Chapter Four
Viola’s mind wandered as she cleared tables at Nick’s bakery-slash-lunch bistro. As usual during Christmas, The Gingerbread House was bustling with business. But Viola’s shift was almost over, and she was trying to recollect the list of groceries she’d promised to pick up for her mother after she clocked out for the day. If only she had remembered to bring the actual paper she’d written the items on …
Suddenly, the tray flew from her hand, and Viola’s thoughts scattered as plates and mugs crashed onto the floor.
She gaped in horror at the customer standing beside her, the man’s beige coat stained with hot chocolate. The man pressed a finger to the Bluetooth device in his ear, his other hand frozen in the air near her arm, and his jaw hung agape.
“I’m so sorry.” Viola wasn’t sure if she should tend to the broken dishes or get something to soak up the dark mess from the man’s expensive-looking apparel. Was it cashmere?
Just my luck.
“Hold on, Scott,” the tall man with sun-kissed caramel-colored hair said into his device. “I just got attacked by a waitress. I’ll call you back.”
Viola blinked. “ Attacked? No. I’m sorry, but you’re the one who knocked my tray out of my hand. What were you doing standing behind me anyway?”
“I wasn’t standing behind you. I was reaching for my briefcase.” The man pointed to a leather attaché sitting under the adjacent table. “You backed into me. And ruined my coat. I will look ridiculous showing up to my meeting like this.”
“I’m sorry about your coat, but you surely can’t place all the blame on me.”
He pressed his lips into a hard line and narrowed his eyes. “Whatever happened to ‘the customer is always right’?”
Viola felt everyone in the shop staring at her. “I think the word always is a smidge extreme. And outdated. How about ‘the customer is usually right unless he’s being a condescending jerk’?”
His brows lifted. Viola swore one corner of his mouth twitched. Did he think this was funny?
A figure appeared from the other side of the counter. As Nick strolled toward them, Viola swept a strand of brunette hair that had escaped her ponytail behind her ear.
“Hi, I’m Nick. The owner.” He extended his hand. “Looks like there’s been a misunderstanding here.”
The man shook Nick’s hand. “Jonas Brickman. And yes. Someone here clearly has problems understanding.”
Viola almost gasped when Jonas looked at her.
Nick subtly released a measured exhale. He placed a hand on Viola’s shoulder and gave her the smallest of smiles.
“Viola, your shift’s over, right? Why don’t you go ahead and clock out? I’ll deal with this mess.” He faced Jonas. “I apologize for all of this. Let me take care of the bill for you, and if you need to be reimbursed for dry cleaning, just let me know.”
Jonas nodded. Viola had to turn away to avoid the cocky grin on his face.
“Thanks, Nick.” Viola chewed her lip to avoid saying anything more as she stomped to the back room.
Viola’s face grew hot, and her lip was sore from biting it. Frustration burned in her veins. She gathered her cobalt blue peacoat and white scarf in the back, then closed her eyes and blew out a slow breath. She had to calm down. It wasn’t the first time she’d dealt with a difficult customer. Although, difficult customers were few and far between in Silverwood. Still, something about that man— Jonas Brickman —got under her skin.
Viola peeked through the doorway to see if the coast was clear. Upon seeing no trace of the arrogant man, she walked toward the door, sparing only a second to wave goodbye to Nick.
She headed for her car almost robotically. Somehow, she arrived at the store parking lot without remembering the drive. Try as she might, she couldn’t turn off her inner dialogue about the encounter with Jonas.
Cut it out. He’s not worth it.
Viola grabbed a handheld shopping basket and waved at the manager of Silverwood Grocery as she beelined for the vegetable aisle of the shop. It wasn’t that there was no time for pleasantries; she simply had to calm herself before inadvertently letting her anger out on some unsuspecting soul.
Why was she still replaying the shouting match in her head?
Okay, ‘shouting match’ is a bit of an exaggeration. But he was rude.
Who did this Jonas Brickman think he was anyway? If there was one thing Viola detested, it was someone who considered themselves superior. Judging by his coat and suit, Jonas Brickman was probably a wealthy businessman who enjoyed reminding others of how important he was.
She snatched a bundle of carrots and practically threw them into her basket. How dare he insult my intelligence? He doesn’t even know me.
She had to stop herself as she realized she was crushing an eggplant. Clearing her throat, she set the eggplant in her basket and exhaled slowly.
Viola forced herself to think of something else, mumbling a curse each time her mind circled back. She was certain he thought he could get away with anything—including disregarding human decency—just because he was rich and handsome.
Whoa. Handsome? Where did that thought come from?
As she checked out, she put on a small smile for the woman at the register.
“Paper or plastic?” the cashier asked.
“No, thanks. I have my own.” Viola, an environmentalist at heart, whipped out two cloth tote bags from her backpack and packed her groceries.
Viola adjusted the straps of her shopping bags, kicking the intrusive thoughts of Jonas Brickman to the curb. Her thoughts wandered to the presents she wanted to send to her sister while striding toward her car until a sharp bark sounded.
She froze. Less than a foot in front of her, a car was backing out—one she hadn’t seen because of the large van beside it. Her muscles tensed, and she swallowed hard. If that bark hadn’t stopped her, she would have been hit.
Still standing in place, she waited until the driver noticed her, which he did with an embarrassed wave before continuing on his way.
Viola sighed and glanced to her right, then smiled at the sable and white, wolf-like Alaskan Malamute, who sat patiently as its owner loaded her vehicle. Viola wasn’t sure which of Cupid’s siblings this was, but she needed to thank it with a friendly pat.
“Oh, hello.” The woman—the local florist, Viola realized—placed a final bag inside the hatch before shutting her trunk.
“Is it okay if I pet your dog?” Viola asked. “I think he just saved my life.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Yeah. That car that just left would have clipped me if he hadn’t barked.”
“Sounds about right. Blitzen has some quick reflexes. Sure, feel free to pet him. He would love that.”
Viola bent forward and rubbed the top of Blitzen’s head, whispering her gratitude. Blitzen panted, and Viola could have sworn his lips were forming a grin.
“You work with Nick, right?” the woman asked.
“Yes. I’m Viola.”
“Oh, yeah. Evelyn Carver’s daughter. I’m Melissa. Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too.”
“And I’m glad Blitzen could be of service.”
Viola gave her a nod. “Me too. I’ll see you around.”
Viola made a mental note to get flowers from Melissa’s shop or a nice Christmas wreath or poinsettia for her mom.
Fifteen minutes later, Viola pulled into her mother’s driveway, which she was relieved to see had been cleared of snow. Oliver had been by—the college student who helped her mother out with heavy lifting and other chores for extra cash.
Viola exited the car and glanced at her mother’s quaint, two-story home. She couldn’t help but recall running around the yard with her sister Sina when they were little, being pushed on the tire swing her father had hung from the big oak tree out front. And the nights she and Sina would refuse to come down from their treehouse after their mother had called them to dinner.
A tall, burly man with dirty blond hair sticking out from a black beanie climbed down a ladder propped against the garage. He set down the bag in his hand and waved.
“Oliver, I didn’t think you’d still be here.”
Oliver removed his gloves. “Your mom was worried the rain gutters might be jammed.”
“Didn’t you clean them out in October?”
“Yeah, but she said Silverwood’s due for more storms soon.”
“Isn’t it always?” She went to the trunk to retrieve her grocery bags. “Are you staying for dinner or working at the restaurant tonight?”
“No, I promised Amy we could catch a movie.”
“Nice.” Viola always thought Oliver and Amy made a perfect match.
“You need a hand with those before I take off?” he asked.
“No, thanks. I’m all set. Have fun at the movies. Say hi to Amy for me.”
“Thanks. I will.”
The sun was already setting on an otherwise bright and clear day. One more reason not to waste any more time dwelling on Jonas. The hinges on the door gave off their familiar squeaks as she carried the groceries into the house, and Viola made a note to add oiling them to Oliver’s to-do list.
“Mom? It’s me.”
“Be right there.” Her mother’s voice came from another room.
The low, buzzing whoosh of Evelyn Carver’s wheelchair grew louder as she moved closer to the kitchen. Viola unpacked the groceries, grouping the vegetables on the counter.
“Hi, sweetheart. You’re a doll for picking those up for me.” Evelyn wheeled nearer and grabbed the bundle of carrots to inspect. She lowered her glasses, which were nestled in her salt-and-pepper gray hair. As she rotated the vegetables in her hand, her delicate frame seemed to reflect the challenges she had weathered over the years. “How was your day?”
“It was fine. Nothing special.” Nothing worth mentioning, anyway . “How was yours? I see Oliver shoveled the driveway.”
“He’s such a dear. He also dug out my mom’s old recipe book for me.”
“Oh, yeah? Were you thinking of making one of Grandma’s recipes?”
Her mother flashed her a toothy grin. “Hence the spontaneous need for groceries. I was in the mood for her veggie casserole. And don’t tell me I could just look one up on my phone. No one made that dish quite like your grandma.”
Viola chuckled. “That’s so true. I remember her letting me help her cook as a kid. I had to stand on a chair so I could reach the counter.”
“That’s right. It was always you and never Sina.”
Viola raised an eyebrow. “Sina was more interested in selling the recipe. She’s always had profit margins on her mind.” She shuffled through the cards in the box. “Which of her veggie casseroles did you want to do? She has two versions.”
“Hmm. Let’s go with the milder one. I think the other calls for hot pepper flakes.”
“I love that one, too. But sure.” Viola shrugged. “We’ll keep it on the mild side tonight.”
Evelyn retrieved the cutting board while Viola washed the vegetables. It wasn’t long before the kitchen was filled with delicious scents of rosemary and garlic and the sounds of delightful conversation and laughter.
The dish turned out better than Viola could have imagined. She liked to think the spirit of her grandmother had guided her hand through the process.
“Have you heard from your sister?” Evelyn asked as they settled down in the living room. “I wish she was coming home for Christmas.”
“Me too.” Viola threw a thick, crocheted blanket over her legs as she got cozy on the couch. “Sina texted me this morning. She’s got so many projects to do for business school, but she promised to be home the week after New Year’s.”
Evelyn nodded. “Well, that’s something, at least. Can’t wait to have both my girls with me.”
Viola stared at the twinkling lights on her mother’s Christmas tree. It had been a long and stressful day, with one particular encounter she would rather forget.
She glanced back at her mother and found her head bent forward. A small snore escaped Evelyn’s throat.
Viola pushed herself off the couch and unlocked the wheelchair’s brake. Taking hold of its push handles, she gently drove her mother to her bedroom. Evelyn stirred with a soft moan.
“It’s okay, Mom,” Viola whispered. “I’ll get you into bed.”
“But the kitchen—”
“I’ll take care of it. You get some sleep.”
After tucking her mom in and checking that she had water near her bed, Viola cleared the kitchen and ran the dishwasher. Once the kitchen light was flipped off, she took the box of recipes, carried it to the living room, and made herself comfortable, her favorite throw pillow on her lap. She placed the box beside her and opened the lid. Faded, cream-colored recipe cards were stacked to the brim.
Viola’s lips spread into a smile as she read the cards for chicken cordon bleu, roast duck, shrimp scampi, and more. Each dish transported her back to her childhood, to a simpler time. Elizabeth Winston had been the wisest, most loving person in the world. It was her grandmother who had first told Viola that she’d make a great chef one day.
Ever since she could remember, Viola had been passionate about working with food and creating dishes that brought smiles to people’s faces. After her grandmother had passed away, Viola continued to cook, both because of her love for it and also as a way to keep her grandmother’s memory alive. When she had gotten accepted to culinary school, she’d been ecstatic. She’d believed her dreams were at long last coming true. Culinary school had been harder than she’d expected, but Viola had worked her butt off perfecting her creations, learning the difference between a hollandaise and béarnaise sauce, how to make a bouquet garni , how to quarter and truss a chicken, and a million other methods and techniques the big-name chefs used. She’d had to write a paper presenting a business plan for a restaurant and a catering company and had received top marks for her structured and efficient concepts.
Things had been progressing according to her ideal timeline until her mother’s car accident. The icy mountain roads had landed Evelyn Carver in the hospital, unable to walk. Viola and her sister had dropped everything to take care of their mother. After a few months, when Mrs. Carver had been doing better, Sina announced she was returning to business school in Missoula. Viola had felt obligated to stay in Silverwood and look after their mother, putting her dreams on hold.
But as much as she believed there was a missing piece of her life’s journey she had to wait to fulfill, Viola didn’t regret staying. She’d even go as far as to say the experience had brought them closer together. Deep down, however, she still held on to the hope that one day her aspirations would become reality. For now, waitressing would have to do.
The thought of her day job shoved the encounter with Jonas to the forefront of her mind again. Did he have to be so rude? I hate men who don’t take women seriously.
She closed the recipe box and pressed the pillow against her face to stop herself from screaming.