by Meg Muldoon
He probably deserved worse than I could dish out, I told myself. I had every right to be rude to him.
I finished hanging the banner and backed away, taking a look at the finished pie stand I’d constructed.
It looked fun and inviting: exactly the way I had envisioned it.
I thought of all the money I’d be making this weekend. I thought of all the comfort and happiness I’d be giving to the folks at the Rodeo through my lovingly-made pies. Of all the good publicity I’d get from this event.
But even with all these good thoughts, I couldn’t quite shake off the tiredness in my bones.
And the feeling that maybe I’d been a little harsher than I needed to be with Erik Andersen.
Chapter 14
The muscles in my shoulders were tighter that a spool of thread caught in a sewing machine, and my feet ached like I’d been standing in line for a ride at Disney Land the first day of summer break.
I could have fallen asleep standing up. That’s how tired I was after baking the amount of pies I had made that afternoon in preparation for the next day at the Rodeo. They were now all sitting in the fridge under plastic wrap, keeping cool for the hordes of tourists that I hoped would stop by my pie stand the next day.
I was exhausted. But not exhausted enough to cancel on Laurel and her offer to have me over at the ranch.
I changed out of my flour-stained apron and Cinnamon’s Pies tank top, and into a nice black tunic and a pair of dusty, faded jeans. I slipped into some copper sandals and took my dark brown hair out of its high ponytail.
I still smelled like butter from slaving over the oven all day, but there were worse things to smell like.
Then I closed up the shop early and headed out of Christmas River in the Escape. The sun cast long shadows over the highway as I drove through the forest, following the road as it wound up over and then down a ridge.
Soon, the woods gave way to golden, sunburnt meadows that spread out and rolled away from both sides of the highway.
The pretty scene was smudged by a thick layer of wildfire smoke.
It seemed like the only thing that would stop the fires would be a massive cold front. Which, according to the local weather man, was still several weeks away.
I drifted over into the turn lane at Terrebonne Road, and made a right off the highway. I sped down the empty and narrow road, which took me past more spacious meadows and corrals where goats, sheep, and horses ambled and grazed.
After a few minutes, I came up upon the ranch entrance.
It was hard to miss, and I had trouble not bringing the car to a full stop in the middle of the road just to gawk at its magnificence.
Two juniper posts reached high up into the sky and supported a rustic carved sign that said McSween Ranch. Two bronze horse statues stood on each side.
I passed through the entrance and then drove down the long driveway. The property was pristine range land. Rolling grasslands and horses grazing lazily in the sun. A few ancient juniper trees stood alone here and there, providing some shade. Even with the wildfire haze, you could still make out the lovely mountain peaks of the Cascades in the distance.
On a clear day, I’d put money down that there wasn’t a prettier view of the mountains than on the McSween Ranch.
After passing several barns, I finally pulled up to the stately house, which was nothing short of a mansion.
It was like something out of The Big Valley, an old Western show I watched reruns of at night when I had trouble sleeping. It was all treated wood and flag stones, and had a sort of Tuscan farmhouse flair. It even had what looked to be a turret: an architectural feature that I’d only seen on television.
The driveway was even a heated one. There was probably never any need to use a snow shovel out here.
I parked the car, got out, and stared up at the house, wondering if this was what old Southern money looked like.
I noticed that my palms were damp.
Chapter 15
I wasn’t the type who drooled over things.
I prided myself on being a practical person. Practical, logical, and somebody who didn’t run for the credit card anytime I saw something that caught my fancy on the Home Shopping Network.
But the inside of the McSween house had a way of doing away with all practicality.
The place was an impeccable fortress of wood, stone and copper. A giant hearth anchored the main room, and I imagined during a winter snowstorm, there wasn’t any better place to be holed up in this side of the Cascades. Large, abstract paintings of birch trees in the winter hung from the walls. Dark cherry wood floors stretched out as far as the eye could see, with not so much as a scuff mark on them.
“Your home is just…” I started saying, but trailed off.
Words didn’t do it justice.
Laurel turned around and grinned, like she was used to this kind of response.
She fit right in with the home. She was wearing a different set of boots this time, blue ones with little birds tooled into them in delicate patterns. She had an off-white lace dress on and large turquoise chandelier earrings that swayed gracefully as she walked.
I looked down at my aging copper sandals that Huckleberry had gotten to a ways back. They had teeth marks all along the soles, and I suddenly felt very self-conscious of my outfit choice.
“Aw, that’s nice of you,” Laurel said. “But truth be told, the house needs some updating. We haven’t renovated it for years.”
If anything in that house was old and falling apart, I couldn’t see it.
Just then, I heard footsteps coming down one the many hallways that emptied out into the grand room.
A man that I recognized from the campaign signs around town emerged. He didn’t seem to see me. His attention seemed to be set on Laurel.
“Now, honey, we’ve got a dinner with the Pohly family tomorrow night,” he said, going over to a bowl of dip that was sitting on the coffee table in front of the hearth. “Don’t forget. They’ve contributed a lot of money to the campaign and we’ve pushed the dinner off for too long.”
Bernard McSween was tall, lean, distinguished, and the kind of man that would fit well in Kara’s imaginary romance novel. At the same time, he had the right look for a politician. Not too young, not too old, his hair was speckled with just the right amount of grey.
Bernard had gone to Christmas River High, though graduated nearly a decade and a half before me. But there were photos of him in the trophy cases of the school. He’d been a star track athlete, and took first and second at state in several events his senior year.
He shoved a potato chip filled with dip into his mouth.
“Oh, honey,” Laurel said, going over and shaking her head. “Now your breath is going to smell horrible for that meeting tonight.”
She straightened his tie.
“Just so long as you don’t care,” he said, suddenly pulling her close and kissing her – a big, sloppy, tongues-out, lip-smacking kiss that did indeed make me feel like I was in Kara’s imaginary romance novel.
I looked away, feeling like I had intruded on the couple’s privacy.
A moment later, Laurel pulled away.
“Bernie! You beast, we have company.”
She nodded in my direction, and Bernard glanced at me for the first time.
“Oh, my,” he said, smiling and letting her go. “I’m sorry. That’s embarrassing. I didn’t see you there.”
I smiled back.
“I’m Cinnamon.”
“Cinnamon? The gal married to the Sheriff?”
I nodded. He looked at Laurel with an expression I couldn’t read and then back at me.
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said, coming over and shaking my hand. “I’ve met the Sheriff several times, you know. He’s always struck me as a very clear-minded, driven young man.”
He had the strong firm grip of a politician.
“It’s nice meeting you too,” I said.
He looked back over at L
aurel.
“I see what’s going on here,” he said. “I’m interrupting some girl time, aren’t I?”
He let out a throaty chuckle and tapped me lightly on the shoulder.
“Well, I’ll get out of your hair,” he said, straightening his tie again. “I’m headed in town to a meeting.”
“It’s about time,” Laurel said, rolling her eyes.
He chuckled again.
“You see, my wife pretends to hate it when I kiss her like that out of the blue,” he said. “But we both know she loves it.”
“All right, I think you’ve embarrassed me enough for one day,” Laurel said, coming over. She put her hands on his shoulder and pretended to push him out the door. “Go do good work for our city, honey.”
He grinned. Then he grabbed his briefcase off one of the counters and headed for the front door.
“Goodbye, ladies,” he said. “Enjoy your evening.”
“We will,” Laurel said. “And honey?”
“Yes, dear?” he shouted back.
“Get yourself a breath mint before the meeting.”
He laughed all the way out the door. Laurel shook her head.
“I am sorry about that,” she said, looking back at me. “My husband can be positively beastly sometimes. It’s a secret I’ve struggled greatly to keep from the voters.”
She was grinning ear to ear when she said it, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
Chapter 16
Laurel led me through a pair of French doors, out into the backyard.
The McSween Ranch seemed to stretch for miles. The grasslands swayed and danced in the light breeze. In the distance, a couple of blond horses ambled about in no particular direction.
It was a stunning view.
As we took a seat at a large patio table that could have come straight out of a Pottery Barn catalogue, I tried to imagine what a property like this would have cost.
After a few moments of contemplation, I wasn’t any closer to figuring it out. The numbers were beyond me when they got this big.
Laurel took a bottle of white wine from the middle of the table and poured two glasses, handing me one of them. She clinked my glass with hers.
“I’m so glad you could make it, Cinnamon,” she said. “I feel like I don’t get a chance to have too many friends out here. And you wouldn’t believe how lonely this house can get.”
I smiled.
Her using the word “friends” like that kind of tickled me.
“I don’t often get out of the pie shop, so this is just as nice for me,” I said.
She took a sip of her wine.
“How are things at the pie shop?”
“Good,” I said. “Busy, with the Rodeo coming up. But it’s been good.”
“You know, I made that Honey-Lemon-Ginger Apple Pie the other day, the one you taught us to make in class? It was fantastic. I mean, really something special. My husband nearly ate the whole thing in one day. And he doesn’t even really have much of a sweet tooth.”
“Really?” I said, grinning.
She nodded.
“Jo sure missed out when she stomped out of your class,” she said. “That’s one mighty fine pie you taught us to make.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that.”
I brought the glass up to my lips and took a delicate sip of the wine. It went down smoothly, with no acrid aftertaste. It was high-class all the way, and I started wondering how much it had cost.
I found that all my small-talk abilities, if I’d had any to begin with, had completely dried up. I realized that what I knew about Laurel wasn’t a whole lot, other than the fact that her husband was on the city council and made quite a bit of change for a living. And that she was from Atlanta.
Finally, I cleared my throat and started to ask something about how she ended up here in Christmas River, but she thought of something first to keep the conversation going.
“So, Cinnamon, I’ve always been a little curious,” she said, bringing over a fancy tray of cheese and crackers from the barbecue area. “What’s it like being married to a sheriff?”
Her eyes kind of grew big, the way mine had when I’d first walked into the grand room of her house.
I smiled.
I guess we all were intrigued by the things we didn’t have.
“Growing up, I always thought it would be so romantic to be married to a lawman,” she said. “You know, I don’t think there’s anything more attractive than a man with strong morals. I mean, day in, day out, your husband is out there protecting the innocent and holding the guilty accountable. It’s just such a romantic notion, isn’t it?”
She had a dreamy look in her eyes when she said it, and I let out a short laugh.
“I hadn’t really thought of it that way, but I guess you’re right,” I said.
“So what’s it really like?”
I leaned over and grabbed a cracker, spreading some cheese on it before popping it in my mouth.
I wasn’t sure exactly how to answer the question, but I did my best.
“It’s great,” I said. “I think being in law enforcement is the only thing Daniel’s ever wanted to do, so it makes me happy that he’s doing what he loves. It’s really a win-win.”
“But is it hard sometimes, too?” she asked. “I’d imagine it would be.”
“Well, it’s—”
“I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m being rude. That’s really none of my business.”
“No, no,” I said. “It’s fine. You’re right. I mean, I don’t see him as much as I’d like because he works such long hours. And I do worry sometimes. Especially when it’s late, and he gets called out into the boonies for something or another. I, uh, I worry a lot sometimes.”
I stared off into the distance, suddenly realizing I hadn’t really expressed any of these things to anybody. Not even to Kara.
“Well, I’m sure that’s natural,” Laurel said. “I’d be worried sick if my husband were out there like that.”
“I mean, I know he’s doing what he loves, and it’s one of the reasons that I fell in love with him,” I said. “But sometimes I wonder if I’m going to be up late worrying about him for the rest of my life.”
She nodded.
I hadn’t really consciously thought it through myself. Maybe I’d been in denial, or it was my way of coping with the threat Daniel faced everyday by just going to work. But I hadn’t really let myself dwell much upon my feelings concerning the dangerous nature of Daniel’s job.
Until now.With an almost complete stranger.
“Don’t get me wrong,” I said. “I support him all the way.”
“Of course you do, honey,” she said. “You’re a good woman, and he’s lucky to have you.”
She pulled a Virginia Slims carton and a lighter from the middle of the table, and lit a cigarette. A moment later, she was blowing smoke up into the air.
Normally, I wouldn’t have liked being around someone smoking, even if we were outside. But it wasn’t my house, and besides, Laurel did it with such elegance, like a 1940s movie star.
“You want my advice?” she asked.
I raised my eyebrows, a little shocked at the abrasiveness of the way she said it.
Then I nodded.
“Sure,” I said.
“I mean, it’s not like I have any idea what it’s like being married to a sheriff,” she said, waving the smoke away. “But I do know what it’s like being married to someone who’s got a high-demanding job. Believe me, I’ve spent more than my share of nights alone out here in this big house on account of Bernie’s work.”
She took another puff.
“My advice is to keep the lines of communication as open as you possibly can at all times. That’s the most important thing.”
She let the cigarette dangle from her mouth a moment and grabbed the bottle of wine from the middle of the table, refilling her glass. She offered to refresh mine, but I shook my head. I was still working on the first one.
“And if keeping the lines open means being a drama queen every once in a while to get him to notice you, well, honey, I’d say that’s something worth considering.”
I cleared my throat and shifted in the chair.
I guess I was of the mind that being a good wife meant giving your husband love and support. Not playing games or creating mounds out of mole hills, or however that saying went.
But then again, I’d given Evan all my love and support. And look what it had gotten me. Disappointment, a broken heart, and a divorce.
I’d been married before. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t more I could learn about marriage.
“I’m not suggesting anything major,” Laurel said. “Heaven knows, don’t crash your car for attention. All I’m saying is to throw a small thing in here and there for good measure. Distance is the number one killer of marriages, Cinnamon. Sometimes the wife needs to be the one to close the gap. Let him know that you’re still there. You know, like—”
“Mom, can I borrow the car? I’m going into town.”
I glanced back in the direction the voice was coming from.
A teenage girl with long strawberry blond hair stood behind the open French doors. She was tall, almost awkwardly so, and wore a pair of capris. She had Laurel’s big brown eyes, which she hid behind thick plastic-rimmed glasses.
The girl was pretty, but she didn’t strike me as prissy or arrogant, the way a girl at her age with good looks might be.
She flashed a friendly smile in my direction when she saw me.
“Yeah, of course, Sweetie,” Laurel said. “Keys are on the—”
“You’re the pie lady, aren’t you?” the tall girl said.
I nodded and she stepped out of the house and walked down the steps toward us.
I stood up to meet her.
“All the kids at school just love your pie shop,” she said, grabbing my hand and shaking it. “Or at least they did when I was there in June.”
I noticed that she had a smattering of freckles across her face that made her look younger than she probably was.
