Page 21 of Christmas at the Ranch

Fourteen

Bruce and I move at a leisurely pace down Main Street, Evergreen. My heart still feels light at the idea of a journalism job, no matter how temporary or humble it is, and my stomach is still growling with hunger. But I’m on high alert—especially when he stops in front of Carrie’s Café.

“Here we are!” he says.

I glance nervously through the window but I don’t see Tate and Mariella inside—although I’m sure I catch a leftover whiff of pine needles and woodsmoke as I open the door and hold it for Bruce to limp through.

The memories hit me as soon as I walk in.

Tate and I came here one afternoon to meet two of his friends for hot chocolate and cookies.

I remember how nervous I was, as we held hands across a Formica tabletop, to meet people from his real life, separate from the romantic world of two we had been inhabiting.

But when his friends Mya and J.T. came in, they made me feel welcome and comfortable right away.

I remember sharing giant caramel chip cookies the size of our heads as we laughed and chatted easily.

Mya talked about her family’s restaurant in town, how slow it was in winter, but how at least it gave her the chance to study for med school admissions tests; J.T.

talked about how he was hoping for a new dirt bike for Christmas.

I remembered Tate’s eyes, so warm; his touch, so distracting.

The way all I could think was that I wanted to go somewhere and kiss him, kiss him, kiss him.

That was all I ever wanted back then. But I also felt so happy that day, with him and his friends.

I had no idea it would be so fleeting.

“You all right there, Emory?”

I blink the memories away and return to reality, to the present—which never seems to be an easy task. “I’m fine.”

“You look lost in memories. Have you been to Evergreen before?”

“A long time ago,” I say. “I was a teenager. My family spent one Christmas here. It was…really nice.” Understatement of the year.

It was perfect and it was horrible. It was the best and it was the worst. It was everything and nothing.

But Bruce can’t tell how conflicted I am.

He’s simply smiling that now-familiar kind smile of his.

“Evergreen does many things right,” he says.

“Christmas being just one of them—but an important one. It’s such a beautifully festive town at this time of year, isn’t it?

I think it’s perfect here.” A slight change in his expression now.

He seems distracted, saddened by something.

The corners of his moustache are pulled down by his frown, so he looks like a slightly dejected hound dog.

“I just wish we could get more tourists through here. Some of these businesses are really struggling. I always feel like I should be helping more—even though I’m probably the most old-fashioned out of anyone, still running a newspaper and all. Who reads newspapers anymore?”

I don’t like to see him so morose. “Apparently, community newspapers are more important and more popular than ever,” I say.

He sighs. “I did hear that. I just wonder if the tourists who come through town read any of it.” He brightens up a bit.

“Either way, I’m trying out a new restaurant review section.

My valiant attempt to get these places some recognition, even if it’s just amongst those who already know them.

Sometimes, you can’t really see what’s right in front of you, you know?

” I nod and he smiles at me. “You came along at the perfect time, Emory. You can breathe some city life into things around here. Can’t you?

” But his words press me back into the past. City life.

City girl. Hey, City Girl. He pauses, tilts his head.

“Although, not too much city. I think what makes Evergreen so perfect is its small-town charm, don’t you? ”

“I couldn’t agree more,” I say.

But I’m taken aback when I look around more closely.

Instead of the homey, inviting café I remember—with butter-yellow-painted walls, knotty pine shelves filled with books and board games for patrons to read or play as they enjoyed their food, and mismatched cups and saucers set on equally mismatched tables and chairs—Carrie’s is now painted white on white on white.

All the tables and chairs match. And so, I note, do all the mugs.

White. I shiver a little because it feels cold inside.

And I see Bruce beside me shake his head.

“I heard she was freshening things up in here. Can’t say I agree with the paint choice.”

“I thought it was just me,” I murmur. “But look.” I point across the room to the counter display. “Cookies! If I recall correctly, they are amazing here.”

There are stacks of them under glass domes.

We stand and wait for just a moment before a woman comes out from the back kitchen to greet us.

Her gray eyes widen when she sees us. She has blond curly hair, streaked with vivid white, tied up in a messy bun and topped with a red kerchief decorated with little white snowmen.

“Bruce! You’re up and about again! Wonderful to see!

But don’t stand there any longer, go, sit, take any table you like! Who’s your friend?”

“This is my brand-new employee, Emory,” Bruce says proudly. “She’ll be helping me out at the Enquirer for the holidays. My very own Christmas angel, just when I needed her.”

Carrie smiles warmly at me, but I can’t help thinking that I’m no angel.

If Carrie is at all active in the Evergreen Business Owners’ group chat, she’ll know that.

But she doesn’t seem to make any connections when she looks at me or hears my name.

She simply points again at the gaggle of empty tables.

“Please, grab a seat and I’ll be right with you,” she says.

We take a two-top near the window, looking out at Evergreen’s snowy Main Street. Bruce settles into his chair with a contented sigh. Soon, Carrie is at our table again, a smile on her face, her eyes bright and excited.

“I heard you were doing restaurant reviews now,” she says, while Bruce murmurs, “Honestly, the rumor mill in this town,” and I wonder why a newspaperman isn’t more up with local gossip.

“And that’s wonderful timing, since I’m trying to perk things up around here, modernize it a little, see if I can drum up some more business even during the offseason. ”

“Now, Carrie,” Bruce says with mock dismay.

“If you know it’s a review, doesn’t that defeat the whole purpose?

” But then he laughs and says, “As if anyone could go incognito in this town, right? Indeed, I’m planning a restaurant review section for the special Christmas Eve issue, and you’re my first restaurant.

Now, what have you got to tell us about today? ”

“Why don’t you forget the menu and just let me bring you some of our new stuff.”

“Will there be cookies?” I ask hopefully.

She looks at me like I’ve asked a truly absurd question. “Of course there will be cookies, dear.”

She hustles over to the counter, then returns quickly with a large tray.

“Since you mentioned the cookies, why don’t you start with those,” she says, pointing to a small pile of what I think are the caramel chip cookies of my dreams. I almost swoon at the sight of them, then take one from the tray and bite into it enthusiastically.

Bruce brings out a notebook and pen, then gingerly takes a cookie as well.

For the first few seconds, the cookie is as I recall it: dense, chewy, with generous chunks of caramel. But the walnuts seem weird. Another bite, and I feel sure they aren’t walnuts.

“What am I tasting here?” I ask Carrie, hoping my expression doesn’t give away my alarm.

“New addition to the menu! Candied beef brisket chip!”

Bruce spits his bite into his napkin as casually as possible and stares at me, wide-eyed, across the table. “I’m a pescatarian,” he mouths.

“Mmmm!” I say, but I put my cookie down. “ Brisket caramel chip. Wow.”

“ Candied brisket,” Carrie corrects. “I’m glad you love it.”

“?‘Love’ is not the right word, Carrie,” Bruce says, and I have to take a sip of water to hide my smile.

“Oh, I am just so glad to see someone enjoying this new recipe of mine. I can’t seem to get any of my regulars to branch out.” She looks down at me. “So, where’s your hometown?” she asks.

“Toronto,” I say, nervous now, hoping she doesn’t ask any more questions about why I’m in Evergreen.

“You must have fancy, inventive cookies like this in the Big Smoke, eh? And now we have them here in Evergreen.”

“Well, these are just so…unique,” I say, to what I hope is believable effect.

“You never had anything you needed to improve on, though,” Bruce says thoughtfully. “Do you still make the original cookies?”

“Oh, sure, but those are sold out—all my regulars come in and buy those up first thing, along with my apple fritters. I gave the last of those to Tate and his Mariella. Since she’s considering moving to Evergreen, I think he wanted to win her over with the classics.

” Bruce has a confused expression on his face, clearly way behind on the small-town tea about Tate and his girlfriend.

If the words “his Mariella” felt like little papercuts on my soul, the idea of them moving in together is even worse.

“Your apple fritters are truly heavenly,” Bruce says.

“Sure, but what’s left here”—she nods down at the rest of the food she’s holding on her tray—“is truly special. We just need to get people to be adventurous and try them. Which is where you come in.”

“Well, then, tell us what else you have there,” Bruce says. “Anything without meat?”

“Of course. We’ve got Yellow-Iced Snownuts.

Name speaks for itself,” she says, while I hear Bruce murmur something along the lines of “mon dieu.” “The Ring of Fire donut,” she continues.

“Obviously, that one’s spicy. A dill pickle fritter, because apple is just boring”—at this, my stomach swoops—“and I now serve donut breakfast sandwiches, too. Well, I will serve them if anyone ever orders one. Just need to get more out-of-towners in here and I’m sure it’ll happen.

Like you, Emory. I’m sure you’d love to try a dill pickle fritter.

” I suddenly wonder if she knows exactly who I am and I’m being punked.

“Where do you get your culinary inspiration from, Carrie?” I ask in an attempt to delay actually having to try the pickle fritter.

“My husband and I went to the Canadian National Exhibition last fall,” she says. “Where all the great chefs try out their new flavors.”

I don’t have the heart to tell her that’s not at all true, that the food at the CNE, a popular fall fair held in downtown Toronto every year, is known for being wild, weird, and not always palatable, the entire point being to come up with unique dishes and strange ingredient combinations—none of which would ever make it onto actual restaurant menus. For very good reason.

I smile and nod instead. “Wow,” I manage.

“Why don’t you get started on what you have here, and I’ll go get some donut breakfast sandwiches going.”

“Good lord, Carrie,” Bruce says, and I can tell he’s trying hard to control his facial expressions, which verge on horrified. “That sounds like it’s going to be a lot of food for just the two of us!”

“I’ll be rolling you out of here, Bruce,” she says over her shoulder.

When she’s gone, he stares at me, wide-eyed.

“Please don’t quit on me on your first day,” he says.

I laugh. “I promise,” I say. “Maybe when she comes back, we should order something simple—coffee?”

His eyes light up. “What a great idea. You’re a genius.”

When Carrie returns, he asks her about coffee.

“Sure, what would you like? Oat-Milk Olive-Oil Macchiato? Pistachio Cortado?”

“Do you still have just…plain coffee?” I ask, and she looks so crestfallen I regret it.

“What’s the point of reviewing just plain coffee?”

“No, absolutely, you’re right, Carrie,” Bruce says.

“I have an idea. Bring us one of each of those coffees you mentioned but make them to go. Make everything to go if you don’t mind.

Bring us some boxes for all this, please.

We have so much material here, I think the best thing for us to do is take all this food back to the newspaper office so we can type glowing adjectives as we eat. ”

“Oh, wonderful!” she exclaims.

We head to the register to pay, but Carrie won’t hear of it. She’s cramming boxes full of donuts, cookies, sandwiches, looking almost panicked that we might miss out on trying something. She comes around the counter and clutches at Bruce’s arm. “The review’s going to be positive, right?”

“Of course, Carrie,” Bruce says. “Not to worry. With this much to work with, you can bet we’ll have a lot to say— all of it good. I promise.”

I carry the boxes, and Bruce takes a bag. Once we’re out on the snowy street again, down the road a bit from Carrie’s, Bruce turns to me, his eyes still as big as the saucers at the café.

“That was not good,” he says. “It turns out you can’t do restaurant reviews in a small town unless you plan to go to places in secret. I should never have promised a positive review, where’s my journalistic integrity?”

“You did what you had to, Bruce,” I say, patting his shoulder.

He glances over his other shoulder as if he’s afraid Carrie will come out and pursue us, more of her strange baked goods on offer. But no one is following.

“Come on, let’s go,” he says, beginning to move down the sidewalk as quickly as he can with his boot cast. “Let’s get back to the office. I’ll get out my Merriam-Webster Thesaurus and we’ll get creative. We can use words like…‘edible.’ ‘Palatable.’ ‘ Rare .’?”

“Sounds good,” I say, happy that trying to figure out how to describe Carrie’s new baked goods in a favorable light is sure to distract me from my feelings about Tate and Mariella moving in together.

But when we reach the front door of the old Victorian that houses the newspaper office, he turns to me, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“You know, we can’t really think of all the creative adjectives we need to, erm, do this food justice if we don’t have some actual calories in our systems. And there’s a place in town I can guarantee has good food.”

“I truly am starving,” I admit. “Where are you thinking?”

“Gill’s Fish n Chips n Bait n Tackle. The best fish-and-chips you’ll ever have in your life. No funny business.” My mouth has gone dry. I don’t know how to respond. “You haven’t lived until you’ve tried his lake-caught pickerel and chips. What do you say?”