“Aw, I love you, too,” I said lightly. But I sincerely meant it. I couldn’t imagine this adventure with anyone else and I loved Dixie like I would’ve loved a sister.
“Today’s that appointment in Walnut Woods with the lady from ABBA.” I’d removed my jacket when I was getting down the plates. “I hope I can stay clean until then. How long do you think it will take me to get there?”
“If you don’t get lost, it’s no more than a half hour.”
“I won’t get lost.” I popped the last piece of muffin in my mouth. “We’re meeting at her house, and I have her address already programmed into my GPS.”
“You should be fine then.” She tilted her head. I don’t think she was convinced.
“Okay, I’m going to work on that comparison sheet so I can dazzle her with my fancy spreadsheets and charts.” I dusted crumbs from my hands.
“So glad you love the numbers part of this business, because it’s definitely not my thing.” Dixie grabbed both of our plates. “I can figure measurements and convert recipe amounts, but don’t ask me to calculate ROI.”
“That’s why we make such a great team.” I slid off the stool.
I parked myself at the computer and made short work of the comparison. I plugged in estimates for various sizes and types of bindings, and created simple spreadsheets with the variables.
That done and printed out, I tried to make some order of the recipes from the Crack of Dawn Breakfast Club. The retirees who were part of the club had no hard deadline other than wanting to finish the refurbishing of the city park shelter before winter, so they weren’t pushing to get it done. However, we had a couple of projects I’d hoped to bring on board. In fact, I hoped to secure the B and B one this afternoon. We would need to get the breakfast club project finished up before we could move on.
Maybe we could start with what categories the cookbook would have.
Heading back out front to talk over that approach with Dixie, I gathered up all the loose pieces of paper, recipe cards, and notes that had been in Alma’s folder and moved everything to the long counter out front.
“Let’s try it,” she agreed, grabbing some colorful sticky notes.
“I had thought one section just for biscuits.” I took one of the sticky notes and wrote “Biscuits” on it. “And maybe one for casseroles.”
“There do seem to be a lot of biscuit recipes.” Dixie picked another color sticky note. “Maybe that’s because of their all-you-can-eat biscuits-and-gravy breakfasts that kicked off their fundraiser.”
“How about another for sweet rolls?” I stacked a few pieces of paper together. “You know like cinnamon rolls and that type of thing.”
“Sure, I think that could work.”
This wasn’t how we usually worked. We generally broke the cookbook into the customary Appetizers, Main Dishes, Side Dishes, and Desserts, but this was different.
Also, usually the client had given us input on what particular types of recipes they were looking for in the cookbook.
But then again, usually our point person on the project wasn’t dead.
In a short time, we had all the categories figured out, and the few recipes we had placed into piles within those groupings.
“We’ve got to get the rest of those recipes,” Dixie noted. “Or this is going to be one slim cookbook.”
“I know.” I looked at the skimpy piles. “I feel like in a way we’re starting over.”
I went to the office to get a folder for each group and ran smack into Max Windsor coming in the back door.
“Sorry.” He steadied me with hands on my shoulders, dropping a long tube he’d had tucked under his arm. “I knocked, but obviously you didn’t hear me.”
Obviously.
I sucked in a breath. Max smelled like the outdoors. He looked good. Jeans and an untucked light blue shirt. A bit of a stubble, dark hair shot with bits of silver, dark lashes, intense blue eyes.
I picked up the tube that he’d dropped and handed it to him. “Dixie and I were working at the counter out front. Feel free to go through. I’m just getting something from the office.”
Max didn’t move right away. “You look nice.” A corner of his mouth lifted into a half-smile.
He had a sharp square jaw, and a dimple that showed up at times. This was one of those times. The guy didn’t smile often, and I found that sort of disarming. When he did smile, it was a particular treat.
It took a couple of seconds before my brain, and my manners, kicked in.
“Thanks. I’ve got a meeting with a potential client this afternoon. It’s the Iowa B&B group. They may be interested in doing a cookbook. It’s a great opportunity for us, because it would be a statewide project. So, I dressed for the meeting.”
His smile got wider and his gaze more direct. “I didn’t mean the dress. But it’s nice too.”
Okay, I had been babbling a bit, but suddenly all the nervousness I’d felt, about having not seen each other for a couple of weeks and what that meant, had surfaced.
“Thank you.” I cautioned myself to play it cool. “If you’d like to go on out where Dixie is sorting recipes, I’ll be there in a minute.”
Feeling my face flush, I grabbed the colored folders from the supply cabinet and carried them out to the counter where Dixie stood chatting with Max.
“I was in the area and thought I’d stop by with these.” He opened the long tube and pulled out some prints.
As he spread the photos out one by one, I caught my breath.
“Max, these are great.” I was blown away.
He’d had some of the shots from the last cookbook project we’d done printed in a large format. I had wanted to use some photos to spruce up the plain walls of the more public part of the offices. I had asked him if it was okay if we did that with his photos, and Max had offered to take care of getting it done. I believed it wasn’t just that he was being kind, but that he didn’t trust me to get all the details right for such a big print.
Really, I’m good with details. One of my strong suits. But I’m also experienced at working with creative types, and I’d learned when to let them use their expertise. Our graphic designer, Liz, was like that as well. When she said let her handle it, I did.
We laid the large photos out on the counter so we could see each of them. Each one presented a different type of dish and every single one made your mouth water.
“I can definitely see these on the walls.” I was so excited to get them up now that I’d seen them. “What size frames will we need?”
“When you’ve decided which ones you want to install, let me know, and I’ll be happy to look at framing with you.” Max stepped back and stared at our wall space.
In others words, he didn’t trust me to frame them like they deserved either.
Heck, I didn’t trust me either. The photos were stunning. And much, much more than I’d imagined. These were the types of photos that you saw hanging in a gallery, and I felt bad that I’d just casually thought I’d have some copies printed, buy some frames, and hang them on the wall.
“Thank you so much, Max.” I looked up from the photos and into those piercing blue eyes. “I love them.”
“What do we owe you?” Dixie interrupted.
It was a good thing she did too, because I was fighting to talk around the lump in my throat.
“Not a thing.” He shook his head. “My gift to you ladies for persevering through the past year.”
I was touched. I opened my mouth and then closed it.
“Thank you,” I finally got out.
Dixie picked up some of the extra markers and sticky notes that were scattered across the counter where we’d been working. “I’m going to put these away.”
Max carefully rerolled the photos and tucked them back into the tube. “I’m glad you like the photos.”
“I love the photos.” I began gathering the recipes on the counter into folders and labeling them. “You should have told me I wasn’t up to the task when I t
ried to get you to give me the files.”
“I didn’t want to be rude.” He sealed the tube with a tap. “But I’m afraid I’m a bit of a control freak with my photos. Not everyone can take that much honesty.”
“For future reference, I prefer honesty, and I’m tougher than I look.”
For Pete’s sake, where did that come from.
Suddenly it sounded like we were talking about more than photos.
“I imagine you shared your developer theory with the sheriff.” Max tucked the tube under his arm and leaned against the counter. “Any more on Alma Stoller’s death?”
“Kind of.” I finished the last pile of recipes and stacked the folders. “It sounds like they’re still looking into things, but don’t think it was accidental.”
I didn’t feel comfortable sharing any more than that even though I knew Max wasn’t the type to spread gossip around town. In fact, in the past he’d been the subject of loads of conjecture because like me, he wasn’t originally from the area. Most of the locals had thought he must have a mysterious past, because he talked so little about his personal life. I wondered if they had him cast as an undercover spy or a secret agent.
“Hopefully they’ll get to the bottom of things soon.” He moved to go. “Everyone around town seems on edge about it.”
“Before you leave, could I ask you about the property you said Ross and Cheeters were buying out by you?”
“Like I said, they seemed to be buying several parcels of land in the area.”
“Feel free to tell me it’s none of my business—” I began.
“Like that’s going to stop you?” One eyebrow rose.
I gave him a look. “What I’m wondering about is whether the developer shared what plans they have for the property.”
“The guy who talked to me didn’t give me any details, but I’d have to think they were looking at a residential development of some kind.” He rubbed his chin. “I’m not crazy about having neighbors nor the increased traffic that comes with more development. Defeats the purpose of living in the country.”
“Must have been a good offer then.” Came out of my mouth before I thought about how it sounded. “Sorry. Strike that.”
“The piece of my property they were interested in wasn’t particularly close to my house.”
“According to Cheri, Alma’s daughter, her mom was reluctant to sell.” I bit my lip, thinking about what Cheri had said. “I wonder why.”
“She might have been holding out for a higher price.”
“That could be the case.” I could see Alma being a holdout. “I guess they must have needed her land, or they would’ve dropped it. Maybe she knew that.”
“I think some of us that sold later got a little more per acre than the early sellers.”
“So you were a smart negotiator?”
“Not so much smart as just a procrastinator,” he responded, and started toward the back door. “I’ll get some ideas on framing and get back to you on these.”
“If you’re still interested in doing the photos for the Crack of Dawn cookbook, we should talk about a date.” I called out.
He turned back.
“I don’t mean a date, I mean a date to do the photo shoot.”
He didn’t acknowledge my fluster, just gave me that blue-eyed stare. “My calendar will be relatively clear in a week or two, so why don’t you email me your first choice for day and time, and we’ll go from there. Unless it’s during the week of the Jameson County Fair, I can most likely make it work.”
“Oh, nothing that late.” The County Fair was generally later in August. I’d have to ask Dixie to be sure of the dates.
“Okay, good.” He headed for the door. “Just email me.”
I stood, clutching my stack of folders, for a while after he left.
That’s where Dixie found me.
“No explanation for his distance?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“No ‘let’s get together’ offer?”
“None,” I answered.
“Then forget about him. If he doesn’t have the sense to see what’s right under his nose, you don’t need him.” Dixie snapped her fingers.
“I don’t need him.” I sighed. “But I really enjoyed the time we spent together.”
“We don’t need his stupid pictures either,” Dixie huffed. “And we can get someone else to do the photos for the Crack of Dawn cookbook. Call one of those people from the magazine.”
“Whoa, girl.” I laughed. “I appreciate your fierce loyalty, but the man has done nothing wrong.”
Dixie crossed her arms. “Other than hurt my best friend.”
“We enjoyed each other’s company, but there was no commitment of any kind,” I said. “And even if there had been, we can have a professional relationship. Max is an extremely talented photographer.”
She didn’t look convinced.
“Did you see those wall photos? Pretty awesome, huh?”
“They were extremely awesome,” Dixie agreed. “Who knew food could be so artsy.”
“And he works cheap,” I pointed out. “We’d have to pay someone else twice as much.”
“There is that,” Dixie agreed with a little grin.
“It’s not a problem,” I insisted. “He’s not my boyfriend. I’m way too old for boyfriends anyway.”
I tapped the folders I still held. Establishing the categories for the cookbook had been good. I felt much less panicked. It was incremental but it was progress. “Besides, if I wanted a boyfriend, I’d simply make one up, like Tina.”
“You’re still convinced her guy isn’t real, huh?”
“Are you kidding me? With a name like Rafe?” I chuckled.
“I’m going to ask Dot the next time I’m at the post office if Tina actually gets packages from Canada.”
“Really? She can’t tell you, can she?” I furrowed my brows. “Isn’t that like a federal crime or something?”
“Of course it’s not.” Dixie laughed. “What murder mystery have you been reading now?”
“But if not illegal, it’s at least unethical to talk about people’s mail.” I felt guilty already and Dot hadn’t disclosed anything yet.
“Maybe.” Dixie grinned. “But everyone knows you can bribe Dot to keep quiet about where your letters or packages are coming from. I’ll bet you can bribe her to tell as well. Banana bread is her weakness.”
“Ahh, the secrets of a small-town postmistress.” I twirled an imaginary mustache. “Okay, I’m off to finish my handouts for the ABBA lady and then I need to get on the road if I’m going to be on time for that appointment.”
I headed back to the office humming “Dancing Queen” under my breath.
Chapter Six
By early afternoon I was on my way to Walnut Woods, Iowa.
I had carefully programmed my GPS with the address the ABBA lady had provided. Dixie wasn’t kidding about my sense of direction. I had none.
All I had to do was follow the directions from the nice British lady whose accent I found soothing. She was much less bossy than the GPS lady I’d had before her.
I reviewed the project in my head as I drove. The Iowa Association of B&Bs was interested in creating a cookbook with specialty recipes from each of their members. There were a number of Iowa bed and breakfasts and they each had a unique ambiance and fare that fit their establishment. This would be a great project for Sugar and Spice Publishing because the association would collect and curate the recipes. No need for testing. They might even have some photos, and though they wouldn’t be like Max’s, if they were of good quality we could use them. We would only be responsible for the publishing.
I’d already had a short conversation with the executive director about a month ago. My in-person visit was a follow up. She hadn’t seemed totally convinced and I hoped my handout would help her see all the benefits of working with us. I knew they could probably get the printing done on their own, but we could do it for less. Additionally, what
we could offer was, I believed, a more polished look that would make the cookbook stand out.
I followed my British lady’s instructions without any trouble. She was so pleasant and if we were going to travel together frequently, I decided she should have a name. Thinking through the possibilities, I almost missed her prompt that I had a turn coming in a half-mile.
Elizabeth sounded very English but a bit formal. Besides, it seemed a bit pretentious to name your GPS lady after the Queen.
Bronwen. I liked that name but decided it didn’t fit her personality. Such a serious-sounding name. I pictured her as a little more laid back.
“Please turn left in five hundred feet and continue.”
“Thank you, Matilda.” That was it. I liked “Matilda.” I could call her Mattie when we got to know each other better.
If you’re thinking now I’ve totally lost it because I not only talk to my cat, but I’ve resorted to naming my GPS, you may be right.
Maybe Dixie had been right. I needed to get out more.
“Continue one quarter mile,” Matilda instructed.
“You’ve got it.” I drove on, enjoying the countryside. Rolling hills of green, a few properties built a distance back from the road. Red barns and tall metal windmills. Native grasses and ditches full of flowers. They might be weeds. As has already been established, I’m not an expert on plants versus weeds, but whatever they were, they were pretty.
“Stop the car,” Matilda said in her clipped British accent.
“What?” I slowed.
“Stop the car,” she insisted.
“I heard you the first time, Matilda.”
“You have arrived at your destination. You will need to walk to your destination from here.”
What? I didn’t even know my GPS could tell me I had to walk.
I looked around. Following Matilda’s directions had brought me into a beautiful wooded area. Large trees towered on each side of the pavement, casting soft shadows, and the ditches along the road were lush with a riot of purple and white wildflowers.
I let the car idle while I tried to figure out what to do. The mapping app had to have incorrect information. Maybe I had put the address in wrong.
Risky Biscuits Page 9
