Cinnamon and Spice Conundrum (Cinnamon Rolls and Pumpkin Spice)

Chapter 12

Sadie

Jack and I settle into a routine, almost like a married couple. He drives me to the café, we bake together, then Jack works at the coffee bar out front until noon. I’m not trying to hide my growing attraction towards Jack, and I’m sure he’s picking up on some of the clues. I may have accidentally bumped into him while putting those muffins in the oven this morning. Oh my! The looks we exchanged were steamier than my piping hot blueberry scones.

I’m dreading when the water heater gets fixed, although yesterday the plumber grumbled something about needing to order another part. Maybe it won’t come in until next week.

This morning, I call Dilbert to ask him to tow Bessie to his shop. Between Sam and me, we’re keeping Jack too busy to fiddle with my temperamental car. Jack seems content working on Sam’s spreadsheets in the afternoons, but I will hint to Wilbur to take Jack fishing again.

“I hear you need a new coffee server,” Mabel Smithwater says as she approaches the bakery case. Jack tosses me a frowny look that I don’t know how to interpret.

“Mabel, nice to see you! I didn’t know you have barista experience.”

She squints at me. Her white hair is coiffed in what looks like a beehive hairdo that was popular decades ago. “How difficult can it be? I make Folgers in my coffeemaker every morning.”

That explains why I never see her in the café until after noon, when she orders one of my lunch offerings .

“Would you like to fill out an application? I need someone to work the 6:30 to noon shift.”

She frowns. “My arthritis flares up in the morning. How about I start around ten?”

Jack suppresses a cough behind his hand, although I suspect it’s laughter he’s trying to contain.

“I’m sorry, Mabel, but I need someone to work the early shift.”

She grunts. “Well, it was worth a try. I could use some income to supplement my social security payments.”

“Don’t you make those pinecone salt and pepper shakers? I’ll be happy to stock them at the café during the festival.”

Her expression brightens. “Thank you! That crabby Finn told Francine that she can’t take them any longer because they clash with the Swiss theme.”

I wonder exactly what items crafted from pinecones wouldn’t clash with the Swiss theme. Maybe those yard gnomes.

“Fill out this supplier form listing your prices and get me your items by no later than Saturday evening.”

Time is flying! The festival starts on Monday. A week filled with bizarre pinecone activities, featuring the Pinecone Toss where participants wear thick gloves, chest protectors, and helmets; a Pinecone on a Spoon race where the spoon is actually a garden trowel; and Pinecone Lawn Bowling where the pinecones act as pins.

“I also make napkin holders and necklaces. Can I bring those as well?”

The old lady’s voice yanks me from my musings over the festival’s quirky activities. Jack and I exchange amused looks. “Of course! I’m happy to display all your artisan creations.”

Mabel swipes the form from my hand and trots off. She doesn’t even purchase her usual sandwich for lunch.

“How many pinecone artisans contribute their goods to your display during the festival?” Jack asks with a touch of snark .

Pointing to the back, I say, “I bring in shelves and they fill that entire nook. The crafts are very popular, and most of the crafters are very talented,” I huff, defending my artisans.

“You must make a pretty good profit on those items?”

“Profit?”

He nods. “The commission you charge the artist for shelf space. Usually a 30/70 split, with you getting 30%.”

I frown. Jack’s such a hardcore businessman. All he seems to think about is profits. “I don’t charge anything for them to have shelf space.”

His mouth falls open. “But those items are taking up some of your precious sitting area.”

Holding up a placating hand, I say, “Hold up, Mr. Rockefeller. I borrow some extra folding tables from the church during the festival so folks can sit outside.”

My explanation seems to appease him as he remains silent, but he gives me a narrow-eye stare. I suspect this topic may come up again. When Georgeanne and Agnes stroll in, he returns to the coffee bar to serve our customers.

Tonight, Jack is fixing that spaghetti we were going to have last evening. He suggested that we return to the cabin for lunch, then I’ll drive his car back to the café. That way he doesn’t have to come pick me up in the evening.

“Everything you make is top-notch,” Jack says, holding up one of the bacon and avocado wraps we brought with us. We’re sitting outside at Grandad’s rickety picnic table, enjoying our food and the nice weather. All you need is a light sweater to be comfortable—Jack’s cardigans must come in very handy in the autumn coolness.

“Thank you. ”

“After dinner I want to show you my cost, price, and profit analysis for the café. I think you’ll be surprised at what just a small price increase can do for profits.” Excitement leaks from his voice.

I narrow my eyes at him. “I thought you were working on spreadsheets for Sam?”

He shifts on the bench. “Well, actually, I wanted to do this analysis for you first so you could adjust prices during the festival. That’s why I asked for all those receipts.”

Right . I forgot he absconded with my shoebox full of receipts.

“Okay,” I say meekly, knowing that he’s doing this for my own good and I should listen to his business acumen. But I get twitchy talking about profit margins because so many of my business decisions aren’t made because of profit.

I like helping people, rather than focusing solely on money. The pinecone crafts display is an example. These artisans need a way to sell their stuff, so why should I charge them? It’s so satisfying to see Georgeanne squeal with delight when she sells all her lovely pinecone wreaths and even pushy Agnes acts grateful when I sell one of her gaudy pinecone napkin holders. I probably shouldn’t have told Mabel she could display her napkin holders because Mabel’s are so much prettier than what Agnes makes. That could cause a dent in Agnes’s sales.

“Why are you working for my brother and not running your own business?” I ask, staring at the man across from me. My heart flips in my chest. It’s becoming easier and easier to look beyond those dowdy clothes and see the hunky guy hiding underneath.

He sputters, coughs, then grabs his bottled water, quickly chugging the entire drink. “That bite went down the wrong pipe,” he rasps a few seconds later.

“Well?” I ask, arching an eyebrow at his avoidance of my question.

“I like working for Sam,” he says with a shrug .

“You could run a part of the business,” I argue. “I don’t think Sam’s business partner is pulling his weight. Whenever I ask Sam about him, my brother says the co-owner is out of the office.”

Jack has another coughing fit and I hand him my water bottle, which he gulps down. That bite must have really gone down the wrong pipe.

“He took a sabbatical,” Jack wheezes a few beats later.

“A sabbatical? Where? To Africa? To go on a safari? The guy’s obviously loaded, so I guess he could afford that,” I scoff. I have an aversion to billionaires who want to flaunt their money by taking expensive trips.

Jack stares at me. Maybe I shouldn’t talk poorly about the co-owner of the business he works for.

Stopping my flow of criticism, I say, “What’s the guy’s name? Ray? Ryker? Rory? I think it starts with an R.”

Jack frantically chews on another bite of the wrap, then swallows, and clears his throat. “I usually call him Mr. Turnbill,” he replies after several beats.

I bark out a laugh. “You’re that formal at the office?”

My lunch companion’s lip purse, like he just ate some kimchi. “Mr. Turnbill is a little arrogant, so I usually avoid him.”

A worried look crosses my face. “Poor Sam! No wonder he avoids talking about the guy.”

Jack remains oddly quiet for the rest of the meal, an awkward silence hanging between us. He’s probably worried that he revealed too much about Sam’s business partner.

“Thanks for letting me use your car. I’m looking forward to that spaghetti!” I say as I clean up our trash and depart.

Next time I talk to Sam, I need to put a bug in my brother’s ear to promote Jack and ditch the snobby Mr. Turnbill.