Chapter 35

 

The book felt like an unscratched itch under her baker’s jacket as Sam walked into Sweet’s Sweets and looked around.

“Hey, didn’t expect you to come walking through the front door,” Jen said. “But since I know you’ll ask, we’re having a great day.”

Sam could tell by the empty spots in the display cases that sales had been strong. Jen ran a subtotal on the register and beamed as she showed Sam exactly how good. She took a moment to greet the two customers who occupied tables, offering coffee refills.

In the kitchen, Becky was humming “Let It Snow” while she placed sugar tulips on top of a flowerpot-shaped cake. “Yeah, it’s a little out of season to my way of thinking, but Mrs. Cisneros loves her tulips.”

Julio had just taken six pies from the oven—apple, raisin and rhubarb—and the heavenly cinnamon scent made Sam want to slice into the apple right away. Under her jacket, the book twitched—she swore it did—reminding her how much she wanted to settle down and read it.

“Everything going all right back here? Jen’s had a strong day out front.” Sam, feeling the warmth from the ovens, removed her coat and set the book in a clear spot on the worktable.

“Custom orders are a little slower than last week,” Becky said. “I always hate to admit it, but it’s nice when each holiday is over and the next one hasn’t quite hit us yet.”

“Don’t tell anyone, but I know exactly what you mean,” Sam said, paging through the order forms in their IN basket. “But thank goodness for those busy times—they’re what feed us all.”

Becky gave a little amen and carried the finished tulip cake to the fridge. “What’s next on my agenda?” she asked, glancing over Sam’s shoulder at the orders. “Guess I’d better get these two done.”

“Need help?”

“I don’t think so. One’s a two-tier for a birthday, but it’s not large. The other’s a baby shower sheet cake they want precut for quick serving. So, it’s mainly piping shell borders to cover the cuts. I pre-made some cream mints into pink and blue booties for each slice. People always seem to like those.”

“Well, if I’m not needed …”

Julio walked by on his way to the Hobart mixer with a bag of flour. All at once he stopped, bumping into Sam. “What’s that?” he asked, eyeing the book.

“A … book.” First time she’d seen him take an interest in anything from Ivan’s shop. “A novel someone recommended to me. It was written by the old woman who used to own the house we’re renting for our chocolate production.”

He edged away, heading for the mixer again, but Sam noticed he turned once more and looked at the book.

She gave Becky a what-the-heck look and little shrug. “Anyway, as I was saying, if I’m not needed here this afternoon I think I’ll just— Well, I’ve got a bunch of other things to do. Call me if anything comes up.”

She jammed the book into her pack and put her coat back on. Okay, she thought as she started the van and drove toward home, I will not start apologizing to my employees if I want to take an afternoon off—I work plenty of nights and weekends. And it’s none of their business if the only thing I plan to do is kick back and read a book. Why, then, did I hesitate just now?

She put those thoughts aside when she reached the ranch. The dogs greeted her enthusiastically on the front porch and she let them go inside with her. A fire in the big stone fireplace, a large mug of tea, and she was ready to snuggle into the comfy sofa with an afghan over her lap. She opened the book and reread the opening lines, surrendering to the pull of the story.

She’d nearly reached the halfway point when a sound on the front porch startled Ranger and Nellie into action. Sam realized it was growing dark outside and by the way both dogs were wagging, the sound must have been caused by Beau’s arrival.

“Hey there,” he said, shaking moisture off his hat. “This is a rare sight, you at home before bedtime.”

From anyone else, it might have been a wisecrack, but Beau crossed the room and kissed her. “I’m glad you got some time off,” he said. “Do I smell green chile stew?”

His appreciative smile made her glad she’d taken a few minutes to throw the ingredients into a pot on one of her tea-mug refill breaks.

“What’s the book?” he asked, warming his hands at the fire.

“Scott and Kelly recommended it, one of the bigger hits by the woman writer who used to live in the Victorian.”

“Any good?”

“It must be. I’ve barely moved all afternoon.”

How to explain to Beau? The description of the box in the story was a spot-on match with the one Sam owned, but its actions didn’t compare at all. No electric tingle for the person handling it, no golden glow to the wood, no brightening of the colored stones. The characters in the book were a teenage boy and his friends (no wonder the story had found an audience with youngsters, even decades later) who went on adventures, checking out tombs in Egypt, Himalayan crevasses and crystal caves in South America. There were myriad bad guys—well, bad creatures—who were predictably vanquished in flares of fire and billows of smoke when our hero called upon the box’s magical powers.

Sam’s initial apprehension gave way to rational thought. The author very well might have seen the box here in Taos at some point. After all, she and Bertha Martinez were of the same generation, although almost certainly not from the same social circles. Bertha had been a curandera and might have visited someone in the Nalespar family, allowing Eliza opportunities to see the box. Clearly, the writer’s imagination had invented the rest of it, the action sequences and the fictional box’s incredible strength.

“A fun adventure story,” she said, “that’s all.” She set the book aside and pulled herself out of her little cozy nest.

While Beau went upstairs to change out of his uniform and Sam put together a salad and tortillas to go with the stew, she decided she would find time to look up more about Eliza Nalespar’s life. Perhaps there would be a written record somewhere that showed she knew Bertha Martinez. Although the real box and fictional one were entirely separate, it might be fun to find something that took her inside the writer’s mind as she created her story.