Thomas Kinkade's Cape Light

by Katherine Spencer

  “I hope so,” Zoey said sincerely. “I’ll be happy to help you.”

  “Thanks, honey. I’m going to take you up on that.” Sophie pushed and patted the dough. “Okay, you’ve seen how it’s done. Now you take that other bowl of flour and knead some. I’m going to mix the pumpkin filling. Don’t handle it too much. It will get tough,” she warned as she pushed a bowl in Zoey’s direction.

  “Start with a light touch?” Zoey replied with a grin.

  Sophie nodded, looking pleased. “That’s right. A light touch will do it. Most of the time.”

  * * *

  “Oh, dear. This doesn’t look right at all, does it?” Wearing big red kitchen mitts that looked like lobster claws, Emily Warwick carefully carried a pumpkin pie from the oven out to the dining room.

  Her daughter Jane sat at the dining room table, concentrating on a textbook and piles of notes, highlighted and underlined. She lifted her head to watch her mother set the pie on a trivet on the sideboard. The corners of her mouth twitched with a smile. “It’s not so bad, Mom,” she carefully answered.

  “It’s okay, you can laugh.” Emily shrugged, smiling now, too.

  “It might be okay if you scrape the burnt part of the crust a little. Is it done in the middle?”

  “I was wondering about that myself. But if I poke it again, it will look even more hideous.” Emily glanced back at Jane, and they both laughed. “I only have three more in the oven. They look even worse.”

  “You tried. That’s what counts. Sorry I had to bug out on you.”

  “You have a test. That’s more important.” Emily glanced at Jane’s textbook, Earth Science, opened to a complicated cross-section diagram of a volcano that made her head spin.

  Jane had been talking about the midterm for weeks. Emily knew she should have remembered that before volunteering to bake for the church. She had thought she would do it with her daughter, but had ended up baking, quite unsuccessfully, alone.

  “At least we have the brownies you made after school. Those are perfect,” Emily said. “I’ll buy some pies tomorrow at Willoughby’s. That will solve it.”

  “Good plan,” Jane agreed with a sly grin.

  “How’s the studying coming? Ready to taste test the brownies?” Emily asked hopefully.

  “I think I can take a break for that.” Jane stacked her textbooks and notes, then cleared a space on the table.

  Emily returned from the kitchen with two brownies and two glasses of milk. “Hmm. These are good—as good as the bakery’s,” she said. “I don’t know how you learned to cook like this. Your aunt Jessica? I got Grandma’s genes for culinary arts.”

  Jane’s eyes went wide. “Give yourself some credit, Mom. Grandma doesn’t try at all.”

  “True. But she opts out on principle.” Emily’s reply was partly sardonic and partly serious. Her mother, Lillian Warwick Elliot, who had been raised in a wealthy Boston family, still felt cooking and most domestic arts were far below her, and barely deigned to heat a can of soup.

  Emily had always wanted to learn how to cook, but never had the time. Until now. Cooking classes were definitely on her list. But at the very top was spending more time with Jane. That was an even more important part of her life, and she had shortchanged it lately.

  Practically every woman she knew felt torn between her job and her home life, especially when it came to giving their children enough time and attention. But the question struck Emily deeper than most. She had another daughter, Sara, who was grown and married, living in Boston and working as a reporter. Sara had been born just days after the death of Emily’s first husband. Now it seemed another lifetime—Emily and Tim Sutton had eloped just as Emily was due to leave for college. Nine months later, Tim was dead and she was the mother of a newborn. With her life in turmoil and her judgment clouded by grief, Emily had been persuaded by her mother to give up her baby for adoption. It was a decision she always regretted.

  Emily had made many attempts to find Sara, without success. But through some miracle—and answered prayers—when she was in her early twenties, Sara came to Cape Light and found Emily. After a rocky start, they formed loving bonds, and Emily quickly learned the knack of mothering an adult child. But Emily had deeply regretted missing out on raising Sara and watching her grow, sharing all the special moments of her childhood and adolescence.

  Emily and her second husband, Dan, adopted Jane eleven years ago, when she was an infant. With grown children from his first marriage, Dan didn’t want to start another family. But Emily had longed for a baby with all her heart, and Heaven had found a way to bring Jane into their lives. Dan soon realized that they had been blessed, and he couldn’t love Jane more if he tried. Emily felt blessed with this second chance to cherish and enjoy all the moments of motherhood she had forfeited with Sara.

  But had she really valued that blessing and honored that vow? Emily often wondered about that. Her job as mayor of Cape Light had been so demanding, it was always a juggling act. Now here she was, finally free to carry out that promise to her younger daughter and herself. Though, so far, it was not as easy as she had expected.

  Jane sniffed the air, then glanced at the kitchen. “Mom . . . didn’t you take the rest of the pies out?”

  Emily turned quickly. “Oh, blast . . .” She grabbed the mitts and ran to the stove. A black thread seeped from the oven door, and as she pulled it open, a large black cloud floated out, which she fanned with her hand.

  “Are they on fire? Should I call Dad?” Jane sounded alarmed.

  “It’s okay, honey. Got it under control,” Emily replied, though she wasn’t entirely sure that was true. “Just open the back door and the windows, so the smoke alarm doesn’t go off.” Holding her breath, she reached into the oven and took out the charred pies.

  Jane had wisely turned on the oven fan before running off to the door and windows. She returned to the kitchen and stared down at the products of her mother’s labor. “It’s just a timing thing, Mom. You’ll get the hang of it.”

  Emily laughed and coughed, then dropped a kiss on her daughter’s head. “If you say so. I’m trying.”

  An hour later, Emily was still cleaning the kitchen. Jane had finished studying and gone to bed. I’m not only a bad cook but a messy one, Emily reflected. She scanned the room, sponge in hand, for any splatters of pumpkin or flour she may have missed.

  “What happened in here? Did the pot closet explode again?” Dan stood in the kitchen doorway and gazed around in wonder. His glance fell on the pies—If you could even call them that, Emily thought.

  “You were baking. I should have guessed. I thought the chimney backed up.”

  “Very funny.” Emily tried to sound insulted, but she couldn’t help laughing.

  “Were those for our Thanksgiving party?”

  “Of course not. I already ordered dessert from the bakery. They were supposed to be for church. For the Thanksgiving baskets they’re giving out.”

  “Oh, I see.” Emily couldn’t tell if Dan was still puzzled by this fit of domesticity—or if he was thinking the results did not bode well for Thursday. The entire family was coming for dinner this year, and Emily was in charge of the kitchen.

  “It does make me a little nervous about cooking for our party,” she admitted. “But I’m not actually cooking much. Jessica is bringing a few starters and sides, and I’m getting a lot from Willoughby’s.”

  “Don’t worry, Em. It’s going to be fine. Jane and I will help you.” He touched her arm. “It’s just a turkey, honey, not brain surgery.”

  “I know. But I’ve been doing a little research on the Internet, and there are a surprising number of theories about the way to roast a turkey. Slow, low-heat, or high? Deboned? Stuffed? Or even upside down? Then there’s the whole question of brining . . .”

  Emily showed him the thick folder on the kitchen counter where she had been c
ollecting articles and recipes.

  Dan’s smile grew even wider. “I say keep it simple. Don’t make yourself crazy. You ran this town for over fifteen years. I’m sure you can pull a turkey dinner together.”

  “It’s just that I haven’t taken on a family holiday since . . . Well, I can’t remember the last time. I always had the excuse that I was too busy. I feel like I forgot how to do it. If I ever knew in the first place,” she admitted. “But I’m getting organized. I found some good ideas for making a centerpiece and interesting table settings.”

  “That’s just what I mean. Let’s buy a bouquet of flowers and stick it in a vase. Simple.” Dan paused. “Sometimes, you’re like a cannon pointed at a mosquito, sweetheart.”

  Emily stared back at him. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or . . . not.”

  “It’s a compliment. Most of the time.”

  “I know, I have one speed. But I’m not used to doing this yet, Dan, all of this at-home stuff. Not as a full-time job.” She glanced around at the jumbled kitchen and the misshapen pies.

  Dan’s look softened. “I know it’s hard for you, a real sea change. But just relax. No one is judging you. No one is peeking through the window, trying to get a photo for the Cape Light Messenger.” Dan framed an imaginary headline with his hands. “‘Mayor Warwick Incinerates Church Pies.’”

  Emily laughed. “Former Mayor Warwick. If I was still mayor, I wouldn’t have volunteered.”

  “It hasn’t been that long. Not even two weeks, right?”

  Emily glanced at the clock. “Two weeks exactly. Three minutes from now. It was midnight when we heard the news, remember?”

  Dan nodded, looking serious again. “I do. And you took it very well. Like a champion.”

  The news was that Charlie Bates had narrowly—but definitely—won the election for mayor. Now, after more than fifteen years and eight terms in the post, Emily no longer held that title. Hearing that news was one of the most difficult moments of her life. The memory was still sharp and painful.

  “Thanks, honey. But I don’t remember feeling like a champion. For a moment, I thought I might throw up. At least I didn’t cry. I mean, not in public.”

  Hearing the news, Emily had felt as if some unseen hand had landed a heavy blow straight into her heart. She had lost her breath for a moment and couldn’t even stand. But, somehow putting her political self on automatic, she had managed a quick recovery and said all the right things that night to her supporters and to the local media. It was a blur in her memory, though she had watched her performance later on the TV news.

  “This whole transition will take time,” Dan said. “You’re doing great. Remember when I handed the newspaper over to Lindsay?” Dan had stepped down as publisher and owner of the Cape Light Messenger and put his daughter in charge—just around the time that Dan and Emily’s romance had begun. “I was looking forward to being free of the daily grind for so long. I couldn’t wait to jump on my boat and sail into the sunset. But when the time came I felt so confused, I was practically walking into walls.”

  “With a giant cast on your leg, as I recall. From that fall rigging the new sails. You thought you’d make a quick getaway. But God had other plans for you.”

  Dan laughed and placed his hands on Emily’s shoulders. “For us, I’d say. He made me stick around until I finally noticed the most beautiful, intelligent, and accomplished woman in the world was right under my nose.”

  “It didn’t take too long.” Emily rolled her eyes, and Dan laughed again. “I know what you’re trying to say, but that was different. You wanted to leave your job. I didn’t. Though I had been thinking of stepping down soon. But not by losing to Charlie Bates.”

  “I know, Em. I know it still hurts.” Dan pulled her close in a warm hug. “All I’m trying to say is, be patient with yourself. You don’t have to be perfect at everything you try to do, and you don’t have to volunteer for every project that comes along because you’re afraid of being bored or unproductive.”

  “I guess it’s my way of dealing with this. And I did think Jane and I could have some fun. I forgot she was booked up tonight, literally. She’s getting older. She’s so busy with her own life now, I need to be more mindful of her schedule.”

  “It’s almost as complicated as yours used to be.”

  “The tables have turned,” Emily agreed, though it stung a bit to realize that, too.

  Jane’s after-school hours, filled with music lessons, sports teams, and study groups, had always seemed like a good arrangement to Emily when she was busy in her office, sometimes late into the night. Dan was in charge of the home front, fitting his writing career around their daughter’s many commitments. Now it was Emily’s turn.

  “I thought the upside of leaving Village Hall would be spending more time with her. But so far, that hasn’t happened,” Emily admitted.

  “That will come, too,” Dan advised. “Meanwhile, please don’t book yourself up with a million random commitments and causes. I’m going to get you a T-shirt for Christmas that says, ‘Stop Me from Volunteering.’”

  “That would be great. I’ll wear it, I promise. But I also want cooking lessons. And I’d like to start learning a language, too. Maybe Spanish?”

  “Good idea. We should study a language together. That will come in handy when we travel.” He picked up a dishcloth and began to dry the pile of pans and mixing bowls on the drain board. Emily got back to work, wiping down the counters and stove.

  “Right now, I think you should take a break—a break from volunteering, and everything. No one will blame you for taking some time to clear your head. You’ve earned it.”

  “I know. But I’m glad the holidays are coming. It’s a great distraction—doing all this holiday prep and entertaining. Maybe by the New Year, I’ll figure out something useful to do. Part-time, I mean; nothing too intense. I do want to spend a lot more time with you and Janie. That’s on the top of my list.”

  “You’re always on the top of my list, Emily.” Their eyes met in a loving smile. “I know it wasn’t the way you wanted to leave office, but now that it’s happened, I have to admit, I’m happy to have my wife back. I love having you around, more than you know. And I can’t wait until we do all those amazing things we’ve always talked about—all the trips and adventures. I think we should take a ski trip in Vermont this winter, over Presidents’ Day weekend, and then take a bigger trip when Jane has spring break.”

  “That would be great. Any ideas?”

  “Remember how you always say you’d like to go someplace exotic, on one of those ecotourism trips? I was reading a travel magazine today, and I saw an article about it—places in Costa Rica and even the Galápagos Islands. There are inns in the rainforest, built on stilts, with all these exotic birds and monkeys just roaming around. And we can scuba dive and see giant sea turtles . . .”

  Emily smiled, watching her husband get carried away with his descriptions. She wasn’t sure if he was imitating an exotic bird or a giant turtle. It didn’t really matter; his enthusiasm was contagious. Dan loved to experience different cultures and foreign places—one of the many things Emily had always loved about him.

  “That sounds wonderful. Jane would love it, too.”

  “I think she will. We’ll have a great time. That’s something to look forward to, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Here’s an idea,” Dan said, a mischievous look in his eye. “This time, we plan the trip together. Instead of you just showing up at the airport and grabbing your ticket and itinerary.”

  “Oh dear, is that what I do?”

  “Well . . . more or less. I’ve given you a pass all these years. But I think it would be more fun if we both work on it.”

  “I do, too.” Emily touched his cheek. She could see it meant a lot to him. “No more volunteering. I have plenty to do here.”

 
“And it’s perfectly fine if you do nothing at all,” he reminded her. “We love you the same. Even more.”

  Emily smiled and felt a bit teary. Dan could always read her like a book. It never failed to amaze her. “Thank you, sweetheart. I love you, too. More than you know.”

  She had never been more sure of that.

  * * *

  Sophie’s house was filled with a sweet, buttery scent as Zoey washed the last of the large mixing bowls. She breathed in the cinnamon-spice aroma like a rare perfume. Sophie was in the next room, talking on the phone to her daughter, Evelyn, reviewing their Thanksgiving menu for the umpteenth time.

  Sophie thrived on holiday anticipation. Zoey hoped Sophie’s children would let her have Christmas at the orchard again this year. Even more than that, Zoey hoped they didn’t force Sophie to leave the orchard altogether.

  Zoey stared out the big kitchen window and noticed that it was snowing. When did that start? She hadn’t heard any forecasts for snow tonight, but that was the weather in this part of New England—unpredictable.

  Fat, heavy flakes had piled around the window frame and coated the landscape with a soft white blanket. The orchard looked lovely, the bare branches draped in white lace.

  It would be so hard for Sophie to leave here, Zoey thought. Hard for me, too, to know I could never come back to visit her. To cook and bake, or help with some household chore. Or just have a cup of tea and listen to her stories.

  She wiped her hands on a towel and glanced around the kitchen. She loved the view of the orchard framed by the window over the sink, and the big farm table, a dozen pie pans long tonight. She loved the worn pots that hung from a rack above the stove, like a crazy wind chime, and the open shelves stacked with mismatched china and oddly shaped glasses, with Sophie’s prized collection of teapots on the very top.

  Sophie’s walk-in pantry was almost as big as Zoey’s bedroom, filled with jars of honey, jam and preserves made with fruit from the orchard, and vegetables from her garden. Sophie had kept bees most of her life and was known throughout New England as a gifted “bee charmer.” She had given up that hobby a few years ago, but people still said the honey from Potter Orchard was the very richest tasting because Sophie’s bees were so content.