by Lois Richer
“Then I really do need to get to work,” she said with a grin.
“Yep, which is why I’ll finish clearing this snow for you. Provided you save me a big piece of your fudge.” He reached out for her broom. Joy gladly handed it over. Her feet felt numb.
“What kind of fudge would you like?” she asked. “I’m making five different flavors.”
“Tough decision.” Sam began to sweep slowly. “Can I have one of each?” he asked in a hopeful tone.
“Okay, but when you get sick from all the sugar, don’t blame me.” She grabbed the door handle but hesitated. “How is everything going? Tell me the truth.”
“Better than I ever imagined. We’re not even one week into the festival and we’re getting more visitors than we’d hoped for.” He laughed. “Everyone’s pitching in to make it a success.”
“Because they’re led by you,” Joy said quietly. “You’re their inspiration. We all owe you a debt of gratitude, Sam. Especially me. For the log house, for my van. Even for the bakery, I guess. I know you had something to do with that,” she hinted, hoping he’d admit it.
“Nobody owes me anything,” he said sternly. “Especially you.” Then his tone altered to the familiar teasing. “Now get in there and stir up that fudge, Mrs. Baker.”
“Yes, sir.” Joy saluted smartly. “See you later?” she couldn’t help adding.
“Absolutely,” he said absently. She knew his brain was busy working out how to handle the day’s activities, especially their first talent show tonight.
Inside, Joy shed her coat in her tiny office, changed her boots to shoes and tied on an apron. Clara was busy slicing the freshly baked specialty breads so there was no use trying to speak to her above the slicer’s noise.
Working quickly, Joy assembled ingredients and five flavorings. Within minutes she had her first batch of fudge cooking. Before nine o’clock, all five fudge slabs were cooling and a very large batch of pecan tarts bubbled in the oven. Clara had nearly finished injecting the round doughnuts with jelly.
“Our pastry cases look spectacular,” Joy complimented her baker as she admired their work. “We’re really full. I just hope we sell it all.”
“We will. Especially those little meat pies.” Clara sounded certain. “They were a great idea, boss. We can warm them in the microwave so folks can munch on them as they walk around outside.”
“Agreed.” Joy started a fresh pot of coffee brewing and then unlocked the front door, ready for business even though it was still early. “How did Alyson work out?”
“Our new baker’s assistant is a total blessing,” Clara affirmed as she poured herself a cup of coffee. “She’s faster than anyone I’ve ever worked with. Extremely capable. And she loves the hours. Work at night, get the kids off to school and then sleep during the day. She’s thrilled with the job.”
“Good to hear.” Joy tilted her head as the doorbell at the back door rang. “That must be our bread order.”
Clara left to handle the delivery. She returned wearing a thoughtful expression. “I think you need to consider finding a different bread supplier, Joy. The quality of this company’s product isn’t first-class. And we are.” She handed over the invoice.
“Yes, we are, Clara. I wish it was possible for us to make it ourselves, but we just don’t have the capacity to bake everything. I’d rather bake our specialty stuff because we have a better markup. The grocery store stocks this same bread so there’s no competition.” Joy tucked the paper into her apron pocket and shrugged. “Still, I’ll think about this.”
“Think about what?” Sam had walked in on the tail end of their conversation.
“Finding a better bread supplier. My parents made the best bread I’ve ever tasted. I wish I could get them—” She stopped and shook her head. There was no point in wishing when her parents had made it very clear they wanted nothing to do with her. Ever. “Never mind. We’ll just have to manage.”
Clara greeted Sam and winked at Joy before leaving to check on the tarts.
“Are you here for your fudge already?” Joy teased.
“Not yet.” He beckoned to a group of teens standing outside.
They filed in, shuffling their feet awkwardly, making Joy smile. When they were all inside, he explained.
“They want a really special gift for their drama coach for prepping them for their opening night performance on Sunday night. Since he has allergies, they didn’t think flowers were appropriate. I suggested your fudge,” he announced proudly.
“Would you like to taste some to help you decide?” she offered. Eager nods had her slicing thin slivers off the solid blocks. She felt a smug whoosh of satisfaction when each teen licked their lips and nodded at one another. They ordered a large box of assorted flavors.
“Are you going to have fudge all the time?” one boy asked.
“I hadn’t really thought about it,” Joy said. “Why?”
“Because this would be the perfect Christmas gift for my dad, except I don’t want to get it too early.”
“Why’s that, Archie?” Sam asked curiously.
“He scours the house until he finds our gifts,” the boy explained with a wry look. “It’s hard to surprise him on Christmas. But this would.” He finished the last of his peppermint fudge. “It’s amazing.”
“Tell you what.” Joy made up her mind instantly. “I’ll make fudge every Saturday. Then you can get your dad’s, right before Christmas. Fresh. I could even keep it until you were ready to take it home that evening.”
“Okay. Thanks.” The boy nodded eagerly.
“I want some of that raspberry fudge for my grandma,” another said.
Soon they were all planning gifts.
“Why don’t you all put in your orders now? You can buy what you need today and pick up your special gifts on Christmas Eve?” Sam suggested.
When the teens all agreed, Joy quickly wrote up their orders and took their money, thrilled with the sales but a little chagrined by her diminished fudge display.
“Good work, guys. Now, you need to get to practice and I have to go make sure the popcorn wreaths are working out for that preschool class.” Sam frowned darkly. “Seems like they always eat most of the popcorn.”
Joy burst out laughing.
“It’s not funny,” he chided and then sighed. “Will you keep a meat pie for me for lunch, Joy?”
“Sure.” She set one aside as he and her fudge clients hurried out the door.
“It’s like having a blizzard blow in and out in five minutes.” Clara reorganized the remaining fudge to make room for more tarts. “That Sam sure has eyes for you.”
“Oh, we’re just friends,” Joy said airily, trying to suppress the thrill that skittered through her at the mention of his name. Thankfully, Miss Partridge arrived then to pick up the rolls for the ladies’ auxiliary group who would be selling chili dogs.
“Oh, my dear, the aroma in here.” Miss Partridge lifted her patrician nose in the air and inhaled. “Marvelous. Those candy-cane cookies are so darling.” She tapped her forefinger against the counter. “Can you give me five dozen? We’ll sell them for dessert or with our hot chocolate.”
Customers streamed in. Joy kept busy tending to each. She’d intended to be on the sidewalk with samples today, but it was neither possible nor necessary. The bakery swarmed with customers. If they were uncertain, she offered a sample and the sale was made. Their stock was flying out the door. As expected, the meat pies sold out before noon. Happily, Clara had baked two more batches while Joy was selling and they were ready to serve well before lunchtime.
“You’re going to have to hire someone to man the counter,” head baker Clara said when they finally got a break.
“I know. But—” Joy never got to finish.
“Wages are expensive,” the lady interrupted. “But we could probably move more product
if there was a second person to help or offer samples outside. And you wouldn’t wear yourself out running to clear coffee cups between serving customers.”
“You know someone suitable?” Joy gazed at her with new respect. Clara never said anything without a reason.
“Not off the top of my head. But Grace Partridge would know. You should ask her.” Clara turned toward the back. “Think I’ll whip up another batch of shortcakes. They seem to be popular, and the oven’s still hot. We have fresh strawberries and whipped cream we should use up, too.”
“But your shift is almost over,” Joy protested after a glance at her watch.
“I’ve got enough time.” The lady disappeared just as Grace returned, followed by a mousy-looking woman.
“Hello again,” Joy greeted her.
“My dear, we’re selling our chili dogs so fast that we need more of your delicious rolls. Are there any left?” Miss Partridge asked.
“Of course. We baked extra just in case. Right here.” She pulled the rolling cart forward.
“Oh, where are my manners? Joy, this is Honey Gray. I asked her to come along because I thought you might need an extra pair of hands today. Honey’s helping hands are the best,” Miss Partridge said cheerfully. “And can she ever sell.”
“Hello, Honey.” Joy shook the woman’s hand. “How kind of you, Grace, and of you, Honey, to offer. Actually, I could use your help now, if you’re willing, Honey?”
The woman nodded though she said nothing. After they’d loaded Grace’s car with fresh rolls, Joy showed her newest employee how to pack the assorted products for sale so they wouldn’t flatten, and how to operate the cash register. At first she had doubts about Honey’s capabilities, but there was no time to worry when a crash sounded in the kitchen. Joy left Honey with a client and went to investigate.
“My fault. Just plain clumsiness,” Clara grumped as she restacked her baking pans on the stainless-steel table. “Nothing serious.”
“I’m glad.” Reassured, Joy returned to the front and found it teeming with clients and Honey deftly dealing with each, smiling calmly as she filled orders and rang up sales. It was a simple thing to step in beside her and work together in tandem so no one had a long wait. Joy was thrilled to note that Honey had somehow found time to run fresh coffee.
“We need more meat pies,” her helper whispered between customers. Once Joy had retrieved another tray from the back, Honey requested a packaging refill of the pristine white boxes and bags labeled Joy’s Treats. On and on they worked until nearly two thirty, when a sudden lull offered some breathing space.
“You are a treasure, Honey, and if you want it, you have a job here. Ten to three thirty Tuesday to Friday. Saturday ten till closing,” Joy offered on the spur of the moment.
Though an inner voice chirped a reminder about past, quick decisions she’d regretted, Joy shut them down. Honey was the answer to a prayer she’d barely voiced. God was meeting her needs. Joy would trust He would continue to do so.
“I accept the job,” Honey said, the faint traces of a smile on her lips. “Thank you, Joy. This is a happy place to work. I like it a lot.”
“Great! If you think you can man the store for a bit on your own, I’d like to go out and look around, see how our festival is doing.” Joy showed her new helper how to reach her cell phone via the bakery phone’s speed dial if she needed help.
Then she tugged on her jacket and gloves and strolled down the street, loving the cheery atmosphere that abounded amid soft Christmas carols filling the air.
A group of kids were engaged in a skating tug-of-war on the pond. Many couples perused the stalls in the park, which were filled to bursting with offerings, providing enough choices for any shopper. Other folks wandered in and out of the stores, arms laden with prettily wrapped packages, a service one of the local clubs offered. An igloo-building contest was in progress on an empty lot. In the distance she saw Drew and his father, Ben, seated on the old sleigh they’d used in the video. Several families sat behind them, their children shaking bells that echoed through the winter air.
People laughed and greeted each other with happy smiles as they moved from venue to venue, store to store, activity to activity. Joy soaked it all in, glad her own kids could be here, somewhere, with Sam’s sister-in-law, no doubt having as much fun as anyone. She’d get to hear all about it later.
A car backfired just as Joy’s gaze lit on Sam, who stood in front of a ring of trees that marked the outside edge of the park. Her heart gave a bound of delight, until she saw Evan Smith standing nearby. She could tell from the man’s raised voice that this was not a happy meeting.
But something else was wrong. Sam’s face was white and still, as if he’d swallowed his anger for too long. No, more as if he’d been struck. She quickened her pace, hurrying toward him.
“If a kid is seriously injured on that ice,” Mr. Smith snarled, “it will be all your fault and this town will be sued for everything it owns. Nice work, Sam.”
Sam seemed frozen in place. He offered no response in his own defense, didn’t even look at the other man. Joy’s anger burst out of her.
“Stop this!” she hissed. “You’re making a scene and ruining everything we worked for. No one is going to get sued, Mr. Smith.” Joy had no idea what made her intervene, only that she couldn’t let Evan continue to browbeat Sam. She glared at his accuser. “You know very well that this is a shallow pond. The ice is perfectly safe since it’s so cold today. Everything is going very well. People are actually enjoying themselves. Sam’s done a magnificent job.”
Evan Smith harrumphed.
“Is happiness what you hate, Mr. Smith? Would an accident or a lawsuit make you feel better? Would you be mollified then?” She exhaled and glanced at Sam for backup, only to see that he looked completely disoriented. Something was really wrong.
“Now, look here, lady—Hey, what’s wrong with Sam?”
“You are what’s wrong. Go away, Mr. Smith,” she snapped. “Lock yourself in your office where you can glare at everyone you see. Whatever. Just keep your negativity to yourself, away from here, because the rest of us are trying to make this festival work to keep our town going. So either help us or get out of the way.”
The man appeared infuriated by her comments, but Joy didn’t care about him. It was Sam, with the shaking hands and glazed, vacant expression, who troubled her.
“If this festival fails, Mr. Smith, and if the required amount of money is not raised,” Joy growled, her voice low so no one else would hear, “I will publicly accuse you of undermining all the work that’s been done, for the simple selfish reason that you don’t want Sam’s ideas to succeed. I will then put forward a motion at a town meeting saying that since you and your negative cronies caused the festival’s failure, you should repay the outstanding loan on the community hall.”
“You can’t do that,” he sputtered.
“Watch me.” She slid her hand onto Sam’s arm while she stared down Evan Smith. “Now either get on board or get out of our way. We have no more time to waste on your pettiness.”
Mr. Smith, after glowering at her for a moment, scowled at Sam, too. Then he turned his back and stomped away. Joy exhaled.
“Well. That went better than I thought.” She grasped Sam’s hand and tugged, urging tenderly, “Come with me, Sam. You need to eat your meat pie now. I’ve kept it warm for you.”
Exerting every ounce of energy she could muster, she drew him with her toward the bakery. He walked beside her falteringly, as if he was sleepwalking. Joy didn’t know what to think. She only knew that right now she had to get him inside, to someplace private.
At the bakery she directed him to the back, and then sat him in a chair while she drew off his coat and gloves. Sam didn’t object, didn’t say anything. He just kept staring blankly in front of him.
Aware of the customers they’d passed in front,
waiting to buy her baking, Joy spared one second to text Grace Partridge. Help!
Confident her friend would soon appear, she then concentrated on Sam. What was wrong with him? What should she do? Unsure of how to help, she cupped her palms around his face, fretting about the ice-cold chill she felt on his skin.
“Sam?” she whispered, smoothing her fingers over his cheeks. “Come back from wherever you are. It’s safe here. Evan is gone. You’re safe now. Please, Sam, come back.”
When he still didn’t respond, Joy leaned forward and rested her forehead against his.
“Please, Sam. You’re safe. Come back to me.”
* * *
The rifle shot repeatedly crackled, deafening him. Sam wanted to cover his ears, to run away, but he knew both were impossible. The ropes on his wrists and around his ankles kept him prisoner. Anyway, even if he could move, they’d just repeat the whole agonizing process all over again.
“Sam?” A soft, soothing voice beckoned him from the nightmare.
He didn’t say anything. They’d only use it against him, use it to hurt...
“Please, Sam. You’re safe. Come back to me.”
Back?
Skin like velvet pressed against his face. Was it another trick? A way to get him to condemn himself, to reveal who—He kept his eyes closed, but seconds passed and curiosity overwhelmed him so he slowly opened them.
“Hi, there. You’re safe now, Sam,” a charming voice reassured him. It matched the pretty face in front of him.
He blinked away the clouds, trying to comprehend where he was. Ah, the bakery.
“Joy?” he croaked, his throat so dry.
“Yes, it’s me. Here, drink this.”
Sam felt a cup pressed to his lips. The smell of coffee filled his nostrils. He drank then made a face. “I don’t take sugar,” he said.
“Today you do. A little more.” She held the cup to his lips, forcing him to swallow the too-sweet brew. Finally she took it away and replaced it with a napkin-wrapped pastry. “You missed eating lunch, didn’t you?”