Two and a half hours later,Layla took the exit off Highway 23 to Copper Creek. Sunshine glistened off the newly fallen snow. The wintry landscape was a stark contrast against the blue sky and the bold landmark of Bedecker’s Red Barn Antiques sitting at the corner as she made a right onto Copper Mill Road. From there, the road wound among old homesteads with crooked chimneys and porches with gingerbread trim. When the Copper Creek sign popped up among the semicircle of boxwoods right before the post office, Layla breathed a sigh of relief. It was good to be home.
Her town was postcard perfect, a little Rockwell-esque, in fact. She felt lucky to call Copper Creek home since she’d moved there seven years ago. Having grown up in Mesa and then working in Boston, she’d discovered small town life was ideal. If she hadn’t experienced big-city living in her twenties after graduating from UW-Madison and then moving out east, there would be nothing for comparison. But the traffic, noise, and high rent grew tiresome, and she felt claustrophobic after seven years in the city. A client tipped her off about an interior design job for a home furnishings company in Minneapolis. It turned out to be a dream position before they downsized and she was the newest hire. Luckily, she was born frugal and had stashed away enough savings to live off for six months while she formulated a business plan.
She pulled into one of the parking spaces in front of her shop to unload. Thankfully the boxes were much lighter now that the contents graced Blueberry Point Lodge until after the holidays. She stood there, hands on her hips, studying the boxes she’d stacked on the porch. She was fooling herself, she knew, trying to steer her thoughts to safer subjects like empty boxes and the merits of small towns. Brant had wiggled his way into her head more than once on the way home. There was only one way to get him off her mind—work. There was plenty to do now that she was back home. She unloaded the remaining boxes, marching them into the shop one by one, her heart racing. Mind over matter.
Her store, Copper Creek Home, was a mixture of locally made art and home furnishings. It was filled with candles and soaps and the table linens she adored ordering from Quincy Market in Madison. There was also the quirky decoupage furniture she sold on consignment for Jem Dagmor, an artist who lived in Mend Lake, the next town twelve miles to the south, and the handmade cards made by Marybelle Davis, her renter next door. While she didn’t dabble too much in fresh flowers, Layla filled her vintage florist’s cooler with a fresh selection of roses, carnations, lilies, and baby’s breath, mostly for Henry Layton who came in once a week to buy a bouquet for his wife of fifty-three years. In the back room, her design space held a sofa for clients to sit side by side with her while they looked over portfolios and books. The room’s ochre walls gave the space a cozy vibe. It showcased her favorite creamy leather sofa perfectly and the huge canvas photograph on the back wall of a Sonoran Desert sunset. In fact, sometimes she came down to her shop at night to do some last-minute task and found herself curled up at one end of the sofa. She’d pull the paisley chenille throw over her while she read a novel or her notes for the next job until she dozed off. Next thing she knew the timer on the coffee pot clicked on and she blinked away the early morning light peeking through the blinds. She’d worked long and hard for a business of her own, and it blended seamlessly with her personal life since she lived in the apartment upstairs.
She carried the last box up the steps when she heard the door open next door.
“Frowning like that is going to give you more permanent wrinkles than I have, and I’m twice your age. At least!”
Marybelle Davis poked her head out of her front door, keeping it partially closed to ward off the cold. Still, Marybelle didn’t let the comings and goings of people around her slip by without a comment, compliment, or complaint. Marybelle was one of Layla’s favorite people in the world. The older woman’s sunny disposition showed on her face even when she wasn’t smiling.
“I was frowning?”
“Like a clown without a circus.”
Layla thrust out her lip. “That’s not good.”
“Come see me when you get a chance.”
“No better time than right now. The boxes can wait.” Layla pushed the one she held through the front door then walked the length of the boardwalk between her shop and Marybelle’s front door.
Her place smelled like a bakery when Layla walked in.
“What do you have in the oven today? It smells heavenly.”
Marybelle winked at her. “I’ve been baking up a storm today. My daughter’s coming to pick me up for the weekend, so I’m bringing a cookie platter. You’re getting one too.”
Marybelle was always making her treats. She’d learned to pop them into the freezer right away; if they were on the counter, she’d nibble away until they disappeared in a few days.
She followed Marybelle into her kitchen. The room had so many vintage details that Layla recreated the room for a client three years ago who wanted something “fifties-ish.” The sea foam-painted cabinets, checkered floor, and white subway tiles were charming, and Layla adored the strawberries on the wallpaper, even if she wasn’t brave enough to use it in her own kitchen.
A timer went off. Marybelle bustled over to the oven, donning a potholder, and scooped the cookie sheet from inside, setting it on the wire rack to cool. A dozen of the prettiest ginger snaps made Layla’s mouth water. They were perfect circles, sparkling with sugar dust, their tops beginning to crack.
Layla pulled out a kitchen chair and sat. “So, nothing exciting happened at the store these last two days?”
“Made a return. Sold all but one of Tom’s little evergreen sculptures.” Marybelle scooped a cookie from the baking sheet and set it on a paper towel in front of Layla.
Darcy’s muffin still sat heavily in her stomach, but she could hardly say no to one of Marybelle’s ginger snaps. She nibbled the gooey cookie.
“I can’t keep those in stock. Good for Tom.” Tom Ahren was a local woodcarver. He made the most darling tabletop trees and birds from maple. The trees sold like crazy last holiday season. It looked like this year would be no different.
“Oh, I caught a mouse trying to get into the back door when I took the garbage out.” Marybelle waved the spatula menacingly in the air.
Layla was afraid to ask what happened to the mouse.
Marybelle sat across from her. She busied herself with stacking some of the cooled cookies on a platter. “Any plans this weekend?”
“Nothing on the calendar.” She liked it that way. After these ten-hour workdays, her Saturday nights and Sunday afternoons were fiercely guarded downtime.
Marybelle looked at her under her lashes. Layla caught the look and braced herself.
“I know someone you may like to meet.”
Layla held up her hand. “Now, Marybelle. You know how I feel about blind dates in general. That last one you sent me was nothing short of a bore. And a wine snob to boot.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know he was a professional…whatever they call his kind.”
