Page 53 of Elf-ish

Beauty and the Beast might have been a better study of change. However, neither reference matters. Jude didn’t need me anymore. My part in his act was complete. He should be relieved. He’s off the hook and doesn’t need to attend a stupid wedding days before Christmas.

I inhale to calm my racing thoughts.

“Well, put me to work,” Holliday says, continuing to give me a puzzled look, like her mom-senses know something isn’t right, but as my friend, she won’t pry.

“Follow me to the kitchen?”

Holliday has already put in time volunteering when her children were younger. Now, she’s present more to keep the cougar-moms in line around her husband, but she’ll be happy to have something to do. Nick is a good sport about the extra attention. Holliday is a freakin’ saint.

Once inside the industrial-sized kitchen, I check my iPad for the list of things to be done. The community center is already set up with tables and chairs, and a crew of people arrived last night to decorate the tables with disposable tablecloths and plastic wear.

This morning, mini donuts will be placed on each table along with a carafe of coffee and a pitcher of juice. For now, coffee is brewing, hot water is boiling for tea, and containers of juice and cartons of milk are ready for distribution. Making scrambled eggs and sausage will be up soon, and I glance toward the commercial-grade stove where a volunteer dad leads a team of other men who will assembly-line cook the protein portion of breakfast.

While glancing at the group of men, the kitchen door swings open.

A man walks in looking a little lost and I’m frozen in place as I take him in. Like viewing an animal outside its natural habitat, he looks confused, almost frightened. His hair is mussed up. His dark jeans, thin sweater in dark gray, and the hint of a white tee peeking out of the collar sets him apart from the other men in the space.

“Who is that?” Holliday whispers beside me.

“Jude.” My voice cracks and I clear my throat, trying his name a second time, a little louder. “Jude Ashford.”

Holliday is looking at me, but I cannot pull my gaze from Jude. How uncomfortable he looks. How good-looking he is.

As if he heard me state his name, his head turns in my direction, and his eyes catch on mine. He offers a puzzled smirk, like he’s been caught where he shouldn’t be. Then he rounds the stainless steel worktable and stalks toward me.

“Oh my,” Holliday whispers, her head swiveling from Jude to me and back.

When he finally stands in front of me, I’m tongue-tied by his sudden, unexpected presence. We stare at one another, as if an entire conversation is happening with our eyes, but I can’t interpret a single word because I’m flabbergasted by him standing here. In the kitchen of a church community room.

Eventually, Holliday softly clears her throat and sticks out her hand. “Hi. I’m Holliday Santos.”

“Jude Ashford,” he says, reciprocating her greeting, snapping his attention briefly from me to her.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I’m just going to . . . yeah . . .” Holliday points with both her hands and steps away from Jude and me.

“Thought maybe I could give of my time.” He slips his hands into his pockets and glances around the kitchen.

“Jude.” I sigh, certain I’ve insulted him. Or maybe . . . I’ve inspired him.

Jude tips up his chin and shrugs. “I’ve got to start somewhere.” His voice is quiet while his icy eyes meet mine again. “Tell me what to do.”

The plea holds a double meaning, but I don’t want to psychoanalyze him again. Maybe I’d been too harsh earlier. Then again, he’s standing here.

Technically, he shouldn’t be. We have screenings for our volunteers, and he isn’t a parent, nor a member of this church, but I’m not about to turn Jude away when I’d accused him of never giving of his time.

“Okay. Cooking or dishes?”

“Cooking, I guess.” He glances at the loosely formed assembly line of men. Some are mixing eggs in a bowl before passing them to another who pours the mixture onto the sizzling griddle, while other men open packages of sausage and place them on cooking sheets.

I walk Jude over to the lead dad and introduce them, explaining how Jude is an extra set of hands. When I make to step away, Jude stops me by saying, “Where are you going?”

“I have other areas to supervise. This kitchen is in capable hands.” I wink at the dad, then excuse myself.

Stepping into the short hallway that leads to the community room, Holliday nearly knocks me over.

“Holy peppermint sticks! Who is that?” Her voice lowers on the question as if someone might hear us when we are the only two standing in the short hall.