“She interviewed the three Washington State fruitcake recipe finalists.”
“I know.” Oliver realized he probably sounded smug. “I was the one who flew her in for the interviews. Don’t you remember I told you about that?”
“Yes, but you didn’t tell me who you were flying or what for.”
“She usually writes obituaries, Mom.”
“You haven’t read her articles, have you?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Everyone in town is talking about them,” his mother informed him. “At my bridge club luncheon, we all said we were surprised someone that young could be so wise.”
“How do you know her age?”
“The paper ran her photo at the bottom of the last article. She’s an attractive woman.”
Oliver agreed.
“My son is dating Emma Collins.”
“She’s making dinner for me tonight.” He didn’t think now was the time to mention that Emma had agreed to this only because she’d lost a bet.
“I can’t believe you haven’t said anything!”
“Sorry.”
“You should be. That girl is gifted. Those articles were so good.”
“Save them for me, would you?” He’d look through the papers in his recycling bin, but just in case…
“I already used one of the recipes and I’m going to serve it on Christmas Day.”
Oliver liked fruitcake, and there always seemed to be plenty of it around his parents’ house. “So I can bring Emma?”
“Don’t you dare show up without her.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
As soon as he arrived home, Oliver collected a week’s worth of papers and sat down with them, searching until he located the first article—about the Yakima interview. He studied a picture of Earleen Williams displaying her fruitcake. Emma wasn’t a bad photographer. He recalled that first flight and how nervous she’d been. Then he remembered her problem with the television in the motel room and her effort to hear the news that turned out to be nudes. At that he laughed outright.
His mother was right; the article was insightful and well-written. Within a few paragraphs, Oliver felt he knew Earleen. He’d certainly met women like her who didn’t recognize their own worth or, as in Earleen’s case, recognized it later in life. Emma had characterized her with real sensitivity. Logically but subtly, she led the reader to her own conclusion—that this was a generous woman who’d spent her life loving men who didn’t deserve her devotion.
He found the article about Sophie McKay next. Sophie was a woman who enjoyed life. Neither she nor her fruitcake recipe was in any way typical. She took the ingredients she liked best and combined them into a truly unique recipe, just as she’d done with her life. Both she and her beloved husband, Harry, had been willing to compromise on the fruitcake issue and, no doubt, on the more important conflicts within their marriage. After his death, she’d mourned him and continued to love him but also continued to live. Sophie McKay, like her fruitcake, was one of a kind.
As Oliver rummaged through discarded papers for the third and final article, he understood what had intrigued his mother and her friends about Emma. She was special, and her understanding of these women’s lives was compassionate as well as incisive.
When he found the third article, he smiled at the picture of Peggy Lucas surrounded by her children. He almost wished Emma had been in the photograph. The theme for that article was eat it now and the No-Bake Fruitcake recipe followed. With Peggy, too, Emma had found just the right tone.
In all three articles, she’d managed to write about fruitcake—on the surface a rather limited subject—in ways that gave it a larger meaning. Fruitcake as a symbol for life. Hmm…
Emma might not be much good at garnering advertising dollars for Walt, but she shouldn’t worry. What she lacked in sales ability she more than compensated for with her writing talent.
Oliver saw that it was almost seven. Rubbing his hand down his cheek, he decided to shave. He was in a good mood and knew he should credit Emma with that. She’d impressed him with her work and she made him laugh. There was a lot to be said for a woman who possessed a sense of humor. After throwing on his leather jacket, which had survived its icy bath in Puget Sound, he reached for the wine bottle, called Oscar and together, man and dog headed out the door.
Striking what he hoped was a sexy Cary Grant pose, Oliver rang the doorbell. He leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb and crossed his ankles, bottle tucked under one arm. It didn’t take Emma long to answer. Unlatching the lock, she opened the door and immediately made a fuss over Oscar. She hardly seemed to notice Oliver was even there. Apparently she was immune to his many charms—or wanted him to think she was. Definitely hard on the ego.
“That’s all the greeting I get?” he chided.
She wore a towel apron over jeans and looked lovely. He couldn’t resist. Slipping his hand behind her neck, Oliver bent forward and kissed her. She tasted wonderful—a little spicy, a little sweet.
She blinked several times when he released her. “Hi,” she said in a husky voice, sounding flustered. When they’d first met, he’d enjoyed teasing her about how much she wanted him. Actually, the reverse was true. He wanted her. In an effort to derail the direction of his thoughts, he asked, “What’s for dinner?”
“If I don’t get back to the stove in a hurry, it’ll be takeout.” She dashed across the room and returned to her kitchen.
Oliver bent down and petted Boots. The two dogs resumed their ritual sniffing.
“Ever heard of puttanesca?” Emma asked, emptying a large can of crushed tomatoes into a pan.
“Putin what?” Oliver asked as he set the wine bottle down on the crowded countertop. “Is it some Russian dish?”
“Puttanesca,” Emma repeated. “It’s an Italian pasta sauce. My mother used to make it. I have to warn you it’s kind of spicy.”