The Sweet Spot

by Heather Heyford

  They rode for a while, thinking without speaking until a single ringtone sounded from the vicinity of one of Hank’s saddlebags.

  “Pull up,” he said to Jamie.

  She reined in and waited for him to pull out his phone.

  “We have service again,” he said, looking at the screen. He punched in a number and waited.

  Dancer shifted his weight and flicked his tail at a fly on his rump.

  “Stew? Hank Friestatt. I’m calling to tell you that I’ve made a decision. I’m not going to sell.”

  A smile overspread Jamie’s face.

  Then something over Jamie’s shoulder caught his eye.

  Jamie followed his gaze to one of the guests backtracking toward them.

  “Something’s come up,” Hank said into the phone. “Got to run.”

  “What is it?” Hank asked the guest, shoving his phone back into his saddlebag.

  “My wife’s horse refuses to move. It’s like she hurt her foot or something. She’s holding it with her knee bent and when she kicks her, she just limps forward one step and then stops.”

  “Probably a stone lodged in her shoe,” said Jamie.

  “Welcome back to reality,” Hank grinned, gave Blitzer a nudge and trotted up to the others to take care of business.

  * * *

  The lame mare had a small cut and a dark spot, a bruise, on her near hind sole. She would be fine, but she needed care and rest before she could be ridden again. Hank boosted his stranded guest onto the back of Blitzer and told Jamie to go ahead with the others while he walked the injured horse back.

  Jamie returned to the Sweet Spot much happier than when she’d left. Bill came out to the paddock to meet them. After Jamie explained Hank’s absence, she rode to the back door of the inn, where she dismounted and carried the first armload of supplies into the kitchen, to the smell of chili cooking on the stove.

  Ellie sat at the table, partially obscured by her open laptop and a jumble of half-unpacked groceries. Heads of lettuce appeared to have rolled out of a biodegradable grocery bag lying on its side. It struck Jamie as odd that Ellie would let the produce sit out unrefrigerated like that, long enough for the edges of the lettuce to start to curl.

  “We’re back! Whew, what a trip. Where do you want me to put this cast-iron pot? I rinsed it out as well as I could, but shouldn’t it be reseasoned before it’s put away?”

  Ellie sat intensely immersed in her computer screen without response.

  “Miss Ellie?”

  From the stove came the ting-ting-ting of a metal lid against its pot. “Ellie. The chili!” Couldn’t she see? “It’s boiling over.” Red stuff filled the well surrounding the burner and oozed down the front of the gas range.

  Jamie leaped across the room, straddling the puddle at her feet. With a quick flick of her wrist she turned off the flame, then moved the heavy pot to a cold burner and turned toward the sink for paper towels to mop up the mess, swallowing the growing panic in the pit of her stomach when Ellie still didn’t react.

  “Ellie? Miss Ellie!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Hate to think of what would’ve happened if that young lady hadn’t walked into the kitchen when she did,” said Ellie’s doctor.

  If the stroke hadn’t killed Ellie, the near–kitchen fire would have.

  “How long do you figure she’ll be hospitalized?”

  “Plan on at least a couple of days until we’ve done a complete assessment. Couldn’t even venture a guess at this point.” The doctor clapped Hank’s shoulder. “My advice to you is to go on home and get some sleep. You look like you could use it.”

  Hank looked down at his dirty jeans and wrinkled shirt he’d ridden and slept in. He rubbed his stubbly chin. The clock on the wall of the ER waiting room said eleven thirty. It had been forty-some odd hours since he’d had a shower and a shave.

  He nudged Jamie, slumped over on the vinyl couch.

  “How’s Ellie?” she asked, sitting up straighter.

  “They’re keeping her as comfortable as they can. C’mon. I’ll take you home.”

  Home. Ellie was the ship’s rudder. It wouldn’t be the same without her there in the kitchen first thing in the morning and last thing at night, on the front porch greeting guests, and watching over the campfire out back.

  In the car, he bought Jamie up to speed.

  “Doc said she hadn’t been sitting there long. But she still can’t talk or move her hands.”

  “It’s only been a few hours. Give her some time, let the doctors figure it out.”

  He gave the upper arc of the steering wheel a sharp rap with the heel of his hand. “That forty-five-minute drive to get to the trauma center couldn’t have helped. When someone’s having a stroke or a heart attack or falls off a rock, time matters.” Then he whipped off his ball cap, tossed it into the back, and massaged his jaw.

  “Ellie wouldn’t live anywhere else.” Jamie laid a hand on his arm. “Everything seems worse when you’re tired. You’ll feel better after you get some rest.”

  “Won’t get much rest tonight. There’s green harvesting to be done, and we have a dozen guests arriving in”—he glanced at the dashboard clock—“a matter of hours. Who’s going to take care of the inn? Supervise the meals? Handle reservations?”

  “Green harvesting?”

  “When there’s too much rain, the grapes grow too vigorously. Every single bunch has to be cut in half.”

  “But that’s like throwing away half the grapes.”

  Hank nodded. “That’s why you don’t look back on the ground behind you as you work. Breaks your heart while you’re doing it. But culling pays off in a stronger yield, later.”

  “I’m here. I’ll man the inn.”

  “Look,” said Jamie a short time later when she and Hank walked in the kitchen door. “Some anonymous good Samaritan cleaned the kitchen.”

  There was a note stuck on the fridge. “It says they hope Ellie will be okay,” said Jamie. “It’s signed by all the men.”

  * * *

  By the next morning, everyone for miles around had heard about Ellie’s stroke. When Ellie’s teenagers came to serve breakfast, they brought along some unexpected help.

  Brynn took one of them by the hand and inched toward Jamie.

  “Theresa Morgan,” said the woman. “Brynn’s mom. I know about you helping Brynn with her guitar playing. It’s too bad we have to meet under these circumstances. But I’d been hoping someday I’d get a chance to meet you in person to thank you for all you’ve done for her.”

  “Of course,” said Jamie, wiping her hands on her apron. “I’m happy to give Brynn some pointers.”

  “Joan,” she said with a nod to the other teen’s mom, “and I work in the high school cafeteria during the school year. We thought you could use an extra hand in the kitchen.”

  “Can we?” Jamie faked a swoon. “Hank, did you hear that?”

  “I did. Much appreciated.”

  “And they’re professionals.”

  “Hardly. That’s what neighbors are for,” said Theresa. “Now. Time’s a-wasting. Put us to work.”

  A car horn beeped. Hank and Jamie went outside to see an older model pickup bouncing down the drive.

  “What the . . .” said Hank, hands on hips. “It’s Nelson.”

  The truck pulled under the porch overhang. Nelson was still wearing his black therapy boot. He handed Hank his crutches while he limped out.

  “Bored to tears, lying on that crusty ol’ couch all day. If I have to watch one more of Lorraine’s soap operas, I’ll put a bullet in my head. Gimme something to do.”

  “I’m happy to be rid of him for a few hours.” Nelson’s wife leaned over to talk to Hank from her seat behind the wheel. “How’s your grandmother doing?”

  “We’re waiting to hear the results of her tests.”

  “She’s in my prayers. Call me when you need me to come pick up the old coot.”

  Nelson and Jamie sized one another u
p.

  “I just realized,” said Hank, “you two haven’t yet met. Nelson, meet—”

  “I know who she is.” Nelson cut off Hank’s words, pulling Jamie roughly into a body hard as a tree trunk. “Not a person within twenty miles of the Sweet Spot that hasn’t heard about Jamie Martel.”

  Soon afterward when the new crop of guests arrived, Jamie took Ellie’s place on the front porch. As Hank unloaded baggage from the van, he kept an eye on Jamie checking off the names and greeting guests as if nothing were amiss.

  After she’d directed them to their cabins, Hank came up behind her. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’d been checking in guests here for years,” he said in a voice for her ears only.

  She glowed inside. “I learned from the best.”

  “I need to see how the green harvest is going. You be okay here?”

  “I’ll supervise Theresa and Joan and field the inevitable newbie questions.”

  Hank adjusted his ball cap and set out for the vineyards.

  * * *

  By midafternoon, the guests were finally settling in, making dinner plans on their own. Joan and Theresa had gone home. Jamie looked out the kitchen window. Hank was still out there, somewhere in the vineyards. The hoodies of the field workers were spots of color among the vines. Here and there, they sat on the tailgates of their pickup trucks, eating food from the lunch pails sitting open next to them.

  It wasn’t Hank’s custom to take a break in the hottest part of the day. He was used to eating at six. By then, when it was cooler, his men would be back at work.

  Jamie looked at the clock. Then she looked around at the sparkling kitchen.

  When Hank came in from the fields he’d be ravenous.

  Cooking wasn’t Jamie’s forte.

  She poked around in the fridge, looking for possibilities. The first thing that caught her eye was a package of chicken parts. Fried chicken was Ellie’s specialty. No doubt that’s what she’d been planning to make.

  She got it out, laid it on the counter and stared at it, trying to remember what Ellie had said the night Jamie had arrived at the Sweet Spot. She’d dredged it in something. Flour? Jamie had a vague memory of her mother coating meat with flour before browning it. There was some spice, too. She sat down and put her head in her hands and tried to remember, wishing she’d paid closer attention.

  She gave up trying to duplicate Ellie’s recipe and fell back on the old-fashioned way of finding a recipe: the internet.

  The look on Hank’s exhausted face when he finally came in through the back door and saw Jamie standing at the range made it all worth it.

  He hung up his ball cap and came over to where she turned the chicken in a pan of hot oil.

  “What’s this?”

  “What’s it look like?”

  “Looks just like Ellie’s chicken.” He peeked under the foil-covered pans resting on the back of the stove. “Mashed potatoes? Buttered carrots? Thought you said you couldn’t cook?”

  She smiled modestly, rolled her eyes skyward, and shrugged a shoulder. Why confess how nervous she’d been earlier? Her virgin attempt at making a dinner from scratch was actually turning out pretty good, if she said so herself.

  He rubbed his stomach. “This is great. I’m so hungry I could eat the north end of a southbound bear.”

  “Well, you got here just in time. It should be just . . . about”—she poked a thigh with a fork—“done.”

  She flicked off the burner and carried the dishes to the table, set just the way Ellie did it.

  “How’d Nelson do today?” Jamie asked Hank as they unfolded their napkins and laid them on their laps.

  “Still not a hundred percent. But at least he knows the ropes.”

  She spooned some potatoes onto her plate and passed the bowl to Hank. “Any news about Ellie?”

  “Specialist says there’s definite damage in the part of her brain that controls speech. She can’t use her right side and has minimal control of her left. They think she understands what’s said to her, but she can’t respond. She’s on blood thinners. Going to transfer her to the rehab wing tomorrow.”

  “Sounds like she’s getting good care.”

  “She starts physical therapy tomorrow. We’ll have to wait and see.”

  Their filled plates looked just like the picture on the web.

  Hank cut off a sizeable chunk of chicken and forked it into his mouth while Jamie watched eagerly for his reaction.

  Hank bit down. Then froze and looked up at Jamie with full cheeks.

  Seeing her anxious look, he worked his jaw again, then swallowed what remained of the semi-chewed bite, whole.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Jamie, full of concern.

  Hank drank half his glass of water. “Nothing,” he assured her.

  He set to work on his carrots, keeping his eyes studiously on his plate.

  “What’s wrong with the chicken?”

  Hank shook his head vigorously. “Just getting my vegetables in before I get too full.”

  She cut off a tiny piece and deposited it onto her tongue. A second later she leapt out of her chair and ran to the trash can. “Blah!”

  Hank looked up innocently from where he shoveled potatoes into his mouth but made no comment.

  “This is terrible!” exclaimed Jamie.

  “You don’t like it?” asked Hank.

  “It’s terrible, and you know it.”

  “It’s okay,” he said, bravely trying it again.

  “You don’t have to pretend to like it,” said Jamie. “You won’t hurt my feelings.”

  “Who’s pretending? It’s good,” he said, washing it down, getting up for more water.

  She cocked a hand on her hip as she stood there, wondering what to do. “You’re a poor liar.”

  “Not lying.”

  She sighed. Feeling suddenly unworthy of Ellie’s apron, she took it off and returned to her seat. “I’m glad I made the vegetables. At least we won’t starve,” she said, subdued, her hands on the table to scoot her chair in.

  Hank reached across the table and laid his hand on hers. “It’s the thought that counts,” he said.

  She looked up at him with eyes full of tears. Before she knew it Hank was around the table, his arm around her, lifting her out of her chair.

  She melted into his arms and swallowed the hard lump in her throat, trying as hard as she could not to cry while he stroked her hair.

  For long moments they stood together without speaking, taking comfort in the simple goodness of each other’s embrace.

  Finally, Hank pulled back and looked down at her with a look of tender concern that touched her so, she couldn’t bear to worry him anymore over a silly chicken. Somehow she managed a feeble smile and angled back toward her chair.

  “Go ahead. Finish what’s edible while it’s still warm.”

  He did as he was told.

  “This is the peak of the tourist season,” he said when they were through. “And we still have the crush to get through. The inn has to keep on going, even without Ellie. I’ve got to come up with a plan.”

  “Tell me what I can do.”

  He considered for a moment. “Let’s get these dishes out of the way and get on Ellie’s computer and I’ll show you how the reservations work. She has the menus already planned for the whole summer, and they’re on there, too.”

  Side by side, they cleared away dinner. Jamie recalled Ellie telling her that Hank wasn’t averse to waiting tables. Now she was seeing that for herself.

  * * *

  “Here.” Hank rolled a wheeled chair out from the built-in kitchen desk. “Have a seat and I’ll show you how Ellie does the day-to-day accounting.”

  Jamie sat down and he pushed her in, then squeezed a dining chair in next to her for himself.

  They worked until the sun went down and the only light was that of the screen. At one point Hank rose to open a window and fetch them glasses of water. He set hers down next to her and, standing behind
her, rested his hands on the back of her chair, staring at the information over her shoulder, trying to ignore Jamie’s vanilla and floral scent wafting upward.

  Jamie asked him a question and he leaned over her, splaying his left hand on the table to see the fine print on the screen.

  The cursor hesitated over a column. Without thinking, he put his hand over hers to guide the mouse to where he thought it should be.

  “You want this one.”

  “No, I was right before, see?” she said, frustration in her voice.

  Sleep deprivation, thought Hank. They’d been up since before dawn. And maybe, malnourishment.

  “You’re looking at the subtotals column. Scroll over. The grand total goes here.”

  He sensed her start to fight him but immediately seeing the futility in that, changed tack. She slipped her hand out from under his and swiveled around, slapping Hank’s chest in mock anger. “I knew that. I was only seeing if you did.”

  He caught her wrist and held it.

  She raised her other hand to strike him and he grabbed that wrist, too.

  “Now what?” he said, arching a brow.

  The faint sound of contented guests singing out in the yard seemed as though it came from another world.

  “Looks like Miss Martel’s not used to being the student, is she?” he teased softly.

  Her grin melted as her pupils dilated into jet-black disks.

  Tilting her head becomingly, she pursed her lips and raised her chin in cocky defiance.

  “Actually, I loved going to school. In fact, I consider myself a perpetual student.”

  “I bet there’s lots I could teach you,” he growled.

  Her mouth parted in surprise.

  Seconds passed, the air crackling with anticipation.

  Jamie licked her lips and swallowed.

  It took everything Hank had in him to drop her wrists and spin her back around to the computer screen.

  Chapter Twenty

  Hank woke up one morning after his first full night’s sleep since before the campout, feeling clearheaded and focused.

  From now on, things were going to be different, starting with his grandmother. When she came home from the hospital, she wasn’t going to lift a finger unless she wanted to.