Hadley Beckett's Next Dish, page 28
“Okay, everyone,” Jerry bellowed. “We’re rolling. And we’re on Hadley in five, four . . .” His fingers took over for the words and I smiled at the camera.
“Hi, y’all. I appreciate you making a little time in your busy lives to spend some time with us and be a part of our lives.” Just then, three-year-old Elijah came up to me, and I hoisted him up onto the counter so he could sit beside where I stood. “As you can see, we’re just hanging out at Casa de Cavanagh today, and I thought we might make . . . well, what do you think we should make today, Eli?”
Max walked into the kitchen, Eli’s twin sister, Harper, in one arm, ten-month-old Julia in the other. “How about some superhealthy smoothies, Mommy?” Max said in a high-pitched voice meant to imitate our toddler son. “With lots of antioxidants. And kale!”
Eli and Harper giggled, and I scrunched up my face at them. “Daddy’s silly, isn’t he? You know what I think we should make?” I slowly pulled the container out from the cabinet, to build suspense until they could see the cookie cutters.
“Cookies!” they both shouted excitedly.
Max set Harper down and I helped Eli off the counter, and they went running toward the dining room.
“You know,” Max said, wrapping his arm around my shoulder but talking to the camera. “I think it would be a great day to teach the kids how to make macarons. I mean, we can’t let them start preschool without knowing how to properly macaronage, as it were. And we’ll even start simply. We’ll work on perfecting their French buttercream filling later. For today, we’ll just pull together a basic ganache and—”
“The boy one is standing on the table!” Meemaw shouted loudly, but pretty nonchalantly, from the dining room.
Max and I looked at each other and then back at the camera. “Oh. And my grandmother is here,” I explained to our audience. I put my hands out, and Julia dove from Max’s arms to mine.
“You know what sounds good?” Max mused as he backed away to go see what the boy one and the girl one were up to.
“Chocolate chip cookies?” I asked.
“Chocolate chip cookies,” he agreed, before running into the dining room, roaring like a dinosaur preparing to attack—resulting in giggles and screams that filled the house with beautiful chaos.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Max lying on the floor, the twins climbing all over him. Clearly the great dinosaur hunters had captured their prize.
I understood the feeling perfectly.
“So, business as usual for the Cavanagh clan today.” I hoisted Julia higher up from where she had slipped down on my hip and turned to the camera once again. “Thanks for spending some time at home with us.”
Prologue
Four years ago, on my thirtieth birthday, I had two very important realizations.
1) I didn’t need a man in my life in order to be happy or fulfilled.
2) My chances of meeting and falling in love with a man—and having him fall in love with me—would increase exponentially if I lowered my standards.
Not my standards for the man, of course. No, with the introduction of realization number one, the standards for the man had never been higher. If I didn’t need a man, then there was no harm in being very picky and waiting for the right one to come along. But with the introduction of realization number two, I could no longer deny that I did very much want to be in love . . . whether I needed to be or not.
In my heart of hearts, I knew I had no desire to settle for anything less than a man who would make at least one of the Bronte sisters proud. But there wasn’t much chance of falling in love with any man at all if I stayed hung up on the idea of my romantic life playing out like the classic novels and films I loved so much.
Cary Grant does not exist in my Millennial world.
Of course, I wasn’t expecting Will Whitaker to show up, or for him to burst onto the scene as if acting out a storybook meet-cute.
You know what a meet-cute is, right? It’s that charming first encounter between two characters that leads to a romantic relationship between them. Suffice it to say, with realization number two, I had given up on ever experiencing a true meet-cute. Actually, I was pretty convinced that I wouldn’t know a true meet-cute if it fell on me. I’d spent most of my life trying to force the meet-cute. Trust me . . . that doesn’t work. Intentionally bumping into guys and dropping your books rarely results in them saying, “Hey, let me help you with that.” I’ve found that “Hey, watch where you’re going!” is more common.
So by the time I turned thirty, I was absolutely convinced that meet-cutes were a thing of legend.
Enter Will, stage left.
It was a day like any other at ASN, the American Sports Network. That’s where I worked. ASN. But not like in sports or anything. Heavens, no. All I know of basketball, football, lacrosse, or any other sport is how much money is generated in advertising dollars as a result of our coverage of said sport, and how much all of those on-air sports people get paid. My office is in the part of the ASN complex that the sports people call The Bench. They come to our stark wasteland of blah concrete walls for marketing and accounting needs. Perhaps the occasional human resources disaster. But then they happily return to the glitz and glamour that they refer to as The Field.
“Gotta get back on The Field,” they love to say. On The Field? That sounds so stupid. But when I say “I’m heading over to The Field for a bit,” I am invariably met with questions that they think are hilarious. “Got some plowing to do, McCaffrey?” Sure.
So there I was, in The Bench—or on The Bench, as they continually correct me—when I heard the most dreaded of all birthday sounds: about twenty tone-deaf sports experts and about half as many barbershop quartet wannabes from The Bench, all singing “Happy Birthday.” To me, presumably.
“Oh, wow. You shouldn’t have,” I managed to say in a way that I’m pretty sure sounded grateful, as they made their way into my office—holding a monstrous cake ablaze with thirty giant candles.
“Happy birthday, dear Cadie,” they belted. “Happy birthday to you!”
I waited for Kevin Lamont, who was carrying the cake, to set it down on my desk so I could blow out the candles, but he just kept holding it. Kevin, of course, is now the host and executive producer of The Daily Dribble, the most successful show on ASN. He’s also the vice president over all prime-time programming for the network, which makes him my boss. But back then he was simply The Daily Dribble’s host and one of my absolute favorite people around the ASN offices. And though he’s gone a bit gray and put on a little around his midsection, he certainly hasn’t lost a centimeter of height from his NBA days.
“Make a wish and blow out the candles,” Kevin teased as he held the cake at his shoulder height—which is still at least an inch above my head.
“Well, I’d love to, but—”
“Here, Cadie,” Max Post, resident sound engineer extraordinaire, chimed in as he pulled a chair over to my desk. “Climb up here.”
“Very funny, guys,” I replied with a smile. “C’mon, Kevin. All of the wax is going to melt down onto the cake.”
“You’d better do something about it then!” he insisted as he jutted out his chin toward a couple of former linebackers.
In an instant, the linebackers had grabbed my arms and hoisted me up—not onto the chair by the desk, but onto the desk itself.
I was so grateful that after six years at ASN, I knew better than to wear a skirt to the office.
“Very funny,” I repeated, as I did all I could to remind myself that I loved my job—and that it wasn’t my coworkers’ fault that they were savages. They meant well, and I knew that everything they were doing was an attempt to show me that they cared. They just happened to be from a culture in which you showed someone you cared by snapping them with a wet towel in the locker room.
I was ready to end the spectacle, so I took in a deep breath and prepared to use every bit of power my lungs could muster to blow out those thirty massive candles in one fell swoop. But just as I released the pressure of air, Lindy Mason called out from the hallway.
“Hey, everyone. Montana’s here.”
Kevin turned his 6’9” frame toward the door—and my cake went with him.
“Happy birthday, Cadie!” scattered voices called out as they left me in favor of Joe Montana, who was on The Field for an interview. An interview that they’d been waiting months for—but that only about eight of them were actually required to be present for. The others were just going as fans who happened to get paid to gawk at their heroes.
“Sorry, McCaffrey,” Kevin said as he shrugged and handed me the cake.
“Et tu, Kevin Lamont?”
He smiled and winked as he said, “Next time, don’t have your birthday on a day a legend is scheduled to be in the studio.” And then he ran out after everyone else.
Perfect.
I held the ridiculously large cake in my arms and tried to figure out how to get down. I had learned not to wear skirts to work, but unfortunately I still insisted on wearing heels.
“Now what?” I asked, of absolutely no one.
I sighed and looked at the chair next to the desk. I wouldn’t be able to see where I was stepping, due to the sheer magnitude of the cake, so stepping down onto the chair was out. I decided instead to squat down and place the cake on the desk, but the combination of the weight of the cake and balancing on heels made me very wobbly. I felt myself losing my grip on the cake as I teetered forward—the cake that still burned with the light and heat of three decades’ worth of candles.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” a voice called out from behind me.
Before I knew what was happening, he had one arm around my waist and the other under my cake. He gently lowered the cake onto the desk and then looped his arm under my knees. Pretty instantly I was back on the ground, on my feet, but there was a brief second when he was carrying me in a manner of which I knew Charlotte, Emily, and Anne would all approve.
“Sorry about that,” I muttered, the heat of my cheeks undeniable, even before I had looked at him. And then I did look at him.
He was taller than me, but not as tall as most of the guys from The Field, who regularly made me feel like a Hobbit. No, he was just the perfect amount of tall. Okay . . . probably not an athlete. Although he was fit and muscular. At least not a star athlete. A golfer, maybe? His face drew me in—with its crinkly eyes and perfectly shaped mouth. But it was also just the tiniest bit . . . goofy. His nose was a little too big, as were his ears, and while he was handsome—without question—he was also blatantly imperfect. So probably not an on-air personality.
“Um, is your cake from Madame Tussaud’s bakery?” His eyes darted with humor back and forth from my eyes to the cake.
“What?” I turned to face the cake on the desk, and my mouth and eyes flew open as I took in the sight of candles, which had become nothing more than melted wax nubs barely standing between the fire and the frosting. “Oh my goodness!” I exclaimed, and then I huffed and puffed—and hardly made a dent.
“These must be those hard-to-extinguish candles,” he astutely observed as he began huffing and puffing alongside me.
I wheezed. “You think?”
“Just a hunch.” He shrugged, and I laughed.
We kept blowing, and the sparks kept reigniting. We could have doused the flames, or suffocated them, but that didn’t seem to occur to us just then. All we knew to do was use all the air our lungs could generate, over and over again. Finally—one by one—sparks faded, as there was nothing left but little bits of wick swallowed by extremely waxy frosting.
Acknowledgments
With each book, I tell myself that next time I’m going to do something really creative for the Acknowledgments. Maybe I’ll write them all in haiku, or to the tune of the theme song from The Golden Girls. But then each time, I find myself short on time and overflowing with appreciation for all the people who have contributed not only to the writing of the book but also to my life in general. That list just keeps getting longer and longer, and the gratitude gets more and more profound. But there are quite a few people who played a role in the writing/publishing of this book specifically. Everyone in my life who isn’t listed . . . I owe you my eternal love and appreciation. (And a haiku.)
For this book, we have to kick it off with my editor, Kelsey Bowen. I handed her a first draft that I knew wasn’t good. But I believed in the potential and had complete trust that she would know just what was needed. And, of course, she did. She talked me through it, gave me two-and-a-half weeks to get her a completely different book, and, more than anything, believed I was capable of getting it done. I’m so proud of what we’ve been able to create together and so grateful that she continues to believe I can get it done. That crazy trust that we had in 2016 as practical strangers sharing an Airbnb has only grown, and I consider that trust and friendship among the greatest gifts of this writing and publishing journey.
Another of the greatest gifts is my agent, Jessica Kirkland, who is an amazing sounding board, a fierce advocate, and a treasured friend. (Also, sometimes I wonder . . . are we supposed to laugh as much as we do when we’re “working”?)
I love (love, love, love) the brilliant team of people I get to work with at Revell. Brianne, Karen, Kristin, Michele, and Gayle . . . you do amazing work, and I’m continually amazed by the heart and kindness with which you do it.
David Ramsey—your influence on this book is bigger than I’ll probably ever confess to you in person. We both know I’d just cry the whole time, so let’s agree to never speak of it. But every single time I sat down to write, I listened to country music artists I’d never heard of before you took the time to help me shape Hadley’s personality through the music she would listen to. I didn’t really know who she was until I listened to her favorite songs. Thanks for helping us get acquainted.
Jenny Todacheeny—Max was born over breakfast at Beny’s. This story simply wouldn’t exist without you. And I think I could honestly say that about every book I’ve written.
Secily Toles and Jacob Plemons—I can’t. I can’t even. I don’t even know where to start with the two of you. I’ll just say that I look at that picture of our shoes—each one distinct but also sort of seamless in how they overlap and intersect—and I think, “That’s us.”
LeeAnn Ramsey—so much of my affection and inspiration for Hadley’s Nashville sprung from our trip. It was so fun to think back to that treasured time as I wrote!
Susan May Warren and Rachel Hauck—the two of you have mentored and inspired so many that you probably don’t even know when you’re doing it! But that day at Cafe du Monde, you unleashed a new fire in me. I’ll never forget it.
There are so many other people to thank, and I’m (always) so afraid of missing someone, but without the following friends who brainstormed with me, allowed me to vent, read, critiqued, or just made me laugh when I needed it most, I’m just not sure I would have survived the writing of this book (or at least Hadley and Max may not have survived!): Sarah Monzon, Nicole Deese, Carol Moncado, Anne Jessup, Mikal Hermanns, Melissa Ferguson, Tracy Steel, Janine Rosche, and all of my Monday Night Book Club peeps!
As someone who has been heavily influenced by pop culture, I would be greatly amiss if I didn’t thank a few people who provided inspiration for this story, even if I’ve never met them personally. Yet. (That’s right, #12. It’s going to happen.)
Gordon Ramsay, whose recipes gave me clues to Max’s brilliance, whose potty mouth gave me insight into Max’s public persona, and whose demeanor with kids clarified for me that Max wasn’t just who the world had decided he was.
Julia Child, who, by being Hadley’s inspiration, became my inspiration as well.
Michael Martin Murphey, whose recording of “What’s Forever For” made me feel all the things I needed to feel, on demand.
Aaron Rodgers. Just because.
Nora Ephron, who is always my inspiration for all things romcom.
Colin Firth. Also just because.
The Beast from Beauty and the Beast. Forever and always.
John Stamos, who started it all.
Chris Pratt, John Krasinski, and Dan Stevens, who have taken turns being pinned to my corkboard as character inspiration.
Gillian Jacobs, Claire Foy, and Jessica Capshaw, who also provided character inspiration, but for some reason didn’t stay pinned to my board for nearly as long.
Don and Bev Whitis—thanks for life. Thanks for bringing me up to love movies and TV and story, and even more importantly, Jesus. Thanks for telling everyone you know that they need to buy my books. Thanks for asking every library and store if they carry my books (and if not, why not?). And thanks for always demonstrating what “for better or worse” is all about.
Missy Whitis—you will never read my books. But I love you still. For you I wrote a haiku.
Ethan Turner and Noah Turner—you both support and encourage me in so many ways, and you probably never realize it. Even just your chants of “Book! Book! Book!” mean more to me than you know.
Kelly Turner—every book begins and ends with you believing in me, and every day begins and ends with me loving you.
Throughout the process of writing this book, God and I wrestled. Every single time I thought I had things figured out, he said, “See! I am doing a new thing!” And the new things scared the living daylights out of me. But day by day, I fell even more in love with him and his new things. Thank you, Jesus, for scaring the living daylights out of me with your boldness and truth. Please never stop.
Bethany Turner is the award-winning author of The Secret Life of Sarah Hollenbeck, a finalist for the Christy Award, and Wooing Cadie McCaffrey. When she’s not writing (and even when she is), she serves as the director of administration for Rock Springs Church in Southwest Colorado. She lives with her husband and their two sons in Colorado, where she writes for a new generation of readers who crave fiction that tackles the thorny issues of life with humor and insight. For more, visit www.seebethanywrite.com.
