Chapter 8
When I opened the garage door to bay three, I nearly dropped the envelope.
A shiny black Land Rover stood waiting to tear up the mountain roads.
I launched myself at it like a girl reunited with her childhood pony, sunk into the supple leather seat and turned on the butt heater.
Man, it even smelled better than normal cars.
Rich and new, a huge upgrade from my battered old station wagon.
After taking a minute to figure out the onboard navigation system, I plugged in the address for the marketplace and let the pleasant noise of the GPS over the speakers guide me away from The Viceroy.
The artificial voice sounded like the leading man from a British rom-com, and for a few miles I imagined how some hilarious Hollywood hijinks might ensue from the disaster of my blizzard-based one-night stand.
If only life were so easily resolved with a little comic relief and well-timed scene cuts.
In town, the square buzzed with activity from the small boutiques and bustling cafes.
With my window down slightly, the crisp winter air carried the scent of roasted chestnuts from a corner store that had an outdoor stove set up on the sidewalk.
A young family played in the snow nearby, their toddler wobbling about in a thick, puffy jacket as the dad coaxed them to build a tiny snowman.
Several signs along the busy street guided the way to the marketplace, eventually leading me to a parking lot in front of a picture-perfect red barn with white gingerbread trim.
I wasn’t sure what I had expected to find inside, but I was utterly charmed by the layout of more than a dozen stalls, like an indoor farmers’ market, selling everything from fresh produce and local honey to baked goods and artisanal olive oil.
All of the stalls were outfitted with seasonal decor and trays of free samples to entice the strolling shoppers.
A young man in a suede apron and flannel shirt handed me a canvas tote as I walked inside.
I shivered slightly at the cold and wrapped my scarf tighter around my neck.
This was truly a repurposed barn, totally at the mercy of the elements.
A few tall heaters like those you’d find on any Denver restaurant patio were spaced along the wide aisle between the stalls, but any warmth they provided quickly rose into the tall rafters above, where exposed beams looked nearly as old as the majestic mountain range outside.
Yet the weather clearly didn’t deter any patrons. The market was thrumming with activity, kids clamoring around the candy stall and moms sipping tiny plastic glasses of red wine next door.
I decided my first order of business was to track down some hot chocolate and a snack, as I saw several people carrying steaming paper cups and pastries wrapped in wax paper.
Following my nose led me to a stall decked out in a gingerbread house motif.
Display cases made of old wooden crates were filled with gingerbread men and women wrapped in snowflake-print plastic with curly red ribbons, and there was even a caramel fountain, where the young lady behind the counter dipped apples for waiting children.
“What can I get you?” she asked, flipping the dangling bell of her elf hat behind her ear.
“A hot cocoa and, um, a gingerbread man, I guess.”
“The best in the Rockies,” she said, like I needed convincing.
“Better give me two then.”
I brought my treats to a picnic table decorated with holly and potted poinsettias, where I sat to watch the bustling market and listen to the hum of Christmas music filling the air.
It was the reset I needed, sipping the rich, chocolatey cocoa adorned with one giant homemade marshmallow, and nibbling on the fragrantly sweet and spicy arm of a gingerbread man.
It had been a stressful morning, and the dressing-down by Mrs. Hawthorne after lunch had left my confidence a bit shaken.
At least she hadn’t mentioned Charles. Every time his name popped into my head, my stomach twisted again.
No. For as long as it took me to enjoy my snack, I would forget about him. And the family. Just enjoy the scenery, and think about putting together the perfect dinner for tonight. This was my chance to show off a little. And produce-shopping was one of my favorite parts.
So, when I’d finished my drink and tucked my second gingerbread cookie into my tote for later, I began my stroll through the stalls to find inspiration for tonight.
“Try a sample,” a vendor called to me. “Best apples in the county.”
Well, that got my attention. I approached the woman with curly red hair at the first stall and gladly accepted a slice from among the bushels of bright, shiny red apples. There were soil-dusted potatoes, verdant cucumbers, ruby beets, and plump tomatoes still sprinkled with drops of morning dew.
“We grow everything right here in Maplewood Creek,” she told me. “Family owned and all organic.”
She was about my age and full of animated energy, despite the persistent chill. Dressed in olive overalls and a blue peasant top, the cold seemed not to faze her one bit.
I crunched into the sweet apple slice and it burst with juicy freshness on my tongue.
“Mmm,” I hummed. “Delicious. Thank you.”
“Mia Grant,” she said, introducing herself. “First time to Maplewood Creek?”
“Am I that obvious?” I was a Colorado native, so I didn’t think I had the same blinking tourist sign above my head as the southerners who’d never seen snow or mountains before.
“It’s a small town,” she told me. “We tend to get a lot of regulars and I’ve met ’em all over the years.”
“You grew up here?”
“Fourth-generation farmer,” she said, nodding proudly.
“I’m Eleanor. Private chef for a family up the mountain.”
“Oh,” she said knowingly. Then, with a conspiratorial whisper, “Which one?”
Mrs. Hawthorne had cautioned me against gossip, but I didn’t think this counted.
“The Hawthornes . . .?” I didn’t know why it came out like a question. Except that maybe I was curious what her reaction might be.
“Oh, yeah,” she laughed. “They’re a lot.”
Mia certainly wasn’t shy.
“I only just started today.” And as first impressions went, I’d call it a mixed bag.
“As just about anyone in town will tell you, Caroline rules the roost. And her husband, Benedict, well, he works eighty hours a week to get away from her. At least, that’s what everyone says.
Amelia is not-so-slowly turning into her mother.
And Charles . . .” She shrugged as my ears perked up.
“I haven’t seen him in years. Close to a decade, I think. No one has.”
“Really?” Strange. I’d seen him just last night, looking not at all shy in public.
Then again, if he’d been away so long, it was possible people didn’t recognize him. Who I took for friends of his around the pool table might just have been new acquaintances.
“Last I heard,” Mia said, “he was living in Denver, being rich and fabulous and running the family company, though Benedict is still the face of it.”
I wasn’t exactly up on the society pages in Denver, so I wasn’t surprised I’d never heard of him. It’s not like we were running in similar social circles.
“But then, that sort of tracks for Charles,” she mused to herself. “He’s never been a high-profile kind of guy. More behind the scenes of the Hawthorne empire. His parents and sister have always been the ones that thrive in the public eye.”
“You must know them pretty well.” I helped myself to one more apple slice as I glanced over Mia’s produce and started making menu lists in my head.
Her lips thinned, nostrils flaring. “As well as anyone, I suppose.” Then Mia changed the subject, perking up again. “Are you hunting for anything specific today?”
“A little of everything,” I said. “Stocking up, really. Thought I’d see what was available and hopefully get some inspiration. I do make a gourmet ratatouille that I’d love to serve later this week.”
Her face brightened with an excited smile. “Our eggplants will blow your mind.”
Mia fixed me up with several bags of produce, containing all kinds of fruits, vegetables, and herbs. Everything I’d need to get through the next few days.
“What else can I help you find? I’ll point you to the good stuff,” she said with a wink.
A breeze brought the scent of nutty cheese to my nostrils from somewhere in the marketplace. “I’m not sure yet, but cheese always calls my name.”
Mia laughed softly. “A woman after my own heart. I know just the place. My friend Agnes has a cheese shop a few stalls over. Let me show you.”
Mia put a “back in five minutes” sign out on her display table and beckoned me to follow her to an eclectic little stall of mismatched odds and ends: dozens of small tea plates in all patterns and colors, a few chalkboards with handwriting in upper and lowercase letters that looked a bit like ransom notes from a serial killer, and bright primary-colored, large-bulb Christmas lights, mixed with tiny multi-colored ones that could have been from St. Patrick’s Day.
“Mia!” The merry-looking older woman behind the counter waved us over. She had a riot of greying curls and wore Doc Martens splattered in paint. “Who’s your friend?”
“Aggie, this is Eleanor. She’s got a company credit card and I told her you could help her do some damage.”
She laughed, wiping her hands on the apron over her ample chest. “I think I can manage that. What’s your poison?”
“I could use the staples, and maybe a few adventurous options as well.”
Aggie snapped her fingers, smiling. “I like your style. We can definitely do adventurous. Give me a sec.”
She folded together a small white box from a flat piece of cardboard, and began filling it with a collection of supple, colorful, and fragrant cheeses.
“This. Looks. Divine.” I took the proffered box, laughing to myself at the hand-drawn label that affixed the lid. It looked like a child’s drawing of a goat with wings.
“Your shop’s name is Praise Cheesus?”
She nodded proudly. “It is. My daddy was a minister, and while I’m not entirely religious, he sure is and he named the shop. I love it, and people remember it.”
“Brilliant. That’s good branding.” I grabbed a toothpick of blue cheese from the sample tray and took a bite. My eyes closed and I groaned happily. “This is amazing. What’s your secret?”
Mia chuckled, leaning against the stall. “Don’t get her started. You’ll be here all day.”
“You know, Mia,” Aggie began, pulling Mia and me closer to the stall so she could whisper, “I was planning to come find you later. The market’s been buzzing with a bit of gossip you might find interesting.”
Mia raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. “Oh? Do tell.”
“Word is Charles Hawthorne is back in town,” Aggie said.
“Well, you’re looking at their new chef,” Mia said, deflecting her surprise. “What do you say, Elle? Seen him skulking about that massive house yet?”
I smiled nervously, face flushing red. “It’s only my first day. I wouldn’t even know what he looked like.”
“His family’s been keeping quiet about it,” Aggie interjected. “But people are talking.”
Mia shrugged. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“Why is it a big deal that he’s back?” I asked, flummoxed by their interest. “Is there something I should know?”
Aggie smirked. “You could say he has a reputation. Or, well, he did. Been a while now, I suppose. People change.”
Mia scoffed. “Do they?”
Their exchange made me wary. It was fine that I didn’t know anything about this guy when he was just a one-night stand from a bar.
Now, I worried I’d tangled myself in a larger web that would soon make me the target of small-town gossip, and threaten my already tenuous grip on my current employment.
“What sort of reputation?” I insisted, almost afraid to hear the answer.
Aggie’s eyes sparkled with curiosity. “Maybe you’ll find out firsthand. You will be in the thick of it up there.”
“Me?” I shook my head. “I’m not getting involved. I’ll be keeping my head down and my ears closed.”
Mia crossed her arms, leaning against the counter. “Charles Hawthorne, back in Maplewood Creek. Never thought I’d see the day.”