For a Rainy Afternoon (9 page)

Someone else’s hand, not Maggie’s, had taken each recipe and added notes like Maggie had done, and not for the first time, I wondered how old this book was—years older than Maggie by the looks of it. Even though I knew that it was American in origin, it still made me smile to see the odd way of measuring things with cups of this and cups of that. Not only that but every missing
u
and added
z
jumped out at me.

Some of the titles made me smile, and I checked a few more out. Under Chocolate Slab, the combination of chocolate, peppermint, and some kind of crumbly oaty mix, simply labeled “for sad times,” Maggie had added one word, “worked,” and some asterisks. I realized the asterisks meant that the ingredients were ones being rationed. Chocolate was definitely my go-to for when I was in the doldrums, and I heartily approved of the recipe even though I imagined the weight on my body if I ate too much. Others, like Beet Porridge, had comments like “for clarity,” which didn’t make much sense. I must admit I wasn’t blown away by the idea of beet anything, but maybe I should try it at some point. The idea of the violently purple things I knew as beetroot being served up as anything other than pickled in a jar was alien to me. I stopped at the recipe for Applesauce Cake again. The ingredients listed were the same as the ones I used from the recipe Maggie had written out for me. Exactly the same. Except for the words scribbled next to the apples. Something about referring to the applesauce recipe. I looked for that, but it was missing, and judging from a few torn remains, a couple of other recipes were also not there. I turned to the page I had just inserted—a recipe for chicken soup—and turned it over. There on the back, faint and spidery, was the recipe for applesauce. I gently eased the applesauce page from its loose binding and placed it flat on white paper. At least I could make out some of the writing now. Use
lone
apples,
sove
apples? The words said something like that in Maggie’s loopy scrawl.

Sipping coffee gave me time to consider what that meant. Lone or Sove apples? What the hell was a Lone or a Sove apple? Crossing to the kitchen, I rummaged for the applesauce jar I’d bought from the supermarket and scrutinized the back. Lots of e-numbers and of course the single word “apple.” Not lone or sove apple. Was that a type? Like Pippin or Granny Smith? Then it hit me like a block of wood to the back of the head, sudden realization of what Maggie maybe could have meant.

I let myself out of the station house and jogged up the hill in the light mist of early autumn rain, waving at the postman but not stopping to talk. I reached Apple Tree Cottage and jumped the low gate before locating the tree with the plaque. Without considering what the hell I was really doing, I picked a handful of apples and shoved them in my jacket pockets, the rest of them cradled in my T-shirt. How many apples was enough?
What the hell am I doing?

When I returned home, I immediately dumped the apples in the sink and turned on the tap, seeing them bob to the surface and roll in the current caused by the running water. Excitement filled me, and I followed the short recipe, which had no other amendments scrawled in it, until I finally had a container of pale green applesauce that had the sweetness of added sugar and the tartness of the autumn-picked apples. Outside the window the light rain had turned heavier, and the sound of it against the windows was soothing as I mixed cups of flour and sugar and portioned out butter into the large mixing bowl. I hummed as I worked. Some part of me knew this was going to be the first applesauce cake that actually worked.

Halfway through cooking, Jason came downstairs, adorably rumpled and appearing concerned. “Everything okay?” he asked with a yawn. Then he pulled me into a tight hug. He smelled delicious, of fabric conditioner and citrus, and I returned the hug.

“Yes, I’m fine. I can’t believe the rain, bloody typical of an English autumn day.” I was talking for the sake of it, and he knew it. He settled me back and frowned at my expression.

“Sure you’re okay?”

“Promise.”

He kissed me gently; then by silent agreement, he settled in to write and I finished the cake and placed it in the oven before setting the timer. I dealt with person after person, all starting out with the usual comment on the weather and finally there was a break, when the alarm sounded to say the cake would be done. Maggie’s coffee friends sat with tea, and I proudly pulled out the applesauce cake that looked nearly the same as Maggie’s. Gently browned on the surface, it was raised a little and didn’t collapse when I poked it. I cut slices and gave them to each woman there. For a second they all stared at the cake, then at each other with knowing smiles.

“What?” I asked, bemused. None of them tried the cake. They all just smiled up at me in that way people did when they had a secret. Damned infuriating it was as well.

“Did I ever tell you how I met my Sidney?” Doris asked. She tucked her long hair behind her ear, and I caught a glimpse of her tattoos. Doris and Sidney were as unlikely a couple as you’d ever see: him an accountant in the City, her a free-spirit craft maker who taught lessons at the local school hall in the evenings.

“No.” I was unfailingly polite to Maggie’s friends, and enjoyed their stories normally. Just, I couldn’t be today. I wanted them to taste the damn cake and tell me what it was like.

“We’d been doing that whole thing where Sidney was telling me that he was too gray for me and that I was too bright to fit into his world. Maggie and I made this cake and I gave him a slice and that was it.”

“It? How?” I asked. I couldn’t help my own inquisitive nature pushing aside my need for them to eat the cake. So sue me.

“That was the day he said he couldn’t keep the love inside anymore, and sod his parents in their drab little house.”

“Sidney said that?”

“And more.” Doris laughed and placed the cake on the table. “You should give your young man a slice and see what he thinks.” All three women looked at me expectantly, and I found myself nodding and leaving them to their tea and cake.

Back in the kitchen, Jason was writing up a storm, and I saw from the word count in the bottom left-hand corner of the screen that he’d already passed fifty thousand words, and there didn’t seem to be a letup in the ease with which he was placing words on the screen. I made us our own coffee and cut slices of cake, then sat on a chair at the corner of the kitchen with a clear view of the shop door—just in case we had a customer, even though the coffee group were as capable of watching the shop as I was.

The scent of coffee clearly broke through his concentration, and finally he stopped typing and gifted me with a wide and grateful smile. He rolled his shoulders, then leaned back in his chair. He sipped coffee and, abruptly, in among all this normality and perfection, I had questions for him.

“When do you have to go home?” I blurted out. I wanted him to say never, but that was impossible.

He spent an inordinate time staring into his coffee. “I don’t have to,” he finally said. “My mother was British, and I was born here. Although I’ve never visited, I have dual passports. It’s a long complicated story.”

And one I didn’t want to hear just yet. There would be time for stories later. But what if I said what was on my mind? Would he just pack up and move into the cottage? He could then, it was safe and there was working plumbing. Fear gripped me that he’d laugh in my face if I actually said the three little words, and I swallowed them.

Pushing cake toward him, I tapped the plate. “Try some, see what you think.”

He looked momentarily confused at the switch in conversation, and could I hope that was a little disappointment on his face? He broke off a piece of the cake and scooped the small chunks of tart apple onto the sponge. He placed it into his mouth, and I waited for the conclusion. He smiled, that disappointment disappearing from his expression, replaced by appreciation. Something inside me unfroze.

“I love you,” I said simply. No frills, no explanations, and certainly no expectation that he would return the words. To cover my sudden worry, I broke off my own piece of cake, and against the symphony of rain on the windows, I tasted heaven. The apple was tart, the sponge crumbly, the cinnamon soft and marked with heat. I opened my eyes.

I didn’t even realize I had closed them.

Jason leaned over and grasped my hands with his. “And I love you,” he said without hesitation.

Then we were kissing, the taste of apple and cinnamon and our new love sharp on our tongues. He scooted his chair around next to mine, and we hugged and kissed and told each other about all those moments that made us fall in love.

Warm and needed and oh so loved, I leaned into his hold and listened to the soft cadence of his words and the rain outside.

And in my thoughts, all I could focus on was that I was in love and I was loved back.

Thank you, Maggie. For everything.

RJ S
COTT
is the author of over seventy gay romance stories. She has been writing since age six, when she was made to stay in at lunchtime for an infraction involving cookies and was told to write a story. Two sides of A4 about a trapped princess later, a writer was born. She enjoys reading anything from thrillers to sci-fi to horror; however, her first real love will always be the world of romance. Her goal is to write stories with a heart of romance, a troubled road to reach happiness, and always a happily ever after.

Contact RJ:

Website: http://www.rjscott.co.uk

E-mail: [email protected]

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Published by

D
REAMSPINNER
P
RESS

5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886  USA

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For a Rainy Afternoon

© 2015 RJ Scott.

Cover Art

© 2015 Reese Dante.

http://www.reesedante.com

Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/.

Digital ISBN: 978-1-63216-860-3

First Edition April 2015

Printed in the United States of America