Cooking Up Romance
Autor
Lynne Marshall
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13
Food isn't the only way to this single dad's heart… Lacy was a redhead with a pink food truck who prepared mouthwatering meals. Hunky construction manager Zack Gardner agreed to let her feed his hungry crew in exchange for cooking lessons for his young daughter. But it looked like the lovely businesswoman was transforming the single dad's life in more ways than one — since a family secret was going to change both of their lives in ways they never expected.
Chapter One
Lacy Winters pulled her bright pink food truck with the brand-spanking-new logo—Wrap Me Up and Take Me Home—onto the busy construction site at 10:45 a.m. Friday morning. Little River Valley wasn’t exactly the business hub of the state of California, being that the small city voted way back to never allow unnecessary building or chain stores of any kind. That was part of the charm and draw for the residents. However, Mayor Aguirre had recently made a deal for added senior housing in the town, which was tucked fifteen miles inland between Ventura and Santa Barbara. The homes were sorely needed since many adults chose Little River Valley for their retirement, and the sprawling homes that dotted the hills lining the valley were too big and expensive for most fixed incomes.
Thanks to the mayor’s foresight, one hundred new cottage-style units were being built, and that meant a good-sized construction crew would be employed. Which also presented a great opportunity for Lacy, because on that construction site there would be workers who needed to eat.
Before Lacy left home, she had posted on her social media page, the one with a photo of her standing in front of her foodmobile as the cover picture. Off on new adventure today. Wish me luck! #lookingforwork.
Her late father’s list of best businesses from back in his food truck days had included Franks & Gardner Construction at number one. After her permits and licenses for running the small business were in order, and the truck was repainted—which cost a fortune but was so worth it because, well, it was pink and had a great advertising logo on both sides—she’d looked them up and found out about their new building site nearby.
She gulped a breath and drove the twenty-four-foot kitchen-on-wheels onto the dusty makeshift driveway, watching for nails or other damaging debris.
“Here goes,” she whispered. Her heart fluttered from nerves as she headed toward the temporary on-site office trailer and parked.
The city had strict rules for trucks like hers. Rules about when, where and the need for general approval to set up shop. In other words, she couldn’t park just any old place she chose. Except she had chosen this place, and she had seriously high hopes of getting the gig.
Lacy wouldn’t want to get off on the wrong foot. No. Not little ol’ redheaded maverick her. She cleared her throat and straightened the logo-laden apron, fully aware neon pink clashed with her hair. It was one small-style humiliation she’d have to swallow for the greater good—her new business! And since when did “style” and “Lacy” ever come up in the same sentence? But, back to her logo, branding was everything these days, and pink turned out to be her color. Who knew?
She took the few steps from the steering wheel to the newly overhauled kitchen area and flipped the switch for the awning over the service window. Showtime! She watched proudly as it quietly opened, wondering if this was how actors felt when the curtains rose. All she could do was smile through the itchy excitement. She’d done it. She’d taken the next step in her life. And, boy, did she need a “next step” after all she’d been through this past year. Her mouth went dry and she took a swig of water.
“May I ask what you’re doing here?” The deep masculine voice out of the blue surprised her, and she jerked as bottled water splashed over her chin and dribbled down her front.
“Oh!” She wiped her chin with the back of her hand, acting casual, like she did this all the time—made cold calls at construction sites in hopes of drumming up new business. In her case, über-new business since, if she got this gig, it would be her first regular job as a food truck owner. Too bad her trembling fingers gave away her so-called nonchalant, just-show-up approach. “Um, yes.” She leaned forward onto the service window, forced to look down at the man, who appeared too young to be the long-time big honcho. Probably just his on-site guy. “I was hoping to talk to Mr. Franks?”
“He’s here in name only.” The tall, striking, dark blond man with suspicious green eyes didn’t let up watching her and was probably waiting for the full explanation.
That threw her. Franks wasn’t the guy? So much for Dad’s list. He’d only been gone a year, and yet the list was out-of-date. She cocked her head, trying to add things up. Daryl Franks was the name her father had put first, but she’d found Franks & Gardner in the town business directory. Now he was telling her Franks was a name only. Had the man retired or died? More important, if Franks was gone, was this vaguely familiar man—because who could forget a gorgeous face like that—the gatekeeper?
Flustered, she had to think fast.
“Uh, may I speak to Mr. Gardner then?” She said it an instant before her vision landed on an official name tag pinned to his minichecked green-and-tan shirt. Zackery Gardner, Construction Manager. “Oh, hello.” She didn’t give him the chance to point it out. He wore the fitted button-up shirt well, the long sleeves rolled up his forearms revealing a dusting of hair lightened to gold by a ray of sunshine peeking through the leaves.
“Hello.” He waited. Patiently? Folding his arms, legs in wide stance.
It was her turn, and she had better make good her reasons for showing up unannounced.
“So, Mr. Gardner, I see you’ve started a huge project here and I wondered if you could use my services for your workers?”
He canted his head. “And your services are—” Uncrossing his arms, he studied her truck, then looked back at her. “Getting wrapped up and taken home?” he said each word slowly, as though reading her logo aloud. Had she detected a mocking tone?
Obviously, her cutesy title had fallen flat for him, or he was purposely playing it dense. Dear Lord, please don’t let him think this is a mobile massage parlor! If he was teasing, that was mean, though perhaps deserved, for her having made a cold call. At first, she’d considered phoning before showing up. Then she’d talked herself out of that, thinking the huge truck would do a better job of convincing someone to give her a chance than a nervous voice over the phone. Her father had once told her, before she’d applied online for her first job, that it was harder for a potential boss to pass on an applicant while looking into their eyes. So, as tough as it’d been at the time, she’d taken her teenage self off to the smoothie store in town instead of simply submitting the application through the website. Yep, she’d gotten the job, which led to another job and another. And here she was today, making sure her baby blues didn’t blink under the scrutiny of the site manager’s sexy greens.
Holding tight to her pride, she chose to ignore Gardner’s gibe about the name of her truck and take the higher road. She was looking for long-term work, after all. Not just the occasional wedding gigs that, thanks to the current trend in California of hiring food trucks instead of caterers, those outdoor marriages provided. A place like this, which clearly had a long way to go before completing the senior housing, could guarantee six months or more. That would be a great start. With references. But she was getting ahead of herself.
“I make hearty wraps to order, and assorted hand pies. May I show you the menu?” She reached for one, since she hadn’t yet had time to post the big menu on the outside of the truck. She wouldn’t do that—overstep her bounds—until she was hired. Though maybe she’d already overstepped those bounds by showing up uninvited. “Perhaps I can give you a sample?”
In all truth, she’d hoped she’d find Mr. Franks, like she’d planned, and he’d have a huge stomach hanging over his belt buckle, a man always eager to eat. She would’ve appealed to his appetite and secured the job with ease. So much for meditation and envisioning her future. Why did she even bother to listen to online self-help podcasts?
The Not-Mr. Franks, the well-built man who obviously watched what he ate, stepped toward the window, so she leaned over to give him the also-neon-pink-flyer-styled menu. Maybe she should have rethought the color before targeting construction jobs. Her fingers touched his at the handoff. Zip, a tingle ran up her arm. Well, that hadn’t happened in a long time. Odd. Had he felt it, too?
He removed his hard hat while he perused her face. Hair that was longer than she’d expected swept across his forehead and covered half of his ears. Nice waves. Nice suntan. Nice smile lines. Wait, he was smiling at her.
She forced a tense, overwide smile. “See anything you like?”
His eyebrow shot up as his gaze held firm with hers. Oh, crud, she hadn’t meant to say it like some old come-on line. Understandably, he could totally take it wrong, but she hadn’t meant it that way! His steady stare with the one raised brow said otherwise and made her wonder what was going on in his mind. Really, dude? Her thoughts quickly slipped to insecurity. “Food-wise,” she added hastily.
His green eyes twinkled playfully for an instant before he gave her a benevolent smile and glanced back at the menu. “What do you recommend?” Thank goodness, he hadn’t taken the lowbrow tease route, because these days she wouldn’t work for a man who did.
“If you allow me to fire up my grill, I’ll make you the Chicken Done Right wrap. Oh, and I’ve got all the permits to operate and the health department certificate, if you’d like to see them.” Being in construction, the man had to know all about the importance of pulling permits.
He thought, his lower lip pushed out the tiniest bit, and, darn, that was a sexy look, which she had no business noticing. “Chicken sounds good. And I can see your permits from here.” They were posted in frames on the kitchen wall. All she’d needed to do was gesture to them, but no, she’d gone her usual route of explaining too much.
“How much time do you need?” He broke into her self-doubt and chronic overthinking.
“Since the grill needs to heat first, ten minutes?” Her index finger went up, thinking fast. “But if I was serving your guys, it’d only take five minutes.” She tightened the elastic on her ponytail, glad she’d put a word in for herself and her short-order-cook abilities. “Because the grill would already have been heated up.” There she went, repeating herself again, but only because she understood the importance of being redundant when necessary. Then, with his nod to go ahead, she turned on the grill and gave him another wide smile. “I pride myself in being fast.”
Both of his brows shot up this time, accompanied by an amused expression. Yeah, she seemed to be on a roll. Thank goodness, she only had two feet to stick in her mouth. She blinked and took a tiny inhale, avoiding his tolerant gaze by getting busy.
Why did she keep feeding him old lines, and why were his reactions pointing in all the wrong directions? Because he’d started it by not getting her puns in the truck logo? Wrap her up and take her home? Or because of him, and the fact he was total construction-god material and everything about him spelled S-E-X, and...
No way was she in any mental or emotional state to think about such things. And yet he’d taken her there on a zip line. Not good.
Her hand flew to wipe a wisp of hair out of her eye, not having felt this nervous about cooking for someone in ages.
“I’ll be back in ten,” he said, ignoring her jitteriness and thankfully not taking the usual route of many men. You pride yourself in being fast? Well, then, I’d really like to try that out. Duh and har-har-har.
Not him. Maybe all the hoopla from recent sexual-harassment scandals had all men—and it was about time—on their best behavior. Even at construction sites, leaving her looking like an old-school ditz. Which she definitely wasn’t! She slid on the ponytail hairnet and put her bright pink toque in place. May as well complete the picture, because no way would she ever let one of her easily identifiable hairs land in her food.
Seriously, though, he didn’t strike her as the type to not respect women. Just a hunch, but there was something kind about his demeanor beneath that hard hat. Something she recognized. Remembered?
Zackery.
An eerie chill tiptoed down her spine, suddenly transporting her back twenty years to when she used to accompany her dad to his work sites during summer vacations right here in Little River Valley. The first huge crush of her lifetime had been on a grown-up. Well, in reality, the guy was probably a teenager, but in her little-girl eyes, that was an adult. A handsome construction worker. She still remembered his name. Zack. Blond. Green eyes. Long wavy hair, back then, really long. Swoonworthy in a Thor kind of way. She and her immature heart had vowed to never forget him.
Except she had until just now.
A full body shiver nearly had her missing the sizzling grill with the marinated chicken concoction. It was him, had to be, except twenty years older and, in her opinion, sexier than ever. Because what had she known at eleven about sex appeal?
She’d had the most amazing and superinnocent daydreams about him then. Simply because he’d been nice enough to smile at her and tease her about her copper-red hair. You look like a new penny. Maybe I should call you Penny instead of Lacy? In her little-girl fantasies, he’d held her hand and told her how beautiful she was. They’d walked through meadows of wildflowers, and, as dreams go with little girls, he’d delivered her first kiss. Her idea of what a kiss would be like, anyway. A chaste kiss, because again, what had she known about any of that back then?
His mouth came to mind, while he’d read her menu with that lower lip man-style pout. She wouldn’t mind trying out everything she’d learned about kissing with him since she’d grown up. She snorted and made a dry swallow. Whew, was the grill superhot or something?
Wait. In her rush, she’d forgotten to turn on the vent and open the back windows. After a quick push of the chicken around the grill, she slid open the extra windows and wiped the tiny sheen from her upper lip. Where had she left the water?
Finding the bottle, she took another drink and focused on making the best dang wrap she could. Her welfare depended on it since she’d recently quit her other job. While she was at it, she’d warm one of her apple hand pies from the batch made fresh last night. Wasn’t that every man’s favorite?
For the sake of the next phase of her career, she sure hoped so.
Ten minutes to the second later, Zack Gardner strolled from his office toward the bright food truck. The sight of it made him smile, but he kept it to himself. Wouldn’t want to encourage her when he had zero intention of letting the redhead set up shop. That girlie rig was meant for kids’ parties and Santa Barbara beach volleyball games, not construction sites. Any serious business person should know it, too.
A flash of her natural red hair while she cooked sent a memory whirling through his mind. The color was the kind so many women tried to match in salons, but usually fell flat. Hers was nothing short of stunning, and he’d only met one other person with that shade in his life. He’d gotten his first summer temporary job in construction when he’d been nineteen. He recalled that he couldn’t believe how hard the job was and how ravenous he’d been, all the time. There’d been a long line of jobs and food trucks over the past twenty years, all blurry. But he remembered his first real job and first food truck just like it was yesterday because, well, everything was the first back then. The Winters Breakfast and Lunch truck. That was it. That guy hadn’t needed a catchy name or flashy color. Winters’s truck had been institution white with black lettering on the side. And didn’t the middle-aged guy have to bring his kid with him during the summer? Just like Zack would have to do over spring break next week with his own ten-year-old daughter, Emma. His memories grew stronger. Back then, John Winters made the best cheeseburgers he’d ever tasted, and Winters’s daughter had bright red hair just like her father. A copper penny came to mind. Could this woman be that kid?
He narrowed his eyes, studying the foodmobile. Erase the neon-pink paint job, and it looked about the same size and style as that other food truck. When she’d first pulled up and had caught his attention through the office window, he’d had a hunch the truck was vintage. Here in Little River Valley, people liked vintage stuff. On closer examination, it most definitely was an original, even for twenty years ago. He had to respect someone who valued history. It showed insight.
Getting nearer to the truck, with a delicious aroma perking up his nose and appetite, even though it was way too early to think about lunch, he made a snap decision. He’d keep all his memories to himself because, as he’d previously decided, he wasn’t going to let her set up. The guys were perfectly happy bringing their lunch pails or piling into cars and driving into town on their break. Why get her hopes up, make her think they had some connection, by playing the reminiscing game?
Those bright blue eyes noticed him coming and another inviting smile creased her lips. Don’t even think about it. Women are bad news, especially ones that look like her.
“I hope you’re hungry,” she said with an eager-to-please expression. An expression that came off far too sweet to ignore. How could she be bad news?
History, remember? As in all women.
Still he fought off a smile. He hadn’t been hungry fifteen minutes ago, but now his stomach growled in anticipation. “Sure smells good.”
She handed him a supersize paper plate with the enormous wrap nearly filling it. “Whoa, this thing’s huge.”
“I know how big construction workers’ appetites can be.”
Yeah, he did, too, but he no longer did the hard work, not for the past five years, anyway. He’d put in his time breaking his back with construction company after construction company, and eventually worked his way up to foreman. Now he was the owner-manager. Half of this wrap was going home to share. Just like her logo said, he’d wrap it up and take it home.
He bit into the wrap. Holy heavenly taste buds, she knew how to season, and the chicken was melt-in-your-mouth tender and juicy. Filled with unexpected vegetables and bits of potato swimming in her special sauce, the mouthwatering spinach-green wrap was more a meal in a megasize tortilla than a substitute for a sandwich. She should’ve named the truck Manwich—Sandwiches for men with manly appetites. But Emma would love the wrap, too, and it was so much healthier than their usual fast food. Still, he didn’t want to get Ms., uh, her hopes up. “What’d you say your name was?”
“Lacy Winters.”
Dang it! Memories were strange things, popping up after lying dormant for years, and right now his recall worked at hyperspeed. “John Winters’s girl?”
She nodded, a hint of surprise in her stare.
He knew it. How many people walked the earth with that color hair? Penny! “This is pretty good,” he said, before he had a chance to remember he wasn’t going to go there—reminisce—or give his consent for her to park on his construction site.
There went that extra bright smile again. It was hard to take his eyes off her, especially while mouthwatering flavors hit his tongue. He looked around for a place to sit and couldn’t find one, so he left the plate on the food truck counter and, using both hands to hold the wrap, took several more bites.
“Can I get you another napkin?”
Sauce dribbled over his chin and onto his hands. “Thanks.”
“Would you like a drink?” she said, after handing off the wad of napkins.
“Water’s fine.” Wouldn’t want anything to compete with the delicious ingredients he was ingesting like a man who hadn’t eaten in days. “What’s this?”
She’d placed, next to his wrap, a much smaller plate holding a pastry with a light brown crust.
“That’s half of one of my apple hand pies. I heated it for you.”
Why wait until he was too full to want or be able to enjoy dessert? He grabbed it and took a bite. Warm melt-in-your-mouth piecrust hit his taste buds, the kind he only remembered from his mother’s kitchen, until now. Cinnamon-seasoned, obviously fresh apples sweetened to perfection broke through as he chewed. “What’s your background?” He couldn’t help talking with his mouth full.
“I’ve been a cook at the Local Grown Restaurant here in town for the past three years. Before that, I was a short-order cook at Becky Sue’s.”
“That breakfast and lunch diner?”
She nodded, then continued. “My dad got me started in the food industry. This is actually his truck.”
He knew it!
“I got it updated and overhauled after he died last year.”
The man would probably roll over in his grave if he knew it was pink. “I’m sorry to hear that. You know, I remember your father. He had red hair like you, right?” The Winters food truck had shown up at a lot of construction sites he’d worked over the years, but not with her. Except for that first summer.
Her prideful closed-mouth smile and nod told him she loved her dad, and was both pleased and surprised Zack had remembered the man.
He finished off the hand pie and took a swig of water. “I’m fairly sure I remember you, too.” With a happily full stomach, and in the presence of a pretty woman, he was suddenly in a chatty mood. “You were about this tall.” He leveled his hand waist high. “And skinny. Looked like you were all head with that wild red hair.” He half grinned, proud of his recollection.
Well, so much for Lacy’s little-girl daydreams. He’d thought she was “all head” and skinny as a rail? At least he remembered her. Bet you didn’t know you were my first imaginary kiss, did ya? For some crazy reason, probably from still being raw for the last several years, after losing the two men she’d loved most, her dad being the latest, she’d let Zack hurt her feelings. Irrational thinking or not, calling her “all head” had stung, and Lacy did a lousy job of hiding her reaction.
She studied her feet, dejected, awash in insecurity. Why had she thought it was a good idea to wear a chef toque in a food truck? To him, she probably still looked like the puff pastry dough boy with a red wig.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” he said, catching on, a sincere cast to his gaze. “You’ve certainly filled out since then.”
It should be his turn to cringe. Filled out? Now who was saying awkward things? He was trying to fix the unintentional slight, but, still wincing from her childish response, she let him marinate in the iffy-at-best comment rather than immediately letting him off the hook.
His shoulders tensed, and his collar rose slightly up his neck as he must have realized how his statement could come off. “Did not mean to make you uncomfortable, Ms. Winters. Apologies.” Even his cheeks looked a little peachier than earlier on the gorgeous olive-toned tan.
She nodded, appreciating his minor squirm. He was a man of few words, but he’d said the right ones just now. “Call me Lacy.” May as well take advantage and move in while he was in a vulnerable position. “So, what do you say, can I park here during the week? Feed your guys?”
Amused by the obvious battle going on behind those seriously green eyes, Lacy watched as he thought. Ate. And thought more. He glanced over his shoulder to the men on the site who’d stopped working to check out the pink foodmobile. If he’d let her, she’d sell a crateload of food to those men right now. She was ready for this. She knew how to cook, and she’d had a great role model in her father. Maybe she wasn’t completely up to snuff on the finances and business side, but she’d work it out as she went along. She just needed a shot to prove she could deliver on her own. Because, on her own, as it turned out, was how it was going to be. Forever? She shrugged.
Her father had died suddenly—she hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye. Taking over his truck was her homage to him. Plus, it promised to get her out of the four-walled kitchens she’d spent too many hours trapped inside, where stress, too often, drove the show. That wasn’t what she wanted anymore—this was. Outdoors. Hungry guys. She could do with a little less noise, but why be picky?
She was ready to be her own boss, to take charge of her life. This overly bright truck was her ticket to renew her love of cooking and reclaim her independence. She wasn’t looking to get rich, just to get by. She didn’t want to put too much pressure on Zack Gardner or to come off as desperate, but she slipped a subtle please, please, please glance his way. No harm in sending subliminal messages, right?
He was obviously still fighting some internal battle, looking at the other half of his chicken wrap, checking out his work boots, gazing at her silly logo again, then into her hopeful stare. “Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll try you out three days next week, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and we’ll see how it goes from there.”
It wasn’t a total yes, but it was a maybe, and maybe was better than good enough today. Yes! She’d count it as a victory. Besides, she was bound to win over those hungry-looking men who’d quit sawing and hammering and were still watching the show over by her pink truck. After they’d had a taste of her hearty wraps, they’d be begging their boss to let her come back.
“That’s a deal. May I leave my menus for your men, and heat up a few more hand pies for them to sample as a thank-you? I’ve got a pot of coffee ready to go, too.” She’d thought ahead and set up for half of her hundred-cup coffee maker, just in case. “Just say the word.”
She’d arrived not only hopeful but prepared for success, and now it’d paid off.
His somewhat flirtatious smile alarmed her. It set off a relay of tingles across her neck and shoulders, and strategically dipped below her collarbone, making her glad she wore a full apron over her thin top.
“Sounds like a good idea.”
Putty in her hands! She’d been privileged to see his handsome and far-too-appealing smile again. And it did wonders for her mood.
“Thanks.” And he was thanking her!
She tipped her head and grinned, unashamed how glad she was he’d given her a chance. It was all she asked. Then she got right to work heating a couple dozen assorted hand pies as the coffee brewed. While she did, she couldn’t help but notice that Zack had picked up the rest of his wrap to take home. Oh, yeah, she’d sold him all right. Good food in person was always better than a phone call sales pitch. Thanks, Dad.
“See you Monday,” he said. “We break for lunch at noon.”
“I’ll be here by eleven thirty!”
“Park under those trees.” He pointed to a shady spot across the way. “I’ll rig something up for the men to sit on.”
If that didn’t sound promising for a permanent spot and job, what would?
Grinning, she watched him walk off toward his office, long strides, narrow hips, construction worker arms and shoulders. Once he was inside, after she’d let herself imprint that fine image in her mind—because, come on, no way was he ever going to be more than a nice fantasy in her life—she finished her preparations for the guys. With everything laid out on the counter and the coffee brewed, she honked her Happy Days theme horn, a horn she’d spent an entire day choosing from the usual and long list of food truck horns. She’d chosen that one because she knew it would make her dad grin. She couldn’t help but notice Zack Gardner peering out his modular office window through the blinds at the sound. Then the guys came like zombies to feed at her truck, and she handed each of them a menu to take with them. “I’ll be here next Monday. Be sure to bring your appetites.”
Her cheeks were nearly cramping. She hadn’t smiled this long or hard, or been this happy, since she’d landed her first job as a line cook right out of community college working up to short orders in record time. All without going to culinary school. How’s that for beating the odds, Dad? He’d always been proud of her following in his chosen profession, chief cook and bottle washer.
Sunday afternoon Lacy showed up early for a wedding reception at the Santa Barbara Museum of Natural History. She parked, as instructed, out of sight of the outdoor wedding ceremony on the museum Mission Creek grounds. Four other trucks were there for the three-hour-reception gig. She’d been instructed to serve three different wraps—chicken, steak and vegetarian—and to skip the pies since another truck would be the main cake and dessert truck. Whatever. The job was paying a flat rate, which was fine with her. She’d make a good profit. With the next installment payment on her updated truck overhaul, plus the custom paint job due, she was happy just to be here. And in the day and age of monkey see, monkey do, who knew what other jobs it could lead to.
It was a lovely spring day, California style. The sun was out, temperatures in mid seventies, with only a hint of a breeze. The old and modest museum, designed in the Spanish Colonial Revival style, was located in the Mission Canyon area of Santa Barbara and had been recently renovated. It was beautifully redone, combining minimal architectural improvements to enhance the surrounding nature. Each complementing the other. Literally nestled in riparian oak woodland, the museum setting seemed idyllic for weddings.
Lacy glanced around at the young, hip and rich group arriving in the reception area. The ceremony must be over. A few women even wore hats, maybe influenced by the royal weddings in England over the last few years. Who knew the reason, but those hats dressed up the crowd. It made the occasion extraspecial, which caused Lacy to smile. The few spring pastel dresses mixed with the artsy black many guests chose to wear made for a nice contrast.
She’d thought hard before accepting her first wedding job last month, when she’d just finished revamping her father’s food truck and had gotten all the required certifications. Weddings were a tough subject, even after all this time.
Five years ago, she’d been engaged to be married to the greatest guy on earth. She’d never believed she could feel so much love for someone other than her parents. Of course, her love for Greg had been on a totally different level, and she couldn’t wait to be his wife. Ever the military gentleman, he’d gone old-school and, in her mother’s rose garden, dropped to his knee to ask her to marry him. So thrilled and excited by his question, she’d fallen to her knees to be face-to-face with him when she’d said yes. They’d cried and laughed and hugged and kissed, and then, because she’d had the house to herself that day, they took it inside.
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.
