Jamie had always been the last one picked when her friends were choosing teams for softball or kickball, and she’d never been the one her fellow students fought over when it was time for a group science project. But she was always the one they called to hang out with when they wanted to attract boys. Or when they got a flat tire. Her dad had taught her how to change a tire when she got her driver’s license, and had followed up the lesson with the occasional surprise drill. She could still change a tire in her sleep.
Or in the rain. As she pulled in front of the car she saw the driver behind the foggy windows: an older woman—probably not someone who had changed a lot of tires.
As Jamie went to the other car, a cold finger of water slipped down her neck. She did her best to ignore it and the shiver it produced and tapped on the driver’s side window. The woman lowered it cautiously. “If you’ve got a spare in your trunk I can get you back on the road in ten minutes.”
“That’s sweet of you, but I’ll be fine.”
“Have you got Triple A or something?” asked Jamie. Although how she’d call them on this stretch of road with its zero cell phone reception was a mystery.
“I do, but I don’t have one of those portable phones. I’m sure some man will come along soon and help me.”
“Well, there’s no need to wait for a man,” said Jamie. “I’ve been changing tires since I was sixteen. Pop your trunk.”
“It’s so nasty out,” protested the woman.
Tell me about it. “It sure is, and you don’t want to sit here any longer than you have to,” Jamie informed her, and started walking to the trunk.
It popped open and she pulled out the spare along with the tire jack. By the time she had them the woman was out in the rain with her, her gray hair quickly sopped and flattened to her head, her coat collar pulled up around her neck.
“You can wait in the car,” Jamie told her. “No sense both of us getting wet.”
“What if it tips?” the woman fretted. “No, I’ll wait here with you.”
Jamie had no desire to get wetter and colder arguing with the woman, so she got to work. There were no streetlights out here, but she managed with the help of her car headlights and the little flashlight on her key chain. She had the car jacked up and the hubcap off and was just wrestling with the second lug nut when a car pulled up behind her, its headlights shining on her work. Flashing red and blue lights added extra color.
She knew, before she even looked over her shoulder, who was getting out of that patrol car, ruining her perfect, undiluted good deed.
TWELVE
Jamie ignored the crunch of heavy male feet on the gravel of the road shoulder and unscrewed another lug nut.
“Could you ladies use some help?” rumbled a deep voice.
“Oh, Officer, thank you,” breathed the older woman.
“I think we’ve got it under control,” said Jamie, maintaining her position in front of the tire.
“Obviously, you do,” said Josh Armstrong, squatting next to her.
Those big hands of his drew her gaze like a magnet. They were large, capable hands with squared-off fingers. Once upon a time she’d been a sucker for a man with strong, capable hands like those, but no more. And who cared if he had big shoulders? What was so sexy about big shoulders, anyway? His legs were massive. (Why was she looking?) There was probably nothing small anywhere on Josh Armstrong.
With that last thought her sex drive took over, driving her crazy. I am not attracted to this man, shouted her brain, trying desperately to call her wandering hormones back to the reservation. And now her nerves were getting into the act. Here it came. No, no, no! She clamped down an upcoming hiccup and about tore apart her esophagus.
“That’s a nice coat you’re wearing,” he said, pointing to her light green raincoat. “Do you really want to get it dirty to prove a point?”
She was being stupid. She stood up and stepped away from the tire. “Have at it.” To the woman she said, “I’m leaving you in good hands now.” That sounded hokey, but it was probably true. This man really did seem like one of the good guys.
Except you never knew with people. Grant had seemed like a good guy, too. And he was, except when he was stressed, when he was drinking, and when he lost his temper, which added up to about ninety-eight percent of their time together.
“Thank you so much for stopping,” the woman said to her. “You’re proof that there are still good people in the world. You, too, Officer,” she added.
“All in the line of duty, ma’am,” he said. He pulled off the tire as if it were no more than a bottle cap. The Incredible Hulk.
“I hope you don’t catch cold,” the woman said to Jamie.
“I won’t,” Jamie assured her. “I’m tough. Good night.”
She got in her car and drove off. Josh the cop wouldn’t be stopping her for anything tonight. By the time he got done with that tire, she’d be home and in a hot bath. A sudden image of two bodies in a steamy shower popped into her head. She kicked them out to go freeze in the rain.
“Before I take off,” Clarice said to Jamie as she settled in for her weekly chocolate fest with Emma and Sarah, “I’ve got something for you.” She laid a small, green envelope on the table and nudged it toward Jamie.
“What’s this?” asked Jamie, picking it up.
“Well, remember how Borg’s boss was gonna fire him?”
How could she forget? Only the promise of extra hours if she needed them had kept Clarice from self-medicating with all the chocolate in the store.
“He gave Borg one last chance. He said Borg could thank you guys.” Clarice beamed. “So, thanks from Borg. And that’s from me,” she told Jamie.
Jamie opened the envelope and found a gift card for Something You Need, her favorite local gift shop.
“Wow,” breathed Emma as Clarice went out the door. “This is working. Slowly but surely, it’s working.”
“Maybe,” Jamie said thoughtfully, and took a sip of her chocolate tea.
It would be nice. She’d never been much of a mover and shaker. In high school she’d been more of a good-time girl, sneaking off to parties where parents cultivated blindness while their teens cultivated a taste for beer, hanging out at the mall, or trying her best to be a surfer girl—not easy when you were a klutz, but she managed to work the bikini part. The way she stuffed a bikini had earned her a string of well-muscled boyfriends who liked fast cars and fast times. By the end of her twenties she’d outgrown her bad-boy phase, but she still remained a sucker for a nice sixpack.
Grant had possessed a superb set. He’d been a real man’s man and she liked his toughness as much as he liked her smart mouth—both things they hated about each other when their relationship soured.
Emma was saying something. Jamie pulled herself back to the present. “What?”
“I saw one of your truffle goody jars yesterday. A woman was at Safeway walking up and down the checkstands, handing the candy in them out to the checkers.”
“No way.”
Emma nodded. “Way. Someone had given it to her and she decided to share. I asked her what she was going to do with the jar when it was empty and she said she was going to fill it with bubble bath and take it to her neighbor who’s just about to get a cast off her foot. The neighbor has been counting the days till she can have a bath again. Is that awesome or what?”
Jamie had to admit it was. “You know, this is the best time of my life. I mean, I’m actually doing something with it.” She smiled at Emma and Sarah through eyes suddenly teary. “It feels good.” Emma opened her mouth, and Jamie pointed a warning finger at her. “And don’t you dare turn this into one of your movie moments with some sappy quote.”
Emma shut her mouth and frowned.
“Well, I’m almost wishing I’d thought of something like your gift jar instead of what I’m about to do,” said Sarah.
“I think your baking class for girls is a great idea,” said Emma.
“We’ll see,” said Sar
ah. “Some things work better in your head than in reality.”
“You don’t exactly sound excited. What happened?” asked Jamie.
“Oh, nothing really,” Sarah said with a half shrug. “Betty Bateman signed up her granddaughter.”
Both Jamie’s eyebrows shot up. “The motormouth from down the street? Oh, my gosh. Does her grandkid talk as much as she does?”
Sarah sighed. “I hope not. As it is, I’ll be lucky if I can get Betty off my doorstep so I can start the class.” She took another long drink from her cup. “And I think I may have a problem child.”
Jamie made a face. “Lucky you. You should’ve said you were full.”
“Oh, well, it’s only four weeks,” said Sarah. “If I can’t handle four little girls for a couple of hours a week I’ve got a serious problem.”
Jamie didn’t say anything. She just got up and made Sarah another mocha.
Sam called Sarah from the station on Monday. “So, are you all set?”
“I think so.” In honor of Thanksgiving they were going to make Sarah’s raisin pie cookies—sugar cookies pressed together tart-style over a raisin filling. It was an ambitious recipe for a first project (what had she been smoking when she decided to attempt it?), but she had premade the filling and had all the ingredients for the cookie dough standing ready. She hoped that would make the whole process easier.
Now, all she had to do was get away from Betty and into the kitchen. “Are you sure you have to stay at the station?” she pressed.
“Sorry, babe, but yes.”
“What good is it to be the guy in charge when you can’t get away when you want to?” she grumped.
He gave a snort. “Who says I want to?”
She sighed. “That’s what I thought.”
“Everything’ll be fine,” he assured her. “You going to save me some cookies or are they getting scattered to the winds?”
“As if you never get anything.”
“The cobbler’s children,” he retorted. “And sometimes the baker’s husband. For a guy whose wife runs a bakery I don’t get much.”
“Come by in about an hour and you can be sure you’ll get something,” Sarah suggested.
“Nice try, babe. Gotta go.” And with that, he hung up, leaving her to her fate.
“It will be fine,” she assured herself as she put the cordless phone back in its recharge cradle. She looked around her kitchen, checking out the stations she had set up. One end of the granite-topped island counter would be for rolling out the cookies after they made the dough. She’d station two girls there. The other end of the counter would be the filling station where two other girls could work on assembling their creations on cookie sheets. Everything was laid out and she had background music already going—Miley Cyrus to make the day girl-friendly. Let the games begin.
She poured herself a cup of coffee for energy and snagged the ringing phone. “Hi, Nana,” piped Katie.
The good feelings that spread through Sarah were better than a sugar buzz. “Katie, my little cupcake with the cherry on top. How are you doing?”
“I’m good, Nana. We got a new puppy. Guess what we named it?”
“I can’t imagine,” said Sarah.
“We named it Nanacakes.”
“Nanacakes?”
“Uh-huh. She’s white and black. She’s a girl.”
“Well, that’s great,” said Sarah. Nanacakes. She smiled.
“Nana, I miss you so much.”
Now she was going to cry. Phones were great. It was almost like having the other person in the same room. Almost, but not quite. You couldn’t hug a child through the phone.
“Mommy’s going to e-mail you a picture of Nanacakes,” Katie said. Then, to a persistent voice behind her, “No, I’m talking to Nana.”
The doorbell rang. Sarah walked to the door, saying, “Katie, put Addie on so I can say hi, okay?”
“Okay,” Katie said grudgingly.
“Addie, my little sugar dumpling.”
“Nana, we have a new puppy.”
“So I hear,” Sarah said, opening the front door.
There stood George Armstrong, Lissa and Mandy next to him. Lissa was beaming and Mandy was bouncing up and down as though the front porch had suddenly turned into a trampoline. “Are we too early?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Come on in.” To Addie she said, “Nana has to go, sweetie. I love you. Be good for Mommy and tell her I’ll call her later. Okay?”
“Okay.”
And then the grandchildren were gone and she had new children to attend to.
“We’re ready to make cookies,” Lissa informed Sarah.
“Can we eat them?” asked Mandy.
“Of course,” Sarah said, smiling down at her.
The two girls exchanged squeals and jumped up and down.
“Are you sure you’re up for this?” George asked dubiously.
“Absolutely,” Sarah replied firmly enough to convince both of them. She’d offered this class, and, by gumballs, it was going to happen.
George left, and Sarah ushered the girls into the kitchen to wash their hands and then had them don the little aprons that Emma had generously made as her contribution to the Sarah Goodwin Baking School for Girls.
They were drying their hands when the doorbell rang again.
Betty Bateman and two little girls stood on the front porch.
“Oh, and here’s our heroine,” said Betty, beaming at Sarah. “Beanie, you remember Mrs. Goodwin, don’t you?”
The redheaded child next to her was dressed in a dirty parka, torn jeans, and tennis shoes that looked like she’d dragged them through a pasture in the rain. She held up a grimy hand in greeting. “Hi.”
“We’ve just been so excited about this,” said Betty. “Haven’t we, Beanie?”
Beanie opened her mouth to speak.
“Oh, and I have some wonderful cookie recipes if you need any. The kids just love my sugar cookies. Don’t you, Beanie?”
Beanie tried again, but she wasn’t quick enough.
“And I have a lovely oatmeal cookie recipe. Of course, it can’t compare to those cookies you make at the bakery. Are you going to teach the girls to make those?”
“I think we’re going to concentrate on something a little more seasonal,” Sarah said, smiling at the other girl. “And you must be . . .”
“Damaris,” said the girl.
Sarah looked around. “Your mother?”
“She’s at work. My dad dropped me off. He said to call when we’re done. Are we gonna make Christmas cookies?” she asked, her voice powdered with disgust. “It isn’t even December.”
“Which is why we’re going to make something else today,” Sarah replied with a determined smile.
“Are we having snacks?” asked Damaris.
“I’m hungry,” said Beanie.
Actually, Sarah hadn’t thought of that. Of course, she’d figured they’d sample the cookies, but snacks—where had her brain been? Was she that far removed from motherhood? Or even grandmotherhood, for that matter. “We’ll find something.” she said, and hoped she sounded like a woman with a plan.
“Oh, snacks. I didn’t even think of snacks,” said Betty. “You know, I could have brought something,” she added as Damaris slipped past Sarah and down the hall with Beanie following her lead.
“Go ahead and wash your hands,” Sarah called after them. Now she had four little girls in her kitchen, unsupervised. That wasn’t good.
“I could run home and grab some chips,” Betty offered. “We always keep Doritos on hand. They’re Beanie’s favorite. Oh, and let’s see, I might have some Chips Ahoy.”
Store-bought cookies at a baking class? That was just sick and wrong. “That’s sweet of you, Betty, but we’ll be fine.” What did she have in the fridge? Milk to go with the cookies, of course, a couple of yogurts, salad makings, tofu to make up for her vanishing estrogen—nothing that would get a group of grade-school girls excited. Come on, Sarah,
think.
“Well, it’s no problem,” said Betty. “Except, let me see. Did Beanie eat the last of the Doritos? I wonder if we have any cookies left. Well, no problem. The store isn’t far. And we have our little hybrid. Let me tell you, that gets the best gas mileage.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll be fine,” Sarah assured her and started to move the door toward shut.
Betty leaned around to keep her face in view. “If you’re sure. I don’t mind.”
“No, not a problem, really. We’ll see you at five. I’d better go get the girls started.”
She shut the door while Betty was still babbling. New sounds were coming from the kitchen. Little girls squealing. What were they into?
Sarah hurried to the kitchen to find her baking class chasing each other around the island counter. “Okay, ladies,” she said, catching Beanie. “Let’s settle down. Have we all washed our hands?”
“Yep,” said Beanie.
Sarah lifted one of Beanie’s hands for inspection. “Let’s do it again.”
“Do we have to wear these stupid aprons?” Damaris asked, holding up one made with red checked material.
“Actually, yes. That way you won’t get your clothes dirty.”
“My grandma doesn’t care,” said Beanie.
Damaris had tossed aside her apron and was now fingering Sarah’s vintage miniature milk glass Hen on Nest figurine. “Let’s not do that,” Sarah said sweetly, removing it from the child’s hands.
“I was just looking at it,” said Damaris.
“Let’s look with our eyes, shall we?”
“I like these,” said Lissa, pointing to the wooden Dutch girl and boy with holes in their rounded bellies for shaking out salt and pepper.
“Those are older than you,” Sarah told her. “Older than me, even. They were my mother’s.”
“This is boring,” said Damaris.
“I’m starving,” wailed Beanie.
Oh, yes. This had been a great idea, positively inspired.
Angel Lane Page 11
