Happy Ever After

Chapter 2

Alana's first real memory was of Mimi and the smell of apples and cinnamon. She had been three years old. Mimi had set up a pink play set table in the kitchen where Alana would pretend to mix cookie dough with a wooden spoon while Mimi cooked, baked and sautéed on the grown-up oven range. Alana's parents had died when she was two and she couldn't remember them, but she remembered learning about food in this kitchen and deciding that she was going to be a chef when she grew up. She'd been ten and hadn't wavered once from her decision.

The most important moments in her life had occurred in this house. The first time she had met Matthew when she was six and the first time he had kissed her under the mistletoe when she was fifteen.

Alana had left for cooking school and her own kitchen in the city over a decade ago, but the airy space overlooking the backyard hammock, lightly scented with herbs growing in pots on the window sill, was still her favorite place in the world. She closed the door and just stood there, eyes closed; her senses open to the aroma of whatever Mimi had in the oven. She caught the light fragrance of vanilla bean with a hint of tart lemons and the sweet aroma of baking.

Mimi's famous lemon vanilla pie.

She smiled as the familiar scents hit home. Hanging her jacket on the peg beside the door, rolling her long black hair up in a knot, she opened the pantry where Mimi kept her baking supplies. Fifteen minutes later, she was elbow deep in flour and sugar and having the time of her life.

That's how Mimi found her, rolling dough with a smooth twist of the hand before patting it down. "Lemon snaps?"

"I've added a dash of orange zest. Give it that extra zing. Hello, Mimi."

Alana set aside the bowl and reached down to wrap her arms around Mimi's bony shoulders and inhaled the familiar scent of Chanel no. 5 mixed with vanilla. A small elf-like woman who liked her hair short and white, her toe nails fire engine red, Mimi was everything Alana wanted to be when she grew up.

"Don't 'Hello Mimi' me. Why aren't you out buying something ridiculously expensive to wear in Paris? French men like their women flashy."

"Then it's a good thing that I prefer American men." Alana spaced out the dough balls on the baking tray, flattening each with the bottom of her palm into a neat thin circle. She placed the tray in the second oven, checking the temperature to make sure it was high enough.

Mimi snorted and eased onto the bar stool facing the counter. "You haven't dated in so long I was beginning to wonder if you prefer men at all." She popped a piece of leftover dough in her mouth, humming as the taste exploded in her mouth. "How else am I going to be a great-grandmother?"

Alana turned back from the oven and leaned on the counter. "Do you want a real baby or can I just bake one up?"

"Don't get cute with me, missy. I may be old, but I can still take you."

"Care to make a wager on that?" Alana took the stool across from Mimi and sampled the remaining dough. "Hmm." She closed her eyes, savoring the tart and sweet flavors. "Damn, I'm good."

"And so modest to boot," Mimi said.

Alana smirked at Mimi's wry tone. "Everything I know, I learnt from you."

"I think you can take credit for your big ego. I'm a much humbler person."

Alana snorted. "This from a woman that ran with the bulls in Spain and then bragged about it for months. No, years."

Mimi grinned. "I don't know which I liked better, the bull run or taming the matador afterwards."

Alana choked on the cookie dough and started coughing. Mimi reached across and thumped her back.