Книга - There’s Something About Christmas

There's Something About Christmas
Debbie Macomber


Perfect for fans of Maeve Binchy' - CandisEmma Collins has always believed that the world is divided into two kinds of people: those who love fruitcake and those who don't. She's firmly in the second category, so it's ironic that her first major assignment for the Puyallup, Washington, Examiner is a series of articles about. . . fruitcake. At least it's a step up from writing obituaries. Her task is to interview the finalists in a fruitcake recipe contest, and that means traveling around the state. Actually. . . flying around the state.Local pilot Oliver Hamilton, who's starting an airfreight business, has agreed to take her wherever she needs to go, in exchange for free advertising. Unfortunately Emma hates small planes — almost as much as she hates fruitcake. But in the weeks leading up to Christmas, Emma falls for Oliver (who's not quite the Scrooge he sometimes seems) and his mutt, Oscar (who's allergic to her perfume, which makes him sneeze repeatedly).And she meets three wise women who know a lot about fruitcake — and even more about life. It all reminds her that there's something about Christmas. Something special. . .









DEBBIE MACOMBER

There's Something About Christmas








Thanks to Marie Macomber for the applesauce fruitcake recipe

(and for being the world’s best mother-in-law).

Thanks also to Cindy Thornlow for the chocolate fruitcake recipe

and to Penny Raven for the no-bake version.


To Emma Ingram (the real Emma)

and her mother




Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

Coming Next Month




Chapter One


On that cold day I was born, in February 1955, my great-aunt gave me a classic fruitcake for the celebration of the occasion of my birth. Every year during the holidays I pull it out of the attic and take a look at it and it still looks great, and every year I try to get up the nerve to take a slice and try it.

—Dean Fearing,

chef of The Mansion on Turtle Creek

This job was going to kill her yet.

Emma Collins stared at the daredevil pilot who was urging her toward his plane. She’d come to Thun Field to drum up advertising dollars for her employer, The Puyallup Examiner, and wasn’t interested in taking a spin around southeast Puget Sound.

“Thank you, but no,” she insisted for the third time. Oliver Hamilton seemed to have a hearing problem. However, Emma was doing her best to maintain a professional facade, despite her pounding heart. No way would she go for a ride with Flyboy.

The truth was, Emma was terrified of flying. Okay, she white-knuckled it in a Boeing 747, but nothing on God’s green earth would get her inside a small plane with this man—and his dog. Oliver Hamilton had a devil-may-care glint in his dark blue eyes and wore a distressed brown leather jacket that resembled something a World War Two bomber pilot might wear. All he needed was the white scarf. She suspected that if he ever got her in the air, he’d start making loops and circles with the express purpose of frightening her to death. He looked just the type.

Placing the advertising-rate sheet on his desk, she turned resolutely away from the window and the sight of Hamilton’s little bitty plane—a Cessna Caravan 675, he’d called it. “As I was explaining earlier, The Examiner has a circulation of over forty-five thousand. As you’ll see—” she gestured at the sheet “—we have special introductory rates in December. We serve four communities and, dollar for advertising dollar, you can’t do better than what we’re offering.”

“Yes, yes, I understand all that,” Oliver Hamilton said, stepping around his desk. “Now, what I can offer you is the experience of a lifetime….”

Instinctively Emma backed away. She had an aversion to attractive men whose promises slid so easily off their tongues. Her father had been one of them. He’d flitted in and out of her life during her childhood and teen years. Every so often, he’d arrived bearing gifts and making promises, none of which he’d kept. Still, her mother had loved Bret Collins until the end. Pamela had died after a brief illness when Emma was a sophomore at the University of Oregon. To his credit, her father had paid her college expenses, but Emma refused to have anything to do with him. She was on her own in the world and determined to make a success of her career as a journalist. When she’d hired on at The Examiner earlier that year, she hadn’t objected to starting at the bottom. She’d expected that. What she hadn’t expected was spending half her time trying to sell advertising.

The Examiner was a family-owned business, one of a vanishing breed. The newspaper had been in the Berwald family for three generations. Walt Berwald II had held on through the corporate buyouts and survived the competition from the big-city newspapers coming out of Tacoma and Seattle. It hadn’t been easy. Now his thirty-year-old son had taken over after his father’s recent heart attack. Walt the third, the new editor-in-chief, was doing everything he could to keep the newspaper financially solvent, which Emma knew was a challenge.

“Hey, Oscar,” Oliver said, bending to pet his dog. “I think the lady’s afraid of flying.”

Emma bristled, irritated that he’d pegged her so quickly. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

He ignored her and continued to pet the dog. She couldn’t readily identify his breed, possibly some kind of terrier. The dog was mostly white with one large black spot surrounding his left eye. Right out of that 1930s show Spanky and Our Gang. Wasn’t that the name? She shook off her momentary distraction.

“I’m here to sell you advertising in The Examiner,” she explained again. “I hope you’ll reconsider.”

Oliver straightened, crossing his arms, and leaned against his desk. “As I said, I’m just getting my business started. At this point I don’t have a lot of discretionary funds for advertising. So for now I’ll stick with the word-of-mouth method. That seems to be working.”

It couldn’t be working that well, since he appeared to have a lot of time on his hands. “Exactly what is it you do?” she asked.

“I give flying lessons and I’ve recently begun an air-freight business.”

“Oh.”

“Oscar and I haven’t crashed even once.”

He was obviously making fun of her, and she didn’t appreciate it. Nor did she take his alleged safety record as an incentive to leap into the passenger seat.

“But then,” he added, “there’s always a first time.”

“Exactly what I was going to say,” Emma muttered. “Well, I’ll leave the information with you,” she said more pleasantly. “I hope you’ll think about our proposal when it’s financially feasible.”

Retrieving her briefcase and purse, she headed toward the door—which Oliver suddenly blocked with his arm. His smile was as lazy as it was sexy. Hmm, funny how often lazy and sexy went together. Considering all that boyish charm, plenty of other women had probably melted at his feet. She wouldn’t.

She met his gaze without flinching.

“Are you sure I can’t take you up for a spin?” he asked.

“Absolutely, positively sure.”

“There’s nothing to fear except fear itself.”

“Uh-uh. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have other calls to make.”

He moved aside. “It’s a shame. You’re kinda cute in an uptight sort of way.”

Unable to resist, she rolled her eyes.

Oliver chuckled and walked her out to her car, his dog trotting behind him. Normally Emma would’ve taken time to pet the terrier, but Oliver Hamilton would inevitably read that as a sign she was interested in him. She was fond of animals, especially dogs, and hoped to get one herself. Unfortunately, her apartment complex didn’t allow pets; not only that, the landlord was a real piece of work. As soon as she had the chance, Emma planned to find somewhere else to live.

Using her remote, she unlocked her car door, which Oliver promptly opened for her. She smiled her thanks, eager to leave, and climbed into the driver’s side.

“So I can’t change your mind?”

She shook her head. The one thing a ladies’ man could never resist, Emma had learned from her father, was a woman who said no. Somehow, she’d have to get Oliver to accept her at her word.

She reached for the door and closed it. Hard.

Oliver stepped back.

After she’d started the ignition and pulled away, he smiled at her—a mysterious smile—as if he knew something she didn’t.

As far as Emma was concerned, she’d made a lucky escape.

Her irritation had just begun to fade when she returned to the office and walked down to her cubicle in the basement, shared with half a dozen other staff. The area was affectionately—and sometimes not so affectionately—termed The Dungeon. Phoebe Wilkinson, who sat opposite her, glanced up when Emma tossed her purse onto her desk.

“That bad?” Phoebe asked, rolling her chair across the narrow aisle. She was one of the other reporters, a few years older than Emma. She was short where Emma was tall, with dark hair worn in a pixie cut while Emma’s was long and blond. Most of the time, anyway. Occasionally Emma was a redhead or a brunette.

“You wouldn’t believe my afternoon.”

“Did you sell any ads?” Phoebe asked. It’d been her turn the day before and she’d come back with three brand-new accounts.

Emma nodded. She’d managed to get the local pizza parlor to place an ad in the Wednesday edition with a dollar-off coupon for any large pizza. That way, the restaurant could figure out how well the advertising had worked. Emma just hoped everyone in town would go racing into the parlor with that coupon. Badda Bing, Badda Boom Pizza had been her only sale.

“That’s great,” Phoebe said with real enthusiasm.

“Yes, at least our payroll checks won’t bounce.” She couldn’t restrain her sarcasm.

Phoebe frowned, shaking her head. “Walt would never let that happen.”

Her friend and co-worker had a crush on the owner. Phoebe was the strongest personality she knew, yet when it came to Walt, she seemed downright timid—far from her usual assertive self.

Emma sighed. Her own feelings about men had grown cynical. Her father was mostly responsible for that. Her one serious college romance hadn’t helped, either; it ended when her mother became ill. Emma hadn’t been around to help Neal with his assignments, so he’d dropped her for another journalism student. Pulling out her chair, Emma sat down. She hadn’t worked so hard to get her college degree for this. Her feet hurt, she had a run in her panty hose and no one was going to give her a Pulitzer prize when she spent half her time pounding the pavement and the other half writing obituaries.

Yes, obituaries. Walt’s big coup had been getting a contract to write obituaries for the large Tacoma newspaper, and that had been her job and Phoebe’s for the past eight months. Emma had gotten quite good at summarizing someone else’s life—but that hardly made a smudge on the page of her own.

She hadn’t obtained a journalism degree in order to persuade the local department store to place mattress sale ads in the Sunday paper, either. She was a reporter! A darn good one…if only someone would give her a chance to prove herself. Emma longed to write a piece worthy of her education and her skills, and frankly, preparing obituaries wasn’t it.

“I don’t think I can do this much longer,” she confessed sadly. “Either Walt lets me write a real story or…” She didn’t know what.

Phoebe gasped. “You aren’t thinking of quitting, are you?”

Emma looked at her friend. She’d been hired the same week as Phoebe. The difference was, Phoebe seemed content to do whatever was asked of her. She loved writing obituaries and set the perfect tone with each one. Not Emma. She hated it, struggling with them all. The result was always adequate or better because Emma took pride in her work, but it just wasn’t what she wanted to be doing. She had ambition and dreamed that one day she’d write feature articles. Eventually, she hoped to have her own column.

“I don’t want to quit. I’ve been waiting six months for Walt to offer me something more than funeral home notices.”

“Sleep on it,” Phoebe advised. “You’ve had a rough day. Everything will seem better in the morning.”

“You’re right,” she murmured. An ultimatum shouldn’t be made on the spur of the moment. Besides, it wasn’t the obituaries or even drumming up advertising dollars that depressed her the most.

It was Christmas.

Everywhere she went, there was holiday cheer. But not everyone in the world loved Christmas. She, for example, didn’t enjoy it at all. Christmas was for families and she didn’t have one. Yes, her father was alive, but that was of little comfort. Since her mother’s death, he always invited Emma to his house in California and she always took a certain grim satisfaction in refusing him.

Almost everyone she knew had family and shared the holidays with them. Emma was alone. But she’d rather be by herself than spend it with her father and his new wife. Last year she’d ignored the season entirely. On Christmas Day she’d gone to a movie and had buttered popcorn for dinner and that had suited her perfectly.

“You don’t want to quit just before Christmas,” Phoebe told her.

Emma sighed again. “No, you’re right. I don’t.” But she said it mostly to avoid upsetting Phoebe.



“You’re actually going to confront Walt?” Phoebe peered at Emma across The Dungeon aisle the next morning.

“Yes,” Emma murmured. She’d decided that after almost a year, she wasn’t any closer to writing feature articles than the day she was hired. It was time to face reality. She’d reached her limit; she was finished with working in the bowels of the drafty building, tired of spending half her week traipsing around Bonny Lake, Sumner and Puyallup searching for advertising dollars.

“What are you going to say to him?” Phoebe’s brown eyes regarded her carefully.

She didn’t know what she could say that she hadn’t already said a hundred times. If Walt refused to listen, she would simply hand in her notice. She wouldn’t leave until after Christmas; that was for strictly financial reasons. Where she’d apply next, however, was the question.

“Walt won’t want to lose you,” Phoebe said confidently.

“You mean when he isn’t yelling?”

“He has a lot on his mind.”

Emma narrowed her eyes. Phoebe’s infatuation with Walt blinded her to the truth.

It was now or never. Emma stood, squaring her shoulders. “Okay, I’m going to talk to Walt.” She motioned at the stairwell. “Do I have the look?” The one that said she was serious.

“Oh, yes!” Phoebe was nothing if not encouraging.

“You’ll be stuck writing all the obituaries,” Emma cautioned.

“I don’t mind,” her friend said.

“Okay, here goes.”

Emma marched up the stairs and toward the back of the first floor, where Walt’s luxurious office was situated. Well, perhaps it wasn’t as luxurious as all that, except when compared to the dank basement where Emma and Phoebe were relegated.

Walt glanced up, frowning, as she planted herself in the threshold to his office.

“Do you have a minute?” she asked politely.

His frown slowly transformed itself into a smile, and for the first time Emma noticed her employer had company. She opened her mouth to apologize, but Walt didn’t let her finish.

“I was just going to ask you to step into my office.” He waved her inside. “I believe you’ve met Oliver Hamilton.”

It was all she could do not to ask why he was here. “Hello again,” Emma managed to say as her stomach lurched. She should’ve known; Oliver wasn’t a man who took no for an answer.

He stood when Emma came into the office and extended his hand. “Good to see you again, too.”

Emma reluctantly exchanged handshakes, not fooled by his friendly demeanor, and avoided eye contact. A weary sensation came over her. The man was up to no good. At this point she didn’t know what he wanted, but she had a feeling she was about to find out—a sinking feeling, which was one of those clichés she’d learned to excise in journalism school.

“Sit down,” Walt instructed when she remained frozen to the spot.

She did, perching on the chair parallel to Oliver’s.

Walt leaned back in his seat and studied her. Despite the free and easy style typical of the office, Emma chose to dress as a professional, since that was the way she wanted to be perceived. Her hair was secured at the base of her neck with a gold clip. The impression she hoped to create was that of a working reporter with an edge. Today’s outfit was a classy black pinstripe suit with a straight skirt and formfitting jacket.

“You’ve been saying for some time that you’d be interested in writing something other than obituaries,” Walt began.

“Yes, I feel—”

“You say you want to write what you refer to as a ‘real story.’”

Emma nodded. She glanced out of the corner of her eye at Oliver. “However, if the story’s about planes and such, I don’t think—”

“It isn’t.” Her employer didn’t allow her to finish.

Emma relaxed. Not completely but enough so she could breathe normally.

“It’s about fruitcake.”

Emma was dying to write a human interest story and after months of pleading, Walt was finally giving her an assignment. He wanted her to write about fruitcake. Surely there was some mistake.

“Fruitcake?” she repeated just to be sure she’d heard him correctly. Emma didn’t even like fruitcake; in fact, she hated the stuff. She firmly believed that there were two kinds of people in the world—those who liked fruitcake and those who didn’t.

She’d once heard an anecdote about a fruitcake that was passed around a family for years. It was hard as a brick and the fruitcake shuffle finally ended when someone used it as an anchor for a fishing boat.

“Good Homemaking magazine ran a national fruitcake contest last month,” he went on to explain. “Amazingly, three of the twelve finalists are from the state of Washington.”

He paused—waiting for her to show awe or appreciation, she supposed.

“That’s quite a statistic, don’t you think?” Oliver inserted.

Still leery, Emma slowly nodded once more.

Walt smiled as if he’d gotten the response he wanted. “I’d like you to interview the three finalists and write an article about each of them.”

Okay, so maybe these articles weren’t going to put her in the running for a major writing award, but this was the chance she’d been hoping for. There had to be more to these three women than their interest in fruitcake. She’d write about their lives, about who they were. She had her first big break and she was grabbing hold of it with both hands.

The professional in her took over. “When would you like me to start?” she asked, trying not to sound too eager.

“As soon as you want,” Walt told her, grinning. Judging by the gleam in his eyes, he knew he had her. “The magazine’s going to announce the winner on their Web site in three weeks, and then do a feature on her in their next issue. It could be one of our ladies. Flatter them,” Walt advised, “and get permission to print their recipes.”

“All right,” Emma said, although she had the feeling this might be no small task. A niggling doubt took root and she shot a look at the pilot. “I assume all three finalists live in the Puget Sound area?” Oliver was in the newspaper office for a reason; she could only pray it had nothing to do with fruitcake.

Walt shrugged. “Unfortunately, only one lives in the area.” He picked up a piece of paper. “Peggy Lucas is from Friday Harbor in the San Juan Islands,” he said, reading the name at the top of the list.

A ferry ride away, Emma thought. Not a problem. It would mean a whole day, but she’d always enjoyed being on the water. And a ferry trip was definitely less dangerous than a plane ride.

“Earleen Williams lives in Yakima,” Walt continued. “And Sophie McKay is from Colville. That’s why I brought in Mr. Hamilton.”

Emma peered over her shoulder at the flyboy with his faded leather jacket.

He winked at her, and she remembered his smile yesterday at the small airport. That I-know-something-you-don’t smile. Now she understood.

A panicky feeling attacked her stomach. “I can drive to Yakima. Colville, too…” Emma choked out. She wasn’t sure where Colville was. Someplace near Spokane, part of the Inland Empire, she guessed. She wanted to make it clear that she had no objection to traveling by car. It would be a piece of cake. Fruitcake.

“A woman alone on the road in the middle of winter is asking for trouble,” Oliver said solemnly, shaking his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, do you?” While the question was directed at Walt, he looked at Emma. His cocky grin was almost more than she could bear. He knew. He’d known from the moment she’d refused to fly with him, and now he was purposely placing her in an impossible position.

Emma glared at him. Hamilton made it sound as if she were risking certain death by driving across the state. Okay, so she’d need to travel over Snoqualmie Pass, which could be tricky in winter. The pass was sometimes closed because of avalanche danger. And snow posed a minor problem. She’d have to put chains on her tires. Well, she’d face that if the need arose. In all likelihood it wouldn’t. The interstate was kept as hazard-free as possible; the roads were salted and plowed at frequent intervals.

“I wouldn’t want to see you in that kind of situation,” Walt agreed with Oliver. “In addition to the risk of traveling alone, there’s the added expense of putting you up in hotel rooms for a couple of nights, plus meals and mileage. This works out better.”

“What works out?” Emma turned from one man to the other. It was as if she’d missed part of the conversation.

“We’re giving advertising space to Hamilton Air Service and in return, he’ll fly you out to interview these three women.”

For one crazy moment Emma couldn’t talk at all. “You…want me to fly in that…little plane…with him?” she finally stammered. The last two words were more breath than sound. If she started to think about being stuck in a small plane, she might hyperventilate right then and there.

Walt nodded. He seemed to think it was a perfectly reasonable idea.

“I—”

“I’ve got a flight scheduled for Yakima first thing tomorrow morning,” Oliver told her matter-of-factly. “That won’t be a problem, will it?” His smile seemed to taunt her. “Ah…”

“You have been saying you wanted to write something other than obituaries, haven’t you?” This was from Walt.

“Y-yes.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“No problem,” she said, her throat tightening and nearly choking off the words. “No problem whatsoever.”

“Good.”

Oliver stood. “Be down at the airstrip tomorrow morning at seven.”

“I’ll be there.” Her legs had apparently turned to pudding, but she managed to stand, too. Smiling shakily, she left the office. As she headed down to her desk, Emma looked over her shoulder to see Walt and Oliver shaking hands.

Phoebe was waiting for her in The Dungeon. “What happened?” she asked eagerly.

Emma ignored the question and walked directly over to her chair, where she collapsed. Life had taken on a sense of unreality. She felt as if she were watching a silent movie flicker across a screen, the actors’ movements jerky and abrupt.

“Aren’t you going to tell me?” Phoebe stared at Emma and gasped. “You quit, didn’t you?”

Emma shook her head. “I got an assignment.”

Phoebe hesitated. “That’s great. Isn’t it?”

“I…think so. Only…”

“Only what?”

“Only it looks like you’re going to be writing the obituaries on your own for a while.”

Phoebe gave her a puzzled smile. “That’s all right. I already told you I don’t mind.”

“Maybe not, but I have a feeling that the next one you write just might be mine.”




Chapter Two


The first thing Emma did when she got home from the newspaper office that evening was check her medicine cabinet. Her relief knew no bounds when she found six tablets rattling around in the dark-brown prescription bottle. A few months earlier, she’d twisted her knee playing volleyball. Phoebe had conned her into joining a league, but that was another story entirely. The attending physician in the urgent-care facility had given her a powerful muscle relaxant. Her knee had continued to hurt, as Emma vividly recalled, but thirty minutes after she’d swallowed the capsule, she couldn’t have cared less. All was right with the world—for a couple of hours, anyway.

Knowing how potent those pills were, she’d hoarded them for a situation such as the one she now faced with Oliver Hamilton. For the sake of her career she’d accompany him in his scary little plane, but it went without saying that Emma would need help of the medicinal variety. If she was going to be flying with Oliver Hamilton she had to have something to numb her overwhelming fear at the prospect of getting into that plane. She clutched the bottle and took a deep breath. For the sake of her craft and her career, she’d do it.

Emma simply couldn’t survive the trip without those pills. One tablet to get her to Yakima and another to get her home. That left four, exactly the number she needed for the two additional trips.

Thankfully, Phoebe had agreed to drive her to the airport and then pick her up at the end of the day. Emma was grateful—more than grateful. Once she’d taken the muscle relaxant, she’d be in no condition to drive.

At six-thirty the next morning, Phoebe pulled up in front of the apartment complex. Carrying her traveling coffee mug, along with her leather briefcase, Emma hurried out her door to meet her friend.

“Don’t you look nice,” her landlord said, startling her. She was sure that was a smirk on his face.

Under normal circumstances Emma would’ve taken offense, but in her present state of mind all she could do was smile wanly.

Mr. Scott leaned against his door, this morning’s Examiner in his hand. He was middle-aged with a beer belly and a slovenly manner, and frankly, Emma was surprised to find him awake this early in the day. After moving into the apartment, she’d stayed clear of her landlord, who seemed to be…well, the word sleazy came to mind. He didn’t like animals, especially cats and dogs, and in her opinion that said a lot about his personality, all of it negative.

“Good morning, Mr. Scott,” Emma greeted him, making a determined effort not to slur her words. The pill had already started to take effect and, despite the presence of the loathsome Bud Scott, the world had never seemed a brighter or more pleasant place.

“It’s a bit nippy this morning, isn’t it?” he asked.

Emma nodded, although if it was chilly she hadn’t noticed. In her current haze nothing seemed hot or cold. From experience she knew that in three or four hours the pill would have lost most of its effect and she’d be clearheaded enough for what she hoped would be an intelligent interview.

“I don’t suppose you know anyone who needs an apartment,” Bud Scott muttered. He narrowed his gaze as if he suspected she wasn’t sober—which was a bit much considering she rarely saw him without a can of Milwaukee’s finest.

“I thought every unit in the complex was rented,” Emma said.

“The lady in 12B had a cat.” He scowled as he spoke.

He’d underlined the No Pets clause a number of times when Emma signed her rental agreement. Any infraction, he’d informed her, would result in a one-week notice of eviction.

“Mrs. Murphy?” Emma cried when she realized who lived in 12B, two doors down from her. The sweet older lady was a recent widow and missed her husband dreadfully. “You couldn’t have made an exception?” she asked. “Mrs. Murphy is so lonely and—”

“No exceptions,” Mr. Scott growled. He shoved open his door and disappeared inside, grumbling under his breath.

“What was all that about?” Phoebe asked when Emma got into the car.

“He is truly a lower life-form,” she declared righteously. “Doesn’t possess an ounce of compassion.” She stumbled a bit on the last word.

Phoebe gave her an odd look. “Are you all right?”

Emma smothered a yawn and then giggled.

“What did you do?” Phoebe asked, eyeing her suspiciously.

“Remember the pain pills I got last August?”

“The ones that made you so…weird?”

“I wasn’t weird. I was happy.”

“Don’t tell me you took one this morning!”

In response Emma giggled again. “Just one. I need it for the plane ride. Can’t leave home without it.”

“Emma, you’re supposed to be doing an interview.”

“I know…The pill will wear off by then.”

“But…”

“Don’t worry, I’m fine. Really, I am.”

Phoebe didn’t look as if she believed her. When she stopped at a traffic signal, she cast Emma another worried glance. “You’re sure you’re doing the right thing?”

Emma nodded. All at once she felt incredibly tired.

Closing her eyes, she leaned her head against the passenger window. In her dreamlike state, she viewed a long line of circus animals parading down to Bud Scott’s office and protesting on behalf of Mrs. Murphy. The vision of elephants carrying placards and lions ready to rip out his throat faded and Emma worked hard to focus her thoughts on the upcoming interview. Fruitcake. Good grief, she hated fruitcake. She wanted nothing to do with it.

Yesterday, once she’d received her assignment, Emma had phoned Earleen Williams, the Yakima finalist, who was a retired bartender. Earleen had seemed flustered but pleased at the attention. Emma had made an appointment to talk with her late this morning. She’d spent much of the night reviewing her questions when she should’ve been sleeping. No wonder she was exhausted.

“We’re at the airport,” Phoebe announced.

Emma stirred. It required tremendous effort to lift her head from the passenger window. Stretching her arms, she yawned loudly. The temptation to sleep was almost irresistible, especially when she realized that all too soon she’d be suspended thousands of feet above the ground.

“Flying isn’t so bad, you know,” Phoebe said in a blatant effort to encourage her.

“Have you ever flown in a small plane?”

“No, but…”

“Then I don’t want to hear it. See you back here tonight,” Emma murmured, hoping to boost her own confidence. People went up in small planes every day. It couldn’t be as terrifying as she believed. But this wasn’t necessarily a rational fear—or not completely, anyway. It didn’t matter, though; fear was still fear, whatever its cause. She reminded herself that in a few days she’d be able to laugh about this. Besides, writers across the centuries had made sacrifices for their art, and being bounced around in a tin can with wings would be hers. By the end of this fruitcake series, she might even have conquered her terror. Even if she hadn’t, she’d never let Hamilton know.

Oliver and his dog were walking around the outside of the aircraft, inspecting it, when she approached, briefcase in hand.

“You ready?” he asked, barely looking in her direction.

“Ah…don’t you want to wait until the sun is up?” she asked. She hoped to delay this as long as possible. The pill needed to be at the height of its effectiveness before she’d find the courage to actually climb inside the aircraft.

“Light, dark, it doesn’t make any difference.” He walked toward the wing and tested the flap by manually moving it up and down.

“There hasn’t been a problem with the flaps, has there?” she asked, following close behind him. Too bad he was so attractive, Emma mused. In another time and place…She halted her thoughts immediately. This man was dangerous and in more ways than the obvious. First, he was intent on putting her at mortal risk, and second…Well, she couldn’t think of a second reason, but the first one was enough.

No, wait—now she remembered. Since he was a good-looking, bad-boy type, she probably wasn’t the only woman attracted to him. Tall, dark, handsome and reckless, to boot. Men like Oliver Hamilton drew women in droves and always had. He was far too reminiscent of her father, and she wasn’t interested. Emma preferred quiet, serious men over the flamboyant ones who thought nothing of attempting ridiculous, hazardous stunts like flying small rattletrap planes.

“You’re worried about the flaps?” he asked, and seemed to find humor in her question.

“Haven’t they been working properly?” While Emma actually had no idea what function the flaps played in keeping an airplane aloft, she was sure it must be significant.

Something in her voice—perhaps a slight drawl she could hear herself—must have betrayed her because Oliver turned and gave her his full attention. Frowning, he asked, “Have you been drinking?”

“This early in the morning?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“No,” she returned with an edge of defiance. “I don’t drink.”

“Ever?” His eyebrows rose as if he doubted her.

She shrugged. “I do on occasion, but I don’t make a habit of it.”

His dog sneezed, spraying her pant leg. This was her best pair of wool pants and she wasn’t keen on showing up for the interview with one leg peppered with dubious-looking stains. Oscar sneezed again and again in quick succession, but at least she had the wherewithal to leap back. “Yuck!” she muttered. “Oh, yuck.”

“You wouldn’t happen to be wearing perfume, would you?” Oliver demanded in a voice that suggested she was attempting to carry an illegal weapon on board.

“Yes, of course I am. Most women do.”

He grumbled some remark she didn’t hear, then added, “Oscar’s allergic to perfume.”

“You might’ve told me that before now,” she said, wiping her pant leg a second time. Thank goodness she’d brought gloves. And thank goodness they were washable.

He raised his shoulder in a nonchalant fashion. “Probably should have. It slipped my mind.” He continued his outside inspection of the plane. “Oh, yeah,” he said, testing the flap on the opposite wing, “I need to know how much you weigh.”

“I beg your pardon?” There were certain things a man didn’t ask a woman and this was one of them.

“Your weight,” he said matter-of-factly.

Despite her drug-induced state of relaxation, Emma stiffened. “I’m not telling you.”

“Listen, Emma, it’s important. I’m loaded to the gills with furnace parts. I have to know how much you weigh in order to calculate the amount of fuel we’re going to need.”

She scowled. “You expect me just to blurt it out?” A woman didn’t tell a man anything that personal, especially a man she barely knew and had no intention of knowing further.

“If I miscalculate, we’ll crash and burn,” Oliver said, apparently assuming this would persuade her to confess.

She glared at him in an effort to come up with a compromise. With her mind this fuzzy, it was difficult. “I’ll write it down.”

He didn’t seem to care. “Whatever.”

Emma set her briefcase on the floor inside the plane and extracted a pencil and small pad. The only time she weighed herself was when she suspected her weight had fallen. She certainly wasn’t overweight, but a desk job had done little to help her maintain the figure she’d been proud of back in college. A few pounds had crept on over the last five years. She penciled in her most recent known weight, according to a doctor’s visit last year, and then quickly erased it. After a moment’s hesitation, she subtracted ten pounds. At one point in the not-so-distant past, she’d weighed exactly that and she would again, once she got started with an exercise program.

Tearing the sheet from the pad, she folded it in fourths and then eighths until it was about the size of her thumbnail.

Oliver was waiting for her when she’d finished. He held out his hand.

Emma was about to give him the folded-up paper, but paused. “Swear to me you’ll never divulge this number.”

He grinned, increasing his cuteness a hundredfold. “This is a joke, right?”

“No,” she countered, “I’m totally serious.”

He grunted yet another comment she didn’t understand and grabbed what now resembled a paper pellet. “I can see this is going to be a hell of a flight.”

Oliver stepped away, and Emma didn’t see where he went, but he came back a few moments later. He casually told her it was time to board. She stood outside the aircraft as long as she dared, summoning her courage. Maybe she should’ve swallowed two tablets for this first flight.

Oscar was already aboard, curled up in his dog bed behind the passenger seat. He cocked his head as if to say he couldn’t understand what she was waiting for.

“You got lead in your butt or what?” Oliver said from behind her.

With no excuse to delay the inevitable, she hoisted herself into the plane and then, doubling over, worked her way forward into the cramped passenger seat. Her knees shook and her hands trembled as she reached for the safety belt and snapped it in place, pulling at the strap until it was so tight she could scarcely breathe.

Oscar poked his head between Oliver’s seat and Emma’s, and she was left with the distinct impression that she’d taken the dog’s place. Great, just great. She’d arrive for her first interview with her backside covered in dog hair.

Oliver handed her an extra set of earphones and pantomimed that she should put them on. “You ready?” he asked.

She forced herself to nod.

He spoke to someone over the radio in a language she didn’t understand, one that consisted solely of letters and numbers. A couple of minutes later, he taxied to the end of the runway. And stopped there.

Emma didn’t know what that was about but regardless of the reason, she was grateful for a moment’s reprieve. Her head pounded and her heart felt like it was going to explode inside her chest.

Oliver revved the engine, which fired to life with an ear-splitting noise. The plane bucked as if straining against invisible ropes.

Despite her relaxation pill, Emma gasped and grabbed hold of the bar across the top of the passenger door. She clutched it so hard she was convinced her fingerprints would be embedded in the steel.

Without showing a bit of concern for her well-being, Oliver released the brake and the plane leaped forward, roaring down the runway. Emma slammed her eyes shut, preferring not to look. She held her breath, awaiting the sensation of the wheels lifting off the tarmac.

For the longest time nothing happened. She opened her eyes just enough to peek and realized they were almost at the end of the runway. Despite the speed of the aircraft they remained on the ground. In a few seconds of sheer terror, Emma realized why.

She’d lied about her weight.

Hamilton had miscalculated the weight on board. In her vanity, she’d shaved ten pounds—well, maybe fifteen—off the truth. Because of that, she was about to kill them both.

Unable to restrain herself, Emma dragged in a deep breath and screamed out in panic, “I lied! I lied!”

No sooner had the words left her mouth than the plane sailed effortlessly into the sky.




Chapter Three


Fruitcakes are like in-laws. They show up at the holidays. You have no idea who sent them, how old they are, or how long they’ll be hanging around your kitchen.

—Josh Sens, freelance writer in Oakland, California, and food critic for San Francisco magazine

The fear dissipated after takeoff. Emma kept her eyes focused directly in front of her, gazing out at the cloud-streaked sky. For the first while her heart seemed intent on beating its way out of her body, but after a few minutes the tension began to leave.

It wasn’t long before the loud roar of the single engine lulled her into a sense of peace. No doubt that was due to the pill, which was exactly the reason she’d taken it. When she did find the courage to turn her head and look out the side window, she found herself staring Mt. Rainier in the face. She was so close that it was possible to see a crevasse, a giant crack in a glacier. Had there been hikers, she would’ve been able to wave.

Gasping, she shut her eyes and silently repeated the Lord’s Prayer. Talk about spiritual renewal! All that was necessary to get her nearer to God was a short flight with Oliver Hamilton.

Forty minutes later as they approached the Yakima airport, Oliver made a wide sweeping turn with a gradual drop in altitude. Emma felt the plane descend and nearly swallowed her tongue as she reached for the bar above the side window again, holding on for dear life.

“You okay?” Oliver asked when he noticed how she clung to the bar with both hands.

How kind of him to inquire now. These were the first words he’d spoken to her during the entire flight. He’d glanced at her a number of times, as if to check up on her, and whenever he did, he started to laugh. She failed to understand what was so funny.

“I’m okay,” she said with as much dignity as she could.

A little the worse for wear, but okay, she mentally assured herself. Her head was beginning to clear.

She felt every air pocket and bump as the plane drew closer to the long runway. When the wheels bounced against the tarmac, Emma was ready for the solid thump of the tires hitting concrete, but the landing was surprisingly smooth. She slowly released a sigh of pent-up tension; she’d lied about her weight and lived to tell the tale. Now all she had to do was make it through this interview and find something noteworthy about Earleen Williams and her fruitcake recipe.

Oliver taxied the plane off the runway. He cut the engine and as the blades slowed, he unbuckled his seat belt and picked up his clipboard.

Emma was just starting to breathe normally again when Oscar sneezed.

“You might want to leave the perfume behind for the next flight,” Oliver said matter-of-factly.

Emma wiped her cheek although most of the spray had been directed elsewhere. She resisted the urge to tell Oliver he could leave his dog behind, too. At this point, she didn’t want to risk offending the pilot—or his dog. And, she supposed, it wasn’t really Oscar’s fault….

Crawling behind her, Oliver opened the door and climbed onto the airfield. Emma followed, bent double as she made her way out of the aircraft, feeling a sense of great relief. He offered her his hand as she hopped down. She was hit by a blast of cold air, which she ignored. Staring down at the ground, she was tempted to fall on all fours and kiss the tarmac.

A white van bearing the name of a local furnace company pulled up to the plane. Oliver spoke briefly with the driver, then walked over to where Emma stood.

“How long do you think the interview will take?”

“Ah…” Emma didn’t know what to tell him. “I’m not sure.”

He stared out toward the Cascade Mountains, only partially visible in the distance. “We’ve got bad weather rolling in.”

“Bad weather? How bad?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I…” How could he say such a thing and then expect her not to worry? She was already half-panicked about the return flight and he’d just added to her fears.

“Do what you have to do and then get back here. I want to take off as soon as I can.”

“All right.” She glanced around and felt a sense of dread.

“What’s wrong?”

“I…I don’t have any way of getting to Earleen’s house.”

“Not a problem,” Hamilton said, walking to the other side of the plane.

Emma assumed he was going to ask the guy in the van to give her a ride, but that turned out not to be the case. He climbed back inside the Cessna and returned a moment later with a large leather satchel.

“What’s that?”

“A foldable bike.”

Emma watched as he unzipped the bag and produced the smallest bicycle she’d ever seen. “You don’t honestly expect me to ride this…thing, do you?” The wheels were no more than twelve inches around. She’d look utterly ridiculous. Nervous as she was about this first interview, she hoped to make up in professionalism what she lacked in experience.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, frowning.

“I’ll phone for a taxi.” It went without saying that the newspaper wouldn’t reimburse her, but she absolutely refused to arrive pedaling a bicycle Oliver Hamilton must have purchased from a Barnum and Bailey rummage sale.

“Hold on,” Oliver barked, clearly upset. He walked over to the van this time and spoke to the driver. The two had a short conversation before Oliver glanced over his shoulder. “What’s the address you have to get to?” he shouted.

Fumbling to find the slip of paper inside her briefcase, Emma read off the street name.

“She can tag along with me,” the driver said.

“Great.” Oliver flashed the other man an easy smile.

“Thank you so much,” Emma murmured, grateful to have saved the taxi fare. She hurried around to the passenger side and opened the door. One look inside, and Emma nearly changed her mind. The van, which must’ve been at least ten years old, had obviously never been cleaned. The passenger seat was badly stained and littered with leftover fast-food containers, plus half-eaten burgers and rock-hard French fries. A clipboard was attached by a magnet to the dashboard and several papers had fallen to the floor.

“You getting in or not?” the driver asked.

“In.” Emma made her decision quickly and hopped inside the van. She could just imagine what Walt would say if she announced that she’d missed the interview because she refused to get inside a messy vehicle.

Earleen Williams lived on a street called Garden Park in a brick duplex. The van dropped Emma off and drove away before she had time to thank the driver. He was apparently glad to be rid of her and she was equally thankful to have survived the ride. She’d worry later about getting back to the airfield.

Straightening her shoulders, Emma did a quick mental survey of her questions. She’d reviewed her class notes about interviews and remembered that the most important thing to do was engage Earleen in conversation and establish a rapport. It would be detrimental to the interview if Emma gave even the slightest appearance of nervousness.

Emma so much wanted this to go well. She didn’t have a slant for the story yet and wouldn’t until she’d met Earleen. If she tried to think about what she could possibly write on the subject of fruitcake, it would only traumatize her.

Knowing Oliver was probably pacing the pilots’ lounge, Emma walked onto the porch and pressed the doorbell. She stepped back and waited.

“Oh, hi.” The petite brunette who answered the door couldn’t have been more than five feet tall, if that, and seemed to be around sixty. It was difficult to tell. One thing Emma did conclude—Earleen wasn’t at all what she’d expected. She wore a turquoise blazer and black pleated pants with a large gold belt and rings on every finger. Big rings.

“You’re Earleen?”

“I am.” She unlatched the screen door and held it open for Emma. “You must be that Seattle reporter who phoned.”

“Emma Collins,” she said and held out her hand. “Actually, I’m from Puyallup, which is outside Seattle.” There was a difference of at least a quarter-million readers between the Seattle Times and The Examiner—maybe more. The Seattle Times hadn’t sent her a circulation report lately.

“Come on inside. I’ve got coffee brewing,” Earleen said, smiling self-consciously. “This is the first time anyone’s ever wanted to interview me.”

They had a lot in common, because this was Emma’s first interview, too, although she wasn’t about to mention that.

Earleen looked past her. “You didn’t bring a photographer with you?”

Actually she had. Emma would be performing both roles. “If it’s all right, I’ll take your picture later.”

“Oh, sure, that’s fine.” Earleen touched the side of her head with her palm as if to be sure every hair was neatly in place, which it was. She smelled wonderful, too. Estée Lauder’s Beautiful, if Emma guessed correctly. Just as well Oscar wasn’t around or he’d be sneezing on her pant leg.

“I thought we’d talk in the kitchen, if you don’t mind,” Earleen said as she led the way. “Most folks like my kitchen best.”

“Wherever you’re most comfortable,” Emma murmured, following the older woman. She gazed around as she walked through the house and noticed a small collection of owl figurines lined up on the fireplace mantel, among the boughs of greenery. The Christmas tree in the corner was enormous, and it had an owl—yes, an owl—on top.

The kitchen was bright and roomy. There was a square table next to a window that overlooked the backyard, where a circular clothesline sat off to one side and a toolshed on the other. A six-foot redwood fence separated her yard from the neighbors’.

“Sit down,” Earleen said and motioned to the table and chairs. “Coffee?”

“None for me, thanks.” After the pill she’d taken earlier, Emma didn’t think she should add caffeine, afraid of the effect on her stomach—and her brain. She took out her reporter’s pad and flipped it open. “When did you first hear the news that your recipe had been chosen as a national finalist?”

Earleen poured herself a mug of coffee and carried it to the table, then pulled out a chair and sat across from Emma. “Three weeks ago. The notification came by mail.”

“Were you surprised?”

“Not really.”

“Any reason you weren’t surprised?”

Earleen blushed. “I know I make a good fruitcake. I’ve been baking them for a lot of years now.”

Emma could see this wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d hoped. Earleen wasn’t much of a talker.

“Do you have a secret ingredient?”

“Well, yes. I have two.”

Emma made a notation just so Earleen would recognize that she was paying attention. “Would you be willing to divulge them to our readers?”

Earleen rested her elbows on the table and held the mug with both hands. “I don’t mind telling you, but maybe it’d be better if I showed you.”

Emma frowned slightly when the other woman rose from the table. She dragged out a step stool, placed it in front of the refrigerator and climbed the two steps. Then she stretched until she could reach the cupboard above the fridge and opened it. Standing on the tips of her toes, Earleen brought down a bottle of rum and a bottle of brandy.

“Your secret is…alcohol?”

Earleen climbed off the step stool and nodded. “One of my secrets. I didn’t work all those years at The Drunken Owl for nothing. I serve a mighty fine mincemeat pie, too. That recipe came from my mother, God rest her soul. Mom always started with fresh suet. She got it from Kloster’s Butcher Shop. When I was in high school, I had the biggest crush on Tim Kloster. My friends used to say I had Klosterphobia.” She giggled nervously.

Emma didn’t think it was a good idea to point out that “phobia” was technically the wrong term. She hesitated, unsure how this interview had gotten away from her so quickly. “About the fruitcake…Did that recipe come from your mother, too?”

“Sort of. Mom was raised during the Great Depression, and her recipe didn’t call for much more than the basics. Over the years I started adding to it, and being from Yakima, I naturally included apples.”

“Apples,” Emma repeated and jotted that down.

“Actually, I cook them until it’s more like applesauce.”

“Of course.” Having lived in Washington for only the last eight months, Emma wasn’t all that familiar with the state. She knew more about the western half because she lived in that area. Most of the eastern side remained a complete mystery.

Come to think of it, as Oliver landed she’d noticed that there seemed to be orchards near the airport. Distracted as she’d been, it was nothing short of astounding that she’d remembered.

“Yakima is known for apples, right?” she ventured.

“Definitely. More than half of all the apples grown in the United States come from orchards in Yakima and Wenatchee.”

Emma made a note. “I didn’t know that.”

“The most popular variety is the Red Delicious. Personally, I prefer Golden Delicious. They’re the kind I use in my fruitcake.”

Emma held her breath. “I hope you’ll agree to share the recipe with The Examiner’s readers.”

Earleen beamed proudly. “It would be my honor.”

“So the liquor and the apples are your two secret ingredients.”

“That’s right,” Earleen said in a solemn voice. “But far more important is using only the freshest of ingredients. It took me several tries to figure that out.”

Emma was tempted to remind her that one of the main ingredients in fruitcake was dried fruit. There wasn’t anything fresh about that. But again she managed to keep her mouth shut.

“How long have you been baking fruitcakes?” Emma asked next.

“Quite a few years. I started in—way back now. You see, I was going through a rough patch at the time.”

“What happened?” Emma hated to pry, but she was a reporter and she had a feeling she’d hit upon the key element of her article.

“Larry and I had just split, and I have to tell you I took it hard.”

“And Larry is?”

“My ex-husband.”

Emma couldn’t help observing that Earleen seemed more of a conversationalist when she stood on the other side of the kitchen counter. The closer she got to the table, the briefer her answers were. Emma speculated that was because of Earleen’s many years behind a bar. She’d always heard that bartenders spent a lot of time listening and advising—like paid friends. Or psychiatrists.

“The first time I ever tried Mom’s fruitcake recipe was after Larry moved out.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me, too. Have you ever been married?” Earleen asked.

“No…” The sorry state of her love life was not a subject Emma wanted to discuss.

“Larry and I were high-school sweethearts. He went to fight in Vietnam and when he got back, we had a big wedding. It was the type of wedding girls dream about. Wait here a minute,” she said and bustled out of the kitchen.

In a couple of minutes, she returned with her wedding photograph. A radiantly happy bride smiled into the camera, her white dress fashioned in layers of taffeta and lace. The young soldier at her side was more difficult to read.

“Unfortunately, Larry had a weakness for other women,” Earleen said sadly.

“How long have you been divorced?”

“From Larry? Since 1984.”

“You’ve been married more than once?”

“Three times.”

“Oh.”

“All my husbands were versions of Larry.”

“I see.”

“I didn’t learn from my mistakes.” Earleen turned away. Then, obviously changing the subject, she said, “I imagine you’ll want to sample my fruitcake.” She slid open the bread box and took out an aluminum-foil-wrapped loaf. “Have you noticed that people either love fruitcake or hate it?” she said companionably. “There doesn’t seem to be any middle ground.”

“That…seems to be true,” Emma agreed.

“Like I said, I started baking after Larry left,” she said, busily peeling away the cheesecloth from the loaf-size fruitcake. “I’d never suffered that kind of pain before. I figured if you’ve ever been divorced you’d know what I mean.”

Emma was confused. “I don’t exactly think of fruitcake as comfort food.”

Earleen shook her head. “I didn’t eat it. I baked it. Loaf after loaf for weeks on end. I was determined to bake the perfect fruitcake and I didn’t care how long it took. I must’ve changed that recipe a hundred times.”

“Why fruitcake?”

She paused as if she’d never put it into words. “I’m not sure. I guess I was looking for the happiness I always felt as a kid at Christmastime.”

There it was again, Emma mused. Christmas. It did people in emotionally, and she wasn’t going to allow that to happen, not to her. She found it easy enough to ignore Christmas; other people should give it a try. She might even see if Walt would let her write an article about her feelings. Emma believed she wasn’t alone in disliking all the hype that surrounded Christmas.

“When I was with Larry and my two other husbands, I felt there must be something lacking in me,” Earleen continued. “Now I don’t think so anymore. Time will do that, you know?” She glanced at Emma. “As young as you are, you probably don’t have that much perspective.” Earleen paused and drew in a deep breath.

Emma stopped taking notes. She suspected this was it; she was about to get to the real core of the interview.

“By the time Larry and I split up, both my parents were gone, so I was pretty much on my own. I realize now that I was searching for a way to deal with the pain, although God knows the marriage was dead. That’s where the fruitcake came in.”

“The comfort factor,” Emma said with a nod. “How long were you and Larry together?” she asked.

“Sixteen years. It’s a shame, you know. We never had kids and it was real lonely after he left.”

“What happened to him?” Secretly Emma hoped he was miserable. In some ways Earleen reminded Emma of her mother.

The woman sighed. “Larry married the floozy he’d taken up with, and the two of them got drunk every night. It only took him a few years to drink himself to death.”

“How sad,” Emma said, and she meant it.

Earleen shrugged. “I was single for nearly ten years. I thought I’d learned my lesson about marrying the wrong man, but obviously I hadn’t.”

“What about the other two husbands?”

“Morrie courted me for a long time before I agreed to marry him. He didn’t have a roving eye so much as he did a weakness for the bottle.” She paused. “Of course, Larry had both. The thing is, and you remember this, young lady, you don’t meet the cream of the eligible-bachelor crop working in a tavern.”

Emma scribbled that down so Earleen would think she’d given due consideration to her words.

“Morrie died of cancer a couple of years after we were married.” She shook her head. “I never should’ve married Paul after that.”

“What happened with Paul?”

A dreamy expression came over her. “Paul looked so much like Larry they could’ve been brothers. Unfortunately, looks weren’t the only trait they shared. We were married only a year when he suffered a massive stroke. He had a girlfriend on the side but he really loved my fruitcake. I think if Larry had lived, he would have, too.”

“Do you have anyone to share your good news with?” Emma asked. “About being a finalist?”

Earleen shrugged again. “Not really, but it doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters,” Emma insisted. “Your recipe was one of only twelve chosen from across the entire United States. You should be kicking up your heels and celebrating.”

“I will with friends, I suppose.” Earleen opened her cutlery drawer for a knife and sliced through the loaf. “It’s time I started baking again,” she said. “This close to Christmas, I’ll bake my mincemeat pies. People are already asking about them.”

“When do you bake your fruitcakes?”

Earleen sipped her coffee, her fingers sparkling in the light. All ten of them. “I usually bake up a batch every October and let it set a good two months before I serve it. The longer I give the alcohol to work, the better.

Then, before Easter, I bake another version that’s similar but without the dried fruit.” Earleen moved the slice onto a plate and brought it over for Emma to taste.

Although she wasn’t a fan of fruitcake, Emma decided it would be impolite to refuse. Earleen watched and waited.

Emma used her fork to break off a small piece and saw that it was chock-full of the dried fruit to which she objected most. She glanced up at the older woman with a quick smile. Then she carefully put the fruitcake in her mouth—and was shocked by how good it tasted. The cake was flavorful, moist and pungent with the scent of liquor. The blend of fruit, nuts, applesauce and alcohol was divine. There was no other word to describe Earleen’s fruitcake.

“You like it, don’t you?”

“I do,” Emma assured her, trying not to sound shocked. “It’s excellent.”

“I’m sure Larry would’ve thought so, too,” Earleen said wistfully. “Even if he’s the reason I started baking it.”

“You still love him, don’t you?” It seemed so obvious to Emma. Although she’d married twice more, Earleen Williams’s heart belonged to a man who hadn’t valued her. Her mother had been the same; Pamela Collins had loved her ex-husband to her dying day. Emma’s father had never appreciated what a wonderful woman she was. For that sin alone, Emma wanted nothing more to do with him. He’d been a token husband the same way he’d been a token father.

When she spoke, Earleen’s voice was resigned. “I’ve been over Larry for a long time,” she explained. “Much as I loved him, all I can say is that it’s a good thing he left when he did. Larry was trouble. More trouble than I knew what to do with.”

More trouble than Earleen deserved, Emma reflected.

“Is there anything else I can tell you?” Earleen asked. She seemed eager to finish the interview. “I didn’t mean to talk so much about my past. I never could figure out men—but I know a whole lot about fruitcake.”

Emma scanned her notes. “I think I’ve got everything I need for now.”

After snapping a picture of Earleen and collecting the recipe, she asked, “Can I call you later if I have any questions?”

“Oh, sure. Since I retired from The Drunken Owl, I’m here most of the time.”

“Would you mind if I used your phone book?” Emma stood and gathered up her things. “I want to call a taxi to take me back to the airport.”

“You don’t need to do that.” Earleen shook her head. “I’ll drive you. It’s not far and I have errands I need to run, anyway.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I am. It’s my pleasure.”

Emma smiled her gratitude. She already knew that Walt wasn’t going to reimburse her for any taxi fare, and it was too close to the end of the month for unnecessary spending on her part.

Earleen backed her twenty-year-old Subaru out of the garage and Emma got inside. The contrast between the interior of Earleen’s vehicle and the furnace company van was noteworthy in itself.

Ten minutes later, Earleen dropped Emma at the airport and after a few words of farewell, drove off.

As soon as Emma climbed out of the Subaru, Oliver came from the building next to the hangar, with Oscar trotting behind him.

“You done?”

Emma nodded absently, wondering how to structure her article on Earleen. Start with her childhood or her wedding or—

“How’d it go?” he asked, interrupting her thoughts.

She stared at him, eyes narrowed. “In case you didn’t know it, men can be real scum.”

To her surprise, Oliver grinned. “You’re going to have even more reason to think so when you hear what I’ve got to say.”

This didn’t sound promising. “You’d better tell me,” she said.

Oliver buried his hands in his pockets. “Blame me if you want, but it won’t make any difference. We’re grounded.”

“Grounded?” She blinked. “What does that mean?”

“We’re grounded,” he repeated. “Because of the weather. We’re stuck in Yakima.”



Earleen’s Masterpiece Fruitcake

2 cups sugar

1 cup butter

2 ½ cups applesauce

2 eggs, beaten

2 cups raisins

2 cups walnuts, chopped

4 cups flour

1 tsp. salt

1 tbsp. soda

1 tsp. baking powder

1 tsp. cloves

1 tsp. nutmeg

2 tsp. cinnamon

2 pounds candied dried fruit mix

1 ½ cups chopped dates

Cream sugar and butter. Add beaten eggs and applesauce. Mix flour, salt, spices, soda and baking powder, then gradually add to other ingredients. Mix well. Blend in candied fruit, dates, raisins and nuts. Mixture will be stiff. Bake in 325-degree oven in two loaf pans for one hour.

Cool and remove fruitcake from pans. Cut a piece of cheesecloth to fit and soak in 1/2 cup rum or brandy. Pour any remaining alcohol over the fruitcake. Wrap fruitcake in cheesecloth and then cellophane, followed by aluminum foil. Store in refrigerator for up to three months.




Chapter Four


“This is a bad joke—isn’t it?” Emma cried. “Oh, please tell me it’s a joke.”

“Sorry.”

From his darkening scowl, Emma could see he wasn’t pleased about this turn of events, either. He’d obviously enjoyed giving her the bad news but he wasn’t grinning anymore. A delay probably affected his bottom line. Oscar sat down next to Oliver and stared up at him confidently. She’d heard somewhere that a man was always a hero to his dog; that was certainly the case with poor deluded Oscar.

“I mentioned the weather earlier, remember?” Hamilton said.

Emma had forgotten that. Her afternoon muscle relaxant was ready to be swallowed, and she was glad she hadn’t taken it yet. “What are we supposed to do now?”

“Wait it out. We could find ways to entertain ourselves.”

This was exactly the kind of comment she expected from Flyboy. And was that a wink? “In your dreams,” she snapped.

“Do you have any other brilliant suggestions?”

Emma wished she did.

“We might be able to get out late this afternoon, but I wouldn’t count on it.” He raised his eyes to study the heavily clouded sky. “There’s a snowstorm in the mountains and it’s heading in our direction. The clouds don’t concern me as much as the problem with icing.”

Emma wasn’t sure what that meant; she had her own problems. “I’ve got an article to write,” she murmured, biting her lower lip. Walt had wanted the first piece written as quickly as possible. Earleen Williams had been a great interview, but Emma still hadn’t decided exactly what slant she should take. She needed time to study her notes and think over their conversation.

Oliver nodded glumly. “To tell you the truth, I’m not thrilled about sitting around here all day, twiddling my thumbs.”

Emma realized he could’ve left after making his delivery if he hadn’t been waiting for her. She felt bad about that. She’d been less than gracious. “Are you hungry?” she asked.

“Why?” His voice was suspicious.

“I was being friendly.” She glanced across the street at a café. Several letters in the neon sign had burned out. It’d once read MINNIE’S PLACE but now said MI…CE. This wasn’t exactly an enticement, but Emma’s stomach was growling. It was past noon and all she’d had to eat was a small slice of liquor-drenched—and quite delicious—fruitcake.

“Are you offering to buy me lunch?”

Emma mentally calculated how much cash she had with her. “All right, as long as you don’t order anything over five dollars.”

Oliver grinned. “You’ve got yourself a date.”

“This isn’t a date.”

“Sure it is,” he said. “One day I’ll tell our children you asked me out first.”

“One more remark like that, and you can buy your own lunch.”

Oliver chuckled. “I wasn’t trying to be funny.”

“Yeah, right.”

“You’re half in love with me already.”

Emma didn’t dignify that with a reply. They started walking toward the café; Oscar trotted obediently beside them and seemed to know to wait by the restaurant door. Oliver patted his head and assured the terrier he’d get any leftovers.





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