Читать книгу There's Something About Christmas - Debbie Macomber - Страница 8

Fruitcakes are like in-laws. They show up at the holidays. You have no idea who sent them, how old they are, or how long they’ll be hanging around your kitchen.

—Josh Sens, freelance writer in Oakland, California, and food critic for San Francisco magazine

The fear dissipated after takeoff. Emma kept her eyes focused directly in front of her, gazing out at the cloud-streaked sky. For the first while her heart seemed intent on beating its way out of her body, but after a few minutes the tension began to leave.

It wasn’t long before the loud roar of the single engine lulled her into a sense of peace. No doubt that was due to the pill, which was exactly the reason she’d taken it. When she did find the courage to turn her head and look out the side window, she found herself staring Mt. Rainier in the face. She was so close that it was possible to see a crevasse, a giant crack in a glacier. Had there been hikers, she would’ve been able to wave.

Gasping, she shut her eyes and silently repeated the Lord’s Prayer. Talk about spiritual renewal! All that was necessary to get her nearer to God was a short flight with Oliver Hamilton.

Forty minutes later as they approached the Yakima airport, Oliver made a wide sweeping turn with a gradual drop in altitude. Emma felt the plane descend and nearly swallowed her tongue as she reached for the bar above the side window again, holding on for dear life.

“You okay?” Oliver asked when he noticed how she clung to the bar with both hands.

How kind of him to inquire now. These were the first words he’d spoken to her during the entire flight. He’d glanced at her a number of times, as if to check up on her, and whenever he did, he started to laugh. She failed to understand what was so funny.

“I’m okay,” she said with as much dignity as she could.

A little the worse for wear, but okay, she mentally assured herself. Her head was beginning to clear.

She felt every air pocket and bump as the plane drew closer to the long runway. When the wheels bounced against the tarmac, Emma was ready for the solid thump of the tires hitting concrete, but the landing was surprisingly smooth. She slowly released a sigh of pent-up tension; she’d lied about her weight and lived to tell the tale. Now all she had to do was make it through this interview and find something noteworthy about Earleen Williams and her fruitcake recipe.

Oliver taxied the plane off the runway. He cut the engine and as the blades slowed, he unbuckled his seat belt and picked up his clipboard.

Emma was just starting to breathe normally again when Oscar sneezed.

“You might want to leave the perfume behind for the next flight,” Oliver said matter-of-factly.

Emma wiped her cheek although most of the spray had been directed elsewhere. She resisted the urge to tell Oliver he could leave his dog behind, too. At this point, she didn’t want to risk offending the pilot—or his dog. And, she supposed, it wasn’t really Oscar’s fault….

Crawling behind her, Oliver opened the door and climbed onto the airfield. Emma followed, bent double as she made her way out of the aircraft, feeling a sense of great relief. He offered her his hand as she hopped down. She was hit by a blast of cold air, which she ignored. Staring down at the ground, she was tempted to fall on all fours and kiss the tarmac.

A white van bearing the name of a local furnace company pulled up to the plane. Oliver spoke briefly with the driver, then walked over to where Emma stood.

“How long do you think the interview will take?”

“Ah…” Emma didn’t know what to tell him. “I’m not sure.”

He stared out toward the Cascade Mountains, only partially visible in the distance. “We’ve got bad weather rolling in.”

“Bad weather? How bad?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I…” How could he say such a thing and then expect her not to worry? She was already half-panicked about the return flight and he’d just added to her fears.

“Do what you have to do and then get back here. I want to take off as soon as I can.”

“All right.” She glanced around and felt a sense of dread.

“What’s wrong?”

“I…I don’t have any way of getting to Earleen’s house.”

“Not a problem,” Hamilton said, walking to the other side of the plane.

Emma assumed he was going to ask the guy in the van to give her a ride, but that turned out not to be the case. He climbed back inside the Cessna and returned a moment later with a large leather satchel.

“What’s that?”

“A foldable bike.”

Emma watched as he unzipped the bag and produced the smallest bicycle she’d ever seen. “You don’t honestly expect me to ride this…thing, do you?” The wheels were no more than twelve inches around. She’d look utterly ridiculous. Nervous as she was about this first interview, she hoped to make up in professionalism what she lacked in experience.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, frowning.

“I’ll phone for a taxi.” It went without saying that the newspaper wouldn’t reimburse her, but she absolutely refused to arrive pedaling a bicycle Oliver Hamilton must have purchased from a Barnum and Bailey rummage sale.

“Hold on,” Oliver barked, clearly upset. He walked over to the van this time and spoke to the driver. The two had a short conversation before Oliver glanced over his shoulder. “What’s the address you have to get to?” he shouted.

Fumbling to find the slip of paper inside her briefcase, Emma read off the street name.

“She can tag along with me,” the driver said.

“Great.” Oliver flashed the other man an easy smile.

“Thank you so much,” Emma murmured, grateful to have saved the taxi fare. She hurried around to the passenger side and opened the door. One look inside, and Emma nearly changed her mind. The van, which must’ve been at least ten years old, had obviously never been cleaned. The passenger seat was badly stained and littered with leftover fast-food containers, plus half-eaten burgers and rock-hard French fries. A clipboard was attached by a magnet to the dashboard and several papers had fallen to the floor.

“You getting in or not?” the driver asked.

“In.” Emma made her decision quickly and hopped inside the van. She could just imagine what Walt would say if she announced that she’d missed the interview because she refused to get inside a messy vehicle.

Earleen Williams lived on a street called Garden Park in a brick duplex. The van dropped Emma off and drove away before she had time to thank the driver. He was apparently glad to be rid of her and she was equally thankful to have survived the ride. She’d worry later about getting back to the airfield.

Straightening her shoulders, Emma did a quick mental survey of her questions. She’d reviewed her class notes about interviews and remembered that the most important thing to do was engage Earleen in conversation and establish a rapport. It would be detrimental to the interview if Emma gave even the slightest appearance of nervousness.

Emma so much wanted this to go well. She didn’t have a slant for the story yet and wouldn’t until she’d met Earleen. If she tried to think about what she could possibly write on the subject of fruitcake, it would only traumatize her.

Knowing Oliver was probably pacing the pilots’ lounge, Emma walked onto the porch and pressed the doorbell. She stepped back and waited.

“Oh, hi.” The petite brunette who answered the door couldn’t have been more than five feet tall, if that, and seemed to be around sixty. It was difficult to tell. One thing Emma did conclude—Earleen wasn’t at all what she’d expected. She wore a turquoise blazer and black pleated pants with a large gold belt and rings on every finger. Big rings.

“You’re Earleen?”

“I am.” She unlatched the screen door and held it open for Emma. “You must be that Seattle reporter who phoned.”

“Emma Collins,” she said and held out her hand. “Actually, I’m from Puyallup, which is outside Seattle.” There was a difference of at least a quarter-million readers between the Seattle Times and The Examiner—maybe more. The Seattle Times hadn’t sent her a circulation report lately.

“Come on inside. I’ve got coffee brewing,” Earleen said, smiling self-consciously. “This is the first time anyone’s ever wanted to interview me.”

They had a lot in common, because this was Emma’s first interview, too, although she wasn’t about to mention that.

Earleen looked past her. “You didn’t bring a photographer with you?”

Actually she had. Emma would be performing both roles. “If it’s all right, I’ll take your picture later.”

“Oh, sure, that’s fine.” Earleen touched the side of her head with her palm as if to be sure every hair was neatly in place, which it was. She smelled wonderful, too. Estée Lauder’s Beautiful, if Emma guessed correctly. Just as well Oscar wasn’t around or he’d be sneezing on her pant leg.

“I thought we’d talk in the kitchen, if you don’t mind,” Earleen said as she led the way. “Most folks like my kitchen best.”

“Wherever you’re most comfortable,” Emma murmured, following the older woman. She gazed around as she walked through the house and noticed a small collection of owl figurines lined up on the fireplace mantel, among the boughs of greenery. The Christmas tree in the corner was enormous, and it had an owl—yes, an owl—on top.

The kitchen was bright and roomy. There was a square table next to a window that overlooked the backyard, where a circular clothesline sat off to one side and a toolshed on the other. A six-foot redwood fence separated her yard from the neighbors’.

“Sit down,” Earleen said and motioned to the table and chairs. “Coffee?”

“None for me, thanks.” After the pill she’d taken earlier, Emma didn’t think she should add caffeine, afraid of the effect on her stomach—and her brain. She took out her reporter’s pad and flipped it open. “When did you first hear the news that your recipe had been chosen as a national finalist?”

Earleen poured herself a mug of coffee and carried it to the table, then pulled out a chair and sat across from Emma. “Three weeks ago. The notification came by mail.”

“Were you surprised?”

“Not really.”

“Any reason you weren’t surprised?”

Earleen blushed. “I know I make a good fruitcake. I’ve been baking them for a lot of years now.”

Emma could see this wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d hoped. Earleen wasn’t much of a talker.

“Do you have a secret ingredient?”

“Well, yes. I have two.”

Emma made a notation just so Earleen would recognize that she was paying attention. “Would you be willing to divulge them to our readers?”

Earleen rested her elbows on the table and held the mug with both hands. “I don’t mind telling you, but maybe it’d be better if I showed you.”

Emma frowned slightly when the other woman rose from the table. She dragged out a step stool, placed it in front of the refrigerator and climbed the two steps. Then she stretched until she could reach the cupboard above the fridge and opened it. Standing on the tips of her toes, Earleen brought down a bottle of rum and a bottle of brandy.

“Your secret is…alcohol?”

Earleen climbed off the step stool and nodded. “One of my secrets. I didn’t work all those years at The Drunken Owl for nothing. I serve a mighty fine mincemeat pie, too. That recipe came from my mother, God rest her soul. Mom always started with fresh suet. She got it from Kloster’s Butcher Shop. When I was in high school, I had the biggest crush on Tim Kloster. My friends used to say I had Klosterphobia.” She giggled nervously.

Emma didn’t think it was a good idea to point out that “phobia” was technically the wrong term. She hesitated, unsure how this interview had gotten away from her so quickly. “About the fruitcake…Did that recipe come from your mother, too?”

“Sort of. Mom was raised during the Great Depression, and her recipe didn’t call for much more than the basics. Over the years I started adding to it, and being from Yakima, I naturally included apples.”

“Apples,” Emma repeated and jotted that down.

“Actually, I cook them until it’s more like applesauce.”

“Of course.” Having lived in Washington for only the last eight months, Emma wasn’t all that familiar with the state. She knew more about the western half because she lived in that area. Most of the eastern side remained a complete mystery.

Come to think of it, as Oliver landed she’d noticed that there seemed to be orchards near the airport. Distracted as she’d been, it was nothing short of astounding that she’d remembered.

“Yakima is known for apples, right?” she ventured.

“Definitely. More than half of all the apples grown in the United States come from orchards in Yakima and Wenatchee.”

Emma made a note. “I didn’t know that.”

“The most popular variety is the Red Delicious. Personally, I prefer Golden Delicious. They’re the kind I use in my fruitcake.”

Emma held her breath. “I hope you’ll agree to share the recipe with The Examiner’s readers.”

Earleen beamed proudly. “It would be my honor.”

“So the liquor and the apples are your two secret ingredients.”

“That’s right,” Earleen said in a solemn voice. “But far more important is using only the freshest of ingredients. It took me several tries to figure that out.”

Emma was tempted to remind her that one of the main ingredients in fruitcake was dried fruit. There wasn’t anything fresh about that. But again she managed to keep her mouth shut.

“How long have you been baking fruitcakes?” Emma asked next.

“Quite a few years. I started in—way back now. You see, I was going through a rough patch at the time.”

“What happened?” Emma hated to pry, but she was a reporter and she had a feeling she’d hit upon the key element of her article.

“Larry and I had just split, and I have to tell you I took it hard.”

“And Larry is?”

“My ex-husband.”

Emma couldn’t help observing that Earleen seemed more of a conversationalist when she stood on the other side of the kitchen counter. The closer she got to the table, the briefer her answers were. Emma speculated that was because of Earleen’s many years behind a bar. She’d always heard that bartenders spent a lot of time listening and advising—like paid friends. Or psychiatrists.

“The first time I ever tried Mom’s fruitcake recipe was after Larry moved out.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me, too. Have you ever been married?” Earleen asked.

“No…” The sorry state of her love life was not a subject Emma wanted to discuss.

“Larry and I were high-school sweethearts. He went to fight in Vietnam and when he got back, we had a big wedding. It was the type of wedding girls dream about. Wait here a minute,” she said and bustled out of the kitchen.

In a couple of minutes, she returned with her wedding photograph. A radiantly happy bride smiled into the camera, her white dress fashioned in layers of taffeta and lace. The young soldier at her side was more difficult to read.

“Unfortunately, Larry had a weakness for other women,” Earleen said sadly.

“How long have you been divorced?”

“From Larry? Since 1984.”

“You’ve been married more than once?”

“Three times.”

“Oh.”

“All my husbands were versions of Larry.”

“I see.”

“I didn’t learn from my mistakes.” Earleen turned away. Then, obviously changing the subject, she said, “I imagine you’ll want to sample my fruitcake.” She slid open the bread box and took out an aluminum-foil-wrapped loaf. “Have you noticed that people either love fruitcake or hate it?” she said companionably. “There doesn’t seem to be any middle ground.”

“That…seems to be true,” Emma agreed.

“Like I said, I started baking after Larry left,” she said, busily peeling away the cheesecloth from the loaf-size fruitcake. “I’d never suffered that kind of pain before. I figured if you’ve ever been divorced you’d know what I mean.”

Emma was confused. “I don’t exactly think of fruitcake as comfort food.”

Earleen shook her head. “I didn’t eat it. I baked it. Loaf after loaf for weeks on end. I was determined to bake the perfect fruitcake and I didn’t care how long it took. I must’ve changed that recipe a hundred times.”

“Why fruitcake?”

She paused as if she’d never put it into words. “I’m not sure. I guess I was looking for the happiness I always felt as a kid at Christmastime.”

There it was again, Emma mused. Christmas. It did people in emotionally, and she wasn’t going to allow that to happen, not to her. She found it easy enough to ignore Christmas; other people should give it a try. She might even see if Walt would let her write an article about her feelings. Emma believed she wasn’t alone in disliking all the hype that surrounded Christmas.

“When I was with Larry and my two other husbands, I felt there must be something lacking in me,” Earleen continued. “Now I don’t think so anymore. Time will do that, you know?” She glanced at Emma. “As young as you are, you probably don’t have that much perspective.” Earleen paused and drew in a deep breath.

Emma stopped taking notes. She suspected this was it; she was about to get to the real core of the interview.

“By the time Larry and I split up, both my parents were gone, so I was pretty much on my own. I realize now that I was searching for a way to deal with the pain, although God knows the marriage was dead. That’s where the fruitcake came in.”

“The comfort factor,” Emma said with a nod. “How long were you and Larry together?” she asked.

“Sixteen years. It’s a shame, you know. We never had kids and it was real lonely after he left.”

“What happened to him?” Secretly Emma hoped he was miserable. In some ways Earleen reminded Emma of her mother.

The woman sighed. “Larry married the floozy he’d taken up with, and the two of them got drunk every night. It only took him a few years to drink himself to death.”

“How sad,” Emma said, and she meant it.

Earleen shrugged. “I was single for nearly ten years. I thought I’d learned my lesson about marrying the wrong man, but obviously I hadn’t.”

“What about the other two husbands?”

“Morrie courted me for a long time before I agreed to marry him. He didn’t have a roving eye so much as he did a weakness for the bottle.” She paused. “Of course, Larry had both. The thing is, and you remember this, young lady, you don’t meet the cream of the eligible-bachelor crop working in a tavern.”

Emma scribbled that down so Earleen would think she’d given due consideration to her words.

“Morrie died of cancer a couple of years after we were married.” She shook her head. “I never should’ve married Paul after that.”

“What happened with Paul?”

A dreamy expression came over her. “Paul looked so much like Larry they could’ve been brothers. Unfortunately, looks weren’t the only trait they shared. We were married only a year when he suffered a massive stroke. He had a girlfriend on the side but he really loved my fruitcake. I think if Larry had lived, he would have, too.”

“Do you have anyone to share your good news with?” Emma asked. “About being a finalist?”

Earleen shrugged again. “Not really, but it doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters,” Emma insisted. “Your recipe was one of only twelve chosen from across the entire United States. You should be kicking up your heels and celebrating.”

“I will with friends, I suppose.” Earleen opened her cutlery drawer for a knife and sliced through the loaf. “It’s time I started baking again,” she said. “This close to Christmas, I’ll bake my mincemeat pies. People are already asking about them.”

“When do you bake your fruitcakes?”

Earleen sipped her coffee, her fingers sparkling in the light. All ten of them. “I usually bake up a batch every October and let it set a good two months before I serve it. The longer I give the alcohol to work, the better.

Then, before Easter, I bake another version that’s similar but without the dried fruit.” Earleen moved the slice onto a plate and brought it over for Emma to taste.

Although she wasn’t a fan of fruitcake, Emma decided it would be impolite to refuse. Earleen watched and waited.

Emma used her fork to break off a small piece and saw that it was chock-full of the dried fruit to which she objected most. She glanced up at the older woman with a quick smile. Then she carefully put the fruitcake in her mouth—and was shocked by how good it tasted. The cake was flavorful, moist and pungent with the scent of liquor. The blend of fruit, nuts, applesauce and alcohol was divine. There was no other word to describe Earleen’s fruitcake.

“You like it, don’t you?”

“I do,” Emma assured her, trying not to sound shocked. “It’s excellent.”

“I’m sure Larry would’ve thought so, too,” Earleen said wistfully. “Even if he’s the reason I started baking it.”

“You still love him, don’t you?” It seemed so obvious to Emma. Although she’d married twice more, Earleen Williams’s heart belonged to a man who hadn’t valued her. Her mother had been the same; Pamela Collins had loved her ex-husband to her dying day. Emma’s father had never appreciated what a wonderful woman she was. For that sin alone, Emma wanted nothing more to do with him. He’d been a token husband the same way he’d been a token father.

When she spoke, Earleen’s voice was resigned. “I’ve been over Larry for a long time,” she explained. “Much as I loved him, all I can say is that it’s a good thing he left when he did. Larry was trouble. More trouble than I knew what to do with.”

More trouble than Earleen deserved, Emma reflected.

“Is there anything else I can tell you?” Earleen asked. She seemed eager to finish the interview. “I didn’t mean to talk so much about my past. I never could figure out men—but I know a whole lot about fruitcake.”

Emma scanned her notes. “I think I’ve got everything I need for now.”

After snapping a picture of Earleen and collecting the recipe, she asked, “Can I call you later if I have any questions?”

“Oh, sure. Since I retired from The Drunken Owl, I’m here most of the time.”

“Would you mind if I used your phone book?” Emma stood and gathered up her things. “I want to call a taxi to take me back to the airport.”

“You don’t need to do that.” Earleen shook her head. “I’ll drive you. It’s not far and I have errands I need to run, anyway.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I am. It’s my pleasure.”

Emma smiled her gratitude. She already knew that Walt wasn’t going to reimburse her for any taxi fare, and it was too close to the end of the month for unnecessary spending on her part.

Earleen backed her twenty-year-old Subaru out of the garage and Emma got inside. The contrast between the interior of Earleen’s vehicle and the furnace company van was noteworthy in itself.

Ten minutes later, Earleen dropped Emma at the airport and after a few words of farewell, drove off.

As soon as Emma climbed out of the Subaru, Oliver came from the building next to the hangar, with Oscar trotting behind him.

“You done?”

Emma nodded absently, wondering how to structure her article on Earleen. Start with her childhood or her wedding or—

“How’d it go?” he asked, interrupting her thoughts.

She stared at him, eyes narrowed. “In case you didn’t know it, men can be real scum.”

To her surprise, Oliver grinned. “You’re going to have even more reason to think so when you hear what I’ve got to say.”

This didn’t sound promising. “You’d better tell me,” she said.

Oliver buried his hands in his pockets. “Blame me if you want, but it won’t make any difference. We’re grounded.”

“Grounded?” She blinked. “What does that mean?”

“We’re grounded,” he repeated. “Because of the weather. We’re stuck in Yakima.”

Earleen’s Masterpiece Fruitcake

2 cups sugar

1 cup butter

2 ½ cups applesauce

2 eggs, beaten

2 cups raisins

2 cups walnuts, chopped

4 cups flour

1 tsp. salt

1 tbsp. soda

1 tsp. baking powder

1 tsp. cloves

1 tsp. nutmeg

2 tsp. cinnamon

2 pounds candied dried fruit mix

1 ½ cups chopped dates

Cream sugar and butter. Add beaten eggs and applesauce. Mix flour, salt, spices, soda and baking powder, then gradually add to other ingredients. Mix well. Blend in candied fruit, dates, raisins and nuts. Mixture will be stiff. Bake in 325-degree oven in two loaf pans for one hour.

Cool and remove fruitcake from pans. Cut a piece of cheesecloth to fit and soak in 1/2 cup rum or brandy. Pour any remaining alcohol over the fruitcake. Wrap fruitcake in cheesecloth and then cellophane, followed by aluminum foil. Store in refrigerator for up to three months.