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Hope drove down Main Street and spied a quartet of carolers in Dickensian garb singing outside Always in Bloom. At the stoplight, she rolled down the window to listen to “What Child is This?” ringing out in four-part harmony. A rush of joy stirred within her.
“Hey, Hope,” a man yelled.
Denny Benton, a hunky thirty-something and one of the town’s most dedicated city employees, was testing the lights that were strung on the lampposts. “Looking good,” he said.
“Your lights are looking good, too.”
He chuckled. “How about dinner sometime?”
“Can’t right now. Too much on my plate.” Hope never wanted to date again if she could avoid it, although for some odd reason she had to admit she’d been avidly watching sports recaps on KPRL with the kids, of late. She told herself she was paying attention so she and her kids could bond—not so she could see Steve Waldren.
“But sometime?” Denny asked.
“Sometime.”
“Cool.” He shot her a thumbs up. “Be thankful and be of good cheer! Tis the season.”
“Tis, indeed,” she responded.
Be thankful, Hope coached herself. Yes, that would be her mantra for the day. Even though broken promises had hit her hard and life had left her wanting, she dug deep to find something to be thankful for. Her health. Her job. Her children. So what if the VW was on its last legs? So what if she hadn’t been able to save more than five hundred dollars in twelve months? So what if they’d had to eat mac-and-cheese every day last week to stay within their budget? Hope would not allow herself a pity party. No one would guess that she was struggling, and she’d never tell. She would put on a good face, be strong like her parents had taught her to be, and save, save, save.
An hour later, while rolling out dough for a pecan pie at the café, Hope was surprised by how upbeat she felt. Maybe her personal pep talk in the camper had helped.
“Order!” the chef, Roman Capellini, shouted. A forty-something man and easy on the eyes, he wasn’t easy on the waitresses. He expected them to jump and to ask how high?
Hope abandoned the dough, smoothed her apron, rushed to the warming area, and fetched two plates of cinnamon apple pancakes. Expertly, she skirted the counter and its bay of red stools and made a beeline for the elderly couple sitting at table two.
“Here you go.” She freshened their coffees. They were newcomers to town. “Anything else?”
“No, thank you, ma’am,” the husband said. “By the by, what’s a pretty thing like you doing working so hard?”
“You!” His wife spanked his arm playfully.
“Just asking a question.” He chuckled.
“If you must know,” Hope said, “I make the best pot of coffee this side of the Rockies. Where else am I going to find this kind of appreciative crowd?” She motioned to the café.
“And mighty good coffee it is,” the wife said.
Hope smiled. “Thanks for the compliment.”
There were always visitors during the holiday season in Hope Valley—young, old, and in-between. Shopping for gifts was a huge draw. The Christmas Attic always sponsored a gingerbread house-making contest, and the annual Holiday Bazaar, a huge burgundy-and-twinkling lights extravaganza, filled with handmade crafts and baked goods and a Santa’s Village to entice the children, was a sight to behold.
Hope returned to the kitchen and her chore of rolling out the dough. As she was preparing to drape it in the pie plate, Zerena swooped to her side.
“Girlfriend, did you hear?” Zerena asked. “Gabe wants to retire.”
“No way.”
“Way. I heard him talking to Roman. He wants to travel the US of A. Top to bottom. Roman said Gabe has been saving for years and can afford to hotfoot it out of here.”
“Who’s he going to travel with?” Hope asked. Gabe was a widower. His daughter, a powerhouse in politics, lived on the East Coast.
“Beats me.”
“Is he dating anyone?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
To hear the other staff talk, Gabe still carried a torch for his beloved wife. She’d been gone eight years now. He had pictures of her everywhere in the café’s office.
Hope tensed as a thought occurred to her. “Will he sell the café? Will we have to look for new jobs?”
“He’d better not. I like it here.”
“Ahem.” Hope cleared her throat. “You like Roman.”
“Pfft.” Zerena made a face in protest.
Hope didn’t press, but she knew her friend did. Zerena simply hadn’t let Roman know. Sure, she had flirted with him a time or two, but she would always pretend that it was in jest. Zerena had been rejected by the love of her life in New York—one of the reasons she didn’t think she could make a go of marriage—and she didn’t want to be rejected again. Not in Hope Valley, of all places.
Hope held a hand over Zerena’s head like an emcee on a game show. “Audience members, I ask you, is this woman lying or telling the truth?”
“Stop, you goofball.”
“Buzz! Wrong answer.”
Zerena batted Hope’s hand away. “I like the schedule here. That’s all. Besides, where would I find a boss as understanding as Gabe?” She shot a finger at Hope. “Say, maybe he’ll sell it to you.”
“Of course he will.” Hope grinned. “Right after I win the lottery.”
