<< Go Back

Her Culinary Catch (A Recipe for Romance) (Volume 3)

By Bonnie Engstrom

Order Now!

Prologue 
“Who ARE you?” Marci wanted to scream.
Instead, she bit her lip and took a deep breath. What on earth was Mom thinking when she hired this … this person? Her hands trembled, and her feet felt frozen to the floor beneath her desk. This was unacceptable. How was she going to correct this mistake? Fire the person on the spot? Lie and say the position had been filled? Pass out?
Connie shifted feet and stood at attention, like a sentinel. That was too much. Pretending to make a show of professionalism. Did chefs do that? Apparently, this one did.









Chapter  One
Marci McCauley punched the security code on the keypad and pulled open one of the ornate carved doors. Leading with her longer right leg, she slipped soundlessly into the Wedding Museum and turned on the lights. Her eyes scanned the display cases lining the walls of the main room as overhead lights bathed the mauve and pink walls with a soft glow. Her heart always fluttered like a hummingbird savoring the nectar of a hollyhock when she surveyed the full-scale replicas of wedding gowns worn by brides from the early eighteen hundreds to present day.
Her gaze swept the expanse of the room, taking in the polished oak floor and the thirty-foot ceiling adorned with crystal chandeliers. Placed strategically throughout the center of the room domed-glass cases that sat on tables with carved walnut legs in the Queen Anne style displayed replicas of bridal bouquets, flower girl baskets and ring bearer pillows. Three cases displayed bridal shoes ranging from laced satin boots with pointy toes and birdcage heels to more traditional white satin pumps from the 1940s through present day sling backs. Five pairs worn by recent brides had just been added on loan, making the collection a spiraling one hundred fifty plus. A tingle crept up Marci’s spine. Joy for those brides who had wed, anticipation for what God had in store for the museum, and sadness for what would never be hers.
Marci sighed, as she did every morning, a lump the size of a jawbreaker catching in her throat. She loved The Wedding Museum, loved the idea of it. She was proud her mother had the foresight and ingenuity to create it. She shifted her weight to her shorter leg as her mind wandered back to when her mother Maggie McCauley made the agonizing decision to give up her bridal consultant business and risk all of her savings to open her main source of income, The Gown.
Mom’s energy level had slacked off a bit after she turned sixty, and her trick hip gave her trouble each time she stooped to straighten the flowing train of a gown before a bride floated down the aisle. Her decision scared Marci at the time; especially since Dad found out he needed surgery just days before The Gown’s grand opening. God provided, mending Dad’s body with the finest of surgery that left only a thread-like scar on his chest. Marci and Maggie took turns between attending to him and readying the shop. The Gown opened on the appointed date.
The Arizona sky had been brilliant blue that morning, dusted liberally with floating cottony clouds; the rays of the sun glimmered on the tall glass doors and shimmered on the elegant satin and tulle gowns in the windows. The mirrored case holding the handmade tiaras sparkled more brilliantly than a thousand stars in the blackest of Arizona night skies. Each time the doors opened, the sun’s rays momentarily kissed the rhinestones and Swarovski crystals set in crowns of elaborate filigree patterns.
The grand opening had been a huge success. Thanks to Maggie’s esteemed reputation among colleagues, it seemed as if all the wedding consultants in the Phoenix area had spread the word to their clients and encouraged them to attend on the one and only day no appointments were required.
At the end of the day Marci counted over three hundred women who had signed up for The Gown’s mailing list and seventy-six who made appointments spanning the next two months. Although the list varied, several were public school teachers, a few were divas (she didn’t relish catering to them, but she would do it with patience and aplomb), one was a grocery clerk, most were young office workers planning and dreaming of “the perfect wedding,” and two were actual celebrities. Both celebrities were charming. Thank you, Lord! Instead of being the bossy, demanding type, they portrayed excellent social graces, and of course perfect teeth, skin and bodies. They would be easy to fit, even if not easy to please. The Gown promised to be a huge success. When the doors closed that evening, Marci and Maggie both sent a silent prayer of thanks to heaven.
Driving home exhausted, Marci fought back tears remembering how she had spent hours as a child caressing the pages of the bridal magazines Mom subscribed to for her consultant business. She’d run her chubby fingers over the photos of radiant models with flawless skin and upswept hair wearing layers of chiffon and lace scattered with pearls. Someday, she would wear one of these.
Now, at twenty-six, she knew better. Her childhood dream would never become a reality. She would never be swept off her feet by Prince Charming, never float down a rose petal- studded aisle on her father’s arm. What man in his right mind would be attracted to a five-foot-eleven-inch woman with a limp?
She propped her elbows on the twentieth century accessories case and cradled her chin. She was early, and no one was jiggling the door handle of the museum, so she took a few minutes to daydream.
Sometimes she longed for those days as a ten-year old when Daddy would take the folding wheel chair down from the back of the van. Gently he lifted her into the chair. With a swoop of his hand he flung the long strands of her strawberry-colored hair over the back. The physical therapy started two years later. How she’d hated it! Four hours, five days a week. Mom was insistent, never bowing to pressure when Marci begged for mercy.
At sixteen, Marci donated the wheelchair to a nonprofit agency for disabled children. Dad took the lift off the back of his van. She was mobile, on her own. Limping, sometimes stumbling, occasionally using a cane, but walking on her own. No clumsy braces, only the orthopedic shoe when she chose to wear it.
After three years as a professor at Scottsdale Community College, Marci quit her teaching position to become full-time manager and part-time buyer for The Gown. She was qualified for both positions since her community college professorship was in marketing, with emphasis on finance and management. It didn’t hurt that she’d spent high school through college working weekends and evenings as a salesperson at a high-end boutique, then rising to assistant manager at nine-teen. She was the youngest manager in the well-known national chain. She was even written up in the company’s house organ, the newsletter that was distributed to thousands of employees across the country. It was a major feather in her cap and a plum to add to her résumé.
Everyone said retail got in one’s blood, and Marci was no exception. She had loved dealing with the public, and especially loved guiding professional women how to coordinate clothing. What a thrill when a customer looked in the mirror and beamed with pleasure after Marci had accessorized a plain navy suit with scarf and jewelry. She thought back to a late night conversation she and Maggie had years ago while she was still working part-time in the women’s boutique, and before she had even graduated from college.
“But, Mom, it’s just something I do naturally.”
They were sipping tea, sitting across from each other at the red Formica table in Maggie’s kitchen. Marci held the company newsletter in her hand and waved it between them. Both had read the feature story making Marci the new star in the company.
“I’m flattered. I admit it. But, I’m a bit scared. What will they expect of me now?”
“It’s your gift,” Mom said. “You make people feel and look beautiful. You instill confidence. Isn’t that one of the fruits of the Spirit?”
Marci laughed. “I don’t remember instilling confidence as one. I think the fruits mentioned in Galatians are love, joy, peace, kindness, goodness, and faithfulness. I’m missing one, I think. Aren’t there seven?”
“I’ll think of it. But, back to the subject.” Maggie reached across the table, squeezed Marci’s hand and winked. “You give your customers all of these. You show your love, both for fashion and them. You fill them with joy by making them feel beautiful, thus confident.”
She paused wrinkling her brow. Staring deliberately at Marci she continued. “Giving them joy about their appearance gives them peace within themselves, peace in their spirit, peace and confidence to pursue their dreams. You are always kind when you make suggestions; they trust you because you are good. Your faithfulness is obvious in the time you spend with each person, and how often your customers return for more advice, and more purchases.”
Marci couldn’t deny her love for doing it, but was it really what God had in mind for her? Sometimes it seemed a little phony, fluff. If only she had leeway in retail to witness to these women, to help them see that they were beautiful inside as well as outside because of God’s love for them. But, legally, she couldn’t. The proprietor of the shop was a professed atheist, and the most Marci ever allowed herself to whisper to her loyal customers was, “God bless you!” when she handed them a receipt.
“Got it!” Maggie’s eyes lit up like the Fourth of July sparklers Marci used to wave in the air as a ten-year-old. “Forbearance! That’s the missing gift. The one you couldn’t remember.” Her smile was almost smug, and she grabbed Marci’s fingers. “You have tolerance, even self-restraint. You make your clients feel so special that you put them first; you ignore your own needs and instincts. You put them on a pedestal.”
Marci shook her head, auburn locks flipping around her face. Doubt crept into her heart. Was she really all this? Could she live up to this? Had the Lord given her all these gifts?
If all these gifts were inside her, if she really used them, if, as her mother and the Lord said, real beauty was inside, not just on the surface, why was she so alone?

Shaking off her reverie, Marci glanced at her oversized watch and focused on the day ahead; hoping the cobwebs of memories would fade with busyness. Time to open shop. She picked up her laptop and briefcase from the floor where she’d plopped them and hobbled toward her office. The sign on the pebbled glass door said “Manager/Curator.” After fishing her key out of her voluminous purse, she opened the door and let herself in.
Checking her calendar, as she did every morning, she ran through the day. Ah, the new chef, Connie, was to start today in the museum’s recently opened Café Wedd, another one of Mom’s visions. Marci looked over Connie’s references and briefly scanned the attached résumé. The woman had quite a history, including having catered the Dollan-Smythe wedding reception. That was almost a year ago, but Marci hadn’t forgotten the succulent free-range chicken breasts lightly brushed with lemon caper sauce and the almost bite-size tornadoes of beef wrapped in crisp turkey bacon. It was one of the most memorable meals she’d ever tasted, and she’d given it a personal five stars. She would be delighted to welcome Connie. Since the Café Wedd’s opening five weeks ago, they had been fortunate to sustain it with guest chefs from local restaurants. The café was only able to operate on days the temporary chefs were available, and then if they chose to show up. It was time to have a resident chef.
The woman must have the proverbial patience of Job to take on this assignment. Nervous brides and equally nervous MOBs (Mothers of Brides) lunched at the Café Wedd. Sometimes grooms, bridesmaids and wedding consultants joined them. But, no matter who ordered lunch, they would be “all atwitter,” as Grandma Sjostrom used to say. Connie needed to have nerves of steel and an ability to deal with a plethora of jittery women. “God bless her,” Marci whispered as she plowed through her paperwork.
She glanced at the clock. 10:35. The café was due to open for seating at 11:15. Why hadn’t Connie come by the office to introduce herself? After all, that was protocol, and Marci did hold the title of museum curator. Since the café was part of the museum it operated under the museum’s auspices. The café chef contracted with The Gown and The Bridal Museum to operate on a four-day basis, Tuesday through Friday, eleven-thirty to three.
A loud knock at her office door roused her from her musings.
She dropped her pen. “Come in,” she called.
A large man in a chef’s jacket and tall starched mushroom hat extended his hand. “Ya, und I’m so pleased to meet ya, Miss.” He displayed a wide grin that defined his angular face and showcased shiny white teeth.
Marci had never seen such a man before. She had seen many men of course, had even dated a few until the embarrassment of not being able to dance, or glide gracefully through a restaurant dining room, put a damper on the relationships. Some had been far more handsome than this one. But his countenance seemed to envelope the room, take it over, start her heart beating in a manner she’d never experienced. She raised her hand to rearrange some papers when his large firm hand clasped hers without waiting for her to fully extend her own. Before she had time to withdraw it, another hand clasped over. She stared up at eyes that glimmered like sparkling sapphires in a dark sky.
Shaking her curls and blinking her own eyes in an attempt to come back to earth, she composed herself. “Who ARE you?”
She knew the retort was rude, even confrontational. But he was an intruder.
“Ach. So sorry, Miss. I forgot in my enthusiasm to properly introduce myself. I am the new chef of Café Wedd. At your service Miss McCauley.”
“But, but . . . you are . . .” She stammered, unable to continue. She had understood, believed, he was to be a she. She had been so looking forward to working with a female chef who would understand the nuances of catering to nervous brides and MOBs. How could this happen? Had her mother been in outer space when she hired this … person? Surely Mom knew that this was a man, a very large man well over six-foot three with huge hands. He probably had no idea about how to prepare the delicacies the women who dined at the Café Wedd would expect. Gone suddenly were all her fantasies of baby bib lettuce dribbled with cranberry and honey dressing, tiny triangles of Boston brown bread spread with low fat cream cheese infused with herbs, accompanied by raspberry iced tea in frosted glasses.
A strong masculine voice interrupted her musing. The big man pounded his chest with both fists. “I am Conrad Thorstrom, Miss. But, everyone calls me Connie. I hope you will, too.” He offered a smile that seemed to reach from ear to ear and dominate the square jaw set at least three inches below blonde sideburns.
Marci stared at the tall man’s face. The angles of his jaw were almost pure forty-five degrees, each making a definitive corner so when he smiled his cheeks forced the flesh around his eyes to crinkle and his eyes to sparkle like aquamarines. A trickle of perspiration crept down the back of her neck. She raised a clammy palm to wipe it away and hoped it looked like she was simply fluffing her hair. What are you doing here, Lord? Who have you sent to me?
Shuffling some papers on her desk in an attempt to regain her composure, she sucked in a deep breath and forced her gaze to meet the sparkling turquoise pools beneath thick blonde brows. She reverted to standard good manners and said “I’m pleased to meet you Mr. … Connie?” But, was she really?

Order Now!

<< Go Back