Until She Met Daniel. Callie Endicott
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else told her to leave.
Dumping the old coffee grounds, Mandy put fresh ones into the maker and started it. The coffee donation can was half full, so she emptied it into an envelope to stick in the treasurer’s mailbox.
“All done,” she announced. “It will take about five minutes to brew.”
“Thank you, dear,” Jane told her.
“Oh, yes,” Bernice Vicks added. She was a sweet woman who often tried to soften things and keep the peace if arguments arose. “I don’t know what you do differently, but your coffee is especially good, though it isn’t fair to drag you away from your desk to make it for us.”
Mandy’s smile blew into full sail. “No worries,” she told them. She tucked back a lock of her long pale blond hair, which refused to stay put—she could never hope for the cool, dignified Grace Kelly look her father admired so much in her mother. “I’ll see you all later.”
The women met on Mondays and Wednesdays to make items for their annual bazaar. From what Mandy understood, it was a big event, drawing customers from several local communities, and even a few from the San Francisco Bay area. Of course, it was mostly because the bazaar also offered a “Sally’s Attic,” featuring collectibles, antiques and the work of local artists.
Mandy wished now she’d offered to help promote the bazaar through social media such as Twitter or Facebook, but when she’d first heard about the event, she hadn’t been sure she’d be staying long enough at her job to make it worthwhile. Of course, now that she’d gotten some of the seniors more computer savvy, she could train them to take over if she decided it was time to move on to her next adventure.
Back in her office, Mandy continued working on the monthly newsletter. She really liked this section of the California coast, and the people were great. She had been expecting to look for a job in Vicksville because the town was bigger, but had stopped at the local variety store in Willow’s Eve. That’s when she’d spotted a help-wanted sign on the bulletin board, and on a whim, had walked down to City Hall and applied for the Senior Center director job.
Mandy hadn’t expected them to hire her, or to take the job if it was offered, partly because Willow’s Eve was a small enough town that housing might be hard to find. To her surprise, the hastily gathered hiring committee had talked to her for a while, made phone calls to check her references, then hired her on the spot. Housing hadn’t proved a problem since they’d offered her the use of a small house that belonged to the town.
Overwhelmed by their enthusiasm, Mandy had accepted the job. She enjoyed doing new things, and living in a town the size of Willow’s Eve would be a completely different experience. Later on, she had learned that they’d hired several local people who hadn’t worked out.
However, Mandy wasn’t planning to stay forever and she’d told them up front she was a wanderer.
The new city manager probably wouldn’t be there for long, either—he’d signed only a one-year contract. But the job paid well and came with a free house. The town council had found someone from Southern California with terrific credentials—even better than expected. The community had a decent budget for a small town because of the local paper mill and the income from Fannie Snow’s trust.
Fannie Snow was the town’s biggest benefactress, and Mandy was intrigued by the stories about her. It was a little murky where she’d gotten her wealth—whispers abounded, despite her decades of respectability—but she’d done a bunch for Willow’s Eve, both before and after her death.
The plaques on the shiny modern fire trucks at the station read “Lovingly donated by Fannie Snow...” the library was fabulous, all the churches had been endowed, and those were just a few of her gifts.
Mandy had asked, but no one seemed to know where Fannie had gotten her wealth. She couldn’t have made it bootlegging during prohibition; she hadn’t been that old. The second-oldest profession? Maybe, but it seemed a stretch considering the amount of money involved.
The alarm on Mandy’s watch beeped, and she headed for the Senior Center’s kitchen, putting her questions about Fannie’s source of income aside.
“Do you cook?” the chair of the hiring committee had asked rather anxiously toward the end of her interview. “We need a program administrator who can prepare the senior lunch part of the time. Our last one, well...he nearly burned the place down, and he was just heating frozen mac and cheese. Have you ever fixed meals for a large number of people?”
“I can cook for groups, no problem,” Mandy had assured.
She’d worked in several cooking jobs over the years and had also helped her mother with faculty dinners, so she was comfortable preparing food in volume. That was one of the reasons the director’s job suited her—there was so much variety. Then she’d added even more variety by volunteering in different projects for the community.
“Have a Danish,” Lou Ella Parsons urged as Mandy returned to the parlor two hours later. The lasagna was in the oven and everything else was ready. Volunteers would come to serve at noon, and then take meals to seniors who were sick or otherwise homebound—the town’s own version of a meals-on-wheels program.
“You guys are trying to make me fat,” Mandy complained. Nevertheless, she took a pastry and poured herself a cup of coffee, though she preferred the brew she made in her own office. She’d quickly figured out that many of the seniors simply wanted company and a little attention.
“You need something solid on your bones,” Dorothy scolded. “The way you run around this building doing everything in sight, you burn up more calories than you eat.”
“She painted the restrooms last week,” Jane said.
“That was supposed to be a secret.” Mandy bit into the Danish and chased it down with coffee. “I didn’t want to get blamed for the paint I dripped on the floor.”
Dorothy leaned forward. “We could have hired someone.”
“You did,” Mandy reminded her. “Three months ago and it still wasn’t done. I kept bugging them, but the contractor always seemed to have another job that was more urgent.”
“You’re amazing, Mandy. I can’t understand why you aren’t married.”
“I’ve already done the marriage route, and it isn’t for me.” Mandy shuddered inside. It wasn’t because her divorce had been ugly, or because the year she’d spent with Vince had been so awful; but he’d expected her to change. Her entire childhood had been about people pushing her to be something she wasn’t, and after a year with a husband doing the same thing, she’d rebelled.
“Nonsense,” Dorothy scolded. “Just because it didn’t work the first time doesn’t mean you should give up on it.”
“Right,” Jane agreed. “Say, is the new city manager single?”
“I’m sure there’s something against this kind of thing in the bylaws. It’s a form of harassment,” Mandy complained, intending to keep the conversation lighthearted—she certainly didn’t want it taken seriously.
At the other end of the table, Dorothy looked toward the door and her mouth dropped open, almost with an expression of alarm. “Uh, ladies...”
“You could do worse,” Lou Ella said, not seeming to hear. “I’ve seen a picture of Daniel Whittier. He’s quite good-looking.”
“Oh, my, yes.” Jane pretended to fan herself.
A male voice suddenly broke through the chatter. “Excuse me.”
Mandy looked up and swallowed. An outrageously handsome man gazed at her. Dark wavy hair, blue eyes so intense they practically drilled into you...wow. She didn’t see guys like this every day, or every year for that matter, and she noted a couple of the ladies began straightening up, poking at their hair and smoothing their clothing. This was a guy who awakened feminine instincts in both young