feeling, luv.”

She suddenly became itchy. Too much wool or the way he’d devoured her face and neck. Her covered neck.

I should have stayed home.

“It’s good to be here,” she said instead, leaving a soft echo floating with anticipation through the big gathering room.

Cullen decided he should have brought out the whiskey for courage. This woman was messing with his carefully thought-out plans to redo this entire property, and to buy the house of his dreams. Maybe because she challenged him as no one else had ever done. She forced him to look inside, to open his heart. Talk about things he never talked about. She did that because she knew his deepest pain and understood it. No other woman had gone that deep. Most didn’t want to know such dreadful details.

He followed her to the kitchen where Trudy had taken over. Thank goodness for that, because his hands were shaking too much right now to wield a knife.

“You’re not cooking tonight?” Veronica asked with a disappointed pout.

“No, Trudy and Hillman are making gumbo. Trudy has family ties in Louisiana.”

“Gumbo.” Veronica’s nose lifted. “Muffuletta yesterday, and now gumbo. I’m missing New Orleans.”

Her eyes went vague, the light almost going out.

“You had good times there?” he asked, wanting her to talk about her husband.

“Yes.”

She moved toward Bethany and smiled at Trudy and Hillman as they worked on the roux and chopped the holy trinity of any decent Louisiana food—green peppers, onions, and celery. All fresh, of course, as Trudy had said earlier in her goddess tone.

“That smells divine,” Veronica said, her voice chirpy.

Maybe they shouldn’t have cooked gumbo. He’d been to Louisiana, both the upper northwest cities like Shreveport and Monroe, and the lower southern cities like Baton Rouge and New Orleans. A flavorful, romantic place. A place where a man would take a woman to be alone with her, to walk the old streets of New Orleans, or discover the charm of Natchitoches. To see the hushed beauty of Grand Isle. Yes, he’d been there, and he’d taken women to those places. Women who didn’t really matter to him.

This woman mattered.

But she’d been there with her husband, the man she still mourned, and still loved. Cullen watched as she laughed with Bethany and worked back and forth with the chopping, then buttered the crisp slices of French bread.

She looked up at him, and he saw the pain hidden in her every move. Had she truly become better, or could she be putting on a good act that would get her through the misery of another lonely holiday?

“Cullen, don’t just stand there,” Trudy said, waving him over to where Bethany finished up a salad. “You can set the table. Hillman and I scrubbed it down and polished it.”

Cullen turned toward the archway to the formal dining room. The buffet held the old white dinnerware from the big pantry. The plates and soup bowls sparkled in the muted light from the antler-style chandelier. The silverware had been washed and someone had brought fancy paper napkins. Red, like Veronica’s dress.

“This looks nice,” he said, smiling at the others. “Veronica, would you help me?”

She glanced up from the bread she’d been spreading garlic butter on and wiped her hands on a plaid dish towel. “Sure.”

Once they were out of hearing range, he whispered, “Do you even like gumbo?”

“I love gumbo,” she said while she folded napkins and placed forks, knives, and spoons. “Who doesn’t?”

“Is this upsetting to you?”

“What, folding napkins? No.”

He stilled her hand against the table. “Is this getting together, the food, the minimalist decorating, the doing good deeds . . . is it really helping you, or hurting you?”

She looked into his eyes, and he saw the flicker of deep pain, followed by a glaze of hope. “Every day, Cullen. Every day, I wake up—if I sleep—and I remember they’re dead. Sometimes, I dream they’re still alive and then I wake up and the nightmare starts all over again. I don’t know if I can make that end, but . . . this . . . while it’s hard . . . is helping me. My daughter needs me. I have to find a way to move forward and show her I still want to be a part of her life.”

She stopped, took a breath, pulled her hand away. “But here’s the thing—you. You, Cullen, are making this hard.”

“I didn’t mean for you to be here,” he said, trying to apologize.

“Then who were you expecting in my place?”

“Someone who’d hurt me,” he said. “That doesn’t matter now. I need to do this my way.”

“Yeah, well, I need to grieve in my own way,” she replied as she placed plates against the hard wood.

“Hey, everything okay in there?” Hillman asked. Trudy and Bethany were staring.

Cullen looked toward the kitchen. “Yes, we’re arguing over placement. You know, what goes where?”

Trudy shook her head. “Those rules don’t apply here. Don’t let that make you get all flustered.”

Cullen nodded and followed Veronica with the bowls. “I need you to be okay.”

“And I need you to give me time. After yesterday, I’m terrified of what I’m feeling, things I never thought I’d feel again. That’s why I keep asking you questions.”

He couldn’t bear the pain in her words. “I don’t think it’s me or my past that’s holding you back. I think you’re not over losing your husband and son.”

She stopped so fast, he caught her in his arms. “That is a big part of this. But you’re . . . in my head now, Cullen. It’s too fast and yes, I feel guilty about it.”

He wanted to hold her close, to comfort her and make her see that the steam rising between them was real, and certainly an attraction. “And you don’t want me there in your head?”

“Not yet. Maybe not ever.”

He nodded and walked around her. “Let’s eat. Food always makes things better.”

She gave him a long stare. “So does the truth. You need to decide which truth you want to live with.”