by Barbara Lohr
Shortly after that, Sarah collected the boys and got them dressed for the weather. Then they left for home.
As usual, that night she told Jamie all about her day, his picture on her lap as she lay in bed. “Ryan’s pitching in, Jamie.” She finished up by reporting on his brother. “We’ll see how that goes. He is good with the boys.” Then she kissed the framed photo and set it back on her nightstand.
Settling under the covers, she tried to shake her misgivings. This Christmas felt all wrong. Somehow she would make it right.
~.~
“Christmas cookies.” Ryan was fuming when he got to Branson Motors that night. Evening came early in December. The sky was dark as he pulled into the back lot.
They’d probably get more snow tonight. The wind nipped his cheeks and rattled the bare branches overhead as he locked the truck. When he got inside, Ryder Branson and his father Stanley were jawing about something in the back. Their chuckles echoed through the open office door as Ryan headed back. He'd never seen a father and son that close. Sometimes it got to him.
When he walked in, both men looked up.
“Here comes our new tenant,” Stanley greeted him with his usual peppery tone.
Boots up on the desk, Ryder stretched back and grinned. “So how are you enjoying the apartment upstairs?”
“Suits me just fine.” Ryan took an empty chair and unbuttoned his jacket. This wasn’t the neatest office in the world but it served its purpose. Like a lot of the businesses along Red Arrow, the garage had been a fixture for years. The Bransons mostly worked on Harleys, which had been the main attraction of the job. “Thanks for renting it to me.”
“Glad someone can use it,” Ryder said. “Maybe the place will bring you good karma or whatever it is that Phoebe says.”
Stanley wore a big grin. “Got me my favorite daughter-in-law back. Ryder couldn’t wait to get out of here and back to his house in the woods.”
“It was the woman in the woods that counted, Dad, not the house.” Ryder and his wife Phoebe had been divorced for a year. During that time, Ryder had been one mean son of a gun, and his father hadn’t been much better. How Ryder won Phoebe back, Ryan would never know. But it had something to do with fixing up their old house.
While they were divorced, Ryder had lived in the apartment over Branson Motors. With a bedroom and a kitchen, that apartment served its purpose, but it was nothing Ryan would want on a full-time basis. The smell of oil and grease crept up through the walls. It was a place, not a home.
Now Ryder sniffed the air. “Man, you smell good.”
“Yeah, you’re making me hungry.” Stanley patted his stomach.
“It’s the bread.” Smiling, he slipped out of his heavy jacket.
“How's it going with the widow?” Ryder asked with an expectant grin.
“You make it sound like she’s eighty.” Before, she’d been his sister-in-law––the person who kept his brother happy with her sweet smile and soft curves. Now she talked to Ryan like a drill sergeant. So serious, her eyes dark with worry. He didn’t know how to take her. The chair creaked when he shifted.
“Sarah’s a pretty little thing and a good mother.” Then Ryder stopped.
“She’s had bad luck.” Stanley snapped up a toothpick. He always had one handy. “Your brother was a patriot. I served in Vietnam, and I can’t say enough good things about Jamie or Sarah. But it’s a darn shame.”
The mood had turned somber. Ryder nodded. “And that’s the truth. So are you handling the two jobs okay? Not making you crazy or anything?”
“It’s not a picnic chasing up and down Red Arrow in the snow,” Ryan admitted.
“How does your schedule go?” Kicking back in his chair, Stanley studied him, that toothpick between his teeth. “You start the day there, come back to the garage for a few hours and then it’s back to the bakery?”
“I’m burning a lot of gas, but I make sure I put in at least eight hours up here.” Working on a Harley was bittersweet for him. But he knew those machines like the back of his hand. “You know anything about making thimbles?”
The foreheads of both men creased. “You mean like in sewing, son?” Stanley said. “My wife used a thimble on her finger sometimes.”
“No. These are cookies.” He almost hated to say the word.
“Cookies?” A grin lifted the corner of Ryder’s mouth. “You’re baking cookies with Sarah? I thought you were handling the bread.”
Stanley put both hands on his stomach “Now you’re really making me hungry.”
Okay. This whole baking thing didn’t sound very manly. But he was helping out. Sarah and her mother Lila needed him. “Yes, her mother added the cookies,” he muttered. “I’m fine with it.”
That brought a howl from both of them. “The widow’s got you making dainty little Christmas cookies? With those ham-sized hands that have touched carburetors?” Stanley made some mincing movements with his fingers. Of course Ryder roared at his dad’s antics.
“Glad you two are enjoying yourselves.” Ryan’s face burned.
“Why don’t you bring back some samples?” Stanley ran one hand over his perpetual stubble. He only shaved every three days. “We can give your cookie skills a road test.”
“I haven’t made them yet.”
Ryder gave him a curious look. “Anything going on with you and Sarah?”
Reaching down, Ryan played with his boot. By the end of the day, his shorter leg ached. “Of course not.”
“Why not?” Ryder snorted. “She’s a sweet woman with two cute little boys who need a dad.”
“The emphasis is on sweet.” Ryan looked up and frowned. “Not exactly my type.”
“What does that mean?” Mouth hanging open, Stanley looked from his son back to Ryan.
“Dad, I think that means that our boy Ryan still likes women with swinging hips and lying lips.” Ryder stabbed a finger at Ryan. “That’s what got me into trouble at the Rusty Nail. And I wound up sleeping upstairs in that cold apartment. So watch it.”
Ryan had never been known for good decisions. “What would Sarah want with me anyway?” He kicked out his bum leg.
Stanley kept working that toothpick. “You might be ugly as sin and cantankerous on certain days, but you look like marrying material to me.”
Drawing his leg back, Ryan shook his head. “No way.”
Ryder was frowning. “Your accident on the Harley was what, five years ago?”
“Four. And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly a chick magnet. I wasn’t even fit for service.” It bugged him that he hadn’t been able to go off and serve with Jamie.
But then, who would watch out for Sarah?
The only sound in the room was the ticking of the giant clock on the wall.
“Let it go, Ryan,” Stanley said with disgust. “That was an addle-brained stunt, racing Zack Deiter down the highway. You could have got yourself killed. But put all that behind you. There’s a lot more to being a man than walking straight.”
“Easy for you to say.” Getting up, Ryan stretched. Hours of bending over the work table or motorcycle engines made him stiff. “Time for some shut eye.”
“Don’t forget to come back with those cookies,” Stanley called out as Ryan made his way through the garage.
“Right.” Dragging himself up the stairs, Ryan felt uncomfortable about that conversation. He didn’t like discussing Sarah like that. When Jamie and Sarah were dating in high school, his mother had commented that Sarah was “too good to be true.” Maybe she was right. Oh, she could talk tough with the boys but she was a cream puff underneath.
Ryan had made a promise to his brother, and he would watch out for Sarah. Even if it meant making cookies.
Chapter 2
Her wise-cracking brother-in-law making cookies. Imagine that. Having dropped the boys off the next morning, Sarah hunched over the steering wheel. Traffic was light and overnight the roads had been plowed. She needed coffee bad. The heat in her old Pontiac co
uldn’t keep up with Michigan’s cold weather. Still shivering when she reached The Full Cup, she smiled to see Ryan’s black pickup with flames painted behind the wheels. The boy would always be trouble.
Man, not boy.
She parked and went inside. The warmth of the workroom and the smell of bread comforted her. “Sure smells wonderful in here,” she called out. The shuffling of metal baking sheets brought back memories of her dad and Jamie. Now Ryan was the man in front of the ovens and he turned.
“Morning.” When Ryan heaved a tray of bread onto the cooling rack, she couldn’t help but notice the strong shoulders and rippling biceps. Yep, definitely a man. As if she needed to be reminded.
Coffee always restored her sanity. She needed coffee.
“Still cold out there?” Ryan threw her one of his crooked smiles.
“Freezing. And we’re probably in for more snow.” Tugging off her scarf, she unbuttoned her coat. “You can smell it.”
“I don't think I've ever smelled snow, Sarah,” Ryan said quietly, mischief swirling in his coffee-colored eyes. He had an intense, brooding quality about him, like a slow dark roast.
Now she really was losing it.
Sarah laughed. “Then you’ve missed it. Trust me, you can tell.” She hung her red scarf on the hook. When she slid out of her coat, Ryan reached to help her. He smelled like warm bread and sweat. She liked the combination.
Smiling down at her, he said, “Your cheeks are all pink.”
“It’s freezing out there.” She pressed both palms to her face. Her skin felt cold and dry. Maybe she needed one of her mother’s avocado masks. “But it was probably much colder when you came in at five.”
“About fifteen degrees.” He hung up her coat.
“Why, thank you, Ryan.” His thoughtfulness surprised her.
“I’ll take cold weather over heat any day.”
He was so close and she stared up into his eyes. “Your eyes are like coffee,” she murmured.
“What?” Ryan jerked back.
Where had her silliness come from? “I said I could sure use some coffee.”
Stop the nonsense, Sarah.
Enough. She trotted out to the storefront, flipping on lights as she went. In three minutes she had her warm mug of coffee. Sarah killed it with cream so it didn’t look at all like Ryan’s deep, brown eyes. Sighing, she slugged down a gulp and felt it wind through her in a warm stream. Her riotous imagination must be the result of holiday stress. Then it was back to the work room, her attitude adjusted and ready to work.
For an hour or so she turned out brownies, cheese crowns and pecan rolls while Ryan punched, shaped and baked bread. His rye rolls, a new addition, had been a big hit so he was making more of those. Every night, Ryan closed out the register. They’d been taking in more money since he’d started helping out and she hoped it continued.
While the pastries cooled, she checked the hunks of butter they’d left out the night before. “Feels like it’s ready.” She looked up to find Ryan studying her hands cupped over the wrapped packages. “What?”
He shrugged. “Nothing. It’s just the way you hold the butter. You’d think those were your kids or something.”
Sarah gave the butter a final pat and turned to the supply cupboard. “In some ways, they are, I guess. Want to chop the nuts?” She took down a bag of pecans.
Grabbing a knife from the rack over the sink, he said, “I’m on it.”
“Good, you chop and I’ll sift the flour.” Reaching into the cupboard, she brought out the huge recipe binder. “Dad had everything in his head. Now it’s all in this fat notebook, secret spices included.”
“Sounds more like a spy mission than a recipe file.” Spreading out the pecans, he started to chop, working the knife with studied determination.
She glanced around. “My dad took this business very seriously.”
“I’m sure he did. The Full Cup is still here. That’s saying something. Michiana Thyme is closed.” The knife seemed to emphasize each point. That was a sore spot in the town. The dress shop Michiana Thyme had been an anchor in Gull Harbor for as long as Sarah could remember. But Loretta, the owner, had moved closer to her daughter. The store had never sold, so it closed. Now the green frame structure housed the town’s PR department and even that was temporary.
No way did Sarah want to tank another Gull Harbor family business. Not on her watch.
“Yep, we’re still here.” But she couldn’t think about the taxes due at the end of January. Usually, they paid twice a year but she’d skipped a payment. Revenues were down and she’d had unexpected expenses, like Jamie’s funeral.
But she wouldn’t think about that.
The ginormous binder was filled with clippings and scrawled ingredients, some in plastic slip sheets but most just crammed into the pages. A few fell to the floor. Dropping the knife, Ryan scooped them up. “Here let me take that.”
“Thanks. The darn thing weighs a ton.” She shifted the book into his arms. The brush of his skin sent a surprising burst of warmth up both arms. “Oh, my.”
Ryan cocked a brow. “Oh, my what?”
She wet her lips. “Oh, my. Someday I’ve got to organize this.”
Setting the binder on the table, he flipped it open. “You got a lot stuffed in here, that’s for sure.”
“We were afraid the recipes would be lost someday,” she said, turning the pages. Then she pushed back the curly hair that would never behave. “But the way things worked out, what does it matter? There’s no little girl to carry on with The Full Cup.”
“Why does it have to be a girl?” Ryan studied her. She must look a mess, no makeup or anything. “Your dad handled the shop, right?”
“Yep. He mostly worked the coffee machine and my mother baked.” She tried to picture Justin or Nathan running The Full Cup, but that was a stretch. “Jamie seemed to like the business.”
“Jamie enjoyed you,” Ryan said quietly, going back to his chopping. “He would have become a brick layer if you were standing next to him.”
“Oh, Ryan. That’s so sweet.” His words sent a rush of comfort through her.
There was a time when Ryan always had a chip on his shoulder. Maybe the accident had changed him. But she didn’t want to spend a lot of time analyzing her brother-in-law.
Time to get to work. “We need a little Christmas music.” Walking to the old plastic radio on the shelf, Sarah snapped it on and turned to the station that ran only Christmas music, starting the week before Thanksgiving. “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” was playing and she hummed along. She sure hoped her troubles would be out of sight in the coming year. While Ryan chopped the heck out of those pecans, she measured the flour. Working side by side, she felt a bit of Christmas bloom inside.
His knife flying, Ryan said, “Besides, Sarah, there might still be a little girl in your future.”
The flour sack slipped from her hands onto the counter. A puff of flour made her cough. “Don’t be ridiculous, Ryan.” She tried to catch her breath.
His head snapped back. Ryan had always been super sensitive. That had not changed.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Face closed and smile definitely gone, he kept chopping. “You’re a good mother. You’ll probably have other kids.”
What was he saying? “How?”
Ryan’s laugh came out dry as the flour still tickling her throat. “Do I have to spell out how to make a baby?”
Lordy, it was hot in here. Light footsteps sounded on the stairs. Her mother danced into the workroom, wearing black ankle boots with black pants and her green Christmas sweater. “Good morning,” she sang out. Then she stopped. “Sorry. Am I interrupting?”
“Of course not.” Grateful for the interruption, Sarah measured out the sugar. “We’re starting on the thimbles.”
“Now, don’t you make a wonderful team?” Looking pleased, Mom unhooked her apron from the wall, tied it around her slender
waist and disappeared through the swinging door.
Dumping her butter into the large mixing bowl, Sarah flipped on the beaters. They hit the bowl with an erratic, metallic rhythm. “Everyone’s gone crazy this Christmas.”
Shrugging his unlawfully broad shoulders, Ryan murmured, “Sarah, Sarah.”
“What? They have. Totally crazy.” But she wasn’t about to share her concern about her mother. The butter had become a smooth soft texture and she cracked two eggs into the bowl. The ding of the oven timer came as a relief. He stepped over to take out the sour dough bread that Finn Wheeler had ordered for the Mangy Mutt.
Concentrate. She had to concentrate. When the eggs and butter were thick and creamy, she slowly added the sugar. “Silver Bells” came on the radio and she hummed along. Behind her, Ryan opened and closed oven doors. The smell of bread expanded in the overheated room until she could almost bite into it. Wiping her forehead with the back of one hand, she stepped over to open a window.
“Thanks,” Ryan said, starting on the pecans again. “But I can take the heat if you can.”
Why did he continue to tease her? Sarah gave a frustrated sigh. “Let’s just get to work.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Okay, that ma’am made her feel as old as Mount Baldy, a mountainous dune that had been stretched along the Michigan shoreline forever. She’d concentrate on the cookies and not his comments. The sugar had blended in nicely so she slowly added the flour. A sidelong glance told her the pecans looked more like brown sugar than nuts. But she didn’t say anything. No way would she hurt Ryan’s feelings.
Out in the storefront, the bell jingled––music to her ears. The soothing sound of her mother talking to customers restored Sarah’s sanity. After she added the vanilla and a touch of salt, the dough was ready. Now came the work. The point that would separate the bakers from the bad boys.
“It’s time to separate the eggs, Ryan.”
He looked at her. “What’s that?”
“We roll the dough in the beaten egg whites so the nuts you chopped will stick to the cookies.”
“O––kay.” But Ryan didn’t get it.
