Lessons in Lemonade Read online

  Lessons in Lemonade

  Copyright © 2020 Kathryn Andrews

  Published by Kathryn Andrews LLC

  www.kandrewsauthor.com

  ISBN: 978-0-578-23209-6

  Cover design by Heart to Cover, LLC

  Editing by C. Marie

  Proofreading by Lawrence Editing

  Formatting by Allusion Graphics, LLC

  All rights reserved

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  FBI Anti-Piracy Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, in investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Kathryn Andrews

  Chasing Clouds Sneak Peek

  To the readers, thank you from the bottom of my heart.

  I’VE THOUGHT A lot about the day.

  The unavoidable fateful day.

  The day all professional athletes know is coming . . . the day it’s going to end.

  Unfortunately for me, deep down in the very fiber of my being, I know for me, that day is today. It’s here, it’s finally arrived, and on a day I thought we would win it all. Instead, I lost everything.

  It’s as if I should have known—like a premonition, for lack of a better description—because with every dream, every thought, every scenario, I always come back to this one specific end: injury.

  To be more specific, in my dreams it was the one-way-ticket-to-retirement injury—a knee injury.

  At the moment I don’t know which is greater: the pain in my knee or the pain in my heart.

  As an athlete, we all know any day could be the day. Should it come to pass, we’re trained to bury the pain, reflect, and feel grateful for all the days, seasons, and years we’ve been given—only now that I’m here in this empty locker room thousands of miles away from home while my teammates are out there playing the most coveted game of our lives, I can’t.

  “You hanging in there?” asks Dr. Leffers, our team orthopedic physician.

  I look up to find a concerned expression set deep in the wrinkles across his forehead, and I don’t respond. There’s nothing to say.

  “You’ll be all right,” he says confidently, nodding then giving me a closed-mouth smile.

  “From your mouth to God’s ears,” I mumble on an audible exhalation.

  He frowns at whatever he sees on my face, purses his lips tightly, taps me fondly on the shoulder, and then walks away. He puts his phone to his ear, mumbling something, and I glance down at my leg. It’s wrapped tight from mid-thigh to mid-calf and has ice packs strapped all over it. They’ve given me a heavy dose of a pain reliever, but it’s not touching the sharp, debilitating pain in my chest.

  A roar from the sixty-thousand-plus fans just past these walls slips down the hallway and vibrates anything not tied down. I don’t know if the cheers are for my team or not, and I can’t help but feel bitter that this is where I am, that this is how my life has suddenly turned out. Every day, every minute—hell, every second a bead of sweat dripped off my body was leading up to this, to this game. I should be with my team. I should be on the field, helping lead them to victory. I should be winning my first Super Bowl, but I’m not.

  They’re out there, and I’m in here.

  I made it a little over seven minutes into the first quarter of the game of my lifetime, and that’s all I got. That’s all I’ll ever get.

  Closing my eyes, I put that last play on repeat. I knew both of those defenders were there. I didn’t know how close the guy coming from behind was to me, but I knew he was coming. Was it going to be a tricky catch? Of course it was, but this is the Super Bowl, and if there’s ever a time for big, risky plays, it’s this. That said, if I ask myself if the benefits outweighed the risk, the answer is resoundingly no.

  Would I have done anything different? No. I certainly wasn’t going to drop the ball or let him throw it away with the potential of a fumble—or worse, a pick six—and yet, this is suddenly my reality.

  My whole life, ever since I put on my first set of pads and laced up those cleats, I’ve dreamed about playing in and winning the Super Bowl. Every sacrifice, every decision, every ounce of my heart—it was all for this, for this sport, for the love of the game. As I sit here now, staring around the unfamiliar red and black Washington Wolves visitors locker room, I feel more defeated than I ever have in my entire life.

  Shifting my hips, I resituate myself and lean my head against the back of the bench. After they brought me in and moved me here, one person raised this end to act as a recliner while others undressed me and the medical staff began to examine me. One removed my shoes, leaving my socks. Another literally took a large pair of scissors and cut off my pants, leaving me in my compression shorts, and a third had me pull off my pads. Once the jersey cleared my vision, I wasn’t prepared for the sight of my knee. Yes, I knew from the pop on the field that I had an ACL tear, but what I wasn’t expecting was for it to look deformed. What should be the straight line of my leg is now angular, crooked, and that means only one thing: a dislocated knee, the most feared knee injury for an athlete.

  When I gasped, the medical staff took that to mean I was in pain and forced me to lie back. In actuality, visions of my future were flashing before my eyes: surgery, pain, six to twelve months of physical therapy, and not even a fifty-fifty chance of returning to the job I love.

  Who am I kidding? At thirty-two, there is no
chance. There is no returning.

  Time passed as they wrapped me up, fielded the questions being fired at them by unwelcome people who had made it into the locker room, and then just as quickly as they all blew in, the majority of them headed back out to the field to see what happened next. Dr. Leffers stayed behind, and his assistant brought me my gameday bag. I tossed on a hoodie, he helped me slip on a pair of athletic shorts, and I stared down at what has become my reality.

  “Sir, can we get you something to drink?” a young guy asks as he warily approaches me.

  “No, thank you,” I tell him. Just the thought of ingesting something has my stomach rolling. I know it would come right back up.

  He nods, his face solemn, and resumes his duties.

  People are moving quickly and quietly around the locker room, coming and going, but no one says a word to me. They’re keeping their heads down, doing their jobs: cleaning, rearranging for halftime activities, and putting out food. There’s everything from sandwiches to cupcakes on the table, though I don’t know who they think is going to eat it. At halftime, adrenaline is high, and appetites are not. Then again, it’s not like I’ll still be here to see it.

  Shaking my head, I grab the towel in my lap, run it over my face, and close my eyes. They burn from the thousand pounds of disappointment strapped to my back, and I can’t help but mourn the memories, the wins, the years I’ll never have. It’s a loss we tell ourselves we’re prepared for, only I find I’m not. I’m devastated. I’m angry. I’m at a complete loss for what happens next, and I have to remind myself to breathe because the weight of this reality is crushing me.

  From behind me, the internal locker room door opens, and I twist to see who it is. I’m expecting security so I can be escorted—well, I should say, transported out. I don’t want to be in here when the team is; my emotional state can’t take the avoidance from people I consider family or the pity looks I’ll be given. I’ve been a captain for the last four years, a leader, and being helpless in front of men who look up to me, this shift in the dynamic—it’s not only confusing for them, it’s mortifying for me. I won’t do it. Besides, injuries also make people superstitious, and I can’t have that, nor do I want to be a part of that.

  I also can’t have just anyone operating on me. I need someone I know, someone the team knows.

  Dr. Leffers called one of his partners, and although I’m certain the surgeons here are fine, I just want to be cut open by one of our own, in my city, with our people. One of the team’s on-call private planes is currently waiting on standby to take me home, where I’ll be met by familiar faces and a hospital I know.

  Home.

  I can’t get there and away from here fast enough.

  But as my eyes skip to the person behind security, what I’m not expecting is to see another familiar face walk through the door—someone I didn’t even know was here in Seattle, a person I’m not prepared to see but am so grateful for. Emotions flood me from every direction, my breath catching in my throat, and with that, the last of the very thin armor holding me together cracks.

  I couldn’t stop the tears even if I tried. Instead, I squeeze my eyes shut, cover my face with the towel again, and as she wraps her arms around me and runs her fingers through my damp hair, I openly cry.

  Ham-wich

  Seven months earlier

  EVERY DAY MY heart is at war with my brain, and every day the brain wins out.

  I’ve learned over the last couple of years that there’s no point in allowing emotions to drive us, our behaviors, or our decisions. They make the most rational person irrational, and I find that’s no way to live.

  Heart—everything happens for a reason. Brain—no, sometimes bad things just happen.

  Heart—good things come to those who wait. Brain—no, good things come to those who hustle, work for it, and never give up.

  Heart—if only I was a little bit prettier, taller, funnier, he’d like me more. Brain—no, you are gorgeous inside and out; if he can’t see what a badass you are, he’s not worthy.

  Sure, there’s the romantic side of me that wants to believe there’s some truth to wishes made on coins tossed into a fountain, candles blown out on a cake, and shooting stars—after all, the idea of these originated from somewhere—but the truth is, it’s all fake and there’s no such thing as luck. Those are just dreams of the heart. The only thing that matters is what we can give each day and to make a promise to ourselves, originated from the brain, that we’ll live life to the fullest.

  Hence why I’ve adopted the expression When life gives you lemons, make lemonade as my life motto.

  Lemonade. Lemon martinis. Lemon pound cake. Lemon bars. As a chef, they all work, and depending on my mood—sweet, salty, bitter, or sour—I’ve been known to make all of them.

  Just the thought of ooey-gooey pound cake has my stomach growling and me looking at the caterers as they put the finishing touches on the food stations around the tasting room of Wolff Winery.

  Shelby, my soul sister, and I are here for the wrap party of the latest issue of Food Network’s All About the South magazine. In this edition, the magazine focused on farm-to-table local foods, and Shelby was hired to provide the magazine with restaurant recommendations across the southeast. Along with that, she was paired with Zach Wolff here at Wolff Winery to create food pairings for his wine. She spent a few weeks on site in the spring, working with Zach on the recipes, being filmed, and basically loving every minute of it.

  Including him.

  That’s right—they fell in love. I mean how could she not? It’s my first time here, but this place is magical, like right out of a fairytale magical, including the castle, which is the main structure of the winery. How crazy is that? A castle, here, in the middle of nowhere northern Georgia, complete with east and west wings, a ballroom for functions, a library, a sitting room, a dining room, a tasting room, and—well, it’s just exquisite.

  And also overwhelming.

  Needing a moment to myself before the chaos fully begins, I slip out past some of the few guests who have already arrived, heading to the back porch overlooking the rows and rows of full leafy vines at the base of the Smoky Mountains. As much as I love a good party, there’s a reason I choose to be in the kitchen. I’d rather be lost in a recipe or creating something new than have to entertain and make sure everyone is happy and good to go.

  A bee buzzes by before it lands on a planter hanging over the railing. I take a deep breath in and slowly let it out as I watch it dip in and out of a tall stalk of lavender. The lavender here is plentiful, and the bees make the most delicious lavender honey, another element in the winery’s overall charm, and that reminds me I need to grab a few jars before I leave tomorrow.

  “There you are—what are you doing out here?” Michelle asks from behind me. She’s standing in the doorway, looking concerned, so I smile brightly. I hate it when people are uncomfortable or unhappy because of me. Michelle works here at Wolff Winery, for Zach, and is quite possibly the sweetest person I have ever met.

  “Nothing. It’s just so pretty. I know it’s almost noon, but I thought I’d step out for a minute to soak up some of this country air.” And a minute is really about all I got. I live in Charleston, which is only five hours away, but the air here feels and smells so different. It’s nice to be able to take it in while I can.

  She moves to stand next to me, and I grin down at her cowgirl boots. While I am always in heels, and I do mean always, she’s always in boots. At least we’re consistent.

  “It is beautiful here,” she says, staring out over the property. “Some days I pinch myself, expecting to wake up, because this has to be a dream.”

  I know what she means; it’s how I feel when I’m standing in my restaurant’s kitchen.

  Glancing back inside, she takes a few steps away and toward the party. “New people have arrived, and Shelby is looking for you.”

  “Tell her I’ll be there in another minute. And thank you.”

  She
nods in understanding and leaves me.

  I didn’t expect to feel this way today, and the quicker this passes, the better off we’ll all be.

  The hum of an engine catches my attention and I watch as a small tractor makes its way across the back of the property, heading toward the barn. When Shelby was here, she talked about how the people work from sunup to sundown, and even today with the party about to be in full swing, they still aren’t stopping. They never stop. I can’t even imagine how hard it must be to run a place like this, but it’s been in Zach’s family for years, and well, if you tasted his wines, you’d see he was born for this.

  Now, this will soon be Shelby’s home, too, as she’s decided to explore new ventures away from the restaurant and away from Charleston.

  The restaurant we started together three years ago.

  Don’t get me wrong, I am elated for her; I’m just also feeling a little sorry for myself. We met in college and I’ve loved having her by my side for almost ten years, but all good things must come to an end eventually. I’m over the moon for all the exciting opportunities that are coming her way in this next chapter of her life.

  As for me, I’ll be all right. I always am.

  Remember the lemon martinis?

  Tasty, right?

  And strong.

  I’ve always known working for Food Network was her dream, and I’ve done a great job over the last two years reminding myself of this as she’s begun taking on projects for them and making a name for herself. She is amazing, and it was only a matter of time before they realized it, too. Now that I’ve allowed myself to wallow for these five minutes, I shake out of it, pull my shoulders back, and suck in a deep breath of the lavender-scented air.

  Today is her day, and I am officially one hundred percent here for her, just like she has always been there for me.

  Walking back into the main tasting room, I find her standing next to Zach, and my heart fills with joy at how stunning they look together. She’s wearing a pale pink dress with a pair of tall sparkly Gianvito Rossi heels, and he’s wearing a gray suit with the top button open on his dress shirt. She looks couture, he looks GQ, and they are smiling at each other like lovestruck goons.