Miranda rolled the suitcase into the lodge, with Woofy close behind. She flipped on the overhead light. It flickered a few times and held. Leaning the suitcase against the registration desk, she crossed under an arched doorway into the great room that was used as a restaurant. Her first impression was that it wasn’t too bad. The long trestle-style oak tables that lined the restaurant, with their bench seats, were polished to a high gloss and mirror smooth, and the wood floors were swept clean. Woofy made himself at home and trotted over to curl in front of the fire.
Closer examination showed that not everything had received the same meticulous attention. Windows were coated with dust and ash from the fire, the murals on the walls that depicted middle life were faded, and the tartan plaid upholstered chairs and sofa grouped in front of the fire were threadbare.
She heard Jake chopping wood and glanced out the window. The panes of glass were so dirty all she made out was the outline of Jake as he labored to split wood. Her imagination filled in his features and her pulse spiked. She remembered his expression when his eyes met hers. Time rolled away. She’d sensed that he had had been glad to see her – as glad as she was to see him. Then she had seen his expression change as no doubt the memories returned along with the hurt.
His outburst of anger had enflamed her own and the deeply buried wound had resurfaced. It was true that she had broken off their relationship by saying that she was seeing someone else, but he never questioned her, never fought for her. How could he so easily believe that she was seeing some else? Did he have such little faith in their love? The pain was fresh and new. She preferred it buried.
The image beyond the window blurred as she remembered how Jake had looked at her when he had first seen her a short time ago. There was the familiar look of love in his eyes. It vanished quickly, but not before she recognized it, and felt her heart leap in response. They had been so young – newly graduated from high school. Did anyone that young always think clearly?
“Stop,” she said aloud. “You’re not here to fall back into love.” Her very loud inner voice reminded her that she had never fallen out of love with Jake. That was beside the point. She would do what she came here to do, no more no less.
She swiped away the budding tears and concentrated on Jake. He was frustrated, she could tell by how he attacked the wood. He faced a monumental task. He had seven days to bring order out of years of neglect. The problem was where to begin. As a result, Jake attacked a task where there was a clear sign of success: chopping wood. She’d leave him to it. And concentrate on the things she could control. Besides, he needed to work out his frustrations. God only knew she had giant ones of her own.
He had a lot on his mind and if she was honest, so did she. What was her aunt thinking in bringing her here? That crafty old woman always had three or four motives for doing things and none of them were the reason she gave.
Miranda glanced over her shoulder at the murals along the walls. Ash and grime coated the characters in the settings and obscured their features. All the people in the scenes were so depressed. No one smiled and their clothes looked as though they’d washed them in muddy water. She ached to refresh the murals but that was outside the task set before her. Perhaps Jake and his parents liked the murals the way they were.
Her stomach grumbled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since last night and she always thought better when she had food. If memory served, Jake was the same way. They might be at odds with one another right now, but they shared the same goal. Besides, she needed to take an inventory of the food in the kitchen if they were to prepare a feast for his parents’ party guests. She’d ask Jake if he knew how many guests were invited.
For the present, the smells of a nice pot of stew simmering away on the stove would cheer this place, and if any place needed cheering up, it was this one. Seven days before Christmas and there wasn’t even a tree.
She left the restaurant and headed toward the kitchen and stopping abruptly. It was spotless and bulging with food. She did a little happy dance. It was the one place in the lodge that didn’t need a face-lift. She hummed as she opened the pantry and sighed with pleasure.
Garlic ropes hung from the ceiling and glass jars of dried basil, thyme, rosemary, oregano, and dozens of other herbs and spices were stacked in neat rows along the shelves. Sacks of potatoes and onions leaned against each other on the floor, while rows of colorful canned goods lined the shelves opposite the spices. There were canned green cucumbers pickled with orange carrots and baby onions, Mason jars of burgundy beets, and white and green asparagus, tomatoes, canned peaches, pears, sliced apples packed with cinnamon sticks, cherries, and an assortment of jams and jellies.
The bounty of food made her mouth water. If there was flour, and she suspected there was, she could make pies. A wedding cake was a bit beyond her capabilities, but she knew the perfect person to ask. DeDe had expressed interest in helping in any way she could and as the owner of a fabulously famous bakery, DeDe would be the perfect person to ask when Miranda returned home this evening.
Miranda gathered spices, potatoes, and a jar of tomatoes, turned and almost bumped into her aunt. “Oh, hello, I didn’t see you standing there.”
Her aunt took a jar of raspberry jam from the pantry and followed Miranda to the wood chopping block-style table in the center of the kitchen. “What are you up to?”
Miranda set her collection of goodies on the table. “I’m making stew.”
“And?”
Miranda pulled an iron pot from the cupboard. “You tell me. It was your idea to lure me here. My life was chugging along just fine until you stepped back into it. My life was under control.”
Her aunt popped the wax seal on the jam and scooped out a spoonful. “Your life had stalled,” she said as she ate the jam. “It lacked magic. This is good jam.”
“Magic never did anyone in this family any good.”
Her aunt drew up a chair. “I’m not talking about fairy dust and fortune cookies and you well know it. You have this strange idea about me and your mother.”
“I’m fixing stew that’s all. Then I’m going to tackle the restaurant and entry. If you want to help you can stay and chop potatoes and onions.”
Her aunt resealed the jam. “Perhaps later. What I will do to help is to make sure all the rooms are clean with fresh linens. Lodge guests will start arriving in a few days.”
Miranda went to the pantry to fetch more potatoes. “Jake said the lodge was closed.”
“Someone must have reopened it. Oh, and before I forget. The freezer is full of meat for your stew, and of course, dark chocolate.”
Miranda smiled at the retreating woman. “The idea sounded outlandish, but after Miranda had gone to live with her aunt when her mother died, outlandish meals were the norm: brownies for breakfast, and candy corn pizzas for lunch and dinner. “Just so you know, I’m not adding chocolate to the stew,” Miranda shouted after her aunt.
Her aunt paused by the kitchen door. “Of course not. Whatever gave you that notion?” She winked. “There are much better uses for chocolate.”