Page 15 of Savoring Christmas (Sugarville Grove #8)

Mia walked over, her shoes squeaking softly on the rubber mat, biting back a smile. The heat radiating from his station warmed her face. “Your pan’s too hot.”

Logan glanced up at her, his expression dry as desert wind. “This is a disaster.”

“No, you’re doing fine,” Mia said. “Turn down the heat and try again.”

Across the counter, Abby was attacking her potatoes with a masher. The metal implement made wet, squelching sounds against the lumpy mass, punctuated by her increasingly frustrated huffs.

“These are all lumpy.” Abby frowned, eyeing the stubborn lumps that refused to surrender. “What am I doing wrong?”

“Let me taste them,” Mia said diplomatically, taking a spoonful to check the texture. The potatoes were gritty against her tongue, but salvageable. “Add a little more cream—they’ll smooth out.”

Harold, however, was already moving on to deglazing his pan. Too enthusiastically. His movements were quick, excited, the bottle tilting with abandon.

The second the Marsala wine hit the hot skillet, a flare of blue-orange flame whooshed up toward the exhaust hood, the sudden heat blooming across their faces and sending half the room stumbling backward with startled gasps.

“Mia, help!” Harold shouted, his face flushed from the flame and adrenaline. “Someone grab the fire extinguisher.”

Mia stepped in quickly, her hand steady as she slid his pan off the heat, the flame dying to a gentle simmer. “It’s fine now.”

“Do I still have eyebrows?” Harold asked.

“All intact,” Mia said. “But do be careful.”

At the far end, Reese worked in focused silence, her movements economical and precise. She quietly plated a perfect golden chicken breast beside glossy Marsala sauce and creamy potatoes piped with professional smoothness.

“That looks incredible,” Mia said honestly, genuinely impressed. “How do you feel about it?”

Reese gave a small shrug, her voice soft as tissue paper. “It …looks good.”

“You’ve done very well,” Mia said.

Mia had expected the children by now but so far there was no sign of them. She hoped nothing was wrong but a bad feeling came over her. Patty wouldn’t miss work unless someone was sick.

“I wonder where the kids are?” Mia asked.

“I was thinking the same thing,” Logan said.

Food plated with varying degrees of success—some scorched, some lumpy. Regardless, everyone had done their best and that’s all that mattered.

“Alright, everyone.” Mia settled at the table with her own perfectly plated dish. “Before we dig into our own, let’s do a tasting round. Pass your plates to the right—let’s see what everyone created.”

The plates began their slow journey around the table. Logan’s slightly charred chicken made its way first to Abby.

“I’m sorry I burned it,” Logan said, sounding about eight years old.

Abby took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Actually, the extra caramelization adds a smoky depth. Right, Mia?”

Mia took a bite as well. Abby wasn’t lying—beneath the darker crust, the chicken was perfectly tender, and the Marsala sauce had a rich complexity that spoke to his careful attention during the deglazing. “She’s right, Logan. It’s delicious.”

Logan snorted, but his shoulders relaxed slightly. “You’re both just being nice.”

Harold’s flambéed creation landed in front of Kris, who cut into it with enthusiasm. The chicken released a cloud of wine-scented steam that made everyone at the table lean in slightly.

“Harold, I love this,” Kris said, grinning. “The wine really penetrated the meat—that little fireworks show actually did something magical.”

Harold’s chest puffed with pride. “Really? I thought I’d ruined it.”

“No way,” Kris said.

Abby’s potatoes found their way to Reese, who took a careful, small bite. The lumps had indeed softened with the added cream, creating a texture that was more homestyle than restaurant-smooth but delightful just the same.

“These remind me of my grandmother’s potatoes,” Reese said softly, and something in her voice made the table go quiet. “She never made them perfectly smooth either. She said lumps meant they were made with love, not a machine.” Her eyes brightened slightly. “They were my favorite thing.”

Abby’s eyes misted. “Your grandmother sounds wonderful.”

“She was. I miss her every day,” Reese said. “Thank you for bringing a bit of her to me tonight.”

When Reese’s flawless dish made its rounds, the praise was genuine and effusive. The chicken was golden and succulent, the sauce glossy and perfectly balanced, the potatoes piped like something from a cooking show.

Mia cut into the tender meat and took a bite. “The seasoning is spot-on, and look at this plating—you’ve got a real eye for presentation.”

“It’s gorgeous,” Logan added, tasting the sauce. “And the flavor balance is incredible. You sure you haven’t done this before?”

Kris nodded enthusiastically through a mouthful of the creamy potatoes. “These are like silk. How did you get them so smooth?”

“I’m not sure. I just did what Mia told us,” Reese said, humbly.

“This is the kind of dish I’d order at a fancy restaurant and be happy paying thirty dollars for,” Harold said. “And anyone who knows me knows I’m a tad on the frugal side.”

Reese ducked her head, color rising in her cheeks, but she was clearly pleased.

Kris’s dish, when it arrived at Mia’s place, was solid and well-executed—perhaps not as refined as Reese’s, but showing real understanding of the techniques. The chicken was properly cooked through, the sauce had good consistency, and the potatoes were creamy and well-seasoned.

“Kris, you nailed the fundamentals,” Mia said approvingly. “This is exactly what I was hoping to see—you understood the process and implemented it cleanly. Well done.”

Thelma’s dish, when it made its way around the table, drew impressed murmurs from everyone. Her chicken was perfectly golden, the Marsala sauce rich and velvety, and her potatoes were smooth as silk with just the right amount of garlic.

“Thelma,” Mia said, cutting into the tender meat, “this is absolutely beautiful. The sauce has incredible depth—did you add something extra?”

Thelma’s weathered hands smoothed her apron, a small smile playing at her lips. “Just a tiny pinch of fresh thyme from my garden, and maybe a touch more butter than you called for. Old habits.”

Logan took a bite and closed his eyes appreciatively. “This tastes like something my mom would make. There’s something about it that’s like a hug.”

“That’s from years of cooking.” Harold raised his fork in salute. “You see, Thelma, we might be old but look what experience has provided.”

Thelma flushed. “I suppose this old girl still has a few new tricks.”

As the plates continued their circuit, the conversation flowed with the wine Mia had opened—compliments genuine despite the varying levels of success, encouragement mixed with gentle teasing, the kind of warmth that only came from shared effort and mutual support.

“You know what?” Abby raised her wine glass as the last plates found their way back to their creators. “I think we should be proud. This was a hard dish but we all made it through.”

“That’s right,” Mia said. “And every time you make it, you’ll get better.”

But as they settled in to eat their own creations, Mia noticed Reese’s fork hovering above her plate, trembling slightly in the fluorescent light.

Logan must have noticed too, his own bite pausing halfway to his mouth. “Something wrong, Reese?” he asked gently.

Reese’s lips pressed together, color draining from her cheeks. For a moment, Mia thought she’d wave it off with some polite excuse, but then her eyes filled with tears. “I can’t.” She set aside her fork with a barely audible clink. “I can’t eat this.”

The table went still.

Mia leaned forward, making sure to keep her voice steady. “Do you want to talk to us? We’re all here to listen.”

Everyone nodded and murmured words of encouragement.

Reese’s hands twisted in her lap, knuckles white against the dark fabric of her jeans.

“I didn’t tell you last week, but I was in the hospital over the summer.

That’s how bad I’d let it get. I had to go through a whole treatment program.

I’m doing a lot better. My therapist’s helping me a lot.

She’s helping me understand the root of my problem.

” Her voice cracked like ice. “When I was just out of high school, my boyfriend, Roan, left town without any explanation and it broke my heart. Food became something I could control when everything felt so chaotic. Ballet made it worse. The smaller I was, the more I was praised. It’s just so hard to let go of all my destructive behaviors. ”

Across the table, Mia caught Logan’s subtle reaction at the mention of Roan’s name, a flicker of something in his eyes, a tightening in his jaw. But he kept quiet, his attention fixed on Reese.

“You poor child,” Thelma said softly. “You’re brave to be here. And you’re doing so well.”

Abby reached across the table to squeeze Reese’s hand. “It’s not about perfection, Reese. It’s about progress. And you’ve already made so much of it just by showing up.”

Tears fell from Reese’s eyes, spilling onto her cheeks.

Kris nodded, his tone sincere. “I joke around but the truth is—I wasn’t as supportive of my wife as I should have been.

I realize now, looking back, how many times I let her down by assuming she was fine taking on the bulk of the household duties and raising our children.

I’m trying to be a better husband before it’s too late.

This isn’t just about cooking for me. It’s about making amends to the woman who stood by my side through thick and thin and never complained.

We’re all working on something here. You’re not alone. ”

Harold leaned in, his expression earnest. “That’s right.

I’m here because I needed reason to get out of bed.

Because, boy oh boy, there have been some rough days.

I wasn’t sure I was going to make it through to the other side of grief.

I understand what it’s like to hit rock bottom.

I agree with Thelma. You’re very courageous to be here. ”

Logan nodded, leaning toward Reese. “And strong. Courage is showing up and trying—even though it’s hard. There’s not a person in this room who hasn’t had to pull strength from the very depths of their souls to try again.”

Mia hesitated, feeling a weight in her chest. Everyone was watching Reese with such compassion, such understanding.

It struck her how rare moments like this were.

How rare it was to be in a room where people weren’t pretending everything was fine.

Her fingers smoothed over the table’s edge.

“Since we’re being honest, I’d like to share something too.

” Her voice came out softer than she expected, but it made everyone’s heads turn toward her.

She took a slow breath. “I came to Sugarville Grove because I lost everything in a Ponzi scheme. I wasn’t living in a big city penthouse or anything like that, but I’d built a good life for myself in New York.

I trusted someone I shouldn’t have. Overnight, my savings, my apartment, my restaurant …

gone. It wasn’t just money I lost either.

It was confidence. It was trust in myself.

I came here to start over, but there’s still a part of me that’s afraid people will see me as a fool for letting it happen to me.

I’ve been punishing myself for four years.

Living like a prisoner in a room without furniture or comforts.

Denying myself a chance to make new friends or fall in love.

Teaching this class is my way of finally fighting back.

And to forgive myself. You’re all helping me with every moment we spend together. ”

“Seems to me you’ve been fighting back all this time,” Harold said. “You didn’t let what happened to you destroy you. That’s the opposite of foolish.”

Thelma gave a firm nod. “You didn’t let it break you. It could’ve taken a lot of people out for good.”

Mia’s throat tightened, but she managed a small smile. “Some days it felt like it did. But here I am. With all of you. And I’m grateful to each one of you for being here and giving your whole hearts to this silly class.”

“It’s not silly,” Reese said. “It’s what we all needed.”

“Five thousand percent.” Logan’s gaze lingered on Mia, warm and steady, and she felt that strange, unfamiliar flutter in her chest again.

“Thank you all so much.” Reese dried her damp cheeks with her napkin.

“You’ve all helped me immensely tonight.

You have no idea how much.” She picked up her fork and scooped up some of her mashed potatoes and brought it slowly to her mouth.

She chewed and then swallowed, giving them all a trembling smile. “You’re right. It’s very good.”

Everyone cheered. Other than Cannoli. She barked and wagged her tail.