Ain't She Sweet (Seven Brides for Seven Mothers #2) - Whitney Dineen Page 0,4

say hello to Cheryl inside the Quick Stop, she calls out, “We ran out thirty minutes ago.”

“I thought you were getting a double batch today,” I practically whine.

“We did, but McKenzie Shaw bought us out. It’s her daughter Shayla’s fifth birthday and she gets to take a treat into preschool to celebrate.” Cheryl doesn’t look the least bit chagrined at dashing my donut dreams for the second day in a row. “Why don’t you just pick some up at one of the farms on the way into town?”

“They stop making them after Halloween. What am I supposed to do now?” I know I sound childish, but I only get cider donuts in October and November and so far I’m not doing a great job of scoring many.

“Why don’t you see if they have some up at the lodge?” she asks. The look on my face must give away my thoughts on the subject because she hurries to add, “Or not.”

“I’m heading up there anyway, so I might as well check.”

“Do you suddenly have something against the lodge?” she wants to know.

I shake my head vigorously like I’m trying to dislodge an earwig. “Not at all. I grew up there. It’s my home …”

“Then why do you look like you just bit the head off a live snake?”

I have no intention of telling anyone about my irritation with the new pastry chef, so I answer, “Because I wanted one right now, not twenty minutes from now.”

“What a baby,” Cheryl jokes. “Hey, that’s some crazy news about Billy Grimps being your long-lost uncle. I mean, he’s lived on your property for years and no one ever knew, huh?”

“It took us all by surprise, but you know how secretive Billy has always been.”

Cheryl shakes her dark braids. “That man is a mystery for sure. But I have to say I’m glad he’s a Cavanaugh. Now I don’t have to worry about him having a place to stay in his older years.”

Billy has primarily camped on the lodge grounds for the last forty years. He’d stay in our family’s fishing cabin when it got really cold or wet, but after growing up in New York City, followed by two tours in Vietnam, he claimed to want nothing more than what Mother Nature could provide. He’s essentially been homeless the whole time he’s lived in Oregon. But even so, he’s become such a fixture that we’ve always felt like he belonged with us.

“Mom has made Billy the new glamping manager now that the old cabins have been renovated. He’s moved into the one Addie used as her home base.”

“Good,” Cheryl says. “How are Addie and Brogan anyway? They still planning on coming home for Christmas?”

“As far as I know. How’s Damian?” Cheryl’s husband, Damian, recently experienced an early midlife crisis and left his family in pursuit of what he’s been missing by being a family man. Namely, other women.

“The man is back, for now. I’m letting him stay at the house for the kids’ sake. I’m pretending I’m okay.” The look on her face suggests that reality is in direct opposition to her words.

“You let me know if you need anything,” I tell her. Cheryl is what I call good people. Not only did we grow up together, but I hire her son at my farmstand every summer. No one was pleased by the way Damian cut and ran the way he did.

“Thanks, James,” she says sincerely. “Just call me on the mornings you want donuts, I’ll put them aside for you.”

“You can put me down for two tomorrow.”

She winks before saying, “I’ll grab three just in case.”

Before getting back into my truck, I take a minute to inhale the fresh, crisp air and appreciate the quaintness of my hometown. Spartan, Oregon, was not named for its sparseness like non-natives might assume. Quite the opposite. It’s named after the giant, sweet, varietal of blueberries that our valley is known for. I have them in abundance on my farm.

Our town was founded over a hundred and fifty years ago and, as such, still hosts many of the original Victorian homes built at the time. If not for all the cars on the streets, you might think you’d slipped through the cracks of time. It’s postcard perfect.

My phone pings with a message from my mom. I’m running a few minutes late. I’ll meet you in the garden.

I text back: Bring apple cider donuts if you have any.

The thought of satisfying my craving has me speeding through town.