by Meg Muldoon
He dug in like a man who’d been stranded on a mountain top for a full week.
I laughed and looked out the window for a long moment as he scarfed the pastry down.
The festive Valentine’s Day lights I’d put up along the eaves of the building glowed in the thick fog. Every now and then, thin frost-covered pines appeared in the distance. But mostly, it was like looking into a bank of gray nothing.
This kind of weather was typical of Christmas River in February. It’d been the third day like this where the fog didn’t burn off. And it seemed that no matter how many bright red and white bulbs I sprinkled around the shop, I couldn’t shake off the overall feeling of gloom.
That was probably why I’d been so on edge with Marty this morning – fog at this time of year had a way of making you feel suffocated and like your nerves were raw and exposed.
“Most of the year, I like you a lot, Cinnamon Peters,” Marty said, finishing off the last bite of pie on his plate. “But this time of year, I think you might just be a she-devil.”
“I hope I didn’t throw a chocolate wrecking ball into your diet,” I said.
“I was a willing participant. But just do me a favor – don’t mention this to the wife? She’ll get behind the wheel of that new Jeep I bought her this Christmas and run me down.”
“My lips are sealed. Anyway, I rarely see Iggy lately to tell her anything. How’s she doing these days?”
Iggy Higgins was Marty’s wife of two decades and owned a fabric and quilting supply store on the edge of town. And since I had two left hands when it came to needle and thread, it wasn’t often that our paths crossed.
“She’s just fine,” he said. “Got that sewing machine going 24/7. I tell ya, I hear it rumbling in my dreams.”
I let out a laugh.
“But I love her something awful, so I put up with it,” he added, winking at me. “She loves me something awful, too. I know that’s why she’s got me on this diet. But tell me Cin, why do the things that are good for you so hard to stick to? And why do the things that are bad feel so good?”
“That I can’t tell you,” I said, taking his empty plate. “All I know is that life is short and we owe it to ourselves to have a little fun every now and then.”
Marty grunted, standing up.
“Spoken like a true she-devil,” he said, a twinkle in his eye.
“Now if only this she-devil could bake pies on sheer will alone,” I said, looking at the broken oven.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “The warranty people will take care of it.”
He picked up his jacket, which had been draped over one of the barstools.
“Well, I best get going. The elementary school’s got a broken kiln that needs fixing. But thanks for the coffee and pie, Cin. And sorry I couldn’t work any magic on that oven of yours.”
“Thank you for coming by on such short notice. Will we be seeing you and Iggy at the Humane Society auction tonight?”
A thin smile crossed his lips and he shook his head.
“I’d rather just write the Society a check than be part of that meat market again, pardon my French.”
“I don’t blame you.”
I went over to my purse on the coat rack, pulling out my checkbook.
“How much do I owe you?”
He shook his head, pulling on his worn, grease-stained jacket.
“No charge, little lady. You ought to know that by now.”
I started arguing, but Marty just shook his head some more.
“And if I don’t see you between now and then, you have a nice time with all them leprechauns and fiddle players across the pond. Drink a Guinness for me.”
“Will do, Marty.”
He nodded, and a moment later, he was out the back door, carrying his large toolbox with him.
I took his plate over to the dishwasher, letting out a sigh, still feeling rotten that I’d let my temper flare at such a kind and decent man.
Chapter 2
My calves were crying out for mercy and my heart was hammering away like an oil drum down a mine shaft, but I kept running up the trail through the fog, pushing harder.
Like Marty, I’d been trying to be healthier lately. I’d cut back on my sugar and carb intake – something that wasn’t all that easy to do when you ran a pie shop. I’d also upped my exercise – something that had been sorely lacking with how busy I’d been in the last year. So far, I didn’t have much to show for it in terms of the numbers on the scale, and I’d be lying if I didn’t say that baking pies all day and not eating any wasn’t murder. But the running helped clear my mind, and I found myself looking forward to my lunches lately. Instead of sipping cup of coffee after cup of coffee during my lunch, I’d change into some workout clothes, pull on some tennis shoes, and head up the McCall Mountain trail a few blocks away from downtown. The trail was steep and had nice views of the Christmas River down below, following it from above as it turned to white water and eventually became the Christmas Falls.
I struggled up the frostbitten trail, avoiding the slick patches as best I could. My quick breaths came out in big, foggy plumes and reminded me of the word clouds in comics. I put my attention on my feet. On the feel of the ground beneath them. On the way they fit snuggly in my new tennis shoes. On the way they felt pushing through the air.
When my mind began to wander, I directed my focus back to my feet, doing my best to stay in the moment and keep my mind clear. A method I’d been using a lot since January.
I got to the top of the hill and followed the trail as it took a steep left turn. I ran a little ways until the dirt path emptied out into a large meadow of dead grass. I kept going until I made it to the old farm house, the paint-stripped barn, the greenhouse, the wooden gate, and the small sign that said “Lazy K Farm.”
I slowed, reaching my usual turn-around point. I rested my arms on the gate, catching my breath.
After a few moments, I noticed some movement beyond the dark door of the barn
Shortly after, a big oafish head peeked out. Then a pair of hooves. And then, the familiar hazelnut-brown body.
A warm, content feeling spread out across my chest as I watched old Crabtree slowly make his way across the misty field.
I reached into the pocket of my vest, pulling out the Ziploc bag packed with carrots. And like just about every time I came up here, I opened the bag, pulled out a slice, and held it out in the palm of my hand.
Crabtree ambled along at his own pace until he finally got to me. With big, bulky teeth, he gently took the carrot and set about chewing his treat. He was a polite donkey – leaving behind only a few drops of saliva on my palm.
“What’s shaking today, Crabtree?”
The donkey let out a loud bray and nuzzled up against my empty hand, waiting for the other treats he knew I had.
I pet his soft snout, then grabbed another slice.
“You staying warm enough in all this freezing fog?”
He took the second treat, chomping slowly and thoughtfully.
I smiled, petting the donkey some more.
Crabtree was a half-blind rescue donkey that the little farm had taken this past fall – that’s what Elise Orcutt had told me the first day she caught me feeding him some sugar cubes. Elise was the new owner of the farm, which took in rescue animals from surrounding counties. She told me that old Crabtree had been rescued by the county from some ranch out in Crooked River the year before and that the poor equine had been neglected horribly. He’d been so close to starvation when she took him in, Elise thought he wouldn’t survive another week. But against all odds, the donkey lived. He was blind in one eye, but despite the disability, the equine had a sunny demeanor and didn’t seem to hold any grudges about the years of mistreatment at the hands of humans. He loved carrots and apples, and loved it even more when you pet his ears. He’d nuzzle your arm if you stopped petting him, and he had an all-around sweetness that I couldn’t seem to get enough of.
I’d discovered him and his
ranch back in January when I started running again, and most days now, I brought the old donkey some carrots and spent some time conversing with him.
Anybody passing by would have thought I was crazy. Heck – I was pretty sure Elise Orcutt thought I was crazy to come as often as I did and spend so much time talking with her animal. But there was something about the old donkey – something special.
I guess you could say he was a great listener and that he could keep a secret or two.
“You want to know about my day so far?” I asked, holding out another vegetable slice. “Well, everything was going fine. But remember that oven that was giving me trouble earlier this week? Well, I got to the shop this morning, and it wouldn’t heat up right.”
Old Crabtree let out a long bray, as if he was genuinely sorry to hear that news.
“Yeah, I know. Marty Higgins was nice enough to stop by and try to fix it. But he said it was a goner. After that, I spent a few hours on the phone with the warranty people. They’ll cover it, but the new oven’s not going to be here until after Valentine’s Day.”
The donkey let out another bray, and I couldn’t help but feel my spirits lift a little as he nuzzled up under my hands, trying to get me to rub his ears.
“I know – a real pain. But don’t worry. We’ll figure something out in the meantime. I’m sure of it.”
I stroked his ears and old Crabtree looked at me with his one good eye, seemingly content.
I was glad to have made a new friend this year. Even if he didn’t talk all that much.
I spent a while there stroking his ears. Eventually, though, I pulled myself away. I waved goodbye, then ran back down the path.
Back to the real world.
Chapter 3
“I know we don’t know each other so well, Mr. Longworth. But I’m between a rock and a hard place with this one. I could really use your help.”
Frank Longworth didn’t look up at me as I spoke. The balding man held his attention on the round, floury lump of dough on the wooden table, his thin fingers deftly kneading it.
I thought the pie shop kitchen could get hot. But here in the small, cramped kitchen of The Harvest Bread Bakery, it was a heatwave in the Mojave.
“I’d be happy to pay for renting out the kitchen, too,” I said, clearing my throat. “Whatever you think is fair. And I can come in during whatever hours are best for you.”
A loud noise sounded from across the room, and Frank’s eyes drifted over to a young man dressed in a white baker’s uniform. The kid had been diligently working in the corner since I’d arrived.
“I don’t know how many times I’ve had to tell you this, Taylor – you must keep a clean work station! Otherwise we’re no better than the animals.”
The young man – who couldn’t have been more than twenty – looked like a flower wilting in a frosty wind. His cheeks burned red.
“How can I teach you anything if you won’t learn the basics!” Frank shouted.
The kid nodded like a bobble head doll. He dusted his hands off on his flour-caked apron and quickly exited the kitchen, looking down at the floor in shame.
Frank let out a breathy, disappointed sigh, shaking his head. Then he went back to kneading the dough like I wasn’t even there.
I was beginning to have serious regrets about coming here in the first place.
I didn’t know Frank Longworth all that well. Even though he’d run The Harvest Bread Bakery in downtown Christmas River for more than twenty years, Frank didn’t associate with too many people. He kept to himself mostly, and from my understanding, he was divorced with two adult children who lived near their mom in Northern California. That was about all I knew about Frank Longworth.
I’d always felt a little sorry for him – I didn’t know why. But being here now in his kitchen, seeing the temper he had, I was starting to lose that feeling.
“Well, you think about it, Mr. Longworth,” I said. “I know it’s a big thing I’m asking and—”
“I don’t like mess,” he grumbled, still not looking up at me. “The ability to keep a clean station is a vital skill in our line of work.”
He glanced in the direction of where the young baker had been.
“You can come in here at night and use the ovens,” he said gruffly. “After 6 p.m. We’ll negotiate the payment at a later date, but I’ll give you a fair deal.”
I raised my eyebrows, surprised and relieved that he hadn’t treated me like he’d just treated poor Taylor.
“That’s… that’s very kind—”
“But I’m warning you, Ms. Peters – if there’s so much as a dirty butter knife left in the sink after you’ve been here or a spot of pie dripping left in my oven, I will send you packing. You understand?”
I nodded, probably a little like a bobble head doll myself.
“Thank you, Mr. Longworth.” I reached out to shake his hand. “I really appreciate it—”
“Taylor can give you a key to the back door,” he barked. “Don’t lose it.”
I nodded, taking it as a cue to leave.
“Okay, great. Thanks so much again. You really—”
“Just keep my kitchen clean. You hear?”
I nodded again.
Rock and a hard place, I thought.
Wasn’t that the truth.
Chapter 4
I glanced at the time on my phone, then stuffed it back in the pocket of my plaid pea coat. I picked up the pace, breezing past sleepy-looking storefronts illuminated with pink and white lights and half-empty restaurants that sounded busier than they were.
For all of us in Christmas River, this was the slow season. February was just about as far away from Christmas as you could get. Most people didn’t want to see so much as a red light bulb this time of year, let alone visit a mountain town that celebrated Christmas in one form or another year-round. Christmas River was mostly left to us locals in mid-winter – which was a good or bad thing depending on how you looked at it.
It was a good time for vacation – and I was happy that Daniel and I were taking advantage of the lull and doing something fun.
I felt a round of shivers let loose down my spine as I walked through the thick fog. The inversion hadn’t lifted yet, and now as darkness fell, the dense patches of atmosphere seemed to encroach even more on the downtown streets of Christmas River. Headlights from passing cars were muffled in the thick mist, and everything felt strange and unfamiliar.
I was glad to finally round the corner and see the cozy warm light spilling from the brewpub in the distance, along with loud laughter and booming voices distorted by the fog.
I grabbed the metal handle and pulled back the big wooden door just as Rex Dawson’s voice came on over the speaker.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you might recognize me as the News Channel 12 weatherman, but tonight, I’m leaving my meteorologist jacket at the door and I’m trying my hand at something new…”
I stepped inside the crowded pub, zeroing in on Rex. He was standing on a make-shift stage at the far end of the room. He was dressed in a clownish red suit with a pink bow-tie, and he was wiggling his big, white eyebrows up and down at the crowd.
“Tonight, I’ll be playing cupid, ladies and gentlemen. That’s right – the wee little babe with the bow and arrow who likes to make a mess of people’s lives. Tonight, that’s yours truly.”
I slipped my knit hat off and flattened down the static in my hair, trying not to roll my eyes at Rex Dawson – a man who was widely regarded as being hammier than Easter dinner.
But, I supposed people liked him that way. Rex was a seasoned weatherman at the news station over in Redmond and had damn near become a celebrity in the county. Rex was a standby at parades, Veterans Day events, and any other sort of community activity in the Central Oregon region. If there was going to be a crowd, you could almost certainly count on Rex being there.
I glanced around the room as I listened, looking for a certain cowboy hat.
“And ladies and gentleme
n, just so you know, all proceeds from the Puppy Love Auction along with profits off of those fine brewskies provided by Geronimo Brewing tonight go directly to the Pohly County Humane Society – a place where every dog and cat is loved, cared for, and cherished until they find their forever home. Heck, that place sounds great – maybe the next time Suzy kicks me out of the house, I should go live there.”
A few folks in the crowd laughed, but mostly, there were groans.
“Okay, okay,” he said, holding up his free hand. “I can take a hint. Let’s get the show started, folks…”
I slid out of my jacket and went over to the bartender who was shaking his head in disapproval at the evening’s emcee.
“Jeez, Louise, Cinny Bee. Rex’s jokes are getting worse each passing year,” Warren whispered just under his breath. “People are going to stop inviting him to these kinds of events if he keeps up.”
“His heart’s in the right place,” I said, going around the bar, grabbing an apron and tying it around my waist. “He’s MC-ing tonight for free.”
“Doesn’t feel for free,” Warren grumbled. “He might not be getting paid, but the rest of us sure as hell are.”
“Old man,” I said disapprovingly.
He shrugged.
“Just calling it like I see it.”
“Hey – have you seen Daniel anywhere?” I asked.
“Nope, not yet. Maybe he’s got the jitters. Some last minute doubts, wondering what in the hootenanny did I get myself into?”
Warren tugged at the collar of his plaid shirt.
“I speak from first-hand experience,” he added. “As someone who’s about to get thrown to the wolves. I mean, goll-ee. Just look at all these ladies here. Who’s gonna pay money to get coffee with an old geezer like me?”
I put a hand on my hip, turning to look at him with a raised eyebrow.
“I don’t see any old geezer around here. Only an unrivaled conversationalist with a heart as big as the moon. And don’t even get me started on his good looks. Any lady in this room would be lucky to get coffee with—”
