Glad Tidings: There's Something About Christmas / Here Comes Trouble. Debbie Macomber
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2 cups sugar 1 cup butter 2 1/2 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 1/2 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