There's Something About Christmas Page 4

  “Unfortunately, Larry had a weakness for other women,” Earleen said sadly.

  “How long have you been divorced?”

  “From Larry? Since 1984.”

  “You’ve been married more than once?”

  “Three times.”

  “Oh.”

  “All my husbands were versions of Larry.”

  “I see.”

  “I didn’t learn from my mistakes.” Earleen turned away. Then, obviously changing the subject, she said, “I imagine you’ll want to sample my fruitcake.” She slid open the bread box and took out an aluminum-foil-wrapped loaf. “Have you noticed that people either love fruitcake or hate it?” she said companionably. “There doesn’t seem to be any middle ground.”

  “That…seems to be true,” Emma agreed.

  “Like I said, I started baking after Larry left,” she said, busily peeling away the cheesecloth from the loaf-size fruitcake. “I’d never suffered that kind of pain before. I figured if you’ve ever been divorced you’d know what I mean.”

  Emma was confused. “I don’t exactly think of fruitcake as comfort food.”

  Earleen shook her head. “I didn’t eat it. I baked it. Loaf after loaf for weeks on end. I was determined to bake the perfect fruitcake and I didn’t care how long it took. I must’ve changed that recipe a hundred times.”

  “Why fruitcake?”

  She paused as if she’d never put it into words. “I’m not sure. I guess I was looking for the happiness I always felt as a kid at Christmastime.”

  There it was again, Emma mused. Christmas. It did people in emotionally, and she wasn’t going to allow that to happen, not to her. She found it easy enough to ignore Christmas; other people should give it a try. She might even see if Walt would let her write an article about her feelings. Emma believed she wasn’t alone in disliking all the hype that surrounded Christmas.

  “When I was with Larry and my two other husbands, I felt there must be something lacking in me,” Earleen continued. “Now I don’t think so anymore. Time will do that, you know?” She glanced at Emma. “As young as you are, you probably don’t have that much perspective.” Earleen paused and drew in a deep breath.

  Emma stopped taking notes. She suspected this was it; she was about to get to the real core of the interview.

  “By the time Larry and I split up, both my parents were gone, so I was pretty much on my own. I realize now that I was searching for a way to deal with the pain, although God knows the marriage was dead. That’s where the fruitcake came in.”

  “The comfort factor,” Emma said with a nod. “How long were you and Larry together?” she asked.

  “Sixteen years. It’s a shame, you know. We never had kids and it was real lonely after he left.”

  “What happened to him?” Secretly Emma hoped he was miserable. In some ways Earleen reminded Emma of her mother.

  The woman sighed. “Larry married the floozy he’d taken up with, and the two of them got drunk every night. It only took him a few years to drink himself to death.”

  “How sad,” Emma said, and she meant it.

  Earleen shrugged. “I was single for nearly ten years. I thought I’d learned my lesson about marrying the wrong man, but obviously I hadn’t.”

  “What about the other two husbands?”

  “Morrie courted me for a long time before I agreed to marry him. He didn’t have a roving eye so much as he did a weakness for the bottle.” She paused. “Of course, Larry had both. The thing is, and you remember this, young lady, you don’t meet the cream of the eligible-bachelor crop working in a tavern.”

  Emma scribbled that down so Earleen would think she’d given due consideration to her words.

  “Morrie died of cancer a couple of years after we were married.” She shook her head. “I never should’ve married Paul after that.”

  “What happened with Paul?”

  A dreamy expression came over her. “Paul looked so much like Larry they could’ve been brothers. Unfortunately, looks weren’t the only trait they shared. We were married only a year when he suffered a massive stroke. He had a girlfriend on the side but he really loved my fruitcake. I think if Larry had lived, he would have, too.”

  “Do you have anyone to share your good news with?” Emma asked. “About being a finalist?”

  Earleen shrugged again. “Not really, but it doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it matters,” Emma insisted. “Your recipe was one of only twelve chosen from across the entire United States. You should be kicking up your heels and celebrating.”

  “I will with friends, I suppose.” Earleen opened her cutlery drawer for a knife and sliced through the loaf. “It’s time I started baking again,” she said. “This close to Christmas, I’ll bake my mincemeat pies. People are already asking about them.”

  “When do you bake your fruitcakes?”

  Earleen sipped her coffee, her fingers sparkling in the light. All ten of them. “I usually bake up a batch every October and let it set a good two months before I serve it. The longer I give the alcohol to work, the better.

  Then, before Easter, I bake another version that’s similar but without the dried fruit.” Earleen moved the slice onto a plate and brought it over for Emma to taste.

  Although she wasn’t a fan of fruitcake, Emma decided it would be impolite to refuse. Earleen watched and waited.

  Emma used her fork to break off a small piece and saw that it was chock-full of the dried fruit to which she objected most. She glanced up at the older woman with a quick smile. Then she carefully put the fruitcake in her mouth—and was shocked by how good it tasted. The cake was flavorful, moist and pungent with the scent of liquor. The blend of fruit, nuts, applesauce and alcohol was divine. There was no other word to describe Earleen’s fruitcake.

  “You like it, don’t you?”

  “I do,” Emma assured her, trying not to sound shocked. “It’s excellent.”

  “I’m sure Larry would’ve thought so, too,” Earleen said wistfully. “Even if he’s the reason I started baking it.”

  “You still love him, don’t you?” It seemed so obvious to Emma. Although she’d married twice more, Earleen Williams’s heart belonged to a man who hadn’t valued her. Her mother had been the same; Pamela Collins had loved her ex-husband to her dying day. Emma’s father had never appreciated what a wonderful woman she was. For that sin alone, Emma wanted nothing more to do with him. He’d been a token husband the same way he’d been a token father.

  When she spoke, Earleen’s voice was resigned. “I’ve been over Larry for a long time,” she explained. “Much as I loved him, all I can say is that it’s a good thing he left when he did. Larry was trouble. More trouble than I knew what to do with.”

  More trouble than Earleen deserved, Emma reflected.

  “Is there anything else I can tell you?” Earleen asked. She seemed eager to finish the interview. “I didn’t mean to talk so much about my past. I never could figure out men—but I know a whole lot about fruitcake.”

  Emma scanned her notes. “I think I’ve got everything I need for now.”

  After snapping a picture of Earleen and collecting the recipe, she asked, “Can I call you later if I have any questions?”

  “Oh, sure. Since I retired from The Drunken Owl, I’m here most of the time.”

  “Would you mind if I used your phone book?” Emma stood and gathered up her things. “I want to call a taxi to take me back to the airport.”

  “You don’t need to do that.” Earleen shook her head. “I’ll drive you. It’s not far and I have errands I need to run, anyway.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I am. It’s my pleasure.”

  Emma smiled her gratitude. She already knew that Walt wasn’t going to reimburse her for any taxi fare, and it was too close to the end of the month for unnecessary spending on her part.

  Earleen backed her twenty-year-old Subaru out of the garage and Emma got inside. The contrast between the
interior of Earleen’s vehicle and the furnace company van was noteworthy in itself.

  Ten minutes later, Earleen dropped Emma at the airport and after a few words of farewell, drove off.

  As soon as Emma climbed out of the Subaru, Oliver came from the building next to the hangar, with Oscar trotting behind him.

  “You done?”

  Emma nodded absently, wondering how to structure her article on Earleen. Start with her childhood or her wedding or—

  “How’d it go?” he asked, interrupting her thoughts.

  She stared at him, eyes narrowed. “In case you didn’t know it, men can be real scum.”

  To her surprise, Oliver grinned. “You’re going to have even more reason to think so when you hear what I’ve got to say.”

  This didn’t sound promising. “You’d better tell me,” she said.

  Oliver buried his hands in his pockets. “Blame me if you want, but it won’t make any difference. We’re grounded.”

  “Grounded?” She blinked. “What does that mean?”

  “We’re grounded,” he repeated. “Because of the weather. We’re stuck in Yakima.”

  Earleen’s Masterpiece Fruitcake

  2 cups sugar

  1 cup butter

  2 ½ cups applesauce

  2 eggs, beaten

  2 cups raisins

  2 cups walnuts, chopped

  4 cups flour

  1 tsp. salt

  1 tbsp. soda

  1 tsp. baking powder

  1 tsp. cloves

  1 tsp. nutmeg

  2 tsp. cinnamon

  2 pounds candied dried fruit mix

  1 ½ cups chopped dates

  Cream sugar and butter. Add beaten eggs and applesauce. Mix flour, salt, spices, soda and baking powder, then gradually add to other ingredients. Mix well. Blend in candied fruit, dates, raisins and nuts. Mixture will be stiff. Bake in 325-degree oven in two loaf pans for one hour.

  Cool and remove fruitcake from pans. Cut a piece of cheesecloth to fit and soak in 1/2 cup rum or brandy. Pour any remaining alcohol over the fruitcake. Wrap fruitcake in cheesecloth and then cellophane, followed by aluminum foil. Store in refrigerator for up to three months.

  Chapter Four

  “This is a bad joke—isn’t it?” Emma cried. “Oh, please tell me it’s a joke.”

  “Sorry.”

  From his darkening scowl, Emma could see he wasn’t pleased about this turn of events, either. He’d obviously enjoyed giving her the bad news but he wasn’t grinning anymore. A delay probably affected his bottom line. Oscar sat down next to Oliver and stared up at him confidently. She’d heard somewhere that a man was always a hero to his dog; that was certainly the case with poor deluded Oscar.

  “I mentioned the weather earlier, remember?” Hamilton said.

  Emma had forgotten that. Her afternoon muscle relaxant was ready to be swallowed, and she was glad she hadn’t taken it yet. “What are we supposed to do now?”

  “Wait it out. We could find ways to entertain ourselves.”

  This was exactly the kind of comment she expected from Flyboy. And was that a wink? “In your dreams,” she snapped.

  “Do you have any other brilliant suggestions?”

  Emma wished she did.

  “We might be able to get out late this afternoon, but I wouldn’t count on it.” He raised his eyes to study the heavily clouded sky. “There’s a snowstorm in the mountains and it’s heading in our direction. The clouds don’t concern me as much as the problem with icing.”

  Emma wasn’t sure what that meant; she had her own problems. “I’ve got an article to write,” she murmured, biting her lower lip. Walt had wanted the first piece written as quickly as possible. Earleen Williams had been a great interview, but Emma still hadn’t decided exactly what slant she should take. She needed time to study her notes and think over their conversation.

  Oliver nodded glumly. “To tell you the truth, I’m not thrilled about sitting around here all day, twiddling my thumbs.”

  Emma realized he could’ve left after making his delivery if he hadn’t been waiting for her. She felt bad about that. She’d been less than gracious. “Are you hungry?” she asked.

  “Why?” His voice was suspicious.

  “I was being friendly.” She glanced across the street at a café. Several letters in the neon sign had burned out. It’d once read MINNIE’S PLACE but now said MI…CE. This wasn’t exactly an enticement, but Emma’s stomach was growling. It was past noon and all she’d had to eat was a small slice of liquor-drenched—and quite delicious—fruitcake.

  “Are you offering to buy me lunch?”

  Emma mentally calculated how much cash she had with her. “All right, as long as you don’t order anything over five dollars.”

  Oliver grinned. “You’ve got yourself a date.”

  “This isn’t a date.”

  “Sure it is,” he said. “One day I’ll tell our children you asked me out first.”

  “One more remark like that, and you can buy your own lunch.”

  Oliver chuckled. “I wasn’t trying to be funny.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “You’re half in love with me already.”

  Emma didn’t dignify that with a reply. They started walking toward the café; Oscar trotted obediently beside them and seemed to know to wait by the restaurant door. Oliver patted his head and assured the terrier he’d get any leftovers.

  Emma resisted reminding Oliver that it wasn’t a good idea to feed people food to a dog, but she doubted he’d listen. If she had a dog, she’d feed him only the highest-quality, veterinarian-approved dog food.

  Once inside the café, they slid into a red vinyl booth, facing each other. Emma reached for the menu, which was tucked behind the napkin dispenser, and quickly decided on the ham-and-cheese omelet. Oliver ordered the club sandwich.

  “How long have you been flying?” she asked.

  “Why?” Once again, he sounded suspicious. For heaven’s sake, did the man have some big secret?

  Emma sighed. “I don’t know. It seemed like a good conversation starter, that’s all.”

  “I’m not interested in being interviewed,” he said curtly. “Besides, I have a couple of questions for you.”

  She smiled at the waitress who poured her coffee, then relaxed in the padded vinyl seat. “Wait a minute. You can ask me questions but I’m not allowed to know anything about you? Is that fair?”

  “Fair doesn’t matter. I’m your ride home—or I will be.”

  “So you think I owe you for that? Oh, never mind,” she said, suddenly tiring of the argument. “Ask away.”

  “How long have you been with The Examiner?”

  “About eight months—long enough to know I’m tired of writing obituaries.”

  Oliver frowned. “That’s the only thing Walt lets you write?”

  “For the most part. A month ago he let me cover the school board meeting.” Emma had written what she thought was a masterful commentary on the events. Walt hadn’t agreed, to put it mildly, and had rejected her article in scathing terms. He said she was trying too hard. People were looking for a clear, concise summary, not a chapter from War and Peace. “What I want is a real story,” she told Oliver in a fervent tone, “something I can really get my teeth into.”

  “Like fruitcake?” Oliver said, teasing her.

  “It’s a start.”

  “Yes.” Once again, he was obviously trying to restrain a smile. “What are you going to write about Earleen Williams?”

  Emma was mulling that over. “I don’t know for sure. She’s a complex woman. She’s had a number of difficult relationships with men, and—”

  “You don’t date much, do you?” he broke in.

  Emma stared at him. “Who says?”

  “Phoebe.”

  “You know Phoebe?” Either her friend had been holding out on her, or Oliver was lying. If Phoebe knew him, Emma was positive she would’ve said so earlier.

 
“We’ve had a couple of conversations about you,” Oliver admitted, nimbly twirling the fork between his fingers.

  Emma found the action highly irritating. Stretching across the table, she grabbed his wrist. “Please don’t do that.”

  He grinned; he seemed to do a lot of that around her. “You can’t keep your hands off me, can you?”

  She toyed briefly with the idea of getting up and walking out. She would have, too, but their food hadn’t been delivered yet. Her stomach won out over her pride.

  “How do you know Phoebe and when did you talk to her?”

  “We met through…a friend of mine. Phoebe’s a few years younger than me, but I’ve seen her around town. No big deal.” He shrugged. “I stopped in at the office after your visit to the airfield and asked about you. Casually, you know. Phoebe sang like a canary.”

  Emma refused to believe it. Phoebe had never mentioned this supposed conversation.

  “She said the two of you were hired at the same time and that you kept pretty much to yourself. So what gives?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Where’s the boyfriend?”

  Emma’s jaw sagged open. “You’ve got a lot of nerve!”

  “Men are scum, remember?” His eyes twinkled. “So tell me, what’s happening in the men department?”

  “Nothing. I’m a serious writer—well, maybe not yet, but I intend to become one.”

  “Being a ‘serious’ writer means you don’t have time for relationships?”

  Emma didn’t care for the direction this conversation was taking. “At present, no—not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Why not?”

  “Are you always so nosy, or is this expressly for my benefit?”

  “Both.” He picked up his fork and studied the tines with every appearance of interest.

  To Emma’s relief, their plates arrived just then. The waitress set the bill facedown in the middle of the table.

  Emma spread the paper napkin across her lap, looked over her meal and lifted her fork. By the time she’d taken two bites, Oliver had wolfed down half his sandwich. She glared at him disapprovingly.