by Meg Muldoon
“I’d love to stay around for another slice, Cin, but I better get back to the shop,” Kara said, standing up and wrapping that glittery green scarf around her neck. “You know, it’s only the beginning of December, but we’re already running short of ornaments. Can you believe that? By Christmas week, we’ll probably have to shutter the place.”
“Doesn’t surprise me in the least,” I said. “Your ornaments are beautiful. Honestly, I don’t know where you find the time these days. Between raising Laila, running the ornament shop, and writing a romance novel… you’re a one-woman show.”
“It’s not as impressive as it sounds. I am missing out on one very important thing this month, Cin.”
She nodded to the corner of the pie shop – to the area where we usually worked on our gingerbread houses for the annual Gingerbread Junction.
“I hope I’m not abandoning you this year. I mean, if you really need a partner, maybe I could squeeze it in—
I shook my head.
“No need to feel bad,” I said. “I mean, I’ll miss having you as my partner at The Junction this year. But I know you’ve got your hands full.”
“Are you still going to enter on your own?” she asked.
I shrugged.
“To tell you the truth, I have my hands pretty full lately, too. You know how busy things have been with the pie food trucks, and the shop here has been crazy lately. Daniel and I still have our Ireland trip to plan for in February. Not to mention Christmas shopping, helping with Warren’s fundraiser at the brewery, and baking all those pies for it. I mean, things are—”
I stopped speaking. My heartbeat had quickened, sounding like torrential rain pounding against a tin roof.
I took in a deep, slow breath, trying to calm down.
Why did the holidays always turn out like this? It seemed like no matter how well I tried to plan in advance, no matter how many moments I took to breathe and center myself, it was always to no avail.
It was already a forgone conclusion that by December 21, I’d be completely frazzled. No doubt running around like a chicken with its head chopped off – baking and cooking and shopping and wrapping and decorating and generally acting nuts.
Which I guess made me just like every other person in the country during the Christmas season.
Kara picked Laila up.
“Maybe it’s time you give someone else a shot to win The Junction, Cin. How many have you won now, anyway?”
I shrugged nonchalantly.
“Eight of ‘em.”
“Well, damn. Stop hogging all the hardware, Cin!”
Kara winked at me.
She started heading toward the door, but then turned back.
“So you really liked the book?”
“I adored it. Absolutely spectacular, Kara. Really magnificent.”
She let out a snort and shook her head.
“You’re getting to be as bad at blowing smoke as your grandfather,” she said. “But I appreciate the compliments. Thanks, Cin.”
She turned to leave again. I reached out and grabbed Laila’s little hand, squeezing it softly.
“Bye, Laila Girl.”
“Bye, Aunt Cinny.”
I smiled at the sweetness in that little angelic voice of hers.
Then I watched as the future bestselling romance author and her daughter headed out of my kitchen and into the crisp, blue December morning.
Chapter 2
I closed my eyes and tilted my face up toward the ashen skies, enjoying the tickling sensation of soft, feathery flakes as they landed on my cold cheeks.
After a long day of standing in front of the oven and mixing up buttery pie dough, it felt indescribably good to be outside. Even if those brilliant blue skies of the morning were now gone, having given way to low-hanging clouds and whisperings of snow this afternoon.
I took a sip of the hot gingerbread latte I’d gotten at the Christmas River Coffee Shack, and let Huckleberry and Chadwick guide me along the path through the woods. Their paws landed with soft thuds on the frozen earth as they trotted along.
The gingerbread latte inevitably got me thinking about the upcoming Gingerbread Junction that I’d officially decided not to enter in this year.
In some ways, it made me a little sad that my life had gotten so busy that I’d have to skip The Junction. For many years there, the competition had been my reason for living. I became damn near obsessed with cookie houses and with becoming the very best at building them.
But lately, that fiery, burning obsession to win big at The Junction had fizzled.
I knew that in some ways, it was a good sign that I was no longer as fanatical about the competition as I used to be. Because the Cinnamon Peters who was dead set on winning every year wasn’t necessarily the happiest version of herself. She was lean, mean, and spent her nights staring up at the ceiling, worrying about everything.
A far cry from my current filled-out, cheerful persona.
Life had been good to me lately and these last few months had, in many ways, been sweeter than any other time in my life. Since the Wes Dulany incident this past September, a lazy, beautiful autumn had passed over Christmas River – an autumn lovelier than any I could remember before. The mornings were cool and frosty, the afternoons were warm and toasty, and the skies were blue nearly every day. The aspens turned early and their golden, vibrant hues lit up the hills and valleys surrounding Christmas River for weeks. The mountain light, always beautiful in fall anyway, also seemed to have a certain special quality to it this season. Low and lazy, it was almost as if the sun itself had been sleepy after working so hard all summer.
Of course, maybe I was the only one to think this fall was special – I’d been pretty content lately, and the nice weather was only part of the reason why.
I smiled to myself, watching as the hard glow of a wintry sunset lit up the pines around me. A light breeze made the trees sway and creak in the wind and I stopped on the path to listen.
As if sensing the special moment, Huckleberry and Chadwick stopped sniffing the brush along the trail and paused, too.
I drew in a deep, greedy breath of the crisp mountain air, feeling it tingle in my lungs.
Yep, content was one way to put it.
In love with life was another.
Chapter 3
I crossed the bridge and followed the trail a ways until it emptied out onto Cascade Avenue. Then I hooked a right and walked along the snow-dusted sidewalk until we arrived at the familiar beige building with the wooden sign. The dogs picked up the pace when they realized where we were going.
I finished off the last of my gingerbread latte and tossed the paper cup into the trashcan outside the building. I readjusted the bulky purse on my shoulder, then pulled back the heavy door and walked in.
I was surprised to see that the normally drab and minimal office had been transformed by cheerful Christmas decorations and cozy lights.
I suspected the lady sitting at the reception desk might have had something to do with the new decorations.
“Hey, Liv. It’s looking great in here.”
The receptionist glanced up from her computer.
She ran a hand through her long red hair, giving me a not-so-subtle once-over.
Olivia Kelley often did that to people. She’d give them a look that was reminiscent of the kind of glare that every mean girl in high school mastered as a way to intimidate other girls. When I first met Liv, I’d found those looks to be unsettling. But in the months since she’d started working the day-shift at the station’s reception and dispatch desk, I’d come to believe that Liv gave those mean girl looks mostly out of habit and not out of malice. I suspected that half the time she didn’t even realize what she was doing.
At least, that was what I wanted to believe. Those looks aside, Liv wasn’t exactly friendly. And even though I came into the Sheriff’s Office at least twice a week, she still treated me with a kind of distant, vague indifference. Like I might have been a run-of-the-mi
ll traffic offender instead of the boss’s wife.
Still, I tried to be understanding. Liv was in her mid-twenties, which might have accounted for some level of immaturity. And while she was beautiful, with large eyes, full lips, and naturally thick eyelashes that certain women would have taken a second mortgage out on their home for, I suspected that there was a deep insecurity lying just beneath the surface. Like so many young people, I was guessing Liv’s façade didn’t match the inside world.
And aside from all that, a few months earlier, I’d heard rumors that Liv, who had moved from Lake Tahoe with her young son, had come to Christmas River to escape an abusive relationship.
I had started going out of my way to be nice to her after hearing that.
“The Sheriff’s on a call right now,” she said tersely, glancing over at Huckleberry and Chadwick with a thinly-veiled expression of disapproval. “But I’ll let him know you’re here.”
She began typing something on her computer.
I fished out one of the paper bags from my purse and set it down on the reception counter.
“Do you want me to take that back to the Sheriff?” she asked, snapping her head back and giving me a steely look. “Because I’m in the middle of something right now and I really don’t have time for—”
I shook my head.
“No, no. This is for you.”
She arched her eyebrows in surprise.
“What? Why?”
“I thought you might be hungry.”
“What is it?” she asked defensively.
I nearly let out a laugh.
“Pie, of course. Fresh from the oven, too. Daniel didn’t know what flavor you liked, but I took a wild guess.”
Liv narrowed her eyes at me.
She looked like a wolf being lured into a trap.
“It’s a slice of my Santa’s Florida Vacation Pie,” I said. “It’s got cranberries, white chocolate, and a creamy key lime curd that’s to die for. It’s a little on the tart side, but this flavor’s one of the most popular ones at my shop this time of year.”
She stared at the paper bag for a long minute.
“I’m doing Whole30 right now,” she said, pushing it back across the counter toward me.
“Whole-what?”
Her lips locked in a hard frown.
“Whole30. You know, the diet?” she said, as if I’d asked a dumb question. “I’m trying to lose weight and if I ate any pie right now, I’d gain, like, a hundred pounds.”
That was another thing about Liv.
Sometimes she talked like one of those mean girls back in high school, too.
But I wasn’t going to let her get out of it so easily.
I pushed the paper bag back toward her.
“Well, I think you look great just the way you are, Liv. And anyway, it’s the holiday season. We all owe it to ourselves to indulge a little bit in the good things this time of year, don’t you think?”
A dinging noise sounded from her computer. She looked down.
“Sheriff’s off the phone now,” she said, her face still fixed in an unfriendly expression.
Liv was proving to be a tough nut to crack, all right.
But I wouldn’t give up.
Some people just needed a little extra work.
“Okay, thanks,” I said.
She refocused her attention on the screen, acting like I’d already left.
Maybe Santa’s Florida Vacation just wasn’t her cup of tea.
I left the reception area with the pooches, passing by Billy Jasper’s desk on the way to Daniel’s office. The young deputy was on the phone and appeared to be in a heated argument with some cell phone company representative about records. He glanced up when I passed and gave me a generous nod.
Billy Jasper probably would have appreciated that slice of pie a lot more.
I got to the office and knocked one long and two short – our usual signal. Then I waited. When no one answered, I opened the door, loosening my grip on the pooches’ leashes and letting them explore the room.
“Daniel?”
It was dark and his desk was empty.
I felt against the wall and flipped on the light switch.
He must have just stepped out. But the way Liv had acted, it seemed as though he was in the middle of a phone call.
I walked over to the desk. Then I brought out the second paper bag from my purse and set it down. I found myself gazing at the last of the sunset out the window.
I never tired of watching sunsets here in Christmas River, especially in the wintertime. It seemed like every evening featured a vivid, spectacular show of cranberry reds and grapefruit pinks and honey yellows and—
The door behind me suddenly slammed shut, sounding like a gunshot.
Chapter 4
A maniacal madman caught me on my way back down to earth.
Soon, he was kissing my neck and laughing like an inmate fresh off of a mental ward jail break.
I let out a gasp, squirming as Daniel hit the ticklish spot between my ribs like the seasoned professional that he was.
“Sheriff Brightman!” I shouted, trying to wiggle free. “Stop that!”
But he just kept tickling me and trying to carry me off in his arms.
“You scared me half to death! What kind of lawman are you? Aren’t you supposed to protect and serve?”
That only made him laugh more. His whole chest shook with it. The dogs, unable to see the humor in what was going on, barked, pawing at their owners who were clearly out of their minds to be attacking each other like this.
“Seriously,” I said, pushing his arms off and tipping back his cowboy hat so that it went flying off his head. “I’m going to take this pie I brought you and run back to the shop if you don’t stop this instant.”
That did the trick.
When it doubt, I was always able to get what I wanted by threatening to take away the man’s pie.
Daniel dropped his hands, gently wrapping me up in his arms.
“I have no choice, then. I’m just going to have to lock you in here until you give me that bag.”
“Kidnapping is a very serious crime, Sheriff.”
“Usually is. But I’m sure Judge Benson would let me off with only a warning after tasting some of this pie. She’d understand why I did what I did.”
I shook my head, stifling a smile, pretending to be steamed.
But I wasn’t, of course.
I hardly ever was mad at Daniel. Even when he acted like a fool.
“What flavor did you bring me today?” he asked, letting me go and picking up his hat off the floor.
He went over to the dogs and gave each of them a couple of good pets to calm them down.
“A new creation,” I said, taking off my red and green plaid jacket and draping it over one of the chairs.
“A new one, you say? Well, give me the rundown, pie lady.”
He walked over to his desk where the paper bag was and took a seat.
“All right. The first thing you’re going to taste is that crackly top layer – which is a salty toffee brown butter crumble. Then a train of flavor is going to hit you in the form of the filling – tart cranberries, brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and just a hint of fresh ginger. Then there’s going to be a sweet burst of white chocolate as you get to the creamy bottom layer. And finally, you’ll hit the crust – a flaky, warm, buttery toasted pecan crust. I call it The Christmas Flynn Pie.”
Daniel appeared to be speechless by the description and I thought I heard his stomach make a low, growling sound.
Though maybe that had been my own stomach grumbling. I couldn’t be sure these days.
Daniel reached for the bag, opened it, and pulled out the plastic container of pie and the fork I’d included. He slid his rolling chair closer to the desk.
I watched as he broke off a big hunk of the pastry with his fork and took an equally large bite. His face fell into a serious expression as he chewed, reminding me of a stern-faced judge from o
ne of those TV cooking competition shows.
“Well?” I said, walking over to him. “What do you think?”
His face lit up like the Meadow Plaza Christmas tree.
“That I am one lucky SOB this afternoon, that’s what I think,” he said. “First, we catch the kid who stole Bertie Mayweather’s wallet at Ray’s Grocery, and now this.”
He took another bite.
Then he slammed his hand down on the desk in approval.
“Mmm, Mmm, Mmm!”
I laughed, shaking my head.
“You’re just trying to get on my good side, Daniel Brightman.”
He reached out, wrapping an arm around my hips and pulling me close.
“Maybe I am. But Cin. This pie is…”
He took another bite. A sappy, gooey look sparkled in his eyes.
He didn’t have to say any more.
“Well, I’m glad. We’re introducing this flavor at the food trucks this week. I just hope the people of Seattle and Portland like it as much as you do.”
“They’d be crazy not to. Say, speaking of crazy people, how’s that old geezer doing with his plans to play superhero for the county foodbank this Sunday?”
I narrowed my eyes at him.
“I thought we had an agreement, Sheriff – that you’d change your ways in the New Year and stop talking about Warren like that.”
“And last I checked it was still December,” he said. “I’ve still got nearly 20 whole days to say whatever I damn well please about the ancient son of a—”
“Daniel!”
I hit him playfully in the shoulder.
He laughed.
“But really, how’s he doing with the party plans? Do you guys need any help? I can send Trumbow or Billy over to help set up if the old man needs it.”
A month earlier, the Pohly County Food Bank had announced that they were facing serious shortages in supplies and funding. At the rate they were going, they said it would be a miracle if they could feed even half of the hungry people in the county this Christmas.
