it was. A taco of sorts. She’d been mentally playing with the idea of combining Mexican and Indian cuisine. Many of the spices were rooted in the same plants.
Jenna grinned. Rooted in the same plants. That was funny. Then her smile faded as she turned her attention back to the food she’d made.
She was nervous about tasting it. Experimenting used to be so easy, so joyful. Now it terrified her. Worse, it made her feel sick inside, as if something that had once been a part of her was now lost. She ached to be who she’d been before and didn’t want to admit that woman was probably gone forever.
After squaring her shoulders, she picked up the taco and took a bite. The unusual blending of spices didn’t sit well on her tongue. She found herself unable to chew, let alone swallow. She spit the meat into the sink and flushed it down with water. After running the garbage disposal, she threw out the rest of the taco.
When the tears came, she ignored them.
“I’m worried,” Beth said as she stacked rinsed dishes on the counter. “Jenna doesn’t know anything about making a store work. She doesn’t even like shopping, unless it’s for knives. Then she could spend hours. But this is different. This is working with the public.”
“She’s a smart girl,” Marshall said as he loaded the dishwasher. “Give her a chance. She’ll figure it out.”
“She doesn’t have much time to make it work. All her money is tied up in that place. Her savings and her half of what she and Aaron got for that sad little house they owned. If the city hadn’t wanted to buy it and tear it down for that road, she would have had even less. You should have seen the inventory in her store. Thousands of dollars’ worth of kitchen equipment.”
Her husband glanced at her. “Did you want her to start a business without something to sell?”
“Don’t be logical. You know how I hate that.” Beth sighed, wishing she could learn how to let go. But when it came to anyone she cared about, she couldn’t help worrying. Obsessing, Marshall would say.
“She knows what she’s doing,” Marshall told her.
“I’m not so sure. She’s a chef. She should be cooking. She understands that world. I wish I knew what really happened with Aaron.”
“Do you think there’s more than she’s telling us? Isn’t Aaron cheating on her enough?”
“It is,” she admitted, although her mother’s instinct told her there was more to the story than Jenna had admitted. Something was different with her daughter. Not just the expected sadness and hurt from the breakup of a marriage. It was bigger than that.
“Jenna will figure out her store. Didn’t she hire someone?”
“Violet. She’s wonderful. Pretty. Black hair and dark eyeliner. I’m sure she has tattoos.” Beth thought of the other woman’s stacked bracelets and her three silver hoops in each ear and wished she had the courage to be unconventional.
“Does Violet have retail experience?”
“Yes. Several years of it.”
“Then she’ll help Jenna.”
The statement drew Beth back to the subject at hand. Her chest tightened a little. “What if it’s not enough? I understand that Jenna needs to regroup. She has to think and come up with a plan for the rest of her life, but opening a store? I don’t think that was smart.”
She finished rinsing the last two pots. Marshall fitted them into the dishwasher. She handed over the soap. He filled the cup, then closed the dishwasher and started it.
The end-of-dinner ritual had been the same for years. When Jenna had still been in the house, the three of them had cleaned the kitchen together. It had been a time of conversation and laughter.
“If she fails at this, too, she’ll be crushed,” Beth whispered, aching for her only child.
“You need to let it go, Beth. You can’t protect her from everything. Jenna’s a smart girl.”
“Worry’s my thing.”
He moved toward her and slid his arms around her waist. “I’ll admit you’ve turned it into an art form. Now you need to practice letting go.”
She rested her hands on his shoulders and stared into his dark eyes. Even after all these years, being close to him made her breath catch.
“I can’t help it. I love her.”
“If you love something, set it free,” he began.
She laughed. “Don’t you start with me.”
“Why not? I plan to finish with you.”
He bent his head and kissed her.
Jenna stood in the center of her store and listened to the sound of silence.
Upbeat background music—something perky and Italian—played through speakers, but there wasn’t any conversation. No talking at all. Probably because to have the spoken word required people. AKA customers. And there weren’t any.
It was eleven-fifteen on her first morning. She’d been open for seventy-five minutes and not a single person had walked through her sparkling clean glass doors.
Less than two weeks ago she’d stood in her parking lot and had watched as her sign had been lowered into place. She’d filled every shelf, figured out how to work the cash register, had talked to an accountant about keeping track of the sales. A problem she didn’t currently have.
Happy Birthday to me, she thought sadly as she adjusted her white chef’s coat. And hey, now she was thirty-two. This wasn’t exactly how she wanted to spend her birthday. Talk about a disaster.
She’d been so sure that people would come. That they would be enticed by the pretty store window displays and the promise of great kitchen supplies. Over the past week Violet had casually mentioned taking out an ad in the local paper or getting a flyer into some kind of mailer. But Jenna had blithely refused. Because she’d been so damn sure.
She had the sudden need to bake. To sink her fingers into warm dough, to smell yeast and create crusty rolls slathered with sweet butter. Or maybe a tart. Quiche with a flaky crust and filling of eggs, cheese and garlic and nuts.
Or a brisket. She was back in Texas now. Something falling-apart tender with tang and spice. Grilled potatoes that tasted like heaven. She had an idea for using …
She shook her head, dislodging the wishful thinking. She didn’t do that anymore. She cooked, she didn’t create. Hadn’t she already proved that to herself?
Behind her she heard Violet carefully rearranging shelves in an effort to keep busy. Jenna had to give the other woman points—so far she hadn’t even hinted she wanted to shout, “I told you so.” This despite the fact that Violet had been pushing for some serious advertising.
Fear tasted metallic on her tongue. Every single penny she had was tied up in this store. She had a three-year lease and her landlord expected monthly payments, regardless of her failure as a businesswoman.
She
