A Merry Bramble Christmas, page 12
“In that case I think it’s best if I go back to Spokane now. You can tell Sawyer whatever you want to explain why I left early. But I do have a gift for him. And a card. And I hope you’ll let him have them.” He pulled the wrapped book from the bag and checked with her. When she nodded, he placed it under the tree.
“I also have something I brought for you.” He pulled out another gift, of a similar size, and put it under the tree as well.
“I’m sorry. We haven’t—that is I don’t have—”
“If you’re worried about a gift for me, don’t. I came here to fulfill a promise to my mother, and I’ve done that. But there is one more thing before I go.” He pulled a third package from the bag.
“Another gift for Sawyer?” Trish guessed.
“No. This one’s for you. I want you to put it away until Christmas morning. Sawyer has to believe it was delivered on Christmas Eve, by Santa.” He passed her the gift box that Gemma had helped him wrap just a short time earlier.
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s Sawyer’s Christmas wish.”
She leaned forward in her chair, staring from the present to him. “What?”
“When Gemma and I took Sawyer to visit Santa Claus at the Graff Hotel, Sawyer asked Santa to bring you a new dress for Christmas.”
“A new dress…” Trish’s eyes widened. “Dan used to buy me a new dress every Christmas.”
“Apparently Sawyer has fond memories of you putting on your new dress and laughing and dancing. So, Trish, what I suspect Sawyer is really hoping for is to see you happy again.”
For a long moment Trish looked stricken. Then a sob burst out, and she covered her face to muffle the sound. For several long seconds she sat like that, her breath uneven, her eyes closed tight. Then she let out a very long sigh.
“Oliver, would you like a cup of coffee? I need one so I’m going to put on a pot.”
“Sure.” The about-face had him confused. He followed her to the kitchen, where cereal bowls and empty juice glasses were testament to that morning’s breakfast. He leaned against the counter and watched as Trish filled her machine with water and grounds, then turned on the power. Within seconds the machine was chugging, and a faint coffee aroma wafted through the room.
While she waited for the coffee to be ready, Trish turned to the window by the sink, which overlooked the backyard. “See that tree house?”
Oliver moved to stand beside her. A large maple tree dominated the generous backyard, its leafless branches dusted with snow. Nestled on a solid branch, about five feet above the ground, was an enclosed tree house, the cedar and wood shingles gray from weathering.
“Dan built that just a few weeks before he left for the Yukon Territories. He told Sawyer when he got back, he’d add a fireman’s pole from the tree house to the ground. Only he never came back.” Still looking at the yard, tears filled Trish’s eyes, pooling and spilling down to her cheeks.
“I’m so sorry, Trish.” Oliver put a hand on her back and was surprised, no shocked, when she didn’t pull away.
“I’m sorry too. Since Dan died, I’ve got myself into a miserable rut. All I do is work and look after Sawyer. I know I’ve got friends who want to help, but I won’t let them. I’m afraid to count on anyone because what happens when they leave me?”
“You’ve had terrible things happen. But not everyone leaves.”
She gave a slight nod, then swiped away her tears with the sleeve of her shirt. “I get that in theory. It’s just…when I first heard about Dan, I promised myself I would be strong for Sawyer. It never occurred to me that strong wouldn’t be enough.”
“Everyone handles grief in their own way. Maybe you’ve got stuck in one of the stages.”
“Maybe I have.” She turned to the coffee machine and filled two mugs. After handing him one she said, “And I’ve also been too hard on you. It’s not your fault our mother didn’t try to find me when she was still alive.”
“Believe me, I wish she had.”
Trish shrugged one shoulder. “If you’re willing to stay in Marietta, maybe we could go skating together on the afternoon of the twenty-fourth. And you’re welcome to come see Sawyer in his Christmas concert that evening. Then you could come here for Christmas morning.”
It was more, a lot more, than Oliver had expected. He didn’t hesitate with his answer. “I’ll stay.”
Chapter Fourteen
Gemma was surprised when she got a phone call from Kris inviting her to have dinner with him at the Graff Hotel that evening. It was as if he knew she’d be at loose ends now that Oliver was gone. Well, he could see them when they were sleeping, and he saw them when they were awake. So maybe he did know.
“I’d love to, but it has to be early. I signed up for a truffle-making class at Copper Mountain Chocolates this evening.”
“Oh, I’ve taken several of Sage’s classes—you’re going to love it. Sure, we can eat early. How’s five thirty?”
“Perfect.” Gemma put on a long skirt and blouse, which she teamed up with her best boots. The outfit was classy enough for fine dining, but also washable in case she spilled chocolate during her class. During dinner Kris amused her with stories from his day.
“One kid asked for a family trip to Disneyland. Another asked for some stickers.” He shook his head. “Go figure.”
“Kids are cute, but high-energy too,” she said, speaking from experience. “You must feel so tired at the end of the day.”
“Every year it gets harder,” he admitted. “But I can’t imagine giving it up. December would feel so empty and I’m afraid I’d forget the meaning of Christmas.”
“What about your family? Don’t they miss you at Christmas?”
“We never had children, my wife and me. It was a big disappointment for my wife. She stopped celebrating Christmas about thirty years ago.”
“I’m sorry.” She reached over to his hand.
“It’s not so bad. After I wrap up at the Graff, I drive back to our home in Iowa where we load up our sleigh—so to speak—and head to Arizona for the rest of the winter. Pickleball and golf. That’s what we love to do.”
“Sounds like you and Mrs. Krinkle have a happy life.”
“We figured out early that making others happy is important to us both. For me that comes from being Santa Claus. Whereas my wife—who’s had a career with the US Forest Service—teaches wilderness training to young people.”
“Your philosophy reminds me of the advice I used to get from my grandfather.”
“We older men can be very wise.” Kris winked. “Now you better get to your chocolate-making class. And I’m going back to Bramble House. I hear the Caraways are playing Monopoly tonight and I intend to clean their clocks.”
*
The cooking classes were held in the back of the chocolate shop in the large kitchen area. Sage, her red hair in a thick braid, a copper-colored apron over her tall, slender frame, welcomed everyone at the door. Eight cooking stations had been set up with individual hot plates, a small pot, bowls of ingredients, and a variety of utensils. By the time Gemma had put on her apron and washed her hands, all of the cooking spaces were filled except for one beside her.
She tried to catch Sage’s eye, to explain Oliver wouldn’t be joining them. But then the back door opened, and there he stood, tall and broad-shouldered, hair wind-blown and gaze searching. He grinned when he spotted her. She held her hands up in a what’s going on gesture, and he shrugged and smiled again.
“Hi, Oliver,” Sage said. “So glad you could make it. Hang up your coat and then you can grab an apron and wash your hands. There’s an empty station in the back row, by Gemma.”
Gemma could feel and smell the winter air still clinging to him as he slipped in beside her.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered.
“Surprise development at Trish’s house,” he murmured, bringing his mouth close to her ear. “I’m staying for Christmas. I’ll tell you the details later.”
The surprise development had obviously been positive. Joy bubbled inside of her as she gave him an answering smile. The evening to which she had been mildly looking forward to suddenly felt full of possibility.
But possibilities of what? her practical side demanded.
Never mind. She was tired of feeling guilty, of doing penance, tired of introspection and journaling ad nauseum. She just wanted to enjoy the company of a man she liked and admired, maybe even enjoy Christmas a little instead of just getting through it.
“Tonight, we’re going to be making dark chocolate bourbon truffles,” Sage said. “The bourbon flavor is a perfect, smoky contrast to the rich sweetness of the chocolate, and I guarantee these will be a big hit with your family and friends this Christmas.”
“Does the alcohol in the bourbon cook off?” one woman in her sixties, hair cut in an asymmetrical bob, asked.
“No, but you’re more likely to get a buzz from the cocoa than the bourbon, Elena.”
“At my age I’ll take any buzz I get,” the short, portly man beside Elena said.
The group tittered.
Elena gave a rueful smile and a shake of her head. “Frank, you promised you’d behave yourself tonight.”
“Why would I start now?”
Sage smiled fondly at the couple, then resumed control of the class. “The best chocolates begin with high-quality ingredients. You should all have at your stations small bowls of cubed butter—unsalted from grass-fed cows—Dutch-processed cocoa powder, chunks of my own single-origin dark chocolate, rich cream from a local dairy, invert sugar—which is a compound of water and organic cane sugar—and Orphan Girl bourbon from a distillery in Butte, Montana. Tempting as it may seem, please don’t drink the bourbon.”
“I might be a better cook if I did,” Frank said.
“Sorry to be a poor sport, but my kitchen, my rules,” Sage countered. “We’ll start by making a thick ganache. This will form the body of our truffles. We add our cream and the invert sugar to the pot, then begin heating on the hot plate in front of you. Use your whisk to stir frequently to keep the bottom from scorching.”
“My bottom’s scorching all ready,” Frank said. “Elana where are your hands?”
Sage laughed. “Frank, I can see you’re going to keep us well entertained tonight.”
It was nice to see an older couple having fun and being playful, Gemma thought. When she tried to picture her own parents in this environment, she couldn’t do it. Well, her parents had their own interests and strengths and maybe part of forging her own separate identity was coming to accept theirs.
As she whisked her cream mixture she glanced at Oliver. “So far, so good.”
“I suspect the hard part is coming.”
Sage went around the room, examining the pots of cream carefully. “You want the cream to be steaming hot, but not boiling. Yes,” she said to another of the male participants. “That’s perfect. Add the cream to the dark chocolate pieces and whisk until smooth. Beautiful,” she said, moving on to praise the next person in line.
Gemma loved watching the chocolate slowly dissolve into the thick cream, forming a lusciously thick syrup.
“Next whisk in your bourbon,” Sage instructed. “As I said earlier, we aren’t cooking this off. We want the full smoky flavor in our end product. Once that’s properly emulsified add the butter.”
“This keeps smelling better and better,” Oliver said.
“That’s the idea.” Sage smiled. “Now I’m going to perform a slight magic trick. This ganache needs to sit for hours in order to properly crystalize, so I’m going to take your bowls and replace them with a ganache I made this morning. I’ve already poured it into pastry bags, eliminating what can be a messy step.”
“Thanks, Sage,” Gemma said when her bowl was exchanged for the pastry bag of chocolate ganache and a small cookie sheet lined with parchment.
“My pleasure. Tomorrow I’ll use your ganache to make truffles for the Mable Bramble Christmas Tea. Nothing goes to waste in my kitchen.”
“What happens now?” Frank said. “I think I could have some real fun with this.” He held up his pastry bag, making as if to start decorating his wife with the ganache.
“Let’s keep the evening family-rated, Frank,” Sage said. “We’re now going to use the pastry bag to form small one-inch balls. Watch me, then give it a try.”
Sage made it look incredibly easy to form uniform, perfect little balls of ganache. But Gemma’s came out in different sizes and shapes. “This is harder than it looks.”
“Don’t expect perfection on your first attempts,” Sage said. “The truffles will be delicious even if they don’t look exactly like mine. Once you’ve finished, we’ll take a little break and let the balls harden a bit. I’ve got homemade eggnog—and I can add a splash of our Orphan Girl bourbon for those who want.”
“Ah! Now we’re talking,” said Frank.
“Don’t give him any bourbon,” Elena said. “It’ll only encourage him.”
Gemma and Oliver both opted for the bourbon shot in their eggnogs. “I love that you can walk almost anywhere you want to go in Marietta. You never have to worry about drinking and driving.”
“As small towns go it seems almost too perfect,” Oliver agreed. “Imagine having access to a world-class chocolatier like Sage in a small town like this.”
“Well, cheers,” Gemma said, clinking her glass against Oliver’s.
“Here’s to a merry Bramble Christmas,” he added.
They both took their first sips at the same time, and their eyes widened simultaneously.
“Holy smokes,” Oliver said. “I may never drink commercially prepared eggnog again.”
“Thank you, Oliver. Homemade is a cut above,” Sage agreed.
Once everyone was finished with their eggnogs, Sage handed out latex-free gloves. “The truffles should be firm enough now that we can hand-roll them into even-shaped balls. The trick is to be quick—you don’t want the heat from your hands melting the chocolate.”
“This is fun. I feel like one of my students playing with clay,” Gemma said.
“It so tempting to taste one, isn’t it?”
“Go for it,” Gemma goaded.
“Here, you try first.” Oliver held up one of his small truffles so she could take a bite. Then he popped the remainder into his own mouth.
“Mmm,” Gemma said, her eyes on Oliver. “Heavenly.”
“Hey, you two,” Sage mock scolded. “We’re not done here. They are going to become even more delicious, I promise.”
She handed out bowls of melted, tempered dark chocolate and circular chocolate dipping forks. “We’re going to give our little truffles a dark chocolate bath and then toss them with the sifted, Dutch-processed cocoa powder.” She gave a demonstration and then encouraged them all to get started.
“Why does everything look so easy when you do it?” Gemma asked. She was trailing melted chocolate all over her station. Most of the other participants seemed to be having the same trouble. Only Oliver seemed to have perfected the technique.
“How can you be so tidy?” Gemma asked him.
“I inherited my fine-motor skills from my surgeon mother.”
“Impressive.” She was just finishing the last of her truffles when Sage began handing out her store’s classic copper boxes.
“Now we’re going to transfer our truffles to a sieve and lightly tap the sieve to remove excess cocoa powder. Then you’re going to gently place your finished truffles into the box.”
“Can we taste them now?” one of the younger participants asked.
“Absolutely,” Sage said. “I recommend closing your eyes and really focusing on everything you are smelling and tasting. Don’t forget to notice the texture, as well. Eating truffles should be a comparable culinary experience to sampling a fine glass of wine.”
Gemma watched Oliver’s long, well-formed fingers as he reached for one of his truffles. As instructed, he closed his eyes, and she allowed herself to admire the sensuous curve of his upper lip as he took his first bite.
Then Gemma turned her attention to her own truffle. Eyes closed she focused on all the flavors, the bourbon, the chocolate, the cream, all accented with just the right amount of sweetness, as they melted in her mouth. Around her she heard exclamations of delight. When she opened her eyes, Oliver was watching her, and the tenderness in his eyes brought back the joyous bubbles of before.
She couldn’t wait to find out why he’d changed his mind and decided to stay in Marietta for Christmas. But mostly she was simply glad that he had.
“Thank you so much for sharing this evening with me,” Sage said. “I hope you—or some lucky recipient—enjoy your hand-made truffles. Here’s the second-best part of my chocolate-making class though. You get to leave the cleanup for me and my staff. On your way out feel free to take a copy of the recipe. I’ve included one for the eggnog as well.”
Chapter Fifteen
“So, what did Trish say to change your mind?”
Gemma and Oliver were walking the long way home from the chocolate shop so they could enjoy the light garden in Crawford Park in front of the courthouse. It was a clear night, and they could see stars and the protective dark bulk of Copper Mountain to the north. The air felt chilly after the warm sweetness of Sage’s kitchen and Gemma shivered a little in her puffy coat.
“You’re cold. Hold my chocolates a minute?” Oliver asked.
“Sure.”
After handing over the precious copper box, Oliver took her loosely knotted scarf and wound it snugly around her neck. It was a tender, thoughtful thing to do. A very Oliver thing. For a moment their noses were only inches apart and she felt a different sort of shiver travel down her spine.
But the moment passed, and Oliver drew back.
She had wanted him to kiss her. No sense denying it or pretending the attraction she felt toward him wasn’t getting stronger every day. A woman would have to be blind not to see what an amazing guy Oliver was. Well, perhaps Trish was the exception. She hadn’t seemed so impressed. But maybe that had changed.
