Cinnamon and Spice Conundrum (Cinnamon Rolls and Pumpkin Spice)

Chapter 7

Ryan/Jack

The weedy path to the door immediately causes me to change my fishing plans for the afternoon. Despite the gorgeous weather, I feel obliged to tidy up the landscaping at Sam’s grandfather’s cabin. The place looks unkempt, and with just a little “elbow grease,” as my grandfather would say, I can have the yard looking like someone lives here.

When I step through the cabin’s creaky front door, the place reminds me of my grandparents’ cabin and a pang of nostalgia hits, along with all the fond childhood memories of spending time at my grandparents’ rustic lake house. I guess this place is slowly growing on me, even those ugly, lumpy recliners.

I quickly shed the gramps look. My disguise isn’t needed right now since I’m not out in public where there’s an off chance a Denver socialite familiar with that dang most eligible bachelor list could recognize me. Plus Sadie won’t be here until eight. It’s going to be a pain to keep up the nerdy old guy ruse while she’s still living at the cabin. But it might just be worth the cost of getting to see my intriguing temporary boss more. Luckily, I brought several cardigans in multiple shades of brown, which I can alternate through. Those really give off the “Gramps” vibe I’m going for.

Slipping into an old pair of tight blue jeans and a ratty T-shirt that hugs my upper body, I concentrate on weeding the front yard. Aside from a cookie break, I focus all afternoon on making the yard look presentable.

I tackle the tangle of weeds taking over between the cobblestones first, and the path to the front door eventually starts to look like a walkway again. After I trim around the stones’ edges, the quaint path stands out as it winds its way across the lawn.

Once I’ve cleared a path to the front door, I attack the overgrown bushes aligned with the front of the cabin. Some of the shrubs have grown taller than windowsill level, blocking sunlight coming in through the windows. From my horticulturist hobby knowledge, I recognize chokeberry and sumac bushes, along with a few wax currants. They’re going to thrive once I have them pruned properly. Being out in the fresh air and sunshine, plus doing this physical labor is really invigorating. This sure beats sitting behind a desk all the time. When I get back to Denver, I need to invest in an outdoor hobby.

“Looks better than anything Fred ever did.”

I whirl around to face the speaker and find none other than Wilbur, who’s staring at me with his usual frowny expression. My heart does a nosedive in my chest. He’s my neighbor?

The rather backhanded compliment sinks in and I say, “Thanks. I’m going for the ‘somebody lives here’ look.”

He nods. “I’m headed out in my fishing boat. Wanna join me?”

My eyes grow big. The last thing I expected from my curmudgeon neighbor was an invite to go fishing, especially considering our encounter at the coffee shop this morning.

“Sure. Give me ten minutes.”

“Join me on the dock over there in five,” he grumbles, then walks away.

I chuckle as I dash inside to clean off the dirt and grab Sam’s fishing pole.

Wilbur is a surprisingly pleasant fishing companion. He doesn’t talk much, which is fine with me. I was worried that there’d be complaints about discounts or plain black coffee, but Wilbur doesn’t bring up those topics. He makes an occasional recommendation about what type of lure to use or where to cast my line, but that’s all.

The old wooden fishing boat, powered by an antique Evinrude outboard motor, rocks gently against the waves. With our lines in the water waiting for a nibble, I’m brought back again to fond memories of the times I spent at my grandparents’ cabin. Grandpa Ralph and Wilbur would have gotten along nicely.

I squeal like a ten-year-old when my bobber plunges below the water and the line spins out from the reel, making a whirring noise. “I’ve got a bite!” Grabbing the knob on the reel, I crank for all I’m worth, trying to haul the fish back to the surface.

“He’s a fighter! Keep the line tight!” Wilbur shouts, excitement leaking from his voice. A semblance of a smile lights his whiskered face. He’s holding an ancient-looking net, ready to land the fish as soon as I get him reeled in close enough to the boat.

Several tense minutes pass as the fish resists my attempts to reel him in. Every time I think I’m making progress, he dives, causing my rod to bend sharply and the line to go so taunt I’m sure it’s going to snap. My muscles scream at the effort I’m expending, using a set of muscles I haven’t used in a while.

Finally, the fish surfaces and Wilbur sweeps the net under him. My catch flops and flips inside the net while my neighbor and I look it over.

“He’s a scrawny one. I’m going to toss him back,” Wilbur says. Before I can protest, he grabs the pliers, removes the hook from the fish’s mouth, and throws him back in the water. With one flip, the fish disappears out of sight.

“But—that was my first catch of the day!” I sputter.

Wilbur grunts. “He wasn’t even worth filleting. There are bigger fish in this lake,” he says, without any sympathy in his tone. He turns his back to me, tending his rod and resuming fishing as if nothing happened .

“He sure felt big,” I grouse to myself, then hear a chuckle from the other side of the boat.

“I promise you’ll land a bigger one,” Wilbur replies.

I shrug. There’s nothing I can do to get the fish back now.

“How do you and Sadie know each other?” my fishing partner asks after a few awkward beats.

“I work for her brother,” I reply in a clipped tone, still smarting from the lost fish.

“Ah, Sammy. Both Hawthorne kids used to love it here, but I haven’t seen Sammy for a while. I was surprised he kept the place after his grandad passed.”

“Getting our start-up launched and successful takes all his time,” I say. My heart skips a beat when I realize what I just said, so I quickly amend my statement. “It’s Sam’s start-up. I’m just, er, his lowly assistant.” The lies keep flowing from my lips as I backpedal to cover up my mistake.

One bushy white eyebrows crawls up to Wilbur’s hairline like a caterpillar inching its way up his forehead. “You must not be too important of an assistant if Sam can spare you for several weeks.”

Ouch! The guy never minces words, does he?

“The plan is for Sadie to hire another barista in two or three weeks, then I’m out of here,” I huff. Frankly I’m already itching to get back to my big city life, designer clothes, and fancy condo. Two weeks can’t come soon enough.

He harrumphs. “Well, you better get some training on discounts before the festival starts. It’s just over a week away, and those big city folks are ruthless using coupons from that stupid festival book. Plus, Sadie sells all those ugly pinecone souvenirs during the event. Handmade stuff doesn’t interest me, but the Denverites eat them up.”

My head reels with all this new information. Guess I better hit up my boss tonight for a lot more additional training.

A couple hours later, we’ve caught a decent number of white bass, enough for a couple dinners. Wilbur moved the boat to another location after he deemed my first catch “too scrawny,” and we’ve been reeling in the fish ever since. As the sun sinks lower in the sky, I say, “I should head back. I’m cooking dinner.”

He grunts. “She’s a fine gal. Always doing something nice for someone else.”

I nod, remembering the small family that stopped by the café and left with a sack full of food.

“Glad she had somewhere to stay after the flood. The cabin is tight, but we worked it out,” I comment.

That bushy eyebrow tracks its way up the old man’s forehead again. “Sadie’s staying with you?” he asks in a scandalized tone.

Tugging on my suddenly-too-tight collar, I say, “The water heater broke in her apartment, so she’s my cabinmate until Friday. She’s got the loft and I’m in the bedroom downstairs.” I try to infuse lightness into my reply, while at the same time ensuring he understands that it’s no big deal for a man and a woman to share a cabin and not “fraternize,” as my grandmother would say.

“She’s also a looker. Not sure why a hundred guys haven’t already snapped her up. Although there’s not a very big pond to fish in here in Pinecone Pines, if you know what I mean.”

Is this dating advice from Wilbur?

Suppressing a laugh, I say, “I won’t be here long enough to start a relationship with Sadie or anyone else.”

He grunts. “Just tell yourself that, son. I fell for my wife Claire the instant I saw her. We dated for two weeks, then I proposed. I knew she was the one, and I wanted to put a ring on her finger as quickly as possible. ”

Wow. I never would have pinned Wilbur as a closet romantic. Although I’m not blind to Sadie’s charms, I can’t see myself falling that fast. Plus, with the fuddy-duddy disguise, why would she fall for me?