“Double chocolate hot cocoa with pumpkin spice whipped cream,” she announces, setting the tray down and reclaiming Matilda with the smooth efficiency of someone who’s mastered the art of baby handoffs. “Secret recipe. The ultimate new mom fuel that should probably be prescribed by doctors everywhere. And these,”she nudges the plate of truffles toward me, “are our new Halloween specialties.”
“Oh my word,” I moan at the sight. “I just gained twenty pounds looking at all this. But don’t think that’s enough to stop me from inhaling every last sip and bite.”
She gives a good-natured laugh. “The green ones are apple caramel, the purple are blackberry ganache, and the orange—my personal favorite—are pumpkin spice with white chocolate.” She selects an orange one and pops it into her mouth with the reverence of someone participating in a religious ceremony. “Quality control,” she explains through a bite of chocolate. “It’s the most important part of the job.”
“A dream job,” I say, scooping up an orange one, and the flavor explosion in my mouth is like autumn distilled into a single bite—warm spices, creamy pumpkin, and rich chocolate creating a perfect harmony that makes my taste buds want to write thank-you notes to everyone in this chocolate factory.
“Oh my goodness,” I moan involuntarily. “This should be illegal. Like, controlled substance illegal.”
“That’s what we aim for,” Hammie Mae says with a wicked laugh. “Theit’s so good it should be criminalreaction.”
Speaking of criminal, it’s an uncomfortable reminder of why I’m actually here, considering someone recently committed an actual crime that was definitely not chocolate-related.
“So,” I begin, taking a sip of my cocoa, “this might seem out of the blue, but I wanted to ask you about Heath Cullen.” I keep my voice casual but watch her reaction as if I’m studying for a test in human behavior.
And sure enough, the change is immediate and dramatic. Hammie Mae’s smile slips like a mask being removed, and she holds Matilda a little closer, as if for comfort or protection. She glances around quickly as if checking who might be listening to our conversation about the recently deceased.
“Heath?” she asks, her voice noticeably cooler as if she just turned down the thermostat on our friendship. “Why would you ask me about him?”
“I’m trying to understand what happened,” I explain, leaning in. “He was found at my inn, and I feel responsible, I guess. I’ve been talking to the members of his paranormal club, trying to piece together who might have wanted to harm him.”
Fudge perks up at the mention of Heath’s name with the alertness of someone who’s just heard their favorite song.Heath was mean to her.He gives a little yip while looking up at Hammie Mae.He made her cry.
My mouth falls open at the thought.
Interesting. I file that information away in my mental filing cabinet labeledreasons people might want Heath deadas Hammie Mae’s expression shifts from coolness to something more complex—a mixture of discomfort and what might be relief.
“Look,” she says, lowering her voice and leaning closer. “I wouldn’t normally gossip about the dead, but Heath wasn’t exactly the person he pretended to be.”
She adjusts Matilda on her lap, looking down at her daughter with such tenderness it makes my heart ache. She shakes her head a moment. “I’m sorry to change the subject, but you know, I see you with Jasper, and I can’t help feeling a little envious,” she admits suddenly, and her voice softens. “Ella is so lucky to have both parents in her life. I wish Matilda had that.”
“Are you and Matilda’s father...?” I let the question hang, unsure how to phrase it delicately. I remember from the last time we had a similar conversation that he wasn’t in the picture at that point.
“Still not together,” Hammie Mae confirms with a tight smile. “Never really were. It was a brief thing, and when I told him I was pregnant, he made it very clear he wasn’t ready for fatherhood. Last I heard, he was working on a cruise ship somewhere in the Caribbean.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I genuinely mean it.
Hammie Mae shrugs, but I can still see the hurt in her eyes. “It is what it is. I just wish my dad was still here. We weren’t on the greatest terms, but he was so excited about becoming a grandfather.” Her voice catches slightly. “He bought Matilda a custom rocking chair before he passed. At least I have that.”
“I’m so sorry.”
She nods, and the grief is still evident in her expression. “Sometimes I feel like Matilda is missing out on so much without a father figure in her life. I keep thinking about getting a dog—you know, something loyal and loving to help fill that void. I think I had mentioned to you the other night that I had a labradoodle when I was younger. So I know firsthand that they’re amazing with kids.”
Did someone say labradoodle?Fudge perks up with excitement.I love doodles! They’re like the best of both worlds—smart like poodles but fun like labs! Skittles is my favorite.
I nod. Skittles would be Buffy’s labradoodle. But I’ll admit, I’m still stuck on the fact that Hammie Mae is so in love with doodles. My entire body electrifies at the thought.
It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if she was the owner of the handle Lovemydoodle. I suck in a quick breath because that would most certainly mean that Hammie Mae is my sister!
A labradoodle would be perfect for them,Jellybean agrees, which is high praise coming from a cat.Especially with a baby. They’re gentle and protective.
“Oh, you should definitely get one,” I say with genuine enthusiasm because labradoodles are basically the perfect family dog wrapped in adorable curly fur. “They are incredible with children, and honestly, having a dog around makes everything better. Sherlock here has been amazing with Ella. He’s like her furry bodyguard.”
Sherlock wags his tail at the mention of his name, looking proud of his babysitting credentials.
“I’m actually in touch with a breeder now. I think I mentioned that the other night, too,” Hammie Mae says, brightening at the topic. “I figure by the time Matilda is crawling, it would be perfect timing to add a four-legged family member.”
My heart drums in my chest so fast I might actually faint. Hammie Mae Westoff is really Hammie Mae Baker. I’m sitting less than two feet from my long-lost sister, I can feel it.
