by Cat Johnson
“We just know you’ve been . . . under a lot of stress lately. You know, with the deadline. So we came over to cheer you up.”
“But you don’t look like you need cheering so . . . did something good happen?” Bethany asked.
They were both treading so lightly around me. Proof I had been a beast to everyone.
“I got two thousand words done,” I said. “It took hours. Much longer than it should have, but I did it.”
“Two thousand. Wow!” Red beamed.
“Is that good?” Bethany asked. “I mean it sounds good.”
I pulled my mouth to the side. “It’s not a lot but it’s enough. Steven King writes two thousand words every day.”
“Then that’s great.” Bethany brightened.
“Not really. Because he writes every single day of the year except Christmas Day. And I haven’t been doing that.” I’d spent every day stalking the Mudville forum though. I let out a huff thinking of all those wasted hours.
“One day at a time,” Red spouted the axiom.
“Right. Today you did it, so let’s celebrate.” Bethany moved to face the counter and opened the lid of the first box. “Agnes is bringing home fried pickles and chicken wings for dinner from the Muddy River Inn, but these are for dessert later.”
“You talked to Aunt Agnes?” I asked as I moved closer to see what was in the box.
“Uh, I saw her before and she, uh, mentioned that was what she was doing and invited us over,” Red explained, looking a tad bit guilty.
Yup. There was definitely some group text I wasn’t on. I ignored that horrifying thought and said, “Oh. Okay.”
“So remember you two were in the bakery during Boone and Sarah’s cake tasting and you said I should create tastings for regular customers? Ta-da!” Bethany flipped open the second lid and took a step back so I could see.
Inside one box was a colorful assortment of mini cupcakes. Inside the other were what looked like mini cheesecakes in all different flavors.
I leaned closer and focused my bleary eyes on the printing on the paper taped inside the lid of the box.
“That's the key that tells people what flavors are in the box,” Bethany explained. “It took a while to streamline production, but I perfected a base cheesecake recipe that would support all the different flavors I wanted. See, there’s key lime, lemon, chocolate, caramel, strawberry and even pumpkin spice for the fall.” Bethany grinned.
“That’s amazing.” Red peered into the box next to me.
“It is.” I agreed. “Bethany, really. I think you’re going to sell a ton of these. Especially around the holidays. And having the key for the flavors right on the lid is perfect.”
“Thanks. This is just the prototype. I’m going to print the key on a big sticker with the Honey Buns logo on it for customers.”
“I’m sure people will buy these samplers for parties. And for hostess gifts,” Red suggested.
I nodded. “And for Thanksgiving. And Christmas dinner. And New Year’s Eve parties. That way everyone can have their favorite flavor. This is brilliant, Bethany.”
“Thank you. But you both gave me the idea.”
“Maybe,” I nodded. “But you developed it and made it a reality. Not to mention all the work you did coming up with the recipes.”
She lifted one shoulder. “That part is fun. I love experimenting with flavors.”
“I’d say we make a pretty good team, the three of us.” Red lifted her gaze to me. “Which brings me to why we’re here.”
“You mean there’s more than cheesecake and cupcakes?” I joked, my gaze hitting on the yet unexplained bags Red had toted in.
“Yes. We know you’ve been having a hard time coming up with stories,” Red began.
“And we know that when you first moved here and we found all of those old journals in the attic, reading them gave you a ton of ideas,” Bethany continued.
That was all true. And I had painstakingly digitized every page of nearly a hundred years-worth of journals. For posterity and for myself. I’d saved the files to the cloud and then I’d moved on to my next book and had forgotten about them.
“I know you put all of Rose’s journals and love letters online, but sometimes I think it helps jiggle the creativity a bit to hold something in your hand. And take notes with an actual pen and paper. So these are all the journals and the letters I’ve been storing since you renovated Agnes’s attic.” Red swept her hand to indicate the four Red’s Resale logo shopping bags. “We thought they might help you come up with some book ideas.”
“And,” Bethany began. “I started a new journal. I took notes of what the old biddies spilled the night we were all here.”
“The night we had too much to drink?” I laughed.
“That’s the one.” She grinned. “But Harper, there’s more stories. So much more. Those women had some pretty crazy lives before they settled down and became the old biddies.”
“I bet they’d be happy to talk to you anytime,” Red suggested. “So? What do you think?”
I was torn between tearing up from their thoughtfulness and tearing into those journals again to search for ideas. “I think you guys are the best. Thank you. For everything.”
They smiled and I reached for the bottle.
“Wine, anyone?” I asked as the back door swung open again and Agnes stepped inside, loaded down with two more bags that filled the kitchen with a tempting aroma.
“Hot wings,” Agnes announced. Her gaze cut to Bethany and Red before it met mine. She set the bags of food down on top of the stove, which was one of the few places left. “You look in a better mood, Harper.”
I couldn’t even be insulted that my mood was once again the topic of conversation. “I am. Thank you. I’ll pour the wine. You break open those wings. They smell amazing.”
Today, had turned out to be a good day. And tomorrow was looking pretty good too.
TWENTY-THREE
Stone
I’d made the call and set everything up. I was in the truck deciding if I had time to grab something to eat before heading to the meeting, when I saw the store.
On a whim, I’d pulled into the parking lot and parked. And sat there staring at the giant diamond-shaped logo that decorated the sign.
That’s when it hit me, right there in the parking lot of the jewelry store. I wanted to marry Harper. And I didn’t want to wait any longer to do it.
Heart racing, I got out of the truck and opened the store's door—and saw Boone. And he saw me.
That I’d run into Boone in the damn jewelry store in the next town proved that I had the worst luck on earth.
Of all the places in the world that my little brother could be after our work was done at the tree lot today, this was the last spot I would have guessed.
Had I seen his truck in the parking lot I would have kept driving. Since I hadn’t, I was now screwed.
“Stone. What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I could ask you the same thing,” I said, avoiding answering his question.
“I’m picking up the wedding bands that we had sized. I am getting married in a few weeks. So what about you? Are you picking out a Christmas present for Harper?”
I could lie and say yes, that was exactly what I was doing.
Boone wouldn’t be suspicious. He’d let it go at that.
Hell, I should actually look for something here to give Harper since I hadn’t even thought about Christmas yet.
But instead something made me blurt, “I’m looking at rings.”
Boone’s eyes widened.
I shook my head, as surprised as he was at what I’d just admitted. “Truth is I’m more than looking. I'm pretty sure I’m gonna buy one.”
I glanced up and expected to see continued shock on my little brother’s face. Instead, he grinned. “About damn time.”
“What are you talking about? It hasn’t been that long. We’ve been dating two years.”
“Time doesn’t matter. You do
n’t measure love by years. You two are made for each other. I could see that from the moment she moved to town.”
I had to consider what Boone said—consider it insane, that is. I snorted. “We’re pretty much opposites.”
“Yup. That’s what makes it so perfect. You complement each other. It’s like you smooth over each other’s rough edges. Even each other out. She makes you much less annoying.”
I let out a huff although I couldn’t help a smile. I knew Boone was right. But that didn’t mean what I’d decided to do was right.
“So my proposing isn’t crazy?” I asked, glancing at the rows and rows of diamond engagement rings in the case to my left.
“No. Sometimes you’re a little crazy. And you often drive me and Cash crazy. But you marrying Harper? Nah. Nothing crazy about that at all.”
When and more importantly how had the youngest Morgan boy turned into the wise, philosophical one? I decided not to think too much about that.
I drew in a breath and blew it out, the decision solidifying in my mind until it felt firmly planted. Almost like the idea had always been there. It just needed to grow and mature a bit.
I wanted to be with Harper for the rest of my life. I wanted to marry her. So what the hell was I waiting for?
“Okay.” I turned and took a step closer to the display case. “Now to pick a ring.”
From about a hundred choices. All of which were starting to look the same to me.
I braced myself to not have a heart attack when I finally could get a look at a price tag on one of these things and glanced around. I saw the salesgirl was busy with someone else at the moment.
Gladly accepting that small reprieve, I took the time to stare down into the glass case and try to make sense of it all.
Boone moved closer to stand next to me. “I’d ask to see this one. And that one. And that one.” He pointed to each ring in turn.
I laughed at my brother, a farmer just like me, and his decisiveness when it came to women’s jewelry.
“Why those?” I asked.
“Well, Harper’s a modern woman. But she also has a traditional side. I mean look how nuts she is for all the old architecture in town. So I’d pick something that’s classic. And not too fancy. She’s not the type to wear anything showy or gaudy. She’ll like something simple but with some nice detail and style.”
I realized I was staring at Boone with my mouth hanging open and closed it.
“Where’s my brother and what have you done with him?” I joked.
One corner of his mouth quirked up in a crooked grin he’d had since he was little. “I did just do this for myself, remember? I had to pick a ring for Sarah, so I did a lot of research online. I learned some stuff.”
He shrugged like it was no big deal. To me, someone who’d done zero research, this choice and Boone’s knowledge about it, seemed like a huge deal.
“You know her ring size?” Boone asked, bringing to light one more inadequacy in my plan.
I mouthed a silent cuss. “No.”
“That’s okay. You can get it sized after you give it to her. But it’s even cooler if it fits right away, so if you can steal a ring you’ve seen her wearing on that finger and bring it in, they’ll tell you her size.”
“You stole one of Sarah’s rings before you proposed?”
He smiled again. “Darn tootin’, I did.”
Boone’s cussing had taken an interesting turn since he’d met Sarah and started spending so much time with her and her now four-year old nephew.
“All right.” I nodded, accepting all of his knowledge and advice without further question.
Who was I to argue with an expert? Even if he was my little brother.
Boone glanced up from the case and said, “So when are you gonna ask?”
That was the big question. If only I had an answer for him and for myself.
“I’m not sure yet. But Boone, can we keep this between us? If Cash finds out—”
“He might tell Red and she could let it slip to Harper and spoil it.” Boone nodded. “I know. I can keep my mouth shut. Don’t worry.”
I sniffed out a short laugh. “You sure as hell can.” As evidenced by the fact that not a one of us had suspected he was going to propose to Sarah.
“You coming back home after this?” he asked.
“Nah. There’s a town meeting tonight and I’ve, uh, got some other stuff I need to do before then.”
I had one more thing to attend to today before the meeting. Something incredibly important that I hoped would completely insure Harper’s happiness.
Something that might be more important to her than even my asking her to be my wife.
TWENTY-FOUR
Harper
“Since I haven’t heard from you I’m going to assume you’re spending Thanksgiving up there with Agnes this year.” My mother’s sharp tone, not dulled even a little by the crappy cell phone signal, told me she didn’t approve.
“That’s not what I—”
“It would be nice if one day your poor father got to see you. He’s not getting any younger, you know,” she continued, cutting me off as I tried to correct her.
Playing the father card. Wow.
“Mother. I’m planning on coming to visit for a couple of days—”
“But you’re not eating Thanksgiving dinner here?” she again interrupted me. “I guess we’ll just eat the leftovers from the twenty-two pound turkey I bought until Christmas.”
I bit my tongue and didn’t ask why she’d buy a twenty-two pound turkey for just the three of us anyway, and instead decided to focus on what else was wrong with her assumption.
I’d never said I wasn’t going to eat with them. I also hadn’t said that I would.
But I guess it was time to stop beating around the bush and commit. “I’m planning on having turkey with you and Dad on Thanksgiving. And then I’ll be driving upstate after we eat.”
She let out a humph. “Will you be staying for dessert?”
I closed my eyes and breathed in.
Thanksgiving at Agnes’s was a huge affair. Big enough it necessitated adding all of the extra leaves to the dining room table that sat twelve. I was already giving up having dinner here. I wasn’t going to give up at least making it home for dessert.
Since my mother pulled her turkey out of the oven promptly at one-forty-five every year, I knew I could easily eat dinner there, help clean up and still make the drive back to Mudville in time for dessert.
Agnes served her turkey after sunset, so dessert at her house wasn’t served until later in the evening.
More than all of that, Thanksgiving was kind of an unofficial anniversary for Stone and me. Two years ago, it was the day I realized I couldn’t live without him, or without this crazy small town, even with all its quirks and challenges.
But I didn’t think my mother would understand any of that. Time for a half-truth. “No dessert, Mom. I gained weight.”
She snorted. “No surprise. I remember how that woman cooks with enough butter to grease a pig. It’s like she thinks she’s going to live forever and doesn’t have to worry about cholesterol.”
That woman, meaning my Agnes, did use real butter, and real sugar and real cream and real cheese. But it was all the highest quality, bought from the local farmers, along with the bushels full of fresh vegetables she got locally.
No big box store food for Agnes.
The truth was, I had put on a few pounds, but it was because of my friendship with Bethany. Or more accurately, because of my addiction to Honey Buns and the tasty treats there.
Not to mention, I couldn’t have chosen a more sedentary lifestyle than being a writer. So there was that excuse too. But my need to begin some sort of exercise regime in the new year was a concern for later, after I got off this phone call.
I was a believer in choosing my battles and store-bought dessert at my parents’ house was not the hill I wanted to die on. “Yup. You’re right. There’s way too much butter in A
gnes’s food. So no dessert for me this year, if that’s okay.”
“Humph. That’s fine. Your father likes pie.”
“Yes, he does like pie. It’ll make nice leftovers for him for the week,” I agreed, finally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel for this conversation and this holiday season.
“What about Christmas?” she asked.
That question, like the scratch of a needle across a vinyl record, cut through my short-lived relief.
Thankfully, living in the north-west corner of New York State provided one failsafe excuse in winter. Snow.
“We’ll have to keep an eye on the weather.”
She let out a huff. “Why you choose to live up there in the snow belt is beyond me.”
I didn’t argue with her. That wouldn’t do me any good at this point. “So plan on my being there Wednesday night—"
“The day before Thanksgiving? And you’re leaving Thursday?”
“Or maybe I can get there tomorrow and stay two nights. Tuesday and Wednesday.”
“Okay. I’ll put the sheets on the open-up sofa.”
The sofa . . . because she’d gotten rid of the bed in my old bedroom.
I didn’t beat that dead horse and instead said with more enthusiasm than it deserved, “Perfect. Thank you. I’ll call when I leave and let you know what time I’ll be there. Say hello to Dad for me. Bye.”
I disconnected and laid both my cell phone and my forehead against the cool countertops in the kitchen.
“Your mother?”
I lifted my head to see Agnes in the doorway. “Yes.”
She walked past me and patted my back on her way to the back door. “Bless her heart.”
I let out a snort and straightened, deciding if I needed another cup of coffee or if it was late enough in the day to break out the wine, when my cell vibrated.
This time, I was happy when I read the name on the display.
I answered and said, “Stone. Hi.”
“Hey, baby. How’s your day going?”
I groaned. “Don’t ask.”
“The book?” he guessed.
“No. My mother called.”
