Chapter 18 #2
“Just went up this morning,” she said. “Last year it was a twelve-foot nutcracker. I keep telling the town commerce committee we need a height limit. They’re completely out of control.”
“Next it’ll be a dozen sugar plum fairies casting a shadow down Main Street.”
Her face turned severe. “Don’t even joke. They’ll hear you.”
By Christmas, this place would put the Macy’s Parade to shame. I couldn’t wait to walk the streets once the official voting period for the contest opened.
“So, what brings you around today?” I asked Bea, who didn’t seem in any particular hurry.
“Refreshing The Snowdrift’s library. A couple of times a year we like to turn over the selection.
Want to help me pick out some new titles?
We don’t let Delilah do it anymore because she only picks the smuttiest rom-coms and the most gruesome murder mysteries.
Lots of snowed-in motel stuff. Scares the guests. ”
“I can see why.”
After I deposited my dishes at the counter, we first took a glance at the Featured Release display. There were little handwritten cards under several titles with quotes and recommendations from various town personalities and business owners.
“Hey, that’s you,” I pointed out.
Delilah and Bea’s names were side by side and I chuckled at how different they were, even in reading preferences.
Bea had recommended a memoir I’d heard about on the daytime radio that played in The Denver Drip every morning.
Delilah’s choice was a psychological thriller by a Colorado author.
She described it as visceral, gripping and unputdownable, about a twin who gets murdered, and her sibling is the number one suspect.
“See what I mean?” Bea grimaced at the book as I picked it up to glance at the inside flap and the fittingly moody author portrait. “She’s a little scary sometimes.”
“Let’s see what else we can find,” I laughed, setting the book back on the shelf.
“So, what about you?” she asked, leading us toward the non-fiction section. “I see the Hawthornes do let you have some time off?”
“Sure. More than I expected, actually. They’re out of the house a lot, which occasionally leaves me with not much to do. Made my first attempt at skiing yesterday.”
“How did that go?”
“I didn’t die.” Which felt like a significant accomplishment. “But I think maybe I’m better suited to the après lifestyle than the slopes.”
“Speaking of which . . .” Bea paused at a shelf to scan several covers from a selection of coffee table books about wildlife and travel. “Have you seen that Après Brie account on Instagram?”
My face flushed pink while I quickly grabbed a random photography memoir off a shelf. “Um . . .”
“They mostly post incredible-looking food. But also, a ton about Maplewood Creek. Shops, cafes, and whatnot.”
“Sounds neat,” I said anxiously.
I had picked up quite a few new followers recently, but the whole idea of a pseudonym was to remain anonymous.
Not that I was posting anything private or salacious.
The content was strictly food and fluff.
Still, I was walking on eggshells where Mrs. Hawthorne was concerned.
I didn’t want to give her any reason to look at me sideways.
Well. Other than making out with her son. But that was beside the point.
“Everyone in town is talking about it. Business owners are starting to get jealous about who’s showing up in posts and who isn’t. One more competition for everyone to fight over.”
Oh, great. I’d just gotten here and already I’d started a new Cold War.
“We’re all trying to figure out who’s behind it,” she said. “My money is on some influencer paid to stay at one of the absurdly expensive Airbnbs. Any day now, they’re going to be posting promo codes and referral links. Watch.”
“Yeah,” I said, relieved. “I’ll have to check it out.”
“Oh! That reminds me. Have you heard about the Thanksgiving Throwdown?”
“No, I don’t think so.” I found a shelf of cookbooks and flipped through a new one from Marcus Lee. “Let me guess, it’s a giant town-wide snowball fight?”
“No,” she said, cocking her head. “That’s a great idea, though. I might have to mention it at the next chamber of commerce meeting. The Thanksgiving Throwdown is an annual baking competition held over the course of a day. This year’s theme is gingerbread. You should enter.”
“I’d love to.” My pulse jumped at the thought and crashed back down just as quickly. “But my schedule’s sort of unpredictable. And I’m not sure it’s a great idea to ask for time off when I just started a new job. Something tells me Mrs. Hawthorne isn’t the accommodating type.”
“Maybe they don’t need to know,” she suggested with a coy smirk. “Like you said, they’re out of the house a lot. They probably wouldn’t even notice you’re gone.”
She had a point. My off hours were my own. As long as the family didn’t need me, I was free to roam around. The caveat being, I was always at their beck and call, ready to jump into action at a moment’s notice. But with a little clever coordination, I suppose it was possible.
“I’ll think about it,” I told her.
“Terrific. There’s an entry fee, and of course materials . . .”
Materials. That sounded ominous.
“But The Snowdrift will sponsor you. Plus, there’s a thousand-dollar prize to the winner.”
“Well, shoot. You should have led with that,” I laughed. ‘But thank you, that’s very generous.’
“Anyway, think it over. And when the Hawthornes don’t have you chained to the chalet, don’t be a stranger. Swing by the inn or come find us at The Foggy Goggle. I can introduce you to some people. If you’re going to be here a while, you might as well make some friends.”
“Thanks, I’d love that.”
A big part of me was missing home. I didn’t have a big social circle in Denver either, and maybe I was better known for canceling on plans than being the life of the party, but still, it could get a little lonely in the cottage all by myself.
And I didn’t want to cling to Charles as my only source of entertainment. Wonderfully distracting as he was.
So, after leaving Bea at the bookstore, I called Hannah on my way to start my provision shopping.
“Elle, finally!” she answered.
“Hey there.” I strolled toward the looming white yeti peering above the rooftops in the distance. “You still at work?”
“Nope. Just got home. It’s about time you called. Feels like I haven’t heard from you in forever. Forget about me already?”
“Never. Calling to give you the full update now.”
“Hang on.” I heard the refrigerator open and close in the background and the sound of a soda can popping. “Okay, go. What’s it like so far?”
Children in ski suits ran up a hill across the street beside the post office, carrying their sleds and getting a running start before shooting down the snow-covered slope.
“I had the most amazing meal of my life at this incredible mountaintop restaurant,” I told her. “I’m going to send you the link. You’d absolutely die for the elk.”
“Oh, I’m so jealous. What else? Hook up with any hot ski instructors yet?”
Hannah always did get right to the point.
“Not quite. Though I did almost have to punt a first grader off a mountain.”
She barked out a sharp laugh. “I’d have paid to see that.”
“And I got on a ski lift.”
Christmas songs played like a radio changing channels every time a shop door opened. Tourists were pouring out of the storefronts with arms full of bags.
“Wow. You’ve changed. Where’s the girl I knew who hated getting up on the ladder to change the special on the menu board?”
“I killed her. Buried her in the snow behind the woodshed.”
Hannah giggled down the phone.
“Oh, and I’m thinking about entering a pastry competition. Winner gets a thousand bucks.”
“You’d kill it. Those poor, unsuspecting townsfolk wouldn’t know what hit them.”
“Only trouble is, gingerbread is the theme and that’s not exactly my strong suit.”
“Pfft,” she scoffed. “You can rock any pastry. I say go for it.”
“We’ll see. If the way this town decorates is any indication, I might be getting in over my head. Somehow, I don’t think a simple gingerbread man is going to cut it.”
More like the Terracotta Army of gingerbread.
“Okay, but here’s the really important question: What’s the forecast out there?” she demanded. “Hunky with a chance of flirting? I need the scoop.”
“The scoop is I’m here to work, not flirt.”
“Oh my God, that’s a yes,” she insisted.
“What? No, it isn’t.”
“Please. I know you. Who is he? Is he tall? Rich? More importantly, does he have a younger brother?”
Her powers of deduction were uncanny and a little annoying.
“If there was a guy . . . we would just be friends.”
“Uh-huh,” she hummed. “So, you’re basically in love with him.”
“Well, now I’m hanging up,” I threatened.
“Wait! Before you go, I’m trying to talk my mom into taking us up there for Thanksgiving. It really doesn’t seem right celebrating here without you and I hate the idea of you up there all alone.”
My heart swelled at the thought. “Actually, that would be amazing. I’d love to see you both. And I know the perfect place for you to stay, if Megan thinks you can swing it.”
“I’ll let you know. But plan on it!”
After hitting up the wine shop and finding some excellent local olive oil, I drove over to the marketplace to make another pass at Mia’s produce and get her advice on some proteins.
The sprawl of holiday decor had certainly made its way to the barn as well.
Everywhere there were tufts of fake snow dotted with small Christmas trees, big blue and silver menorahs, giant inflatable turkeys and papier-maché cornucopias overflowing with fake plastic vegetables.
It was a little chaotic, but I appreciated their devotion to tradition.
When I approached Mia’s stall, she was cashing out a customer with a wagon full of canvas tote bags and a sleeping dachshund in a red knit sweater.
“See you for happy hour later?” the woman asked, taking her receipt.
“Race you there,” Mia told her as she noticed me and nodded hello.
The woman tugged her wagon as she walked away, the pup never stirring as they left to continue their shopping.
“Welcome back,” Mia greeted me, dusting off the front of her apron. “I see you survived your first week.”
“Guess you can’t get rid of me that easy.”
“Glad to hear it,” she said with an encouraging laugh. “What can I get you?”
“Load me up,” I said. “I really should get one of those wagons, come to think of it.”
“Grover’s Hardware.” Mia winked, tapping her nose.
“The one with the giant yeti out front?”
“Can’t miss it.”
I made a mental note to swing by there while I perused her selection of soil-spotted mushrooms and fragrant, leafy herbs. I even snapped a few surreptitious photos of Mia’s stall while she briefly turned to check on another customer, then went back to squeezing waxy cucumbers.
“So, how’s the chef life treating you?” she asked.
“So far so good,” I admitted. All things considered, it was far from the worst gig I’d ever worked.
“Really?” She cocked her head like I’d given her a riddle to solve. “Huh.”
“What?”
Mia shrugged, absently rearranging a display of carrots with long, leafy stalks. “Nothing. Just the Hawthornes are notoriously difficult clients. Folks joke that half the tourism in this town is just the turnover of their staff.”
“I don’t know,” I said. I grabbed a paper bag from a crate on the ground and started filling it with stone fruit. “I’m new to private cheffing, but they don’t seem any more difficult than most rich people, I guess.”
No doubt Mrs. Hawthorne was a handful. Sometimes it felt like she made a sport out of keeping me on my toes. But it wasn’t like her demands were outlandish or exceptionally malicious. She just craved perfection. I’d say she was paying me enough to deserve at least the attempt.
“Give it time,” Mia groused, smile faltering. “They’ll find a way to let you down.”
“Speaking from personal experience?”
That was a pretty specific accusation. The tone of Mia’s delivery said it was more than idle small-town chatter. Though I didn’t want to take a wrong step and end up neck-deep in the gossip, I couldn’t deny a growing curiosity about why Mia seemed to have a particular aversion to the family.
“I’m just saying . . .” Mia plastered on a flippant expression and shook her head, aloof. “Don’t expect too much and you won’t be disappointed.”
The vibe had turned unavoidably awkward while I finished my shopping and Mia began to ring me up. I felt bad that I’d soured her mood.
“Hey, what can you tell me about the Thanksgiving Throwdown?” I asked, changing the subject.
Her eyes perked up. “Oh, yeah. One of my favorite holiday events. Takes place outside city hall. Last year someone made the Grand Canyon out of German chocolate cake. Year before that, there was a life-size toffee Elvis. It gets pretty intense.”
I sighed inwardly. Knowing this town, I’d had a feeling.
“Ran into Bea at the bookshop earlier. She’s trying to get me to enter.”
“Do it,” she said. “I’m not much of a baker, but I love to watch. A huge audience gathers to watch the creations come together. People get so creative. But if you’re going to do it, better get planning now.”
“Yeah, I guess I’ll have to figure out what I can build out of gingerbread and frosting that could beat a gingerbread Taj Mahal.”
Mia’s face brightened suddenly. “Hey,” she said, picking up several of my bags, “What are you doing tonight? A group of us are getting together. Low-key hang. Grab a few drinks and shoot some pool. We could have a brainstorming session.”
She helped me carry my haul out to the Land Rover in the parking lot and I opened the lift gate of the trunk.
“I’ve got dinner service for the family, then I’m probably going to crash out and catch up on some sleep.”
“Boo,” she teased as we loaded the bags.
“Raincheck?”
“Fine. But I’m going to keep bugging you.”
“Good. I want you to.”
I appreciated the effort. Back home, people stopped inviting me places because I was always too tired to go out after pulling double shifts.
Then I forgot how to make friends. Here, I seemed to have a little more time on my hands than I’d expected.
And more importantly, great people that I genuinely wanted to spend that time with.