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Overview
A year's worth of novellas from twelve inspirational romance authors. Happily ever after guaranteed.
Can a decades-long friendship marred by two romantic missteps ever lead to happily ever after?
Sadie McAllister’s clients know how lucky they are to have her: an ultra-fastidious personal chef who leaves behind a spotless kitchen and a week’s worth of mouth-watering meals.
Erik Davis, her best friend since middle school, is content to enjoy Sadie’s culinary skills too while maintaining their “friends only” status. Most of his energy is focused on his just-launched freelance business and casual dates that never come close to a commitment.
But when Sadie is offered a once-in-a-lifetime cooking job across country, Erik realizes maybe he’s taken his best friend for granted. Even more, he’s about to lose his only chance for lasting love.
How can Erik convince Sadie that the well-known adage “Marry your best friend” just might apply to them? With God’s help, can they both move past their assumptions about each other and their future? Should Sadie and Erik risk taking their relationship to the romantic point of no return? If they do, their decades-long friendship is as a good as done . . . unless it ends at the altar.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780310339182 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Zondervan |
| Publication date: | 10/28/2014 |
| Series: | A Year of Weddings Novella |
| Sold by: | HarperCollins Publishing |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 132 |
| Sales rank: | 891,376 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
| Age Range: | 18 Years |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
A November Bride
A Year of Weddings Novella
By Beth Vogt
ZONDERVAN
Copyright © 2014 Beth VogtAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-310-33918-2
CHAPTER 1
This was Sadie's star moment. The reason she collected recipes and watched cooking shows. Why she made color-coded, computerized grocery lists cross-referenced by availability and quality of items, store locations, and layouts. Spent hours shopping for fresh produce and meats and poultry—and sales, always sales.
At last, it was time for the presentation of the prepared dish.
She turned from the professional-grade oven, heat wafting against her back, dampening the cloth of her white chef jacket. Was it still clean? With a flourish and a well-practiced smile, she held the steaming dish aloft in her gloved hands. Inhaled the aroma of chicken in the bubbling sauce of Italian dressing, and topped with lightly browned, grated Parmesan cheese. At the last second, she remembered to nudge the oven door closed with her shoulder.
Hold the smile. Always hold the smile.
"Oh, this smells delectable."
Ugh. Maybe not the best word. Too late now.
Sadie set the deep red stoneware dish on the waiting trivet, turning it just so, knowing a trusty cameraman would capture just the right angle. "Boneless chicken breasts. Grated cheese. Italian dressing. And, for those of you who are gluten-free, I used a coating of crushed cornflakes instead of bread crumbs."
She stood tall, despite the tightness in the small of her back, recounting the other dishes she'd made that day.
And smile.
"There you have it. A week's worth of dinners: chicken Parmesan, chicken piccata, salmon Sedona cakes served with English muffins, crown rack of lamb, and braised beef short ribs." She resisted the urge to push the bangs back from her face. The focus was on the meals she'd prepared, not her. "On the next segment of Your Personal Chef, I'll share another week's worth of dinners, including—"
When notes from the Peer Gynt Suite No. 1 sounded from her smartphone on the desk in the corner of the kitchen, Sadie closed her eyes, her mouth twisting. "A call? Really? We were almost finished."
Silence—and then her phone sounded again.
"It's a good thing this show is a figment of my imagination, or I'd have blown some network's budget a gazillion times with all my retakes." Sadie tugged off one padded oven mitt with her teeth and tossed it on the counter. Pulled off the other one and laid it next to its partner.
If anyone ever knew she talked to herself—and an invisible audience and production crew—while she cooked for her clients, they'd take away her culinary school diploma and parboil it.
Her phone rang again.
"I'm coming. And you, whoever you are, just ruined my cooking show." Sadie slipped off her navy blue clogs and pulled off her tie-dye bandana. She'd wash her hands and redo her hair before returning to the kitchen.
Wait. She'd set her phone out, hoping to hear from Matt so they could firm up plans for their date tonight. Sure enough, Matt's photo showed on the display.
Sadie – need to cancel.
Again?
Do you have to work late?
Sadie tapped her sock-covered toes against the tile floor as she waited for Matt's reply. So they wouldn't be seeing that new action movie getting all the great write-ups. She could always toss together dinner and take it to him. Pasta was simple. And a Caprese salad ...
Matt's next message interrupted her musing.
Don't know how else to say this. It's been fun. But I'm dating someone else. Met her at work.
Sadie's fingers froze on the keypad. What? Her mind scrolled through the past few weeks. How many times had Matt backed out of their dates? He hadn't been working late. Who knew what he'd been doing?
She didn't want to know. She wasn't naïve—she just didn't want details.
With deliberate precision she erased Matt's last message, ignoring the new ones appearing on her screen. With each ping she hit the red delete button. She didn't want to read his excuse. His apology—if he even offered one.
Delete.
Delete.
With her phone silent, Sadie blinked away the sting at the back of her eyes, rubbing her finger against her left eye. When would she break the nervous habit that had begun in grade school? Some habits you never outgrow ... and some things you learn to ignore or cover up with a fake smile. A glance at the clock showed she didn't have time to indulge in a cry that would redden her nose and turn her face a blotchy mess. The Hartnett children would arrive home from school in a couple of hours—with their too-inquisitive nanny—and she needed to have the chicken Parmesan stored in the fridge and the kitchen immaculate. After that, well, after that, she needed to head home. By herself. Speed-walk to her front door because, with the fall weather lingering in the warmer degrees, kids were bound to be playing in the park across the street from her house.
Why hadn't the Realtor told her before she bought the house that the city planned to put in a playground? Sadie could only hope her neighbors didn't notice her daily ignore-the-park routine. She could handle kids one, maybe two, at a time. But assembled all together on a playground? Of course, the Realtor would have no way of knowing about her memories of elementary school and how some days, just the sight of kids gathered around a swing set or slide reduced Sadie to a grade-schooler again.
Once safe inside, she'd make herself dinner. Ensure the kitchen was spotless. And do her Monday routine. After all, Matt dumping her was no reason to break her now predictable evening. It was beginning to feel as if being dumped by text was a certainty too.
Okay, now she was being pitiful. And she would not let Matt and his dump-by-text reduce her to a pathetic woman.
With silent footsteps, Sadie retreated to the bathroom just off the kitchen, avoiding her reflection in the hammered-copper framed mirror. She finger-brushed her short hair and covered it with the bandana. Then she ran cold water over her hands and pressed her fingers against her eyes, praying away the burn behind her eyelids. Not now. Then she washed her hands, breathing in the scent of pine soap that lingered in the room.
The breakfast meals were labeled and stored: scrambled egg and sausage burritos, pancakes, and an assortment of muffins. The week's dinners were put away, too, except for tonight's spinach salad, which was in the fridge waiting to be served with the chicken Parmesan.
By three o'clock, the last of the dirty dishes were washed and dried, put in their proper places, and she'd left the alphabetical list of meals on the counter, as Mrs. Hartnett preferred. She already had her own copy of the list in her file so she could keep track of what recipes she used that week, and not repeat a meal too soon.
As she slipped out of her chef's jacket, marred with bits of evidence from today's cooking, and put on her navy blue polo shirt, the front door swung open.
"Chef Sadie! Are you still here?" Jill, the Hartnetts' ten-year-old daughter, half-ran from the foyer into the kitchen, her auburn pigtails flying.
"Yes, Jilly, I'm still here." Sadie stepped from the bathroom, stuffed her bandana in her soft-sided satchel, and knelt down as the girl raced for a hug.
"Did you make us dinner?"
"Of course—a whole week's worth. And breakfast too."
"Did you make us anything else?"
Jill's younger brother, Carter, all freckles and missing front teeth, came over and wiggled his way into the hug. "Didja, Chef Sadie?"
"Now, why would I do that?"
"Because you like us—and because you always do."
Sadie stole another double hug, the cool of the Colorado outside still clinging to their faces. "Who told you I liked you?"
"You did!"
"Well then, yes, I left a surprise for you in the cookie jar." She rose to her feet as the children released her and ran to discover their treat.
"They were so excited to come home and see what you'd made for them." The nanny, Miss Marci, hung the children's backpacks in the airlock between the kitchen and the garage.
"And I looked forward to seeing them. I made a double batch of snickerdoodles, and I set aside a few for you."
"The Hartnetts got lucky the day they hired you."
"I love cooking for them. Why work in a restaurant kitchen where I'd rarely meet the people who ate my food? Have a good night, Marci."
Settled in the safety of her Volvo sedan, Sadie leaned back against the seat, her hands gripping the steering wheel, eyes closed. Why didn't she keep a spare set of her glasses with her for when her eyes got tired?
She'd been dumped via text. Again. Was the pounding in her brain caused by a long day on her feet—or by Matt's not working late? She opened her eyes, stared straight ahead, the whispered words slipping past her lips part promise, part prayer. "God, I don't care if I ever date another man—ever, ever, again. And I don't know which aggravates me more: being asked out by text or being dumped by text. Don't men know how to have a real, face-to-face conversation anymore?"
* * *
When Erik closed his eyes, he could imagine he was back in college, facing off against the pitcher of an opposing team.
The second he opened his eyes, he was back in the batting cage. He swung the metal bat back and forth at waist level before positioning it up over his left shoulder. Inhaled the air laden with sweat and the aroma of the prepackaged pizzas they served at the snack bars. Tightened his gloved hands around the handle of the bat, left hand on top of right. Stilled his breathing, shutting out the sounds around him—the mechanical whir and release of pitching machines, the shuffling of the other batters' feet, and the tapping of the bats on the rubber mats.
Concentrate, Davis. Clear the bases.
He'd set the pitching speed for seventy miles per hour. He'd start easy and then ramp up the machine's speed, just like his college coach had taught him. Those years were far back in his mental rearview mirror, but some habits were hard to break—and swinging a bat was still the best way for him to work off tension.
The tink of metal against padded rawhide echoed in the partitioned-off cage surrounded by walls of chain link as the first baseball collided with his bat. Before the first fifteen minutes were up, he'd be sweaty and loose. And maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't be trying to figure out what time it was, wondering if there was a voice mail on his cell phone.
Another swing—but this time he only tipped the ball.
He was either going to get the project or he wasn't. Thanks to a recommendation from a friend who was crazy for outdoor obstacle races and now helped organize Raging Inferno Races, the group had seen Erik's portfolio. His references. All he could do now was wait.
His next hit was an easy out.
Maybe he should remind himself of all the reasons he left his "real job" as an in-house copywriter at an advertising agency to become a full-time freelance writer and editor—swing!—but he'd tossed down fifty bucks to stand in a batting cage to avoid thinking. To avoid his phone.
Was he paying his bills? Yes. Was he picking up new clients every month? Yes. Then what was the big deal about this project?
Who was he kidding? The chance to manage the advertising campaign for a national obstacle-challenge race would put a strong foundation beneath him. The exposure, not to mention the additional steady pay, along with the chance to grow as the organization expanded their races to more cities every year, meant both stability and professional credibility.
So much for not thinking. Still, he didn't go near his phone, tucked in the outer pocket of his backpack, until he'd worked out in the batting cage for half an hour. His long-sleeved T-shirt formed to his chest, damp with sweat, and he wiped at his forehead and beard with the back of his arm.
I trust you with this, God. Really I do. But you know what I'm hoping for: a phone call and a yes.
Less than three minutes—and one brief voice mail and follow-up phone call later—he had his answer. Erik allowed himself a "Yes!" and a fist pump between his sedan and an SUV, stopping at the sound of a kid's laughter. He then stunned the teen boy into silence by handing him twenty bucks. "Have fun at the batting cages."
"Are you kidding me, mister?"
"Nope. Today's a great day for me—and you too."
"Thanks!"
And now, Erik knew of another way he wanted to celebrate. He voice-dialed the necessary number.
"This is Sadie McAllister, your personal chef."
"I'd like to arrange a special dinner for two, please." Erik grinned at his reflection in the SUV's side window even as he tried to sound like a potential client.
"I'm sorry, I don't do private—Erik! Are you pranking me?"
"This is a serious request. I have something worth celebrating."
It took Sadie ten seconds to figure it out. "You got that race account, didn't you?"
"Yes, ma'am, I did!" Tucking his phone between his ear and shoulder, Erik slid into his Subaru, leaving the door open so the cool of the late fall afternoon would pull the stuffiness from the car. "Still need to sign the contract, but I'll do that once they fax it to me tomorrow."
"Then I'm most definitely going to cook you dinner. How about I grill steaks Saturday night?"
Sadie was the only one who grilled steak the way he liked. "Are you sure Matt will give you up for a Saturday? If you already have plans he could join us ... I could bring Lydia ..."
"Funny thing about Matt." It was impossible not to detect the forced cheerfulness in Sadie's voice. "We're not seeing each other anymore."
"But weren't you going out tonight?"
"I really don't want to talk about it." It sounded as if Sadie turned on a hand mixer. "If you want to celebrate with Lydia Saturday—or even bring her—"
"No. No, Saturday's for celebrating with my best friend."
"I'll have a sixteen-ounce New York strip—grilled just the way you like it, topped with caramelized onions. Baked potato. Fresh baked focaccia bread. And for dessert—"
"Surprise me."
"Six o'clock?"
"See you then, Sadie J."
"It's a date. And, Erik?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm proud of you."
Erik tossed the phone on the dash, leaning back in the driver's seat. So, this was what success felt like. Part independence, part self-satisfaction, mixed all together with the challenge of accomplishing the tasks ahead of him. Heady stuff.
He could do this. Stand on his own two feet. Build a stable life for himself—and feel like he was worth celebrating. Prove to his father he was somebody—even if his dad wasn't around to see it.
CHAPTER 2Sadie preferred to cook alone. But today her employer, the usually-at-work-by-now Felicia Cooper, trailed her from refrigerator to stove to sink to countertop and back again, snitching tastes of every dish Sadie had prepared for Felicia and her husband.
She no longer wondered why the Coopers employed a personal chef for just the two of them. The couple could spend their accountant-dentist double income however they wanted—she enjoyed cooking for two adults just as much as she enjoyed cooking for the Hartnetts.
"I'm not really working from home today, you know."
Sadie rearranged the slices of green and red peppers sautéing in the skillet with thin circles of onion, inhaling the distinctive aroma. "Hmm."
"We've been seeing an infertility specialist."
Okay. Sadie hadn't expected her employer to divulge something quite that intimate. Mrs. Cooper was stretching the definition of a personal chef. Sadie lowered the heat and added the strips of seasoned skirt steak. Was she supposed to respond? And say what? I'm sorry? Congratulations?
"The doctor harvested my eggs a month ago. Tomorrow she's going to implant the embryos." Felicia paced the kitchen, nibbling on a sliver of green pepper. "Who knows? We could have triplets! How could I go to work today and crunch numbers with the possibility of triplets in my future?"
"Understandable."
"We've been trying to have a baby for four years." Felicia completed another rapid circuit around the island, causing Sadie to sidestep her on the way to the sink. "I had no idea putting off having a baby until I was thirty-nine was going to complicate my life so much. You're married, right?"
Sadie stilled. Why, oh why, hadn't Mrs. Cooper just gone to work today? "No. Still single."
"But you're not even in your thirties yet." The woman took another slice of pepper from the pile Sadie had set aside for her. "Pete and I didn't even get married until I was thirty-two. And then we wanted to have 'our' time, you know? Now I wish we'd had children right away. Maybe we'd have avoided all this infertility angst."
The mostly one-sided conversation finally ended when Mrs. Cooper gathered up her leather purse and her car keys and decided to go to Starbucks, declaring, "I'll be off caffeine for months if I get pregnant."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from A November Bride by Beth Vogt. Copyright © 2014 Beth Vogt. Excerpted by permission of ZONDERVAN.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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