Baking Spirits Bright! (Christmas Kisses & Cookie Crumbs)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

Erica

I step onto my porch and cringe. Behind me is the sound of a steady stream of water hitting the ground.

Most people living in the country wake up to birds chirping, but I wake up to my neighbor peeing off the porch.

I train my eyes on my feet and shove my earbuds in. I’ve learned the hard way not to put them in before leaving the house, or I might not hear the warning.

“Morning, Erica,” my neighbor calls.

I wave an arm behind me, refusing to look back. I can’t be rude because he has a right to half of the porch on this duplex. Oh, and he’s my landlord.

Paul isn’t home much between his store and “courting Miss Dot”—his words. But when he is home, he makes himself at home frequently.

I hit the pavement and speed into a jog in the opposite direction of him.

There aren’t a lot of decent housing options in Apple Cart for a single person, and I was ready to move out of my parents’ house. It was either here, the trailer park, or an RV in Wisteria.

The good news is this one-bedroom is affordable and a few blocks from everything in town. The bad news is it comes with Paul.

In the long run, it will be easier for me to move away if I’ve already left home. Our family is close, and many of us work together at the apple orchard.

Soon as I graduated Auburn, they lured me back with a decent salary for running their social media and marketing and the safety net of home. I was coming off a failed engagement with my college boyfriend and a little vulnerable.

I’d always planned to help market the orchard. However, I’d never planned for it to be my only client.

No matter how much responsibility they add to my job description and how many raises they offer, I need more than Apple Cart. It’s a great place to live, but I want a life of my own.

Here, I’m part of the Marshall family orchard. Every generation adds more people to grow our business. I expand it in a virtual way, and I’d like to expand my own life more than virtually.

I turn down the pavement and jog past several houses. Nicer and bigger than the duplex, and definitely not for sale. If I were staying here long term, these would be nice.

Although my roots are here, I don’t want them to run so deep I can’t pull out and replant at any time.

My main project this year has been overhauling the orchard’s website. If we’re going to be a known tourist attraction and apple supplier, then we have to update how people can buy our products.

Months of digging up old photos and getting stories from my mom and uncle turned into beautiful pages and content for a newsletter. However, my biggest idea to date was suggesting an official dessert for Apple Cart County.

The idea was to have a taste testing at the orchard and let the community vote on their favorite apple dessert. Then Paul overheard my conversation and said we should have a town bake-off to get more desserts. Before I could come up with a rebuttal, he went back in his side of the house.

A few hours later, I heard about a county-wide bake-off while I was at Piggly Wiggly.

So much for my grand idea to put the orchard on the map. Technically it is, but a tiny dot on the state map only used by people over sixty who still visit rest areas on their way to Pigeon Forge.

I want top billing on Google searches.

Ironically, I’m near the Pig as I’m thinking about this and give it a snarl. I wait on a log truck to pass and cross the street to run near the park.

If I can make the orchard well known, I can start a marketing agency. Then I can get multiple clients and live wherever and be a real independent woman. Not just Erica Sinclair, one of the Marshall family’s granddaughters.

I can earn my own way and live wherever—

“Oomph.” I hit something and land on the sidewalk.

“Are you okay?”

I squint my eyes open to a man’s hand near my face. I take it and allow him to help me stand. He pulls me up firmly but gently at the same time. Like a lumberjack cuddling a kitten.

When I’m on my feet, I pluck out my earbuds and study his face. I’ve never seen him before. He must be someone’s out-of-town cousin, or lost.

“I’m good. Are you?” I answer after awkwardly looking him over.

“Yeah.” He gives me a lopsided grin.

He’s cute. And I’m not—right now. I’m in yoga pants, an Auburn sweatshirt I so slept in last night, messy ponytail, and no makeup.

But he’s smiling even bigger at me. He must be lost, bless his heart.

“Can I help you with anything?” I tilt my head.

“Uh, yeah.” He shakes his head and extends his hand. “I’m Ryan.”

I squeeze his hand and shake it. After several beats, he stares at our hands. I drop mine and slide it down my side in embarrassment.

“Erica.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Erica.” He pulls a phone from his back pocket. “I can’t find the Quality Inn.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “You want to find the Quality Inn?”

“I have a room there.”

Bless his heart for sure.

“Okay. It’s on the edge of Wisteria. The address is actually in Moonshine County.”

“Oh.” Now it’s his turn to look shocked. “It popped up online as being in Apple Cart County.”

“Yeah . . .” I clear my throat. “It’s the only motel for miles so they serve our county too.” I add under my breath, “Unfortunately.”

One of the many reasons I’ve tried to convince my family to offer a bed and breakfast option at the orchard.

He glances around the park at the playground equipment and the new gazebo. The town council had a heated debate about that gazebo a few months back. Half didn’t want to spend the money on something “of no use,” but the appeal of having a gazebo in the hub of a small town won.

“Could you give me directions?”

“Sure.” I go through the spiel of driving out of town and passing Waffle House, then slowing at the sign for Double Drive. “The motel sign might not be lit, and it’s in the same building as Enchilada and The Hole.”

“The hole, WH or H?”

I laugh. “H. It’s a liquor store.”

He lifts his chin as the culture shock hits. “Got it. My mind went to Whole Foods for some reason, since this is an agriculture area.”

“Well, we have plenty of that too, but it’s sold at the Pig and farmers’ markets.”

“Gotcha.” He smiles. “I’m from a rural area in Tennessee.”

I laugh, relaxing my shoulders. “That’s nice to hear.”

He nods. “Thanks for the directions. I hope to see you around.”

“Me too.” I smile nervously as he gets in a nearby car and drives away.

Me too? Wouldn’t that mean I’m also looking forward to seeing me around? I don’t know. I slap my forehead. This is why I’m better off behind a computer, where I can type my mind and edit it.

Living next to Paul this past year and a half has not been good for my brain.

Ryan

Q uality Inn. Not much for quality.

I assumed picking a motel rather than an Airbnb would be safer in an unknown town in Alabama. Maybe I was wrong.

My gut cringes even more when I read a sign on the office door. “Visit register in Enchilada.”

Alrighty, then.

I step back and pass The Hole, opting for door number three: the entrance to the Mexican restaurant. It does seem like the safest choice at this point.

An upbeat mariachi tempo greets me. There’s one guy sitting at the bar, which is one more than should be here at nine a.m. on a weekday. I turn and spot the front counter, along with what I hope is the register mentioned on the note.

Nobody is there, so I ring a bell. A small man hurries from the back and smiles. “How many?”

I glance around to make sure he’s talking to me. “Ryan Lewis. I made a reservation.”

He starts grabbing menus, so I stop him. “Not for a table. For a room.”

“Si.”

He opens a notebook and flips through some grease-stained pages. He mumbles something in Spanish, then disappears again.

I sigh and scan the room while he’s gone. Sleeping next door to this place should be a real treat.

A thin older enters this time. “You booked a room?”

His voice is husky and dark. Not in the way women find sexy, but in the way that says, “I had unfiltered cigarettes for dinner and gunpowder for dessert.”

“Yes, sir,” I answer. At least according to Expedia I booked a room.

I pull out my phone to open the confirmation in my email in case they ask. Before I locate it, he speaks again. “Here’s the key. Rooms are numbered. If the number fell off, count.”

I nod. Seems simple enough.

“You’re in four.”

He holds out the key, only to jerk his hand back and cover a deathly cough. Then he holds it out again, and I take it with caution. I hope he isn’t competing in the town bake-off.

“Thanks.” I turn and hurry to my rental car.

I park in front of room four, which doesn’t have a number. Lucky for me, both three and five do. I plan on spending most of my time exploring the small town anyway. All I need is a comfy, clean bed and a shower with warm water.

My job as a food blogger takes me to many interesting places, especially since I cover the Southern states. I’ve been to the Gulf Coast once and to Huntsville, but this marks my first visit to a small town in the heart of Alabama.

The older I get, the more I appreciate growing up on a farm. My parents started a pumpkin patch in retirement, and any content I post about the farm and their process gets the most traffic. Readers love that small-town family feel as much as I do.

When I read about a county-wide bake-off on a blog by an Alabama apple orchard, I had to check it out.

I barely get the door unlocked and open it to a horrible smell. Like a worse-than-cleaning-up-horse-stalls smell. I pinch my nose and flip the light switch.

A bulb fizzles in and out above the bed, but it’s bright enough to show the heavy stains on the carpet. The entire room has a 1980s vibe, so it clearly hasn’t been updated in forty years—and possibly not cleaned.

I retreat outside for fresh air and shut the door behind me. The Airbnb site listed one available place a few miles from here. I send a message.

I get an immediate response with a local number to call. The owner is either overly hospitable or an axe murderer. Given the condition of this motel room, I’ll take my chances.

“Hello?” The man has a thick Southern drawl but sounds polite.

“Hi, I’m calling about your Airbnb.”

“Yes, it’s available and decorated for Christmas already.”

“Okay. I’m needing someplace for tonight.”

“That can be arranged. I can show you around in a few hours.”

“That’s fine, but I’ll go ahead and take it.”

“You sure? The photos online didn’t show the decorations.”

“No, it’s good. Save it for me. You can call me back when it’s ready.”

“Ten-four, Mr... uh, what’s your name?”

“Ryan.”

I take a deep breath and jiggle the room key out of the lock as I get off the phone. After searching the office and the restaurant, I find the guy who gave me the key inside the liquor store.

“Excuse me.”

He turns and snarls.

“I’d like to cancel my room.”

“What’s wrong?”

I swallow and contemplate my answer. I’m not one for confrontation, but I can’t sleep somewhere that smells like wet dogs had a farting contest.

“I have other arrangements,” I say.

“All right. You owe twelve bucks.”

“Sure. A cancellation fee. That’s fair.”

He laughs. “Nope, that’s for the half hour you’ve had the key.”

I bite my tongue before I say it hasn’t been more than twenty minutes tops.

“We charge by the hour here.”

“I see.” I frown and mentally calculate the charge on my card.

“You get a discount the more hours you stay.”

I nod.

“Keeps us from having to wash the sheets more often.” He winks.

“Okay, here’s your key.” I hold it out.

Soon as he takes it, I’m out the door. I don’t fully trust I’ll see a refund for everything but the half hour, but I’ll gladly pay that to not sleep here.

Might as well explore the county until my Airbnb RV is ready.