Page 3 of What Love Can Do

Quinn took a deep breath and answered, “Tell him his O’Neill grandsons are calling. Maggie’s boys. All five of us.”

Two

The best thing about Russian River House, the bed-and-breakfast out on Westside Road in Forestville, a small town smack in the middle of Green Valley, California, wasn’t just the view of the sparkling Russian River, the wine tastings on the adjoining property every evening at six o’clock, nor Mellie and Cook’s breakfasts every morning. It was all those things, of course, but it was also, definitely, unequivocally, the muffins.

Lillian Parker’s muffins, to be exact. All thirteen varieties.

At least that was what anyone reading the 1,392 reviews of Penny Parker’s quaint establishment on TripAdvisor.com would think:

“Best muffins EVAH!”

“You must try the innkeeper’s daughter’s carrot ginger muffins. They’re to die for!”

“Wonderful place to spend the weekend with my wife. Don’t leave without trying the lemon poppy. Steal two or three if you can for the plane ride home.”

The key was in the fresh ingredients and applesauce. Yes, applesauce replaced the oil in most of her recipes and provided not only moisture and a light, pleasant flavor, but an unexpected elegance you just couldn’t get from the standard oily muffin. Over the years, more than a handful of customers had pulled Lilly in close and whispered, “Don’t tell your mother I said this, but your talents are being wasted here!”

Lilly always sighed when she heard those words.

“The Plan” when she’d graduated college had been to use her Hospitality Degree to take over the family bed-and-breakfast, just as her mother had always wanted, but did anyone really, truly know what they wanted out of life when they were only twenty-one? For several years now, she’d dreamed of traveling the world before settling in a thriving city to open her own bakery. But then her father had fallen ill; since his death, her mother had become more and more dependent on Lilly. It had become far too easy for Lilly to set aside her dreams, telling herself that she wasn’t even thirty yet and there’d be plenty of time to do what she truly wanted.

Due to recent events, however, the time had come for Lilly to reach for her brass ring. She finally had the chance to see the world outside her small hometown. At the same time, she’d work side-by-side with one of the best pastry chefs in the business. It was the chance of a lifetime and she couldn’t turn it down. Lilly just had to gather her courage, break the news to her mother, and hope she’d understand.

Today, the Russian River House guests had ventured out early, possibly because of afternoon showers predicted for later on. Only an elderly couple, the Delfinos, still sat in the corner of the dining room, trading bites of pumpkin spice and lemon-blueberry muffins. While re-stacking coffee cups in the adjacent butler’s pantry, which was between the dining room and the kitchen, Lilly watched their eyeballs roll into the back of their heads and listened to their moans of delight, a sound she never got tired of hearing. Then she glanced in the direction of the nearby foyer, where her mother sat behind the reception desk. Maybe once the Delfinos left, she and her mom could have a private moment to talk.

“Lillian, dear.”

Returning her attention to the dining room, Lilly saw Mrs. Delfino, wearing a pink cardigan with jeans high on the waist, motioning her over with a wrinkled hand. “Lillian, do you know what’s in these muffins?” she asked, pointing at the pumpkin spice, painted eyebrows drawn into a tight knot in the center of her forehead.

“Uh, yes,” Lilly said, clearing her throat. “Canned pumpkin, fresh farm eggs…”

“No,” Mrs. Delfino interrupted with a smile she couldn’t contain. “Heaven. Heaven is baked into these muffins.” She chuckled and passed the buttered bite to her husband. “Am I right, Jer?”

“Heaven.” Mr. Delfino nodded, pushing up his glasses, before taking a bite.

Lilly let out a sigh of relief. For a second there, she thought they hadn’t been pleased. “That’s very kind of you to say. Thank you.” She smiled at the couple who must have been in their late seventies to eighties.

“Canned pumpkin? Is that right?” Mr. Delfino’s voice was scratchy with a twinge of New Jersey. Lilly had become quite good at picking up different accents from guests over the years, and there was definitely some Italian New Jersey in there.

“Oh, yes—always canned.” She crouched next to their table. “Never fresh. Canned pumpkin has more moisture and flavor than fresh. But that’s the only muffin with a canned ingredient.”

“Amazing. You must spend your whole day baking, studying about baking, or thinking about baking.” Mrs. Delfino glanced at Lilly’s hands and dirty apron.

“Well, no, I also grow flowers and an herb garden upstairs. In fact, have you tried the strawberry basil muffins? You might not think basil goes well in a dessert, but I’m telling you, they’re divine.”

“I’ll be sure to grab that one next,” Mrs. Delfino said. “Sit down in a chair, hon. You young people, always squatting. Servers in restaurants these days…squatting, squatting,” she told her husband.

“Squatting,” Mr. Delfino agreed. “Hard on the lower back.”

“Not a bad idea.” Lilly wiped her hands on her apron and pulled up a chair. Her mother wouldn’t mind if she chatted a bit with the guests. In fact, that was part of the charm and ambience of a good bed-and-breakfast, interacting with the clients and making them feel welcome. “So, where are you two from?”

“Long Island,” Mrs. Delfino said. “That’s in New York.”

Lilly smiled. She knew where Long Island was, for crying out loud. She may not have gotten out much, but she did own several maps, a globe, and Google Earth. “Nice.”

“It’s right next to the edge of sanity,” Mr. Delfino added, slathering strawberry preserves on his pumpkin muffin. He winked at Lilly.

Lilly shuddered. Whether it was because Mr. Delfino was giving her a flirty wink right in front of his wife, or because he was tainting her pumpkin muffin with strawberry preserves, or maybe both, she wasn’t sure. “Edge of sanity, huh? Wow, you’ve come a long way. From the frying oil into the fire pit.” She chuckled. Forestville wasn’t too far from that description.

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