by Shirley Jump
“Sure.” Her voice had a slight, confused lilt at the end. She put the sheet of cookies into the oven, then started filling another one.
Keeping his back to her, Flynn sought the familiarity of his word processing program. He tugged his notepad out of his bag and began typing. The words did what they always did—provided a cold, objective distance. It was as if the bright white of the screen and the stark blackness of the letters erased all emotion, scrubbed away any sense of Flynn’s personality. He became an outside observer, reporting facts.
And nothing else.
He wrote for ten minutes, his fingers moving so fast, the words swam before his eyes. Usually, when he wrote a story, pulling the paragraphs out of his brain was like using camels to drag a mule through the mud. He’d never been a fast writer, more a deliberate one.
But this time, it seemed as if his brain couldn’t keep up with his hands. He wrote until his fingers began to hurt from the furious movement across the keyboard. When he sat back and looked at the page count, he was stunned to see he had five solid pages in the file already.
Flynn scrolled up to the opening paragraph, expecting his usual “Established in blah-blah year, this business” opening, followed by the punch of personal information, the tabloid zing he was known for. Nearly all his stories had that straightforward, get-to-the-facts approach that led to the one nugget everyone else had missed. It was what his editor liked about him. He delivered the information, with a minimal peppering of adjectives.
“Can I read it?” Sam asked.
He hadn’t even realized she had moved up behind him. But now he was aware, very aware. He jerked back to the real world, to the scent of fresh-baked cookies, and to Samantha Barnett, standing right behind him.
“Uh, sure. Keep in mind it’s a first draft,” he said. “And it’s just the facts, none of the fluff kind of thing the airline magazine…” His voice trailed off as his eyes connected with the first few paragraphs on the screen.
“Visions of sugar plums dance in the air. The sweet perfume of chocolate hangs like a cloud. And standing amidst the magic of this Christmas joy, like the star atop a tree, is the owner of Joyful Creations, Samantha Barnett.
“She knows every customer by name, and has a smile for everyone who walks through the door of her shop, no matter how many muffins she’s baked or how many cookies she’s boxed that day. She’s as sweet as the treats in her cases….”
Flynn slammed the top of the laptop shut. What the hell was that?
“Wow.” A slow smile spread across Sam’s face. “And here I thought you were going to write one of those scathing exposés, the kind I’ve heard the magazine is famous for. I mean, you barely tasted any of the food here and…”
“And what?” he asked, scowling. He did not write that kind of drivel. He was known as a bulldog, the writer that went for the jugular, got the story at all costs. Not this sweet-penning novelist wanna-be.
“And well…it didn’t seem like you liked me.”
He didn’t know how to answer that. Did he like her? And what did it matter if he did or didn’t? He’d be leaving this town the second his car was fixed and the roads were clear. After that, Samantha Barnett would simply be one more file among the dozens in his cabinet. “I don’t like this town. It’s a little too remote for me.” That didn’t answer the question of whether he liked her, he realized.
Either way, his editor was expecting a Flynn MacGregor story. The kind free of emotion, but steeped in details no other publication had been able to find. Flynn dug and discovered, doing whatever it took to get the real story. That chase was what had thrilled him from his first days as a cub reporter at a newspaper, and it was what had made him a legend at the magazine.
Getting the story was a game—a game he played damn well.
Sam crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him. “Ever since you arrived here, I’ve been trying to figure you out. Aunt Ginny would tell me that if I had any common sense at all, I’d keep my mouth shut, but I’ve never been very good at that.”
He had turned toward her, and when they’d both been reading the story on his computer, the distance between them had closed. Now Flynn found himself watching that mouth. A sassy mouth, indeed. “And I suppose you’re about to tell me exactly what you think of me? Point out all my faults?”
“You do have a few.” She inhaled, and the V of her sweater peeked open just enough to peak his desire.
She had more than a sassy mouth, that was for sure. He reached out and tipped her chin upward. “What if I do the same for you?”
She swallowed, but held his gaze. Desire burned in his veins, pounding an insistent call in his brain. Everything within him wanted to kiss her, take her in his arms, end this torturous curiosity about what she’d feel like. Taste like.
And yet, at the same time, the reporter side of him tried to shush that desire, told him to take advantage of the moment, to use it to exploit the vulnerable moment.
“I’m not the one going around with a chip the size of Ohio on my shoulder,” she said.
“Maybe I have a good reason for that chip.”
“At Christmas? No one has a good reason to be grumpy at Christmas.”
He released her jaw. “Some people do.”
The clock above them ticked, one second, two. Three. Then Sam’s voice, as quiet as snow falling. “Why?”
The clock got in another four ticks before Flynn answered. “Let’s just say I never stayed in one place long enough for Santa to find me.”
“Why?”
A one-word question. One that, in normal conversation, might have prompted a heartfelt discussion. Some big sharing moment over a couple cups of coffee and a slice of streusel. But Flynn wasn’t a coffee-and-streusel kind of guy. He hadn’t done show-and-tell in first grade, and he wasn’t going to do it now.
The oven timer buzzed, announcing another batch of cookies was done. And so was this conversation. Somehow it had gotten turned around, and Flynn was off his game, off his center of gravity. He needed to retreat and regroup.
“The story is about you, not me,” Flynn said. “When you get a job as a reporter, then you get to ask the questions.”
Without bothering to pack it in the bag, he picked up his laptop, yanked the cord out of the outlet and headed out of the warm and cozy shop. And into a biting cold, the kind he knew as well as his own name.
This was the world where Flynn found comfort, not the one he’d just left.
Today her grandmother thought she was the maid.
Sam told herself not to be disappointed. Every time she drove over to Heritage Nursing Home, she steeled herself for that light of confusion in Joy Barnett’s eyes, that “Do I know you?” greeting instead of the hugs and love Sam craved like oxygen.
And every time disappointment hit her like a snowplow.
“Have you cleaned the bathroom?” Joy asked. “I’m afraid I made a mess of the sink when I washed my face. I’m sorry.”
Sam worked up a smile. “Yes, I cleaned it.”
It took all Sam had not to release the sigh in her throat. How she wanted things to change, to turn back the clock. There used to be days when her grandmother had recognized her, before the Alzheimer’s had robbed her grandmother of the very joy that she had been named for. The smiles of recognition, the friendships, the family members, and most of all the memories. It was as if she’d become a disconnected boat, floating alone in a vast ocean with no recognizable land, no horizon.
So Sam had, with reluctance, finally put Grandma Joy into Heritage Nursing Home. The care there was good, but Sam had visited another, much more expensive facility several miles away from Riverbend. The bakery simply didn’t make enough money, at least with a single location, to pay for Grandma Joy’s care at the other facility, one that boasted a special Alzheimer’s treatment center with a nostalgic setting, an aromatherapy program and several hands-on patient involvement programs designed to help stimulate memory and brain activity. It might not bring her
grandmother back to who she used to be, but Sam hoped the other facility would give her grandmother a better quality of life than Heritage Nursing Home, which was nice, but offered none of those specialized care options.
After all Grandma Joy had done for Sam, from taking her in as a child to raising her with the kind of love that could only be called a gift, Sam would do anything to make the rest of Joy’s years happy, stress-free and as wonderful as possible. There might not be any way to bring back the grandmother she remembered, but if this other center could help ease the fearful world of unfamiliarity that Joy endured, then Sam would sacrifice anything to bring that to the woman she considered almost a mother.
Including living her own life. For a while longer.
Grandma Joy looked at Sam expectantly, as if she thought Sam might whip out a broom and start sweeping the floor. Sam held out a box. “Here, I brought you something.”
Joy took the white container and beamed. “Oh, aren’t you sweet.” She flipped open the lid and peeked inside. “How did you know these were my favorite?”
Sam’s smile faltered. Her throat burned. “Your granddaughter told me.”
Grandma Joy looked up, a coconut macaroon in her hand. “My granddaughter? I have a granddaughter?”
Sam nodded. Tears blurred her vision. “Her name is Samantha.”
Joy repeated the name softly, then thought for a moment. “Samantha, of course. But Sam’s just a baby. She can’t hardly talk, so she can’t tell you about my favorite cookies, silly. She is the cutest thing, though. Everyone who meets her just loves her. She comes to the bakery with me every day.” She leaned forward. “Did I tell you I own a bakery?”
“Yes, you did.”
“My husband and I started it when we first got married. So much work, but oh, we’ve had a lot of fun. Sam loves being there, she really does. She’s my little helper. Someday, Sam and I are going to run it together.” Joy sat back in the rose-patterned armchair. As her thoughts drifted, her gaze drifted out the window, to the snow-covered grounds. The white flakes glistened like crystals, hung in long strings of diamonds from the trees. She sighed. “That will be a wonderful day.”
“Yes,” Sam said, closing her eyes, because it was too painful to look at the same view as her grandmother, “it will.”
Sam Barnett was leaving something out of her personal recipe. Flynn had rewritten the article into one more closely resembling the kind he normally wrote—where that poetic thing had come from last night, he had no idea—and realized not all the whys had been answered. There was still something, he wasn’t sure what, that he needed to know. But the bulldog in him knew he’d yet to find that missing piece.
He had to dig deeper. Keep pawing at her, until he got her to expose those personal bits that would give his article the meat it needed. The kind of tidbits Food Lovers’ readers ate like candy.
It was, after all, what he was known for. What would put him right back on top. Then why had he hesitated? Normally, he did his interviews, in and out in a day, two at most. He never lingered. Never let a subject rattle him like she had last night.
Damn it, get a hold of yourself. Get the story, and get out of town.
Flynn rose, stretching the kinks out of his back he’d picked up from sitting in the uncomfortable wooden chair at the tiny desk in his room. He crossed to the window and parted the lacy curtains. Outside, snow had started to fall.
Again.
Where the hell was he? Nome, Alaska? For Pete’s sake, all it did was snow here.
He pulled on his coat, and hurried downstairs. Betsy, who was sitting behind the piano in the front parlor, tried to talk him into joining the out-of-tune sing-along with the other guests, but Flynn waved a goodbye and headed out of the bed and breakfast, turning up his collar against the blast of cold and ice. By the time he made it to Earl’s garage, his shoes and socks were soaked through, and his toes had become ten Popsicles.
“Well, howdy-ho,” Earl said when Flynn entered the concrete-and-brick structure. He had on his plaid earflap hat and a thick Carhartt jacket. “What are you doing here?”
“Picking up my car.”
“Now why would you want to do that?”
“So I can go back to Boston.” First making a side trip, but he didn’t share that information with Earl.
“Tomorrow is Christmas Eve,” Earl said. “You got family in Boston?”
Flynn bit back his impatience at the change in subject. By now, he’d learned the only way to get a straight answer out of the auto mechanic was to take the Crazy Eights route. “All I have back there is an apartment and a doorman.”
“A doorman?” Earl thought about that for a second. “Can’t say I’ve ever heard of anyone having their doorman over for Christmas mornin’. He must be really good at opening your door.”
Flynn sighed. This was going nowhere. “My car?”
“Oh, that. The part’s on order.”
“It hasn’t arrived yet?”
“Oh, it arrived.” Earl scratched under one earflap.
“And?”
“And I sent it back.”
Flynn sighed again, this time longer and louder. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I’m getting old. Forgot my glasses on Tuesday.”
Flynn resisted the urge to scream in frustration. “And what would that have to do with my car?”
“Made me order the wrong part. I got my two’s all mixed up with my seven’s. But don’t you worry,” Earl said, patting his breast pocket, “I brought my glasses today. So you’ll be all set to leave by Friday at the latest.”
“Can’t you fix it now?”
“Nope. Gotta go work the tree lot at the Methodist church.” Earl patted his hat down farther on the top of his head, then strode out of the shop, waving at Flynn to follow. “The ladies’ bingo group is coming by at three to get their trees, and they’re counting on my muscles to help them out. I can’t be late.”
Earl strode off, leaving Flynn stuck. He should have been mad. Should have pitched a fit, threatened to sue or have his car towed to another garage. He could have done any of the above.
But he didn’t. For some reason, he wasn’t as stressed about the missing part as he should have been. He chalked it up to still needing more information from Sam.
As his path carried him toward the bakery again, something pretty damned close to anticipation rose in his chest. If there was one thing Flynn needed from Santa this year, it was a renewed dose of his reporter’s objectivity.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A PAY PHONE.
Who’d have thought those things still existed?
Flynn’s hand rested on the receiver. Stumbling upon the phone on his way to the bakery had taken him by surprise. In his opposite hand, he jingled several coins, and debated. Finally, he picked up the phone, dropped in several quarters and began to dial. He made it through nine of the ten digits that would connect him to Liam’s dorm room before he hung up.
It had to be this town that had him feeling so sentimental. Especially considering he was surrounded by so much Christmas spirit, it was like being in the company of a woman wearing too much perfume. Even the pay phone was wrapped in garland, a little red bow hanging from the handle. That must be what had him thinking of mending fences so broken down, it would take a fleet of cement trucks to build them up again.
Would Liam see him when he arrived in town this week? Assuming, that was, that his car ever got fixed. Or would Liam slam the door in his face? Maybe it was better not to know.
The change dropped to the bottom of the phone. Flynn dug it out of the slot and redeposited the coins, then added some more change to reach his editor at Food Lovers magazine.
But while he waited for the four dollars in quarters to connect him, he realized the money would have been better spent on a lifetime supply of candy canes. At least then he could have used them to sweeten Tony Reynolds up—
Because at this point he could use every tool in Santa’s arsenal to assuage
the inevitable storm that was about to come.
“Where the hell is that bakery piece?” Tony Reynolds barked into the phone. “We held the damned issue to get this piece in there because you promised to get it to me, remember? Or did you lose your brain back in June, too?”
Flynn winced. Even now, he couldn’t tell Tony why he had walked out in the middle of the interview of the year, ticking off a celebrity chef. It was intended to be the cover story for the magazine, one they had advertised for the last three months, a coup that Tony had worked his butt off to finesse, promising the celebrity chef everything from a lifetime subscription to the magazine to a limo ride to the interview.
Flynn hadn’t just dropped the ball at that interview—he’d hurled it through the window. He’d been working day and night to get back to the top ever since.
He hadn’t expected to walk into that room, meet “Mondo,” the chef to the stars, and see one of the first foster fathers he’d ever had. A man he and Liam had lived with for a total of six months before the man had decided the two boys were too much for the man and his wife, who were busy making a go of their restaurant, and he’d asked the department of children’s services to find them another home.
The recognition had hit Flynn so hard, he’d never even made it into the room. Never said a word to the man. He’d made up some excuse to Tony about a bout of food poisoning, but the damage had been done. Mondo had stalked out of the building, furious about being stood up, and refused to reschedule.
Flynn had worked too damned hard building his reputation to let that one mistake ruin everything, which explained why he was the one out on assignment at Christmas while all the other writers were at home, toasting marshmallows or whatever people did with their families the day before Christmas Eve.