Page 33 of Christmas at the Ranch
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, nottoomuch 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 onwhite. 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 theEnquirerfor 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 ourtable 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. Butthe 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. “Brisketcaramel chip. Wow.”
“Candiedbrisket,” 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’syourhometown?” 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 myapple 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.
