Chapter
thirteen
Nikki says that she needs your help with Clint,” Maddie told Britt the next day. “I’m sending her in with coffee.”
“Copy that.”
Maddie held open the swinging door that led to Sweet Art’s shop.
Nikki entered, then said dramatically, “Ah, the inner sanctum of chocolate.” The older woman paused, holding mugs in both hands, and surveyed the space with an appropriate air of reverence. “I’ve never been in here before.”
“Welcome.” Britt swept her arms apart grandly. “I’m always happy to lend romantic advice to earnest supplicants.”
Nikki snorted. “You little pip-squeak. I don’t need romantic advice from you. I’m twice your age—”
“Isn’t it closer to three times?”
“—and I have more knowledge about men in my—my eyelash than you have in your whole body.”
“I hereby kick you out of my inner sanctum for irreverence!”
“I’m not going anywhere. Maybe ever. The smell of chocolate is so thick in here that I think I might be able to get a buzz from it.” Nikki set one of the mugs near Britt’s elbow on the central island. “Here you are. A cappuccino.”
“Thank you.” While Nikki continued to look around, Britt plunged a raspberry pâtes de fruits center into tempered chocolate with a dipping fork. She tapped the fork, then scraped it along the bowl’s edge so that the excess ran back down. Carefully, she placed the chocolate on parchment paper to set. “So if you have more knowledge of men in your eyelash than I do in my whole body, why do you need my help with Clint?”
“Because you know him better than I do.” Nikki propped a generous hip against Britt’s desk.
“Has he still not asked you out?”
“No, and I’ve now attended four Pilates classes.”
“And I’ve called Clint once on your behalf to extol your virtues, don’t forget.”
“Right. And still. Nada. So now I’m in need of the most valuable commodity.”
“Cacao beans?”
“Insider information. What’s Clint’s story?”
Britt moved another chocolate to the parchment, then picked up her mug and cradled it between her palms, smelling its fragrant steam. “I know he was raised in a farming community in central California and that he comes from a big family.”
“Yes, he was the fourth of five kids. His parents remained married even though his father broke his mother’s heart with repeated affairs.”
“Oh. I didn’t know that.”
“I’ve already asked him all about his family and his career.” Nikki waved a hand dismissively. “But I still know nothing about his romantic history, despite my attempts at prying.”
“Clint is a fairly private person and he can be somewhat . . . self-conscious. He likes talking about things like karma and Native American spirituality. But he doesn’t love to talk about himself.”
“Listen, I adore that he’s self-conscious.”
“You do?” Britt certainly wasn’t on the hunt for a self-conscious boyfriend.
“I do,” Nikki said. “Clint’s also a little naïve, which I find irresistible.”
“He’s sweet. Laid back.”
“Both excellent qualities in a man. Especially one who’s going to have to put up with me as his girlfriend.”
Britt lifted one of the transfer sheets she custom ordered. Rows of stylized raspberries surrounded by tiny white polka dots created from colored cocoa butter marched across the sheet. She used her knife to cut out a raspberry design, then placed the piece of transfer paper atop a flat, hand-dipped chocolate. She depressed the top before pulling the sheet free. The raspberry and polka dot motif transferred.
“Those are gorgeous,” Nikki exclaimed. “Can I have one?”
“You only like turtles.”
“Gimme.”
Britt handed one to Nikki and sampled another one herself. After letting the chocolate soften on her tongue, she chewed thoughtfully. The chocolate in this batch had a more nut-forward flavor than usual.
“Divine,” Nikki stated.
“Is there life after turtles?”
“Maybe.” Nikki chased the chocolate with a sip of her coffee. “So what’s Clint’s romantic story?”
“He’s never been married, but beyond that I don’t know much. I remember meeting a girlfriend of his at a family function once. But that was a long time ago, and I don’t think he dated her long.”
“Lifelong bachelors are an interesting breed.” Nikki tapped a coral-painted fingernail against her mug. “What might have kept him from settling down?”
“I really don’t know.”
“Your next assignment is to find out,” Nikki said.
“At the risk of sounding selfish, what’s in it for me?”
“I’ll use the Village’s ad space in the Merryweather Chronicle to advertise Sweet Art. Instead of promoting the Village as a whole, we often try to highlight one of our fabulous vendors.”
“Does Nora know that you’re bribing me with advertising in exchange for a dating dossier on Clint Fletcher?”
“Nora likes to spread the love around. We give all of our vendors a turn in the sun. When they get their turn in the sun is completely at my discretion.”
“In that case, you have a deal.” Britt cut out more of the raspberries on the transfer sheet. “It occurs to me that I’m clueless about your romantic history, Nikki. Should Clint ask me, I’d like to be prepared.”
“I’ve been married twice.” Nikki reached for another chocolate, but Britt intercepted her with a shooing motion. “First,” Nikki continued, “to Artie. Artie was a big, booming redneck, and I use the term redneck with absolute fondness. He loved Nascar, beer, and me. We married when I was twenty-three. Fifteen years later, he ran his truck into a tree after getting drunk at a friend’s house watching football. No one else was injured, thank goodness.”
“You knew that my friend Olivia was killed when she was hit by a drunk driver, didn’t you?” Britt’s group of female high school friends had been a circle of five—herself, Maddie, Olivia, Hannah, and Mia.
“I had heard that, yes. Drunk driving has taken someone from us both.”
“It has.”
“Such a rotten shame. When I think about how Artie died, I, very lovingly, call him a string of bad names.”
A rotten shame was exactly how Britt would classify Olivia’s death. Olivia had died almost three years ago, when she’d been in her mid-twenties.
Back when the accident had happened, Britt had achieved her degree at the Culinary Institute, completed her time in France, and returned to Merryweather to run Sweet Art. Construction on her cottage had just finished, and she’d moved in a few days before Mia had called early one morning to tell her the terrible news about Olivia.
She remembered sinking into one of her kitchen chairs as if her bones had turned to water. Her heart thudded sickly, her vision resting on the moving boxes lined up against one wall of her living room, a testament to the exciting new beginning she was enjoying in her own life.
In fact, everything about her life in that season had felt like an exciting new beginning. Her career. Supporting herself. Adulthood. The world was full of trails to hike, mountains to climb, chocolates to make, and countries to visit.
The last thing she’d expected was the sudden and tragic death of a close friend. During the days before and after Olivia’s funeral, she’d wrestled with God. If her perfectly healthy, young, happy friend could die one night while driving home from a restaurant dinner, then the same fate could happen to her or to anyone else she loved. And that was not okay with her.
Not at all.
Britt was a passionate person. The people she loved, she loved wholeheartedly. She knew that she couldn’t have survived, the way Nikki had managed to, had it been her husband who’d driven a beeline into a tree. She couldn’t have survived, the way her father had managed to, had it been her spouse who’d been murdered.
In the aftermath of Olivia’s death, Maddie, Hannah, and Mia had all looked to her with shattered eyes. They’d needed her to have a spine of steel, and so, of course, that’s exactly how she’d responded. She’d ensured that Maddie, Hannah, and Mia came through the trial as whole as possible. She’d thrown herself into her work, her romances, her activities.
She’d gone on.
When caught in the mud of difficult circumstances, she’d learned to keep trudging until her feet reached less muddy ground.
“My second husband’s name was Sid,” Nikki said. “He loved Roy Orbison songs, playing the trumpet, and me. He taught high school science, and he was one of those teachers that all the kids liked. Not too strict. Funny and creative. But he was a heavy smoker and had been all his life. I married him when I was forty-three. He died from lung cancer eight years later.”
“I’m impressed that you continued to date after that.”
“I’ve fallen in love with men before, between, and after my two husbands.”
“And now you’re ready to fall in love again.”
“More than ready.” Nikki drained her coffee. “I’m so much more than ready that even Evan at the post office is starting to look appealing to me.”
Britt chuckled. “I like Evan. He has my back whenever I ship chocolate.”
“He’s much too young for me, and he smells like mustard, which is why I really need this thing with Clint to pan out.”
“I’ll do my best,” Britt replied with bracing optimism.
On Thursday night, Britt arrived early to help prep John’s house for the game night she and her sisters had planned in honor of their parents’ homecoming.
The doorbell rang again and again as guests arrived in a steady stream. But so far, no Zander. He’d told Britt he’d come, so she kept one eye on John’s foyer while mingling with familiar faces and topping off water glasses.
When Zander finally did slip quietly inside, she spotted him instantly. He stopped to talk with Willow and Corbin, which freed Britt to take his measure without his knowing.
He’d dressed up for the occasion in a white shirt with a navy-and-red striped tie and gray flat-front pants. Zander was the author of a novel that had already sold a mind-boggling number of copies. He had a photographic memory and plenty of money, especially for someone as young as he was. He’d seen far more of the world than she had. His face was sharply masculine. He held his athletic body with an alert brand of stillness, the lines of it fit and beautiful in the way that a cougar was fit and beautiful.
Even with all of that going for him, Nikki had been right when she’d commented to Britt that there was something tragic about Zander. There was. It was in the cautious, watchful impression he communicated. The solemn set of his shoulders. Also, the juxtaposition between the color of his eyes—a joyous blue—and the seriousness peering out from behind them.
A yearning to bring him happiness twisted within her so sharply that it became a physical ache. From the first time she’d laid eyes on him, she’d felt compelled to lighten his load. At that time in her life, she’d been arrogant enough to imagine she could make that happen.
She was less arrogant about that now. Since his return to Merryweather, she worried that she’d failed to bring him happiness. In fact, she feared she’d brought him unhappiness instead.
Britt’s mom gave a yip of delight when she spotted Zander. Both her parents hurried toward him.
Britt approached more slowly. Stopping five yards away, she crossed her arms and observed their reunion with amusement.
Zander’s gaze met Britt’s as he hugged her mom. Then Mom beamed at him, placing her palms on the sides of his face. Dad hugged him, punctuating the gesture with affectionate thumps on the back. They stepped apart. Immediately, though, Dad pulled Zander in for a second hug.
When, at long last, her parents released him, Zander crossed to Britt. The two of them threaded through guests toward the fireplace at one end of the contemporary home’s great room. On the way, Zander paused to shut a hallway door that stood half an inch ajar.
“When I met my parents at the airport, they didn’t give me the palms on the cheeks or the hearty thumps on the back,” Britt said.
“That’s because you’re just a daughter. They have more than enough of those.”
“Maybe, but I’m the only daughter who’s related by blood to both of them.”
“A fact that you’ve never forgiven yourself for.”
She let that statement pass like a speeding delivery truck empty of packages addressed to her. “Are you wearing a tie in order to suck up to my parents?”
“Pretty much. I knew your mom would like it.”
“I like it. Yet you didn’t wear a tie to my birthday party.”
“Right. But then, you’re just a daughter.”
She laughed, and Zander regarded her with a deep fondness that made her mouth go dry. “I . . .” What had she intended to say? You kissed me was the only thing she could think of. He’d kissed her, and she’d kissed him back, and it had been amazing. That powerful knowledge hung between them so densely that it was hard to concentrate on anything other than the kiss when in his presence. “I haven’t seen you in a couple of days. Did you get a lot of writing done?”
“Twenty pages.”
“Very respectable. Did you spend time with your aunt?”
He dipped his head. “Carolyn and I went over paper work concerning Frank, his bank accounts, his will, and the rest of it.”
Britt believed herself to be a fairly decent niece, but she wasn’t in Zander’s league. She was a doer, always happy to pitch in whenever her family members needed anything. Zander was good at that, too. But he was also good at being there, faithfully, dispensing sympathy as long as sympathy was needed. “Impressive,” she said. “Catch up on sleep?”
“Yes.”
“Go running?”
“Yes.”
“Eat my competitor’s chocolate?”
“No.”
“Good. I saw the interview you did with the Seattle news station.”
“Did I look like an idiot?”
“The opposite. You came across as whip-smart—”
“—and cold.”
“Not cold,” she corrected. “Thoughtful.” And wildly handsome. She had no doubt that the station would be inundated with pink stationery addressed to him and that his book sales in the Seattle metropolitan area would spike.
Britt leaned her upper back against the shelves that framed John’s recessed TV. “Nora got back to me with the scoop on Ricardo.”
“And?”
She filled Zander in on the discussion she’d had with Nora.
“She wasn’t able to find out anything about Emerson Kelly?” he asked.
“Nothing. Which makes me wonder if Emerson might have gone to the trouble of removing his information from online databases. It seems a little suspicious, doesn’t it? That Nora couldn’t find anything?”
“A little. It could be that Emerson’s just a private person.”
“Or it could be that Emerson has something to hide.” Britt mulled over the possibilities. “All we know about Emerson at the moment is that he was arrested on Whidbey Island in 1988 for stealing paintings alongside Ricardo, and that later, the charges were dropped. I say we try to dig up more information on him.”
“Do you think Nora could help us locate the arrest record? For the crime on Whidbey Island in ’88?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll definitely ask her.”
She spotted Clint, Grandma, and Valentina coming their direction and beckoned them closer. This was as good a time as any to pump Clint for information on his romantic history. “Enjoying the party?”
“So far,” Grandma answered. “But I’ve decided it would be best if I leave early.”
Whenever Grandma went fishing for attention with statements like that one, Britt had learned not to bite.
“Why have you decided to leave early?” Zander asked, polite to a fault when it came to her grandmother.
“Because I know they’re planning to play cards after the meal, and I don’t approve of cards. Card games can quickly lead to gambling.”
Valentina clucked consolingly. Her round face and plump body housed an unending supply of empathy. “Babbling not good.” Despite having lived in America for decades, Valentina’s grip on the English language could at best be described as loose.
“Gambling,” Clint clarified for Valentina. “Like in Las Vegas.”
“You want to go to Las Vegas, miss?” Valentina asked Grandma.
Grandma reared back, clutching her chest. “Certainly not.”
“I enjoy trying my luck at the slot machines from time to time,” Clint confessed.
“Oh my, no,” Grandma replied in a scathing tone. “You should tithe that money, Clint.”
“They have a lot of excellent shows in Vegas,” Britt pointed out reasonably. “Sunshine. Museums.”
“Shopping,” Zander added. “Good hotels. Restaurants.”
“I’m proud to say I’ll die having never visited Las Vegas,” Grandma announced.
Which was probably for the best. Both for Grandma’s sake and the sake of the unsuspecting residents of Nevada’s largest city.
“So, Clint.” Britt spoke before Grandma had a chance to say more. “It struck me the other day that I don’t know a lot about your personal life.”
In response to her sudden shift in topic, Zander sent her an odd look.
“I’ve known you for quite a while now,” Britt continued, “and so I feel badly that I haven’t been more intentional about asking you questions, you know?”
“Sure.” Clint nodded, which sent his long hair rippling. “I do. Intentionality is a really good, a really deep, practice for all of us to integrate into our daily lives.”
“Scripture reading is a good practice for all of us to integrate into our daily lives,” Grandma declared.
“I practice Jazzercise,” Valentina stated.
“Good for you,” Zander said to Valentina encouragingly.
Britt cleared her throat. “I remember meeting a girlfriend of yours a few years ago, Clint. Have there been other, ah, special women in your life?”
“Oh.” Clint reddened. “Well . . .”
Britt waited, meeting his awkwardness with patience.
“No,” he said. “Not very many.”
“I had my heart broken once,” he said.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I’m sorry, too,” Zander said. “Was it recent?”
“It was when I was eighteen.” Clint gave a small shrug. “She was my first love. We’d planned to get married just as soon as I got a steady job in Hollywood. I’d barely been gone two months before she started dating someone else.”
“I will make you piroshkies.” Valentina’s gaze brimmed with eager compassion. “They good for romance problems.”
“And did you start dating someone else at that time?” Britt asked. “When you learned that your girlfriend had moved on?”
“No, no. I was crushed. I kept to myself for many years after that.”
Britt blinked at him. His approach to dating differed in every way from her more-is-better approach. Then again, she’d never considered herself to be in love with any of the guys she’d gone out with. “And then what?”
“Finally,” Clint said, “after she married for the third time and moved to New Zealand with her family, I decided that it might be time to date someone new. So I tried to. But still, to this day, I’m gun-shy.” Clint shifted his weight from foot to foot. “None of my relationships have lasted very long.”
“Hmm.” Grandma sniffed. “Britt knows something about that.”
“Maybe I need piroshkies,” Britt said. If the fried buns stuffed with fillings cured issues of the heart, then Britt ought to place an order for a dozen.
“Same here,” Zander murmured.
“Yes!” Valentina said. Pleasure tinted her cheeks pink in response to the sudden demand for her cooking. “They good for you.”
“None for me, thank you very much.” Grandma looked down her nose. “They trouble my hiatal hernia.”
“At some point along the road,” Clint confided in Britt, “I just figured it was too late . . . that I’d missed my chance at love.”
“It’s never too late for love,” Britt said. “Look at Corbin. He spent years thinking that he’d blown his chance with Willow. Now they’re married.”
“I don’t know. . . .” Uncertainty tweaked Clint’s brow. “It might be better for me to work on my issues through meditation and self-actualization.”
“Self-actualization,” Grandma snapped. “Who cares if we know ourselves better? The point of life is to know God better.”
“Love is in the air, Clint,” Britt insisted. “You’re interested in Nikki, right?”
His eyes softened. “I’m very interested. So much so that I’m preoccupied. I was thinking about her when I was cleaning the Marrowstone room at the inn yesterday and almost forgot to empty the trash cans.”
“Excellent. Not about the trash cans,” Britt clarified. “About your interest in Nikki. Good things are definitely coming your way on the romance front.”
“Dance front?” Valentina asked. “I like ballet.”
“Come along.” Grandma led Clint and Valentina toward the kitchen, where fajitas would soon be served. “I’d like to get a spot near the front of the line.”
“Love is in the air?” Zander asked Britt when the others had passed out of earshot. “What’re you up to?”
“Nikki Clarkson has been hounding me about Clint. I told her I’d get the scoop on his love life.”
“Do you really believe that it’s never too late for love?”
“Sure. What I can’t fathom is how Clint could have stayed true to his first love for the majority of his life.”
“Huh,” Zander said. “Imagine that.”
An hour and a half later, the fajita dinner had been consumed by all, and the Bradford sisters were embroiled in a fierce game of Nertz. Each of them had a handsome man as their team member. Willow had Corbin. Nora had John. Britt had Zander. Their cousin Rachel and her boyfriend, plus one of Dad’s coworkers and his wife also joined them. The remainder of the guests had chosen more sedate games in other areas of the house.
The Nertz group crouched over the breakfast table, barking out words, furiously flipping cards.
“Queen of spades!”
“Six of hearts! Who has six of hearts?”
“Jack of diamonds,” Zander growled. “Anyone?”
Nora and John were losing, but what could you expect out of an academic and a man with impaired vision? John had inherited a rare genetic eye condition. Since he’d started dating Nora, his eyesight had deteriorated slightly; however, he was still able to drive and, for the most part, go about life without many accommodations.
Thanks to Britt’s competitive streak, she often turned activities like yoga into contests. Even so, she and Zander were also losing.
Corbin was way too good for the rest of them. His speed and hand-eye coordination were the stuff of legends. Mere mortals could not hope to compete at Nertz against men who possessed Super Bowl rings.
“Nertz!” Willow called victoriously. Corbin spun her toward him for a kiss.
The rest of them groaned.
“Maybe we should draw names for new partners,” Britt suggested.
“Hey,” Zander said.
Playfulness glimmered in Corbin’s brown eyes. “Can’t take the humiliation of unceasing defeat?”
“I’m proud of the fact that I can’t take the humiliation of unceasing defeat,” Britt answered. “I’d be a doormat if I could take it.”
“I’m keeping my wife as my partner,” Corbin said. “Watching her play Nertz is the highlight of my week.”
“Trivial Pursuit, anyone?” Nora suggested hopefully.
Zander’s cell phone rang and he stepped away to answer. The rest of them took a break to stretch and grab drinks.
Britt had just downed a long sip of iced tea when Zander returned to her, looking shaken.
“What?” she prompted. “Who was it?”
“Carolyn. I asked her to go through Frank’s things a while back. She’s been working on their closet each evening, sorting and organizing.”
“Okay.”
“Frank kept all his shoes in their boxes, two deep, on shelves. Carolyn just opened one of the boxes, took out the shoes, and found a cell phone and charger underneath them.” He gave her a eloquent look. “A cell phone Carolyn’s never seen before.”
Ah! Finally! A potential lead in their search for information on Frank. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go.”
“What about game night?”
“They won’t mind if we leave. Corbin and Willow will still have several poor, unfortunate souls to beat up on.” She went in search of her coat. “We’re going to Carolyn’s.”
Actual number of pages Zander wrote since kissing Britt: None.
Time he spent helping Carolyn: Fifteen hours.
Actual quality of sleep: Tragic.
Running accomplished: Too much.
Food: Too little.