busy with your restaurant and your food line. How did you manage to get away?”
Jilly’s smile faded as she remembered her fall in the kitchen and the cascade of bad news that had followed. Right now her business was shaky. A friend from cooking school was filling in temporarily, but she couldn’t ask him to help out forever. Soon she’d have to make a decision.
She could let go of her dream and sell everything. Or she could go back to the job that she loved, knowing it could kill her.
What kind of choice was that?
Jilly decided that her call to Caro could wait. She was having too much fun talking shop with another chef. “I delegated. I’m trying to learn better management skills.”
Red refilled Jilly’s cup. “And your friends signed you up? Nice idea. They definitely sent you to the right place to relax. Sure, we’re not Jackson Hole or Aspen, but for my money, I’ll take Lost Creek any day.”
He searched through a folder, then glanced up at the wall clock. “How about I walk you over to the building where our workshops are held? It’s just down the hill, but the path can be confusing.” He flipped off his computer and stood up.
“You’ve got a kitchen to run,” Jilly said. “If you can give me directions, I’m sure—”
“No way. You’re a celebrity,” Red said firmly. “You get the grand tour.”
AS THEY WOUND PAST CEDAR-and-glass buildings, Red filled Jilly in on the town’s history, dating back to a rough-and-tumble mining camp in the last century. It was clear that he loved the place. Between questions about produce sources and trends in southwestern cooking, he grilled Jilly about future plans for her salsa line. She managed to be polite despite her fears about the future of her business, but she was relieved when they finally stopped at a big redwood structure with stained glass windows.
Now maybe she would get some answers.
Red glanced at his watch. “Here’s where the classes meet. But it’s a little early. You have time to get breakfast.”
“I never eat much breakfast. The croissant was perfect. Besides, I want to see about the retreat. If it’s really not geared to cooking …” Her voice trailed off. She looked around curiously as a young woman with a big wool bag strode past, red Keds flashing beneath purple leggings. Two more women rounded the path, both carrying big fabric totes.
Jilly studied their bags. They had big pockets on both sides. Jilly had seen bags like those before.
Caro carried one. It held her current sock project. And extra balls of yarn.
Stitch markers.
Long wooden needles.
Jilly closed her eyes.
They hadn’t. They couldn’t.
Had her devious friends signed her up for a knitting retreat instead of a cooking school?
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHE WAS GOING TO SKEWER them for this!
Jilly shot from surprise straight into fury. They had tricked her with images of cutting-edge cooking techniques and hot new chefs. They’d lied to her.
They’d signed her up for knitting camp. A bunch of old ladies with blue hair and arch support shoes, Jilly thought furiously.
Oh, she could knit if she had to. She knew the basic moves. But it had never been fun or relaxing for Jilly, and each project attempt left her crazy with impatience.
There was no way she’d be going through that door into those classrooms. Over her dead body!
Red was staring at her in concern. “Are you okay? It’s not cooking, but our retreats are very popular. We’ve sold out three years in a row. You’re lucky your friends could find you a spot.”
“Lucky? Not from where I’m standing. I knit like a surly second-grader, so my friends tell me. I’m going to kill them for this,” she muttered.
“Hey, you might like it. Kinda soothing to see all those needles bobbing around. My wife used to knit. I lost her last year to cancer.” The chef cleared his throat. “What I mean is, you should give it a try. I can introduce you, if you want. I know all the teachers by now. We bring pie and chocolate down every afternoon at break time.”
Jilly tried to rein in her temper, aware that her friends had set this up with good intentions. They wanted her to rest and they figured this was the best place for it.
But she needed to cook, not knit. She needed to stand at a big 34-inch stainless steel stove finessing salsa and coaxing European butter and dark chocolate into sinful new concoctions.
Jilly rubbed a hand over her face, processing the shock. She was a terrible knitter. It brought out the impatient teenager in her, and that was never a good thing.
But here she was.
She’d have to find some way to occupy herself, but it wouldn’t be anywhere near balls of yarn and pointy sticks. No blue-haired grannies, either.
Red called out to a woman in a bright green and blue sweater that would have sold for a fortune at a trendy Aspen boutique. Jilly recognized the skill of the finished piece. The woman had a name tag and looked like she was in charge.
As she approached them, Jilly suddenly felt like a cornered animal. Piles of yarn waited to torment her with dropped stitches. Rooms of expert knitters would glare, studying her with pity and contempt.
“Sorry, Red, I, uh, just remembered. I have to return a call. A—business call.”
“But you’re supposed to be on vacation. And the retreat—”
“Better go.” Jilly darted back up the path, ignoring the questioning looks of Red and his friend.
WHAT WAS SHE SUPPOSED to do now?
Jilly couldn’t imagine sitting calmly and chatting with a room full of strangers, all of whom were better knitters than she ever hoped to become. She would only manage to twist her stitches and drop whole rows.
She’d be a basket case inside an hour.
Jilly kicked a stone out of her path, frowning. If she hadn’t gotten sick, she’d be back in Arizona perched on a sunny stool, overseeing produce deliveries and designing the next month’s menu. She’d be busy and productive, thrilled to be alive.
She sank down on a little bench, aware of an alarming—and absolutely unfamiliar—urge to cry. She recognized that she had a good chance for a healthy future if she was careful. She knew that she was lucky to be alive.
But how did you pull yourself up and start all over? Where did people find the courage for that? It was terrifying.
She sighed, watching mist gather and then tumble over the mountains on its way down to the valley.
You didn’t talk. You just did it.
Jilly squared her shoulders. No more whining or hand wringing. No more knitting angst, either. She was going out to find something fun to do. To heck with the yarnies and their cool projects.
TEN MINUTES LATER JILLY stalked up the steps to the main lodge.
The taxi service was unavailable. The hot tub was closed for maintenance. The tiny library didn’t open until noon. And she hated spa treatments.
Meanwhile, the resort internet service cost twenty dollars an hour. Were they kidding?
Jilly thought longingly of Summer Island and the bustle of the narrow cobblestone streets, where she knew everyone. There were the repairs to Harbor House to discuss with her friends, part of their ongoing plan to create a chic café and yarn shop right at the foot of the harbor. And Jilly missed Duffy. She missed his warm body on her bed and his sloppy kisses in the morning.
She