She could make the same sort of design out of chocolate.
CHAPTER NINE
Mabel adjusted her grip on her shopping basket as she made her way down the narrow aisle of the Fir Tree Grove General store, mentally checking off items from the list she’d hastily scrawled on the back of an envelope that morning. Fresh ginger root, organic chicken broth, egg noodles, carrots, celery, fresh parsley. Somewhere she’d read that ginger could help with nausea and general stomach upset, and while George hadn’t complained specifically about feeling queasy, she’d noticed he’d been picking at his food the past few days. Maybe a little ginger in his chicken noodle soup would help. It certainly couldn’t hurt. She needed to make a fresh batch for him that night, and a little variety in flavor would be good anyway.
As she headed toward the line at the checkout, she ran over her mental list of what still needed to be done that day, as well. She was going back to check on George, after this, and then she would need to go help a few people pick up their Christmas trees at the farm. She’d already been there since early this morning, trusting that Vanessa had been able to open the store on her own.
She knew her granddaughter was perfectly capable, but still, it was a little nerve-wracking. She hadn’t let so much control ofthe store go since she’d hurt her wrist, and while Vanessa could handle things in her sleep, Mabel had always liked to have her own hands on all the things to do with her business. George was the same way, which made it additionally touching that he was relying on her to watch over it in his absence.
That morning, three families had come by to pick up trees, including one family whose daughter had been insistent that she needed to pick outexactlythe right height of tree. The little ten-year-old had insisted on measuring three different trees with the tape measure her father had brought, declaring each one “not quite right” with the seriousness that only a child could muster when it came to important Christmas decisions. By the time they’d settled on a tree—the second one the girl had measured, as it turned out—and Mabel had helped load it onto their SUV, it was nearly eleven in the morning, and Mabel still had a long to-do list and a list of customers who would be by that day for their pickups.
Now, standing in the store with her arms full of soup ingredients, Mabel felt the familiar weight of exhaustion settling into her bones. She was physicallyandmentally tired, between keeping up her house and George’s, running two businesses, and wrestling Christmas trees. But there was no way that she was going to evenhintto George that she was a little overwhelmed. It wouldn’t be for very long, anyway, she reminded herself. Within a week, he’d be feeling better, especially with all of the chicken noodle soup she was feeding him.
She ran over the list again mentally as Daphne, one half of the couple who owned the general store, rang up Mr. Henderson, who came in every Wednesday for the exact same items: a loaf of white bread, a jar of peanut butter, a carton of milk, and a newspaper.
“Morning, Mabel,” Daphne called out as Mr. Henderson gathered his bags. “How’s George doing today?”
“Oh, much better,” Mabel replied automatically, setting her items on the counter. She hoped it was true. George had reluctantly gone to the doctor the day before, and was assured he had a bad flu and it would pass. No hint of pneumonia just yet, which was what she’d worried most about. But he’d remained sick, and ‘much better’ was definitely overemphasizing things.
Daphne began scanning the soup ingredients, her weathered hands moving efficiently as she packed them up.
“Fresh ginger, hmm?” she said with a smile, holding up the knobby root. “I love adding this to dishes.”
“Just thought I’d try something new in the chicken soup,” Mabel said, smothering another yawn. “I read somewhere that ginger can be good for the stomach.”
Daphne nodded approvingly. “My grandmother always put ginger in her soup when any of us kids were feeling poorly. Worked like a charm.” She paused in her scanning and looked directly at Mabel. “Speaking of feeling poorly, you look a bit worn out yourself, dear. Are you taking care of yourself while you’re taking care of everyone else?”
Mabel forced a smile, running a hand through her curly silver bob. “I’m fine,” she assured her. “Just a bit sleepy today, that’s all. And busy. I’ve been helping with the tree farm while George is under the weather.”
Daphne didn’t look entirely convinced, but she seemed to sense that Mabel didn’t want to discuss it further. “Well, you make sure you’re eating those good soups you’re making,” she said, resuming her scanning. “Can’t pour from an empty pitcher, as they say.”
Mabel paid for her groceries and made her way back to her car, telling herself it was good advice, and she should take it. She was running herself a bit ragged, but it wouldn’t be forever. And she didn’t want George worrying about the farm when he needed to be focused on recovering.
George’s house was quiet when she let herself in. She could hear his steady breathing from the bedroom—still asleep, which was good. He needed rest in order to beat this.
Mabel set the grocery bags on the kitchen counter and began unpacking the soup ingredients. She’d made her chicken noodle soup so many times over the years that she could practically do it blindfolded, but today she wanted to be extra careful with the ginger addition. She wanted it to help, but not be so overpowering that George wouldn’t enjoy the soup.
She was just filling a large pot with water when the phone rang. She reached for where she’d left her phone and realized that it wasn’t hers that was ringing, it was the phone George kept that was reserved for work calls only. Mabel dried her hands quickly and hurried to answer it before the ringing woke George.
“Merry Pines Christmas Tree Farm,” she said, slightly breathless from carrying in the groceries.”
“Oh, hello,” came a familiar male voice on the other end. “This is Henry Cline. I had an appointment scheduled for this morning to pick up a tree?”
Mabel felt her stomach drop. Henry Cline. She’d completely forgotten that George had written his appointment in the schedule book for eleven-thirty. She glanced at the kitchen clock—it was already close to noon.
“Henry, yes, of course,” she said, trying to keep the flustered sound out of her voice. “I’m so sorry, I’m running just a few minutes behind this morning. Can you give me about ten minutes to get over to the farm?”
“No problem at all,” Henry replied, as unruffled as ever. “I’m actually running a little late myself. I’ll meet you at the main office.”
“That’s perfect,” Mabel said, already reaching for her coat with her free hand. “I’ll be right there.”
She hung up the phone and stared at the partially unpacked soup ingredients scattered across George’s counter, a small reminder of her good intentions derailed by juggling too many responsibilities.
There was nothing for it but to put her coat back on and head to the tree farm. The soup would have to wait.
The drive to Merry Pines took fifteen minutes, and Mabel spent the entire time mentally kicking herself for the scheduling oversight. George was meticulous about his customers, and she felt bad that she’d already missed one, even if Henry was undoubtedly going to be understanding about it all.
She found Henry waiting patiently by his truck in the main parking area, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets against the December chill. He looked up as she pulled in, offering a small wave and what she thought might be a slightly relieved smile.
