Page 57 of A Tempting Seduction
After Zoe left, the apartment felt too quiet. I needed to get out, to do something productive that didn't involve analyzing every moment of last night.
I gathered my mother's journals and the old recipe box I'd promised to share with Miss Gladiola and Little Grandma, then drove across town to their yellow house with its explosion of flowers.
Little Grandma opened the door before I could knock, her blue eyes bright with curiosity.
“Ruby, dear! Perfect timing. We just put the kettle on.”
Miss Gladiola appeared behind her sister, practically vibrating with excitement. “Did you bring Edith's journals?”
I held up the box and small stack of leather-bound books. “Everything I have.”
They ushered me into the living room with the efficiency of women who'd been entertaining guests for nearly a century. Within minutes, I had a cup of tea in my hands and Miss Gladiola was already reaching for the journals.
“How was your dinner with Ford?” Little Grandma asked, settling into her chair with obvious anticipation.
I felt heat creep up my neck. “It went well.”
“That's it?” Miss Gladiola looked up from the journal she'd been examining. “Just, it went well? We want details, Ruby. Did he like the food? Did he like your dress? Did he kiss you goodnight?”
“He said he liked my dress,” I said, unable to suppress my smile at the memory. “And yes, he loved the food. Especially the tres leches cake.”
“And?” Little Grandma prompted.
“And we talked. Really talked. I told him some things about my past that I've never told anyone here.”
Both women's expressions grew serious, understanding the weight of that admission.
“That's a big step, dear,” Miss Gladiola said gently. “Trusting someone with your truth.”
“It felt good,” I admitted. “Scary, but good. Like maybe I don't have to carry everything alone anymore.”
“That's what love is supposed to feel like,” Little Grandma said. “Sharing the weight instead of doubling it.”
I nearly choked on my tea. “It's not love. We've only been on a few dates.”
“Time doesn't matter when it's real,” Miss Gladiola said with the certainty of someone who'd watched love bloom for over eighty years. “Sometimes you just know.”
Before I could protest further, Miss Gladiola gasped as she opened the old recipe box I'd brought. The wooden box was held together with rubber bands that had probably been used for decades. The top was carved with delicate flowers, and despite its age, the craftsmanship was beautiful.
“I remember these boxes,” Miss Gladiola breathed. “My mother had one just like it. Where did Edith get it?”
“I don't know,” I said. “I found it with her journals after she died.”
“Maybe it’s the same one,” Miss Gladiola said, as she lifted the lid, one of the rubber bands snapped with a sharp ping. Recipe cards scattered across the coffee table like oversized confetti, some typed on index cards, others handwritten on scraps of paper, still others cut out from magazines.
“Oh no,” I said, reaching for the scattered recipes. “I'm so sorry.”
“Don't be,” Little Grandma said, gathering up cards and paper with obvious delight. “Look at all these treasures.”
Miss Gladiola picked up a yellowed card covered in faded blue ink. “Gladiola's Pound Cake,” she read aloud. “Oh, my goodness, this is my mother's recipe. I haven't made this in sixty years.”
“DuBois Family Cornbread,” Little Grandma read from another card. “Ruby, these are family recipes going back generations.”
I picked up a card written in my mother's handwriting. “Sunday Chicken with herbs and lemon,” I read. “She made this every week when I was little.”
For the next hour, we sorted through dozens of recipes, reading ingredients aloud and sharing memories they triggered. Miss Gladiola found her grandmother's Christmas cookie recipe. Little Grandma discovered a cake that had been served at her own wedding reception over seventy-five years ago.
“We should cook together,” Miss Gladiola said suddenly, holding up a card for something called Miller Family Jambalaya. “Make some of these old recipes and see how they turn out.”
