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 do you know Phoebe and when did you talk to her?”

“We met through … a friend of mine. Phoebe’s a few years younger than me, but I’ve seen her around town. No big deal.” He shrugged. “I stopped in at the office after your visit to the airfield and asked about you. Casually, you know. Phoebe sang like a canary.”

Emma refused to believe it. Phoebe had never mentioned this supposed conversation.

“She said the two of you were hired at the same time and that you kept pretty much to yourself. So what gives?”

“What do you mean?”

“Where’s the boyfriend?”

Emma’s jaw sagged open. “You’ve got a lot of nerve!”

“Men are scum, remember?” His eyes twinkled. “So tell me, what’s happening in the men department?”

“Nothing. I’m a serious writer—well, maybe not yet, but I intend to become one.”

“Being a ‘serious’ writer means you don’t have time for relationships?”

Emma didn’t care for the direction this conversation was taking. “At present, no—not that it’s any of your business.”

“Why not?”

“Are you always so nosy, or is this expressly for my benefit?”

“Both.” He picked up his fork and studied the tines with every appearance of interest.

To Emma’s relief, their plates arrived just then. The waitress set the bill facedown in the middle of the table.

Emma spread the paper napkin across her lap, looked over her meal and lifted her fork. By the time she’d taken two bites, Oliver had wolfed down half his sandwich. She glared at him disapprovingly.

“What?” he asked, apparently perplexed.

“Nothing,” she said, knowing it would do no good to explain.

He munched on a French fry, then glanced across the table at her. “If I asked you out on a date, would you go?”

“No,” she said without hesitation. She didn’t mean to be rude but she could read him like a book. He was her father all over again. Besides, she wasn’t much good at relationships.

“Why not?” Oliver pressed.

Emma groaned. “Listen, I’m sure a lot of women would consider you charming—” she almost choked on the word “—and you’re not unattractive …”

“In other words, you think I’m cute.”

“No,” she inserted quickly. “That isn’t what I meant at all.” The last thing she wanted was for Oliver to assume she was attracted to him. “I like that you’re kind to animals.”

“You want me.”

Emma set her fork down, astonished at his audacity. “I most certainly do not!”

He cracked an even bigger smile. “Keep telling yourself that, but I know otherwise.”

“This is exactly what bothers me,” she said, sighing heavily. “Your arrogance is unbelievable. You assume that because you’re reasonably good-looking, any woman would be grateful for the opportunity to date you. The fact is, it’s simply not true.”

“You’re dying to find out everything you can about me.”

This time Emma laughed outright. She couldn’t help it. “You’re the one asking all the questions—and making a lot of assumptions. I was making conversation. It seemed the polite thing to do, since we might end up spending the next few hours together.”

Some women might find his smile sexy. Not Emma, of course, but others. She forced herself to look away, in case he misread her interest.

“All right then. What do you want to know about me?” he asked, leaning forward.

Emma considered his question. Anything she asked him, Oliver was bound to interpret in such a way that it would seem she was falling head over heels in love with him. Really, his attitude bordered on the comical.

“How soon before we can fly out of here?”

He frowned. “I can’t answer that until I get an updated weather report. Anything else you want to know?”

Plenty, but she planned on asking Phoebe first. “Not really.”

She sliced into her omelet and saw that he’d already finished his sandwich. Only a handful of French fries remained.

“Are you going to eat your toast?” he asked.

She shook her head and slid the plate across the table.

Oliver took it, slipped out of the booth and headed outside to where Oscar waited. As soon as he left the café, Emma plucked her cell phone from her bag and pushed the button that speed-dialed the newspaper office. A moment later, she connected with Phoebe.

“This is Phoebe,” her friend answered in her usual cheerful fashion.

“When did Oliver Hamilton ask you about me?” Emma demanded.

“Emma?”

“You know exactly who this is.”

“I take it the muscle relaxant has worn off?”

So it was true. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Because,” Phoebe murmured, “it was a short conversation. Two minutes, if that.”

“You knew he was coming in to talk to Walt.”

“Yes,” Phoebe admitted. “All right, I’ll tell you. I was afraid that if I mentioned I’d talked to Oliver, you’d have all these questions about how I knew and I didn’t want to get into that.”

“How did you know?” Emma asked. It could only be one thing—Phoebe was seeing Walt. Why she wanted to keep that a secret, Emma wasn’t sure.

When Phoebe answered, it was in a whisper. “Walt and I are dating.”

“You are?” Even though she’d already guessed, Emma was shocked. “Why didn’t you tell me?” As soon as she asked the question, she knew. “Walt doesn’t want anyone at the office to find out.” It explained a lot.

“He doesn’t think it’s good policy. I hated not telling anyone, especially you, but I … couldn’t.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Three months.”

Emma was stunned into silence. She couldn’t believe that her best friend had managed to keep this from her for three months. Obviously, Phoebe wasn’t as timid around Walt as she’d seemed.

“You can’t let him know that you know,” Phoebe said anxiously.

“Fine.” Emma blew out her breath. “But when I get back, I want you to tell me everything, understand?”

Phoebe laughed softly. “I’ll make a full confession.”

“Good. Now, what do you know about Oliver Hamilton?”

“Just that … he likes you. He specifically asked for an opportunity so the two of you could fly together.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Oliver had done that because he knew she was frightened to death to get into his little plane. The man was a sadist, and between them, her employer and her best friend had willingly handed her over.

“He told Walt you’d done a wonderful job of selling him on advertising and he wanted to give the newspaper his business because of you.”

“Did you tell Walt that if I didn’t get an assignment soon, I’d quit?”

“I couldn’t let my best friend quit,” Phoebe said—although Emma noted that she hadn’t really answered the question. “Not if I could prevent it. Then Oliver showed up and, well, it was meant to be.”

The truth was out. She’d gotten this assignment thanks to her friend. Walt hadn’t thought she was ready; he was just trying to keep Phoebe happy.

“I can’t understand why you don’t like Oliver,” Phoebe said.

Emma pinched her lips tightly together. “Oliver Hamilton is accustomed to women swooning over him.”

“He’s not like that,” Phoebe protested.

Emma knew otherwise.

“You’re not upset with me, are you?”

Emma considered the question. “I guess not.”

“If our situations were reversed, you’d have done the same thing for me,” Phoebe said. “Now tell me what’s going on in Yakima.”

Emma looked out the window and noticed that Oliver had walked across the street, presumably to get an updated weather report. “At the moment we’re stuck.”

“Together?” Phoebe asked with an inappropriate amount of amusement.

It figured she’d see this unfortunate situation in a humorous light. “For now, and trust me, I’m not happy about it.”

“You should be. Oliver and Walt get along really well. He’s a cool guy.”

The problem was he knew it. Emma didn’t bother to comment. She chatted with Phoebe a few minutes longer before ending the phone call.

The waitress refreshed Emma’s coffee and took the money she’d left on the table. While she waited for her change, she read over her notes from the interview with Earleen Williams. But it wasn’t the older woman who dominated her thoughts, it was her own mother.

Pamela Collins had wanted the very best for her, Emma knew. What she could never understand was why her mother had stayed in the marriage as long as she had. From as early as Emma could remember, she’d known her father was having affairs, betraying his wife and family. To this day, her father didn’t get it. Her mother had been so forgiving; Emma wasn’t. And she was too smart to be taken in by a man who had all her father’s worst traits—and all his appeal.

She couldn’t imagine what her mother would think of Oliver. No, she could imagine exactly. Her mother would think he was wonderful and treat him like a king, the same way she’d done with Emma’s father whenever he’d seen fit to bless them with his presence.

The café door opened and Oliver returned, his leather jacket splotched with damp. He walked across the room, sliding into the booth. He handed her a sheet of paper.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“The weather report. You aren’t going to like it.”

Emma’s heart sank. “How long are we trapped here?”

He hesitated as if weighing how much of the truth he should tell her. “Overnight.”

The word echoed in her brain. “No!”

“Have you looked outside lately?”

Emma hadn’t. She stared out the window now. Thick flakes of snow drifted down; already the sidewalks were covered and the sky had grown darker. No wonder his coat was wet. She closed her eyes. “What are we going to do?” she whispered.

Oliver shrugged. “It happens, especially this time of year. I don’t like it any better than you do, but I try to make the best of it.”

“How?”

“I don’t know what you’re planning, but I’ve already got a line on a poker game. I don’t suppose you’d care to join us?”

Chapter Five

The snow fell fast and furious as the afternoon wore on. Although Emma strongly suspected Walt wouldn’t be willing to reimburse her, she broke down and rented a motel room near the airfield, using her credit card since she was almost out of cash. Her knight in tarnished armor had disappeared inside one of the hangars with three other pilots for a poker game, and she hadn’t seen him since.

The motel room was about what you’d expect for $39.95. The mattress and pillows were thin and no matter what she did, Emma couldn’t get comfortable on the bed until she marched down to the office for extra pillows, which she propped up to support her back while she used her laptop on the bed. Her fingers flew across the keys.

Lessons from Fruitcake: Earleen Williams by Emma Collins For The Examiner

Earleen Williams of Yakima bakes masterful fruitcakes but she’s the true masterpiece.

It’s no surprise to anyone who has tasted one of her fruitcakes that Earleen and her recipe have achieved national acclaim. With a shy smile, she’ll laughingly say that her secret ingredient is stored in her liquor cabinet. But there’s more to it than that.

Now Earleen’s recipe has been chosen as one of the twelve nationwide finalists in Good Homemaking’s fruitcake contest. The winner will be announced December 20th on the magazine’s website. The January issue will feature a profile of the winner. That winner might be Earleen Williams.

Earleen admits her life hasn’t been easy, not that she’s complaining. She was married to her first husband, Larry, for sixteen years, but as she says, he was more trouble than she could handle. They parted, and in her pain and loss she returned to the days of her childhood and the happiness she’d known, surrounded by family and love.

Earleen’s parents had little money for frivolous things, but there was an abundance of love in the home. And somehow, through good times and bad, there was always fruitcake at Christmas. It was this spirit of love, laughter and joy that Earleen sought to recapture in making her own fruitcake. Adding local apples, cooked down into a sauce, and using only ingredients of the highest quality, she began with her mother’s recipe and expanded on it. When asked, Earleen was happy to share her secrets—liquor and apples. In the years since her divorce, her fruitcake has become a holiday staple for family and friends.

The former bartender continued baking through two subsequent marriages. Discussing her three husbands, Earleen commented that none of them appreciated her. Each pursued other women—or sought escape in a bottle. Over time, Earleen says, she gained perspective on her life and learned to recognize that her husbands’ infidelity wasn’t due to any lack in her.

Earleen Williams creates a moist, succulent fruitcake—a baking masterpiece. But she, too, is a masterpiece, just the way she is.

This was a draft, but Emma felt it was a good start. The more she read over her notes, the more she realized that the interview hadn’t been about fruitcake as much as about Earleen. Briefly she wondered if all the interviews would be the same. Lessons about life, wrapped up in a fruitcake recipe. She hoped so.

By now it was past four o’clock; dusk had begun to fall in earnest. The room had grown chilly and Emma was ready to stop work for a while. The heater below the window belched and coughed before it sent out a blast of hot air. When she turned on the television, all she got was a blank screen and some strange noise. Bored and restless, she threw on her coat and wandered out to the office to complain.

The middle-aged woman at the desk looked up when she appeared. “The television doesn’t seem to be working,” Emma told her in a friendly tone.

“We’ve been having problems with the cable,” the clerk said.

“I’d really like to watch the news.” Listening to the weather report was vital at this point. She wanted out of Yakima, and the sooner the better.

“I’ll send Juan over to see what he can do,” the clerk promised. “He’s our handyman. He knows what he’s doing, but his English isn’t very good. I’ll do my best to explain it to him.”

“Thanks. I’d appreciate that,” Emma told her.

Since Oliver didn’t know where she was, Emma decided she’d better inform him. If there was a break in the storm, he wouldn’t appreciate having to search for her.

Unsure where to find Oliver, she stepped out of the motel office and turned toward the hangar where she’d last seen him. Pulling her wool coat more tightly around her, she trudged across the snowy street. Fortunately, Oscar trotted over to her, happily wagging his stub of a tail.

“Where’s Oliver?” she asked the terrier, then followed the dog as he led her to a hangar not far from Oliver’s Cessna.

When she walked inside, shaking the snow from her coat, Emma found Oliver sitting at a table with his poker-playing friends. Two were dressed in beige overalls, and Emma assumed they must be mechanics. Oliver sat across from a third man who wore a leather jacket similar to his. Probably another pilot.

Oliver pulled his gaze away from his cards, glanced up and frowned, almost as though he couldn’t remember who she was.

“I wondered where you’d wandered off,” he mumbled, returning his attention to his hand.

“I got a motel room.”

At the mention of the room, his three friends stared at her. From her, they turned as one to Oliver. All speaking at the same time, the men made suggestive comments.

“Way to go, Oliver.”

“Atta boy.”

“Oo-la-la.”

To her dismay, Oliver played along, grinning from ear to ear as if it was understood they’d be making wild, passionate love as soon as he’d finished his poker game.

Emma wasn’t letting him get away with that. If he wasn’t going to explain, then she had no qualms about doing so. “The motel room isn’t for him,” she said coldly. “There’s absolutely nothing between Oliver and me.”

One of the mechanics laughed. “That’s what all the girls say.”

“I’ll be back shortly.” Oliver set his cards down on the table and stood, his movements casual.

“Take your time, ol’ buddy.”

“Don’t hurry on our account.”

Emma glared at the men as Oliver took her by the elbow and steered her out of the hangar. She peered over her shoulder on her way out the door, strongly tempted to put them all in their place. That would be a waste of time, she realized. Besides, any argument was only going to encourage them.

“You got a motel room?” he asked.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” she muttered irritably. Then, repenting her sharp tone—at least a little—she added in a more conciliatory voice, “You said it would be morning before we’d get out of here.” She hadn’t wanted to spend money on the motel, but there was only so long she could sit in Minnie’s Place, otherwise known as MICE.

“That was probably a good idea.” Oliver looked both ways before jogging across the street, Oscar at his heels.

“I wanted to see the weather report. Unfortunately, the television in my room seems to be on the fritz. The manager sent a repairman.”

“I wouldn’t mind getting a current weather update, either.”

“The only reason I came to find you was so you’d know where I was.” She wanted to make it clear that she hadn’t gone searching for him because she wanted his company. She was being considerate, nothing more.

He nodded. “I’ll see about getting a room for the night myself.”

While Oliver filled out the paperwork, Emma went back to her room. She opened the door to find Juan, the repairman, sitting on the end of her bed, gazing intently at the television.

Emma took one look at the images flashing across the screen and gasped. He was watching the pornography channel. Obviously, a lack of familiarity with English was no impediment to following this kind of movie—not that there was much dialogue to worry about.

He grinned at her as if he’d managed some spectacular feat. “I fix,” he said, beaming. He flipped off the television and handed her the remote on his way out. Emma stared at him openmouthed as he disappeared into the snowstorm.

Emma didn’t know how long she stood in the doorway, still holding the remote, but it must have been more than a minute.

“Problems?” Oliver asked as he strolled toward her.

“The repairman was in my room watching porn.” She was shocked by the other man’s audacity.

Oliver followed her into the room. “Let me see the remote,” he said, and took it from her. He pushed the power button; instantly the television returned to the scene she’d witnessed when she walked into the room.

“Change the channel,” she insisted, whirling around so she wouldn’t have to look at the entwined figures. This was so embarrassing. All she could hear were moans and groans.

Oliver made several attempts but the pornography channel was the only one that seemed to be working. Every other channel remained a snowy blur.

“Ah,” Oliver said after a moment. “I get it.”

“You get what?”

“You asked to watch the news, right?”

“Right,” she concurred.

“Juan thought you wanted to watch the nudes.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Half-laughing, Emma felt the heat radiate from her cheeks.

“I’m two doors down if you need anything.” He tossed the remote onto the rumpled bed, where she’d been working earlier.

“I won’t,” Emma rushed to assure him. But when she closed the door she remembered that she still couldn’t watch television.

Sighing, she sat cross-legged on the bed. Might as well work, she decided. Emma reached for a pad of paper and a pen, one of a dozen she kept in a special compartment in her briefcase.

She wrote down the date, then chewed on the end of her pen while she mentally reviewed the conversation with Earleen. She needed an introduction to her first article.

Life is a journey, she began, and as with any journey, a traveler will come upon unexpected twists and turns. Sometimes a person will follow the same path for so long that change seems imperceptible. Conversely, another will travel the shortest of distances and discover a completely new landscape. In a single lifetime, it is possible to live both experiences, as Earleen Williams discovered.

When Emma finally glanced up, she was surprised to see that it was pitch-black outside, the darkness punctuated by the lights in the motel parking lot. There was a knock on her door.

“Who is it?” she asked.

“Who do you think?” Oliver called from the other side.

Emma opened the door.

“My television works if you want to trade rooms.”

The idea was tempting.

“I’m going back to my poker game.”

“All right,” Emma said gratefully. “Thanks.”

“Can Oscar stay with you?”

“Sure.”

“Good.” They exchanged room keys and he turned away. Then, as if he’d just thought of something, he turned back.

“What?” Emma asked.

“Nothing,” he said. Without another word he kissed her.

At first Emma felt too stunned to react, but once she’d collected her wits, she was furious. He was trying to shock her, and she refused to give him a reaction. “What was that for?” she asked.

Oliver stopped, shrugged, smiled. “Can’t say. All of a sudden, I had this urge to kiss you.”

“Next time curb it.”

He shrugged again. “Don’t know if I can.”

“Try.”

Just the way the edges of his mouth turned up annoyed her. “Come on, admit it,” he said. “You liked it.”

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