Chapter Twelve #2
Larkin pushed aside the curtain and looked out the window of her Montana Sapphire room at the star-studded sky.
Her hands might be steady, but her insides were still quaking.
She’d role-played confronting Andrew in her therapy sessions but tonight had been the ultimate.
Accusing him to his face and seeing his obvious guilt had been a vindication of sorts.
And yes, Carson’s punch had felt good too.
Much as she deplored using violence to solve problems, she couldn’t deny the primal pleasure she had gotten watching the creep crumple to the floor.
And yet, she still felt annoyed at Carson.
Even though his intentions had been good, maybe even noble, she didn’t like that he’d gone behind her back.
His actions made her question the wisdom of rekindling their relationship.
Especially when the path ahead was far from certain.
She had her family and her job in Denver.
He had his family and the ranch in Yellowstone.
With a sigh, she pushed the curtain back into place.
She had a more immediate problem facing her.
Her article was due tomorrow morning. She was happy with what she had so far, a watercolor portrait of a charming bed and breakfast rooted in the town’s copper mining past. But what should she do about the troubling events with the brownies and the dead mouse?
It felt wrong to just ignore problems that were happening right in front of her eyes.
If only she could figure out who was behind the trouble. She had a hunch who might be responsible. But a good reporter needed more than a hunch. She needed evidence. Facts. And not only did she have no idea where to get them, she’d also run out of time.
Larkin sank into the comfortable reading chair in her room, propped her feet up on the footstool, and opened her laptop.
On an impulse she looked up the goal of journalism.
According to her search engine’s AI, the purpose of journalism was to inform the public of current events and matters of public interest. All while maintaining objectivity and factual accuracy.
She thought for a while about this, then did a search for famous pieces of Christmas journalism. Among the hits was an 1897 editorial written by Francis Pharcellus Church for the New York Sun. “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.”
As she read through the editorial, she found herself smiling and even tearing up in places. One line in particular moved her. “The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see.”
Larkin closed her laptop. She needed to think, but though the bedroom was relatively spacious, she felt confined.
A short walk outside would clear her mind.
Quietly she went down the stairs, put on her outerwear, and made her way down the steps, and along the pathway to the river.
Though it was dark, she could hear the rushing and gurgling of the Marietta River.
The water was indominable, slowed, but not stopped, by the harshness of winter.
Amy pondered Church’s editorial and her journalistic obligations for almost half an hour.
Finally, she went back inside to her room, opened her laptop, and started revising.
An hour later, when she finally went to bed, she felt at peace.
Her article was ready. She’d submit it first thing in the morning.
*
Tuesday, December 23
Robin awoke at his usual six-thirty, calling out, “Mama! Dada!” When Amy came into his room, already dressed in yoga pants and a cherry-red sweatshirt, he gave her a big grin.
“Hello, happy boy. Are you excited it’s almost Christmas?” He’d only been a few months old for his first Christmas. Though he was still very young, Amy expected he was going to have a lot of fun tearing up wrapping paper and playing with boxes this year.
“Maybe we should take him to visit Santa this afternoon?” Chet was in the doorway, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt. He had his arms crossed, which made his biceps bulge in a very sexy way.
“You want to see Santa?” Amy asked her son as she changed his diaper.
“Let’s make an afternoon of it.” Chet took the sodden diaper from her hands and tossed it into the disposal pail. “We can have a hot chocolate at Sage’s, visit Santa, then maybe do some last-minute shopping.”
“Do you mean to say you’re not finished?” She grinned at him, knowing he usually left buying presents to the last possible moment.
“I need something special for my wife.” He kissed the skin exposed at the back of her ponytail. “Any suggestions?”
“Maybe a talisman to protect us from all the bad luck we’ve been having this week?”
“Come on now. It’s not been that bad.”
“Num, num,” Robin said, his way of reminding them he hadn’t been fed.
They made their way quietly down the stairs. Both she and Chet knew how to avoid the squeaky spots. In the kitchen, Chet went to put on the coffee while she started Robin’s hot oat bran cereal.
“Make sure to check the beans in both machines,” Amy reminded her husband.
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
Oh dear. “Am I being too bossy?”
“I’m just kidding you. And yes, I checked. We’ve got our Kicking Horse, Smart Ass medium roast beans in the coffee maker and our Organic Black Cat Espresso beans in our espresso machine.”
“Awesome. Thanks for indulging my paranoia.”
“I wonder who comes up with the names for these coffees?”
“Maybe the same people who name nail polish. And wall paint colors.” She glanced out the kitchen window. The back porch light illuminated a yard blanketed in snow. “I bet we got an additional three inches last night.”
“It’s like a whole new world out there,” Chet agreed.
“Maybe Bramble House needs its own transformation,” Amy mused. “I can’t do anything about all the mishaps that occurred this week. But I can make sure that from here on in, everything is perfect.”
Chet shot her a worried look. “Perfection can be overrated. You’re already under a lot of pressure.”
“Nope. I’m refusing to be stressed. I’m just going to cheerfully check and recheck everything that happens today.”
“Oh yeah, that sounds real relaxing. Not stressful at all.”
“The cereal is ready. Do you mind feeding Robin while I set the table?”
“On it.” Chet whisked Robin up from the floor where he’d been arranging magnetic animals on the stainless-steel dishwasher. Holding him like a football, he pretended to throw him at Amy, then changed course and slid him into his high chair.
It was a game Robin loved, and he giggled infectiously.
A few minutes before seven, Jo showed up. She kicked the snow off her boots before stepping inside. “This weather, it’s for the polar bears, not people.” She glanced at the table. “That looks pretty.”
Amy had repurposed some of the flowers donated for the Christmas tea into a festive centerpiece. She’d also tucked a sprig of cedar into every folded napkin.
“Tell her it’s perfect,” Chet called from the kitchen. “She won’t be satisfied with anything less.”
Jo chuckled. “Don’t worry, Amy. I’ll not be putting any hash into the hash browns this morning.”
Amy rolled her eyes. “A lot of help you two are. Did you see Robert out there, Jo? He said he’d be out around seven to clear the porch stairs and our walkways.”
“His truck pulled up just as I arrived,” Jo assured her.
Remembering her vow to check and recheck everything, Amy went to the front of the house and opened the main door. Robert, dressed in a down coat, a knitted hat, and thick gloves, was already scooping snow from the top step.
“Good morning. Hope your guests were wanting a white Christmas this year.”
“Always,” she assured him.
Robert had been Bramble House’s gardener and handyman for years, well before Amy bought the place. A recovered alcoholic, he was an essential and appreciated member of her team. Especially on days like today.
“Are you warm enough? Can I get you a coffee?”
“I’m dressed for the weather, and I’ve had my coffee. Got a full thermos in my truck too. But thanks for the offer.”
“You’ll sprinkle sand on the steps and walkways after you clear away the snow?”
He gave her quizzical smile. “Like always. Of course.”
“Thanks. We’ve got some older guests, including a woman recovering from a hip operation. I wouldn’t want anyone to slip and fall.”
“Not on my watch,” he assured her.
“Thank you, Robert.” She made a note to add a little extra to his Christmas bonus this year. In fact, she should bump up everyone’s. She had such a good staff, and they needed to know they were appreciated.
Hearing a noise from the library, Amy opened the door to check. Unwanted mice were her first concern. Surely it was too early for any of the guests to be down here.
But it wasn’t. Larkin, sitting in the sofa near the unlit fireplace, looked up from her laptop.
“Good morning, Amy. I’m just proofreading my article before emailing it to Marly. Usually, I like to review from a hard copy, so I’m paranoid I’m going to miss something.”
“I have a printer upstairs in our suite. You’re welcome to use that.”
Larkin looked relieved. “That would be so helpful. But are you sure?”
“Our door isn’t locked. The printer is on the credenza when you first walk in.”
“Is there a password?”
Amy grinned sheepishly. “It’s on a sticky note beside the printer.”
“Got it. Thanks, Amy. I’d like to get this filed before breakfast.”
Amy checked her watch. “You’ve got forty-five minutes.”
She watched as Larkin headed for the stairs. It had taken all her willpower not to ask to read the article herself. At least that way she would be prepared for the fallout. Why did so many things have to go wrong this of all weeks?
But she’d promised Chet not to stress about the past, she reminded herself. She recalled a quote from the author of Anne of Green Gables, something about tomorrow being a new day with no mistakes in it. That should be her new motto.
The front door opened then and her brother came in. “Hey, Amy. Have you seen Larkin?”
He sounded tense. “She’s upstairs, using our printer so she can proofread her article on Bramble House.”
Carson raised his eyebrows, acknowledging the importance of the article. “Mind if I go up to see her?”
“Go right ahead.” She waved her arm.
Though Amy still worried about Carson getting hurt, she now saw there could be a flip side to the relationship. If Larkin really did care for Carson, maybe she would go a little bit easy on Bramble House in her article.