would be like adding way too much yeast to a batter. In the end, you get nothing but a mess.”
CHAPTER TWO
SAM RETURNED with her coffee, Aunt Ginny’s words of wisdom still ringing in her head, and slipped into the opposite seat from Flynn MacGregor. He had a pad of paper open beside him, turned to a blank page, with a ready pen. He’d sampled the coffee, but none of the baked goods. Not so much as a crumb of Santa’s beard on the frosted sugar cookies. Nary a bite from Grandma’s special cookies—the ones he’d presumably come all this way to write about.
Sam’s spirits fell, but she didn’t let it show. Maybe he wanted to talk to her first. Or maybe he was, as Aunt Ginny had cautioned, here solely for the story behind the bakery.
Her story.
“Are you ready now?” he asked.
“Completely.”
“Good. Tell me the history of the bakery.”
Sam folded her hands on the table. “Joyful Creations was opened in 1948 by my grandmother Joy and grandfather Neil Barnett. My grandmother was an amazing cook. She made the most incredible cookies for our family every holiday. I remember one time I went over to her house, and she had ‘invent a cookie’ day. She just opened her cabinets, and she and I—”
“The bakery, Miss Barnett. Can we stick to that topic?”
“Oh, yes. Of course.” Sam wanted to kick herself. Babbling again. “My grandfather thought my grandmother was so good, she should share those talents with Riverbend. So they opened the bakery.”
He jotted down the information as she talked, his pen skimming across the page in an indecipherable scrawl.
Sam leaned forward. “Are you going to be able to read that later?”
He looked up. “This? It’s my own kind of shorthand. No vowels, abbreviations only I know for certain words.”
She chuckled. “It’s like my recipes. Some of them have been handed down for generations. My grandmother never really kept precise records and some of them just say ‘pecs’ or ‘CC.’ They’re like a puzzle.”
He arched a brow. “Pecs? CC?”
“Pecans. And CC was shorthand for chocolate chips.” Sam smiled. “It took me weeks to figure out some of them, after I took over the bakery. I should have paid more attention when I was little.”
His brows knitted in confusion. “I read it was a third-generation business. What happened to the second generation?”
“My parents died in a car accident when I was in middle school. I went to live with my grandparents. Grandpa Neil died ten years ago.” Sam splayed her palms on the table and bit her lip. Flynn MacGregor didn’t need to know more than that.
“And your grandmother? Is she still alive?”
Sam hated lying. It wasn’t in her nature to do so. But now she was in a position where telling the truth opened a bucket of worms that could get out of hand. “She is, but no longer working in the bakery.”
He wrote that down. “I’d like to interview her, too.”
“You can’t.”
Flynn looked up. “Why?”
“She’s…ill.” That was all he needed to know. Joy’s privacy was her own. This reporter could keep the story focused on the present.
Nevertheless, he made a note, a little note of mmm-hmm under his breath. Sam shifted in her chair. “Don’t you want to try a cranberry orange muffin?”
“In a minute.”
“But—”
“I’m writing an article, Miss Barnett, not a review.”
She shifted some more. Maybe her unease stemmed from his presence. The airline magazine had done the interview part over the phone. The reporter had come in and bought some cookies, then found his happy ending, unbeknownst to Sam, at a different time. Talking to someone she couldn’t see, and answering a few quick questions, had been easy. This face-to-face thing was much more difficult.
More distracting. Because this reporter had a deep blue, piercing gaze.
The bell over the door jingled and a whoosh of cold air burst into the room. “Sam!”
“Mrs. Meyers, how can I help you?”
“I need more cookies. My dog ate the box I brought home. I didn’t even get a chance to feed the batch I bought to my Carl and that man is in the grumpiest of moods.” Eileen Meyers swung her gaze heavenward. “He’s hanging the Christmas lights.”
“In this weather?”
“You know my husband. The man is as stubborn as a tick on a hunting dog, Sam. There are days I wonder why I’m even buying those cookies.”
“Because they’re your husband’s favorites,” Sam reminded her. Eileen had been in the day before, plunked down her money, her love for her husband still clear, even in a marriage that had celebrated its silver anniversary, and was edging its way toward gold.
Eileen harrumphed, but a smile played at the edge of her lips. “Will you get me another dozen?”
“Ginny can help you, Mrs. Meyers.”
Eileen laid a hand on Sam’s arm, her brown eyes filled with entreaty. “I love your Aunt Ginny, Sam, I do, but you know my Carl better than I do some days. He says you’re the only one who can pick out the cookies he likes best.”
Across from her, Flynn MacGregor’s pen tapped once against his notepad. A reminder of where her attention should be.
“Please, Sam?” Eileen’s hand held tight to Sam’s arm. “It’ll mean the world to Carl.”
“This will just take a minute,” she told Flynn. “Is that all right?”
“Of course.” A smile as fake as the spray-paint snow on the windows whipped across his face. “I’ve already waited for that massive line of customers to go down. Dealt with my car breaking down, and a blizzard blowing through town, which has undoubtedly delayed my leaving, too. What’s one more box of cookies?”
Sam filled Eileen’s order as quickly as she could, trying to head off Eileen’s attempts at conversation. And failing miserably. Eileen was one of those people who couldn’t buy a newspaper without engaging in a rundown of her life story. By the time she had paid for her cookies, she’d told Sam—again—all about how she and Mr. Meyers had met, what he’d done to sweep her off her feet and how he’d lost his romantic touch long ago.
“Are you done playing advice columnist?” Flynn asked when Eileen finally left.
“I’m sorry. Things have been especially crazy here since word got out about those cookies.” Sam gestured toward the plate, where the trio of Grandma’s special recipe still sat, untouched.
“The
