Bluegrass Blessings. Allie Pleiter
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“Well, as I see it, my oven is your problem.”
It was becoming a struggle to remain civil about being roused out of bed by a flame-haired, loud-mouthed tornado in the middle of the night. “Not according to my paperwork. And believe me, Miss Hopkins, I read my paperwork.”
“Well, if I can’t open my bakery, I can’t earn money. And if I can’t earn money, then I can’t pay my rent. So, unless you want to start off the year badly, I reckon it is your problem.”
The Southern phraseology in her East Coast accent was just absurd. He glared at her. “Exactly what part of New Jersey are you from?”
That stopped her. “Exactly how much do you know about me?”
Exactly too much. And none of it prepared him for this. “I’m going back to bed now.”
“By all means. I won’t need any supervision from you. I’ll just slip in and slip out, moving batches in and out of your oven. You’ll never even know I’m there.”
Oh, he doubted that.
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ALLIE PLEITER
Enthusiastic but slightly untidy mother of two, RITA® Award finalist Allie Pleiter writes both fiction and nonfiction. An avid knitter and unreformed chocoholic, she spends her days writing books, drinking coffee and finding new ways to avoid housework. Allie grew up in Connecticut, holds a BS in Speech from Northwestern University, spent fifteen years in the field of professional fundraising. She lives with her husband, children and a Havanese dog named Bella in the suburbs of Chicago, Illinois.
Bluegrass Blessings
Allie Pleiter
See, the former things have taken place,
and new things I declare; before they
spring into being I announce them to you.
—Isaiah 42:9
For Jeff
And he knows why
Acknowledgments
Every author needs the right ingredients to cook up the perfect novel. Attorney Donna Craft Cain helped me get the legal details in order, while Dr. Caroline Wolfe made sure the medical facts were in correct. If I could send Cookiegrams of my own, they’d go out to my husband, children, editor Krista Stroever and agent Karen Solem for their ongoing support. I’m well aware that living with an author—professionally or personally—is no piece of cake. Especially this author. And lastly, I’d be nowhere without the astounding guidance of my Lord and the amazing support of the readers who’ve made Middleburg one of their favorite places to visit. You’re great blessings, one and all.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Discussion Questions
Chapter One
“You can’t do this.” Dinah Hopkins glared mercilessly at the oven knobs. “I own you. You work for me and insubordination of any kind will not be permitted. Capiche?”
Her New York mobster impersonation failed to impress, for the pilot light still stared at her with one blue, unblinking eye. For lack of a better solution, she whacked the side of the cold oven with her rolling pin. Whacked. That was a gangster term, right?
“Whacked, as in end of life. As in light this minute or it’s the end of my life, buster.” Dinah fiddled with another knob or two, which had worked last week to get the fickle thing started, and checked the gas connection. “All’s well, you iron beast, you’ve got gas and flame but what I need is heat. So heat. I can’t exactly run a bakery with a microwave. Bakeries have ovens. Nice, obedient, toasty ovens.”
The blue unblinking eye mocked her. Okay, let’s try a little tenderness. “C’mon, baby, you know you want to. It’s a brand new year. You see that dough over there just begging to be sticky buns? You can do that. You’re the one who makes it happen. Let’s get cooking.” Dinah stroked the side of one burner as if she really could tickle an oven under the chin. She straightened up, blew a lock of her bright red hair out of her eyes, and listened to the hideous silence. No ticking sound, no heating metal, no hot oven.
No response. “I’m your master and I said ‘heat!’”
“Don’t you mean mistress?”
Dinah jumped at the unexpected male voice, spinning around ready to wield her rolling pin upon the intruder. The thing was large enough to be a weapon, that’s for sure. She dropped it on her toe once and limped for a week. She pointed it now at the dark stranger standing in her doorway. For a misguided robber dumb enough to enter a business with the lights on at two in the morning, he sure looked calm. And he was barefoot. And what was with the T-shirt and sweatpants? Didn’t criminals wear black cat-suits? “Who are you and how did you get in here?”
The man yawned. “Could you put that thing down?” He reached into one pocket.
“Not a chance, buster.” Dinah waved the rolling pin around to let him know just how serious she was about breaking a rib or two with it. She lunged for his hand just as he…pulled his glasses out of his pocket and held them out.
“Glasses,” he said, fixing the expensive-looking tortoise shell frames onto his face. “Not firearms.” Now he looked even less like a criminal. More like an accountant home sick with the flu.
“You’ve got ten seconds to tell me who you are.” Dinah hoped that even in flip-flops, she could outrun him to the police station if he tried anything. Especially after she threw the rolling pin to bruise his trespassing little shins.
He scratched his stubbly chin. He had thick, dark hair. “Do you realize what time it is?”
“Time for you to get out of my bakery before I call the police. I’m sure they know what time it is.”
“Sandy said you opened