“This is going to be awesome,” Emma predicted.
Jamie wasn’t so sure about that, but she decided to try to keep an open mind. No opportunity to do a good deed presented itself between the Chocolate Bar and home. In fact, nothing at all happened between the Chocolate Bar and home. Everyone was behaving at the four-way stop, probably because she’d missed rush hour. No person in need crossed her path. No cop, either, thank God. Naturally, she didn’t run into the big, bad cop because she now had her taillight fixed. If she hadn’t, of course he’d have been right behind her like a hound on the scent of a terrified fox.
Tomorrow would be soon enough to do something nice, she decided. Tomorrow she would send her mom some chocolates, just because. Mom was as bad a chocoholic as Sarah. She’d love it.
Jamie was in her shop kitchen by five the next day, making ganache. Before opening at ten she had chocolates to dip and decorate and fruit to enrobe, and she had to fill the espresso machine with beans and make her dark and white truffle shots and hot chocolate. By the time Clarice, her counter help, showed up, she was ready for a break, so she decided to go put her mom’s surprise in the mail. Just before she left for the post office, it occurred to her that simply sending chocolates to her mom didn’t really qualify as a good deed, so she filled a little plate for Carolyn the postmaster and her assistant Walter. If any pair deserved a good deed it was those two. They knew every one of their post office patrons by name as well as their dogs, and Carolyn always kept treats on hand to give to her four-legged visitors.
Carolyn saw the plate of truffles and her eyes lit up behind her glasses. “What have we got here?”
“A little something to thank you guys for working so hard,” said Jamie.
“All right,” said Walter, leaning over from where he was sorting letters into mailboxes and grabbing one.
Noting the bit of belly beginning to sneak over Walter’s belt, Jamie couldn’t help but wonder if this really qualified as a good deed. Walter’s wife, who tried to watch his weight, would probably come into the shop and club her with a scale.
“That was really sweet of you,” said Carolyn as she weighed Jamie’s goody package for Mom.
Jamie shrugged. “Just trying to keep that small-town feeling alive. In fact, Emma Swanson, Sarah Goodwin, and I are starting a movement.”
“A movement?” Carolyn looked at her like Jamie was about to try to lure her into some strange cult.
“Yeah. We’re going to try and encourage everyone to do one nice thing for somebody every day.”
“Kind of like paying it forward?” asked Walter, reaching for another chocolate. Carolyn moved it out of range and he pouted.
“Something like that,” said Jamie. “You know, help keep the heart in Heart Lake.”
“That’s a great idea,” said Carolyn as Jamie handed over her money.
“So, what do we have to do?” asked Walter.
“Anything,” Jamie told him. “Let somebody go ahead of you in the checkout line, change a flat tire for someone—whatever comes to mind.”
“That could be kind of fun,” he said. “How long are we doing this?”
“We’re not exactly thinking of putting an expiration date on it.”
Walter shook his head. “People will never keep it up.”
Jamie conveniently forgot that she had thought the exact same thing. “You never know. Maybe it will become a habit.”
“It sounds like a good habit to me,” said Carolyn. And as Jamie left the post office, she heard Carolyn say to the next person in line, “Let’s start right now. Would you like one of my truffles, Mrs. Gormsley?”
“Chocolates?”
Jamie looked over her shoulder and saw one of Heart Lake’s senior citizens with her fingers poised over the plate, a smile on her face. That felt good. She could get into this. So, what else could she do?
Gift jars. She and Emma could fill quart-sized Mason jars with candies or cocoa mix, decorate them with cute lids, and randomly give them away to anyone who looked tired or down or stressed. That would be fun. Maybe they could make a bunch and take them around to the residents at Senior Gardens.
She called Emma at the quilt shop to share her idea.
“Emma’s Quilt Corner,” snarled Emma.
“It’s me. Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Emma said with a sigh. “I just let Shirley Schultz make off with half a yard of free fabric and two spools of colored thread.”
“Oh. The woman who never remembers her checkbook.”
“That would be the one. We’re like Lucy and Charlie Brown with the football. Wouldn’t you think I’d get smart?”
Jamie decided that was probably a rhetorical question. “At least it wasn’t much.”
“It all adds up,” Emma said, sounding grumpy.
“Look at it this way. There’s your random act of kindness for the day.”
“It wasn’t random, it was planned. And a good deed isn’t much of a good deed if you feel like you were tricked into it.”
“Then tell yourself you’re not being tricked,” reasoned Jamie. “You know what’s coming.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Emma said. “Maybe I’m just tired of getting suckered by old ladies. It doesn’t feel very noble.”
“Well, then, have I got a deal for you,” Jamie said, and explained her idea.
“Oh, I love it!” gushed Emma. “Let’s start tonight.”
“Why not? You bring the material; I’ll go scrounge jars from Aunt Sarah. I know she’s got a ton in her basement.”
“And I’ll pick up a pizza.”
“Great. You can count that as your good deed for the day,” said Jamie. “My fridge is empty and I’m broke.”
“Me, too,” said Emma. “But I’m so far in the hole, what’s another inch?”
Emma hung up feeling excited again. Jamie was right, of course. Helping Shirley was a good thing to do, and she shouldn’t take the shine off the act of kindness by feeling resentful. The small amount of merchandise Shirley got away with wasn’t going to make or break her. Her meager supply of customers was going to do that.
No negative thinking, she told herself sternly, and no more bad attitude. From now on she was going to help anyone and everyone and not worry about feeling tricked or taken advantage of. And she’d keep her eyes open for more ways to help others.
She didn’t have to keep them open for long. After an evening of topping jar lids with fabric and ribbon at Jamie’s little lake shack, she bolted from her car to her duplex under a deluge of rain. As she unlocked the door, she heard a pitiful yowl. She peered around in an attempt to locate it. There it was again, just off to the right of the porch. Bending over and looking under the juniper bush, she saw two green cat eyes peering back at her. The animal gave a low-throated rumble.
“Oh, kitty. Why aren’t you home and out of the rain?” she cooed.
The cat explained with another yowl, this time softer, like it was now too low on energy to cry for help.
Now here, indeed, was an act of kindness waiting to happen. “Oh, poor thing.” She bent over and held out a hand. “Come here, sweetie.”
The cat backed up with a growl.
“Of course you’re afraid,” she explained to both of them. She unlocked her door and opened it. “You want in?”
The cat didn’t respond. Its mama had probably told it never to talk to strangers.
Emma sighed. It was hard to be kind when the animal you were trying to help wanted no part of you. “Okay, wait there,” she said. She went inside, ran to the kitchen, and found a can of tuna in the cupboard. She opened it, then went back to the porch and set it down on the welcome mat. “There you go. Maybe that will help.”
Sure the cat wouldn’t come out of hiding until she was gone, she stepped back inside and shut the door. She couldn’t see from the peephole in the door or her front window. She hoped the cat was enjoying its feast. One thing she knew for sure, she’d enjoyed offering it.
She washe
d up, threw on her pajamas, and climbed into bed. She was just drifting off when she remembered that Tess was supposed to pay for the land she won in her latest land auction.
Tess could wait.
SIX
Sarah took weekends off. Sweet Somethings Bakery was closed on Sundays, and on Saturdays she left the bakery in the capable hands of Chrissy Carroll and Amber Howell. Amber would come in at five and turn herself into Sarah, baking up a storm. Then Chrissy would arrive at seven and together they’d handle the morning breakfast rush of Heart Lakers looking for quiche and Sarah’s famous scones—a rush that started the second they opened their doors at eight. And while things were humming at the bakery, Sarah and Sam, who managed to be home at least part of the weekend, would enjoy a quick bout of middle-aged sex, followed by Sam’s breakfast specialty: scrambled eggs and toast. It was the only thing he could make, but it was something, and Sarah never discouraged him.
Except this Saturday. This Saturday she was as disgruntled with scrambled eggs as she was with middle-aged Saturday-morning sex. It might have had something to do with the fact that another Saturday tradition was suddenly lacking: no granddaughters coming over in the afternoon to bake cookies.
“It wouldn’t hurt you to learn how to make coffee cake,” she grumped to Sam. “Or pancakes. Pancakes are easy.”
He frowned. “Eggs are good for you. They stick with you all day.”
“They especially stick to your arteries,” Sarah informed him without so much as a smile. She watched as he randomly shoved the plates into the dishwasher. Without rinsing them, even though she’d told him a million times over the last thirty-five years that, no matter what the manufacturer told you, you really had to rinse the dishes first or the food would bake on. They’d married young. He should have been trainable, for crying out loud.
She got up from the washed-oak kitchen table, scowling, and trudged to the dishwasher. “Here. If you’re not going to do it right I may as well load the dishes.” Maybe some good, old-fashioned guilt would motivate him to respect the Sarah Goodwin Dish Loading Method.
She supposed she could just load the dishes and shut up and let it be her good deed for the day, but she’d already faked an orgasm. That should count for a whole week’s worth of acts of kindness.
Sam scowled back at her. “What is with you? I haven’t seen you this grumpy since Kizzy beat you out in the Fourth of July pie-baking contest.”
“I am not grumpy,” she snapped, and then burst into tears. “Yes I am. I’m sorry.”
Sam pulled her into a big bear hug. “I know you miss the girls, babe, but it’ll be Christmas before you know it and they’ll be back.”
“Only for a visit.” Sarah sniffled. “I’m grandchildless.”
“No you’re not. They’re just in a different location.”
“The house is so empty,” she continued.
“So, let’s go to the pound and get a dog,” Sam suggested.
“Oh, leave it to a man who is gone half the week to suggest getting something to housebreak,” Sarah said in disgust ending their embrace. “And how can you compare a dog to a grandchild?”
“They both make messes?” he guessed.
“That is not funny, and it’s not funny that the girls are growing up without their nana.”
“The girls have been gone a week, and you’ve talked to them on the phone every day.”
“It’s not the same as having them here.” Sarah threw up her hands in frustration. “What is the point of surviving parenthood if you don’t get to enjoy being a grandparent? And what’s the point of having all this baking knowledge if I don’t have someone to share it with?” She turned back to the sink and scowled out the kitchen window at the gray sky hanging over the lake.
“You share it with me,” Sam said, hugging her from behind. “In fact, it’s kind of nice to have the house all to ourselves, dontcha think? Like being newlyweds again,” he added, a hand sneaking up toward her breast. “I might get to see more of my wife now that she’s not always running off to babysit and bake cookies.”
Sarah squirmed away. “You are not listening to a word I’m saying.”
“Yeah, I am,” he insisted. “But maybe we’re headed into a new phase. Let’s just relax and see where it leads.”
She crossed her arms. “I already don’t like where it’s leading.” She was going to be a stranger to her grandchildren at this rate.
Sam frowned. “So, go find some kid to bake with. Aren’t you looking for ways to pay it forward? You shouldn’t have trouble finding a kid somewhere in this town who likes oatmeal cookies,” he added, pulling the half-read copy of the Heart Lake Herald from the kitchen table and making for the living room.
“Where are you going? What happened to doing the dishes?” she called after him.
“I’m saving you the trouble and firing myself,” he called back.
“You are not funny. Not even remotely.” She abandoned the dishes and left the kitchen. If he thought she was even going near a dish on her day off he was delirious.
But what was she going to do? She decided to work on her quilts. She went to her craft room and pulled out the fabric she’d bought at Emma’s shop.
Fabric wasn’t the only thing she’d gotten. Quilting was a hungry hobby that ate lots of money. She’d also purchased batting, a cutting mat, fabric-marking pencils, a quilting hoop, a quilting thimble, safety pins, and a rotary cutter. But it had been worth the cost. The girls would have special quilts to curl up under and remember their nana. She sighed and set to work measuring and making her squares. Emma had suggested starting with something simple, so Sarah was putting together two twin-sized quilts made with the traditional four-patch blocks. She should have them done by Christmas.
But Christmas of what year? Two hours later, she straightened up, cracking half a dozen vertebrae in the process, and looked at the pile of squares in front of her. “You’re making progress,” she told herself. Slow progress, but that was the way of all artistic creations. Whether they were made from flour, sugar, and eggs or out of fabric, works of art took time.
They also gave a girl an appetite. She needed fortification. She went to the kitchen in search of coffee and a cookie. She could hear the sound of hammering coming from the garage, which meant Sam was working in his shop.
She filled a mug and wandered over to the living room window. The early-morning clouds had moved on and now the sun was out and making the lake sparkle like a gigantic sapphire. When she was a child her parents had owned a cabin on the water. They sold it after the first permanent residence made its appearance, trading the place in on some property at the ocean. But Sarah always loved the lake, and when she and Sam married, they moved there. They couldn’t afford to be on the water, so they wound up across from it, and because the houses on her side of the street were slightly uphill, they still got a view. The neighborhood was friendly and the street was quiet, except for the occasional noisy barbecue. And she and Sam were usually present for those, contributing to the noise, so who cared?
Today Anna Grueber was out walking her schnauzer, Otto. Across the street the Morioka boy was raking leaves. And a U-Haul moving van was pulling up in front of the corner lakefront rambler that she and Sam had considered buying. They’d been too slow, so she’d heaved a mental shrug and reminded herself that she was perfectly happy with her lovely view.
Still, she’d been curious to see who beat her to the punch. She’d heard the new people were supposed to move in after the first of November. They must have fudged the moving date a little. She craned her neck for a better look.
Another car pulled up behind the U-Haul—an old beater of some kind. American made. Sam would know the make and model in an instant. Out spilled two young men who looked to be somewhere in their thirties. Another young family. Great. But where were the women?
The U-Haul cab door opened now and out stepped a middle-aged man. He was short and square with salt-and-pepper hair and was wearing jeans and a leather b
omber jacket. He walked over to one of the young men and clapped him on the back, and for a moment all three stood surveying the house. Where were the women?
The men sprang to life, opening the moving truck, letting down the hydraulic lift. She tried to get a better look at what might be inside and banged her forehead on the window. Maybe the missus was coming in another car. Maybe she’d be showing up any minute and wondering what kind of neighborhood she’d moved into.
This was a perfect opportunity to keep the small-town spirit alive. Sarah hurried to the kitchen and pulled out the recipe for her coveted huckleberry coffee cake from the old, wooden recipe box that had been her mother’s. Then she got to work.
She was pouring batter into the pan when Sam ambled into the kitchen. “Looks like we’ve got new neighbors,” he said, peering over her shoulder into the bowl.
“Did you meet them?”
He looked at her like she’d suggested something ridiculous. “No. They’re trying to get moved in.”
“You could go offer to help.”
“Nah. Looks like they’re almost done.” He dipped a finger in the batter.
“I know you didn’t wash your hands,” she scolded.
“Germs are good for you,” he retorted, and stuck his batter-dipped finger in his mouth. “When will this be done?”
“In about a half hour,” she said. “But don’t get excited. It’s not for us.”
“It figures,” he said, his voice frosted with disappointment. “Let me guess. It’s for the new neighbors.”
“I thought it would be a nice way to welcome them to the neighborhood.”
“And to get inside the house and see what’s going on,” Sam teased.
“Ha ha, very funny,” she said, pretending to be offended. “And that’s not why I’m making this.”
“Right,” he said with a knowing nod.
Okay, so she did want to get in and see what was going on with the new neighbors. But she also wanted to be nice. Taking a little something to new neighbors was exactly what the Have a Heart campaign was about. It was a sure way to keep that smalltown friendliness.
Angel Lane Page 5
