Page 19 of Chef's Kiss at the Chalet
I decided my first order of business was to track down some hot chocolate and a snack, as I saw several people carrying steaming paper cups and pastries wrapped in wax paper. Following my nose led me to a stall decked out in a gingerbread house motif. Display cases made of old wooden crates were filled with gingerbread men and women wrapped in snowflake-print plastic with curly red ribbons, and there was even a caramel fountain, where the young lady behind the counter dipped apples for waiting children.
“What can I get you?” she asked, flipping the dangling bell of her elf hat behind her ear.
“A hot cocoa and, um, a gingerbread man, I guess.”
“The best in the Rockies,” she said, like I needed convincing.
“Better give me two then.”
I brought my treats to a picnic table decorated with holly and potted poinsettias, where I sat to watch the bustling market and listen to the hum of Christmas music filling the air. It was the reset I needed, sipping the rich, chocolatey cocoa adorned with one giant homemade marshmallow, and nibbling on the fragrantly sweet and spicy arm of a gingerbread man. It had been a stressful morning, and the dressing-down by Mrs. Hawthorne after lunch had left my confidence a bit shaken. At least she hadn’t mentioned Charles. Every time his name popped into my head, my stomach twisted again.
No. For as long as it took me to enjoy my snack, I would forget about him. And the family. Just enjoy the scenery, and think about putting together the perfect dinner for tonight. This was my chance to show off a little. And produce-shopping was one of my favorite parts.
So, when I’d finished my drink and tucked my second gingerbread cookie into my tote for later, I began my stroll through the stalls to find inspiration for tonight.
“Try a sample,” a vendor called to me. “Best apples in the county.”
Well, that got my attention. I approached the woman with curly red hair at the first stall and gladly accepted a slice from among the bushels of bright, shiny red apples. There were soil-dusted potatoes, verdant cucumbers, ruby beets, and plump tomatoes still sprinkled with drops of morning dew.
“We grow everything right here in Maplewood Creek,” she told me. “Family owned and all organic.”
She was about my age and full of animated energy, despite the persistent chill. Dressed in olive overalls and a blue peasant top, the cold seemed not to faze her one bit.
I crunched into the sweet apple slice and it burst with juicy freshness on my tongue.
“Mmm,” I hummed. “Delicious. Thank you.”
“Mia Grant,” she said, introducing herself. “First time to Maplewood Creek?”
“Am I that obvious?” I was a Colorado native, so I didn’t think I had the same blinking tourist sign above my head as the southerners who’d never seen snow or mountains before.
“It’s a small town,” she told me. “We tend to get a lot of regulars and I’ve met ’em all over the years.”
“You grew up here?”
“Fourth-generation farmer,” she said, nodding proudly.
“I’m Eleanor. Private chef for a family up the mountain.”
“Oh,” she said knowingly. Then, with a conspiratorial whisper, “Which one?”
Mrs. Hawthorne had cautioned me against gossip, but I didn’t think this counted.
“The Hawthornes . . .?” I didn’t know why it came out like a question. Except that maybe I was curious what her reaction might be.
“Oh, yeah,” she laughed. “They’re a lot.”
Mia certainly wasn’t shy.
“I only just started today.” And as first impressions went, I’d call it a mixed bag.
“As just about anyone in town will tell you, Caroline rules the roost. And her husband, Benedict, well, he works eighty hours a week to get away from her. At least, that’s what everyone says. Amelia is not-so-slowly turning into her mother. And Charles . . .” She shrugged as my ears perked up. “I haven’t seen him in years. Close to a decade, I think. No one has.”
“Really?” Strange. I’d seen him just last night, looking not at all shy in public.
Then again, if he’d been away so long, it was possible people didn’t recognize him. Who I took for friends of his around the pool table might just have been new acquaintances.
“Last I heard,” Mia said, “he was living in Denver, being rich and fabulous and running the family company, though Benedict is still the face of it.”
