The Accidental Bride Read online

  “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?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  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.

  But here she was.

  She’d have to find some way to occupy herself, but it wouldn’t be anywhere near balls of yarn and pointy sticks. No blue-haired grannies, either.

  Red called out to a woman in a bright green and blue sweater that would have sold for a fortune at a trendy Aspen boutique. Jilly recognized the skill of the finished piece. The woman had a name tag and looked like she was in charge.

  As she approached them, Jilly suddenly felt like a cornered animal. Piles of yarn waited to torment her with dropped stitches. Rooms of expert knitters would glare, studying her with pity and contempt.

  “Sorry, Red, I, uh, just remembered. I have to return a call. A—business call.”

  “But you’re supposed to be on vacation. And the retreat—”

  “Better go.” Jilly darted back up the path, ignoring the questioning looks of Red and his friend.

  * * *

  WHAT WAS SHE SUPPOSED to do now?

  Jilly couldn’t imagine sitting calmly and chatting with a room full of strangers, all of whom were better knitters than she ever hoped to become. She would only manage to twist her stitches and drop whole rows.

  She’d be a basket case inside an hour.

  Jilly kicked a stone out of her path, frowning. If she hadn’t gotten sick, she’d be back in Arizona perched on a sunny stool, overseeing produce deliveries and designing the next month’s menu. She’d be busy and productive, thrilled to be alive.

  She sank down on a little bench, aware of an alarming—and absolutely unfamiliar—urge to cry. She recognized that she had a good chance for a healthy future if she was careful. She knew that she was lucky to be alive.

  But how did you pull yourself up and start all over? Where did people find the courage for that? It was terrifying.

  She sighed, watching mist gather and then tumble over the mountains on its way down to the valley.

  You didn’t talk. You just did it.

  Jilly squared her shoulders. No more whining or hand wringing. No more knitting angst, either. She was going out to find something fun to do. To heck with the yarnies and their cool projects.

  * * *

  TEN MINUTES LATER JILLY stalked up the steps to the main lodge.

  The taxi service was unavailable. The hot tub was closed for maintenance. The tiny library didn’t open until noon. And she hated spa treatments.

  Meanwhile, the resort internet service cost twenty dollars an hour. Were they kidding?

  Jilly thought longingly of Summer Island and the bustle of the narrow cobblestone streets, where she knew everyone. There were the repairs to Harbor House to discuss with her friends, part of their ongoing plan to create a chic café and yarn shop right at the foot of the harbor. And Jilly missed Duffy. She missed his warm body on her bed and his sloppy kisses in the morning.

  She tried not to think about all the other things she should be doing, like check on her tottering business in Arizona.

  Something glinted in the sunlight. A laughing couple pedaled past her on identical red bicycles.

  Bicycles that said Lost Creek Resort.

  Who needed a taxi?

  She swung around and collared the first resort employee she could find. She could already smell the extra-large cappuccino she was going to buy in town.

  So what if it was cheating?

  * * *

  THE BICYCLE FIT HER perfectly. Its old-fashioned weight made Jilly feel safe and in control.

  The wind combed through her hair as she turned onto the service drive and began to pick up speed downhill. How long had it been? Ten years? Fifteen?

  Suddenly memories hit her, hard and fast. Her first bike.

  Jilly was twelve when she’d been placed with her second foster family on Summer Island. She’d had pigtails and her own bedroom for the first time that she could remember. They’d tried to make her feel welcome, tried to show her the good points of the small, tightly knit community.

  But she hadn’t fit in. When the family had moved, Jilly had been placed again. And then again three months later. She’d never really fit in. Not until she met Grace and Caro and Olivia.

  In the course of a week Jilly had discovered what it meant to belong. That summer had changed her life, allowing her to pull down the heavy walls she had built for protection after being shifted from foster home to foster home.

  To cap the summer off, Caro’s grandmother had given her a bike, bright green with a blue basket. At first Jilly had thought it was a mistake, that it was really meant for Caro. But when she saw that Caro had an identical Schwinn, right down to the blue basket and blue seat, Jilly was speechless at the generosity. She had tried to give
the bike back, only to have Caro’s grandmother frown and ask if she preferred a different color. Then Caro had gotten teary and said that if friends couldn’t give gifts to friends, what good were they anyway.

  That long, enchanted summer hung in her mind, clear as yesterday. She remembered every golden week of laughter, every shared secret. No complications, only lazy sunny days.

  Then Caro’s mother had checked out of her detox program and vanished.

  Then Grace’s grandmother had begun to show the ravages of lupus.

  Then Olivia had revealed signs of panic attacks and stress at school. Through it all they had backed each other up completely. They had always known the best words to offer comfort and share pain.

  Something burned at Jilly’s eyes. She had amazing friends, but they were all moving on. Caro was married with a baby now, worrying about her marine husband in a hostile country. Grace was engaged, trying to juggle the demands of a long-distance relationship with a man she adored. A successful architect, Olivia was finally breaking free of her father’s icy dominance and already planning a return trip to Europe.

  It was all changing. They’d never be as close again. One day they might wake up and discover they had nothing at all left in common.

  Jilly shuddered at the thought, unable to bear the possibility of losing something so precious. She rounded a turn, the wind whipping at her hair. Something flashed at the middle of the road, and she yanked the handlebars, braking hard. Before her lay a bright red square that seemed to be a wool tote bag with leather handles, cables and big silver buttons.

  She picked up the bag and glanced inside. Two pairs of knitting needles, one crochet hook, three balls of yarn and a cell phone. She looked back up the steep road and saw she’d come much farther than she’d thought. She’d never make it to town if she went back to the lodge now.

  She rolled up the tote and slid it into the saddlebag on her bike. When she got back, she’d turn the bag in to the resort lost and found. But first she had a dream date with a gorgeous cup of cappuccino.

  * * *

  THE TOWN OF LOST CREEK looked like a backdrop for a ski commercial. The main drag held twenty shops where locals seemed to mingle amiably with tourists.

  Jilly pedaled slowly, taking in the sunlight reflected on the neat windows. The town wasn’t as small as she had first thought. There were nice shops and a cozy bookstore. Several of the restaurants looked promising.

  Then all thoughts vanished in a rush of fragrance from a nearby door. Jilly careened to a stop and sniffed again.

  Espresso. Dark roast.

  Freshly ground.

  Her brain short-circuited. She couldn’t stop her feet. Leaving her bike on the curb and drifting on autopilot, she followed the smell of roasting beans. Before sanity returned, she was sitting in a wooden booth by the window holding an extra large steaming espresso and trying not to swoon.

  For long, delicious moments she simply drank in the smell.

  “Is something wrong?” A lanky young man with bright green eyes gestured at the cup. “I notice you haven’t drunk your coffee. Is it okay?”

  Jilly gave a guilty smile, painfully aware of the promise that she was about to break. “I’m having a transformational experience here. No point in rushing it.”

  “Cool.” He smiled and pointed to the painted blackboard covered with local ads. “Mind if I go write that down for a testimonial?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Jilly still didn’t drink the coffee. She was pleased at her restraint. Waiting was good.

  Meanwhile, a phone rang somewhere in a back room. Two women in jogging pants came in, ordered lattes and left. More people came and went. Sunlight poured in a golden cloud over the narrow street. Jilly cradled the coffee between her hands, fighting an urge to drain the frothy cup in one greedy gulp.

  But she closed her eyes, counted to five and then regretfully pushed the steaming cup away.

  Another phone rang. Three more customers came in, ordered coffee to go and then wandered out. You could make a lot of money with a good business in a town like this. Both locals and visitors appeared to be spending money, and every parking spot on the street was taken. There were no For Rent signs or closed-up windows. And in ski season, with good staffing, a restaurant could—

  Jilly shook her head. There she went, building another business empire.

  “Would you like a refill?” the young man asked.

  “No. I’m just fine.”

  “But…you haven’t drunk any yet.”

  “Just taking my time.”

  The lanky worker hesitated. “In that case, if you aren’t in a hurry, would you mind keeping an eye on things here for a few minutes? They just called me from the bank and I need to run over to sign some papers.”

  Jilly would have been more surprised at this trust afforded a stranger, but growing up in Summer Island she had seen the same easy manner. “I guess so. But are you sure—”

  “I’d really appreciate it. Unlimited coffee on me as a thank you.”

  Great. Add torture to temptation, Jilly thought. “No need. I can stay for a while. Nothing special to do.”

  “That’s cool. What did you say your name was?”

  “Jilly. But—”

  “Great. Thanks, Jilly. Just tell any customers that I’ll be right back, okay?”

  Jilly had barely managed a nod when he waved once and strode outside. The silence pulled at her, calming and deep. She studied her coffee, bemused.

  The door opened. “Uh, is Jonathan around?” A small girl in a jean jacket glanced at Jilly, frowning. “I wanted to get a coffee.”

  “If Jonathan is the man with the red hair, he just left. He said he’d be right back. Something at the bank.”

  The girl looked anxiously out the window. “I have errands to finish. My brother will be waiting.”

  Jilly stood up. “What do you want? I can make it.”

  “I’d love a mocha latte, please. And some of Jonathan’s hazelnut syrup. But I thought you were a customer.”

  Jilly walked around and checked out the serving area. “No problem. I can work the machines.” After two summers working at a coffeehouse in Portland, she knew her way around an espresso machine and a steaming wand. “Have a seat while I make it.”

  She filled the silver coffee filter, pulled a shot and then went to work on the steamed milk, efficient and precise. The girl looked surprised at the frothy milk design that Jilly poured over the top of her drink.

  “Wow, that looks great. You should teach Jonathan that. He always has problems with that new espresso machine.” The girl pulled some froth onto her finger and licked it thoughtfully. “Wow,” she said again.

  The front doorbell chimed but Jilly barely noticed as she finished cleaning the small filter, rinsed the milk wand and leaned down to check the heat level on the boiler. Nothing ruined fresh beans faster than high heat or a bad grind.

  She heard a man clear his throat. “Is anyone here? Jonathan?”

  Jilly shoved back her hair. The air seemed dense, too heavy to breathe. She was painfully afraid that she was blushing as she turned and saw the tall man by the counter with the well-behaved brown dog right beside him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  JILLY RUBBED A DROP of milk from her hands and stood up slowly. “Walker, isn’t it?” She hadn’t blushed since she was nine. Why now?

  “That’s right. Is Jonathan around?”

  She smoothed a dish towel on the counter, wondering if he looked a little tired. “Jonathan went across the street to the bank. Can I get you something?”

  Some men would have made an off-color quip to an open question like that. Jilly suspected the thought would never enter this man’s mind. He nodded and set a Thermos on the counter. “Coffee, if you don’t mind.”

  “Any special kind?”

  “Whatever you have, ma’am. I’m not particular.”

  “Jilly,” she corrected. “And in that case I’ll make you my specialty. Double shots of e
spresso with a nice amount of foam. Caffeine and froth happen to be my two favorite food groups.”

  “Don’t tell that to the nutritionist’s association.” He watched as Jilly moved expertly along the work counter, making the espresso shots.

  It felt like heaven to be back behind a counter, Jilly thought. Relaxing…in a busy sort of way. How could you ever explain that to a non-chef?

  Walker glanced around the shop and raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were supposed to be on vacation.”

  “I’m just helping out.”

  She poured the espresso shots into a cup, then tipped in froth, studying the result. A little more foam, she decided. No Thermos. She wanted him to appreciate her artwork. “There you go.” She pushed the cup over to Walker. “Tell me what you think.”

  He studied the cup warily. “I always take mine black. Nothing special.”

  “Try it. Just one sip.” Jilly flipped a towel over her shoulder. “If you don’t like it, I’ll make you your nothing-special version.”

  Walker looked at the cup, shook his head and took a sip.

  And then another.

  He didn’t move, staring at the sunshine on the counter. Slowly he turned to look at Jilly. “That’s nothing like the coffee Jonathan makes. Nothing like I ever had before.”

  “She’s good, isn’t she?” The girl from the booth held up her empty cup. “Mocha latte. She added some kind of design on the top, too. Best coffee I ever had. Really.”

  “Seems like you’ve got a magic touch,” Walker murmured. “What’s your secret?”

  “Your friend Jonathan has great beans and an expensive machine here, but his grind setting was off. I also adjusted the overpressure valve for his machine. Nothing magical about that.”

  Walker took another thoughtful sip. “I’d say there’s a lot of magic here. Jonathan better take notes when he gets back. This is really smooth. I like that dark undertone.”

  Jilly took a mock bow. “Put it down to two crazy summers working in a busy Stumptown branch in Portland. Caffeine boot camp, with lines from 7:00 a.m. to midnight. People there know every detail about coffee so you can’t make mistakes. You got good or you got fired.”