Sisters by Choice Page 5

  Sophie waved away her concerns. “I took it in the spirit in which he meant it. Wishful thinking. Don’t worry, I’m not buying him a car.”

  One of the reasons her company was so successful was she poured every penny she could back into it. She took a decent salary, but no one could accuse her of living large. Her car was nearly five years old, her condo in Valencia had been a modest two-bedroom and she’d used the second bedroom for CK to product-test new items. She dressed casually, shopped the sales and, except for the occasional trip back to Blackberry Island, couldn’t remember ever taking a vacation. There were always people coming to her for money, but she generally told them no. Buy her nephew a car on his sixteenth birthday? Not happening.

  “Thanks for understanding,” Kristine said. “How are you doing otherwise?”

  “I’ll feel better when I’m in my rental, which will be tomorrow. It’s furnished so all I have to do is unpack my personal stuff. The movers are supposed to deliver all that in the afternoon.”

  “You need a cat.”

  Sophie reached for her wine. “No. It’s too soon. I don’t want a cat.”

  “You need a cat.”

  “Didn’t you just say that?”

  “Because it’s true. You’re a cat person. You run a business that is all about cats. Of course you’re missing CK, but you really do need a cat in your life. Having a cat keeps you grounded and makes you feel whole.”

  An insight that would have made her uncomfortable had anyone else uttered it, but she and Kristine were family and had known each other all their lives. After Sophie’s mom had died, Sophie had moved in with Kristine and her parents.

  “I’m not ready.”

  Kristine pulled a piece of paper out of her back pocket. “I knew you’d say that. And you’re right. It’s way too soon. You have to grieve and move on, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have cats in your life.” She waved the paper. “Foster. We’re entering kitten season and the local animal shelter needs people to foster pregnant cats.”

  Sophie took the paper and stared at the phone number. “What does that mean? I don’t know anything about fostering a pregnant cat. I’d freak when the babies are born.”

  “It’s not that hard. They have experienced mothers giving birth. You give the cat a place to stay while the kittens are born and then keep them until they’re ready to be adopted. They have to be socialized, which would be good for you. When the kittens are old enough, off they go to find their forever family. The same with mom. She gets spayed, then put up for adoption and you’re officially cat-free. By the time that happens, you might find you’re ready for a cat of your own.”

  “I never thought of doing that. I’m gone a lot, so I wonder about the socializing.”

  “The kittens won’t need much until they’re three or four weeks old. The boys will help. They’ll love it. We’ll set up a schedule. Heather and I will stop by. I’d mention Amber only I’m sure she’ll complain about something and kittens don’t need the negativity. Besides, you need little cat feet and purrs in your life, Sophie. You’re lonely.”

  Sophie nodded slowly. “You’re a good mom. I’ll call them. If I could be sure the mother cat knew what she was doing, I think I’d be okay with this.” She waved the paper. “Thanks for the information.”

  “Something popped up on my Facebook feed and I instantly thought of you.”

  “Am I that obviously broken?”

  Kristine laughed. “Yes, but you’ll heal. You’re the strongest person I know.”

  “I don’t feel strong at all. I feel like spun glass.”

  “Of course you do, but that will pass and in a few weeks, you’ll be your sassy, entrepreneurial self. Oh, Sunday morning meet me at the park at nine.”

  “What? No.” Sunday was the only day Sophie let herself sleep in. She did things like laundry and grocery shopping. She’d been planning on spending this Sunday settling into her new place.

  “Be there. I mean it. I’ll come drag you there if I have to.”

  “I hate it when you’re bossy. What happens at the park on Sunday morning?”

  “Tai Chi.”

  “Is that like yoga or is it the wavy arm thing old people do?”

  “It’s breath and movement and centering yourself. I love it, and you will, too. Besides, Dugan, the instructor, is totally hot and I think he’s single and you need to get laid.”

  “Get laid? What are we—sixteen-year-old boys?”

  “I’m not wrong.”

  “I don’t want a man. I’m not ready for that, either.”

  “I’m not asking you to fall in love. I’m saying you need a yummy distraction and Dugan is certainly that. Plus, I want to hear the details. I’ve been married my entire adult life. I need to live vicariously through someone and you’re my best option.”

  “I feel so special.”

  “You should. So Sunday at nine.”

  Sophie laughed. “Sure. Then I’ll take him back to my place and make a man out of him.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  Chapter Four

  Kristine was pretty sure she hadn’t been born organized, but having three kids in less than five years, not to mention several great lessons from her mother, had taught her the importance of developing the skill. Some days were easier than others, but on the busiest ones, a plan was required. Her challenging day ran from Thursday afternoon until bedtime on Friday.

  She started right after lunch with a trip to the big-box store on the mainland to stock up on baking supplies. When she got home, she checked on the stew she’d started in the Crock-Pot right after breakfast and then put everything away. No after-school activities were allowed on Thursday. It was home directly after school to get homework and chores done before dinner.

  By five she had the salad made and the ingredients for cheddar biscuits on the counter. She separated egg yolks from egg whites and saved the former to use in a custard over the weekend. After chopping green onions and measuring flour, butter and shredded cheddar cheese, she checked the schedule on the refrigerator.

  “Grant,” she yelled up the stairs. “Time to make biscuits.”

  All three boys appeared in the kitchen.

  “Are you sure it’s his turn?” JJ asked, walking to check the schedule himself. “He got to help last time.”

  “I went last time,” Tommy said. “You went the time before.”

  “Everyone gets the same number of turns. We rotate for a reason. Now, shoo.”

  Tommy and JJ grumbled as they retreated. Grant carefully washed his hands and stood by the stove.

  “I’m ready, Mom.”

  “I can see that.”

  While she would love to think it was her sparkling company that had the boys so anxious to help her in the kitchen, she knew the real appeal lay in the professional-grade stand mixer she’d wrestled onto the counter. She appreciated its work ethic and reliability, but the boys loved the roar of its engine and how it was Terminator-like in its relentless pursuit of turning disparate ingredients into a smooth, pliable blend.

  She poured water into a stainless-steel pot, then added butter and cayenne pepper. Grant watched the mixture, stirring it occasionally.

  “There are bubbles, Mom!”

  “Excellent. Is the butter melted?”

  “Not yet. Almost.” He stirred a few more times. “It’s melted!”

  She took the pot off the heat and beat in flour. After dumping the dough into the stand mixer bowl, she smiled at Grant.

  “It’s all yours, my man.”

  “I got it, Mom. I got it!”

  He carefully lowered the mixer and locked it into place, then turned it on. The whole eggs were added one at a time, then the egg whites. By the time that was done, she’d prepped two cookie sheets and started on the boys’ lunches.

  Grant left the dough to
cool and raced back to his bedroom. Tommy wandered in to set the table while JJ started watching for his father.

  The dance was a familiar one, she thought. On other nights, when there were games and school meetings or Jaxsen had to rush out to meet the guys on his bowling league, things were hectic, but Thursdays were quieter. At least until dinner was done.

  “Dad’s home!” JJ yelled from the front of the house. Seconds later she heard the front door open then bang into the wall. Grant shrieked and ran down the stairs. Tommy finished setting out flatware before joining his brothers.

  Kristine whipped the sliced green onions and cheddar cheese into the dough and started dropping spoonfuls onto the cookie sheets. Jaxsen walked in, all three boys hanging on him.

  “Look what I found outside,” he said, crossing to her and kissing her. “Can we keep them?”

  “I don’t know. Do we have room?”

  “We do. Oh, come on. Let me keep them. I’ll take good care of them, I swear.”

  The boys laughed uproariously as if they hadn’t heard the joke a thousand times before. Kristine briefly thought that it would be nice if Jaxsen was telling the truth and he really would take care of the boys. Not that he didn’t help, but their responsibilities were clearly defined. Jaxsen worked hard on the state road crew and he brought in the money. Everything else was on her. After all, she was a stay-at-home mom. What else did she have to do with her day?

  Kristine slid the cookie sheets into the oven.

  “Twenty-one minutes, people. We have twenty-one minutes.”

  The boys ran out of the kitchen. Jaxsen leaned against the counter.

  “How was your day?” she asked.

  “Good. A couple of my crews got sent to help out with clearing the North Cascade Highway. Should be open by mid-May if it stays warm. Did you get by to see Sophie’s warehouse?”

  “Not yet. I know she’s really busy hiring people and getting in shelves and stuff. I’ll get there.” She thought about what her cousin was going through. “She’s amazing. Starting over the way she is. I bet in a year or two, she’ll have doubled the business.”

  “I think it’s sad.”

  “Why would you say that? She started with nothing and now she has a successful company. Do you know what those jobs are going to do for the island? Plus, she’s making it as a woman with virtually no one helping her. She’s impressive.”

  He moved close and wrapped his arms around her. “She’s by herself. Even when she was married to Mark, she seemed like she was by herself. Look at all the love in this house. You, me, the boys. She goes home to nothing. I wish she’d find somebody and quit working so hard.”

  She looked into Jaxsen’s eyes. “I can’t figure out if you’re being sweet or a total jerk.”

  “I’m not saying a woman can’t be happy by herself, but it’s better with a man.”

  She raised her eyebrows and he quickly amended. “A partner of either gender. I’m not saying she shouldn’t be a lesbian if she wants to be. Hell, then I could watch.”

  She slapped his arm and stepped away. “Do not let the boys hear you talking like that. I mean it.”

  “You know I’m kidding. I just think Sophie needs somebody to love who loves her back. She needs somebody in her bed.” He pulled her close again. “I couldn’t make it without you.”

  Kristine was pretty sure that was true. Jaxsen worked hard and he was a good dad, but he wasn’t the kind of guy who did things he didn’t like. All his “helping” with the boys was things he enjoyed. If one of the kids turned up sick, he was nowhere to be found. A flaw, she thought, stepping out of his embrace, but one she could live with.

  “So you’re baking tonight?”

  “Is it Thursday?”

  She did her best to keep her tone light. He asked the same question two or three times every week and she couldn’t, for the life of her, figure out why. She baked every Thursday night. She started after dinner and worked through the night, finishing about five Friday morning. She made cookies and brownies, packaging them to sell over the weekend. The local wineries were her biggest customers. In the summer they took her entire inventory. During the off-season, she sold the extras on Saturday mornings using a little cart she set up by the park. Most days she sold out by noon.

  “You sure you don’t want to join us for spring break?” he asked.

  “I am.”

  “You’re going to miss a good time.”

  Rather than say anything, she walked over to the Crock-Pot and turned it off, then set the lid on the counter so she could stir the stew.

  “We were lucky to find a cabin we could afford,” he said. “A tent trailer would make things easier.”

  “Jaxsen!”

  “Come on. The boys would love it. We’d get a lot of use out of it.”

  “We’ve talked about this. They’re expensive. We already have enough equipment. Three tents, the ATVs, Jet Skis, snowboards and who knows what else. The boys are fine with what they have.”

  “But—”

  The timer went off. She moved to the oven and pulled out the two cookie sheets of biscuits. The boys ran into the kitchen and jostled for position at the sink to wash their hands. As usual, Grant, the youngest, got stuck at the back of the line.

  Jaxsen herded them over to the table while Kristine served the stew. When they were all seated, she took a second to look at her family. This was what she’d always wanted, she reminded herself. She was living the dream.

  * * *

  By nine thirty that evening, Kristine had her fifth batch in the oven. While the cookies baked, she stacked the cellophane bags she used. Each one held six cookies. She had little boxes for the brownies. They cost way more than bags, but the presentation was great so she charged more.

  Jaxsen wandered into the kitchen. “The kids are in bed,” he said. “Sort of.”

  “I’ll check on them in a second.” She eyed the timer. She had four minutes. The next two cookie sheets were ready to go. Then she would have exactly fourteen minutes until they had to come out. She would start on brownies after that. She’d perfected her recipes over the years. She knew exactly how long everything took to bake and cool, down to the second.

  He pulled her close. “Do we have time for a quickie?”

  She knew what he meant. A fast, silent but satisfying encounter in their bathroom with the goal of finishing before one of the boys knocked on the door, interrupting them. Tempting, but not on her current schedule.

  “Was that smile a yes?” he asked, nibbling on the side of her neck.

  The timer went off.

  “Sorry,” she murmured. “Next time.”

  Something flashed in his eyes. It was there and gone before she could figure out what he was thinking. But by the time she’d pulled the cookies out of the oven, he wasn’t there to ask.

  * * *

  Shortly before six the next morning, Kristine counted out cookies and carefully placed them in decorative cellophane bags. She’d finished the brownies a little after midnight and had packed them up around four. She could physically bake more brownies at a time and the market for them was smaller, so they were more manageable. But when it came to the cookies, she could sell double what she baked.

  In the summer, when the tourists swarmed the island, she baked all week long. She was always throwing in batches between running the boys around and taking care of things at home. While she could freeze her cookies, she only did that during the super-busy times. The cookies were better fresh and that meant something to her. During the rest of the year, she could get by with a single night of baking. It was hard on her, but it made for an easier week.

  Oh, to have an industrial-size oven or two, she thought wistfully. One that could bake a few dozen cookies at a time. And a rolling tray of cooling racks. She’d researched all of it but even if she could justify the cost—which she c
ouldn’t—she had nowhere to put any of it. But the idea of real ovens was thrilling. She wouldn’t have to stay up all night baking for the weekend customers. She wouldn’t spend every Friday bone weary. She could—

  Before her daydreams carried her too far away, she heard a knock at the back door. Seconds later Ruth, her mother-in-law, walked into the kitchen. She had a huge insulated tote bag in each hand.

  “Morning,” Kristine said, hurrying to help her. “That looks heavy.”

  “Quiches,” Ruth said with a smile. “The ones with ham and bacon. The boys love them.”

  “The boys love everything you make.”

  Ruth was an old-school cook. She never worried about things like saturated fat or the “light” version of anything. She’d grown up with the idea that any recipe could be improved or saved by the generous addition of butter.

  Both quiches were still warm. Kristine shook her head. “What time did you get up? You know you don’t have to bake for them, Ruth. They’d be happy with scrambled eggs.”

  Ruth, a sturdy woman in her late fifties, waved away the comment. “It’s one morning a week. You stay up all night baking. It’s the least I can do.” She glanced at the clock. “We have a few minutes before the madness begins. Did you hear about the Blackberry Island Bakery?”

  Kristine poured Ruth a cup of coffee and joined her at the table. Even exhausted by staying up all night, she felt a flicker of excitement at the question.

  “I saw the sign,” she admitted. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “It could mean a lot. The location is perfect. Have you been inside? I wonder what changes they made.”

  The Blackberry Island Bakery had been a local fixture for as long as Kristine could remember. Four years ago Yvette had moved with her family when her husband got an incredible job offer in Paris. The bakery had been sold to someone from Seattle. The quality had gone downhill and the bakery had closed within the first year. After standing empty for about the same amount of time, it had opened again, this time as a café. Once again, poor management and bad food had doomed the venture. The bakery was back on the market, or at least the building was.