Her smile plummeted. Before her sat not only Darlene, the bakery’s faithful long-time employee who didn’t hide how much she despised Olivia, but also the grandma-rescuing farmer, Blake Hartford.
Their gazes locked. A crooked grin slid up his unshaven face. A baseball cap shadowed dark eyes. Brown hair, the color of vanilla bean, brushed the collar of his brown flannel shirt. Didn’t he exude the gorgeous, rugged catalogue model?
How annoying.
~*~
For the life of him, Blake couldn’t concentrate on this meeting. Not when his blue-eyed accuser was going out of her way to avoid looking at him. No need. When her gaze had met his, he’d seen that her eyes were as striking as he remembered. Her presence had stunned him.
Blake was new to the board, elected six months ago, and since Elizabeth hadn’t attended a meeting for almost a year, Darlene had represented the bakery. She’d practically run the place anyway.
Sheriff Miller had relayed that Elizabeth’s granddaughter was now in charge, so Olivia’s attendance tonight shouldn’t have him as dry-mouthed as a pubescent teenager on a first date.
Glenda wiped brownie icing from her finger with a napkin. “Third order of business: how do we entice tourists to come back? My B&B hasn’t seen a full house in four years. If this continues, I’ll be forced to close the doors and move on.”
The crowd murmured agreement.
Arthur Greene interrupted the buzz from the audience. “The Rock House has been in your family for generations.”
“I know, and it would kill me to leave,” Glenda said, “but when Craig died, I took out a second mortgage to remodel. I didn’t foresee our economy taking a nosedive.”
“None of us did.” Ralph Bollero rubbed his thick palms together, the grief of losing his service station etched in the lines of his face. People didn’t mind driving more than ten miles out of their way to get gas, as long as there was a connecting fast-food chain.
Darlene tapped her pencil against the table. “And our suppliers have threatened to drop us because our orders aren’t meeting their minimum yearly quota.”
Olivia’s head jerked up.
“Sales are down,” Darlene continued, “and funds aren’t available to place larger orders. Not to mention that most of the fresh ingredients would go to waste before we could utilize them.”
Posture as straight as a flagpole, Olivia swept her thick, dark bangs to the side. “Actually, sales are up twenty-five percent from last quarter. I spoke to said supplier yesterday and assured them we’d meet their quota by year’s end.”
Darlene put down her pencil and folded her hands together. “How Pollyanna.”
Either Olivia always turned green when provoked, or she was going to be sick. Even so, she was wicked cute when riled.
Elizabeth patted Olivia’s hand. “Don’t worry. Be happy.”
Glenda slapped her palm on the table. “That’s right, Lizzy. The power of positive thinking.”
To her credit, Olivia never broke eye contact with Darlene. “I refuse to have it any other way.”
“Ha!” Glenda poked a finger at Olivia. “This girl has spirit. I believe you’re exactly what we need around here.”
“We’ve been doing just fine without her,” Darlene mumbled loudly enough to reach Blake’s ears.
He was surprised at Darlene’s viciousness. After years of service, it seemed as if Darlene wanted the bakery to fail. Uncharacteristic. She’d worked at the bakery since her son, John, was in middle school. Blake had been John’s classmate. He’d known the family most of his life.
Glenda groped for her reading glasses, snatched her pen, and jotted something in her notebook. “The Maine Tourism Association is already taking ads for next year’s travel planner. We have the necessary funds. The price includes the magazine ad as well as an ad on their website. All we have to do in the meantime is make our town more appealing. Any suggestions?”
Arthur proposed having a new welcome sign made for those entering town. Miranda recommended hiring a professional photographer to capture pictures of Stone Harbor, and then investing in a web designer to create a separate website specifically for the town, something they should’ve done years ago. But that was part of Stone Harbor’s charm—they were behind the times.
“All great ideas, people,” Glenda said. “How do we get it done?”
Olivia raised a timid hand, her cheeks a couple shades lighter than her silky, red shirt. “A friend of mine is a marketing director. He owes me a favor. I can call him tomorrow.”
He?
Blake cleared his throat. “I can make a new sign.”
The task shouldn’t be too hard. He had the right tools in his woodshop.
Darlene slouched and crossed her arms. “It’s false advertising if we don’t have anything tourists want when they arrive.”
Miranda motioned around the room. “There’s us.”
Glenda nodded, giving Darlene a what’s your deal look. “Only one of us here can offer an objective opinion, give us an idea of what people see when they look at us from the outside.” She turned to the only newcomer. “Olivia, what do we need to do? What are we missing?”
Olivia shifted in her chair. “Oh, I…um.”
Darlene chuckled. “Who better to know what’s best for this town than the people born and raised here?”
This time, Glenda didn’t even try to hide her annoyance. She leveled a glare at Darlene. “We’d still like her opinion.”
Agreement flooded the room, and all eyes turned to Olivia.
Yep, Olivia definitely turned seasick–green when put on the spot. She stared at her grandmother, who was engrossed in studying the stitches on her purse. Then Olivia took a deep breath and squared her slim shoulders.
“When I’m traveling, I search for places that pique my interest and have the conveniences I desire. A reputable hotel with restaurants and shopping or museums within a few blocks. Stone Harbor has those qualities, but the town needs a facelift.”
The entire room leaned in.
Olivia swallowed. The green tinge darkened a bit.
“Grandma and I have discussed offering new services at the bakery. For example, specializing in wedding cakes, since coastal Maine is a popular wedding destination. We’re also updating the menu. I’d love to remodel the old storage closet into a casual area where customers can read while they snack or utilize Wi-Fi. Maybe expand the deck that overlooks the harbor, add some tables and chairs…give folks a place to eat, relax, and enjoy the scenery—locals and tourists.
“If everyone will take the effort to add modern improvements to their businesses, I think Stone Harbor will become the bustling summer town I remember as a child.”
She’d summered here? Blake hadn’t known that.
“Money.” Darlene’s finger-rubbing interrupted his thoughts. “All that takes money, sweetheart.”
Olivia addressed the group. “Far less if we do the work ourselves and help each other.”
Darlene snorted. “This isn’t Mayberry, city girl.”
The shiny lips matching Olivia’s shirt flattened into a straight line. Then her entire face glowed in a smile. “Why not? We could reinvent ourselves as the Mayberry of Maine.”
The room exploded with voices. Nods. Smiles.
Arthur stood and began clapping. “Well done, young lady.”
Olivia nodded. “I’ll contact my friend right away.”
Glenda whistled to quiet the room. “I’ll offer fifty percent off available rooms to any local who agrees to leave an honest review on the website.”
For the next thirty minutes the group brainstormed ideas. Charlie’s Bike Shop would start renting bicycles by the hour so tourists could explore the peninsula. Brush Strokes Art Gallery would start hosting an art festival every August. Season’s End Winery would offer wine-making classes. And Eddie and Delores Self would bring their lobster boat out of retirement and give lighthouse tours during peak season to nearby Machias Seal, Libby, and Great Wass Islands.
By meeting’s end, every business had a plan and volunteer workers to help them execute the changes.
Except the bakery.
Between farm work and Little League, every minute of Blake’s time was already spoken for. But something about Olivia Hudson drew him, and he commended the way she’d put Darlene in her place using positive actions instead of cutting words. So when the idea popped into Blake’s mind, he threw it out there. “I’ll remodel the corner of the bakery.”
Olivia assessed him much the same way she had the night he’d found her grandma. Wary. Intrigued. Defensive. Thankful. However, another something told him she didn’t like being beholden to anyone.
“In exchange for purchasing my blueberries during harvest, of course,” Blake continued. “I also have some contacts you might want to consider. Buying local could save you money.”
“An exchange.” The tension of her forehead eased. “I think we can work something out.”
“A plan indeed!” Glenda clasped her hands and looked heavenward. “We’ve got enough to keep us busy for months.” She ripped out the paper she’d been scribbling on. “Blake, Olivia. You kids are perfect for organizing this facelift. Whoever’s in favor of electing Blake and Olivia to run Project Mayberry, say ‘aye.’”
The voices boomed in the tiny space before he or Olivia could protest.
“Meeting adjourned.” Glenda slapped the table like a gavel. “See everyone next month.” The sneaky board president pushed back her chair and hugged an unsuspecting Olivia, who stood with her arms at her side. Glenda patted Olivia’s cheek and then walked toward the exit singing I Will Survive.
What had just happened?
While other members cleaned tables and straightened chairs, Blake approached Olivia, who seemed bent on strangling her wrist with her purse strap. “I think we’ll work fine together as long as you can follow my rules.”
The wrist-choking stopped, and her eyebrows arched over eyes beaming with so much sass they could melt ice. “Your rules?”
Blake smoothed the front of his flannel and leaned closer. “No kicking.”
It took a few seconds, but Blake got the reaction he was hoping for.
She giggled—half wry, half amused. “You’ve come to collect on that apology now.”
He grinned. “Apology accepted.”
“That was easy.”
“Misunderstandings happen.”
“Thank you.” The tension in her shoulders eased, and they relaxed into a normal line.
“All these great ideas will take some time to sort through.” He held up the paper Glenda had given him. “Do you have time later in the week? We could talk over coffee. Or dinner.”
Man, his skills were rusty.
“Oh.” She frowned at his boots. “I’m really busy with the bakery and Grandma. I’ll help how I can, but I don’t have any extra time to head a project like this. Maybe you should consider someone else.”
Was it his dinner offer that had her running away? “Tell you what. Everyone in town knows how to get ahold of me. If you change your mind, let me know.” He stepped from the building and into the cold air, fully expecting never to hear from Olivia Hudson again.
5
Mayberry of Maine? What had she been thinking? This was reality, not a backlot with cameras and actors.
Warm water pooled into Olivia’s hands, and she splashed her face to rinse away the creamy suds that scrubbed away her makeup and the day’s grime. She patted her skin with a fresh towel. They wanted her—this broken therapist staring back at her in the mirror, the one who masqueraded as a baker—to lead the project as though she were the answer to all their problems. Well, she’d lost her talent for problem-solving the day she’d lost her identity. Now she could no longer tell where lies ended and truth began.
Among all the unknowns in life, one thing was certain: people would hurt you.
That’s why she loved baking. A list of ingredients, precisely measured, blended, and cocooned at the right temperature had an expected end. Comfort.
No tears. No hurt. Unless one ate too much.
Cold bathroom tiles against Olivia’s feet prompted her to cut short the pity party in exchange for a sweatshirt and double-lined socks, which the salesman had assured her would warm even the wimpiest Mainer. They’d lived up to their guarantee, however, she had to be careful on the smooth, plank floor unless she wanted to go ice skating.
Olivia gripped the sturdy banister on her way downstairs, where she’d left Grandma watching reruns. The Massachusetts-style home had always captivated her with its twelve-foot ceilings and tall windowpanes. All four fireplaces were still in working order. A crackling fire sounded heavenly right now, except they had no firewood. Something she would rectify before next winter.
Grandma snored from Grandpa’s worn recliner, an eighties relic kept for reverence more than functionality. A book spread open across the throw blanket. Careful not to disturb her slumber, Olivia lifted it from Grandma’s lap.
She rifled through the pages. It was a scrapbook-journal of some sort, compiled mostly of photographs accompanied by a short story. It appeared to contain adventures Olivia’s grandparents had had together, captured in black-and-white moments of time. She inspected the cover. Volume One, Courting and the Newlywed Years.
Were there others? Masculine cursive letters on the inside cover drew her attention. Olivia sank onto the sofa and settled under a throw blanket of her own.
“Living is like tearing through a museum. Not until later do you really start absorbing what you saw, thinking about it, looking it up in a book, and remembering—because you can’t take it in all at once.”
—Audrey Hepburn
Cherish these memories, Elizabeth, lest you forget we’ve had good times, too. Whatever the future holds, I will love you in health and sickness, joy and sorrow.
Cliff, 1968
Olivia’s fingers curled around the book. 1968—eight years after her dad was born. “Lest you forget we’ve had good times too.”
Why would Grandpa fear she’d forget? His eloquent words held the weight of both love and sadness. A pleading of sorts. What had prompted such a gift?
Grandma woke herself snoring and changed positions. In less than three seconds, she was sleeping again. Lamplight bathed her bony frame, enhancing her pale skin and slightly sunken cheeks. So frail. So peaceful at the moment.
Her Grandpa’s cryptic message whispered across the years to his wife now riddled with Alzheimer’s. Today, Grandma had remembered something to make her want this book. Olivia longed to know the woman more intimately. Twelve hundred miles had kept them from connecting the way grandparents and grandchildren should. And since Olivia’s dad had rarely taken the time to visit after Grandpa died, she really didn’t know her grandma at all.
The journal began with how her grandparents had met at the Starboard fishing weirs in 1949.
On a warm July day with my pants rolled to my knees, I sat on the wharf, feet in the water, photographing inbound sardine boats and the area’s many lagoons. What I captured through my lens instead was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, fishing with her father at the prime age of eighteen. The father who scowled at me for invading your privacy.
I approached and offered to deliver the memento once I’d processed the film, delighted to gain your address and an excuse to see you again. That was the day I fell in love with Elizabeth Marion Turner of Winter Harbor.
In the picture, Olivia’s great-grandpa had classic pomade-doused black hair and a thin mustache. She’d never seen a picture of him before, nor had she known his name. Her dad had always been reluctant to discuss family, a trait she’d dismissed but now pondered.
Lest you forget we’ve had good times too. Had something tragic happened?
Grandma needed tailored care. Olivia needed to understand where she’d come from, who she was. If she started at the roots of this family tree, maybe she’d find her branch again.
~*~
Blake stepped out of the barber shop into the afternoon sunshine. Talk of baseball and the smell of aftershave gave way to crisp, salty air and The Clam House’s daily special. He ran a hand over the back of his head. He always felt a little naked after a spring cut.
A flash of pink past the rotating barber pole caught his attention. Olivia strode down the sidewalk, flipping through the letters in her hand. Blake changed direction to go after her.
She paused. Her shoulders slumped. Now may not be the best time to chat, but it was a good three blocks from the post office back to the bakery, and she still hadn’t committed to helping him run the Mayberry of Maine campaign.
Blake made short work of the distance. “How’s our town hero?”
She startled, then pinned him with those amazing eyes and frowned. “I don’t know. When I find him, I’ll ask.”
“Aren’t you as warm as a Midwestern summer.”
She held up the mail in her hand and sighed. “Sorry. Bad timing.”
He’d figured. “Anything I can do to help?”
The breeze stirred short strands of hair that refused to stay in her ponytail. Blake shoved his hands into his pockets to keep from acting like an idiot and pushing those hairs behind her ears. Something about this woman knocked his good sense loose.
Olivia shook her head. “Family stuff.” She continued walking. “What are you doing in town today?”
He matched his steps to hers. “Picking up lumber from the hardware store.”
“And getting a haircut, I see.”
Blake raised a brow. “You noticed.”
Her cheeks turned rosy. She seemed to be having trouble deciding between embarrassment and anger.
Blake laughed.
Her lips curled into the barest of smiles. “What are you building? Business or pleasure?”
“Both. I’m restoring my house.”
“A Victorian. I heard. They’re one of my favorite designs. I love the way they were built both for functionality and entertaining.”
“You sound like you’ve studied architecture.”
“Some.” Her lips pressed into a straight line.
Trees shaded the sidewalk for the next block. They walked in silence most of the way.
How to Stir a Baker's Heart Page 3