Thomas Kinkade's Cape Light

by Katherine Spencer

  But Sophie herself was the real reason Zoey loved coming to the orchard. And she loved the stories that Sophie told—how she inherited the orchard and ran it on her own when she was so young, almost the same age Zoey was right now.

  Amazing in that day, Zoey thought, when women were barely allowed to work outside of their homes and never allowed to be the boss of anything. Sophie had been an independent, “liberated” woman before the label existed. Sophie knew she was different from other people; she marched to her own drummer. Zoey felt that way, too. Maybe that’s why Sophie really listened and took her seriously— unlike her father or even her mother, at times. That’s what she loved about Sophie.

  “You cleaned up all by yourself? You didn’t have to do that.” Sophie’s tone was partly scolding but mostly pleased. “It’s hard to get Evelyn off the phone when she’s all wound up. You’d think she was entertaining two hundred people instead of twenty-five.”

  “I think twenty-five is plenty. I’d be wired.”

  “Don’t be a fretful hostess, Zoey. Promise me? Always remember to enjoy your own parties. Just put the food out and turn up the music. Everyone does fine. Now, I think we should taste those pies and make sure they’ll meet with my daughter’s approval. What do they call that—product testing?”

  “Good idea.” Zoey was sure the pies were perfect, but she was dying for a bite.

  “I’ll set up the teapot and you put the kettle on. There’s a lot of snow out there. It snuck up on us.” Sophie glanced out the window to take in the white winter scene. “I don’t think you should drive. You call your mom and tell her you’re going to stay the night.”

  “Thanks. I think I will.” The orchard was not far from Zoey’s house, but on the Beach Road at night in bad weather, she would be crawling in her little hatchback, and the trip would take forever.

  Zoey set the honey jar and a pitcher of milk on the table as Sophie brought over the teapot. Three slices of pie sat between their places at the table—apple, pumpkin, and pecan. Zoey couldn’t wait to taste each one of them.

  Sophie sat down first. “Feels good to get off my feet. We’ve earned our reward, dear.”

  Zoey was about to agree when a banging noise filled the room. Someone was knocking on the back door. Mac had settled under the table, waiting for tasty crumbs to rain down, but he now ran to the door, barking wildly, reminding everyone of his formidable skills as Sophie’s protector. The two women stared at each other.

  “Expecting anyone?” Zoey asked.

  “No, I’m not. Who could it be in this weather?”

  Sophie began to get up, but Zoey touched her arm. “You sit. I’ll get it.” Before Sophie could reply, she ran over to the door. The knocking had escalated into a pounding sound.

  “All right, I’m coming.” Zoey held Mac’s collar with one hand and unlatched the door with the other, then turned the knob. But the door was stuck, frozen with the snow and cold. This door was finicky, she recalled. She pulled on the knob again with all her might. It didn’t budge at first, then suddenly flew open.

  A snow-covered form stumbled inside, falling right into her arms. She raised her hands and pushed back. She could tell it was a man, and a big backpack on his shoulders set him off balance. But she couldn’t tell much else.

  His coat collar was turned up, his head covered by a baseball cap, and a thick scarf was wrapped around his face so that only his eyes showed.

  Mac took a few steps back and growled low in his throat. Zoey stepped back as well and held the dog’s collar again. The man tried to pull his scarf away, but it was tied, and his hands looked stiff with cold.

  Sophie had jumped to her feet, and she quickly walked toward them. “What in heaven’s name! . . . Who are you?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The scarf finally loosened, and the man tugged off his hat. Zoey was surprised to see that he was young, about her age. And very good-looking.

  “Grandma, it’s me . . . James.”

  “James?” Sophie sounded suspicious of this declaration and walked closer, but her wariness quickly melted to delight. “For heaven’s sake . . . where did you come from? You look like the Abominable Snowman. Did you walk all the way from New York?”

  Before he could answer, Sophie tugged her unexpected visitor into the kitchen and pushed him down in a chair. “Take off those wet clothes. You’re going to catch a cold. Get some towels, Zoey, then fill a pail with hot water for his feet. He’s soaking wet.”

  “Grandma, please. I’m okay. It’s just a little snow.”

  Zoey hoped he was really okay, but felt a chill just watching him unbutton his jacket. She ran to the laundry room, glancing back just for a moment. Thick, reddish-brown hair stood out around his head, and dark blue eyes watched her from beneath thick brows. His cheeks were apple red, like those of a boy in a painting by a Dutch master.

  That’s James? The most recent photo Sophie had of that grandson showed a boy of about nine or ten, with a scrunched-up face and a mouth full of braces. His looks had sure improved, Zoey thought, her pulse still racing.

  Racing back to the kitchen, she caught sight of her reflection in the hall mirror. She took a moment to smooth her long, dark ponytail and tuck her shirt into her jeans, then gave up. You look like a deep-sea troll and smell like pumpkin pulp. Deal with it.

  When she returned with the towels, James was standing with his back to her. He had taken off his coat and draped it on a chair, and had removed his boots and socks as well. She couldn’t help noticing his broad shoulders, outlined by his damp denim shirt.

  Sophie stood at the counter, fixing tea with lemon and honey—using not one of the dainty china cups they had been using but the biggest mug in her cupboard.

  “Here are the towels.” Zoey handed them over and he smiled—a very likable grin that made deep dimples appear in his cheeks. His teeth were very straight and white. Those braces worked out fine, she wanted to say. But, of course, she didn’t.

  “I think you need to soak your feet in some hot water,” Sophie said. “Zoey will make a pail for you.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m fine.” He rubbed his head roughly with the towel, then draped it around his shoulders. “I couldn’t find a cab at the bus station so I hitched a ride. But they had to let me off at the crossroad.”

  “You walked all that way? And up the road to the house, too?” Sophie wasn’t really asking him to confirm this, just murmuring to herself. “You should have called. I would have picked you up.”

  “Picked me up? Dad said you aren’t driving anymore.”

  “I don’t. Not really. Only for emergencies.” Sophie quickly covered her tracks, her expression suddenly sincere.

  Zoey glanced at Sophie and then down at the table, trying not to laugh. Sophie had promised her children that she would stop driving, but had never sold her beloved old truck, Bella, reasoning that a truck was needed at the orchard, even if she didn’t drive it.

  Zoey knew Sophie still took Bella out on short rides, redefining the meaning of emergency. Like, going to church or visiting friends in the village. Zoey tried to chauffeur her as much as she could, but Sophie could be crafty when she had her mind set.

  James laughed and patted his grandmother’s hand. “You’re not fooling me, Grandma.” He glanced over at Zoey. “She drives whenever she feels like it, doesn’t she?”

  Before Zoey could reply, Sophie jumped in. “Don’t put Zoey on the spot. That’s not polite. Speaking of manners, I’ve forgotten mine. James, this is my friend Zoey Bates. Zoey, this is my grandson James Potter. He’s Bart’s son; Miranda’s younger brother.”

  Zoey had already guessed where James sat on the family tree. James offered his hand, and she briefly shook it.

  “She helped me make all these pies, and now she’s stuck here for the night.”

  “Believe me, it’s a good night to stay put. And good to meet
you, Zoey.”

  “Nice to meet you. That was quite an entrance . . . Are you an actor?” Zoey wasn’t sure why she asked him that. It had just popped into her head. He was certainly good-looking and charming enough to be onstage.

  He laughed. “It’s even worse. I’m a writer.”

  “Really? What do you write?”

  “Different things—book reviews, short stories. I’ve had a few pieces published this year. I’m working on a novel right now.”

  Zoey nodded. She didn’t know what to say. She was studying art, but didn’t consider herself a real artist yet. She had never sold her work or exhibited in a gallery outside of the college she attended.

  Sophie peered at her grandson. “Did you eat anything today? You look hungry.”

  “I had a sandwich on the bus. But I wouldn’t mind some pie.” He smiled, eyeing the three slices on the table.

  Sophie laughed. “Help yourself.” She gave him an extra fork, and he selected the pumpkin. Zoey took the apple, and Sophie, the pecan.

  “Well, what do you think?” Sophie asked after a moment.

  “Only the best apple pie I ever had in my life,” Zoey said, which was true.

  “Potter Orchard apples. Doesn’t get better than that,” Sophie agreed.

  “The pumpkin is . . . ambrosia, the nectar of the gods, Grandma. My taste buds are doing backflips.”

  Sophie laughed. “You’ve got to be a writer, honey. Your head is full of fine words.” She took another taste of her pie, and they sat quietly for a moment, savoring the treat. “So, how’s it going in the city, James? Is everything all right?”

  James looked up at her briefly and nodded. “Absolutely. I just had some extra time and was planning to go up to Connecticut today. I thought I’d come straight up here instead and visit you. I was writing something the other day about my childhood and all the summer visits to the orchard, staying here with you and Grandpa and the cousins. It was like . . . Apple Camp or something.”

  “Apple Camp?” Sophie smiled. “I like that. Those were wonderful days; some of the best of my life. You kids could be a handful, but I wouldn’t trade those times for anything.”

  “I wouldn’t either, Grandma.”

  Zoey sat, eating her pie. She knew it wasn’t smart to make snap judgments about people—especially about a guy you met five minutes ago. But she already liked James Potter. She could see—or at least, thought she could see—that he was a thoughtful, sensitive person. Funny, too. Important ingredients for a writer, she thought. She wondered if he was a good one.

  “As long as your father knows you’re here and won’t be worried, I think it was very sweet of you to surprise me,” Sophie told her grandson. “We can talk more tomorrow. And you can drive me to Evelyn’s on Thanksgiving Day,” she added. Her bold wink made both Zoey and James smile.

  “That’s a deal, Grandma. Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”

  “And with me,” Zoey added, exchanging a brief glance with James.

  Sophie had finished and pushed her empty dish aside. “I don’t know about you two, but I’m going to wrap these pies and get to bed.”

  “I’ll help you,” Zoey offered.

  “I’ll help, too.” James came to his feet and picked up the dirty dishes and cups, balancing the pile on his arm with an expert flair. Zoey didn’t doubt his claim that he was a writer. But she did wonder if he was earning his living as a waiter, too.

  They quickly packed the pies, putting most of them in boxes for Zoey to bring to church.

  “Time for bed, everyone,” Sophie announced. “Zoey, you take the room upstairs, next to mine. James, you can sleep in the little bedroom down here. The sheets are clean, and there’s an extra quilt in the closet. There are also some dry clothes in that chest that should fit you.”

  “Thanks, Grandma. I’ll be fine.”

  “Sleep tight, dear.” Sophie gave him a hug. “I’m glad you came to see me.”

  “I’m glad I did, too. Good night, Zoey. Nice to have met you.”

  Zoey glanced over her shoulder as she followed Sophie down the hallway. “Good night . . . nice to meet you, too.” The way he watched as she walked away made Zoey feel self-conscious.

  Zoey focused on Sophie, helping her up the stairs. Her older friend had been going full steam all night, but now it was apparent that the baking had not been that easy for her.

  They parted at Sophie’s bedroom. “Good night, dear. You know where everything is. I’ll see you in the morning. And we have a strong young man here to shovel us out.” Sophie’s tone was a gleeful whisper. “See? God provides.”

  Zoey just smiled. She was used to shoveling snow and digging her own car out. But she still found Sophie’s perspective amusing; Sophie rarely missed a chance to remind Zoey of the heavenly hand she believed watched over everyone.

  Before Zoey slipped off to sleep, she remembered her promise, but wasn’t quite sure how to start off a prayer for her friend.

  Well, God, I promised Sophie I’d say a prayer for her, so here goes. I know that more than anything, she wants to have her Christmas gathering here this year. And more than that, to stay in her house, on her land, until her very last days, even though her children don’t want her to do either of those things. I know this might be a tough one to manage. And it might be best for Sophie if she doesn’t get her wish. But maybe there’s some way things can work out for her? Some way we just can’t see and you can? If anyone deserves a favor, you know it’s Sophie.

  Also, thanks for sending James to shovel. I do need to get into the village early tomorrow, come to think of it.

  * * *

  When Zoey woke the next morning, it took a moment for her to remember that she had stayed over at Sophie’s house. The soft, hazy light that filled the bedroom reminded her that it had snowed the night before.

  She picked up her phone from the bedside table and checked the time. She had overslept and missed the alarm. How had that happened? She had to rush now. There were no classes today, the day before Thanksgiving, thank goodness. But she had to drop off the pies at church and then race home to shower and change and get over to the diner in time for her shift. Ever since her father had been elected mayor, she had to work more hours at the diner, and he was even nuttier about her coming and going exactly on time. You’d think I was in the army or something.

  Charlie always said he was teaching her valuable lessons that would help her in the “real world”—how to be responsible and mature, how to be a good employee. “Someday you’ll thank me,” he promised. But that wasn’t happening anytime soon, as far as Zoey could see.

  She splashed her face with water and combed her hair. She had a dark blue pullover in her backpack and pulled it on, stashing the pumpkin-stained T-shirt in her pack. She was glad in a way to be in a rush and not have much time to spend with James. She still looked like a troll—a tired one who needed her hair washed. And what was the point? He was definitely cute. And cool. But he was older than she was, and he lived in New York City. And a guy like that had to have a girlfriend somewhere. More than one, probably.

  Five minutes later, when she walked into the kitchen, James sat at the table, sipping a mug of coffee. Sophie stood at the stove, an apron over her long pink bathrobe. Mac stood right beside her, waiting for a morning treat. Zoey saw scrambled eggs and bacon on a platter on the table, which was set for three. She also smelled toast and something even tastier—coffee cake. How early had Sophie gotten up to cook?

  “Help yourself to coffee, Zoey. Scrambled eggs okay? I can make a few over easy for you. Oh, and there’s coffee cake, fresh out of the oven.”

  “It all looks delicious. But I’m in a rush. I have to get to work.” Zoey sipped her coffee at the counter. She knew if she sat down, she would be tempted to eat some of the tantalizing breakfast and would get to the diner even later.

  “That’s
all right, dear. I understand. But you take something with you. Some coffee cake, okay?”

  Before Zoey could answer, Sophie was cutting a wedge of cake and wrapping it for her to go.

  James had left the table but now returned, wearing his jacket, scarf, and boots. And carrying a straw broom. “The snow isn’t very high. I think you can get out easily. I’ll brush off your car.”

  Zoey was surprised by the offer, despite Sophie’s prediction. She hurried to slip on her parka and grab her backpack. “That’s all right. I can do it.” She tried to take the broom from him, but he held on tight. She tugged a second and felt silly, watching him slowly smile. “Really,” she said, “you don’t have to leave your breakfast.”

  “I have plenty of time for breakfast. I have nothing else to do all day. And right after that, I’m sure my grandmother will want to make me lunch.” He glanced over his shoulder at Sophie, who laughed to herself. “And after that, but not too long after . . . she’ll be cooking dinner. In fact”—he tilted his head at a charming angle, as if a fascinating insight had just struck him—“I’ll be eating here around the clock. And you would be doing me a great favor to let me burn some calories by cleaning the snow off your car.”

  Zoey could not argue, not after that recitation. She could barely answer at all, staring into his bold, blue gaze.

  “All right. When you put it that way,” she mumbled. She gave Sophie a quick hug and wished her a happy Thanksgiving, then slung her backpack over her shoulder and grabbed one of the boxes packed with pies.

  “I’ll get the other box,” James offered as he opened the back door.

  “Thanks.” She swept past him. Is he going to make another Shakespearean speech about that? She hoped not.

  They marched to her car, which was parked a short distance from the house, their steps crunching in the snow. Zoey didn’t like to talk a lot in the morning, and she felt intimidated by James as well. Though she hated to admit it.