Nothing.
Watching to be sure there were no other cars on the deserted highway, he jerked the wheel in a U-turn and headed back toward town. No matter where he ultimately decided to take her, both places lay that direction.
His wet palms kept slipping on the steering wheel, and he swiped them along his damp jeans. “How’d you come to be out in this mess?”
The woman only shivered.
“Again, my name is Blake. I’m here to help you.”
He hoped making polite conversation would put her fears at ease, if she had any. Her face was as placid as a summer lake. Blake talked about everything that popped into his head—what he’d worked on that day, who he predicted would win the World Series, his favorite foods. By the time they reached Stone Harbor, the woman began rallying around.
She studied a rip in her slacks. “I-I don’t know you.”
Streetlights bathed the truck enough for him to witness the confusion in her pale eyes. “No, ma’am.” Blake repeated his name and how she’d come to be in his truck.
“I don’t know you.” She gripped the door panel, raising the thick veins in her hands. Her gaze darted around the cab. Her chest rose and fell in panic. “I don’t know you!”
Blake hesitated to move or speak, unsure how to handle the situation. The police station was closest. He’d take her there. They could determine whether or not she required medical care. He eased the truck to a stop at the town’s only stoplight, the police station a long two blocks away.
The woman groped for the door handle. “I don’t know you,” she yelled, over and over.
Blake grabbed her arm, not only to reassure her but to keep her from jumping out. Despite not weighing more than a wet blanket, she managed to best him and opened her door. She jumped off the bench seat and onto the ground with the stealth of someone half her age. Apparently, fear and adrenaline were a powerful combination.
Blake slapped the wheel, threw the truck into park, and followed her. “I won’t hurt you. I’m trying to get you home.”
She spun and pointed a finger at him, stuttering words he couldn’t make out, eyes wild.
Oncoming headlights highlighted them, and a sports car fishtailed to a halt at the curb. The driver’s door opened. “Grandma?” A young woman in a hooded coat scrambled out and ran at them. “Oh, thank God, you’re safe.” She gripped her grandma’s arms and pulled her into a hug, pushing the hood off her hair.
The older woman’s face twisted in annoyance but the savage look in her eyes dimmed.
Cold rain spattered around them.
Blake exhaled, glad the woman had family and grateful to exit this scenario. “I found her walking down Highway One just past Rim Road.”
The woman released her grandma and turned as if she only just realized he’d been standing there. The bluest eyes he’d ever seen met his. Even with her dark hair mussed, the freezing rain, and the petrified grandmother, his mind declared she was absolutely beautiful.
“That man…that man,” the grandma stuttered, jabbing her bony finger at Blake.
Blake took a step back, unsure what he’d done to make the woman angry.
“That man,” she repeated.
“Calm down, Grandma, and tell me what happened. Are you hurt?”
“Hurt.” The elderly woman put distance between herself and Blake. “That man…hurt…hurt.”
The younger woman gazed at her grandma’s torn slacks and mud-stained sweatshirt. Those blue eyes bounced from him to her grandma then back again. “Did this man hurt you?”
The grandma jabbed a finger at him again. “Hurt.”
Blake threw up his palms. “I didn’t—”
“Back off.” Those stunning eyes turned to blue fire, and she gripped her grandma’s arm, walking them both backwards to the sports car. Blake stepped forward to defend his character, not wanting this woman to think he’d harm anyone.
She thrust out a palm like a traffic cop. “Don’t come any closer or I’ll…I’ll…” They continued backing away as she glanced around the sidewalk in search of something. She raised her chin. “I’ll kick you.”
If the circumstances were different, he’d laugh. Unfortunately, nothing about this evening was funny. Why would the grandma lie about something he didn’t do? “I found her walking in the storm, unresponsive. I was taking her to the police station.”
“That man…hurt…me,” the grandma lied again.
Blake kept his response calm. “I didn’t.”
“Hurt!” The old woman screamed the word over and over.
With every backwards step closer to their car, the granddaughter’s gaze darted from him to her grandma. Her forehead crumpled, as if trying to decide whose position was most logical. If her grandma would stop screaming maybe the woman could judge accurately.
Before Blake could regain equilibrium of the situation, he was staring at the sports car’s taillights in the distance. Drizzle coated his skin. The town was silent and unmoving, the businesses having closed hours ago. The stoplight reflected green off the slick pavement.
His attempt at Good Samaritan had just exploded.
Blake returned to his truck and waited for the now-red light to turn green. He was soaked, cold, and tired, but what troubled him more than anything was that the granddaughter—and the elderly woman, who’d obviously lost her faculties—thought him a monster. Or a pervert.
With no way to rectify the misunderstanding, Blake went to the police station, reported the incident to the authorities so they’d be aware of what had happened, and then drove home. After a hot shower and a late dinner out of a can, he tried to focus his thoughts on the weatherman. If the man’s predictions were correct, Blake needed to review his options. But as he fell into bed and listened to his house settle, he chased the question that had plagued him since his first look into those disarming blue eyes.
Who was that beautiful woman?
3
Olivia fought the dregs of sleep. Two lattes, plus espresso, sat like a boulder in her stomach. Her heart raced, but her eyes struggled to focus on Sheriff Miller and the gingerbread he held in his meaty hand.
He’d offered to meet her at the bakery before they opened to discuss the grandma-napping stranger. When he arrived, he said the stranger had stopped by the station last night and explained the situation while she waited in the ER for clearance to take Grandma home. Three hours of sleep just wasn’t enough for a woman to function properly. She covered a yawn with her hand and leaned her arms on her office desk.
The sheriff swallowed his bite and chased it down with coffee. “I assure you, Elizabeth wasn’t in danger with Blake. I’ve known him and his family for years. His record is spotless. Not even a traffic ticket.”
Positive the sheriff had just broken some kind of citizen confidentiality protocol, Olivia rubbed her aching forehead. “You’re saying there’s no possible way this man had intentions to harm my grandmother?”
“Exactly.” He packed in another bite.
So, this guy—Blake—was an outstanding citizen. Grandma’s lack of bodily harm, minus the scratch where her slacks had torn, probably from a fall, agreed with what the sheriff had said about his integrity. Meaning Olivia owed him an apology. And her gratitude. If only she’d have slowed down to connect the dots last night, she’d be avoiding this today. “Where can I find Blake Hartford?”
Sheriff Miller held up his finger while he chewed then swallowed. “He comes through town now and then. Mostly keeps to himself, though. He keeps busy farming and restoring his Victorian farmhouse.”
The tidbit had her passion for antiquated architecture salivating. The farming thing, however, confused her. Yes, her city-girl upbringing made her ignorant of farming, but she couldn’t picture fields of cattle and goats on the coast of Maine.
The sheriff chuckled, and she realized she’d been making a face.
“He owns a blueberry farm,” he said.
Ah.
“Tell you what.” The sheriff wiped the
bread crumbs from his lips. “I’ll let Blake know to stop by. You can thank him then.”
“Works for me.” That would buy her time to rehearse an explanation as to why her grandma had been wandering the roads alone, disoriented, and shouting false accusations. And why Olivia had resorted to threats a toddler would make.
The sheriff rose from the chair and shook her hand. “Welcome to Stone Harbor, Miss Hudson.”
And what a welcome the past four months had been. Polar ice cap temperatures. The stroke that sent Grandma further into the abyss of Alzheimer’s. A barrage of doctors’ appointments. Managerial and shift changes at the bakery. But last night’s incident topped them all. She’d come for healing and found chaos. “Thank you, Sheriff.”
He made for the exit but paused when his hand met the doorknob. He turned to her. “You know, I heard your gingersnaps have helped Wanda Watson’s digestion issues. I didn’t believe it, but my ulcer’s been killing me for a while now, and your gingerbread has me feeling better than I have in ages.”
She smiled instead of groaning and told him to take a loaf on his way out, no charge.
The decadent aroma of strawberry buttercream drifted in from the now open door. In the far corner of the kitchen, Grandma stood at the mixer with the ever curt and sulky Darlene. The woman despised Olivia, though her reasons were unclear.
The hum of industrial mixers and the ovens’ warmth tempted Olivia to dreamland. Except she couldn’t go. Right now she had time, however short, to delve into the exciting world of order invoices, bills, and property taxes before the bakery opened its doors to customers.
At least these issues were in black-and-white and could be organized in neat stacks according to importance. The issues in her personal life—not so easy.
~*~
Three weeks into April, Blake stood next to his twenty acres of lowbush blueberries, grateful the cold front had stayed a few degrees above freezing. Even better—the weatherman’s prophecy had been false. A hurricane pushing along the southern coast was bringing warmer temperatures Blake’s way. The sun’s warmth spread across his back, and the hundreds of white, star-shaped blossoms beginning to dot the bushes.
Twelve feet away, Huck Anderson knelt beside a stack of wooden beehive boxes, laughing.
Blake frowned. “It wasn’t funny.”
“I’m laughing ‘cause I’m usually the one trying to claw my way out of awkward situations.” Huck stood. “Have you seen ‘em since?”
“No. The sheriff told me to stop by the bakery because she wanted to apologize, but I haven’t.”
“Why not?”
“Clearly, both women were scared and confused. An apology isn’t necessary.”
Huck replaced the bee-box lid, covering the frames where the honeybees were making their comb. Several insects had landed on his arms and shoulders as if he were a bee magnet.
Blake stayed put. He respected the bees and their vital role in pollination and sustaining human life, but he didn’t want to mess around with them either. His southern-born friend, however, loved the challenge.
“Is she hot?” When Blake stuttered, Huck’s laughter echoed across the field. “That says it all, buddy.” Huck sobered and picked up his pry bar and bee smoker from the ground. “How’d the lady end up on the highway?”
Blake shrugged. “Sheriff said she wandered off while the granddaughter was closing up shop. I guess that’s why she’s here, to take things over.”
Blake hadn’t seen Mrs. Hudson for years, which was why he hadn’t recognized her that night. The owner of the area’s once-famous award-winning bakery was shorter and frailer than he remembered. Bad enough that tourism had plummeted, now the merchants themselves were fading too. Blake reconsidered his earlier decision to avoid the bakery. He didn’t need an apology, all things considered. But he was curious to know if this Olivia’s eyes really were as blue as he remembered. As though he needed fool thoughts like that right now.
Blake inhaled a deep breath of sunshine and salty air, filling his lungs and mind with something sensible. If Madison had taught him one thing, it was that infatuations were just that—infatuations. When Blake fell in love, he fell hard, and he’d been balancing pretty good on his own for a while now. No need for any stiff breezes in the form of pretty granddaughters to knock him down.
He assisted Huck in checking the remaining hives by offering moral support from his farm utility vehicle. Over the next several days, the bees would work together pollinating the blossoms and turning their hard work into a golden profit for Huck and a sustaining farm for Blake.
If only he and the rest of the town merchants board could revive Stone Harbor as easily.
4
Olivia fastened the delicate string of pearls around Grandma’s neck and smiled at their reflection in the dressing table’s mirror. “You look beautiful.”
The antique furniture, reminiscent of the Revolution, was in excellent condition. Its pristine top held a lace doily with two bottles of perfume, a framed picture of Olivia’s grandparents at their wedding, and a small oak jewelry chest. Grandma sat atop the matching upholstered chair and studied her reflection. She reached for the black-and-white portrait of herself. A knotted finger traced the lines of her once-flawless, porcelain skin. Grandma sighed.
Without words, that sound represented every woman’s feelings toward the enemy of time. Grandma had aged gracefully up until her stroke. The first couple of months had been rough, but she’d regained her physical strength quickly. Her speech was choppy and broken now, and Alzheimer’s sometimes had her scrambling for words and repeating things to the point of madness. Today was one of her quieter days.
Olivia adjusted the short collar on Grandma’s shirt to rest beneath her puff of salt-and-pepper hair. A spray of department store perfume filled the space after a spritz to Grandma’s neck and wrists.
The scent took Olivia back to childhood summers when she’d visited. She’d always been fascinated by the house’s old nooks and crannies, the lobster boats bobbing in the harbor, and the bustle of the bakery. She didn’t recall much about her grandfather, only that he smelled of vanilla pipe tobacco and captured beauty wherever he could with his vintage cameras. His passionate artistry hung on almost every wall of the house, with a few prints at the bakery, too.
Maine was vastly different from the straight highways and cornfields she was used to. There had been no farmland near her loft apartment in Indianapolis, of course, but every once in a while she liked to drive south for some quiet and fresh air.
None of it was home anymore.
The overwhelming emptiness, the black hole that liked to surround her, threatened the moment. But it was easy to get lost when her moral compass had been stolen by the person who’d given it to her. When the wool over her eyes had been removed, to reveal that her life, in essence, was a lie. Don’t believe the lies the enemy whispers in your ears. You are still you, despite your circumstances. To think people had paid her good money to hear words she herself failed to practice. Too much deception. Too many unanswered questions.
Grandma wrapped her hand around Olivia’s wrist and squeezed. “Don’t worry. Be happy.”
Olivia swallowed and then smiled, remembering the song she and Grandma used to dance to in the kitchen when Olivia was a teenager. “You’re right. Ready to go?”
Grandma rose from the chair, smoothed a wrinkle from her bed’s quilt, and turned for the door.
Olivia stepped on the woven rug protruding from beneath Grandma’s bed and turned off the Tiffany lamp on the bureau.
Don’t worry, be happy. Four of the simplest words in the English language. Yet some of the hardest ones to live by.
~*~
The orange sun setting against the harbor reflected off the windows of Town Hall, nearly blinding Olivia as she and Grandma walked toward the door. Olivia balanced a box of the day’s unsold desserts in one hand and steadied Grandma with the other. When they entered, voices filled her ears.
Glenda Harri
son, owner of the corner B&B, stood from her metal folding chair and rushed to greet them. “I’m glad you made it. I told Darlene you’d come, despite her certainty you wouldn’t.” Glenda clasped her hands at the waist of her fleece sweatshirt and rocked back and forth in her black quilted mocs.
Darlene was here?
“Come on now.” Glenda ushered them forward, her sea-glass bracelet glinting under the florescent lights. She transferred the box from Olivia’s hands to her own, stirring the scent of its sugary contents. “I saved you both a seat right up front.”
So much for sitting in the back to observe her first meeting as the official new manager of the Harbor Town Bakery. At least thirty people were in attendance, including the five huddled at a table in the front, presumably the board officers.
“Hazelnut brownies, cherry scones, and chocolate chip cookies. Get ‘em before they’re gone, folks.”
Olivia chuckled at Glenda’s attempt to morph her east coast accent into a raspy Tennessee auctioneer’s. Half the attendees flocked to the snack table.
The heat from all these bodies crammed into such a tiny space was like an afternoon in the south. Olivia wouldn’t complain, however. It was a nice change from the Siberian tundra she’d endured the last few months. She helped Grandma to a chair, then took the one next to it and removed her sweater.
The Seaside Book’s owner, Mr. Greene, limped toward the food wearing green plaid pants and a matching cardigan. He stopped to shake both Olivia’s and Grandma’s hands. “I’ll take two of those brownies,” he shouted to Glenda. “And I call this meeting to order.” He winked at Grandma and leaned in closer. “I hear hazelnuts are good for arthritis.”
A beautiful shade of pink colored Grandma’s cheeks.
Olivia grinned. She was following her own prescription by forcing her newly introverted self to be social, even though she wanted nothing more than to bury her head beneath her blankets. A bit of the heaviness weighing her down eased, and she relaxed against her seat.
The board leaders took their places at the head of the room.
How to Stir a Baker's Heart Page 2