Recipe for Romance

Chapter 1-1

Chapter 1

“Abby, hurry up! Breakfast is almost ready!”

Preston Pruitt turned away from the hot stove as he hollered for his daughter, then turned back to flip over the small, four-inch round pancakes sizzling in the frying pan. He was careful not to break any—Abby didn’t like it when the pancakes fell apart, no matter how many times he pointed out they still tasted the same.

Aesthetics meant everything to his precocious eight-year-old daughter, which was part of the reason why she took so long getting ready in the morning. Or, at least, why her breakfast took so long for him to get just right. None of the patrons at the River City Restaurant where he worked every day complained about his cooking half as much as Abby did when it came to what went on her plate.

First, the pancakes had to be the right golden shade—not too raw, and not too burnt. Then the syrup had to be the right consistency—not too runny, not too thick. On top of the pancakes, the butter had to be melted enough to puddle but still hold its pat-like shape. Getting everything just right and on the table in front of her was a carefully coordinated balancing act Preston went through every morning before he had to take her to school.

And if she didn’t come downstairs right this second, the whole production would tumble down around him like a falling house of cards.

“Abigail Louise!” he yelled, putting a little steel into his voice to show he meant business. “Right this minute!”

Finally, she answered. “Coming!”

There was enough attitude in the word to tell him he might not want her to come down after all. At least he only had to put up with it for another forty-five minutes or so, long enough to get her to school. After that, she would be someone else’s problem for the next six hours, more than enough time for her mood to improve.

Heavy footsteps clomped down the steps. He almost called out a reminder for her not to run, but thought better of it. Scooping the pancakes out of the pan, he stacked them on her plate the way she liked, then added a pat of butter in between each to make sure they were buttery. The pat on top was extra thick so it wouldn’t melt too soon. The syrup went into the microwave for ten seconds to warm up—he couldn’t pour it on for her; she liked to do that herself.

When he heard her come into the dining room, he called, “Come get your drink, honey.”

“Daddy!” she shrieked.

He jumped. God, everything was so life and death with her! Had he been so dramatic at her age? “Abby, please. Is that necessary?”

Apparently she thought so. “Daddy!” she cried again.

There were real tears in her voice, and the sound scared him into hurrying to the doorway to see what was the matter. She stood by the end of the dining room table, half-dressed in jeans and her nightgown. She had one sock on, and her other foot was bare. But her hair was the worst—it was a rat’s nest of blond tangles, with a comb stuck halfway down its length.

Preston struggled not to grin. Trying to sound composed, he asked, “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

Abby tugged at the comb. “Get it out! Get it out now!”

“Okay, don’t pull on it.” He caught her hand before she could do any more damage and deftly plucked out the comb. “Come on, honey. Sit down, your breakfast is ready.”

But Abby didn’t want to eat; she wanted her hair combed, and now. “Fix it.” When Preston didn’t immediately do so, she stomped her bare foot. “Daddy! Fix it!”

“Eat first,” he told her, tucking the comb into his back pocket. Hopefully not being able to see it would help her to forget about it. “Have a seat and I’ll get your pancakes. Then I’ll comb your hair, okay? Or hey, I’ll comb it while you eat, how’s that sound?”

He pulled out the chair to the left of the head of the table, the one designated as “her seat.” She looked at it dubiously, then leaned back to try and see his pocket. He moved to one side, blocking her view. With a sigh, she sat down. “Pancakes?” she asked, as if she didn’t have them every morning. “Are they blueberry?”

“Is there any other kind?” he asked.

Before she could answer, he hurried into the kitchen to retrieve her food. The microwave had gone off while he was in the other room, but now it beeped again as he entered, reminding him he had something inside. He set it for another five seconds to heat the syrup up again, replaced the melted pat of butter with a fresh one, then carried the plate and a fork into the dining room. Abby had pulled her chair up to the table; now she sat back as he set the plate down in front of her. “Yum!” she said, dipping her finger into the butter.

“Let me get you a drink,” Preston said.

“And the syrup!” Abby reminded him brightly, her earlier near-tantrum already forgotten.

Preston tousled her hair. “Coming right up, m’lady.”

She giggled as she licked the butter off her finger.

Back in the kitchen, Preston got the syrup out of the microwave and a small box of apple juice out of the fridge. Both went on the table in front of Abby’s plate. As she set about getting herself ready to eat, he pulled the comb from his back pocket and tackled the tangles in her hair.

She had a system to her breakfast, one Preston had to admit he didn’t understand. If anything disrupted her before she was finished setting things up just right, she’d get upset, sometimes so much so that she wouldn’t be able to eat. First the napkin had to be unfolded onto her lap. Next, the butter had to be spread across the entire top of the pancake—if the pat was too thin or the pancake too large, and the butter didn’t cover the whole thing, she wouldn’t eat it. Adding more butter didn’t fix the problem.

Then she cut the pancakes into quarters with the side of the fork. In half once, turn the plate, then in half again. Next came the syrup, which was poured on until it covered the entire plate up to the thin blue line that ran around the inside of the base. No more, no less. Every drop would be sopped up with the pancakes until nothing remained by the time she finished eating.

Only after she ate everything on her plate would Abby pull off the plastic straw on the side of her apple juice box, unwrap it, and poke it into the box to drink. All the food was consumed first, then every sip of her drink. The two chewable vitamins beside her plate were the last thing she ate. She went through the same routine every morning, without fail. Not even Saturday cartoons could distract her or disrupt her rhythm.

Now she concentrated on her pancakes as Preston combed her hair. For once her single-minded focus was a good thing, because she was too busy to pay him any attention. He worked through the knots as gently as he could, careful not to tug too hard, and by the time she got to her drink, he’d reached the scraggly ends of her long hair. They were splitting a little; time for a trim. Which would involve an argument of epic proportions, he was sure. Abby was currently in a princess phase where she had to have long hair like all the Disney princesses, and she didn’t believe him when he tried to explain that trimming an inch off the bottom would help the rest grow longer.

Maybe it’d look better up. At least then it wouldn’t be hanging in everything or get tangled up so badly throughout the day. But when he gathered her hair up to pull it back into a braid, she shook it free. “No, I want it loose,” she told him.

“Honey, it looks so nice pulled back,” he argued. “It’ll be out of your face—”

“I want to wear it loose,” she said again. Then, to clarify, she added, “Long and flowing, like a fairy.”

So today it was fairies, no princesses. It’ll be a tangled mess again by the time you get to school, Preston thought. Out loud, he only asked, “Don’t you want it off your neck?”

Running her hand under her hair to pull it over one shoulder, Abby shook her head. “I want to look like a fairy for my pictures.”

Preston had been chasing after her hair with the comb; now he stopped, surprised. Was she talking about school pictures? “Wait, is that today?”

“I gave you the paper to sign last week, remember?” She leaned back and looked up at him, bumping her head against the back of her chair. “You said I could buy some of them for my friends. Remember?”

To be honest, he didn’t. She told him so many things in the course of a day that most of them he tuned out or forgot, but he’d never admit that to her, not in a million years. And he could hear her mood beginning to shift again, so he nodded quickly. “No, you can. Of course you can. Go on upstairs now and finish getting dressed, okay? Wear something pretty—”

“Daddy, I’m always pretty,” Abby said. “You told me that.”

With a laugh, Preston hugged her in the chair. “And you are, sweetie. You are.”