by Meg Muldoon
“Please,” he added after a moment.
I nodded.
I half wondered if I shouldn’t leave Cliff Copperstone alone with his thoughts. But then, I thought better of it.
Generally, folks didn’t come into a pub looking for solitude. If the man had wanted peace and quiet, he could have easily gotten a six pack and spent the night alone in whatever fancy hotel room the committee had put him up in.
“So are you looking forward to the Chocolate Championship tomorrow?” I asked.
He rubbed his eyes and rested his elbows on the bar.
“Sure,” he said in a distant, unenthusiastic tone.
I clicked my tongue against the roof of my mouth.
“Why, I’ve never heard anybody so excited in all my life,” I said sarcastically.
He scoffed, then took a sip of his beer.
“It’s just a beauty contest,” he mumbled. “A bunch of chefs who think they’re real hot stuff building things out of chocolate. It’s not even about how it tastes. Just about how it looks. What’s there to be excited about? Besides which, the Valentine’s Day theme is so two decades ago.”
“I guess you’d probably think the same thing about The Gingerbread Junction, then,” I said.
“You mean that gingerbread house contest they hold every year here?” he said. “That one’s even worse. In that one, they’re just a bunch of amateurs building cookie houses. It’s absolutely ridiculous.”
I gasped.
“Blasphemy, sir!” I said in a voice that was perhaps a few decibels too loud.
He looked up at me, the edges of his mouth curling up slightly at how obviously offended I was.
“I know you’ve won that competition many times. But don’t tell me you actually think it’s—”
“Excuse me, Mr. Copperstone?”
He stopped what he was saying and glanced over in the direction of where the voice had come from.
Bethany Reid stood a few feet away from his elbow, looking as terrified as a prairie dog about to get mowed down by a semi.
But there was also a hopeful glint in her eyes as she gazed at the larger-than-life celebrity chef.
“Yes?” Cliff said, leaning back on the barstool.
“Um, do you, um, do you think I could take a picture with you, Mr. Copperstone? You’re like… you’re like my favorite judge on Foodie TV.”
Bethany, who had nearly run me over accidently in the Pine Needle Tavern’s parking lot back in October, chewed on her lip nervously as she waited on a reply.
Cliff gave me a deadpan, put-out look, and then turned back toward the young woman.
“I’m in the middle of a conversation right now,” he said, giving her a sharp glance. “Come back in twenty minutes, and we’ll see.”
I felt my breath catch in my throat at the severity in his tone.
Bethany’s expression of hopefulness died faster than fresh green leaves in a blizzard. Her eyes became glassy, and a moment later, she scurried away back to her table and her friends, looking like the definition of crestfallen.
“What it is we were talking about?” Cliff said, turning back toward me. “Something about the honor of The Gingerbread Junction, I believe.”
I felt my cheeks burn red with anger.
“Was that really necessary? She didn’t want anything more than a moment of your time.”
He shrugged like he hadn’t just crushed the girl’s dreams.
“When everybody wants a moment of your time, it starts adding up,” he said, taking a long, long swig of the beer. “A man’s generosity can only go so far before it’s less like generosity and more like being taken advantage of.”
I bit my lip and did my best to keep from shaking my head.
Bethany hadn’t been looking to take advantage of him, and he knew it.
I didn’t know why I was surprised by any of it. I knew that a lot of times, famous people turned out to be this way in real life. While they were all smiles on camera, they could often be petty and mean in the real world, acting as though they were superior to everybody else.
He drained the rest of his beer.
“Would you like another?” I asked coldly.
He nodded.
I poured him another stout, but this time, I didn’t linger around to talk.
It was better to leave somebody like that alone with his own conscience.
Chapter 10
Warren looked at the man hunched over the bar, scratching the rough white stubble on his chin.
“And you say this fella’s a real big deal?” he said.
I nodded.
“He don’t look like a big deal,” Warren said, befuddled. “The man can’t hold his liquor worth a damn.”
“If I were to guess, I’d say that he’d gotten an early start tonight before he got here,” I said, letting out a sigh. “He only had three pints of the Spruce Stout. Unless Aileen spiked that with vodka during the brewing process, it shouldn’t cause this kind of reaction.”
The brew pub was completely empty, as it was well past 10 p.m.: Closing time, according to city ordinance. Everybody knew the rule and had politely cleared out. Everyone, but a certain celebrity chef, who remained stooped over the bar, more or less half-present.
Warren observed the figure, and scratched his chin again.
“Well, Cinny Bee, what should we do?” Warren said. “Should we shutter up the place and leave him here overnight? We can’t very well toss him into that mess out there.”
Warren nodded to the window. Snow had piled up on the sill, obscuring part of the view. What little view there was wasn’t too pretty, either. The wind wailed and large flakes of snow ran sideways with it.
“No, we very well can’t toss him out,” I said, in agreement.
As much as he might deserve it, I thought.
I glanced over at my grandfather. He was looking worn-out from the long night of bartending, and I knew that he still had to get upstairs and pack for the Pheonix trip.
“I’ll take care of it,” I said.
“No, Cinny Bee, you don’t have to do that.”
The stooped man let out a short groan and lifted his head. But a moment later, his face was back on the bar.
“He’s my responsibility, in a way,” I said. “We can’t have the visiting celebrity chef found frozen to death tomorrow morning after a night of too much drinking, now can we?”
“The man is responsible for himself,” Warren said. “But if you’re set on seeing the poor soul home, then I’m gonna call that husband of yours to come over and help you out.”
Warren headed for the old-fashioned phone on the wall.
“The weather’s too bad out there for you to be driving by yourself, let alone having to take care of this fella.”
I waved him off.
“Oh, pish-posh, old man,” I said, going for my coat and scarf on the coat rack. “You know I’ve been driving in Christmas River winters all my life. I know you’re just looking out for me, but you don’t need to go disturb Daniel over this. I can hold my own perfectly well on those roads.”
“Sure, Cinny Bee, but even good drivers can’t always—”
“I’ve got four-wheel drive, studs, and sandbags in the trunk,” I said. “I’ll go real slow, Grandpa.”
He started saying something else, but I interrupted him. I pecked him quickly on the cheek, and looped my soft, fuzzy knit scarf around my neck several times.
“But, Cinny, I—”
I shook my head.
“I’m going now,” I said.
“Well, at least let me help you get this here big deal out to the car,” Warren said in a defeated tone.
“If you insist.”
The old man went over to where the celebrity chef was stooped, hooking an arm under his shoulder and standing him up on his own two feet.
“Some fella he is,” Warren grumbled.
A moment later, the two of us were helping Cliff Copperstone out to my car, squinting through the driving snow.<
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Chapter 11
“It’s not all my fault, you know,” he said for what had to be the fifth time since we’d escorted him from the brewpub and strapped him in the passenger seat of my car.
I bit my lower lip and slowed as the highway became slicker with the heavy, dense white stuff.
If I’d known that the Chocolate Championship committee was putting Cliff Copperstone up at the Lone Pine Resort too, I most likely wouldn’t have been so gung-ho back at the brewpub to help the man get home. But as it was, I didn’t find out that little fact until several minutes into our drive, when Cliff finally located his hotel keycard and made out the words on it.
He’d had a few too many to remember on his own where he was staying.
But despite being out here on a desolate road in the middle of a snowy night, I took solace in the fact that I was saving Christmas River from a big embarrassment by making sure Cliff got back to his hotel safe and sound. Imagine how bad it would look if he didn’t show up to the competition tomorrow? The town already had enough fiascos what with all the scandals that the Gingerbread Junction had brought over the years. Christmas River didn’t need anything to go wrong with something as big and prestigious as the Chocolate Championship.
“It’s not all my fault,” he muttered again, leaning his head against the cold window of the passenger’s seat.
“What’s not your fault?” I asked, yet again.
Maybe this time I would get an actual response that made sense.
“I hate this time of year,” he said, ignoring the question. “Chocolate hearts and red roses and stupid couples rubbing it all in your face. It’s a senseless holiday, don’t you think?”
I shook my head.
The man couldn’t hold a train of thought to save his life.
“What does that have to do with whatever isn’t your fault?”
Yet again, he didn’t answer the question.
“I don’t know how I ended up here,” he said.
It was hard work conversing with a drunk person.
“Well, that old man back there at the brew pub?” I said, glancing over at him. “He’s my grandfather. He helped me get you into the car. Which is how you ended up here.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about,” he said.
“Then what are you talking about?” I said, slowing to turn on the road that led up to the resort.
“Life, is what I’m talking about,” he snapped, sounding for the first time somewhat coherent. “As in, how did I end up here in a small town in the middle of nowhere, judging a meaningless, worthless competition like the Chocolate Championship Showdown?”
I felt a sour expression overcome my face.
So much in life had to do with perspective. Here I’d been, thrilled and honored and had even felt unworthy to be asked to judge the high-stakes competition. And in the passenger’s seat next to me, Cliff Copperstone felt like the whole thing was a sham and entirely beneath him.
I struggled to find something to say in response, but found that the small talk tank was empty.
He rolled his head in my direction after a long moment.
“I offended you, didn’t I?” he said.
“It’s just a shame,” I said.
“What is?”
“Somebody not appreciating what they have.”
He rolled his head back across the seat and looked out the window again.
“It’s none of your concern, Cynthia,” he said.
“Cinnamon,” I said.
He let out a laugh.
“That’s right,” he said. “Cinnamon. The little-known sixth Spice Girl.”
I bit my lip to keep from saying something mean.
I might have saved the city some embarrassment by driving Cliff Copperstone back to the resort, but it hadn’t been a walk in the park by any means.
I pulled up to the building’s main entrance next to the valet station, which appeared to be unmanned at the hour.
“We’re here,” I said bluntly.
He swung his head back in my direction.
“I guess we are,” he said. “Care for a night cap? I’ve got a bottle of gin back at the room”
I narrowed my eyes at him.
“I’ve got to get home,” I said, with all the coldness of a January dawn.
He stared at me for a long moment and then let out a long, lonesome sigh.
“Of course you do,” he said.
He clumsily unbuckled his seatbelt. Then he stepped out of the car, into the driving snow.
He paused before closing the door.
“Don’t pay any attention to me, Cynthia,” he said, ducking his head so he could meet my eyes. “I’m a bitter bastard and I’ve got nothing but wind in me. And everyone knows it, too.”
He slammed the door before I could say anything.
A moment later, he disappeared from view completely as he took a hard fall into the snowy ground.
Chapter 12
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
He ran a hand through his disheveled hair and leaned more of his weight against my shoulder.
“It’s these damn shoes,” he said, looking down at the black designer boots he was wearing. “They look cool, but they don’t grip for shi—”
“Did you hit your head or anything?”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “I still see two of you. The same as it was in the car.”
He gazed down at me with glazed-over, mahogany-colored eyes.
“Everything feels fine,” he said. “Everything, but my pride.”
“I better help you to your room,” I said.
“No, I’m okay.”
“No, I don’t think you are,” I said. “Besides, I’ve driven you this far. Might as well see you to your door.”
He stopped leaning on me as much, but didn’t protest when I helped him through the massive cedar entry of the resort.
The lobby of the Lone Pine Resort, which I’d only seen briefly during my previous visit, was somehow even more impressive than before. Rustic logs lined the walls, giving the place a cozy cabin feel. That was only added to by the gigantic cracking fireplace on the main wall, along with the dozens and dozens of white and red roses nestled into nearly every nook and cranny of the stately lobby.
The decorations and atmosphere of the hotel were beautiful, even if they were only meant for the people who could afford to stay here.
We headed toward the elevators. As we did, I caught one of the concierges at the main desk eyeing us. I flashed her a broad smile, as if to say This isn’t what it looks like.
She smiled weakly back, as if to say Sure it isn’t.
Maybe walking Cliff Copperstone back to his room hadn’t been such a good idea after all.
But there wasn’t anything I could do about it now. And besides. A man’s safety was more important than the wrong assumptions of a few lookie-loos.
We made it to the elevators and stepped onboard the nearest one available. Cliff leaned against the railing, while I hit the button for the third floor.
“I think you really did want that nightcap,” he said, shooting a sideways glance in my direction. “You’re just using my fall back there as an excuse.”
I scratched my face, showing him my wedding ring in an offhanded gesture in case he had somehow missed it before.
“The good ones always are,” he mumbled.
He kept his head down after that until the elevator button dinged and the doors opened.
We stepped off, with him going first. He swerved a little as he walked, but there was no snow or ice to slip on in the hallway.
“Room 353?” I said, repeating what he’d said in the car.
“Uh...”
He paused, rifling through his jacket pocket. He pulled out his wallet and clumsily opened it. A moment later, the entire contents of the fold-out were scattered across the plush red carpet of the hallway.
“Another blow to the pride,” he slurred, leaning over and collecting the
various cards and dollar bills.
I knelt down to help, grabbing a few coins, a couple of gas cards, and a photo of a woman that I let my eyes linger on for only a split second.
I handed the contents to him without looking too hard, thinking it would be rude to since what he kept in his wallet was none of my business. He began rearranging everything, stuffing cards and bills into the folds, until his hand came across the photograph.
He paused for a moment, staring at the photo, which looked wrinkled and worn, as if it had been handled often.
“Speak of the devil, and she shall appear,” he said, tapping the picture.
A twisted smile came across his face.
“When I was saying it wasn’t all my fault earlier?” he said, staring at the picture a moment longer. “I meant that someone else helped me get to where I am today.”
I glanced at the photo for a moment, gazing at the woman in it. She had long, blond hair, a carefree smile, and kind eyes that seemed to reach out from the picture. She was leaning against a bridge, the water sparkling behind her beneath a strong sun. It looked as if the photo had been arranged and taken professionally.
I pulled my eyes away suddenly, feeling for the second time that night as though I was intruding somehow on something that I shouldn’t have been.
“Not too many people carry pictures like that around anymore,” I said as he placed the photo back in his wallet.
“No, they don’t,” was all he said in response.
I opened my mouth, about to ask him to explain what he meant, but I stopped as another feeling came over me.
A feeling that I didn’t belong here, standing in the rich, posh hallway of this resort with an inebriated Cliff Copperstone.
It was time for me to get home. Before the storm outside had something to say about it.
“C’mon,” I said, nudging him forward.
“As you wish, Cynthia.”
“Cinnamon.”
“What’d I say?”
We walked down the hallway, decorated with real Douglas fir boughs and clusters of roses, and I wondered what it would be like to be wealthy enough to stay in a place like this.
A moment later, we had found Room 353.