Always the Baker, Finally the Bride

by Sandra D. Bricker

Emma giggled, throwing a soft little punch against his ribs. “Man up, Drake.” Lifting her head and looking solemnly into his eyes, she promised, “I’ll be worth the wait.”

  “I have no doubt.”

  “Here, put this on when you come out of the shower,” Emma said, handing Hildie a T-shirt bearing the Nike slogan Just do it she’d found in her drawer. “I dried it on the hot setting, and it’s been too small for me ever since, but I didn’t have the heart to throw it out.”

  The girl held up the shirt and grimaced. “You some sort of athlete or something?”

  “Me?” She chuckled. “No. I just like to run.”

  “I never understood people who run just for the sake of running,” Hildie observed. “I only run if I’m being chased or really want to get somewhere.”

  “Well, I run for those reasons too. It’s just sometimes the somewhere I really want to reach is a certain spot on the trail. Or the five-mile mark.”

  “Hmm.” She thought it over for a moment before adding, “I can see that. I guess.”

  “There’s soap, shampoo, and conditioner on the window ledge. I want you to use them all. Okay?”

  “Are you saying I smell?”

  “I’m trying not to say that. So don’t make me, all right?”

  Hildie laughed and nodded. “Okay.”

  “I put clean towels on the counter,” Emma called after her.

  As soon as the bathroom door clicked shut, Emma picked up the mound of clothes Hildie had pulled out of the one small duffle bag she’d retrieved from “the chair room” where she’d hidden it. Two pairs of pants, three T-shirts, one pair of socks, and three panties; this stinky mess was pretty much all the girl had to her name.

  She pulled open the door to the laundry room and started the load of clothes, wondering what in the world she would do with Hildie once she cleaned her up and gave her a good breakfast in the morning.

  “Daddy?” she asked as soon as her father answered the phone. “Did I wake you?”

  “Am I really that old that you worry about waking me at nine thirty at night?”

  Emma snickered. “Sorry.”

  “What’s cookin’, Emmy?”

  “I’ve had the most extraordinary day.”

  It took a full fifteen minutes to tell about her meeting with Hildie, the discovery of her dire circumstances, and Emma’s desire to do something to help without having a clue what that would be.

  “You’ll have to call social services,” her dad stated. “The system is no doubt a scary place for a young girl, but it’s the first step toward finding her a good foster home, and maybe even getting her adopted.”

  “That’s what I want for her,” Emma replied. “A family.”

  “Your mother does some charity work with one of those organizations. Homeless Children’s Fund, or Save the Homeless Kids, something like that. I’ll talk to her in the morning, and maybe we can get you a contact, someone to call to help the girl out.”

  “Thank you, Daddy.”

  “I love you, sweet girl.”

  “Love you, too.”

  Emma placed the phone in its dock just as Hildie emerged from the hall, drowning in the too-big T-shirt, most of her hair wrapped in a terry cloth towel.

  “Was that Prince Charming on the phone? Calling to see if I’d made off with the silver or something?”

  Emma chuckled. “No. That was my father.”

  Hildie’s eyes grew somewhat hazy as she considered the words. “That’s nice. You have a dad to call you up and say he loves you.” After a moment, she added, “What’s that like?”

  “It’s pretty great,” Emma replied with a grin. “Most of the time. Other times, family isn’t really all it’s cracked up to be. Grab my comb from the bathroom counter and come over here. I’ll help you with your hair.”

  “Thanks, but I know how to do it myself.”

  “Just get the comb and sit your fanny down in front of me.”

  Hildie shrugged and retrieved the comb. Emma tossed a cushion to the floor and pointed at it until the girl plopped down on top of it.

  “Sheesh. Bossy, aren’t you?” Hildie observed.

  “Yes.”

  Emma pulled the towel from Hildie’s head and tossed it to the floor beside her. The tangled mop of wet curls fell over the girl’s small shoulders, and she cried out as Emma tried to pull the comb through.

  “Ease up on the pulling!”

  “Oh, suck it up,” Emma teased, as she gently worked at the tangles, one section at a time.

  “Hey, you know, I really like your friend at the hotel. Fee.”

  “Oh yeah? She’s pretty great, isn’t she?” Emma asked.

  “I like her tattoos. And that little diamond in her nose.”

  “Fiona is one of a kind.”

  “Is that her whole name? Fiona? I like that.”

  “What about you?” Emma inquired. “What’s Hildie short for?”

  “You’ll laugh.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Yes, you will. Everyone does.”

  “I’ll bet I can guess,” Emma sang.

  “Nope. You can’t.”

  The comb made it through the first section of hair, and Emma moved on to the next.

  “Hildegarde.”

  “Eww. No.”

  “Hilda?”

  “No.”

  “Hildarette?”

  They both laughed at that.

  “What’s your whole name? Is it just Emma, or is that short for something?”

  “Oh no you don’t,” Emma cried. “Not until you tell me yours.”

  “Well, you’re never going to guess, so I might as well tell you.”

  “You might as well.”

  When she delayed, Emma yanked playfully on her hair. “Come on, Hildarama. Fess up.”

  Hildie clicked her tongue and sighed. “Brunhilda.”

  “Brunhilda,” Emma repeated. “Oh, dear.”

  “I know. Awful, isn’t it?”

  “Well . . . that’s a pretty big name to lay on a little baby.”

  “Don’t I know it. My mom’s parents were German. It’s big in Germany, I guess. It’s supposed to mean ‘ready for battle’ or something.”

  “Well, that describes you perfectly, Brunhilda.”

  “Don’t call me that, okay?”

  Emma chuckled. “Okay. Sorry.”

  “Your turn.”

  “Emma Rae.”

  Hildie thought it over, tried it out once. “Emma Rae.” With a slight shrug to one shoulder, she gave her approval. “I guess that’s pretty good.”

  “I live with it.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  Jackson stalked into the office, then nearly screeched to a halt. He’d expected to find Bree—like the cheese—sitting behind Susannah’s reception desk. Instead, an orange-haired elderly woman with thick glasses looked back at him.

  “Hello,” she said. “You must be Mr. Drake?”

  “Jackson. And you are?”

  “Mavis Duncan,” the woman replied. “At your service.”

  “Where’s Bree?”

  “Is that the other secretary? I guess she quit. The service sent me instead.”

  Jackson stared at her just long enough to be rude. “Oh,” he finally replied. “Are you . . . finding everything okay?”

  “Just dandy. Two messages next to your phone, and a cup of hot apple cider on your desk.”

  “Hot . . . what?”

  “Cider.”

  “I just like coffee. But thank you for—”

  “No,” she said, and she blinked her large eyes behind the haze of the thickest lenses Jackson had ever seen. “Oh, no. You won’t be drinking coffee anymore, Mr. Drake. Jackson.”

  He snickered. “Oh, Mavis, I think I will.”

  “No, no,” she answered. “Do you have any idea what coffee can do to your body? Too much of it increases your loss of bone mineral density. Too much caffeine speeds up osteoporosis. Oh, I could go on all day. But while I’m he
re, you won’t be drinking any more—”

  Jackson split her words right in two as he closed the door to his office behind him and headed straight for the phone to dial the number from the card Susannah had tucked into his business-card holder.

  “Yes. Miss Delbert, this is Jackson Drake at The Tanglewood Inn. I know you’re a friend of Susannah’s, and you’ve been trying to place someone to take care of things while she’s out of town.”

  “Yes, Mr. Drake. Please call me Cheryl. I’m very sorry about Bree. But how is Mavis working out for you?” she asked.

  “She’s not, Cheryl.”

  “Oh. I’m . . . sorry.”

  “You’ll take care of that for me, won’t you, Cheryl?”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll get right on it.”

  “Good. And I’d like her replaced with someone relatively normal, Cheryl. Can you do that for me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very good. I’ll let Mavis know that she can be on her way now.”

  Jackson breathed in deeply as he hung up the phone. He leaned back into the chair and released the breath slowly, his eyes closed. The moment he’d expelled the last of it, he rose to his feet and closed the gap between the desk and the door. He took another deep breath as he opened it.

  “Mavis?”

  “Yes, Jackson?”

  “Thanks for coming in. But you can go now.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “No need. But you should go. Right now. Thank you.”

  He closed the door, but then waited and listened. After a long moment of silence, he heard Mavis grunt as she rattled her belongings together and stomped out of the office.

  “Couldn’t I come and live with you?”

  Fee’s eyes popped wide, and she glanced at Emma in distress.

  “Hildie, I know this is a little scary for you,” Emma said softly, “but my mother knows this woman very well. Mrs. Troy is going to take very good care of you until they can place you in a safe foster home.”

  “But why can’t I just go home with Fee?” Hildie’s chestnut eyes flashed with fear, and she turned toward Fee. “I won’t be any trouble, I promise. I’ll be good as gold. You’ll see. I can do it.”

  “Look, Hildie,” Fee said on a sigh. “I like you just fine. Actually, you’re the nicest kid I’ve met. But Sean and I live in a pretty small house. I don’t know where we’d put you.”

  “I’m little. I don’t take up much room. What about you, Emma? Couldn’t I live with you?”

  Emma scuffed a stool up next to Hildie’s and sat on it. Taking the girl’s hand and shaking it, she said, “You know, I think it’s great that you relate to Fee this way. And you know I’m just crazy about you.”

  “Then why can’t—”

  “Because we need to do this the right way. There are families out there who are completely set up for someone like you, Hildie. Places where you’ll have your own bedroom, and you’ll go to school, and you’ll come home to someone who can help you with your homework. Mrs. Troy is going to find you the perfect place.”

  “Right,” Fee chimed in as she removed her apron and laid it across the edge of the table. “You’ll get three hot squares and the whole family deal. It’s important for a kid your age.”

  The girl’s eyes brimmed with tears, and she glared at Emma.

  “I hate you,” she snapped. “I wish I never met you.”

  She suddenly tore out of the kitchen, leaving the door flapping behind her.

  “Want me to go?” Fee asked with a nod.

  “No. I’ll go,” Emma said as she checked her cell phone. “But if Mrs. Troy comes while I’m gone, text me?”

  “Here!” Fee called after her, and she rushed to the doorway and tucked a napkin-draped pecan tassie into Emma’s hand. “They’re her faves.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Fee shrugged and pushed her black glasses up the bridge of her nose. “She helped me prep the tearoom trays. We bonded. Maybe it will help you lure her out.”

  “What, like a hungry cat?”

  “Yeah. Like that.”

  Emma shrugged and turned to leave.

  “Be careful you don’t get mauled. We’ve got a party of eight for tea at noon.”

  Tearoom Pecan Tassies

  Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

  Tassie shells:

  1 cup softened butter

  6 ounces softened cream cheese

  2 cups all-purpose flour

  Pecan filling:

  1 egg, beaten

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  A pinch of salt

  ¾ cup light brown sugar

  ¾ cup chopped pecans

  Required: 12-cup pan designed for miniature muffins

  Beat butter and cream cheese until creamy.

  Add flour in four parts, blending smoothly each time.

  Pinch off pieces of dough (about the size of a

  pecan in the shell).

  Press dough into bottom and sides of miniature muffin tins.

  Mix filling ingredients together.

  Pour into prepared tassie shells, about two-thirds

  of the way full.

  Bake for 20-25 minutes.

  Cool completely while still in the pan.

  9

  I’ve looked everywhere, and I can’t find her.”

  Jackson watched Emma pace in front of the window. She didn’t lose it very often, but when she did, pacing was usually involved.

  He noticed the paper napkin cupped cautiously in her hand.

  “What have you got there? Is that one of those pecan pies you make for the tearoom?” he asked, nodding toward the tiny pastry in her hand. “Is it for me?”

  “It’s for Hildie, Jackson. Focus.”

  “Did you check the storage room?” he suggested, diverting his attention from the pecan delicacy calling his name. “Isn’t that where she likes to hide?”

  “That was the first place I looked. I’ve been all over this hotel and—” The jingle of her phone stopped her, mid-word. She looked at the screen and groaned. “And now Mrs. Troy is here to pick her up, and I’ve lost her. I’ve lost Hildie, Jackson.”

  He got up and went to her, placing a firm arm around her shoulder. Both of them stood there silently, looking out over the sunlit town of Roswell.

  “She’ll turn up,” he whispered as he pulled Emma closer. “Ask Fee to send the woman up here to my office, and we’ll have a discussion about what comes next.”

  Emma tipped her head, looked up at him, and sighed. “You’re a very calming influence. Are you aware of that?”

  “It’s a gift,” he teased.

  “Well, it’s a good one.” Emma dialed a number on her cell phone as she asked, “Where’s Bree this morning?”

  “Who?”

  “Bree. The girl filling in for Susannah.”

  “Oh,” Jackson groaned, turning back to his desk and flopping down into the desk chair. “Bree-like-the-cheese left me after her first day.”

  “Why? What did you do?” His objection waylaid by the phone in her hand, Emma blurted, “Fee. Will you ask Mrs. Troy to come up to Jackson’s office, please? . . . Thanks so much. Let me know if you see Hildie.” She pressed the button to end the call and picked up where she had left off. “If you call Cheryl Delbert, I’m sure she can get someone over here.”

  “I did that. She sent Mavis.”

  “Mavis? I didn’t see anyone at the desk when I came in.”

  “No. I sent Mavis over to Bree’s house.”

  “You did?” One corner of her mouth twitched as she arched an eyebrow and looked at him. “She was that bad?”

  “Worse.”

  “Are you sure you’re not just looking for Susannah, Jackson? Because anyone and everyone will pale by comparison if you—”

  “She told me I wasn’t going to drink coffee anymore, Emma.”

  “She what?”

  “Yeah,” he said, and he shook his head and chuckled. “She brought me apple cider
instead.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “Oh, yes. She was very clear about that.”

  After thinking it over, Emma asked, “Was it good? The cider?”

  He wondered if she might be joking. “I don’t know.”

  “You didn’t taste it?”

  “No, Emma,” he chided, semi-horrified that she would ask.

  Really? Did I taste it?

  “You don’t have to get ornery with me, Jackson. I just wondered. I mean, honestly, it wouldn’t kill you to drink a little less coffee now and then.”

  Jackson straightened and stared at her until she flinched.

  “Fine. Sorry. Poor you. Cider. Are they going to send someone else over?”

  He narrowed his eyes and continued to stare her down for a few beats before he shook his head back to the moment. “Yes.”

  “Well, chin up, Jackson. I’m sure this one will be a regular coffee-drinking joe who types a hundred words per minute and rivals Susannah in every way. You know, I’m having lunch with my mother and Aunt Sophie today. Maybe one of them can fill in.”

  She grinned at him, and his lips had just parted with a retort when a soft knock sounded at the office door and a smartly dressed African American woman stepped in.

  “Mrs. Troy?” Emma greeted her. “Thank you so much for coming. I’m Emma Rae Travis, and this is the owner of the hotel, Jackson Drake.”

  “The hotel is lovely,” she commented, shaking their hands. “I almost don’t blame the child for wanting to call it home. Where is she?”

  Emma chuckled. “That’s the question of the hour. When I told her you were coming, she took off again, and we haven’t been able to locate her.”

  “We feel fairly certain she’s still in the hotel somewhere,” Jackson added. “And we’ve got the cavalry out searching. Meanwhile, though, we thought we could have a conversation with you about the next steps for her welfare.”

  “Hildie,” Emma remarked. “Her name is Hildie.”

  “Why don’t you sit down, Mrs. Troy,” Jackson suggested. “Can we get you some coffee?”

  “No, thank you,” she said as she sat in one of the chairs opposite Jackson’s desk. “I’ve gone way over my limit of caffeine already today. Why don’t you tell me what you know about Hildie’s circumstances? Then we can address your questions, and I’ll answer them the best I can.”