to call if there
was any change.
All the way to her shop, Sam
thought of Sarah. They’d grown close during their work on the committee,
laughing at Carinda’s hysterics. Already she was missing Sarah’s contributions
to the meetings. And, she’d learned a lot about the wooden box and its previous
owner from the older woman, but there was still so much more. What Sam knew
must be only a fraction of the artifact’s history; plus, the second box still
intrigued her. She’d had the chance to hold it briefly, when she and Beau
honeymooned in Ireland last year. She’d gotten no reaction from that one,
nothing like she experienced every time she picked up hers. But still . . .
there were so many unknowns. Her uncle Terry had promised to tell her the
story—then he died. Now Sarah, who had hinted that Bertha might have said more
about it. If Sarah died now, without saying anything more, did it mean that the
second box carried some kind of curse? Something that prevented its secrets
from being revealed?
No! Sam shook her head to clear
this line of thought. Granted, Uncle Terry had owned and handled the other box,
but she had learned nothing to suggest that either Bertha or Sarah ever
actually came in contact with it. She had to stop this thinking and put her
energy into something practical, such as replacing the ruined chocolates.
She parked behind the shop and let
herself into the quiet kitchen. Her supply of dark cacao was running low and
she had to do some quick adjustments to the recipe. How much simpler this would
be if Bobul, that oddball chocolatier, were to show up and take over. The large
man in the heavy brown coat, with his bag of mysterious ingredients and tools,
always made the entire chocolate-making process seem so effortless.
She pulled out her largest kettle,
feeling brave about tackling one large batch rather than making smaller ones as
she’d been doing. She carefully weighed the sugar and butter and began stirring
the mixture over a low flame on the stovetop.
Within minutes the familiar
motions of stirring and watching the ingredients blend calmed her. She sent her
remaining energy through the handle of the spoon and into the bubbling pot. The
chocolate took on a creamy quality the moment she added pinches of those little
powders Bobul had given her. Whatever was in those pouches, it was the thing that made her chocolates
special, gave them qualities unlike any other. When the mixture was perfect she
poured it out for tempering, working automatically and quickly.
Filling the pueblo molds didn’t
use nearly all of the dark mixture, so she pulled out every other mold she
owned. Any shape that didn’t specifically scream ‘Christmas’ got put to use, as
Sam turned out flowers, stars, shells and generic shapes. She placed the molds
on trays in the cooling racks and looked around, feeling the last of her
residual energy drain away.
The chocolate-coated kettle sat in
the sink; sticky spoons and spatulas lay about, but it was only ten o’clock.
She had fully expected to work through the night. She gathered the tools and
dumped them all into the large pot, squirted detergent on top and filled the
thing with hot water. The actual scrubbing could wait until morning, she
decided, turning out the lights and locking the back door.
The ranch looked so good, the
porch light glowing softly to welcome her home, the dogs sitting expectantly on
the porch unable to settle down until their ‘pack’ was complete. She pulled the
van into her normal spot and greeted Ranger and Nellie, who herded her toward
the front door. Beau greeted them and led Sam to the kitchen where he brewed a
cup of her favorite tea.
“Long day, huh?”
“I swear that eighty percent of my
day goes toward this dumb festival right now. One more week and I plan to give myself
an extra day or two off.”
His eyes wandered upward. “You
must have been tired when you stopped in earlier. You forgot your phone. I
think you have a few
was any change.
All the way to her shop, Sam
thought of Sarah. They’d grown close during their work on the committee,
laughing at Carinda’s hysterics. Already she was missing Sarah’s contributions
to the meetings. And, she’d learned a lot about the wooden box and its previous
owner from the older woman, but there was still so much more. What Sam knew
must be only a fraction of the artifact’s history; plus, the second box still
intrigued her. She’d had the chance to hold it briefly, when she and Beau
honeymooned in Ireland last year. She’d gotten no reaction from that one,
nothing like she experienced every time she picked up hers. But still . . .
there were so many unknowns. Her uncle Terry had promised to tell her the
story—then he died. Now Sarah, who had hinted that Bertha might have said more
about it. If Sarah died now, without saying anything more, did it mean that the
second box carried some kind of curse? Something that prevented its secrets
from being revealed?
No! Sam shook her head to clear
this line of thought. Granted, Uncle Terry had owned and handled the other box,
but she had learned nothing to suggest that either Bertha or Sarah ever
actually came in contact with it. She had to stop this thinking and put her
energy into something practical, such as replacing the ruined chocolates.
She parked behind the shop and let
herself into the quiet kitchen. Her supply of dark cacao was running low and
she had to do some quick adjustments to the recipe. How much simpler this would
be if Bobul, that oddball chocolatier, were to show up and take over. The large
man in the heavy brown coat, with his bag of mysterious ingredients and tools,
always made the entire chocolate-making process seem so effortless.
She pulled out her largest kettle,
feeling brave about tackling one large batch rather than making smaller ones as
she’d been doing. She carefully weighed the sugar and butter and began stirring
the mixture over a low flame on the stovetop.
Within minutes the familiar
motions of stirring and watching the ingredients blend calmed her. She sent her
remaining energy through the handle of the spoon and into the bubbling pot. The
chocolate took on a creamy quality the moment she added pinches of those little
powders Bobul had given her. Whatever was in those pouches, it was the thing that made her chocolates
special, gave them qualities unlike any other. When the mixture was perfect she
poured it out for tempering, working automatically and quickly.
Filling the pueblo molds didn’t
use nearly all of the dark mixture, so she pulled out every other mold she
owned. Any shape that didn’t specifically scream ‘Christmas’ got put to use, as
Sam turned out flowers, stars, shells and generic shapes. She placed the molds
on trays in the cooling racks and looked around, feeling the last of her
residual energy drain away.
The chocolate-coated kettle sat in
the sink; sticky spoons and spatulas lay about, but it was only ten o’clock.
She had fully expected to work through the night. She gathered the tools and
dumped them all into the large pot, squirted detergent on top and filled the
thing with hot water. The actual scrubbing could wait until morning, she
decided, turning out the lights and locking the back door.
The ranch looked so good, the
porch light glowing softly to welcome her home, the dogs sitting expectantly on
the porch unable to settle down until their ‘pack’ was complete. She pulled the
van into her normal spot and greeted Ranger and Nellie, who herded her toward
the front door. Beau greeted them and led Sam to the kitchen where he brewed a
cup of her favorite tea.
“Long day, huh?”
“I swear that eighty percent of my
day goes toward this dumb festival right now. One more week and I plan to give myself
an extra day or two off.”
His eyes wandered upward. “You
must have been tired when you stopped in earlier. You forgot your phone. I
think you have a few
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