by Lisa Jackson
“Well, I really don’t want you kicking my ass,” Noah said dryly, not making any effort to slow down. His wife was about to have a baby, on Christmas Eve, and calm wasn’t on his list this year.
“Why do I get the feeling you aren’t scared of me?” Meg said, sounding pouty.
“Because you’re a marshmallow on a good day. And today you’re an extremely round marshmallow having contractions.”
“I am not a—owwwww.”
Tension crept up Noah’s spine, and he kept on driving until they got to St. Charles and pulled into the birthing center.
They got checked in pretty quickly, and what followed were the roughest few hours of Noah’s life. Though he imagined if he said that to his wife he’d get punched.
Considering she was doing all the work.
But seeing Meg in pain hurt him; watching her struggle in any way hurt.
It all melted away when their daughter came into the world at midnight on a white Christmas, with the snow glittering outside.
Holly Carter was the prettiest baby he’d ever seen. One of the two miracles he’d experienced in his life.
The other miracle was that Meg loved him. And that was the miracle that had changed everything.
A nurse poked her head in after a soft courtesy knock, and Noah and Meg looked toward the door.
“You have visitors,” the nurse said. “Should I send them away?”
Meg shook her head. “No. Let them come in.”
It was Nancy and Jim, and a whole tray of cinnamon rolls. And, most surprising of all, they’d brought a bouquet of flowers from Charlie.
Noah and Meg’s relationship with him wasn’t quite what it had been, but . . . he was family. There was no way around it. And even with things strained as they’d been, the three of them cared for one another.
It struck Noah then, surrounded by these people, by his family, with his wife and daughter in the hospital bed, that he had more now than he’d ever thought possible when he was a child.
Young Noah had become a cynic far too soon. It had taken him years to unlearn his cynicism, to break down the walls. But it had been worth every risk.
He had spent so many years craving stability, craving control, but that had required him to close off his heart. His throat tightened, a wave of emotion overwhelming him.
He had lost all his control. But what he’d gained was so much better.
Love.
Meg looked down at their baby and kissed her fuzzy head. Then Meg looked back up at him. “It’s Christmas, Noah,” she murmured.
His heart expanded, and he thought his chest would burst.
“Yes, it is.” He looked around the room, at all of the people. Living, breathing. So much more than that dirt he’d claimed as sacred ground so long ago. “Yes, it is.”
SNOWED IN
STACY FINZ
CHAPTER 1
“At least he has jowls now,” Rachel Johnson said to an empty kitchen as she stared at her phone, scanning a California Lawyer article about her ex. She was killing time before the oven bell rang on her signature sweet buns.
This had become her routine. Up before dawn so she could get into Tart Me Up and begin baking before her doors opened at seven o’clock sharp. That’s when a line started forming, sometimes wrapping around the block, with anxious customers waiting for Rachel’s made-from-scratch pastries and specialty sandwiches. And with Hanukkah behind them and Christmas just around the corner, she was swamped with special orders. Too busy to be reading about asshat Jeremy Banks. “Trial Lawyer of the Year,” she harrumphed. “More like thieving scumbag of the year.”
Her phone chimed with a text from Marcia, her former legal assistant who’d tipped her off to the story in the first place. “Well, did you read it yet?”
“Yep,” she wrote back. “He’s a troll.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
Unfortunately, she did. “Try to avoid working with him.” A smart woman like Marcia was exactly the type Jeremy stole ideas from, then passed off as his own. Rachel knew how that worked firsthand. “Got to get back to my baking. Talk to you later.”
“You made the right choice,” Marcia texted, and signed off.
In her heart Rachel knew Marcia was right, but some days were a struggle. A few years ago, Rachel had left a major corporate law job with a six-figure salary to move to Glory Junction and open her own bakery. While she loved baking and the fulfillment of watching people’s faces light up when they bit into one of her buttery buns or flaky croissants, she was working harder than ever and making a lot less money. It was an economy of scale thing. Even though she did a gangbuster business, there were only so many pastries she could make in her tiny kitchen. By the time she paid the rent, the utilities, and her employees, there wasn’t a lot left over.
She needed to sell more and branch out into a full-service restaurant, but her small shop wouldn’t accommodate the kind of production she had in mind. Not much in Glory Junction would, except the Old Watermill House. If things went as planned—fingers crossed—she’d turn the historic flour mill into a huge industrial kitchen where she could do all her baking, and still have room for a large restaurant specializing in rustic country cooking.
The oven dinged and she took out sheets of puffy cinnamon buns and slid new pans in with Danish. Around six-thirty, Samantha arrived and together they stocked the glass cases at the counter. Sam started the coffee and Rachel took the chairs off the tops of the tables in preparation for the rush. It was the same every morning and she’d found the ritual to be soothing, almost spiritual.
Feeding people felt good. A lot better than fighting with them in court. And the Sierra Nevada was breathtaking, especially this time of year when the snowy mountains were as white as her coconut frosting and the icicles on the tall pines shimmered like rock candy. Every winter, the Glory Junction Chamber of Commerce went all out with decorations. Ribbons, garland, wreaths, an enormous menorah, and a twenty-foot noble pine, decked out in colored balls and candy canes. Horse-drawn carriages, carrying tourists and skiers, clip-clopped up and down Main Street, like something out of an old-time movie.
Rachel loved it. The first time she’d come to Glory Junction was during the holidays to ski with her family, and even as a little girl she was awed by the majestic snowcapped mountains. So much so that it had been the first place she’d looked when scouting out a location for her bakery—and new life.
“We good to go?” she asked Samantha as the first customers began cuing up outside the door.
“Everything is in readiness.”
Rachel didn’t know what she’d do without her young assistant, though lately she’d been riding her to go to college. Sam had taken a gap year after graduating from Glory Junction High School, but the break appeared to be turning into a permanent situation. And Sam had too much potential.... Ah, jeez, Rachel told herself to stop acting like one of her parents. Leave the girl be. Sam had to find her own way in the world. Rachel, after all, had gone to college and law school and had spent five dog-eat-dog years in the corporate world only to realize it wasn’t the life for her.
She unlocked the door and turned the sign to “Open.” A few seconds later, the bakery filled with customers. Last year, she’d installed a ticket machine to keep people from fighting over who was next.
Boden Farmer tracked in snow with those stupid biker boots of his, took a number, and leaned against the wall. He’d just gotten an Italian coffee machine delivered to his bar, Old Glory, which Rachel fervently hoped didn’t cut into her business. Why a place that served chicken wings, burgers, and fries needed an industrial espresso machine was beyond her.
He bobbed his chin at her in greeting, then folded his arms over his massive chest. She waved back just to be polite. It was no secret they didn’t like each other. She’d tried, she really had, but the man was difficult. Bossy and way too sure of himself. They did a lot of catering around town and he was such a control freak. He also thought he was the se
xiest man alive, which he most assuredly wasn’t. Not even close.
“Hey, Rach. How’s life treating you?” Colt Garner stepped up to the case and pointed to the ham and cheese croissants. “I’ll take two of those.”
“Sure.” Unlike Boden, the police chief was the sexiest man alive. Unfortunately, he was also taken, married to Glory Junction’s resident celebrity fashion designer. “Let me heat those for you.”
“Thanks. And a cup of coffee, too, please.”
“Coming right up.”
The chief joined Boden at the wall while he waited. The two men were friends, both craft-beer connoisseurs. Rachel heated the sandwiches, poured Colt his cup of coffee, and got him out the door in record time. Having a town to keep safe, the chief was usually in a hurry.
Boden not so much.
Rachel noted he had his usual gaggle of groupies around him. She supposed in a town this small it didn’t take much to be The Bachelor.
“Hot barkeep at ten o’clock,” Sam whispered as she perfected an angel on the top of Benjamin Schuster’s latte.
“Not you too?”
Samantha made a growling noise and Rachel rolled her eyes. “He’s way too old for you.”
“I’ve got daddy issues.”
Rachel shook her head. “We’re both going to have financial issues if he uses that new Illy to start serving breakfast.”
“Old Glory’s a gastro pub, Rach. I don’t think breakfast is Boden’s jam, but even if it is, you have him hands down in the baked goods department. Besides, you’ve got Oprah’s endorsement and that’s freaking gold, girl.”
Somehow Tart Me Up had made Oprah Winfrey’s list of Favorite Things. The day the list came out, people from all over California trekked up the mountain for a taste of Rachel’s pastries. Many were still coming, which made her even more anxious to open a second location with a full restaurant. She wanted to strike while the iron was hot.
Boden sauntered up to the counter when his number was called and perused the glass case. “What’s good today?”
“Everything,” Rachel said, trying to sound congenial. “What are you in the mood for?”
He lifted his eyes from the case, met her gaze, and broke into a slow grin. “Something sweet.”
Not sure if he was taking a swipe at her, she pretended to contemplate a recommendation. “Then I’d go with a cinnamon bun.”
“Cinnamon bun it is, then. And a cup of that fine Colombian.”
She arched a brow. “Your new coffee machine on the fritz?”
“It’s working.” Apparently, he wasn’t going to give her any insight into his future coffee plans. Coffee was good business. Thanks to Starbucks, customers were used to paying upwards of three bucks a cup. The profit margin on that was phenomenal, much better than that on baked goods.
“I heard you got the Canadell wedding,” he said.
“Yep. Are you doing the bar?”
“Uh-huh.”
Great, Christmas Eve with Boden Farmer. Good times. “Nice couple,” she said, trying to speed things along. There was a backlog of customers on the street and it was cold outside. The forecast said snow. But the usually aloof Boden was in a chatty mood.
“Real nice and that house they have . . .” He let out a low whistle.
It was indeed pretty amazing and the kitchen was a caterer’s dream. The house was secluded, though, and the road was rough, not ideal for getting all her equipment up there. But for what the Canadells were paying she’d rent a snowcat if she had to.
“It should be a lovely affair.” She slid the bag with Boden’s cinnamon roll at him and handed him his coffee.
“You think you could stop by Old Glory after you close up so we could go over a few things?”
What was there to go over? She was in charge of the food; he was in charge of the booze. But that was Boden, always trying to take charge. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know what she was doing. She’d gotten her start in the hospitality industry, catering—much to her parents’ chagrin.
“Three years at Stanford Law and you’re ladling soup for a living,” her father would say when she left the law for culinary school. “If you don’t like working on the legal team for Dole, then work somewhere else. But for God’s sake, Rachel, food service?” Dole was one of the largest produce companies in the world. But her father, a Ninth Circuit appellate court judge, didn’t get the irony.
Boden stood there, tapping his toe. Because she didn’t have time to argue with him she agreed and observed as every female head turned to watch him walk out the door.
“That’s some prime USDA beef right there,” Rita Tucker said, and broke into a three-pack-a-day cough.
“Good morning, Mayor. What can I get you?”
“I’ll have one of those sweet buns you’re so famous for and a cup of joe.”
“You got it.” Rachel threw a complimentary oatmeal cookie in the bag. It didn’t hurt to butter up the mayor, who along with the city council held Rachel’s future in their collective hands.
Glory Junction owned the Old Watermill House and the city got to choose which business to award the lease to. With its prime location—downtown, right on the Glory Junction River—and abundance of charm and space, Rachel wouldn’t be the only one vying for the property.
Breakfast faded into lunch and when Rachel finally came up for air it was closing time. She and Sam cleaned, took out the trash, and wrapped up what little was left over in the cases to donate to a local church that fed the homeless.
“I’ll lock up if you’ll drop these off.” Rachel nudged her head at the church offerings. “Then you can go get your Christmas shopping done.”
“You’re sure?”
“Of course. You’re the best employee I have; I don’t want you quitting on me.”
“Even if I go to school?”
“That’s a different story.” Rachel studied Samantha for a second. “SF State in the fall?”
Sam shrugged. “I was thinking CalArts.”
What a peculiar choice, Rachel thought. In the year Sam had been working at the bakery, she’d never mentioned an interest in the arts. Then Rachel remembered the drawings. On the rare occasions when things got slow, Sam would sketch. On a napkin, a coffee cup, the kitchen chalkboard, her iPhone, pretty much any blank surface she could find.
“That’s fantastic,” Rachel said, and kissed the top of Samantha’s head, which happened to be fuchsia today. The kid changed hair color as often as Rachel changed socks. “Good for you. Have you already applied?”
Sam shook her head.
“Should we work on that?”
“Maybe.” Sam’s expression lost some of its earlier enthusiasm and Rachel wondered if she feared she wouldn’t get in. Rachel knew it was a competitive school. “Not tonight, though.”
“Not tonight but maybe tomorrow, yes?” She didn’t want to push, but the spark in Sam at the mere mention of CalArts was inspiring. Rachel wished someone had fostered her interests when she was a girl. Rachel’s parents—her mother was also a lawyer—had always operated on the assumption that she’d follow in their footsteps. And then it became the expectation.
“We’ll see,” Sam said, and grabbed her backpack. “See you tomorrow.”
Before she left, Rachel lined her bowls of bread dough on the kitchen counter to rise, locked the cash drawer in the safe, and turned on the alarm. It was even colder than when she’d arrived at four in the morning. She could feel it in her bones that more snow was on the way. And though it was barely six it was already dark. Despite the frigid temperature, she walked to Old Glory. It was only a block away and she wanted to take in the decorations along Main Street. The Christmas lights flickered on, illuminating downtown in a magical glow. She huddled deeper into her down coat and tried to avoid the berms of snow that had been plowed against the curbs by the street cleaners.
For mid-week, there was still plenty of people milling around the storefronts. She supposed they were down from Glory Junction’s five ski resor
ts to eat or shop. Even this late in the day, she could see the gondolas and lifts going up and down the mountainsides.
Felix, the owner of the Morning Glory diner, was clearing his walkway and she made her way across the road to say hello.
“How’s business?”
“So good I need more help.” Felix was notorious for losing employees. He had a reputation as being surly, but Rachel thought it was a lot of bluster. Underneath the surface, he was a sweetheart. “How ’bout you?”
“Crazy busy and bursting at the seams.” As soon as the words left her mouth, Rachel wished she hadn’t said them. While she didn’t think Felix was competing for the Old Watermill House, she didn’t know for sure. His diner was wildly popular, and he might be looking to expand.
“You need a bigger space.”
She wondered if he was fishing for information. The mill house had been a major topic of conversation lately, a lot of it focused on who would take it over. For more than a decade the dilapidated building had sat empty. But as Glory Junction’s economy had begun to rebound from the recession, the city, realizing it had a gold mine on its hands, had rehabbed the historical structure. They were taking business proposals in two days.
She studied him for a second and quickly dismissed the idea. Felix was a straight shooter. If he was interested in the Old Watermill House, he would say so.
“I do indeed,” she said, and left it at that.
Besides Samantha, no one knew she was making a pitch for the place. She had learned from Jeremy that loose lips sink career ships and she wanted the venue so badly she could taste it, even if it took every dime she had to cover new equipment, tables, chairs, and a staff. That’s why she took on catering jobs. “See you around, Felix.”
She headed to Old Glory and grabbed a seat at the bar. Boden was at the other end, flirting with two female patrons Rachel had never seen before. Tourists, she assumed. She took the opportunity to check him out and see what all the female hoopla was about. He wasn’t what she would call classically handsome, though objectively speaking she could see his appeal if you liked bad-boy types. He was rugged and a little rough around the edges, with a slightly crooked nose that looked as if it might have been broken a time or two. Dark piratical eyes made him seem a little shady or dangerous and he had uneven facial features. “Raw” was the best way to describe him.