Chapter One #4
“I’m sorry I was gone for so long.” Her grandmother smelled of roses and peppermints when she kissed her, a combination of her favorite perfume and her ubiquitous breath mints. Larkin could see the familiar package on a side table, next to her grandmother’s cell phone. “Are you starving?”
“Not at all, sweet child. You’ll never guess who took me out for lunch. You left the breakfast room this morning so quickly you must not have seen him.”
Oh no. She’d known it was too much to hope that Carson and her grandmother hadn’t connected. She’d hoped that he’d changed enough that her grandmother hadn’t recognized him. After all, it had taken a second look for her to realize who he was.
“Carson Wilcox!” Gran made the announcement like she was giving Larkin the best news ever. “He’s staying at Bramble House until Christmas as well. The two of you used to be such friends. Your gramps and I thought you might end up together.”
They’d done more than hope, Larkin knew. They’d counted on it. According to her mom, Gran had even cried when she heard the two of them had broken up.
“Carson? Gosh I haven’t seen him in forever,” she said, trying to sound normal, as if the very mention of his name didn’t fire up all her deepest emotions. “Where did you go for lunch?”
“He took me to Rocco’s. I had a very nice Caprese salad.” She leaned in closer to Larkin and added in a loud whisper, “He still works on his family’s ranch, but he has his own house. Built it himself. And the best part? He isn’t married. Doesn’t even have a girlfriend.”
“Gran!” She wondered what Carson had thought when her grandmother grilled him about his love life. Oh Lord. She loved her grandmother, but there were times… “You know I live in Denver. So why are you telling me all this?”
“Carson was a cute boy. But he’s matured into a very handsome man. So big and strong. Wait until you see him. You won’t think my idea is so crazy then.”
But Larkin had seen him. Her glance had been brief, but it had been enough for her to know her grandmother was right.
The rest of Carson’s face had caught up to the strong jaw, the blue of his eyes had deepened, and he’d filled out into a strong, muscular man.
The only thing that hadn’t changed was his dark blond hair.
It was still thick and unruly and all the more attractive for it.
“I noticed they put out fresh cookies and beverages in the sitting room. I doubt if the cookies will be as good as yours, but should we give them a try?”
“Don’t think I don’t realize you’re changing the subject. But yes, that’s a good idea.” Her grandmother slipped a bookmark into place and removed her reading glasses. All of this she transferred to her tote bag.
“Don’t forget your mints.”
“Thank you, sweetie.”
There was only one other person in the sitting room, a small man with neatly cropped gray hair.
His face was dominated by a pair of dark round-shaped eyeglasses.
Those, plus a narrow, beaked nose, gave him an owl-like appearance.
He was at the buffet table, helping himself to a cookie, when Larkin joined him.
She gave him a friendly smile, which he didn’t return.
She’d been about to make polite chitchat but decided instead to remain quiet.
She poured hot apple cider for herself and her grandmother, then took the cups to the chair by the enormous fireplace where her grandmother had settled.
“I’ll go back and get some cookies,” she said.
“Would you like some grapes too?” They’d looked very tempting in the fruit bowl.
“I’d stick with the fruit if I was you,” the owl-like man said.
He was seated on the other side of the room, next to the Bramble-family-themed Christmas tree.
Larkin had examined it closely yesterday.
All the ornaments were framed miniatures of the various Bramble family members, beginning with the original owners of the house, Henry and May Bell, at a place of honor near the top of the tree.
“Oh?” Larkin asked politely.
“The cookies are awful. Too dry. Not quite burnt, but close to it.”
“Oh dear. Really, Mr. Adlington?” Amy, the woman who had checked them in yesterday, had just appeared with a fresh thermos of hot water. Toddling behind her was a very cute little boy, with her blond hair and blue eyes. He looked around one, maybe a few months older.
“I’m not in the habit of lying.” The cookies could not have been drier than his tone.
“When I checked your reviews before booking, I was struck by how many of your guests recommended the freshly baked cookies. I find it hard to believe these are what they were referring to.” He set the cookie back on his plate. “Have you hired a new cook?”
“Jo has been with us since we opened the place,” Amy said. “Well, except for a few weeks at the beginning. And she worked for the previous owner as well.” Amy helped herself to a cookie and took a bite. “Hm. I see what you mean.”
The little boy tugged on her pant leg. “Key? Key?”
His mother broke off a piece of the cookie and gave it to him. He seemed to have no problem with the quality.
Curious, Larkin took cookies for herself and her grandmother. The first taste wasn’t at all bad. “Macadamia nuts and white chocolate?”
Amy nodded.
“They’re nice and crisp,” her grandmother said. “Perfect for dipping into coffee.”
“If I wanted biscotti, I would have bought myself some biscotti.” And with that pronouncement, Mr. Adlington abandoned his coffee and his unfinished cookie and went up to his room.
When he was well gone, Larkin wrinkled her nose. “I guess every Christmas needs a grinch.”
“Larkin!” her grandmother admonished her.
Noticing her son was beelining to the crackling fireplace, Amy scooped him up. “I’m afraid Mr. Adlington hasn’t found much to his liking since he arrived. But I have to agree with him on the cookies. Maybe there’s something wrong with the oven.”
“That can happen,” Larkin’s grandmother agreed. “I ruined several of my husband’s favorite angel food cakes before I finally figured out my old oven was running ten degrees hot.”
“We have an oven thermometer so I can check,” Amy said. “In the meantime, I’m sorry about the cookies. I promise tomorrow’s will be better. Kris Krinkles is going to bake his classic molasses spice cookies before his afternoon shift as the Graff Hotel’s Santa Claus.”
“Kris Krinkles?” Larkin asked, amused. “Amy, is that really his name?”
“It’s what he likes to be called,” Amy said, not quite answering the question. “Hopefully you’ll meet him at breakfast tomorrow.”
“He came down this morning right after you left,” her grandmother said. “A lovely man, with a glorious white beard. All natural. He’s been the historic Graff Hotel’s Santa for years.”
“Then why doesn’t he stay at the Graff?”
“That’s a good question,” Amy said. “From what I gather, though, he’s been a Bramble House regular from the very beginning.”
The front door opened, and a gust of winter air snuck through the foyer and into the sitting room. A moment later Larkin heard the door close, and Amy’s husband appeared in the doorway. The little boy immediately clambered from his mother’s arms to his father’s.
Chet kissed his son’s chubby cheek, and smiled at his wife, before turning to the guests. “How are you ladies doing? Is the fire keeping you warm?”
“We’re very comfortable,” Larkin assured him. “But while I’ve got you and Amy together, I have something to tell you, and a request.”
“Oh?” Amy looked worried, but her husband just seemed curious.
“Marly Everett at the Copper Mountain Courier asked if I would write a profile on Bramble House for her Wednesday, Christmas Eve, edition.”
Amy exchanged a look with her husband.
“Sounds like free publicity to me,” Chet said.
“That’s exactly right,” Larkin agreed. “Marly wants me to cover some of the Bramble House history as well as the story of how you came to be the new owners. We’d also like to highlight your Christmas tea fundraiser. I was hoping the two of you could spare me thirty minutes or so for an interview?”
“It’s a busy time,” Amy said. She didn’t seem as enthused about the idea as her husband. “But maybe tomorrow, while Robin’s napping? He usually goes down around eleven-thirty.”
“That would be perfect.”
“Great. Do you ladies have plans for dinner? I’d be happy to make some suggestions,” Amy said.
“They already have a reservation.” A new voice sounded from the kitchen end of the house.
A moment later Carson Wilcox entered the room, all six feet and four inches of him.
“I fixed the garburator,” he told Amy. “And I heard the kerfuffle about the cookies, so I checked the oven too. It’s working fine. ”
“Thank you,” Amy said. “That’s a really big help.”
“What’s that about cookies and the oven?” Chet asked.
“Let’s go to the kitchen and I’ll tell you,” Amy said as she followed her husband out of the room.
Meanwhile Larkin felt as if the world was spinning.
Or was it her head? Was Carson some sort of appliance repairman as well as a rancher?
And why had he said she and her grandmother had dinner plans?
She noticed her grandmother smiling pleasantly and began to suspect there was a conspiracy going on. “Gran?”
“Carson invited us to the Graff Hotel for dinner. Doesn’t that sound lovely?”
No. It didn’t sound lovely. Larkin glared at Carson. She longed to tell him to forget it. She’d rather fast for forty days and forty nights in the desert than go to some fancy restaurant with him. But her grandmother looked so excited and happy, she didn’t have the heart.