Jeff left Monica’s, his shoulders still slumped, and Monica hastily donned her parka, hat and gloves. She arrived at the farm kitchen feeling slightly shaken and out of sorts.
“I’ve started on the cookies,” Kit said when Monica arrived. “Can you smell them?” He took an exaggerated deep breath. “Ahhhh . . .”
Monica grunted. Kit looked at her strangely but didn’t say anything.
What would Kit do if Jeff sold the farm? Monica wondered. Did Jeff not realize he was upending so many people’s lives? The thought immediately made her feel guilty. If Jeff had a chance to fix his disabled arm, he deserved to take it.
Monica scooped some flour into a bowl from the large canister on the counter. As she was reaching for a measuring cup, she banged her elbow against the bowl and knocked it off the counter. It landed with a clatter on the tile floor.
Monica stared at the mess. She couldn’t help it. She felt tears prick the backs of her eyelids and one escaped and rolled down her cheek.
Kit was rolling out cookie dough but stopped when he saw Monica’s face.
“Is everything okay? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Monica mumbled.
Kit gave her a stern look and stood with one hand on his cocked hip.
“Darling, something is obviously wrong. You know you can spill to me anytime. My lips are sealed.” He put a finger to his lips.
Monica managed a wan smile. “Thanks, but I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”
“You know where I am,” Kit said, picking up his rolling pin. “Auntie Kit will be all ears whenever you need me.”
Monica couldn’t help but smile. Kit had a way of cheering her up no matter what. She managed to finish the batch of cookies but she didn’t have the heart to do anything else. She wondered if she should call Greg. Talking to him always made her feel better. He was so practical and so calm.
She yanked off her apron and dusted off her sweatshirt. She would go to see him instead. Perhaps a hug would make her feel better.
“Kit, do you mind taking those cookies out of the oven when they’re done? And if you could take them down to the farm store, I’d be grateful.”
“Anything for you, sweetheart.” Kit blew her a kiss. “You go take care of yourself.”
Monica yanked her parka from the hook, nearly tearing it, and dashed out the door. All of a sudden she couldn’t wait to see Greg—to have him put his arms around her and tell her everything was going to be okay.
She all but ran back to her cottage and jumped into her car. She was on the way into town when she happened to glance at her speedometer and was horrified to see she was driving twenty miles an hour over the speed limit. She immediately took her foot off the gas and slowed down.
She drove down Beach Hollow Road twice before finding a parking place when a pickup truck pulled out of a space in front of the diner.
The scent of bacon frying drifted from the diner as usual, and normally that would have made Monica’s mouth water, but today it made her feel slightly sick to her stomach. She hurried past toward Book ’Em next door.
She burst into the shop without thinking but stopped short when several heads turned in her direction, questioning looks on their faces.
Greg’s book club was gathered in a circle, having pulled together the old and sagging furniture Greg had collected for the shop. Phyllis Bouma, Cranberry Cove’s head librarian, was there along with both Hennie and Gerda VanVelsen. There were a few other people who looked vaguely familiar to Monica but who she didn’t actually know.
Greg looked up and smiled at Monica. The look on her face must have alarmed him because he jumped up and hastened toward her.
“Is something wrong?” He took her hands in his.
Monica hesitated. “I don’t want to interrupt your book group.”
“Let’s go in my office.” He turned to the assembled group. “I’ll only be a minute if you’ll please excuse me.”
A murmur went through the group but no one objected.
“What is it?” Greg said as soon as he’d closed the door in back of them.
Monica told him about Jeff and how he was thinking about selling the farm.
“Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it one way or another.” Greg’s voice was soothing. “I think it would be a shame to sell the farm—he’s worked so hard to get it off the ground—but it’s his decision and I can understand how he would want to take any chance possible to rid himself of his disability.”
He put his arm around Monica’s shoulders and squeezed.
“So please don’t worry, okay?”
Monica nodded. She felt better already. Between them, she knew she and Greg could handle whatever came next.
As they were leaving, Monica saw Phyllis lean toward Hennie.
“I bet she came to tell him that there will soon be the pitter-patter of little feet in the house,” she whispered loud enough for Monica to hear.
Both women turned and watched as Monica left the shop.
• • •
Monica felt her face burning. The women thought she was pregnant! They would find out soon enough that wasn’t the case, she thought as she headed down the street toward Gina’s shop.
Making Scents was empty when Monica got there.
“Hello?” she called out.
She heard rustling in the back room and Gina emerged with a box in her hands. She was panting slightly and there were Styrofoam peanuts clinging to her zebra-print leggings.
“I’m unpacking a shipment of essential oil candles that came in this morning.” She blew out a puff of air and her bangs fluttered against her forehead. “I haven’t carried them before, but I’m told they’re the latest thing.”
She put the box on the counter and reached for a utility knife.
“Be careful with that,” Monica said in alarm.
Gina slit the tape on the carton. The knife slipped and nicked her finger.
“Ouch.” She grabbed a tissue from the box on the counter and dabbed at the drop of blood that had formed on the tip of her finger.
Finally she got the box open. The fragrance of lavender, lemongrass and patchouli drifted out.
Monica’s anxiety made her feel as if she was going to explode. She began to fiddle with the bottles displayed on the counter, but her hands were shaking slightly and she knocked one over.
Gina leveled her gaze at Monica. “You seem very agitated. Lavender is wonderfully calming.” Her hand hovered over the display of bottles. She chose one, opened it and held it under Monica’s nose. “Take a deep breath.”
Monica tried to breathe but her chest was tight. She brushed the bottle aside and blurted out, “Did you know about Jeff and the farm? About selling, I mean?”
Gina put down the candle she was holding and placed both hands on the counter.
“Yes. But—” She held up a hand when Monica began to protest. “Jeff is merely thinking about it. Nothing has been decided.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Monica demanded.
“Jeff asked me to let him tell you himself.” She held up a hand again as Monica began to protest once more. “Nothing has been decided. He isn’t close to making up his mind yet.”
Monica’s shoulders drooped. “I realize it’s his farm, but it affects me, too. And Greg,” she added.
A bit of guilt nibbled at her. What had she given up to move to Cranberry Cove? A failing café in Chicago that would have soon been shuttered anyway? And she never would have met Greg if she hadn’t agreed to help Jeff.
“I’m sorry,” Monica said. “Of course it’s Jeff’s decision.” She looked off into the distance. “And I can understand how he’d want to do anything that would restore the function to his injured arm.”
Gina sighed. “The procedure is very experimental.” She leaned her elbows on the counter and a piece of hair from her loose updo brushed her face. “I told Jeffie I think he should wait. There’ll soon be something new and improved that won’t be so iffy—that will be a sure thing.”
“He told me about selling this morning so obviously he hasn’t changed his mind.”
“Don’t you worry, sweetheart. Jeffie is meeting with the developer tomorrow. The man has only seen the property on a map, and now he wants to see it up close and personal.” Gina gave a wicked smile. “And I plan to be there to make sure Jeff doesn’t make any rash decisions.”
• • •
Monica left Gina’s shop and headed to Bart’s Butcher Shop for some ground beef. Bart was wrapping some lamb chops in brown paper for a customer, carefully tying the package with a length of string.
He dropped the meat into a white paper bag and handed it to the customer.
“Here you go, Mr. Van’t Hoff. You enjoy those chops now and say hello to the missus for me. How is she, by the way?”
Mr. Van’t Hoff, an elderly gentleman with a pronounced stoop, frowned.
“Not so well. She has that old-timer’s disease. What do they call it?”
“Alzheimer’s?” Bart said, his brow creasing in concern.
“That’s it,” Mr. Van’t Hoff said, smoothing his mustache with his index finger. “Horrible thing. But we’re coping. Marion still enjoys the hymns she sings at church and the service on Sundays. We have to be grateful for the small blessings.”
“That’s so true,” Bart said, saluting as Mr. Van’t Hoff turned to leave. He smiled at Monica. “What can I do for you, young lady?”
Monica nearly snorted. Young lady? Hardly. If she and Greg did decide to have a baby, and she was able to conceive, she’d be considered a geriatric mother. Which was ridiculous since she didn’t feel old at all.
“How’s Jeff doing?” Bart said as he weighed the ground beef Monica had asked for. “The farm is such a wonderful addition to the community.”
Monica felt overcome with guilt. What was everyone going to think if Jeff sold the farm to a developer? Who knew what horrors the man was planning on building. And Jeff would be the one they’d blame. She and Greg would hardly be able to hold their heads up, assuming they stayed in Cranberry Cove. Greg had put a lot of work into Book ’Em and the store was doing well. Would they be forced to move?
• • •
You’re probably worrying for nothing, Monica told herself as she turned into the drive leading to the farm and her cottage. Jeff might not sell after all, and if he did, hopefully the townspeople would understand why.
Greg’s car was in the driveway when Monica pulled up to the cottage, and Greg was in the process of carrying a carton full of books into the house.
“How was the rest of your day?” He smiled at Monica as she held the door open for him.
“Uneventful.”
“I suppose that’s good,” Greg said wryly. “You’re not still worried about Jeff and the farm, are you?” Greg put the carton on the kitchen table. “I spotted an estate sale on my way home and couldn’t help myself.” He grinned. “I’m hoping there might be a gem in here somewhere.”
Monica got a bottle of wine out of the pantry. “I could use a glass tonight.” She laughed. “I’m sure Phyllis Bouma would be shocked to see me drinking.”
“Oh?” Greg looked at her with raised eyebrows. “I’ve seen Phyllis down a glass or two herself.”
“As I left Book ’Em this afternoon I heard her whisper to Hennie that she wondered if I had come to tell you that I’m in the family way—which I’m sure is how she would oh-so-delicately put it.”
Greg’s face lit up. “That would be good news, wouldn’t it?”
Monica poured two glasses of wine and handed one to Greg.
“We need to talk about that,” she said, taking a sip. “With the possibility that Jeff might sell the farm, I don’t think this would be the right time to start a family.”
“Why not?” Greg was rifling through one of the books. “I don’t see what difference Jeff selling the farm would make.”
Monica swept a hand around the kitchen. “We’d most likely have to give up the cottage. Where would we live?”
“We’re planning on building a house anyway. We could live above Book ’Em until it was completed.”
“I just want to feel settled if and when we decide to have a baby.”
Monica was grateful when Greg let the subject drop.
He continued to rummage through the carton of books. He pulled out another volume and flipped through it. Something fell out and landed on the floor.
“What’s that?” Monica said.
Greg picked the item up and turned it over. “It’s an old photograph.” He handed it to Monica.
Three girls, their arms around each other, were in the picture. They were wearing plaid miniskirts and crew neck sweaters in soft pastels. Two of the girls looked to be around sixteen years old, while the girl in the middle looked slightly older. They were standing in front of an ornate cuckoo clock.
Monica gasped. “That’s the clock that’s in Marta Kuiper’s living room.”
Greg peered over Monica’s shoulder. “Quite the monstrosity, isn’t it? It could be a coincidence. Perhaps someone else had one just like it?”
“No. Dana told me it was one of a kind. Her father made it—he was a woodworker.” Monica tapped the photograph. “I’m going to ask Dana about this.”
“Why? Do you think it’s significant?”
“I don’t know. It could be, although probably not. Still, I think we should return the photograph to the owner, don’t you think?”