by Vicki Delany
“Right,” Gord replied.
“Ready to order?” The waitress arrived in the nick of time, as I was beginning to fear my dad would soon join Jack in the cardiac ward.
Grace and my mother were skilled hostesses. They managed to turn the conversation to the upcoming season at the Met and reminiscences of Grace and Jack’s fall trip to Montreal. Gord spent the meal glancing around the room and typing notes into his phone. He might not have liked the prices here but, judging by the way he ate, he was certainly enjoying his meal. More wine was ordered, and not from the bottom of the price range, either.
After the main-course plates were cleared, the waitress put small dessert and liquor menus at each place. We all refused, except for Gord. He asked her what was good.
I said, “Everything is good. But you should try the gingerbread cake. It’s a Rudolph tradition.”
“Great. I’ll have that. And a glass of port. Anyone else?”
“Decaf,” Irene said.
The rest of us declined. I suspect my parents and Grace were, like me, desperate to make our escape.
The cake arrived. Gord took a bite. “Good,” he said. He scooped up a forkful of the whipped cream. “Taste this, babe,” he said to Irene. She leaned across the table, opened her mouth, and Gord thrust his fork into it. My mother’s mouth hung open in shock.
“Yum,” Irene said. “Real whipped cream.”
“Of course it is,” Grace said.
“That’s what I figured,” Gord said. “Whipped topping’s cheaper. Most folks won’t notice, not if the cake’s made with more sugar.”
The table rattled as Grace pushed back her chair. “I’ve had quite enough,” she said.
“I can understand that,” Gord said. “You must be tired. Nighty night. If you go to the hospital in the morning, tell Dad I’ll be around later.”
My dad and mom got to their feet also. I hurried to follow.
We left Gord to continue making notes on his cell phone while Irene topped up her wineglass.
Chapter 2
Most of the year, it’s a mystery what dogs are up to. Seemingly out of nowhere they suddenly get furiously excited and head off full steam into the woods or walk in ever-decreasing circles with their noses to the ground. But in winter, you can see what only they can smell.
Mattie was circling a large patch of yellow snow, head down, nose twitching, butt trembling. Then he lifted his leg and made his contribution to the news of the neighborhood. When we’d come out of the house earlier, he’d charged straight across the yard, following a trail of rabbit tracks to the back fence. The rabbit had gone under the fence. Mattie tried to follow, but he hadn’t entirely learned the limitations of his body.
Deep in my coat pocket my phone rang. I pulled it out, checked the display.
“Where are you?” Vicky said.
“In the park with Mattie.”
“I’ll pick you up in five minutes.”
“Why?”
“Because it will do Mattie good to get used to being in different cars and going to different places—I told you that.”
“Yes, but why now? And where are we going?”
“Surprise. Be waiting by the bandstand.” She hung up.
Typical Vicky. She’d always been wildly impulsive and even after all these years of us knowing each other, she refused to believe that I am not. I thought back to the day we’d met. Our first day at kindergarten. She had walked up to me, put her hands on her nonexistent hips, and said I was now her best friend. She’d been dressed in a purple T-shirt and orange jeans with green socks, and her short black hair was standing on end. My mom had been away on tour, and Dad had taken seriously the responsibility of getting me ready for the first day. My hair had been brushed for all it was worth and pulled into a ponytail so tight my eyes were stretched upward. I wore a brown sweater over a brown dress with brown socks and black shoes. I’d looked up at Vicky—she was already taller than me—and said, “Okay,” probably because I didn’t know what else to say.
And we had been best friends ever since.
Mattie and I walked back toward the street to wait. It had snowed heavily overnight and the town park was a field of pure, untouched snow. A weak, white sun was only just touching the trees to the east, and to the north the vast reaches of Lake Ontario stretched dark and foreboding to the horizon. I switched my flashlight off as we approached the lights on the town’s official Christmas tree beside the bandstand.
Next to the street and around the bandstand the snow was churned up by tracks human and canine, and I let Mattie sniff to his heart’s content while we waited.
It was only a couple of minutes before Vicky drove up in the bakery’s white panel van, the one she used for deliveries. Mattie and I jumped in. There were no rear seats, and the dog couldn’t go in the back, among the bread, so I held him on my lap and tried to fasten the belt around us both. It wasn’t easy. Mattie loved Vicky and he was determined to help her drive the van. I could only hope we didn’t run into my archnemesis, Officer Candy Campbell. Candy would be more than happy to give me a ticket for improper seat belt use.
“Another week,” I grumbled, trying to see over the dog’s head, “of growth, and this isn’t going to work.”
“Enjoy them while they’re young,” Vicky said, pulling in front of a pickup truck, leaving it inches to spare. “That’s what my mom keeps telling Rebecca, anyway. When one of the twins is throwing up her milk and the other is screaming for more, Rebecca has been heard to mutter, ‘It gets worse?’”
“Spill,” I said when the dog was finally settled in my lap and enjoying the view. “What’s this about?”
“I’m making deliveries; thought you might want to come along. Give Mattie some exposure to the outside world.”
“You’re making deliveries? Is Ryan sick?” Ryan was one of Vicky’s cousins. He usually drove the delivery truck on its morning rounds.
“No,” she said. “I figured he needed to learn more about the business so he’s helping Aunt Marjorie prep for breakfast.”
She geared down, did a U-turn in the middle of the road, and we squealed out of town on two wheels. I tightened my grip on Mattie.
I was no detective, but even I could soon guess where we were going with these deliveries. “Why are you taking me to the Yuletide?”
“I told you, I thought you’d like the ride.” Barely slowing down, she switched gears again and swung into the inn’s plowed and sanded drive. I pressed my back into my chair and my foot into the passenger’s seat footwell. “You don’t have to help with the brakes,” Vicky said.
“Yes, I do,” I replied.
Mattie woofed.
We pulled into the lane, which curved around the back of the hotel, and parked beside the refuse bins and trash cans. A gleaming silver BMW sat next to a rusty compact missing part of the front bumper and a van with stick-on figures indicating a happy family lived there.
“Nice wheels,” I said. “Must be lucrative being a chef.”
“Oh,” Vicky said. “Do you think that’s Mark’s car? I wonder what he’s doing here so early.”
“Vicky, why did you bring me along?”
She sighed. “’Cause I like him so much, it scares me. Okay?”
I reached over and touched her hand. “Okay.”
The man himself came out to greet us. Mark couldn’t have gotten to bed more than a couple of hours earlier, but he looked bright and alert. And very happy to see us. To see Vicky, I mean. I might as well not have been there. Mark was a touch over six feet, a good match for my friend. They grinned at each other like a couple of sixth graders discovering they liked members of the opposite sex after all.
I had to let Mattie out of the car. I couldn’t get out otherwise. Never one to allow himself to be ignored, he ran toward Mark with a cheerful bark.
Mark tore his eyes aw
ay from Vicky. “Hey, there’s a friendly boy.” He crouched down and rubbed at the excited dog’s head. “What a beauty. How old is he?”
“Three months,” I said.
“Three months! He’s going to be huge.”
“Don’t I know it.”
Vicky beamed. I could almost read her mind. Car lover, dog lover, a man who could cook, and handsome to boot. If Mark Grosse wasn’t her perfect match, he was darn near close. He gave Mattie a hearty slap on the rump and stood up. “I’m sure you have other calls to make. I’ll help you carry your stuff in and you can be on your way.”
They kept grinning at each other. “Why don’t I do it?” I said at last.
“Oh, sorry,” Mark said.
Mattie wasn’t allowed in the kitchen, so I put him back in the van before helping to carry in trays laden with wheat bread sprinkled with a thick layer of seeds, flaky croissants, long, thin baguettes, plump gingerbread cake, and an assortment of Vicky’s deservedly famous gingerbread cookies cut in reindeer shapes. The large industrial kitchen was clean and tidy; the stainless steel polished to a high gloss. Two waitresses were already at work, putting the coffee on and slicing fruit to arrange on platters. The scent of baking muffins filled the room. The restaurant was not open to the public before lunch, but it served a continental breakfast to guests. We put the trays on the island in the center of the room.
“Those look so good,” one of the waitresses said. “We had compliments yesterday on the croissants.”
“Morning, morning. Always nice to see people up and about bright and early and hard at work!” Gord Olsen came through the swinging doors leading from the dining room.
Mark’s handsome face stiffened at the intrusion, and I assumed he’d met his boss’s son already. Vicky didn’t notice, and she stepped forward with a big smile. “I’m Vicky Casey, from Victoria’s Bake Shoppe in Rudolph.”
They shook hands.
“I was sorry to hear about your dad,” Vicky said. “But they say he’s going to be okay.”
“Perhaps,” Gord said. “The recovery will be long and slow. I’m glad I ran into you, Ms. Casey. I was going to phone you later. I was up late last night, still on California time, you know, trying to get up to speed on my dad’s business. It can’t be helped, I’m afraid. We have to consider what will happen if he’s unable, or unwilling, to return to work.” He paused for a solemn moment before continuing. “I have to say, your prices are very high.”
“High? Not when you consider that all my baked goods are handmade in my own bakery. I use nothing but the highest-quality ingredients, all sourced locally where possible.”
“Vicky’s baking’s the best,” the waitress said. “Everyone says so.”
“Yes, yes.” Gord dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “That’s all well and good, but if I’m going to implement some much-needed efficiencies, I’ve decided to start with the restaurant. We’re going to have to negotiate your prices.”
“Hey,” Mark said, “the kitchen is my business.”
“The cooking is your business,” Gord said. “We’ll get to your exorbitant salary later.”
“I . . .” Mark said.
Vicky cut him off. “My prices are not open for negotiation. Or rather for renegotiation. All this was discussed with Jack and Grace when I first began supplying the inn. My prices are fair. I have a business to run, staff to pay, ingredients and supplies to buy, and rent on my premises.”
“Not my problem,” Gord said. “If you can’t, or won’t, reduce your prices by, let’s say fifty percent, then I’ll buy our baked goods elsewhere.”
“Fifty percent! That’s crazy. I might as well give it to you for free.”
“Wow!” the waitress said.
Gord turned on her. “Do you two not have work to do? Your employment is also going to be under review.”
The women snatched up laden platters and scurried into the dining room.
“It’s out of the question,” Mark said. “I don’t serve mass-produced bread and desserts in my restaurant.”
“Then maybe,” Gord said, “it won’t be your restaurant for long. I had a look at your contract last night, too.”
Mark’s body stiffened and Gord puffed himself up, trying to compensate for the substantial height difference. They looked like a couple of moose checking each other out before lowering antlers, and for a moment I expected the two men to come to blows. With a furious Vicky piling on. The doors swung open again, and Grace Olsen came into the kitchen. She was smartly dressed in a deep red trouser suit and her hair and makeup were perfectly arranged, but no amount of grooming could hide bags the color of winter storm clouds beneath her eyes or the fine frown lines radiating from her mouth. “What on earth is going on here?” she said. “I can hear you people out in the dining room. We’ll be serving breakfast coffee and pastries soon.”
“Nothing to concern yourself with,” Gord said.
“I’ll decide what concerns me,” she replied.
“I totally understand, Grace. Let’s let these people get on with their day, why don’t we.” He put his arm around her shoulders. She shrugged him off. “The inn is important to you,” he said in a tone similar to one my dad used when a fractious two-year-old was plunked down on Santa’s knee. “That’s why I’m glad to be able to help you out here. But I suggest you remember that, according to the power of attorney my father drew up, I’m in charge now.”
“You can’t be serious,” Grace said. “We won’t be making major decisions while Jack’s in the hospital. He’ll be home soon and things can get back to normal. All you’re needed for”—and her expression indicated that she was merely being polite, rather than saying what she really thought—“is to help with the day-to-day running of the place when I’m with Jack.”
Gord sighed. “We can only hope Dad’ll be okay, Grace. But until he’s back in the saddle, I intend to do the best I can to honor the trust he’s put in me. I’m doing it for Dad. And for you, of course. Are you off to the hospital? Tell Dad he’s got nothing to worry about. I’m a quick study.” Grace and Gordon began to walk away. Over his shoulder, Gord said, “Fifty percent, Ms. Casey. Let me know your decision before noon, so I can place tomorrow’s orders elsewhere, if I have to. Plenty of places around here eager to do business.”
Vicky’s face was a study in shock.
The swinging doors closed behind Grace and her stepson. “What a . . .” I said, at a loss for words.
“I can’t . . .” Vicky said.
“I know,” I said.
“And you shouldn’t have to,” Mark said. “Your food’s worth every penny. The day I have to serve Twinkies is the day I hang up my apron.”
“Twinkies,” I said, “with whipped topping.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
The waitresses slipped back in. They threw Mark questioning glances. “Everything’s fine,” he said. I got the impression they didn’t believe him.
“You have to get back to work,” he said. “I’ll walk you out.”
“Can Gord do that?” I said. “Make changes willy-nilly?”
“I’ll try to talk some sense into him,” Mark said. “But I don’t know if anything I say will be worth much. Let’s hope Jack recovers quickly. I left a good job in the city to come here. Sold my apartment, packed up everything I own. I need this job, but I don’t think I’m going to be able to work for Gord.”
“I need this contract,” Vicky said.
Mark gathered Vicky into his arms. She tucked her head into the crook of his neck. Mark threw me a glance.
“I’d better see to the dog,” I said, fleeing the kitchen.
Vicky and I drove most of the way back to town in silence. As the van pulled up in front of my house, I said, “Will losing the inn’s business hurt you badly?”
She shrugged. “It won’t he
lp. It’s a good source of income in the shoulder season, when we don’t have many tourists in town. It won’t force me under, but if Gord won’t let Mark cook the way he wants, I can’t imagine him staying on.”
I patted her knee. “If you need anything, call me.”
She gave me a strained smile. “I will. Thanks, sweetie.”
* * *
Business had gradually built up over the course of the week. By Friday a steady stream of cars was moving slowly down Jingle Bell Lane, Rudolph’s Main Street, and Jackie and I, as well as my part-time assistant, Crystal, were satisfyingly busy.
“Whatcha doin’ for New Year’s Eve?” Jackie asked as we prepared to open on Saturday morning.
“Heavens, I don’t know. If I live until the day after Christmas, I’ll make plans then.” I had foolishly done something uncharacteristically impulsive and decided to host Christmas dinner at my place. I’d been thinking it would be only Mom and Dad, my brother, Chris, and me—easy to manage. I’d forgotten that my mom collected strays at Christmas. We were now up to a guest list of twelve. I didn’t even own twelve plates. “By New Year’s, I’ll be ready to enjoy a quiet evening at home,” I said.
“What! No date for New Year’s Eve, are you kidding me? That must be awful.”
“Thank you for your concern,” I said with a sniff. “I’ve never believed there’s anything special about New Year’s. It’s just a day on the calendar.”
“Liar,” she said. “Kyle and I are going to a party at Joanie’s house. I guess you can come, if you want.”
I couldn’t think of anything I’d like less. Even if the invitation had been extended with something more than reluctant sympathy for my dateless state. Truth be told, I was feeling a bit glum when I thought of ringing in the New Year at home with the dog, dressed in my flannel pajamas and warm socks.
Last year I’d been living in Manhattan, and my New Year’s Eve had been one for the record books. My almost-fiancé and I had gone with colleagues from the magazine we both worked for to one of the city’s most fashionable restaurants. We’d dined on oysters and lobster and drank champagne, the real stuff. I’d forked out a thousand bucks for my dress and shoes and dropped a couple hundred on having my hair, nails, and makeup done. We’d gotten into such a good restaurant only because the owner of the magazine, Jennifer Johnstone, gifted the evening to my department as a bonus. Among our fellow diners had been the hottest couple in movies (with their numerous, surprisingly well-behaved children), several senators, and a former secretary of state.
