Page 1 of The Bright Side of Brooding
Chapter One
Summer
Iperused the bread neatly sorted into identical baskets hanging from the wall behind the bakery’s counter. Buttermilk. Multigrain. Rye. Baguette.
Rye, I think.
I requested the last loaf of rye, and a multigrain for myself. While the woman retrieved them, I fished out several euro coins and placed the amount onto the dish on the glass counter. The woman stretched her neck and counted the money without touching it, then nodded and handed over the fresh bread wrapped in waxy bakery paper. I slipped them into my waiting canvas bag, then with a “Danke, Tschuss!” and a wave of my free hand, I departed.
Excitement bubbled in me like water at a rolling boil—time to deliver the food! I wouldn’t see Specialist Jacobs, most likely. He was a nice guy but tended not to answer the door, like most of them, when I dropped off his meal. I’d been delivering dinner to him and several other soldiers who’d been injured in a crash during a training rotation two weeks ago. Of the six men involved, only one had refused my efforts.
My stomach dropped at the thought of Sergeant Masters, but I pushed it away, forced a smile, and let my full, teeth-and-cheeks grin blare out at the general population of the parking lot while I scuttled along to where I’d parked. Even if you don’t feel happy, you can trick yourself into feeling better by smiling—simple as that! So I did.
A German man passing glanced at me, completely stoic, and I remembered myself and tucked away the teeth. Nothing said “I’m an American” like emotional expression in public.Whoops.
Then I did smile, quite genuinely, to the tune of my car’s unlock beep when it chirped just as I reached the driver’s side door. My BMW Sedan was something of a middle finger to my family back home. Even though I’d owned it for well over two years, I still got a little kick of pleasure out of hopping into the luxury vehicle and smelling that leather-seats-and-new-car scent. Eat your heart out, Mama.
Excess in one’s hand speaks to excess in one’s heart.Oh, I remembered that one well. It always sounded particularly accurate and even godly. Too bad nothing about my parents’ existence involved striving for righteousness. Their platitudes focused solely on creating shame with an eye toward unflinching obedience.Neat.
I brightened that smile, kicking away memories of my toxic past trying to creep in. I had better things to think about.
Tonight, the car’s interior didn’t exactly smell like new—not with the dinner I’d put together for the Jacobs family currently scenting the air. Tomato bisque, roasted chicken, salad with double greens and burrata, and an apple torte. Heavenly, comforting, restorative, I hoped. And a break for Jenny Jacobs because the woman had her hands full with three-year-old twins and a husband still not quite on his feet after two weeks in a wheelchair with a broken femur. Poor guy. He’d had one of the most severe injuries.
A few minutes later, I pulled into the Jacobses’ drive, dropped the bags of food on the doorstep, and rang the bell before jogging back to my car. End of January in Bavaria meantcold, and I had no desire to wait around.
“Thanks, Miss Applegate!” Jacobses’ little girls yelled in unison from the doorway where their mom held it open and waved.
They knew me from the clinic. It just so happened I looked after the whole Jacobs family, so I was privy to all of the details on his recovery and his family’s health.
I held up a hand, then backed out and headed home, a warm glow clinging to me on the way.
I loved feeding people.Lovedit. Honestly, sometimes it felt more satisfying than helping folks at the clinic. More satisfying than a perfectly poached egg on homemade crustypain de campagne. Actually no, that was a lie. Italmostalways felt better than things at the clinic, because when I fed someone, that came completely from me. And basically nothing was better than a perfect egg on homemade bread. So.
At the clinic on Kugelfels Army post, I worked as a registered nurse on a medical care team—the standard for military clinics. Having spent my first three years after college on active duty as a nurse in the Army, I knew the dynamics of both military and civilian workers in a clinic like this one. I’d been out of the Army longer than I’d been in, but I still carried the experience with me and credited the knowledge gained with my success thus far, as well as my ability to adapt to life on an Army post and working with soldiers and their families.
Our teams were composed of two doctors, an RN, two LPNs, and two medics. Patients dealt with their doctor for diagnoses, prescriptions, care plans—all normal in the scheme of things. I assisted and wore all manner of hats: filled in for the medics and LPNs where needed, did intake interviews, took blood pressures, and gave immunizations. I assisted with in-patient procedures and answered dozens of questions a day about symptoms and what over-the-counter medicine to take. I got to do a lot for my patients, and I loved that, but I shared that with the other team members.
It might sound odd, but I could be a little selfish in my altruism. I liked knowing I’d been the one to help someone, and having grown up intimately acquainted with the feeling of hunger, feeding people felt like the best, most satisfying version of help I could offer.
I pulled into my place and parked in the garage. Very few homes in our area had electronic garage doors, but I’d lucked out with one. I pressed the button to close the door and shuffled up the walk. The garage stood separate from the house, but I’d take the electronic door and not complain.
I worked my way inside past the sturdy locked door, kicked off my shoes, and slipped on my cozy slippers before shuffling into the kitchen to serve myself dinner. After washing my hands, I dipped out a bowl of soup from the crock I’d left simmering on low while I ran my errands. I sliced bread, then sat down at the table in the same spot I always used.
The crust of the multigrain was perfect. Rye would’ve been even better for this soup with that earthy, dense quality to it, but there’d only been one loaf so that had to go to my friends. I closed my eyes as the warm, unctuous flavor coated my insides. I used parmesan rind and a little Neufchatel right at the end to really punch up the creamy factor while not making it too terribly fattening.
I growled at the whole concept. I hated the idea of certain foods beingbadfor you.All things in moderationhad been a beloved adage for decades or centuries orwhateverfor a reason. But clearly, some people couldn’t handle eating variety.
You need to calm down.
My inner angel didn’t like the train of thought. But I couldn’t help it. I reached behind me to the buffet where I’d left his letter, and like I’d done every few days—okay, every single day—reread the letter from Sergeant Nicholas Masters.
Dear Miss Applegate,
I have been made aware it is you who is leaving the exceptionally rich and abundant food on my doorstep each week. I thank you for your kindness. I am not sure what I’ve done to merit the receipt of your generous meals, but whatever it is, I would very much like to know.
I have savored every bite, and I thank you.
That said, I hope you won’t find it rude of me to request you cease the meal delivery and direct it elsewhere. I’m sure there are many families who would relish the delights you offer. I, however, cannot continue to be one.
