Читать книгу Small-Town Hearts - Ruth Herne Logan - Страница 13

“Yowza.”

Meg shot Hannah a warning look the next afternoon. “Stop.”

“He’s moving in?”

“How’s that nut chopping coming, Hannah? You done yet?”

“Today?”

“Hannah Moore…”

“Got it.” Hannah ducked beneath the counter, withdrew a tub of toasted almonds and filled the food processor halfway. She hit On, and the ensuing noise stopped conversation until the nuts were evenly chopped to her satisfaction. She dumped the cylinder into a bowl and then repeated the process twice more. Stepping back, she eyed the bowl and the chocolate vat, then nodded. “We’re good.”

“Thanks. Measure out three cups of those for the toffee, and we’ll be just about there.”

“Wonderful.”

The half wall and Dutch door made it easy to keep an eye on the store. The old-fashioned bell over the door helped, too, an old-school way of announcing a customer when Megan’s attention was diverted. Hannah set the three cups aside in a smaller bowl and glanced out the window. “A customer.”

“You got it?”

“I do.”

Megan swept her chocolate-dotted apron a quick glance as the door chime announced what Hannah already knew, her warm voice mingling with others as the tourists exclaimed over this and that.

It was early yet. Midweek mornings were traditionally quiet while tourists walked, climbed, went sightseeing and shopping. Since chocolate didn’t do well in cars on a warm summer day, the candy store was generally their last stop before heading home or back to the motels in nearby Wellsville. That meant Meg made good use of the mornings, both before and after the shop opened, then busied herself with customers the rest of the day. And her ice cream window business was steady from three o’clock on, especially when area kids had summer sports in the evening. Then the line could grow ridiculously long in a relatively short space of time.

She’d hired a local college girl, Crystal Murphy, to help out part-time and had two more college girls consigned to run her weekend festival booths. Coupled with Hannah’s summer-shortened library hours, they should be all right.

When Hannah returned to the kitchen, she met Meg’s gaze and swept the departing family a wistful look. “They had the cutest baby.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” Hannah checked the toffee bar molds, nodded satisfaction, then tipped her gaze Megan’s way. “What’s that look for?”

Megan shrugged. “I hate being in my thirties.”

“Stupid biological clock?”

“Exactly. As much fun as this all is—” Megan waved a hand around the white kitchen “—it’s not exactly what I’d planned for this stage in my life.”

“Something that included a cute and loving husband, a couple of kids, a kitchen of your own and a cozy fire on long winter nights?”

“Bingo. I’m not even close to anything like that, and I can’t help but wonder why. Is it me? Them? Are men different from what they were before?”

“Umm. Asking the wrong girl. I’d kind of decided that was beyond the realm of possibilities before I moved here. Mostly I’m okay with that.”

“Should I ask why?”

“Probably not. I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.” Something in Hannah’s tone, or maybe it was her bearing, made the words more poignant and less funny, but Megan refused to pry.

“A need-to-know basis.” She nodded, laughing. “I get it. Obviously the witness protection program is using Jamison, New York, as a current venue.”

Hannah tipped an amused look Megan’s way. “Yup. My real name is a state secret.”

“Since I love the name Hannah, you may keep it a state secret.”

“Does it bug you, Megan? To have been that close to marriage twice and have it fall apart?”

Megan weighed her answer as she watched the toffee mixture darken and condense. “If by ‘bug’ you mean have my episodes of public humiliation turned me off members of the opposite sex for the duration of my natural life, I’d have to say that’s understandable, considering the circumstances.”

“Michael was a jerk.”

“I know. And so was Brad. But the turnaround of that is—why do I attract jerks? Am I so needy that I latch on to any Tom, Dick or Harry that comes along?”

“So if my name was Tom, Dick or Harry, you might give me a chance?”

Megan stopped stirring the boiling toffee mix, mortified.

Danny stood at the back door to the kitchen, looking way too amused and sure of himself for anyone’s good, particularly hers.

“Eavesdropping is against the lease rules,” she said.

He waved a careless hand to the open door. “You weren’t exactly quiet. I could hear you in the yard.”

Hannah tried to mask a laugh, unsuccessfully. She shot him a look as she removed a tray of supersize cookies from the oven, set it down and replaced it with another. “He’s right. I forgot he was out there. Sorry.”

Danny leaned his elbows against the metal brace separating the upper screen from the window below. “Back to my question…”

“No.”

“You’re sure? I could change my name.”

“Listen, I’m working right now, and toffee has a mind of its own. As much as I’d love nothing better than to grow old sparring with you, the likelihood of that is zero. So if you’d be so kind as to maintain a proper landlord/tenant relationship at all times, we’ll both be better off.”

“I get it.”

He might have gotten it, but he didn’t look all that dissuaded. Great. Just her luck to have rented that apartment to someone who liked a challenge. Megan had no intention of challenging anyone, at least not anyone in the near future. Hadn’t Reverend Hannity talked about God’s plan just last week, the road less traveled, the unexpected twists, turns and inevitable forks along the way?

Megan wasn’t sure where her road forked, but she was pretty certain that Danny Graham’s fork would zag left in about eight weeks, and she was determined to stand stalwart and solid for that time.

She tested the toffee texture by dropping a tiny bit into a cup of cold water, fingered the texture to assess brittleness, then examined the threads dangling from the spoon. Her practiced eye told her this batch was done. She set it off the burner, maneuvered the handle left, hoisted the pan and gently poured a thin stream into the bar molds.

“You don’t use a candy thermometer?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Unreliable.”

“And that…maneuver, the thing with the water cup and the spoon, wasn’t?”

“Not if you know what you’re doing.”

Danny knew what he was doing. Always had. He’d been raised to make candy in a state-of-the-art facility that believed in small batches, but each batch was expertly measured and timed to assure the quality of the mix. Watching her, he had a vision of what his great-grandmother must have done on her porch outside Wellsville, the little house, long since gone, that had been the original home of Mary Sandoval’s Candies.

Hannah moved along the cooling molds, sifting chopped nuts onto the surface, then using a wooden board to press them into the cooling toffee. An interesting thought crept into Danny’s head, of how cool it would be to do candy demonstrations like this at the tribute store, to show people the origins of his company, the skills required before automated machinery replaced the hands-on techniques he’d just witnessed. He stayed silent a moment, watching them work, then cleared his throat.

“You’re still here.”

“Watching and waiting.”

She sighed, just enough to let him know she wanted him gone. “What?”

“Do I need to call the electric company and have things put in my name?”

“Oh.” She paused, chagrined, as if she’d been rude by ignoring him. Which she had, of sorts, but from what he’d over heard, she had good reason to shy away from men who appeared too good to be true. Although he had to seriously doubt the intelligence of the locals if they took one look at the incredibly delightful woman before him, her curly hair somewhat tamed in a crocheted hairnet, and her gold-plaid floor-length dress a nod of appreciation to simpler times. He almost felt the comfort of that when he was in her presence. Almost.

She turned his way once the pot was empty, set it in a big, deep utility sink, turned on the hot water to melt the sugary coating and moved his way. “Sorry. I should have told you that. They’ll send the bill to me and I’ll pass it to you. For long-term leases I transfer it to the tenant’s name, but there’s no sense doing that for eight weeks. Is that all right?”

“It’s fine.” She had a smear of milk chocolate along her lower cheek, and her apron bore similar traces of her work. The dress, from what he could see, appeared spotless. He waved in that direction. “Won’t you get that messed up back here? In the kitchen?”

She nodded and shrugged. “Necessity. Women in the eighteen hundreds didn’t have the choice of wearing blue jeans and pullovers. They had to deal with all this, and when I wait on customers I like to be in costume. That helps steer conversation to candy making like it was.” She arched a brow and lifted a shoulder. “They learn more, then buy more.”

“Crafty.”

She nodded, opened the screen door and stepped out onto the small back porch. “Yes and no. I really like teaching, it’s in my blood, but I love candy making. I started doing this as a child and it comes easily to me. This way I can combine the two. And I do freelance work at the Genesee Country Museum in Livonia, too. For their special weekends we do candy-making demonstrations on-site. People love it.”

He could envision that, no problem, seeing her like this, in her candy kitchen, comfortable in her element. On impulse he reached out his left hand and used his thumb to wipe away the dab of chocolate.

She stepped back, startled out of her comfort zone.

He raised his hand. “You had chocolate on your cheek. Well, chin, actually.”

“You could have just told me.”

He grinned and put up both hands, palms out, as if surrendering. “More fun this way. So…” The look on her face told him a change of subject was in order. He took the hint. “I’ve moved in and I’m grateful for the chance to be out of the motel. Since we’re in fairly close proximity—”

Her gaze puckered, purposely.

He chose to ignore the chagrin. “And we’re going to see one another regularly…”

She mock-scowled, exaggerated for his benefit, a look that said, Get to the point, bud, I’ve got work to do…

“I thought I’d ask you to please let me know if I do anything to disturb you. I don’t want to be a thorn in your side, and since my name is Daniel and not Tom, Dick or Harry—”

A flush mounted her cheeks.

“—I’ll do my best to stay on my side of the Great Divide. Okay?”

She sighed, looked like she was struggling mightily to bring her feelings in line, gazed beyond him then drew her look back, reluctance shadowing the movement. “You’re my tenant. I’m your temporary landlord. You are welcome to come over here any time. I just…”

He moved a half step closer, noting the smattering of freckles seemed darker in the midday sun, that the tendrils of gold-brown hair escaping the net were two shades lighter than the rest of her hair and that her mouth was an indescribable shade of pink.

She bit her lip, looked up and must have read something in his eyes, because she drew a breath, pasted an easy smile of dismissal on her face and stepped back inside. “Now that we have that clear…”

“Crystal.”

“Absolutely. Yes.” She nodded toward the kitchen. “I’ve got to get back to work.”

“As do I.”

“Well, then…” She sounded almost reluctant to return to her duties, which was exactly how Danny felt about returning to his. Smarter for both if they ignored their obvious attraction by maintaining some distance.

He headed down the steps. “Nice talking with you, ladies.”

“Right.”

He grinned, recognizing the note of indecision in her voice, and wishing he could hear the feminine exchange slated to take place, but he had work to do. So did she.

As he climbed into his car, he remembered how she looked in that kitchen, cheeks pink from the heat, her gorgeous hair tucked beneath the old-fashioned crocheted hairnet. Try as he might, he hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind. And for some odd reason, he really didn’t want to.

But propriety told him Megan was off-limits. He had the advantage of knowing why he was in town, of understanding how his business moves could affect her livelihood. He couldn’t take that lightly.

Plus his parents wouldn’t take kindly to him toying with anyone’s affections. Despite his worldly experience, Danny wasn’t a player. He chose not to be, out of respect for his parents and his faith. In his travel-savvy world, that was a big difference, and while he’d fallen away from church attendance in his global wanderings, he hadn’t shrugged off the reality of a higher power, a Supreme Being. He just hoped God was the patient sort while he worked to build their candy business. Their coming Christmas catalog was crammed full of chocolate decadence. Its success would be a major step forward, a feather in his cap if it took off as he projected.

But he should leave sweet Megan alone. She seemed like the kind of girl who deserved nothing but the best, a guy who would be home day after day, the American dream of home and family she’d talked about so openly. Danny’s job kept him in the field so much that he was rarely in any one place for too long.

Home. The idea of starting a home had once seemed alien to him, an impossibility, one of those things that happened to other guys. And while several of his friends had married recently, several others were still footloose, and that had been fine because Danny hadn’t felt that spark, that hint of happily-ever-after possibilities.

Until now. With a woman completely off-limits. What was the good Lord thinking?