Nothing happened.
She grimaced. Maybe she’d just imagined Angela standing behind this door yesterday. Lack of sleep did weird things to people, and lack of sleep combined with random daubs of frosting did God only knows what. She sighed and started to remove her ear from the door, but just then, she heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps.
They came closer. And then closer. Finally, they stopped, so close Ella was sure that if the door disappeared, Angela would be only inches away. “Angela, I can hear you in there.”
No answer.
Ella frowned. “Please, I just want to talk to you. It will only take a few minutes.” Ella waited a second and then added, “It’s about the lost Book of Cakes.”
A muffled sound came from the other side of the door.
Ella took that as encouragement. “If you’ll just open the door, I’ll explain what—”
“Are you giving it back?” came a muffled reply.
At least she was talking. Ella put her hand flat on the door beside her face, the panel warm from the sun. “I would if I had it. I never took the book. That’s what I came to—”
“If you’re not giving it back, we have nothing to say.”
“I didn’t take it!”
“Yes you did. You also broke Gray’s heart and I’ll never forgive you for that, either.” With that flat declaration, the footsteps retreated, slapping harder on the floor and so loud that Ella could have heard them even without her ear pressed to the door.
Soon, they faded away completely and Angela was gone.
“Great,” Ella said loudly, hoping Angela could still hear. “Just great. All I need is a few minutes of your precious time to explain how I never ever took your recipe book!” There. She’d firmly and unapologetically told Angela the truth. That was all she had to do, wasn’t it? I’m done here. I’ll just— Her gaze fell on her left shoe. Two rosettes of strawberry icing rested on top of it, dangerously near the shoe’s pretty bow. “Darn it!” She removed her shoe and hobbled down the steps to the yard. Muttering loudly, she grabbed a handful of grass and cleaned off the frosting. Apparently just telling Angela the truth wouldn’t be enough. I’ll have to convince her of it, too.
Ella slipped her shoe back on and returned to the porch. Scowling, she banged on the door. “Angela!” But there was no answer. Ella moved down the porch and, her hand arched over her eyes, looked into the windows.
Through the third window, between two long cream curtains, Ella could see into the living room. To one side sat a well-padded cream and green chair beside a large marble fireplace, with the top of Angela’s blond head just visible over the back. On the table beside the chair was an open book, a piece of chocolate cake, a half-eaten bowl of what appeared to be ice cream, and a messy stack of empty Hershey’s Kisses wrappers, some of them folded into some sort of tiny origami. Ella rapped on the window.
Angela didn’t move.
“I just need one minute of your time!” Ella yelled. “Please!”
For a long moment, there was no movement. Then Angela reached over and picked up her bowl of ice cream and took a bite.
Ella cupped her mouth against the glass. “Angela, please. I never took the Book of Cakes. You have to know that! I—”
Angela put her bowl back on the table, stood, and walked toward the window. Ella noticed that she looked older than the last time they’d met. Angela had let her hair go, too, white roots in contrast to the soft golden blond.
Ella gestured toward the window and mimicked opening it. As awkward as trying to have a serious conversation through an open window might be, at least they could finally talk.
Angela came to a stop on the other side of the glass. She stood there a long moment, her gaze locked with Ella’s. Slowly, Angela reached toward the window.
Ella smiled. There. One conversation and—
The curtains swooshed closed, and Ella was left alone on the porch.
CHAPTER 4 GRAY
The next day, Gray grabbed the shopping bag from the passenger side of his pickup and headed toward his mom’s house, walking past the steps leading to the apartment over the old carriage house. Gray had been staying in the little apartment with its lingering reminders of the 1920s while his farmhouse was being renovated. The apartment kitchen had been updated within the past twenty years, thank goodness, but the bathroom was still old-school with its pedestal sink, toilet with a wooden-handled cord, and quaint but deep claw-foot tub. It wasn’t a horrible place by any means, but he couldn’t wait to move out.
To be honest, the worst aspect of the little apartment was its proximity to his mother. He loved Mom—of course he did—but “helicopter mom” was too lightweight a description to apply to her, especially since Dad’s death. She couldn’t seem to accept that, yes, he and Mark were now grown up and didn’t need her constant suggestions and worries. She can’t let anything go. Ever.
Gray caught a glimpse of his grandmother peeking out the lace curtains of the sitting room of the old house. Before he could raise his hand to wave, she disappeared. Soon, the front door popped open.
“There you are!” she called as she walked briskly to him, her eyes locked on the paper bag in his hand.
He held it out to her. “Your order, madam.”
“It wasn’t an order. I just asked for a favor.”
The tone of her text had been an order and they both knew it, but he just grinned.
“I hope you found the chocolates.” She opened the bag and looked inside, her expression so like that of a child opening a Christmas present that he almost laughed.
“It’s all there. Bacon, Dove chocolates, and ice cream. I had to go to two stores to get the Ben and Jerry’s Mint Chocolate Chance.”
“That’s because it’s so good. People know perfection when they see it.” She closed the bag and hugged it. “Thank you. I’d have gone and gotten it myself, but you know how I dislike driving.”
“I’m aware. Sadly, I can’t make an ice cream run every day. I’ve got responsibilities.”
She slanted him a side look. “But you could do an ice cream run every three days, couldn’t you?”
He choked back a laugh. His grandma had never been like other people’s grandmothers, who were sweet, gray-haired, and aproned. His grandmother was lean, sharp, purposefully blond, and boldly wore her makeup like a badge of honor. Or she usually did. For some reason, she’d stopped wearing her makeup this trip, although today he thought he could detect a tiny amount of blush and eyeliner.
He eyed his grandmother closely. Mom had told him in strict confidence that Grandma wasn’t well, but to be honest, he hadn’t seen a sign of it. She seemed plenty peppy whenever he was there, which wasn’t often, but still.
She caught his look and put a hand to her cheek. “I know, I know. I look horrible.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” He tilted his head to one side. “You look younger, in a way.”
She sniffed her disbelief. “As if. I wish I could just—” She grimaced. “But I can’t.”
He narrowed his gaze. “Grandma, what’s going on?”
She shrugged. “Are you hungry? I’m making grilled cheese sandwiches. Want one?”