7. Which one of the men, Aaron or Drew, were you rooting for Bree to end up with? Do you believe that sometimes a person is put in a position where they are choosing between two equally nice, equally godly, equally appropriate “candidates” for marriage? Have you ever been in a position where you were choosing between two people as potential spouses? What were some of the struggles you faced? How can you gently “let someone down” when you realize you don’t feel about them the way they feel about you?
8. What do you think about Audrey scheming and stepping in to play matchmaker between Bree and Drew? Have you ever tried to play matchmaker? What were the results? We all probably know stories of matchmaking that had happy endings, but others that ended in disaster. So what are some parameters or rules you would make for a person trying to play matchmaker?
9. Do you agree with Audrey’s conclusion that CeeCee’s hospitalization took the matchmaking out of their hands and put it into God’s hands? What do you think CeeCee would think about that conclusion? How did Drew and Bree’s weekend managing the inn affect their relationship? Why do you think it “sealed the deal” for each of them?
10. Bree had to ask herself some difficult questions about her reasons for being attracted to Drew (over Aaron). Do you think her reasons were valid? Do you agree with her that when you marry someone, you also marry their family? If you are married, what has been your experience with the family you married into? Have you ever seen an extended family cause great harm to a marriage? Have you ever seen an extended family help hold a marriage together or restore a broken marriage?
11. Bree and Drew only know each other for a short time before they feel fairly certain they are meant for each other. And barely six months before they become engaged. Do you think that’s a realistic length of time for two people to know each other well enough to fall in love and decide to marry? What kinds of things should be factored in to such a short engagement? If you are married, how long was your courtship? What do you think about Drew’s decision to take the job in St. Louis and put some distance between him and Bree? Do you think the length of a courtship has any relation to the success of that couple’s marriage? What advice would you give to Bree and Drew?
12. How involved should an extended family be in one of its member’s romantic relationships? Do you think that level has changed over the years as families have moved farther apart geographically? How different do you think the American attitude of independence is from the way things were in the culture in biblical times, and even more recently in early American history?
13. Did you enjoy revisiting the characters from the first three Chicory Inn novels? If you have read the first four books, whose story have you identified with most? Which characters have been your favorite? Which characters have annoyed you or made you angry?
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About the Author
DEBORAH RANEY dreamed of writing a book since the summer she read all of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House books and discovered that a little Kansas farm girl could, indeed, grow up to be a writer. After a happy twenty-year detour as a stay-at-home wife and mom, Deb began her writing career. Her first novel, A Vow to Cherish, was awarded a Silver Angel from Excellence in Media and inspired the acclaimed World Wide Pictures film of the same title. Since then, her books have won the RITA Award, the HOLT Medallion, the National Readers’ Choice Award, as well as being a three-time Christy Award finalist. Deb enjoys speaking and teaching at writers’ conferences across the country. She and her husband, Ken Raney, make their home in their native Kansas and, until a recent move to the city, enjoyed the small-town life that is the setting for many of Deb’s novels. The Raneys enjoy gardening, antiquing, art museums, movies, and traveling to visit four grown children and a growing brood of grandchildren, all of whom live much too far away.
Deborah loves hearing from her readers. To e-mail her or to learn more about her books, please visit www.deborahraney.com.
We hope you’ve enjoyed Close to Home. Here’s a sneak peek of Home at Last, the fifth and final book in the Chicory Inn Novels series.
1
A thin layer of ice covered the narrowing road, and Link Whitman tapped the brakes and slowed his pickup. The Langhorne police were famous for being generous with speeding tickets, and Link already had two on his record that were killing his insurance bill.
Running his fingers through unruly curls that could stand a good cut, he leaned to check his reflection in the truck’s rearview mirror. His sisters would have given him a hard time if they’d seen.
Who you primping for, Linkie? Must be a girl!
He grinned to himself, hearing their high-pitched voices as clearly as if his sisters were in the cab of his truck with him.
He loved his sisters, but they could annoy the tar out of him too. And ever since Bree had gotten engaged, the Whitman women had upped the ante big-time. After Bree and Drew’s wedding next month, he’d be the last Whitman standing, and the pressure was on. All his siblings had kids, too, and no doubt Bree would want to start a family right away. Yep, he was a slacker, and his sisters would remind him at every opportunity. Mom would do worse. She’d already tried to set him up with some great-niece of a friend of a friend of a friend.
No thank you. He could find his own woman. And he’d do it when he was darn good and ready. He gave a little snort. Who was he kidding? He’d been ready for a long time.
But he wasn’t going to settle for the first pretty thing that came along. He had standards—too high, according to his sisters. And they’d certainly made their point with the assortment of “ladies” they’d tried to set him up with over the years.
His phone chirped from his pocket and he fished it out. Mom. He tapped the brakes again and clicked Answer. “Hey, Mom. What’s up?”
“Have you already left the bakery?”
“No. I just got into town.”
“Oh, good.” She breathed a relieved sigh into the phone. “Could you see if they have any cinnamon rolls? Or a coffee cake? Anything that would feed four guests in the morning? We got a last-minute reservation and I’ve got too many other irons in the fire to be baking.”
“Sure. But don’t you feel guilty putting the Chicory Inn’s reputation on the line like that?” he teased.
“Not one bit. And don’t you try to change that.”
“I’ll bail you out. Don’t worry. It’ll cost you though.”
“Ha ha.” She sounded snarky, but Link could hear the smile beneath her tone.
“I’m here now,” he said as the Coffee’s On Bakery sign came into sight. “See you in about twenty minutes.”
“You’d better not show up here in twenty minutes. There is no way you can do all that and get back here in twenty minutes, and I happen to know you don’t need another speeding ticket.”
“What? How did you find—”
Something—a dog? a coyote?—darted into the street in front of him, a blur of brown curly fur against the dirty snow paving the street.
He spat out a word his mom wouldn’t appreciate and slammed on the brakes.
“Link? What happened? Link?”
The pickup squealed and skidded, and he held his breath as two tons of steel careened directly toward the anim— Wait! That wasn’t a dog. It was a kid!
His brake pedal was already pressed to the floor, but he pushed harder, his heart beating in his ears. Please, God! No!
Somehow his cell phone had ended up in the passenger seat, and he could hear his mother’s frantic cries coming from it. But he had bigger things to worry a
bout. The kid—a little girl, judging by the ribbon in her wild, curly, dog-colored hair—stood frozen in the middle of the street staring up at him through the windshield. It didn’t help that she was wearing a furry brown coat.
The pickup was still in a slow skid. He slammed the gearshift into Park, threw open his door, and dove toward the girl. In one smooth motion, he scooped her to his chest and rolled with her out of the path of the pickup’s front fender.
She didn’t weigh more than a feather, but now she was screaming like a banshee and kicking at his torso with her little brown boots. Sharp-toed boots. And she might be a featherweight, but she had the strength of a cornered doe.
“Ouch!” He grabbed her legs with his free hand and tried to hold them still while also remaining upright—no easy feat on the treacherous ice.
About that time, a woman came flying out of the bakery, wailing. Link watched, open-mouthed, as she stepped off the curb—and instantly bit the dust. But she rolled over and scrambled on all fours on the icy street, looking frantically to where Link was still trying to stay on his feet on a thin sheet of sleet and ice. With a little spitfire flailing in his arms.
“Stay there!” he yelled at the woman, his breath forming puffs of steam in the cold November air. His truck was safely stopped against the curb, but the next vehicle to come by might not see the woman, and she definitely wasn’t taking time to look both ways before crossing the street.
“Portia! Baby? Are you okay?” The woman’s eyes didn’t leave the child in Link’s arms. She was in shirtsleeves with a bib apron bearing the bakery’s logo.
He shifted the little girl to face her outward so the woman could see that she was in one piece—as if she couldn’t tell by the blood-curdling screams pouring from the tiny creature. Tucking the girl under one arm like a football—or more like one of those crazy bouncy balls his nephews had—he skated across the street.
He helped the woman to her feet with his free hand and started to transfer the little girl to her arms, only to have the mother attack him.
She pounded on his chest with both fists, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Link held her little girl under one arm. “You could have killed her! You could have killed her!”
He stumbled backward, trying to fend off the mother bear’s blows while baby bear was still thrashing in his arms. “Hey! She’s okay. She’s going to be okay. Stop!”
The woman—and he recognized her now—wilted into a puddle at his feet. It was the cute girl from the bakery. Shayla, her nametag declared.
She was the one he’d been primping in the rearview mirror for earlier. He’d seen her several times at Langhorne’s only bakery. His parents had tried to help the bakery stay in business, ordering their breads and sometimes breakfast fare from the bakery, even though Link knew money was just as tight for the inn. But he’d heard his mother tell Shayla once, when she made a delivery to the inn, “We know what it’s like to try to make a go of a small business.” And in return, Shayla had steered people to the inn. It was the beauty of small-town small businesses.
He’d gotten up the courage to flirt with Shayla the last time she waited on him. But he didn’t know she had a kid. Did that change things?
A moot point, judging by the way she’d been beating on him a few seconds ago. Probably wasn’t going to agree to go out with him. She was weeping now, gulping sobs that might have scared him a little if he hadn’t been raised with three drama-queen sisters. Not that Shayla didn’t have reason to be upset.
He set the little girl down beside her—keeping a tight hold on the fur collar of the child’s brown coat—then knelt beside Shayla. “Hey? You okay?”
Without looking up, she waved him away, even as she pulled the little girl onto her lap.
“It’s cold out here,” Link said. “That sidewalk is a sheet of ice. Why don’t we get you inside.”
“I can get myself inside.” She looked at him now, topaz-colored eyes blazing, her creamy brown complexion rosy with rage—or embarrassment? Link wasn’t sure.
He held out a hand to help her up.
But again, she waved him off. “Go on about your business.” She pushed the little girl’s corkscrew curls off her forehead and inspected her for damage. The child’s hair was a paler shade of brown than Shayla’s—kind of a muddy blonde—but the little girl was the spitting image of her. She whimpered pathetically, but she didn’t appear to be bleeding or otherwise injured. A miracle.
Link shuddered, suddenly feeling weak in the knees. “That was a close one.”
“Yeah, well . . . You might want to slow down next time. You could have killed her.”
He narrowed his eyes. “And you might want to watch your kid closer next time.” He turned toward the street, fuming, even as he wished he’d held his tongue. But seriously? She was going to blame him? He’d quite possibly saved the kid’s life. She should be thanking him.
“Hey!”
He turned back at the strident sound of her voice, waiting to get chewed out again.
But she only said, “You’re the guy from the B&B? The Chicory Inn?”
“Yes.” Wanna make something of it?
“Your order’s ready.” She hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “Inside.”
“Oh.” He curbed the urge to roll his eyes. “Thanks. My mother would’ve killed me if I forgot.” Nice choice of words, Whitman. Way to remind her that her daughter was nearly killed and that you’re running errands for your mommy. Bonus points if you’re trying to scare her off.
Shayla struggled to her feet, then lifted the girl into her arms. “Come on in. I’ll ring you up.”
“You’re sure I’m allowed in your store? After all, I did almost kill your daughter.” He couldn’t help it. The sarcasm came second nature.
She opened her mouth to say something, but instead, hitched her daughter up on one hip and opened the door to the bakery.
Shaking his head, Link followed her inside.
The heady scent of warm cinnamon rolls and almond icing wafted over them, and Link couldn’t keep from inhaling deeply. The mingling of aromas had a calming effect on him.
Shayla set the little girl down at a child’s table set with a stack of coloring books and buckets of crayons and markers.
Flecks of ice still nestled in her wild Afro. She looked gorgeous as ever, even if her complexion seemed more gray than the rich coffee-with-cream shade he remembered. Behind the counter, she consulted an order pad. “You had two dozen Parker House and a loaf of rye?”
“Yes. I guess . . . Whatever Mom ordered.” He didn’t have a clue, and couldn’t have remembered at this moment if his life had depended on it. No doubt, his mother— He took in a sharp breath. His mom! He’d left her thinking he’d been in an accident. She’d be frantic.
He reached into his pocket, then remembered his phone was on the passenger seat of his truck. At least he hoped it still was. “Hang on a sec, would you? My phone . . . I’ll be right back.”
She barely nodded and went on wrapping the bread.
He risked ruffling the little girl’s hair as he went by. She flinched at his touch, but at least she didn’t start screaming. Shoot, his ears were still ringing from the little squirt’s ruckus.
He jogged out to the pickup and did a quick walk-around, inspecting it much the way Shayla had inspected her daughter. The truck was caked with dirty slush and mud, but otherwise, no worse for the wear. After calling his mother and giving her a carefully edited version of the morning’s events, he tucked his phone back in his pocket and trotted back to the bakery.
A white bag with the bakery’s logo stamped on the side sat waiting on the counter, a receipt stapled to the side.
He looked at it. It seemed a little high, but he retrieved his wallet from his pocket and gave her a twenty dollar bill.
She made change and handed it to him without a word, seeming a little dazed. Well, he was too. He bent to peer into her eyes. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” She wiped her ha
nds on her apron and came around the counter to where her little girl was bent over a coloring book.
“Thanks.” He took the bag of rolls and left the store, deciding it would be best not to press the issue. Halfway to the truck, he remembered the extra baked goods his mom had requested before the near-accident. He hurried back inside. “Sorry, I almost forgot! My mom wanted—”
Behind the counter, Shayla stood with her face buried in the skirt of her flour-dusted apron, her shoulders heaving, tears blazing shiny trails on her cheeks.
Link’s heart stopped for the second time today. “What’s wrong?” He turned quickly to look for the little girl. She was still coloring, seeming perfectly fine and oblivious to her mother’s tears.
Shayla turned away and quickly dabbed at her face with the hem of the apron. When she turned back to face Link, her dark forehead and cheeks were smudged with flour. “What do you need?”
“Is . . . everything okay?”
“It’s fine. What do you need?”
Rattled by her weeping, he stuttered. “My mom . . . um . . . she wanted something to serve for breakfast at the inn. She mentioned a coffee cake, I think.”
Shayla walked to the end of the pastry case and pointed to a ring-shaped confection with crumbly stuff on top. “We have this one.”
“Okay. I’ll take two of those.” He hesitated, watching her closely. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
She ignored his question and went to work boxing the coffee cakes. “That’ll be sixteen forty-seven.”
“Um . . .” He waited for her to look up from the register. He smiled and brushed his own cheek. “You have flour . . . On your face. From the apron, I think.”
She turned away, rubbing at her cheeks as if they were on fire.
He laughed. “At least you’ve got some color in your cheeks now.” Stupid thing to say. “You were looking pretty pale—earlier, I mean.” Stupider thing to say. “You got it.” He pointed to her face. “It’s all off now. I just thought you’d want to know. Before your next customer comes in.”
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