“I’ve never tasted roast goose. That sounds delicious,” Zoey said, awed by Sophie’s menu. If anyone could make all those dishes and more, it was Sophie.
“You’ll have to try some. I still have her recipe. One year, she left the goose on the counter, waiting to be carved, and one of the dogs—a big hound and a real rascal—jumped up and stole it. He ran right under my brother’s bed. The old wooden beds were high off the floor, and that dog crammed himself in a spot nobody could reach and gobbled up the goose in a minute flat. My mother was fit to be tied. She chased the dog with a broom. But who wanted the goose anyway, after he’d had a few bites?”
Sophie laughed at the memory, and Zoey did, too, while Mac sat at her feet, looking like he wondered what all the merriment was about.
“Macintosh wouldn’t do anything like that,” James said. “Would you, Mac?”
“If he could move that ladder by himself, he would. He’s not that well behaved.” Sophie smiled, petting the dog’s head. “I hope that wherever I end up, I can take him with me,” she added in a quieter tone. “I would miss his company.”
Zoey felt a tug in her heart. Of course Sophie would have to take her dog when she moved. The very idea of the two being separated was unthinkable. As unthinkable as Sophie leaving the orchard.
“If you can’t take Mac with you . . . well, you just won’t go,” Zoey said.
Sophie met her gaze and smiled wistfully, then sat back and took a sip of tea. “We will surely cross that bridge when we come to it.” She set down her cup. “Right now, we have some Christmas cooking to do. Find an apron and we’ll get to work. We’ll start on the chowder, and maybe bake some Joe Froggers.”
“Good plan. I’m down with that,” James said.
Zoey was familiar with Sophie’s famous chowder, but not with the baking recipe. “What are Joe Froggers?”
Sophie laughed. “You never had my Froggers? Best in New England.”
“And the biggest, I bet,” James added.
“If I ever had them, I didn’t know what they were called.”
“They’re giant cookies made with spices, rum, and molasses,” Sophie explained. “Crisp on the edges and soft and chewy in the middle. James knows the history. He looked it up once when he was a little boy. Always curious. Do you remember, James?”
“Absolutely. About two hundred years ago, a couple in Marblehead, Aunt Crease and Old Joe Brown, ran a tavern next to a frog pond, and they got famous for baking giant spice cookies, as big as dinner plates. They named the cookies for the big frogs in their pond. People would come from all over to drink their spirits and eat their giant Froggers. Sailors liked them, too, because they stayed chewy a long time.”
“I don’t make them all that big. But we’ll use a coffee can for a cookie cutter.”
“That sounds large enough to me.” Zoey happily put on her apron, clipped up her hair, and got to work. She had come to help Sophie prepare for her party, but she was also looking forward to spending time with James. Though their shifts often overlapped at the diner, it was different seeing him outside of work. But once he finished hanging the lights, he left the kitchen, taking the ladder. Zoey realized she would be alone in the kitchen tonight with Sophie while James was decorating elsewhere. Or maybe working on his writing.
That fine. I really came to see Sophie, she told herself.
But she did feel cheered a short time later when James returned. She was at the table peeling a huge pile of potatoes for the soup. He stood by, watching her. “Better pick up some speed there. Christmas is coming.”
She tried not to smile at his teasing. The pile was huge, and she had hardly made a dent. “Guys can peel potatoes, too. It’s not a gender-specific activity.”
He laughed. “True enough. Let’s see who can peel them faster.”
Zoey rolled her eyes. “Why do men have to make a competition out of everything?”
“It’s a mystery to me, too,” Sophie agreed.
James picked up a paring knife and grabbed a spud, losing nearly half to the scrap heap as he struggled to cut off the skin. Meanwhile, Zoey peeled the skin off hers in a smooth ribbon.
“This is harder than it looks. How did you do that?”
“Just guide the skin between your thumb and the blade, and try to keep it thin. The goal is to get more than one French fry per potato.”
“Thanks for the tip. This is definitely a marketable skill, worth learning.”
“It is. Though I know you have loftier goals.”
He met her gaze, his eyes dancing with amusement, but didn’t reply.
They worked together awhile without talking. James improved with each try. Zoey focused on the task, all the time savoring the feeling of working with him. She felt so comfortable with James, not needing to say a word at all as they peeled their way through the pile and James forgot all about the contest.
Sophie hovered over a huge stock pot, tossing in ingredients for her chowder. She glanced over her shoulder. “It’s a dull day that you don’t learn something, James.”
“Very true, Grandma. Zoey is always teaching me things. How to peel potatoes . . . how to stack glasses so they don’t break . . . how to pack snowballs? She’s a very interesting girl.”
He smiled into Zoey’s eyes, and she felt her breath catch—and nearly cut her thumb. He’s just being nice . . . and his usual flirtatious self. Better get a grip on the potatoes. And your imagination.
Sophie’s soup base was soon simmering, and the dough for the Froggers was mixed in big bowls. James helped for a while, then disappeared into another part of the house. After a few pans of the big cookies were baked, he poked his head into the kitchen again.
“How’s it going in here?”
“We’ve been very productive. I can check two jobs off my list, thanks to Zoey,” Sophie reported.
“Then it’s time for a break. Come look. I have a surprise for you.” James disappeared again. Mac jumped up from his bed and trotted after him, not needing to be asked twice.
“Wonder what he’s up to. I guess we should go see.”
Sophie took off her apron, and Zoey did the same, then took the clip out and fluffed her hair with her fingers. She had on jeans and boots and one of her favorite sweaters—a long sapphire-blue turtleneck that brought out the color of her eyes. She was glad to see she hadn’t gotten any cookie batter or soup on it.
Not that I’m trying to look especially good or anything for anyone around here . . .
She followed Sophie into the front parlor, the sound of Christmas music greeting her on the way. Some old-fashioned singer—she couldn’t remember his name—singing a cheerful song called “A Holly Jolly Christmas.”
Sophie cried out in delight, clapping her hands as she stood in the doorway. “Mother of Pearl! James . . . what did you do?” Zoey pressed her hands to her face and could not contain a gasp as she surveyed the scene.
The room was dimly lit, glowing with a thousand lights—swooping strands of lights on the Christmas tree and twined in pine garlands on the mantel and around the big picture window. Votive candles in colored glass holders were spread around the room, giving off a spicy scent, and in the big hearth, flames danced in a freshly laid fire.
Every music box was turned on, and ballerinas twirled, wooden soldiers marched, and ice skaters swept around a plastic pond, arm in arm. The tree itself was an utter masterpiece, every bough covered with lights and ornaments—the type of ornaments you might find in an antiques shop, Zoey noticed, all too fragile-looking to even touch, along with nostalgic touches, like pictures of Sophie’s children when they were in grade school, in faded paper frames with glued-on sparkles and bows. All in all, it was the most beautiful, magnificently decorated tree Zoey had ever seen, from the golden star on top to the crèche below, carefully arranged and sheltered by the lowest pine branches.
“Did
we just get transported to the North Pole?” Zoey asked.
James was delighted with their reactions. “You wanted to use all your decorations this year, Grandma. So that’s what I did.”
“And then some, I think. I forgot I even owned half of this. Every one brings back some memory.” Sophie picked up the tallest nutcracker from a row of three who stood at attention on a side table. “This was Gus’s favorite. He brought home this set when he was in the army, stationed in Germany.”
When she looked up at them again, Zoey could see the many lights reflected in her misty eyes. Zoey glanced at James and knew he also sensed his grandmother’s distress. He quickly stepped over to a side table, where he had set up an old portable record player, the type Zoey had only seen in retro shops and in old movies.
“How about some music? Did you forget you owned all these great old records, too?”
Sophie smiled again. “Records? I forgot we even owned a record player.”
“I found it in the attic. And a box of Christmas albums. Have we had enough of Burl Ives yet?”
“That’s who it is. My dad always plays those songs in the diner during Christmas. I just couldn’t remember the guy’s name.”
Sophie looked shocked. “Burl Ives is my favorite. He does do a nice version of ‘Rudolph’ on that album. And ‘Silver Bells.’”
“How about this one?” James put another record on the turntable and carefully moved the needle to find the track he wanted. The song “Jingle Bell Rock” suddenly filled the room.
“That’s a good one, too,” Sophie agreed. “You need to be our DJ on Christmas, James.”
“Happy to spin some tracks for you, Grandma.” He walked over and took her hand, then led her to an empty space in the parlor and coaxed her to dance.
She was at first reluctant, letting him sway around her.
“Come on, Grandma. I know you can do better than that. I saw you cut the rug with Grandpa more than a few times.”
Sophie laughed, looking shy and embarrassed. “Your Grandpa loved to dance, that is true. All right. In his honor, I can do a little better. Let me just remember how . . .”
Zoey stood back, smiling so widely her face nearly hurt as she watched James and Sophie dance around the parlor to “Jingle Bell Rock.”
James led his grandmother with a firm but gentle touch, and she was soon dancing along smoothly and even let him spin her once, then laughed out loud.
“You dance like a professional, Grandma. You must have taken lessons. Or danced on the stage?”
“Don’t be silly,” she said, breathless when the song finally ended. “That was fun. We’ll do some dancing on Christmas, too.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll get the party moving,” James promised. “You even have Alvin and the Chipmunks.”
“I was wondering about Alvin, but I didn’t want to say,” Zoey joked.
The phone rang in the kitchen, and Sophie headed off to answer it as the caller spoke on the answering machine. “It’s Evelyn, checking up on me. Wait till I tell her I was dancing in a Christmas wonderland. She won’t believe it.”
Zoey turned to James. “It was very sweet of you to do this for your grandmother. She’s thrilled.”
He shrugged, flipping through the stack of records again. “I had fun going through all this old stuff. I’m glad the record player works. The old music really makes it.”
“No doubt.” Zoey watched him put another album on. “What are you playing now?”
“You tell me.” He set the arm down, and all Zoey could hear at first through the old speakers was a scratchy sound. Then she heard a voice that was unmistakable and the opening bars to “Blue Christmas.”
“You’re a little young, I guess,” he teased her. “Maybe you don’t know who this is.”
“Everybody knows Elvis. And I’m only three years younger than you,” she reminded him.
“And years past me in some ways, I must admit.” He smiled and reached out his hand. “May I have this dance?”
Zoey felt speechless and suddenly glued to the spot. But he tugged her hand and pulled her forward, not waiting for an answer.
She fell into his arms and he smiled with quiet satisfaction, slipping one hand around her waist and tucking her other hand against his broad shoulder.
James had certainly been in good shape when he burst through the door that first snowy night. But a month of painting, carpentry, and chopping wood—not to mention carrying heavy trays of glasses and dishes around the diner—had added more muscles under his flannel shirt, Zoey noticed.
Zoey was not very adept at this type of dancing, but her feet seemed to follow his lead effortlessly as he guided her, gently and smoothly, around the small space. She smiled as he hummed along with the tune, then did a perfect Elvis imitation.
“. . . Won’t be the same, dear, if you’re not here with me . . .”
“Pretty good. Maybe I should call you Elvis Potter instead of Harry Potter?”
He thought about it a moment. “It has a nice ring. I might use it for a pen name.”
Zoey laughed. She looked up and met his gaze. He was laughing, too, but suddenly grew silent. The song had finished, and all she heard was the sound of the needle stuck on the last grooves. James didn’t make any move to fix it.
“I’m glad I’m spending Christmas with you, Zoey. You’re so pretty and clever and . . . just plain . . . wonderful,” he whispered.
Zoey wasn’t sure what to say. She felt her heart beating so fast, she was sure he could hear it, too. Before she could reply his head dipped down and he kissed her. A sweet, questioning kiss. His hold on her tightened and she leaned into his touch, surprised at first, then kissing him back. She wasn’t sure how long it lasted. But they both heard Sophie’s slippers scuffing down the hallway, and Mac’s quick step trailing behind her. They jumped apart just in time.
James turned toward the record player, taking off the Elvis album and slipping it back in its cardboard cover. Zoey picked up a snow globe and pretended to be studying it, though she hardly saw it in her hand. If Sophie noticed anything out of the ordinary, she didn’t let on. She walked into the room talking, as if they were all still in the middle of a conversation.
“Evelyn says there’s a big storm on the way. An ice storm. Everyone is running around town buying up batteries and water and groceries. I guess we should have put on the news tonight.”
“I heard there might be snow,” Zoey said, “but not a storm.”
James peered out the window. “It’s started snowing. I hadn’t even noticed. It already looks icy, too. I’ll drive you home, Zoey.”
“Not in that old truck,” Sophie cut in. “You haven’t even put the chains on. Zoey can stay over.”
“Thanks, but I don’t want to trouble you.”
“It’s no trouble. All the rooms are clean and freshly painted, thanks to James. Like a real hotel.”
“Do you think it’s that bad?” Zoey didn’t mind spending more time with James and Sophie, but she didn’t want to intrude.
“I haven’t heard any plows yet. I’m not sure we will. No offense to your father,” Sophie said, “but I don’t think the problem with the trash and snow removal contract is completely settled yet. Evelyn doesn’t seem to think so. It’s another thing for her to worry about, the houses out here being snowed in. But we have a generator and plenty of food. I don’t see any problem.”
Zoey thought that for once the fretful Evelyn might be right. She knew that the village had made a handshake agreement and trash was being collected on a regular schedule again. But the contract was not signed, and her father still worried.
“I think you’re right. If it was completely settled, we would have had a celebration at our house by now,” she admitted.
It had actually been a relief to come to the orchard tonight. Lucy was trying hard to stir up Ch
ristmas spirit, but Charlie was tense and touchy and out at meetings till all hours of the night. Zoey felt bad for him, but there was no way she knew how to help.
“It’s settled. You should stay.” James turned to her and then back to the record player. “We have a lot more tunes to spin and Froggers to sample.”
“And I was hoping for a Scrabble match,” Sophie admitted.
“Perfect. But I have to warn you, I’m a master at that game,” James said.
Zoey grinned. “So you say, Potter. Grab a dictionary and we’ll see who’s the master.”
Sophie laughed. “Watch out, James. You may have met your match.”
He looked surprised and intrigued. “You might be right, Grandma. I’ve been thinking the same thing myself.”
It wasn’t just his words but the way his blue gaze sought Zoey’s that made her blush. She reminded herself not to take James too seriously. Even if she did believe him, where could this lead? He was off to South America in a week or two. Still, Zoey knew his disarming personality had just about melted her common sense and worn a steady path to her heart.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Charlie tossed in his sleep, trying to catch a few more winks before the alarm went off. He had a crick in his neck and felt chilled to the bone. The mattress felt lumpy, and the quilt was barely past his knees. He punched up his pillow and quickly realized it was a wadded-up sweatshirt.
Then he remembered. He was not home in bed but stretched out on the nubby brown couch in his office, his down jacket tossed over his body as a makeshift blanket.
He sat up and rubbed his eyes, afraid to look outside, though he had been watching the storm through the night and into the early hours of the morning. He had also been talking on his phone to the fire chief, police chief, and all the town’s support services until his throat was hoarse.
Thomas Kinkade's Cape Light Page 22