In Your Dreams — Chapter no 16

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

James

Madison seems surprised when I stop at the gas station, fill up the truck, and come back out from paying with a sleeve of powdered sugar donuts.

Her eyes light up when I hand them to her, and she dives into them as soon as we hit the road (her seatbelt on). We drive in silence for a while, the only sound coming from the road and the crinkling donut package.

She makes all these little noises while she eats that feel so cliché for a chef, making me laugh. It gets her attention and, with a mouth lightly dusted with sugar, she looks down at her last mini donut and is so comically torn before tipping it in my direction, offering it to me. I know she doesn’t want to share that donut, I can see it in her greedy brown eyes, so I make a big show of contemplating taking it. Finally, I shake my head and tell her I’m not hungry. She’s relieved and tosses the donut into her mouth as fast as she can before I can reconsider.

We roll into town and park out front of the Market.

“Harriet?” I call out after we enter because I don’t see her, but she’s always here on restock days.

“Harrrrietttt!” Madison trills in a high-pitched tone. “We know you’re in here! Show yourself!”

“Quit hollering. I’m over here,” she says from behind a window display where she’s seemingly materialized. Madison and I both startle.

“Holy shit, Harriet. Where did you come from?” Madison is clutching her chest.

Harriet, who is holding binoculars (I knew I had lent mine to someone) aimed out the window, turns her frown to Madison. “Watch your language.”

“Oh, damn. Sorry.” She winces, realizing she cursed again. “Shit.”

Another wince. “Dammit!” She slaps her hand over her mouth and then spins quickly and plants her face directly into my chest.

“Young lady!” Harriet reprimands.

I’m stunned at the feel of her so easily pressing into my chest, but I rally quickly and wrap my hand around the back of her head, shielding her from Harriet. “Just give her a second. Her filter fell off and she’s gotta adjust it back into place.” I feel Madison’s laugh, followed by her big brown eyes looking up at me, chin resting on my chest. I want to kiss her forehead.

Something I might never be able to do.

As far back as I can remember, Harriet and Madison have been oil and water. Where one is draped in shades of beige and gray, the other is wearing a baggy tie-dye tee with a daisy flower illustration over each boob.

Madison clears her throat and peels away to face Harriet again. “What are you doing back there?”

“Nothing.” Using the little table in her shop window for support, Harriet stands. She smooths her hands down the front of her skirt, giving us a look like we were the ones doing something suspicious.

I’d let it go and get back to work, but Madison could never. “Bullshhhh —crap.” She closes the space between herself and Harriet. “It’s beyond clear that you’re up to no good.”

Harriet’s nose lifts into the air. “The Lord is nothing but good, and I am always praising him, therefore I can’t be up to anything besides goodness.”

“It’s too early for riddles, Harriet. Let me see the binoculars.”

“Sure.” She hands them over gracefully and steps aside. “I love to bird watch. It’s soul-filling. You should try it, Madison. I think your soul could use some tending.”

“Uh-huh, step aside.” Madison squats where Harriet was just sitting, aims the binoculars in the same direction. A moment later, a slow smile curls her mouth. “Why, Harriet—” She lowers the binoculars. “The bird you were watching didn’t happen to be sitting on the front porch of the inn where Mabel is rocking in her chair, would it?”

“As a matter of fact, it was.” She goes behind the counter and starts tidying an invisible mess.

Madison follows and drapes herself lazily over the counter. “Oh come on, Harriet! Admit it. You want to be friends with Mabel.”

“Bite your tongue. I could never be friends with that brash woman.”

“You miss her when you two go too long without squabbling. In a twisted hate-to-love way, Mabel is your friend.” Only Madison would have the guts to say all of this to Harriet. Even Emily wouldn’t chance it. She finds the line no one will cross and then steamrolls over it. “Or! Maybe you want to be even more than friends with Mabel.”

“Okay, now that is quite enough. James, please unload the stock and go about your day so you can take this one with you.”

“Actually, Harriet, I think she’s right,” I say, earning an appraising look from Madison over her shoulder that has heat curling around my spine.

She’s delighted I’m backing her up. We’re on the same side finally, and it feels right. Not to mention, this might be the answer to my worries about Mabel. This potential friendship has been right in front of my nose the whole time and I never saw it. “If you and Mabel would stop picking at each other over every damn thing, I bet you’d have a lot in common.”

Madison straightens up and faces me with a grin. “They could be best

friends and start a book club.”

“Get matching tramp stamp tattoos.”

“Tramp what?” Harriet asks but we’re too locked into each other to pay her attention now.

Madison’s eyes sparkle. “Tattoos of each other’s names.”

“And they could go to a Price Is Right taping together.”

She covers her heart. “And they’d make bedazzled T-shirts that say I’M WITH TROUBLE, so they’d definitely get selected and then win a car.”

“Which they decide to share.”

Harriet waves this time to get our attention. “What’s happening here, anyway? I thought you were going to be the chef of James’s new restaurant —why are you making deliveries?”

Madison leans on the counter again, and I already miss her attention.

“The sun came up and I thought, I bet Harriet has been dying to see me! So I hopped right in James’s truck and here I am. Just for you.” Madison bats her eyes at a stoic Harriet.

“I’d find it more believable if you said you’d already been demoted to a hired hand,” she mumbles, but it’s loud enough for Madison to hear.

Something about those words has me taking a step closer to the counter. I must look ready to argue because Madison’s hand clutches my wrist— chipped pink and yellow nails holding me back.

“No chance,” she says to Harriet. “And I’ll have a table waiting just for you at our opening. Can’t wait to wow you.”

Harriet lifts a mocking brow. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Madison smiles, letting me know she’s fine, before I unload Harriet’s stuff. She grabs some locally made boiled peanuts for the road.

Unfortunately, things don’t improve like I hope at subsequent stops either. Charlie Bristol tells Madison how happy he is to see her back in town, but then laughs when she tells him the reason for her return.

“You?” he says like she’s in on the joke. “The same girl who sold severely underbaked cookies in the senior bake sale and gave us all food

poisoning?”

“I was seventeen!”

He squints. “But wasn’t there another incident while you were teaching over at the elementary school?”

“I don’t think so,” Madison mumbles, then turns sharply to me.

“Anything else in the truck I can grab?”

Charlie claps. “I remember! You nearly burned the damn school down.

Left something in the oven, right? What was it?”

Through her teeth, Madison says, “Banana bread. For the teachers’ luncheon.”

Charlie cackles. “That’s right! School evacuated and the fire department came and all the kids had to go home early. I think every elementary school parent in Rome hated you that day because they all had to call out of work early.”

“Yeah, well, the teachers loved me at least,” she says, but it lacks her usual fire.

We have two more nearly identical stops with people all giving Madison their two cents, and she doesn’t let me intervene either time. Even when one of the guys says he’s glad Madison is back because he always had a good time with her. I wanted to shove the suggestive wink he gave her down his throat.

Somehow, it seems I’m more bothered by everyone’s comments than Madison is. She laughs off every single rude statement and leaves with a different snack. She’s on her fifth one: a little bowl of green beans from the BBQ joint we just left.

She’s over there singing with her hand out the window and hair tangling around her face as we drive to the last stop, and when we pull into the

driveway of the house, I finally give in to the thought that’s been spinning in my head. “Are you not bothered?”

Her short hair sways against her jaw as she turns to me. “About what?”

I let out a mirthless laugh. “About everything those shitheads have said to you all day. Bringing up all that negative stuff from your past?”

She shrugs. “Didn’t bother me.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“You swear on all of your future powdered sugar donuts?”

“James.” Her eyes lock with mine, all jokes gone. Serious Madison has entered the room. “It didn’t bother me because . . . it was all true. But not in a depressing way.” She laughs once. “How do I explain it? I’m . . . home. I thought I was going to thrive in New York because no one would know me there. No one would know that I was Madison Walker, the girl whose parents died when she was eight. And it’s true, I got to be whoever I wanted to be in the city. But all I found was my heart doesn’t like being surrounded by strangers.

“I didn’t have anyone that understood why I couldn’t get out of bed on my dad’s birthday. No one to get why I’d hunt down every slice of pie in the city, only to cringe because none of them tasted like they came from the Pie Shop.” She smiles, but it’s sad. “These people know me. They’ve seen me in my happiest and worst moments—and I know they’ll still show up in droves to support me at the opening. They’re family. And family roasts family. Plus . . . I guess, I’m excited to show them I can succeed at something too. Because I’m determined to this time.” She pauses. “If I can get my mojo back.”

I stare at her through heavy brows for another minute—looking for any cracks forming under the surface. But I don’t see any. I think she’s telling

the truth.

“All right. I guess I believe you.”

She eyes me, head tilting at whatever she finds in my expression this time. “You’re upset though? Like really upset about it?”

I don’t bother hiding it. “Yeah, I’m upset. They should have talked to you with more respect. I didn’t like it at all. And I think it’s okay to tolerate some good-natured roasting, but only to a certain point. They each crossed over that point today.”

She’s smiling timidly at me. Something soft and secret transpiring between us that I don’t think we’ll ever acknowledge out loud. “Thank you for that. I’m not sure that anyone’s ever thought I was deserving of respect

to that extent before.”

And that kills me.

This is the last stop for the day, and it’s a house I keep on the route because it’s been in our family for generations. I bring them a box of produce, and they never pay—because we’ve never asked them to. I’m not even sure how it started. All I know is that my dad has always referred to them as Mamaw and Papaw even though they are not our blood relations. They’re just a sweet couple, Della and Victor, who have lived in this house for most of their long, happy marriage.

Like my dad always did, I set aside a box of the best produce for them and take it by during deliveries. In return, they have a cup of coffee and a slice of cake waiting for me. And today, Mrs. Della looks a little too happy to be pouring Madison a cup alongside mine.

“It’s good you finally found yourself a good lady, James. I worry about you being alone so much,” says Della, her tremor a little more prevalent

today as she pours coffee into my mug.

“Oh, she’s not—”

Madison places her hand over mine and smiles. “Well, Mrs. Della, James is definitely not alone anymore. And since I’m a chef, you can rest assured he’ll always be well fed.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” she says with a happy wink.

When Della turns to slice off a piece of butter cake for us to have with our coffee, Madison leans in close. “A mamaw should never have to worry about anyone,” she whispers in my ear, her breath slipping over my skin in a way I’ve only dreamt of until now.

Guilt creeps over me for how good it feels to hold her hand while she tells Della all the happy parts of culinary school. To run my thumb across the back of her knuckles and pretend for these short twenty minutes that she’s mine. I wonder if I can milk this and lean across the table and kiss her? Take her to the bathroom and trace her neck with my tongue. Carry her to my truck and lay her down on the bench seat.

Instead, I finish my coffee and cake and try not to stare at Madison too much as she talks, and then when I lose that effort, I kick myself outside to

bring in the crate of produce.

Per usual, Victor’s out cold in his recliner, hat perched on his head— even the screen door slamming didn’t wake him.

“All right, Mrs. Della. I’ve got some extra-special goods for you today,”

I say, setting the crate on the countertop.

“Oh, you’re not kidding. These are some good-looking tomatoes.” Della turns each one over, inspecting their color. “I’ve been waiting on some like this for months now. What’d you do to them this time?”

“Sang them a song and tucked them in every night.”

She beams. “Told ya that would work.”

Madison is curious now and hovers closer until she can peek over my shoulder. She smells like coffee and sugar. “Wow. These do look good.” She picks one up, turning it over a few times in her hand. “The last chef I worked for used to make this really incredible roasted garlic and root veggie pasta sauce. If he saw these, he would have offered up his children in exchange for them.”

I want to ask her if this was the chef who hurt her, and then offer to end his life instead of giving him good produce.

Della polishes one of the tomatoes on the apron she always wears around her waist. “Leave it to a chef to try to think of the most difficult and time-consuming thing I could make with an ingredient. But I don’t waste my time with all that fuss when I have a piece of produce as good as this one.”

“What would you make with it instead?” Madison asks, and I can see the spark in her eyes. The intrigue and ideas running rampant behind her smile. She loves food. She loves talking about food. This is Madison’s Disney World.

“Better yet, I’ll show you. Excuse me,” Della says, moving into Madison’s space so she’s forced to back up against me. Instinct has me wrapping my hand around her abdomen and hugging her to me before I can even process what I’m doing. Madison’s sharp inhale, however, alerts me to the fact that my hand is splayed across her stomach.

I start to slide it away, but her hand jumps to mine, intertwining our fingers and holding me there. To keep up the act, I tell myself. She just wants us to seem natural.

So we stay like this, Madison’s breath coming faster and faster and my heart pounding against her shoulder blades as Della turns back to the

cutting board, pulls down two slices of fresh white bread. She slices the tomato into delicate little slices and lays them on one side of the bread before slathering mayo on the other. Salt and pepper get sprinkled over top, after which the sandwich is cut into two and wrapped in a paper towel. She hands one to both of us, forcing me to let go of Madison. For this reason only, I hate these sandwiches.

“This is my favorite thing to make with a nice juicy tomato,” says Della.

“Take this with you for when you get hungry later. Tell me how you liked it next time you come to visit.” She levels Madison with a look. “And I do expect you to come back and visit.”

Madison wraps Della in a big hug like she’s known her her entire life.

“Don’t worry. I’m like a stray cat. If you feed me, you won’t be able to get rid of me.”

A few minutes later, we both climb into the truck, and Madison is acting so normal that I wonder if the reaction I sensed back there was all in my head. Maybe it was only wishful thinking that she was breathing so heavy.

I’ve got to stop doing that.

“I mean this in the best possible way, but how do you have more room in your stomach for any of that?” I ask Madison, who has left with not only her sandwich but also a slice of Della’s cornbread and a piece of butter cake for later.

“Room has nothing to do with it. With enough determination, though, you too can fit an army’s worth of food in your stomach.” She bites into her sandwich, and the moan she lets out is almost enough to make me crash.

“God, Madison,” I say, even though I probably should let it go. But I can’t. I’m on edge. I should never have touched her. Everything she does is turning me on.

“Sorry,” she says around her bite, dropping her head back against the seat. “But this is just so damn good! It’s actually filling me with dish ideas.”

Her head pops back up, eyes round. “Wait! This is why you had me come along today, isn’t it? You knew this would happen.”

I only grin at the road in answer.

“How?!”

“You always seemed happiest making food that was inspired by what we ate growing up. I figured if you weren’t feeling inspired in New York, maybe you just needed to have some of the best home-cooked food I could find. And Della . . . somehow everything she makes is magic.”

“How did you know I’ve always been most inspired by what we ate growing up?”

“Because you talk a lot,” I say, trying to deflect with a joke. But she’s

not having it.

“And you listen a lot.”

“Yeah. I guess so.” I glance at her and she’s staring at me.

So many times over the last year I’ve wished she would look at me like that—really look at me. But now, I wish she’d look away. I’m afraid she’s going to see too much.

“Hey,” she says, still not looking away. “How come you never date?”

I turn left onto Huxley Road, the longest road in Rome, Kentucky. It not only winds past the farm but carries travelers through town and all the way to the interstate. “What makes you think I don’t date?”

“Della said she worries about you.”

I laugh. “Well, no offense to Della, but I’m not usually taking my dates with me to her house.”

“Oh, right. Duh.” She laughs and then goes oddly quiet, turning to look out the window.

“I’ve dated.” For some reason, it’s important to me that she know this.

Important to admit it to myself, I think.

“Anyone I know?” she asks.

“Actually, yeah. Jeanine and I dated for a while.”

Madison’s feet, which were up on the dash, slam to the floor. “You . . . you and Jeanine. We’re thinking of the same one? Red hair, worked at the Diner, but now is manager of the Pie Shop? Has a little boy?”

“That’s the one.”

“Oh my god. Are you still together?”

“No.” Because she isn’t you.

“No,” she repeats softly, and if I didn’t know better I’d think she sounds relieved. “How long did you date?”

I tip my head in thought. “Four months.”

Madison suddenly clutches her throat like she’s choking. “Four months,” she wheezes.

I’m glancing between her and the road. “What the hell is your problem?

You think I’m that undatable?”

“No. I’m just—” She stops herself and swallows what she was going to say. “I’m struggling to picture you dating anyone.” She casts her distant

gaze out the front windshield. “James being a boyfriend. James walking up to a front door. James picking someone up. Picking Jeanine up. James

kissing Jeanine goodnight. James—”

“Okay, conversation over.”

“Holy crap, you had sex with her, didn’t you?” She chokes more.

“I’m going to pull over and push you out now.”

“You were naked with Jeanine!”

“Better yet, give me your cornbread. I’m eating it all and leaving you none.”

This gets her attention. She clutches the wedge to her chest. “I’ll be

good.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Madison is quiet again for all of two minutes, and I know her head is still stuck on me and Jeanine. “I’m sorry, I just . . . I’m trying to picture you

having sex.”

“I’d rather you not.”

She tugs her lips from one corner to the other in thought. “I had a dream we kissed the other night.”

My elbow slips off the door ledge where it was resting. I want to ask her roughly a million follow-up questions. “You did?”

“Yeah.” She laughs. “It was chaste. It took place in Hank’s bar. And then . . .” She trails off, apparently deciding against continuing. “Never mind.”

“Uh, no. You have to finish that sentence now.”

“You’re gonna get weird about it.”

“I swear I won’t.”

“Okay . . .” She winces preemptively. “I asked you to take me back to your house so we could—you know—and you said no because you were too shy. And then I woke up.”

I am silent. Dead silent. And then I pull over on the side of the road, park, leave the key in the ignition, and jump out. The door is yawning open behind me as I hike to somewhere. Anywhere.

Madison is out and behind me in a flash, laughing her ass off. “You said

you weren’t going to be weird!”

“I lied.”

Her hand wraps around my elbow and tugs me to a stop. “James! Stop!

It’s not a big deal.” She’s still laughing so hard as I spin to look at her.

“No big deal? I just found out your subconscious thinks I’m too shy to have sex. That’s appalling.”

“It’s probably because I’ve never thought about . . . you . . . like that.”

Her voice jumps an octave. “I’ve never considered what you’d be like in bed, so I guess my brain just filled in a blank to wrap up the dream.” She shifts on her feet, hand falling away, eyes scanning the cornfield like she’s hoping to find an escape hatch hidden in the stalks.

“I mean, we’re friend-friends, right? So why would I know what you’re like—or what you like—in bed?”

But the second she says it, her gaze flicks away and her lips press tight.

I’ve seen that look a hundred times. It’s the one she makes when she’s trying to hold the truth inside her mouth.

And just like that, I know she’s lying.

She’s thought about it and is trying to pretend she hasn’t.

I should let it go. Climb back in the truck and pretend none of this happened.

But something is shifting between us. I’m almost sure it’s not all in my

head anymore.

I want to chase it.

“Friend-friends or not, I know you well, Madison. I know exactly what you’d like in bed. And believe me . . .” I tip a little closer. “I would not be shy about giving you what you wanted.”

She sucks in a breath. So I give in, just a little, to what my body is screaming for.

I press a kiss to her temple, letting it linger only long enough to cross the

line from friendly to something else.

“Good to know,” she whispers.

A truck roars past, shaking the ground beneath us, reminding me that

real life still exists.

“We should get going.”

“Yeah . . .”

We don’t talk on the drive home. Alan Jackson fills the silence and we pretend the air between us isn’t charged.

But my mouth tingles the whole way.