3.5 Roasted in Christmas River Page 2

  I’d had a sign in front of my pie shop for two months now telling folks to place their orders for Thanksgiving at least a week ahead of the big day. I’d made that rule so I’d be adequately supplied for all the orders and so I wouldn’t have to spend Thanksgiving here at the pie shop, making food for other peoples’ feasts instead of my own.

  But in typical Meredith fashion, she thought the rules didn’t apply to her.

  Her eyes narrowed, a hint of anger behind them. But then the expression on her face changed into a full-on pout.

  “But it’s Thanksgiving, Cinnamon,” she pleaded in a whiny voice. “I’m depending on these pies. I might lose my sanity if I have to make dessert myself. And you know, your pies make everyone so happy. I mean, my entire family just loves them. Haley especially would be disappointed if we didn’t have your pie this year.”

  I crossed my arms, and looked out the window.

  I didn’t buy any bit of what she was trying to sell me, but from a practical standpoint, I knew that taking this order would help put a little extra something into my Christmas present fund this year.

  I’d had my eye on a new pair of boots for Daniel to replace the ones that Wyatt Rasmussen upchucked all over at last year’s Christmas River Rodeo. The new boots had a hefty price tag on them. And being that Daniel and I had just returned from our Maui honeymoon, where money just seemed to flow out of our bank account like a river, I was going to need all the help I could get to purchase those boots.

  I looked at Meredith skeptically, and then pulled a pen and notepad from the drawer.

  “All right,” I said. “What kind of pies do you want?”

  The edges of her mouth curled up into a smile, reminding me of that part in The Grinch when the green cave dweller devises his malicious plan to ruin Christmas for Whoville.

  She rattled off some typical Thanksgiving pie fare. Pecan, Gingersnap Pumpkin, and Whiskey Apple.

  “They’ll be ready by 9 a.m. Thursday,” I said. “I’m closing the shop by noon, so don’t wait until the last minute to pick them up.”

  She nodded quickly.

  Tobias coughed, catching Meredith’s attention again. She turned around, staring at him. Then she leaned forward toward me.

  “Cinnamon, what is that man doing in here?” she rasped, her eyes growing wide, as if I was committing some crime by having him in my shop. “Don’t you know that he’s…”

  She trailed off as she realized that I wasn’t in agreement with whatever she was implying.

  “I asked him to be a taste tester,” I said. “Tobias has some experience in the pastry industry.”

  “But Cinnamon, he’s a…”

  She trailed off again.

  She leaned in even closer to me.

  “He’s a homeless drunk who could be dangerous,” she said in a voice that was louder than it should have been.

  I narrowed my eyes at her.

  “Meredith, your pies will be ready Thursday morning,” I said coldly. “Now if you don’t mind, I have some work to do.”

  She raised an eyebrow at me.

  “Well, fine,” she said. “I’m only trying to give you some neighborly advice, dear. Once one of them starts coming in, you know there’ll be others following close behind. And anyway, if I were your husband, I’d sure be worried about you inviting a man like that off the street into your pie shop.”

  “Well, that’s between me and Daniel. Now if you’d excuse me, I—”

  The front door jingled and a cold rush of air ran through the dining room. I looked over, realizing it was Tobias leaving.

  He hadn’t finished his pie.

  Stupid Meredith. He must have overheard her.

  I shook my head and hurried across the dining room, opening the front door, trying to catch him before he disappeared, but I was too late.

  I looked up and down both sides of the street, but didn’t see him anywhere.

  Tobias was gone.

  A few seconds later, I felt Meredith at my arm.

  “It’s really for the best, dear,” she said. “The man was probably going to rob you. I most likely saved you by walking in this morning.”

  I felt my cheeks flush with anger. She brushed past me, her overbearing perfume hitting my nostrils hard. I watched as she walked across the street and got into her BMW.

  I let out a sigh into the damp fog and went back inside.

  I cleared Tobias’ half-eaten plate of pie away.

  I hoped he had gotten enough.

  Chapter 5

  I gripped Huckleberry’s leash with one hand, and dug the other one deep into the pocket of my plaid pea coat. I clutched the paper bag firmly in the crook of my arm.

  I took in a deep breath of gloriously crisp fall air. The fog had burned off and the warmth of the sun had melted the hoarfrost from the trees, leaving the branches glistening and sparkling in the autumn light.

  Even though I was short on time, I walked slowly along the dirt path through the woods, savoring the beauty of late November in Christmas River. With everything going on this week – taking orders, baking pies, and trying to plan the biggest meal of the year for my immediate family and friends – I hadn’t had much time to enjoy the outdoors. Which was a shame, because this time of year was spectacular up in the Cascade Mountains. Colorful leaves, clear, cold air, and weather as unpredictable as a crazy old person behind the wheel of an RV. Anything could happen. Some Thanksgivings, it was sunny and in the 60s. Other Thanksgivings, howling winter storms hit our corner of the mountains, making you question whether it was actually Thanksgiving or Christmas. You just never knew what the weather had in store. And in some ways, that was part of the fun.

  A chilly wind blew into the side of my face and a couple of golden, apple cider-colored leaves got caught in Huckleberry’s black fur as they blew across the trail. The Australian shepherd shook them off and turned around to look at me, as if he’d mistaken the wind for a person ruffling his fur.

  I smiled, thinking of how much I loved that little dog at the end of the leash. It had been almost three years since I’d found him homeless, his original owner, Mason Barstow, having been murdered around the time of the big Gingerbread Junction competition. Mason’s murder had been pinned on me, and the then-sheriff had tried to arrest me for the deed. But looking back on all that now, I couldn’t really complain.

  As morbid and heartless as it sounded, Mason Barstow being murdered was one of the best things to ever happen to me.

  I’d gotten Huckleberry out of the deal. And someone else very special walked into my life that month as a result of the murder.

  I approached the footbridge that straddled the Christmas River, the geological feature for which our small town was named for. A man was standing in the middle of the bridge, looking down at the cold, rushing river.

  My footsteps echoed against the hollow wood and made the bridge shake slightly, but the man in the brown coat with the tan face and shaggy black hair didn’t seem to hear me. I stopped near him, and followed his gaze down toward the river.

  “Did you bring the goods?” he whispered just loud enough to hear.

  He kept his eyes fixed on the water below.

  “Yes,” I rasped.

  “Everything I asked for?”

  I nodded.

  “The Cranberry Apple Walnut?”

  I nodded again.

  “The napkin? The fork?” he said, his tone serious and unwavering. “Because if you didn’t bring the fork, then the deal is off.”

  “I brought the fork,” I said, clutching the paper bag like it contained gold nuggets. “But we still have to discuss payment. Did you bring the green?”

  “About that,” he said, stepping so close to me that I could smell the clean, evergreen smell of his aftershave. “I’m going to be a little late with the payment.”

  I turned toward him raising an eyebrow.

  “That’s not what we discussed,” I said, pulling the bag back.

  He stepped even closer to me, h
is presence making my heart speed up.

  “You know I’m good for it,” he said.

  “Do I?” I said. “You seem like an untrustworthy sort to me. The kind my grandfather warned me about growing up. Unsavory is what I think he used to call fellas like you.”

  He smiled and slid his arms around my waist.

  “Probably am,” he said. “Which is too bad for you, being that you married an unsavory type such as me.”

  He leaned down and planted a slow burner on my lips. I fell into his arms, noticing too late that the paper bag that had been safely tucked away under my arm had been snatched and was now firmly in his hands.

  He’d pulled a fast one on me.

  But I could have cared less.

  He pulled away, smiling, the whites of his eyes gleaming against his tan skin.

  “Gotcha,” he said.

  “Don’t kid yourself,” I said. “I let you win.”

  I smiled back.

  “How are things at the office this morning, Sheriff?”

  “Been quiet,” he said. “Like a grave. I’ve been bored stiff.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  He shrugged.

  This summer had been anything but boring, between the long hours Daniel spent working on cases and the time he spent in the hospital after getting busted up by a runaway horse. The season had been long, hectic, and there had been times when I’d been half out of my mind with worry. But thankfully, things had simmered down. We’d even finally taken that long-delayed honeymoon to Maui earlier this month. It had left us both with dark tans, a sense of giddy happiness, and for me at least, a sadness that it had gone by so quickly.

  Two weeks of pure bliss had gone by faster than a coconut down a waterfall.

  “It’s not the boredom at the office that I’m concerned about,” Daniel said. “It’s just a feeling that we’re in the quiet before the storm. Like they’re all just saving it for the holiday, you know? The drunk drivers and the thieves and the ruffians...

  “How are things at the pie shop?”

  “Good,” I said. “I just… I miss Maui. I miss being with you all day.”

  I rested my head on his shoulder.

  “I miss those turtles just floating there like they didn’t have a care in the world.”

  I let out a short little sigh, thinking about the way the two of us had floated right along, like we were one of them.

  “I miss ‘em too, Cin,” Daniel said, leaning his chin on the top of my head.

  We were both quiet for a moment. I thought about those lovely two weeks in the sun. How at peace I’d felt. How wonderful it’d been that it was just the two of us there. No customers, no law breakers, no co-workers, no sheriff’s cars or aprons or bills to pay.

  Just the two of us in the deep blue ocean.And those turtles.

  It had been a magical time. We got up early and went snorkeling every morning. We took long, lovely afternoon naps as the tropical sun filtered through the drapes. We spent the rest of the afternoon bobbing in the salty ocean. Then at night, we danced to soft ukulele music and ate seafood and drank flavored rum cocktails, the cool Hawaiian breeze rustling through the palm trees around our Lanai.

  We lay in each other’s arms until daybreak. Then we did it all over again.

  It had been a dream.

  But as with all dreams, you had to wake up sometime.

  I’d woken up to a backlog of pie orders, a busted oven at the shop, and below-freezing weather that came as a shock after the pristine 82-degree, breezy weather of the islands.

  Still, I couldn’t complain all that much. I liked being back in the kitchen, doing the thing I had been born to do – baking pies. Plus, there hadn’t been any Huckleberry in Hawaii. And besides, I was looking forward to Thanksgiving, despite all the work that lay ahead.

  “It is beautiful here, though, isn’t it?” Daniel said, as if reading my mind. Knowing that I wasn’t quite as sad about being back as I was pretending to be.

  He took in a big breath of fresh forest air.

  “Maui’s beautiful and all. But this?” he said nodding in the river’s general direction. “This is in our blood, Cin. This is where we belong.”

  “You wouldn’t trade it all for palm trees and a Lanai if you could?” I said.

  He shook his head.

  “I’d miss this air, here,” he said. “I’d miss the history.”

  “The history?” I said.

  Christmas River had a past like any other Western town, but I’d never known Daniel to be all that interested in it. That was more my grandfather’s department.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I mean, I’d miss our history. For example this here bridge? This was where I almost lost you three years ago. You remember that?”

  I smiled because I could now, looking back on that dark day. At the time, it hadn’t been something to smile about. Daniel said goodbye to me on this bridge then. He said he was leaving town, that there was something inside of him that wasn’t any good. That he wasn’t what I wanted – a former cop who’d been through the emotional ringer.

  That it would never have worked between us.

  I felt the gold band on my finger.

  He’d been so wrong back then.

  “Of course I remember,” I said.

  “Or that place in the woods behind your shop where I ended up that night in the storm,” he continued. “I saw the lights of the kitchen and saw you in there working. And I thought to myself, That woman’s got something I want.”

  I cracked a smile.

  “Yeah,” I said. “A big ‘ol slice of pie.”

  He grinned.

  “All right, you got me.” he said. “Maybe food was my first motivation. But I had a change of heart shortly after.”

  He put his arm over my shoulder and we started strolling down the bridge.

  “You see, I wouldn’t give up any of that for the world,” he said. “Not for all the turtles in the South Pacific.”

  I smiled.

  We walked for a little ways along the east bank of the river. But it wasn’t long before Daniel’s lunch break was up and he had to get back to work.

  And I knew I should probably be getting back to the shop too.

  I kissed him goodbye and watched as he walked through the woods back to the Sheriff’s Office, holding the paper bag of Cranberry Apple Walnut Pie in his hands as if it was a prisoner he’d been put in charge of.

  That man sure loved his pie.

  I made my way slowly back to the shop, letting Huckleberry explore the woods as much as he wanted to along the way, lost in the memories Daniel had stirred with his talking.

  I smiled.

  He was right.

  I wouldn’t have given up what we both had here in Christmas River for all the turtles and snorkeling and sunny, warm tropical blue days in the world.

  This was where we belonged.

  This was our home.

  Chapter 6

  “I swear, Cin, it was the most hideous thing you’ve ever seen,” Kara said, shoveling another overflowing forkful of pumpkin pie into her mouth. “It was painted this putrid color of pea soup. And not just pea soup, the most vile, rotten pea soup you can think of. I did my best to be gracious, but goodness. That had to be the ugliest crib I’ve ever seen. I don’t think I was able to keep the look of horror off my face.”

  I cupped my hands around a steaming mug of pomegranate tea and tried hard not to break out in childish giggles.

  Kara had just finished telling me about her morning. About how the mother of her soon-to-be husband, John, had stopped by Kara’s ornament store that morning, telling her that she had a giant present for her sitting in the car. Kara had been touched by the gesture, which was saying something, given Kara’s well-known dislike for John’s mother.

  That is, until she saw what was stashed in the trunk of Mrs. Billings’ car.

  “I’m sure it can’t be that bad, Kara,” I said. “She’s probably just excited about ha
ving a grandchild on the way, and since you don’t know if it’s going to be a girl or a boy yet, she was probably trying to go with a neutral color.”

  Kara let out a stiff, skeptical laugh.

  “I’m pretty sure the woman knows exactly what she was doing,” she said, inhaling the last half of her pie slice like she hadn’t eaten anything in weeks. “That’s Mrs. Billings all over. But it shocks me that she’d be so cruel to her own grandchild. I can only imagine the emotional damage being in a crib that color would cause the baby.”

  I could only shake my head.

  Kara had a way of exaggerating things wildly.

  Which was one of the reasons I loved her so much. There was never a dull moment in my best friend’s life.

  Plus, she was right about John’s mother. I knew that Mrs. Billings wasn’t an easy person to deal with. I’d found that little fact out last Thanksgiving. After inviting her to my dinner table, she’d spent most of the night berating the butter and sugar content of my most delicious dishes, warning that heart trouble was in store for everyone at the table if they ate what I’d made.

  Luckily, no one listened to her. She spent the rest of the night scowling bitterly in the corner, snacking on green beans.

  And somehow, despite that terribly rude showing, I had yet again invited Mrs. Billings and her son, John Billings, to my table Thanksgiving Day. I’d done it because I saw no other way around it: I wanted Kara and John there, and excluding his mother would have been downright rude.

  Sometimes that’s just how Thanksgiving was. You had to take the baggage that came along with your loved ones, no matter how many bitter old ladies that baggage contained.

  The timer beeped, and I got up and checked on the double-crusted Whiskey Apple pies that were baking in the oven. The tops weren’t quite the color of rich caramel brown that signified being fully cooked, so I reset the timer for another ten minutes and then went back over to the kitchen island, where Kara and I had been sitting.

  “Speaking of the baby,” I said, smiling, tickled a little at the idea – it was still a relatively new bit of news for me. Kara had only found out in September that she was pregnant. “How’ve you been feeling lately?”