Page 22 of Sweet Surprises

“Ah,” Zane said. “A late sleeper. Well, if you can, stay for the milking tonight. That’s important. I’ll show you what happens once the milk gets to me in the creamery. How much do you know about pasteurization?”

“I don’t know much,” Charlotte admitted. “But I’d love to learn.”

“You’re going to regret saying that,” Tag told her, shaking his head. But she swore she could see the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

7

CHARLOTTE

An hour later, Charlotte was equipped with more information about how ice cream was made than she ever thought she would need to know. Zane had also shown her how they prepared milk and cheese for the family’s use.

“You actually seemed interested in that,” Tag remarked with a note of surprise as they stepped outside again.

“It’s really neat,” she told him. “I never thought about how much went into making ice cream or cheese. Your brother is passionate about this stuff.”

“He doesn’t normally talk that much,” Tag said, frowning and walking a little faster.

“Where are we going?” she asked, jogging a bit to keep up.

“Lunch,” he told her, slowing down a little when he realized she was struggling. “We’ll be early, but Mom and Dad can probably use some help.”

“Okay,” she agreed. “I like helping.”

He looked over at her, and there was that hint of a smile, tugging at the corners of his mouth again.

“What?” she demanded.

“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head again. “You remind me of someone. That’s all.”

She waited for him to tell her who, but he just kept walking toward the stone farmhouse, and she had no choice but to follow.

When he opened the front door, the scent of something savory and delicious wafted out to them, along with a hint of pine.

“Dad brought in a tree last night,” Tag said, indicating the big tree set up in the living room off the center hall. “But they’re waiting for the weekend to decorate so all the grandkids can help.”

“That’s nice,” Charlotte said, as she soaked in the house itself.

The center hall was narrow and crowded, but cheerful—with hooks for coats, a pan where half a dozen muddy boots rested, and a shallow bookshelf practically exploding with varied titles. It all served to make it instantly clear just how many members this family had.

The opening to the living room revealed faded, knotted rugs covering the wide, painted planks of the floor. The Christmas tree had been set up by the front window. In the back of the room was an upright piano that clearly got a lot of use, if the amount of sheet music practically overflowing the rack was any indication.

The side of the room boasted a wall of family photos with a timeline that spanned all the way from grainy black and white formal portraits, through sepia-toned seventies color snapshots, right up to crisp school photos that looked like they might have been taken this year.

Every single window showed a panorama of the snowy fields or hillside, and most of the interior wall was taken up by a massive stone fireplace, with a bookshelf beside it that held puzzles and games as well as more stacks of books. The spacewas neat and tidy, yet it had a warmth that made Charlotte know immediately that this wasn’t a formal space—children played on those rugs and had stories read to them on the lumpy sofa and the blanket-draped loveseat.

“We’re not allowed in the house with muddy boots on,” Tag told her quietly.

She turned and noticed that his boots had joined the others on the pan in the hall. She hurried to remove hers as well, feeling glad she’d put on cute, fluffy Santa Claus socks this morning.

“Hey, Ma,” Tag called out as he headed down the center hall, presumably toward the kitchen.

The rich scents intensified as they walked. When they reached the kitchen, Charlotte could see that Mrs. Lawrence had the lid off the slow cooker to check on the stew.

“I could have just dropped the biscuit dough on top,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “But they’re already in the oven.”

“Should I taste it?” Tag asked hopefully. “Make sure it doesn’t need salt?”

“I heard that,” his father said, stepping out of the pantry beside the back door. “It’s a trick. He just wants to eat all my stew.”

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