Glancing at the tables—not full, but not lackluster—she noticed there was a line but not shockingly long. He had more customers than she did at the moment, but not a tidal wave.
As she looked around for Marshall, she wondered if maybe she should launch a “Sugarfall Light” line of products. Or increase her ads. Or run a new daily special. Or sponsor an event or?—
“Can I help you?” A young man she recognized interrupted her mental panic-marketing session. “Gracie, right? I’m Roberto. Assistant manager.”
“Yes, I remember. Hello, Roberto.”
“Looking for Marshall?”
Well, she wasn’t looking for aClean Puff, that was for sure. “Is he available?”
“Actually, he ran out for a bit to get some custom cutters. Something about a gingerbread house?”
Oh, boy. She needed to talk to him and put a stop to anything he might be investing.
“Can I give him a message for you?” he asked when she didn’t answer. “Or you want to text him?”
She considered saying she was pulling out of the gingerbread project without an explanation, but that would be sheer cowardice and leave the door open for more confusion.
“I’ll come back later. Will he be here in an hour or two?”
“He should be,” Roberto said. “I’ll tell him you were here.”
“Thanks.” With a mix of disappointment and relief, she walked toward the door, catching one of the counter staff announce to a customer that they were out of pumpkin chia bars because they were so popular.
Should she tell the patrons thatshehad pumpkin tarts bathed in whipped cream and…
Her cell phone hummed, so she slipped it out of her bag and stepped outside, looking at the caller’s name before answering.
“Hi, Nic,” she greeted her cousin. “Are we still on for lunch at 501?”
“Yes, and I’m early,” Nicole replied. “But be grateful because I got a table and this place is packed.”
“I’ll be there in a minute.”
Knowing that she needed cousin time more than anything, she rushed toward 501 on Main, a favorite restaurant in the heart of the historic district.
A few minutes later, she ducked into 501’s vestibule and shook out her hair, then stepped into the dining room’s noise and light. Creamy tall walls, dark wood, and massive arched windows framed Main Street like a Christmas card.
The Saturday after Thanksgiving meant the tables were filled with skiers in knit caps, kids with red noses, the whole town trying to squeeze in brunch at one of Park City’s best eateries.
Here, the scents were different yet again—coffee and rosemary and caramelized onions. A whole different kind of comfort on a plate.
Nicole had indeed snagged a primo table in the window and had a mug between her hands, steam curling against her face. She brightened when she saw Gracie and waved her over.
Gracie gave her a hug and shrugged out of her coat to sit down. “You look pretty, Nic.”
“Oh, I have hat hair.” Nicole made a face but smoothed her dark waves, which couldn’t look bad before or after a hat. “You look pale. Also pretty. But pale pretty. What’s wrong?”
Gracie picked up the menu like a shield. “Nothing that Park City poutine can’t fix. Share some?”
“You don’t have to ask.”
A server arrived instantly, taking Gracie’s order for the holiday hot cider, the poutine, and a promise to order something more substantial even though they knew they would split the roasted beet salad and the turkey club because they never veered from perfection.
“So,” Gracie said when they were alone. “What’s new? How’s Cameron? Wedding plans coming along? Should I be doing anything as maid of honor?”
“After that shower you and Elise gave me last month?” Nicole beamed. “I’m still on Cloud Nine, which was the absolute perfect theme, by the way.”
