| |
Speculation is a spectacular waste of time.
Jill’s grandfather had said that to her when she was younger, whenever she would fret over worries that ended up being nothing at all. But as valid as that statement still was, Jill couldn’t help speculating during the twenty-four hours since Rick had left for California. Thankfully, all the baking had kept her insanely busy, with hardly a moment available for fretting.
But when Becky went home for the evening and everything that needed to be done had been done—rows and rows of beautiful gingerbread cookies lined the dining room table, displaying a hard day’s work and two double batches—Jill insisted on making some grilled-cheese sandwiches for herself and Lucille, as comfort food and a distraction. Her sandwiches would never be as good as Rick’s, but she remembered a couple of tricks he’d used and tried them.
Halfway through the meal, Lucille picked at her potato chips and finally confessed, “I wonder what’s happening.”
It was a vague statement that came out of nowhere, but Jill knew exactly what she meant.
“I keep picturing Rick’s face when he left,” Lucille continued. “That hollow expression. He isn’t one to overreact. So I’m afraid, well, that his business is crumbling. Maybe he’s going bankrupt?”
That had crossed Jill’s mind, too, though she didn’t want to voice it. Even in the brief time she’d known Rick, she understood that he wasn’t the type to overdramatize things. She remembered the tornado and how calm he was, how collected and sure. But when she’d heard the crack in his voice after the phone call sending him to California, and when she watched the color drain from his face, Jill had known it was something dire.
“Maybe not,” Jill assured her. “It could be a technical issue, a glitch in the software that only Rick can fix. I mean, companies like his don’t just fold. There are safety measures to prevent that sort of thing, I’m sure.”
She had no real idea what she was talking about—Jill’s focus in college had been primarily on small businesses and marketing, and she knew next to nothing about how multi-million-dollar corporations functioned. But she wanted to reassure Lucille, somehow.
The ringing landline startled Lucille, making her jump. Realizing that Lucille was poised to rush toward the living room phone on her weak ankle, Jill bolted from the table first. “I’ll get it, don’t worry.”
She reached the phone within two rings, but it wasn’t Rick. When Lucille approached, Jill covered the receiver with her hand and whispered, “It’s Jolene, for you.”
“Oh, okay.” Rather than simply accept the receiver from Jill, Lucille paused then said, “I’ll take it upstairs.”
A lot of trouble to go through, simply to talk to Jolene, Jill thought. But before she could question Lucille or convince her otherwise, Lucille was already edging her way up the stairs, leaning on the banister.
“Lucille’s getting the other line,” Jill explained to Jolene, who then made small talk about the weather until Lucille finally picked up.
“I’ve got it, Jill. Thank you.”
Jill replaced the receiver with a frown. What’s so private that Lucille can’t have me within earshot?
She returned to her plate and continued eating. Lucille rejoined her within minutes, replacing the napkin in her lap and giving no information at all about the call. “I was hoping that was Rick,” she muttered, reaching for another potato chip.
“Me too. But we should hear something soon,” Jill added, hoping it was true.
***
BY FRIDAY MORNING, Rick still hadn’t called or texted either of them. Although Lucille kept her attention staunchly on the cookie baking with Becky, her cell phone was never more than two feet away, and she was ready to grab it on the first ring.
Jill spent a portion of the afternoon picking up the business cards and posters then returning to the kitchen to fill in as needed. When she saw the exhaustion on Lucille’s face, Jill insisted that she go upstairs and take a nap, letting Jill and Becky finish icing and bagging the cookies. Lucille issued no protest, which confirmed how exhausted and worried she actually was.
“I’m excited about the festival,” Becky told Jill, making easy chitchat as she smoothed icing onto a cookie.
Becky had been a welcome presence in the house, with her youthful outlook and upbeat attitude. Sophisticated for a seventeen-year-old but not overly so, Becky looked as though she’d stepped right out of a magazine for clean-cut, fresh-faced teens who were vying for valedictorian. Her shiny blond hair spilled over her shoulders as she smiled through her lip gloss.
Jill set aside a finished cookie then reached for another one. As much as she still loved the gingerbread, she was no longer tempted to snatch a piece for herself during the process. The cookies had become just business. “Me too,” she replied. “I’ve never been to a winter festival before.”
“Never? Oh gosh, you’ll love it.” Her twangy accent told Jill she’d lived in Texas her entire life. “There’s so much to do. There’s a concert and a parade. I’m in it this year, matter of fact. I’m Miss Morgan’s Grove High.”
“Congratulations,” Jill said, and she meant it, knowing Becky would wear the title well.
It only took another hour of work between them before all the cookies were iced. “I’ll bag them up,” Jill insisted. “You can go on home. It’ll be a long day tomorrow with the booth.”
Earlier, Becky had offered to help Jill transport all the cookies and necessary supplies to the booth and then to take Rick’s place selling the cookies if he didn’t make it back to town by then.
When Becky left, Jill felt suddenly antsy. She slipped on her coat, wrapped her scarf around her neck, then stepped onto the back porch with her phone and Googled Quantum. Nothing special came up, nothing new. Then she searched for Patrick Wright. Surely, even as low-key as Rick tried to remain, if his company was in grave trouble, it would’ve already made the news.
But neither search turned up anything significant. Quantum’s crisis hadn’t made the headlines yet, which she hoped was a good sign.
She had planned to leave Rick alone and let him contact her first, giving him privacy to work everything out on his own, but she couldn’t help herself. She texted him a nonchalant message: Everything fine here. Ready for tomorrow’s market. She paused then added, How are things going? We’re worried about you.
It took less than a minute for Rick to respond: Rough day, but made it through. Thanx for asking. Sorry I can’t make it tomorrow. Impossible.
She read the text twice, sad that he’d confirmed he was staying in California but smiling because he had responded at all. Knowing he was thousands of miles away but could still have an instant conversation with her right there on Lucille’s back porch felt oddly intimate to Jill. She pictured Rick during a flurry of stressful meetings, making serious decisions inside a serious boardroom, with possibly his whole company and his whole future on the line. No warmth, no laughter, no home-cooked meals or festive gingerbread cookies to go home to. No corgis, no Lucille. No Jill. She imagined him hearing the beep on his phone, expecting bad news about Quantum then seeing Jill’s friendly, inquisitive text instead. And perhaps he had smiled too. Hopefully, her snippet of a message had provided him with a familiar slice of home and of safety, right there in his pocket.
She took a chance and tapped out, No worries, Becky’s helping. A call to Lucille would be nice. She’s getting frantic.
When he didn’t respond, she figured he’d already switched off his phone and didn’t see the text. But at least he’d received her first one and knew she was thinking about him, that someone, somewhere, cared about what was happening in California. He wasn’t alone.
Jill remained on the porch for a bit, gazing out at the darkening skyline.
After a few minutes, when the cold air became too much to bear, she returned to the kitchen, surprised to see Lucille and the corgis entering from the living room.
“Oh, there you are!” Lucille said. “Rick phoned! It was wonderful, hearing his voice.”
“How did he sound?”
“We only spoke for a minute—I could tell he was rushed. He sounded exhausted, poor thing. I asked if he was eating and sleeping enough. He said he was, but I don’t believe him.”
“Did he give you any news about the company?” Jill was hoping for a tidbit, something to grasp.
“Nothing. I tried to pry without prying, but it didn’t work. He told me he’s been in meetings all day and that he’d eventually have a better idea of how this thing would all pan out. He called it a ‘thing’!” She clucked her tongue. “Men. Don’t they realize we need details?”
Jill chuckled at Lucille’s frustration and Rick’s vagueness. At least he had called. That was something.
Lucille shook her head. “I wish he would let me in and tell me what’s going on. How can I help if I don’t know what’s going on?”
Jill walked toward Lucille and clutched her hands for reassurance. “It’s his way of protecting you until he knows more. It’s all going to work out. We just need to trust him.”
As she said the words, she actually believed them. He would know what to do. And when it was time, he would let Lucille in. He would let them both in.
* * *
AS JILL CRAWLED INTO bed hours later, her entire body weary from the past few days, she thought of Rick’s text again, and a memory struck her of something Lucille had recently said: “You care for him.”
Jill clicked off the light and rolled onto her side, pulling the comforter up higher and curling her hands underneath her chin. She stared out the window at the slice of moonlight shining through. She thought about Rick and saw his dark eyes, which could flash from empathy to mystery in a single blink; his thick, rumpled hair with a tiny hint of gray forming at the temples; his capable, masculine hands that could roll out cookie dough, clear away debris after a storm, wrestle playfully with the corgis, or tap out brilliant business ideas in an email. Then she thought of his heart, damaged from the loss of a mother and father he never really knew, vulnerable from a grandfather’s tough love, and untrusting because of people who were only interested in his wealth or fame.
Her mind drifted over the past couple of days without Rick. She’d experienced a nagging pull the entire time, a sense that a valuable piece of her day was missing, an empty spot in her life that kept waiting to be filled. Each time she had entered Lucille’s kitchen over those two days, her mind immediately pictured Rick somewhere inside the house. But he wasn’t there, and it seemed jarring. Something was out of place.
“You care for him.”
Jill shifted onto her back and stared at the ceiling. The empty sensation she’d felt a moment before was more comfortable than the bigger question Lucille had posed. Of course I care for him. But how much? To what degree?
She wanted to examine it rationally, to remove her emotions from the equation and remain objective. Naturally, she had become accustomed to seeing Rick on a daily basis, even on weekends. It was a habit, a pattern. And when anything, be it technology, an activity, or a person, was removed from one’s usual routine, it would be missed. It made perfect logical sense. And for her, that “anything” happened to be Rick. Nothing more, nothing less.
Satisfied, she rolled over to her other side and closed her eyes.
* * *
MELANCHOLY OVERCAST skies, gusty winds, and forty-eight-degree temperatures were not the most ideal conditions for kicking off a cheery holiday festival. But nothing would stop Jill and Becky from selling the cookies, not after all their work and effort.
Suffering from a mild headache, Lucille agreed to stay at home and recuperate. Perhaps she would visit the market and booth that afternoon, if she felt better. Meanwhile, it took Becky and Jill three individual trips to load up both of their cars with cookie bins, a tote containing the flyers and other essentials, two folding chairs and a table, the box for petty cash, and a mini-cooler Lucille had packed the night before with lunches. The town square’s rules relaxed during the festival, and cars were allowed to park briefly at the curbs while vendors unpacked their wares. Jill admitted to herself, as she lugged her end of the table into Becky’s ample SUV, that she wished Rick was there. He’d been such a big part of the whole endeavor—the future bakery, the market ideas, the overall support—and he was missing it. And she was missing him.
At the bakery site, it only took a few minutes to unload everything, but setting up the booth presented its own set of problems. Jill battled with gusts of wind as she struggled to secure her posters and prevent the business cards from flying away. At one point, when Becky had clamped her hand down on one end of the tablecloth and Jill had lost control at her end, Becky started to laugh and couldn’t stop.
“Look at us,” she said between gasps. “It’s like we’re part of a wacky sitcom!”
Jill had to stop and laugh, too, which broke the tension. After that, the setup was easier, and they took it in stride, not caring if things went wrong. They were there and the festival was about to begin, and that was all that mattered.
As Jill unfolded her chair, planning to catch her breath for a moment before selling the cookies, she realized hordes of people were already starting to arrive, thirty minutes before the official opening time. Adults and children had begun to stream through the square, eager to take it all in, itching to get the festival started. The wind had begun to subside, and the clouds had parted, letting in an actual ray of sunshine.
The entire town was dressed up in its finery. The square seemed even more Christmassy, if that was possible, with dressed-up elves walking around and jingling their cap bells, and a madrigal standing on the corner of the courthouse, practicing Christmas carols. Then there were the booths—white tents, open on all sides. The tents lined the blocks around the courthouse, spaced perfectly apart, and Jill imagined the committee members’ husbands putting them together in the wee hours of the morning, measuring the feet in between. Every business in the square had set up elaborately decorated tables inside their tents, which displayed their wares. Some offered free hot chocolate or free lollipops or face painting for the children.
“All we have are cookies,” Becky whispered to Jill. “Maybe we should’ve brought candy canes to hand out to the kids. Bribe them to come to our table. Oh! We should’ve brought Lucille’s corgis!”
Jill chuckled. “Trust me, they would be too big a handful for us. I think the cookies will stand on their own. Once word gets around, we’ll be swarmed.”
Jill was right. The moment they’d set out the boxes, it was bees to honey, with practically everyone in the town visiting the booth along with some tourists from out of town. Most of the customers noticed Jill’s sign attached to the window of the upcoming bakery behind the booth—FUTURE SITE OF LUCILLE’S COOKIES!—and asked questions about the new business. Jill recognized many familiar faces amongst the customers, who felt more like old friends than new ones, including Bicycle Bob, Mr. Anderson from across the street, Tessa and Darlene, who bickered over how many cookies to purchase for themselves, and the Cox family with all five of their young children.
Mrs. Haversham from the B&B had been one of their first customers. “I’ll take a dozen,” she’d said, fishing out the cash from her wallet. “For my son,” she added.
Jill remembered that Mrs. Haversham sent care packages to him in Afghanistan every week, containing snacks and books and letters. She even kept an open cardboard box near the B&B’s front door for townspeople who wanted to contribute items. Jill could picture him opening up the fragrant package of gingerbread and sharing with his fellow soldiers as they celebrated a bleak Christmas Eve overseas. When she’d labored over the cookies the night before, Jill had no idea they would be making a trip all the way across the world. And for a moment, they weren’t just cookies anymore.
“Put your money away,” Jill told Mrs. Haversham quietly. “These are on me.”
***
IN THE EARLY AFTERNOON, Lucille stopped by, free of her headache, to check on things. “These are all you have left?” She peeked inside the plastic tub, which contained fewer than twenty cookies.
“That’s all,” Jill confirmed, handing change to a customer. “At this rate, we’ll have to make a decision. Do we pack up early and save tomorrow’s cookies for tomorrow, or go back to your house, get them, and use them up today?”
Lucille chewed her lip and considered it. “I say we finish strong today, early, then save the others for tomorrow. We could leave out the posters and make people curious. Even if they pass by the booth and there’s nothing here this afternoon, maybe they’ll come back tomorrow.”
Jill agreed. “Nice strategy. And it’s a good problem to have, running out of cookies earlier than expected.”
“Indeed, it is.”
An hour later, their voices hoarse from talking to customers, cheeks sore from smiling, and bodies weary from stooping over the table and lifting tables and chairs, Jill and Becky headed back to Lucille’s.
Inside, Lucille spooned out generous portions of vegetable soup for herself and for Jill. Becky declined the invitation to eat but promised to be back at the house early for the second day of selling cookies. Lucille sent Becky on her way with a tight thank-you hug and a Tupperware bowl of soup.
Rather than feeling the deep exhaustion in her bones that she had expected, Jill realized she felt strong and happy. It had been a satisfying day’s work, a team effort with successful results. Earlier at the booth, she had pulled out her phone then texted Rick: Success! Sold all the cookies. She hadn’t heard anything from him yet and hadn’t expected to, but she still wanted to catch him up on the day’s events.
“Did you hear anything from Rick?” Jill asked Lucille, who poured sweet tea into her own glass before sitting down.
“Not a peep.” She grimaced. “Maybe no news is good news.”
“Let’s hope so.”
Lucille folded her hands together in her lap. “I have a proposition for you. I know it’s been a busy day, and we have another one tomorrow. But we deserve a break, don’t you think? The last thing I want to do is sit in this house and worry about Rick or laze around and watch movies. I’ve been cooped up too long with this foot of mine, and it’s finally on the mend. The cookies are all set for tomorrow, and there’s nothing else to prep. What do you say—are you up for a night out?”
“What did you have in mind?” Truthfully, staying indoors and watching movies under a thick blanket had sounded ideal to Jill after a day like the one she’d had.
“The founder’s mansion. I haven’t been able to visit this season, and I’m dying to see it at nighttime, all decorated. We can wait until nightfall—get a little rest beforehand—then be all primped and ready to go.”
“Primped?”
“Sure, let’s make it fancy. I’ll wear my gold dress with the sparkles.”
Just for the mansion? Jill pictured the usual tourists there, dressed in their jeans and flannel jackets. “Is there a fancy dress code at night?”
“No, just something I felt like doing. It’s a rare night when I go to a ritzy mansion and play the part.”
Jill did a quick mental assessment of her limited wardrobe upstairs. When she’d packed for Morgan’s Grove weeks before, she hadn’t added any formal attire. There had been no need. Then she remembered: “I bought a ‘fancy’ dress at Mindy’s Boutique.” Jill had kept it tucked safely in its wrapping paper at the back of the closet, prepared for its eventual drive home to Colorado. “I saw it in the store window and had to have it. I had planned on wearing it to the cocktail party at the writing conference in January. In Denver. But I could wear it tonight, I guess...”
“That’s the spirit!”
Still puzzled by the elaborate dress code, and by Lucille’s extreme sudden interest in seeing the mansion that night, Jill wanted to be a good sport and play along. It actually sounded fun, a spur-of-the-moment drive to a beautiful mansion with glittering lights. Besides, she’d been meaning to visit the mansion one more time before she left Morgan’s Grove, anyway, and she hadn’t seen it yet at night, all sparkly and lit up.
“Okay. Count me in.”