Stirring the Plot (A Cookbook Nook Mystery) Read Online Free PDF Page A

She nearly glimmered in the moonlight.
    A few weeks ago, Rhett had confided that he’d met with Dr. Thornton to deal with his fear of fire. He left his job as chef of The Grotto when the restaurant burned down, due to arson. His takeaway from his sessions—
takeaway
was a term Dr. Thornton used—was that Rhett had to deconstruct the lies so he could get to the truth. “See the sunrise, not the sunset,” he whispered.
    That was another of Pearl’s, um,
pearls
of wisdom.
    “You know”—I bumped him with my hip—“in this quiet-as-a-tomb environment, we can invoke the cone of silence. Care to tell me more about you?” I wasn’t one for keeping secrets. I’d learned way too late that my husband had kept loads of them. He stole clients’ funds and he hid gold coins in a statue, to name a couple. In the few months since I’d met Rhett, I had gleaned a bit of data about him. He lived in a cabin, he owned his own business, and he had attended culinary school years ago. He loved to fish and whittle, and he liked to read many of the same books I did. But I wanted to know more. Heck, I wanted to know everything. Did that mean I was ready for a deeper relationship after all?
    “For instance?” he asked.
    “Parents?”
    “What about them?”
    “Do you have them? Are they—” I paused awkwardly.
    “Yes, they’re still alive.”
    “Where do they live?”
    He hesitated. “Napa Valley.”
    “What do they do?”
    “Dine on fine French food.”
    I poked his rib cage. “Don’t be cryptic.”
    “They’re in the business. They own a restaurant.”
    “Really, which one?”
    “Intime.”
    I gasped. “You’re not fooling?”
    “Nope.”
    Intime—in French it meant “intimate”—was a renowned restaurant in the wine country, second to the French Laundry; both were located in Yontville, north of Napa. I had eaten there twice. I remembered a lovely woman, the owner, who had reminded me of my mother, tall and slender with dark curls feathering her face. She had beautiful blue eyes. Now looking at Rhett, I could see the resemblance. Honestly, I would melt into his eyes if he’d let me.
    “Why didn’t you tell me that before?” I said.
    “My father . . .” He worked his tongue inside his cheek.
    “Strapping guy. Very tan.” He looked like the kind of man who could have run a huge vineyard or ranch. “Sort of stern.”
    “That’s him. He disinherited me.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I eloped with the daughter of his best friend. Within the year, we were divorced. Her choice. Heartbroken, I entered culinary school, but when I didn’t pursue the art of French cooking, which further incensed my father, I became the black sheep.”
    “How did your mother feel about your father cutting you off?”
    Rhett had risked his life to run back through the fire in The Grotto to save his mother’s prized recipe box. Now I understood why he had taken the risk. Those recipes were not merely family keepsakes; they were the essence of a successful business.
    “She wasn’t pleased, but she wouldn’t buck him. We communicate via my sisters.”
    “You have sisters?” I had no idea I would get such a rich account. Maybe having a secret admirer was the impetus. Yay for me. “Do they have names?”
    “Scarlett and Ashley.”
    I grinned. “Your mother loved
Gone with the Wind
.”
    “She adored it. Doesn’t every young girl?” Rhett toed the ground. “My father wanted a partner in the family business. He didn’t expect my sisters to comply. I sorely disappointed him.”
    “Does he know what happened to you? Your career? The fire?”
    “He does.”
    “Hasn’t he tried to mend fences?”
    Rhett shook his head, then pressed a finger to my lips. “No more talk of him.”
    “My aunt intimated that you had some run-ins with the law.” She hadn’t revealed more. She believed all people should tell their stories in their own time.
    A moment passed before Rhett said, “About a year ago, when your aunt insisted on