by Nancy Naigle
“They promised nothing would change. There hasn’t been any announcement to the contrary, has there?”
“No. But it seems like odd timing. We’re so busy. No one has time to deal with someone looking over our shoulders right now. You don’t think they’ll close Porter’s, do you?”
“No way.”
“What if they realize how young I am and fire me so they can hire someone older and more experienced to manage the retail store?”
She was quickly outgrowing the title of his little girl. Wise beyond her years, she made him proud and panicky at the same time. “Misty, you might be young, but you’re doing a great job. You showed me your reports. You’re responsible for the lift in sales last year since the new layout of the store. You’ve saved them a great deal of money, and profits are at an all-time high. You’re a natural. No one is going to replace you. Your good work stands for itself.”
“You really think so?”
“I do. Don’t worry about things you have no control over. Enjoy being a teenager. There’s no sense in worrying about all that stuff right now.”
“I know, but I’d be heartbroken if anything happened to my job at Porter’s. I love being there. It makes me still feel close to Mom.”
He hugged her close. “Which is probably why you’re so good at it.” A day didn’t go by that he didn’t curse his grandfather for selling out. Sure, the corporation had promised they’d leave everything “as is” with Porter’s, but didn’t they all say that? “You know you don’t have to work all those hours. If you had more time with your friends, or study group, that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Maybe you’re stressed because you’re so busy.”
“I’m getting all A’s, Dad. I don’t need more time to study, and I see my friends at the store too.” The horse she’d just put up leaned forward, hanging his head out of the stall and resting his chin on the top of her head. “Ewww.” She lifted his chin and stepped aside, rubbing his jawline. “Now that you’ve unsuccessfully dodged my question, what do you really think this corporate exec wants with us?”
Mike wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “It’s anyone’s guess. Let’s not worry until we know if there’s something to worry about.”
“I’ll try, Daddy.” She paused, then glanced up at him.
They walked out of the barn and Mike slid the barn door closed behind them.
“Wouldn’t be the worst thing if you could forgive Great-Grandpa either,” Misty said. “He said he had a good reason for selling Porter’s.”
“That,” he said, tapping his finger to her nose, “isn’t your worry. Let’s get some supper.” Had she been spending time with his grandfather again? The last time they’d discussed it he’d gotten way too mad. He still regretted yelling at her. It wasn’t her war. She had every right to see the crotchety old fool if she wanted to, but he didn’t have to like it.
As he shrugged off his coat and coveralls in the mudroom and washed the day’s work from his hands, Misty made her way to the kitchen. The quick shwoof of the gas stove was followed by the clang of the cast-iron pan hitting the stove grates. He was salivating by the time the eggs cracked for that corn bread—Olivia’s recipe.
He took two big soup bowls down from the cabinet and dished out two hefty servings. The soup and corn bread filled the air with a stomach-growling aroma.
“I did the quickie kind,” Misty said, flipping a corn bread griddle cake onto a small plate for herself, and three onto a plate for him.
“Works for me.” He grabbed the butter and they walked into the dining room to eat. Mike had promised Olivia that he and Misty would always eat at the table together when she was gone. He loved her for asking that of him, because every night at mealtime, Olivia was still in this home. Still a family.
They both dug in. Finally, Misty broke the silence. “Umm, I do have something to ask you.” She laid her spoon down, and put her hands in her lap, looking serious.
He gripped his spoon tighter. “Okay.”
“Luke asked me to go to the winter dance with him.”
He was thankful it wasn’t something bad. “Luke Harrison? Drew and April’s boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He did, did he? I thought you weren’t interested in anyone.” He shoveled a big bite into his mouth.
“I’m not. Not really. I mean, it’s just a dance. Well, the football game will be Thursday and we’re going in a group, like we always do. The dance is on Friday night.”
Mike continued to chew, buying time to think reasonably about how to respond. Luke was a good kid, though. Kind of a goofball sometimes, like his father, but harmless.
He wished Olivia was really here tonight. Formal dances were definitely out of his wheelhouse. It seemed too much like a date. He wasn’t ready for that.
“Please let me go.” Her eyes were full of hope.
He put his spoon down and folded his hands. “I took your mom to every dance all through high school. I remember the first time. Mom told me to go down to Dixie’s Flower Shop and buy a corsage. I can’t even say for certain what kind of flowers were in it, just that they were blue. Light blue as pretty as her eyes. Your mom didn’t tell me until years after we were married that the corsage was supposed to match her dress … not her eyes.”
“That’s sweet. I never knew about that.”
“Then our senior year she wore a strapless dress. Totally screwed me up. I thought I had it all covered with the corsage that time, but there wasn’t anywhere to put the darn thing.”
“What did you do?”
“Improvised.”
Misty started laughing. “Oh no. I know what it means when you improvise. Did this involve baling twine or fence wire?”
“Maybe,” he said with a serious look.
Misty’s mouth dropped wide. “Oh, no!”
He laughed. “Yep. I went to my truck and pulled out a couple pieces of baling twine, then laid that pretty little bunch of flowers on her arm and wrapped it around her wrist and over the flowers with a bunch of half-hitch knots with that twine and then tied it in a bow. Worked like a charm.”
“I hope I don’t get a corsage like that.”
“If you do, I hope you’ll be as gracious as your mother was that night.” He could still see her face. “She flaunted it like it was the best corsage in town.”
“She didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“At the time, I really thought she was impressed. But no. I’m sure you’re right. Your mom was a very nice girl. It didn’t take much to make her smile.” Just the thought still made his insides go gushy. “I loved her smile.”
“You’re getting all googly-eyed again. I hope someday somebody looks like that when they talk about me.”
“Don’t rush it. I’m not ready for that.”
“I know, Dad. I’ll always be your little girl. Don’t you worry.”
She got up and came around the table and hugged him. “So, I’m going to need a really pretty dress.”
“I don’t know the first thing about buying a dress. Do you think Lilene or one of the ladies at Porter’s could help you?”
“Probably, but please don’t make me have them help. I’ll end up with a poofy old-lady dress.”
Visions of his little girl all dressed up made his heart knot.
“If you’ll trust me with your credit card, I can buy one online. That’s what all the girls are doing.”
“All the girls?”
“Yes, but I promise to clear it with you first.”
For a while there he’d thought she believed it when he said she couldn’t date until she was thirty. That wild hope was about to get kicked to the curb.
He leaned forward in his chair and pulled his wallet from his back pocket. “This is a big step. I’m trusting you to be responsible with this.” He flipped his platinum card down on the table in front of her. “I want to see the dress before you enter that credit card number.” It almost broke his heart to think she was going to go to her
first dance, a date no matter how you framed it, without Olivia.
She squealed so loud he flinched.
“I guess that means you’re happy. Or my soup is already giving you some serious gas pains. Too many jalapeños in it?”
She swatted him. “Stop that. You know I’m happy. You’re the best dad in the world. I promise you can trust me with your credit card.”
“There’ll be a curfew.”
“No problem.” She jumped from her chair. “This is so awesome. I have to go upstairs and call Brandy.” She did a half squat. “Can I be excused? I’m too excited to eat one more bite.”
He nodded toward the stairs, and she fled past him carrying the red plastic card pinched between her fingers with a grip so tight it looked as if she were afraid it was going to fly away.
Our little girl, Olivia. She’s growing up.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Vanessa sat in the back of the car reviewing the reports on Porter’s. She looked up from her computer. More trees. “How much farther?”
The driver lifted his eyes to the rearview mirror. “About another twenty minutes.”
She glanced at the time on her phone. “I guess that would make Fraser Hills about two hours from nowhere.”
Did he just snicker? He focused back on the road. He was probably thinking the same thing.
This was the longest Monday morning.
The farther they drove, the more the land rolled, making her a bit queasy. She reached for her tote bag for a bottle of water. Hopefully a few sips would settle her stomach.
On this winding road, she couldn’t stand to look at the staffing worksheet another minute. She’d seen enough though. Several had been working there since Porter’s first opened its doors. The average years of service was fifteen, and that would’ve been even higher if it weren’t for the influx of new hires over the past two years.
She’d done a lot of job hopping when she first got out of college. It was the only way to quickly increase her salary. She was proud of her current salary, but her goal was to be comfortably retired by the time she was fifty.
They passed the first sign with FRASER HILLS on it. Three miles away. Finally.
The driver hit the blinker and slowed down to take the turn.
Vanessa slipped her shoes back on and tucked her laptop into her bag.
They rode by sprawling acres of green grass and livestock. Pretty barns with painted barn quilts above the vast doors gave the landscape an unexpected pop of color that was otherwise pretty much gone since all the autumn leaves had already fallen.
On the right, Christmas trees lined up like toy soldiers up a steep hillside, ready to grace living rooms over the holidays.
In the center median a sign read WELCOME TO FRASER HILLS. A white oval hung below it with HOME TO PORTER’S ~ THE BEST FRUITCAKE IN THE USA printed on it.
How can they make the claim of best in the USA? Who decided? And why? Hiring someone to taste all the fruitcake in the nation to pick one and call it the best would have to be the worst job in the world, or at least the USA.
She reached into her purse and jotted a note to add the removal of the Porter’s sign in the closure plans.
Staring out the window, a train track ran adjacent. Her stomach clenched with each climb of the road. Possible rail access. That could be another positive asset for the warehouse.
“We’re here,” announced the driver. “Fraser Hills.”
Main Street looked like something out of a story book. There were shops on each side of the road, and small houses dotted the roads off to the right and left. Main street was wide, with no median. Instead, bright white parking lines slashed the blacktop like a giant game of tic-tac-toe: nose-to-nose parking between the northbound and southbound lanes. Parallel parking in front of each store blocked her view of some of the shops as they drove by.
With fewer than two thousand people living in the town, Vanessa had feared there’d be nothing more than a bank, a grocery store, and a gas station—and Porter’s, of course. But this town was charming, and alive.
Each storefront had its own look, painted in bright colors that somehow worked together although there was clearly no planned scheme. Pastels next to jewel tones next to a school-bus-yellow pizza shop. It was like they’d tried to include every crayon in the box—making it kind of whimsical. It was an appealing location. Professional buildings next to retail shops. Among them, antiques, boutiques, candles, gift shops, and an old pharmacy that even boasted a soda shop. She wondered if the soda jerk wore a garter on his sleeve while concocting real phosphate soda recipes like the one her grandpa had taken her to the summer before she went into first grade. Anna and I will definitely have to check that out.
Pleasantly surprised by the size and multitude of welcoming shops, she mused about how much Anna would enjoy visiting here too.
Several people walked along the sidewalks. Rolls of bright red and green wrapping paper poked out of the top of one woman’s shopping bag as she strolled down Main Street.
“This is Porter’s.” The driver pulled to a stop in front of the building at the corner of Main and Porter House Road.
She peered out the window. It was nothing like she’d imagined. The brick building stood three stories tall, towering over the two-story buildings around it, and its dark red brick gave it an appearance of strength. Rather than opening onto either street, the front doors faced the intersection on an angle at least ten feet wide where the building’s corner had been flattened to create a covered main entrance. Three steps led from the sidewalk up to tall double glass-front doors with black shutters on each side. White columns flanked the steps, carrying the weight of the glossy white roof that covered the entryway; above the portico, huge shiny black-and-white-painted letters spelled PORTER’S vertically down the face of the building.
“Can you wait here for a few minutes? I need to pick up the key to the apartment, and get directions.”
“As long as you need.”
“Thank you. I shouldn’t be too long.” She stepped out of the car, and closed the door.
Something loud came from behind her down the street. It sounded as if it was getting closer. She spun around, catching sight of shiny black horses clip-clopping her way. A breath caught in her throat as she leapt from the street to the sidewalk.
The earth seemed to vibrate as their hoofbeats got closer. Their muscles flexed like those of a bodybuilder oiled up and ready to compete for the big title.
The man sitting on the wagon looked strong and fit too. She swept her hand through her hair as she watched him approach. His shoulders were broad; his hair was a little long below the brim of his Western hat.
Anna is not going to believe this. She raised her phone and took a picture. Then another as the horses slowed near the four-way stop at the corner.
Six horses in all. The shiny black wagon they pulled was stacked high with big bales of hay.
She stood there nearly breathless, in awe of the scene before her. Tracing the horses with her eyes, then lifting her gaze toward the man. She smiled wide, then touched her fingers to her lips.
One of the horses sputtered and snorted as he passed, all six moving like a single unit.
“Amazing.” She lifted her chin.
He nodded. “Good afternoon.”
His voice was deep and strong. So captivating that she stared impolitely for a long moment before she finally managed a finger wave. “You too.”
He lifted his hand to his hat and smiled.
* * *
Vanessa took a picture, then watched until the horses and wagon turned at the next road.
She forwarded the photo to Anna.
Vanessa: This was my first sighting in Fraser Hills.
Anna: Now, that’s what I call a welcome.
Until that moment she’d been so captivated by the horses that she hadn’t even noticed the sweet aroma that hung in the air. It smelled like warm bread, and sugar and spices. Her mouth watered, reminding her she hadn’t eate
n yet today. Not that fruitcake was on her list of favorites.
The Porter’s building seemed to occupy the whole block—much bigger than she’d expected even after seeing the plans.
Playful green-and-white-striped awnings softened the dark red brick exterior around the retail-store windows to either side of the entrance. The Porter’s logo—a black silhouette of a horse-drawn carriage riding past snow-topped Fraser firs—shone from the old glass inserts. A deep red ribbon scrolled around PORTER’S in green script. Very classy, actually, if a little outdated. Although a horse-drawn carriage did just drive by.
Vanessa’s cheeks stung from the crisp air. She briskly climbed the stairs and grasped the shiny brass door handle. A whoosh of warm air washed over her like a hug, as a set of gleaming brass bells on a leather strap jangled against the heavy door.
“Welcome to Porter’s.” A young lady wearing a black-and-white-striped vest bearing the Porter’s logo waved from a long wooden counter. “Let me know if I can help you find anything.”
“Thank you.”
The space was warm and inviting. Nice wide aisles of shelving, not the metal kind, but furniture-quality, tastefully decorated for the holidays. The old building was clean and spacious.
The heavenly smell was even stronger in here. She walked through the retail space, enjoying the anonymity that wouldn’t last long once people knew she’d arrived from AGC headquarters.
“Welcome to Porter’s.” An older woman also wearing a striped vest, with BETTIE on her name tag, approached Vanessa with a platter. “Samples are always free. Take one.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Or two, I’ll never tell.”
“No, thank you.” Vanessa turned and started for the next aisle, but the woman caught her attention again.
“‘No, thank you’?” Bettie eyed Vanessa. “You’ve never had our fruitcake, have you?”
Vanessa turned back to face the woman. “Well, no.” She waved a hand. “I’m not really a fan of fruitcake.”
“Ours isn’t like any other. Trust me. You’ll like ours. Just try it.” Bettie pushed the platter closer to her. She had to be every bit of seventy, and she was so cheery it was hard to say no.