Read Online Time's Forbidden Flower by Diane Rinella - Free Book Online
Authors: Diane Rinella
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Donovan would be thrilled if this encourages her to cook better than a hash slinger without the benefit of the grease.
I place two samplers in front of Christopher and Anna, including two-percent, whole milk, cream, and impromptu half and half. Plopping down at the table, I point to their whole milk. “Start with this, then grab any other glass and tell me the difference.” Anna takes tiny sips, then reorders the glasses according to fat content. Christopher appears lost, peering at Anna’s glasses and seeking a pattern. “Stop cheating!” I accuse before turning to Anna. “Well?”
She slips her hands into her lap. “I wouldn’t know exactly what they were off the bat, but I ordered them according to richness. Did I get it right?” she asks, as if she will win my approval for existing if correct.
“Perfectly.” I try not to address Christopher like he’s a small child. “Can you label them according to fat content like Anna did?”
He looks so lost I want to curl him in my arms and tell him how much I love him despite his obvious fault. “Oh, you’re just trying to wind me up,” he rants. “You should be bloody ashamed, putting me under the cosh like this!”
“Really, Christopher? Your seven-year-old son could do better,” Donovan playfully scorns as the doorbell rings. “Graham! Would you come here please?”
“Oh, come off it,” Christopher complains. “The guys are arriving now.”
Of course they are. Yet another rehearsal. Heaven forbid that I get a night with my husband. “Not our problem!” I say, heading for the door. Donovan reorders Christopher’s glasses accurately by sight, then smugly clears his throat. Christopher’s head meets his hands in defeat.
Anna practically drags Donovan toward the door as I open it to Fred and Dennis asking, “Hey guys. Want to try some Lavender-Lemon Mousse Cake?”
“Careful, it’s a trap!” Christopher yells.
Mike brings up the rear as Donovan and Anna slip out with Sunshine. Anna flinches as Mike brushes past, barely skimming her arm. Donovan stops and shoots him a look implying he knows Mike’s ways all too well.
“Hey,” Mike nods to Donovan.
“Hey, yourself,” Donovan condescends while throwing an arm around Anna. His eyes turn to me, penetrating my thoughts. Lily, stay away from this guy .
Clearly it’s not only me who feels Mike’s slither.
Chapter 8
Ambition is a word known by those who have not had too many early mornings and too many late nights dozing off before their husband is home from his new rehearsal space that practically resides in the next county. Unaffected by the double espresso guzzled on the drive over, I enter the back door to the bakery with a groan, tired and wishing I had slept in and seen my husband when he wakes in oh, four more hours.
When my purse lunges into the cubbyhole of a locker, it hits the back with a bleak thud. My fingers shut the door with such aloofness it gently reverberates and drifts back before my hand begrudgingly slams it shut. With a muffled whine, I shuffle toward the kitchen. A small fire emitting from the decorating bench causes me to shriek. The lit tapered candle reminds me of a tiny funeral pyre. Slowly it rises to Donovan’s face as he sings “Happy Birthday” so off-key it makes me shudder.
Flipping on the overhead lights, the room turns a glow at the sight of Donovan sitting on the baker’s table in his suit, tie off, top buttons undone, and surrounded by graduated pans that he has set upside down to form half a dozen metallic tier cakes. Each one has vibrant red, orange, and yellow Gerbera daisies tossed onto it, making the display all the more garish. Next to him resides a bouquet of white roses.
I advance toward his mirthful grin in amazement. “You scared me so much you damn near killed me.” Suddenly the hamster that runs the wheel in my brain concedes to exhaustion. “Wait, my birthday was two months ago. Do I need to call Dr. Coe and tell him
I place two samplers in front of Christopher and Anna, including two-percent, whole milk, cream, and impromptu half and half. Plopping down at the table, I point to their whole milk. “Start with this, then grab any other glass and tell me the difference.” Anna takes tiny sips, then reorders the glasses according to fat content. Christopher appears lost, peering at Anna’s glasses and seeking a pattern. “Stop cheating!” I accuse before turning to Anna. “Well?”
She slips her hands into her lap. “I wouldn’t know exactly what they were off the bat, but I ordered them according to richness. Did I get it right?” she asks, as if she will win my approval for existing if correct.
“Perfectly.” I try not to address Christopher like he’s a small child. “Can you label them according to fat content like Anna did?”
He looks so lost I want to curl him in my arms and tell him how much I love him despite his obvious fault. “Oh, you’re just trying to wind me up,” he rants. “You should be bloody ashamed, putting me under the cosh like this!”
“Really, Christopher? Your seven-year-old son could do better,” Donovan playfully scorns as the doorbell rings. “Graham! Would you come here please?”
“Oh, come off it,” Christopher complains. “The guys are arriving now.”
Of course they are. Yet another rehearsal. Heaven forbid that I get a night with my husband. “Not our problem!” I say, heading for the door. Donovan reorders Christopher’s glasses accurately by sight, then smugly clears his throat. Christopher’s head meets his hands in defeat.
Anna practically drags Donovan toward the door as I open it to Fred and Dennis asking, “Hey guys. Want to try some Lavender-Lemon Mousse Cake?”
“Careful, it’s a trap!” Christopher yells.
Mike brings up the rear as Donovan and Anna slip out with Sunshine. Anna flinches as Mike brushes past, barely skimming her arm. Donovan stops and shoots him a look implying he knows Mike’s ways all too well.
“Hey,” Mike nods to Donovan.
“Hey, yourself,” Donovan condescends while throwing an arm around Anna. His eyes turn to me, penetrating my thoughts. Lily, stay away from this guy .
Clearly it’s not only me who feels Mike’s slither.
Chapter 8
Ambition is a word known by those who have not had too many early mornings and too many late nights dozing off before their husband is home from his new rehearsal space that practically resides in the next county. Unaffected by the double espresso guzzled on the drive over, I enter the back door to the bakery with a groan, tired and wishing I had slept in and seen my husband when he wakes in oh, four more hours.
When my purse lunges into the cubbyhole of a locker, it hits the back with a bleak thud. My fingers shut the door with such aloofness it gently reverberates and drifts back before my hand begrudgingly slams it shut. With a muffled whine, I shuffle toward the kitchen. A small fire emitting from the decorating bench causes me to shriek. The lit tapered candle reminds me of a tiny funeral pyre. Slowly it rises to Donovan’s face as he sings “Happy Birthday” so off-key it makes me shudder.
Flipping on the overhead lights, the room turns a glow at the sight of Donovan sitting on the baker’s table in his suit, tie off, top buttons undone, and surrounded by graduated pans that he has set upside down to form half a dozen metallic tier cakes. Each one has vibrant red, orange, and yellow Gerbera daisies tossed onto it, making the display all the more garish. Next to him resides a bouquet of white roses.
I advance toward his mirthful grin in amazement. “You scared me so much you damn near killed me.” Suddenly the hamster that runs the wheel in my brain concedes to exhaustion. “Wait, my birthday was two months ago. Do I need to call Dr. Coe and tell him
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