The Husband Recipe Read online

  During one memorable emergency trip home, Justin had thrown up on airhead number two. Or had it been airhead number three? During another, Hank had wiped a glob of jelly from his face with the hem of a silk dress. While his date had been wearing it. Cole had found it kind of funny. His date had not. None of the other dates had gone any better, and it hadn’t taken long for him to just give up.

  Maybe when his children were grown he could take some time for himself, if he didn’t completely forget how to treat a woman, what to do with one. But for now he was all the kids had, and they deserved every bit of him that he had to give. He was already spread too thin, and having a woman in his life would probably stretch him to the breaking point. Like any woman would be satisfied with the little he had to give at this time in his life.

  Even though it was going to be a real change, he was looking forward to starting work again. Teaching would be very different from the career he’d left behind, but he liked history, and he loved baseball. He was good with kids—he’d found a healthy reserve of patience in the past five years—and he’d discovered that he was much more adaptable than he’d ever thought he could be. In the past few years he’d searched for a new career he could really enjoy and worked part-time here and there, selling cars—a job he’d hated—and working in a sporting goods store—even worse—and along the way he’d managed to take enough classes to fulfill the requirements for a teaching job.

  A full-time teaching job and coaching a high-school baseball team would take up much more time than any of the endeavors he’d undertaken in the past few years. Three kids and a demanding job wouldn’t leave him any time at all for a social life that extended beyond putt-putt or a movie with the kids.

  Besides, they’d probably have a fit if he started dating again. And heaven forbid he should get serious about a woman! They’d lost their mother. They wouldn’t lose their dad, too, not even a small piece of him. It was bad enough that he’d finally taken on such a demanding job. The money he’d saved while he’d been playing combined with Mary’s insurance payout and his own ability to manage his investments well had allowed him to limit his time away from home until Justin was old enough to start kindergarten. Come August, the youngest Donovan would be in school. And Cole would be taking on the job of history teacher and baseball coach for the new high school. He could continue to live as they had for several more years—hell, if he was really smart with his money he might never have to work again—but he needed a real job. He needed to refocus his energies and…move on. It was time.

  Cole wasn’t sure how he’d handle teaching others to play, when he still sometimes longed for the crack of the bat and the thrill of the game. But he’d manage. He’d get the job done. What choice did he have?

  The Gardens was an upscale retirement village, with condos, small houses and an apartment building, all arranged like any gated community. There were lots of trees, ample parking, winding sidewalks, several green spaces and a community center. The only differences between this and other communities like it were the personnel, the nurses and administrators who were available at the push of a button, and the ages of the residents. The prices were outrageous, but Gran considered her condo here a worthwhile investment. It didn’t look like a retirement home, but it had all the advantages.

  Once a week Lauren had supper with Gran and her best friend, Patsy, who lived in one of the houses in the village with her husband of nearly sixty years. They all took turns providing the food, even though they always met at Gran’s condo. This week it was Gran’s turn to cook, which thrilled Lauren. Not only did she not have to cook, or endure one of Miss Patsy’s mystery casseroles, she got to indulge in the food she’d grown up with. Fried green tomatoes; meatloaf; mashed potatoes; cornbread; fried chicken; green beans that had been cooking all day so that they no longer actually resembled green beans at all; squash casserole—an exception to the casserole rule; pot roast that melted in your mouth and desserts that were always out of this world. She didn’t know what tonight’s menu would be, but it would be wonderful, and the smells and tastes would transport her to her childhood.

  Gran’s house, a sprawling ranch she hadn’t lived in for the past three years, had always been Lauren’s inspiration. Rather, it was the vivid memory of that house that inspired her. The food, the beauty, the details that went into making a house a home… Without that influence, she’d probably be working in an office somewhere. It wasn’t that her own home had been horrible—far from it—but she was an only child and her parents had both worked full-time. Often more than full-time. Though she was a stickler for good manners and, perversely, loved to entertain, Lauren’s mother had hated cooking, laundry, anything domestic. There had been times in her life when Lauren had been positive her mother didn’t entirely warm to the idea of child-rearing, either.

  Her parents now lived in Washington State, about as far from Huntsville, Alabama, as they could get. A couple of great jobs had called them there, and they loved that part of the country. Lauren talked to them at least once a month, and they usually made it to Huntsville for a yearly visit, often around the holidays. There were frequent emails. Lauren loved her parents, but it had been her grandmother who’d made her house a home, who’d offered time, hearty hugs and homemade cookies.

  That hadn’t changed.

  Patsy was already at Gran’s condo when Lauren arrived, and the two older women were chatting as they set the table. For these weekly dinners Gran always used her good china, cloth napkins, polished silverware and crystal glasses for the decaffeinated iced tea. Life was too short, she said, not to use the best of everything at every opportunity. The smells from the kitchen were tantalizing, and Lauren couldn’t help but smile as she walked in and called out a friendly “Hello.”

  The two ladies, like the table, were at their best. Both of them were white-haired and tastefully made-up, and tonight they both wore colorful summer dresses. Miss Patsy was thinner than Gran, a couple of inches taller, and was never seen out and about without enough jewelry to outfit three women.

  Gran was more of a minimalist when it came to jewelry. She still wore her wedding band, and tonight she also wore small pearl earrings. Her hair was cut very short and spiked around her head, while Miss Patsy had pulled her long hair up into a bun, as usual.

  Not wanting to be underdressed, Lauren had worn a lavender sundress and white sandals, tiny diamond studs in her ears and her hair down instead of in its usual ponytail.

  There were hugs all around, then the three women carried dishes from the kitchen to the dining room table. Beyond the table the curtains at the doors, which opened onto a small patio, were pulled back to offer a relaxing view of a perfectly well-kept outdoor space with a wrought-iron table and chairs, hanging tomato plants, potted herbs and flowers. Past the patio a community green space was deserted and perfectly manicured. No kids at all. Lauren couldn’t help but wonder how old one had to be to move here….

  After they sat in their usual places, and Gran began by passing the meatloaf, Miss Patsy asked Lauren if she’d had a nice day. That was all it took for Lauren to tell the older ladies about the day’s frustrations. The noise, the broken window, the man next door. She even told them how she’d stormed out of the house in her pajamas and bunny slippers, which gave everyone—even her—a good laugh. In hindsight it was pretty funny. After she’d told them how a repairman had shown up within a couple of hours to fix the broken window, she mentioned what she’d found online about her neighbor.

  Gran carefully put down her fork and stared at Lauren as she finished her story. She wasn’t smiling, not that Lauren’s neighbor’s history was much to smile about. When Lauren finished sharing what she knew, Gran leaned forward just a little bit.

  “Is this neighbor’s name Whiplash Donovan?”

  Lauren was surprised. She hadn’t mentioned the man’s name because it wasn’t important. It wasn’t as if he would ever meet these two ladies. “Donovan is the last name, but he didn’t introduce himself as Whipl
ash. His first name is Cole.”

  Gran waved that detail off, literally, with a sweep of her hand. “That’s him, has to be! I can’t believe it, Whiplash Donovan living right next door to my granddaughter. This is so exciting!”

  “Whiplash?” Lauren asked suspiciously.

  “He could hit the ball so far and fast, you’d get whiplash trying to keep an eye on it. You know your grandfather was a huge fan of the Atlanta team.”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, I was never as fanatical about baseball as he was, but I did follow the game. What choice did I have when he was always watching it on television or listening to the games on the radio? Even after he passed I watched when I could.” She gave a small, sad smile. “It made me feel closer to him, as if we were still rooting for the team together even though he was gone.”

  Pops had been gone four years, and this was a detail of Gran’s life Lauren had never known. Sure, she remembered Pops watching sports on television, and wearing those team T-shirts and ball caps, but it wasn’t a passion grandfather and granddaughter had shared. They’d gardened together, played games, made homemade birthday cards, assembled endless puzzles….

  Gran shook off her melancholy, again with a literal wave of her hand. “Donovan was one of your grandfather’s favorites. He so wanted to see that record broken. When Whiplash’s wife died and he walked away he took a lot of heat. Many of the fans were very upset with him. A lot of them simply didn’t understand.” Her chin came up. “But I did. Donovan put his family first—before fame, before money. Baseball players spend so much time on the road, there’s no way he’d be able to raise his children and continue to play. He made a choice, and I never for a moment doubted that it was the right one. You have to admire a man who has his priorities in order that way.”

  Lauren almost grimaced. She didn’t have to admire her neighbor. She just had to deliver a peace-offering food and get out of the way.

  Getting out of the way was what she did best.

  Lauren’s grandmother reached for a second helping of fried okra. “So, tell me, is he still gorgeous?”

  “Gran!” Lauren said, trying to put a hint of shock and disapproval in her voice. Anything to avoid answering with a resounding yes.

  The older women laughed, and Lauren took a long, slow bite of meatloaf. She chewed deliberately, but eventually she had to swallow. Gran and Miss Patsy were still looking at her. Waiting.

  “Fine, yes, he’s a handsome man. Some women might consider him gorgeous, I suppose, but he’s not my type at all.”

  “Since when is tall, dark and handsome not your type?” Miss Patsy asked.

  Lauren hesitated, and the older women did her the favor of changing the subject. They began to discuss recipes. Normally recipes were one of Lauren’s favorite subjects, but her mind was still on Cole Donovan. Just a little. No, that wasn’t right. Her mind was on men—or rather, the lack of one in her life.

  She was happily single, for the time being. Her attempt at building her life around a man had failed miserably, and she was in no hurry to repeat that mistake. Of course she’d been too young to even think about marriage when she’d allowed hormones to override her common sense, and Billy had been a self-centered jerk. Looking back she could only be relieved that their two-year engagement had ended before she’d actually become his wife. At the same time, she was still annoyed that all the hours she’d spent planning her wedding had been wasted. There had been a couple of other romantic mistakes, misjudgments on her part, but neither of the other mistakes had gone so far.

  These days Lauren worked so hard there were no hours to waste, no spare time to sit back and ponder the few failures in her life. Whenever Billy crossed her mind—which wasn’t often—he didn’t stay there long. He just flitted through like a pesky mosquito, not at all worthy of her attention. The details of the wedding reception she’d planned, however, stayed crisp and clear. Maybe one day the right man would come along and she’d be able to pull out her three-ring binder and start again.

  Then again, who had time for men? She didn’t. One day, in the foggy, indistinct future, she’d work a man into her busy life. But not anytime soon. There were only so many hours in the day, after all. Where would she pencil romance into her schedule?

  If she ever did decide to pencil romance into her schedule, she wouldn’t consider a man who had three uncontrollable children. No matter how tall, dark and handsome he might be….

  Chapter Three

  Cole was surprised to find his neighbor at the door. Again. He answered her cautiously friendly hello with a sigh and a “What have they done now?”

  Lauren smiled, and as she did he noticed that she held a very large wicker basket covered with a red-and-white-checkered towel that looked as if it had never been used to mop up spilled grape juice or ketchup. She looked more than a little like Little Red Riding Hood, and he wanted to eat her up. Did that make him the Big Bad Wolf?

  She lifted the basket a couple of inches. “I’ve brought a little something to welcome you to the neighborhood, and to thank you for getting the window taken care of so quickly.”

  What choice had he had? His kids had done the damage, and he couldn’t very well have left Lauren’s house vulnerable overnight. Not that this neighborhood seemed to be unsafe. It was just common sense. Still, he supposed it would be rude to send her and her basket away, so he stepped back and invited her inside.

  She hadn’t seemed at all interested in getting to know him yesterday, when he’d made a fumbling attempt at being neighborly. Maybe something had changed her mind. Then again, maybe she was just more sociable when she was wearing a bra.

  Her eyes scanned the living room, and he knew very well what she saw. The laundry he’d been folding on the couch, the half-finished puzzle on the coffee table, the toys Justin had been playing with and left scattered about. If he’d known she was coming he would’ve picked up a bit, but since she’d dropped by unannounced she’d have to take what she got.

  She shifted the basket a bit, and Cole realized it must be heavy. Belatedly, he reached out and took it from her.

  “Lasagna and peach cobbler,” she said. “The cobbler can sit out for a while, but the lasagna needs to go in the refrigerator.” She gave him quick instructions on how to heat it up for supper, then backed toward the door.

  “Wait one minute,” Cole said, and he turned toward the back of the house and called the kids’ names, one at a time. They came running, smiling and laughing, their usual boisterous selves, but when they saw Lauren they skidded to a stop and their smiles died.

  “We didn’t do anything!” Justin said indignantly.

  “Yeah,” Hank agreed. “We’ve been playing video games and Meredith is reading some stupid book.”

  Meredith didn’t say anything, but her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  Cole let them stew for a minute, then said, “Even though you broke Ms. Russell’s window and stomped all over her garden, she’s brought you supper. Lasagna and peach cobbler. What do you say?”

  “I hate lasagna!” Justin said vehemently. “Yuck!”

  Hank shuffled his feet and looked at the floor, and Meredith rolled her eyes in that maddening way young girls had. Twelve years old, and he could already see the woman she was going to become. Soon. That vision scared the crap out of him. He wasn’t ready for her to grow up, wasn’t ready for boyfriends and dates and short skirts and makeup. But like it or not, those things were coming.

  “I was going to make chicken fingers for supper,” Meredith said.

  Like frozen chicken strips could hold a candle to homemade lasagna—an observation he didn’t dare make out loud. “The chicken fingers can wait for another day. I want you all to thank Ms. Russell.” He gave them a glare his neighbor couldn’t see, since his back was to her. It was a rarely used glare that told the kids he was serious. He’d spoiled them for too long; he’d indulged them, trying to make up for the fact that he was all they had. Just last year he’d realized that he’d
done that, and he was trying to undo the damage. It was a slow process.

  Meredith was the first to speak. “Thank you, Ms. Russell.” Her chin was lifted a touch too high, which made her appear defiant even though her words were proper enough. Her eyes were anything but friendly.

  Hank was antsy. The middle child was never still, unless he was sleeping. “I like lasagna,” he said, taking his eyes off the floor to peek up at their neighbor and give her a gentle, oddly charming, mostly toothless smile. “And I’m really tired of Meredith’s chicken fingers. Thanks.”

  Justin, the stubborn one, sighed. “Thank you, Ms. Russell. For the peach cobbler.” The youngest—who would live on chicken strips and honey mustard if given the option—was doing his best not to look directly at his father.

  “Why don’t y’all call me Miss Lauren,” their neighbor said. “After all, I imagine we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.” She looked directly at Justin. “I’m very sorry to hear that you don’t like lasagna. Tell me, what do you like? Just in case I cook for you again, I should know.”