Page 88 of Small Town Boy

“Let me show you.”

25

BRONWYN

Smack!

I squeak, a warm sting radiating through the butt cheek that was on the receiving end of that hand. The sting doesn’t last long though, comforted by the body heat of the offender, sliding up behind me, his big strong arms circling my waist and holding me against him. Noel places a kiss at the crux of my neck and my insides turn to mush, the rest of the world falling away as I enjoy the moment and all the things I’m feeling.

Hope. Love. Clitterflies.

That is until I feel one hand move away from me and toward the counter.

“No!” I slap his hand away just in time. My deviled eggs are safe. “I told you, not until everyone else gets here.”

“Just one. You know, for quality control. Need to make sure they’re up to Keller family standards.”

“They are.” I elbow his gut, ushering him back. Holding his hands up in surrender, he does as he’s silently told and moves to my side, leaning back against the counter, his long legs stretched out into the kitchen. “I spent all Sunday afternoon with your mother learning every nuance of these. They are perfection.”

Leaning over, Noel steals a kiss, lingering just long enough to make my lips tingle. As he pulls back, he gives me that secret smile of his, the one that only makes an appearance when we’re alone. The one that tells me everything I need to know. I love that smile. Almost as much as I love him.

“She loved that, you know—the two of you playing around in the kitchen. Pretty sure you made her the happiest woman in Hickory Hills.”

That makes two of us…

I smile back at him, because it’s all I can do right now as I fight back my tears. Sunday afternoon at the farmhouse was possibly one of the best days of my life. Because I was entrusted with a family secret.

Lots of them, actually.

Mama K was a mess when Noel and I had finally returned from our tractor ride. So were we, but for a different reason. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice my flushed skin or ruffled hair from where Noel had run his fingers through it, all thanks to Mama’s “fussin’”—as the boys put it. She insisted that I come over on Sunday for us to look over the recipes, and there was no way I could refuse. Not that she would have accepted no as an answer.

“Now, I know I said we’d look through your recipe box—and we will!” she’d said, pulling out a Diet Coke from the fridge. One I’m pretty sure she had in there waiting on me. “But, we have plenty of time for that. Today, I thought I would teach you these.”

Handing me a small box the size of a photograph, she beamed at me as if she were handing me a gold medal at the Olympics. I carefully untied the ribbon and lifted the top, my eyes landing on a handwritten recipe card. My voice caught in my throat as I scanned the words, trying to process it.

The pale pink card had the words “From my mother’s kitchen” scrawled across the top in black script, followed by Mama K’s neatly printed handwriting reading, “Regina’s Secret Deviled Eggs.”

“Regina was Noel’s three times great-grandmother. Where she got the recipe, I’m not really sure, but she guarded it like it belonged in Fort Knox. It was how she welcomed her daughters-in-love, as she started calling them, into the family, by gifting them this family secret on their wedding day. It’s been tradition ever since. Nan, my mother-in-law, presented it to me at my bridal shower, so I’m not the first to break the whole wedding day portion of it. And I don’t mean to be presumptuous—I did enough of that on Friday, so please don’t take it that way. Please take it as it’s meant, as a welcome into our family.”

The dam burst open after that, my tears fueling hers, the both of us splotchy messes. We managed to compose ourselves though, turning the tears into laughter and spending the rest of the day whipping up a feast.

The same happiness overflows in me now, standing in the kitchen of the bachelor ranch, as I’ve started calling it in my head, piping the yolk filling into the egg white halves. The afternoon has been nothing but food prep, the three of us working in tandem to get everything ready. It’s been nothing short of perfect, and something I can’t wait to do year after year.

“Alright!” Nash declares, the porch door slamming shut behind him. The French doors from the kitchen to the screened-in porch are open, and he walks through them looking as proud as a peacock. “Fryer’s all set up and ready. We’ll just have to heat the oil once everyone gets here and bam! Best damn turkey you’ll have ever eaten, B!”

“I still can’t believe you fry a turkey.”

“This is the south. We’ll deep fry anything.”

Noel nods, agreeing with the statement. It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes, so I turn my attention back to the piping bag, holding it exactly how Mama showed me, making sure to get the right ratio of mix to egg white. Out of nowhere, Nash’s arm appears, squeezing right past Noel and me, dipping into the mixing bowl.

“Stop!” I scold, shoving him out of the way. He jokingly shoves me back, his own reminder that I’m his sister now, and that makes me fair game. Or so he claimed this morning when I stole the first cup of coffee. “If I don’t have enough, it’s on your head.”

“I still can’t believe she let you in on this secret,” Nash comments.

“Not the only secret she let me in on,” I tease.

Both twins freeze, their almost identical facial expressions morphing so in sync one would think they practiced it.