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Recipe For Redemption
Anna J. Stewart
From the frying pan…Abby Manning has to take home first prize in an amateur cooking competition to save her town’s landmark inn—and longtime home for her ailing grandmother. Too bad the Butterfly Harbor innkeeper is a complete disaster in the kitchen. Undeterred, Abby asks her latest guest to teach her the basics.A family tragedy and ensuing scandal derailed Jason Corwin’s high-profile career. But is the gifted celebrity chef going to let one mistake define the rest of his life? Add in a generous helping of mutual attraction and another burgeoning scandal, and it could be a recipe for star-crossed romance…or disaster, especially if a win for Abby costs Jason his professional future.
From the frying pan...
Abby Manning has to take home first prize in an amateur cooking competition to save her town’s landmark inn—and longtime home for her ailing grandmother. Too bad the Butterfly Harbor innkeeper is a complete disaster in the kitchen. Undeterred, Abby asks her latest guest to teach her the basics.
A family tragedy and ensuing scandal derailed Jason Corwin’s high-profile career. But is the gifted celebrity chef going to let one mistake define the rest of his life? Add in a generous helping of mutual attraction and another burgeoning scandal, and it could be a recipe for star-crossed romance...or disaster, especially if a win for Abby costs Jason his professional future.
“I’ll make you a deal.”
He paused before continuing. “If you come up with the application fee, I’ll do what I can to teach you, Abby. But again, I can’t guarantee—”
“I know, I know.” She flew across the room, grabbed his shoulders and kissed him full on the mouth. A quick kiss. One of gratitude and happiness with a touch of that electric excitement he was fast becoming familiar with. In that moment Jason also tasted fire and determination.
She must have surprised herself because she rocked back on her heels and lifted her stunned face to him. He clenched his fists to stop himself from touching her cheek, from finding out if her skin was as soft as he imagined it would be. “You heard me, right? This is going to be hard work, Abby.”
“Sure. I hadn’t considered it anything but.”
Dear Reader (#ulink_8390ec6a-3c3a-5ca7-a288-b36db8b9045d),
I’m a believer in the butterfly effect—those ripples that occur with the simple beating of wings. Sometimes it’s a person who gives us a gift we didn’t know we needed.
My cousins Ron and Colleen lived a short drive away from my family. They had three children, all older than me and their house was always filled with the enthusiasm of living each day to its fullest. It was there that I first heard the words of Shakespeare. To listen to Ron utter the beautiful intricacies of language (he was an actor and Shakespeare professor) with clarity and affection touched my heart. He was one of my biggest cheerleaders and, in recent years, as his heath declined due to Parkinson’s, he carried one of my books with him in his walker, showing it off at his care facility. I’ve joked it was the best book tour I could have ever gone on. But it’s the truth.
With Recipe for Redemption, I knew Abby Manning would be struggling: her historic inn on the brink of ruin, the town’s survival, finding where she belonged in the world and coming face-to-face with a hero who would push her emotional buttons. But then Abby’s grandmother Alice (named for Ron’s mother) arrived on the page fighting a battle of her own: the same battle Ron fought and, unfortunately, lost this past summer. Another butterfly effect? I think so.
Family connections, whether by blood or choice, are at the heart of Butterfly Harbor. How different my own life would have been without Ron quoting Shakespeare to me, or lending an encouraging ear when I needed it most. Just as Abby’s grandmother and her friends do for Abby. Community, connections. Is there anything more important?
Anna J.
Recipe for Redemption
Anna J. Stewart
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ANNA J. STEWART says the greatest gift her mother ever gave her was never saying no to a book. A lifelong bookworm, Anna discovered romances early in high school and soon began writing her own. Hundreds of notebooks and reams of paper later, she writes “refreshingly unique, quietly humorous and profoundly moving romance” (RT Book Reviews). New York Times bestselling author Brenda Novak says, “The talented Anna J. Stewart never disappoints.” Anna lives in Northern California with an overly attentive cat named Snickers.
For Ronald Trouse
Cousin, teacher, father figure and kind, kind man.
Your brave battle will never be forgotten, and neither will you.
Contents
COVER (#u68e2602d-1c08-59dd-9205-17af99241881)
BACK COVER TEXT (#u69d5362b-d8f7-5b49-9e95-4e1b6862938f)
INTRODUCTION (#u372115b3-2055-5e8b-8b48-838e87e421ab)
Dear Reader (#ulink_4d901baa-bd3b-5a8c-8b3d-dd924440b889)
TITLE PAGE (#ua1d1bacc-3c7f-5392-9f06-8f26cf0dccc2)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR (#uc4b4abbd-7e3e-5b75-a08c-62853770cb3c)
DEDICATION (#ueb568162-0e01-588c-83d2-c993ecb29e19)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_259229e5-b8b5-5c95-b45f-7188d723be31)
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_491066db-b086-5bf6-94eb-3ca9d06db8ff)
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_d58f3bd2-ea8a-5932-860f-eb01a33bd887)
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_d486fcc2-ecde-5b8d-8ea4-fb34b231243c)
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_3626011e-8061-5dae-955e-2b38a4e50dd5)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EXTRACT (#litres_trial_promo)
COPYRIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_786c60c8-fc4c-5b82-9440-63de1960cfb4)
JASON CORWIN’S HAND stilled over the hotel registration form as he sniffed the air. “Do you smell smoke?”
A middle-aged woman with short-cropped gray hair passed through the reception area of the Flutterby Inn, Butterfly Harbor’s main hotel, a stack of freshly laundered towels in her arms. The lack of concern on her face might have made Jason wonder if he were imagining things, but as a former professional chef, he was more than familiar with this particular smell.
“I have you down for three weeks, Mr. Corwin,” Lori, the plump young woman who had introduced herself minutes ago, said. She leaned her hands on the whitewashed batten-board counter, lively green eyes devoid of concern as the air thickened. “Is that correct?”
“Yes.” He scribbled his name, his eyes beginning to water as a thread of white smoke snaked out from under the double doors to his left. “I’m sorry, but shouldn’t someone check—”
The deafening screech of a smoke alarm rent the air. Hints of gray puffed through the plumes of white smoke.
“It’s nothing!” Lori waved her hand before turning to focus on the old-fashioned mailbox portals behind her. “That’s just Abby in the kitchen. It’ll clear in a few minutes.”
The lobby became hazy. Jason’s pulse kicked into overdrive as he wrenched open the sliding doors and got a face full. Coughing, eyes tearing, he hurried through the dining room, dodging the mishmash of tables and chairs. He tried to inhale but there wasn’t any fresh air to be found, nothing to calm his nerves or stop the dread pounding through his body. Did it have to be the kitchen?
He’d kept his vow and hadn’t stepped foot in a professional kitchen in over three months, but given the choice between burning to death in a hotel fire and breaking a promise to himself, he’d take choice number two.
He pushed open the swinging door and stepped into the kitchen, waving his hands in front of him to disperse the smoke. A stockpot of what he hoped was water boiled over and splashed into the too-high flame beneath it, causing bright orange flickers of fire to arch toward the ceiling.
“Come on, you stupid, plastic piece of crap!” A woman stood on the stainless steel worktable and banged the end of a broom against the smoke detector. “It’s not like this is our first go-around.” Bang. Bang, bang. “Stop. Making.” She grunted and he could see her arms start to weaken. “So. Much. Noise! Ah!”
The kitchen went silent and she sagged forward, bracing a hand on her knee as she heaved out a sigh. “Got ya. Oh, sugar pots.”
Before Jason could move, before he could utter a word, she jumped down and grabbed a thick orange towel, dragged out two trays of cremated somethings and tossed them onto the counter with a squealing “Ow!” The bang of metal hitting metal echoed in the room and in his head.
She shook her left hand as if she’d burned herself—how could she not—before reaching for the pot. The orange towel slipped dangerously toward the flames.
“Stop!” Jason yelled and dived forward.
She shrieked and leaped aside as the towel skimmed the still-flaming burners and ignited. “Who are you?” She flipped the towel onto the yellowed linoleum floor and did a little dance over it to stomp out the flames. “What are you doing in here?”
“Right now I’m wondering where the fire department is.” He strode over and closed the oven door, flipped off all the burners and then shoved open the closest transom windows. “Hasn’t anyone told you the kitchen’s a dangerous place? It’s not a playroom.”
“I wasn’t playing.” She pushed the windows on the other side of the kitchen open and, as the smoke thinned, glared at him. “I was trying to make scones.”
Jason looked at what seemed to be tiny shriveled briquettes. “You failed.” He glanced up at the ceiling and saw the cover of the smoke detector hanging by a duo of thin battery wires. “Your detectors are not to code.” No wonder he didn’t hear sirens. It wasn’t hooked up to anything but noise.
Now that he could see clearly, the entire kitchen looked stuck in the past. Only the refrigerator appeared to have been manufactured in the last decade, the stainless steel scarred and leaning toward tarnish. He could see rust forming in the tile grout around the cracked farmer’s sink.
He bent down to grab the towel, but she snatched the smoking fabric out from under his hand and tossed it into the sink overloaded with used bowls, spoons and...was that a tortilla press?
“I’ve got it, thanks.” She shooed him away from the mess she’d made and toward the door. “All in a day’s work. Nothing to worry about.”
Must be the hotel motto. Was it too late to rethink his stay? Probably, considering he hadn’t been the one to make his reservations in the first place. Fresh air collided with the smoke and thinned it out. He’d never been so grateful to fill his lungs before as he coughed out the remnants of her scone attempt.
Her mouth twisted as she peered at the charcoal briquettes scattered on the trays, counter and floor. “I don’t know what happened. Our cook told me they were foolproof.”
“You mean full proof.”
“She said what she meant.” She swiped a hand over her damp forehead and let out a long breath as she seemed to collect herself. “Not the way I like to greet new guests.” She was choking as she tried not to cough and as she blinked, cleansing tears streamed down her face. “I’m Abby Manning. I run the Flutterby Inn. And you are—?”
“Jay Corwin.” After three months, the lie came easily.
“Next floor show starts at five.” Her laugh sounded strained as she planted a hand on her hip and studied the mess. Her doll-like face with a too-small nose and too-wide turquoise eyes eased into a smile that almost broke through his personal bank of storm clouds. How, with all those thick blond curls of hers tumbling around her shoulders, had she managed not to set herself on fire? He needed to keep moving, keep thinking, otherwise the walls were going to start closing in on him. Walls. Memories.
So many memories...
“You’ll want to put some ice on your hand.” Jason dropped his gaze to her reddening fingers. He headed toward the stainless steel refrigerator only to have her wave him off again as she dragged open the freezer door and sank her hand wrist deep into the ice tray with a relieved sigh.
“If you’d like to return to the lobby, Lori can—”
“Abby? Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine!” Wincing, Abby pulled her hand free and shoved it into her jeans pocket, pressed a finger against her lips in a silent plea for his cooperation. “Just a little, um—”
The kitchen door swung open and an elderly woman entered. It was like watching night turn into day right before him as Abby’s eyes brightened despite her fingers flexing in her pocket. “Good morning, Gran. How did you sleep?”
“As fine as anyone my age does these days. Hello. I’m Alice Manning.” Alice bypassed Abby and headed straight for him, her steps short and slow. “This one here’s my granddaughter. I’m the former manager of the Flutterby Inn.”
“Jay Corwin, Mrs. Manning.” He could see the family resemblance, the familiar soft feminine features right down to the same color eyes. He shook Alice’s outstretched hand before he bent down to retrieve a stray over-cooked scone off the floor and tossed it into the sink. The door beckoned him, offering freedom, offering relief, but he didn’t see a way past Alice without being rude. Stuck. In a kitchen. Great. “A friend of mine recommended your hotel as the perfect getaway.”
“Well, I hope you’ll feel at home during your stay. That’s what we always aim for, right, my girl?” Alice glanced at Abby before she wagged a finger at him. “You’d be from the East Coast. New York, I’m guessing? Always could tell. Used to make a game of it when I checked customers in. I worked that desk out there for more than fifty years, long before this one was born. I know my accents.” Gran angled her chin in Abby’s direction. Something akin to pride shone in Abby’s face as she watched her grandmother. “Nothing I like more than meeting people from all over this wonderful world, not that we get many visitors these days. Tell me, how long will you be staying with us, Mr. Corwin?”
“A few weeks.” He couldn’t remember exactly at the moment, because all he could think about was escaping the Flutterby Inn’s kitchen. If he closed his eyes, he could almost hear the cacophonous symphony of the nightly dinner rush at JD’s in New York.
“Good, good.” Alice nodded and lifted a slightly trembling hand to smooth a curl above her ear. “Then you’ll be here for the anniversary celebration. It’s going to be quite the to-do, from what I hear. And what kind of work do you do?”
The truth froze in his throat and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t quite clear it. “I’m between jobs,” he managed and avoided Abby’s suddenly curious stare.
“Finding yourself, then?” Alice said with a solemn nod. “No place better than Butterfly Harbor to help you figure out life’s big questions. Now, as for you.”
Alice spun to face her granddaughter so fast, Jason held out his hands for fear the older woman would topple over. Abby reached out at the same time, shooting him a grateful look over her grandmother’s stooped frame.
“Abby, tell me you haven’t been cooking again.” Alice shook her head and scanned the room, her rust-colored hair reflecting against the ceiling lights.
“You always told me practice makes perfect,” Abby said in a tone that spoke of lifelong affection and commitment.
“I also taught you to accept your limitations. You should have learned your lesson when you were six and blew up your Easy-Bake Oven.” She made a face at Jason, who kept his expression neutral. “Bet you didn’t know one of those could fly, did you? Up and tried to launch itself out of the house on Christmas morning, I’m telling you.”
“I thought we agreed it was a faulty lightbulb,” Abby said without a hint of embarrassment.
“Your grandfather, bless him, and I thought it best to keep the truth from you. Now that you’re almost thirty, I think you can handle it.”
“You know me...” Abby stepped in and wrapped her arms around Alice and hugged her close. “I can handle everything as long as I have you. And I’m not going to stop trying to make Matilda’s cranberry-orange scones you like so much.”
“No scone is worth burning down our home.” Alice clicked her tongue and patted Abby’s back. “You always were an overachiever, Abby girl, but it’s time you wave a white flag and accept when you’re beat. I’d like to go at least a week before hearing that blasted alarm again.”
