won’t be able to come.”
“Why not?”
“He’s going away for Christmas.”
Gabe was off the internet and playing one of his games, jerking the game stick left and right as he battled aliens. “Why?”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
“I will.” Apparently he’d won the battle because he let go of the stick and faced her. “You’re going to see him again, right? You want to, don’t you?”
Even an eight-year-old boy could easily see through her.
“I hope so.”
“Me, too,” Gabe said, then added, “Billy wants me to come over after school on Friday. I can go, can’t I?” He regarded her hopefully.
The boys had obviously remained friends. “I’ll clear it with his dad first.” Holly had been meaning to talk to Bill before this. She’d make a point of doing it soon, although she wasn’t looking forward to contacting him.
The good news was that she’d found the recipe in her mother’s book.
Fried Chicken
(from Debbie Macomber’s Cedar Cove Cookbook)
The key to crisp fried chicken is cooking at a high temperature. Stick a candy or deep-frying thermometer in the chicken as you fry to make sure the oil temperature remains between 250° and 300°F.
1 whole chicken (about 3½ pounds), cut into 10 pieces
1 quart buttermilk
2 tablespoons Tabasco or other hot sauce
2 cups all-purpose flour
Salt and pepper, to taste 2 large eggs
1 teaspoon baking powder
½ teaspoon baking soda
Vegetable oil or shortening
1. Rinse chicken. In a large bowl or resealable plastic bag, combine buttermilk and Tabasco. Add chicken pieces, turn to coat. Refrigerate, covered, for at least 8 hours and up to 16, turning the pieces occasionally. Remove chicken from buttermilk; shake off excess. Arrange in a single layer on large wire rack set over rimed baking sheet. Refrigerate, uncovered, for 2 hours.
2. Measure flour into large shallow dish; whisk in some salt and pepper. In a medium bowl, beat eggs, baking powder and baking soda. Working in batches of 3, drop chicken pieces in flour and shake dish to coat. Shake excess flour from each piece. Using tongs, dip chicken pieces into egg mixture, turning to coat well and allowing excess to drip off. Return chicken pieces to flour; coat again, shake off excess and set on wire rack.
3. Preheat oven to 200°F. Set oven rack to middle position. Set another wire rack over a rimmed baking sheet, and place in oven. Line a large plate with paper towels. Pour oil about ½ inch up the side of a large, heavy skillet. Place skillet over high heat; let pan warm until oil shimmers.
4. Place half of chicken, skin-side down, in hot oil. Reduce heat to medium and fry 8 minutes, until deep golden brown. Turn chicken pieces; cook an additional eight minutes, turning to fry evenly on all sides. Using tongs, transfer chicken to paper towel–lined plate. After draining, transfer chicken to wire rack in oven. Fry remaining chicken, transferring pieces to paper towel–lined plate to drain, then to wire rack in oven to keep warm.
Serves 4 to 6.
Chapter Ten
May you live all the days of your life. —Mrs. Miracle
Emily Merkle smiled to herself. This latest assignment was going well. She enjoyed the ones that took place during the Christmas season most of all. She hadn’t expected the romance between Jake and Holly to develop quite this quickly, so that was a bonus. Those two were very good together—and good for each other.
She attached her name badge to her sweater and hung her purse in the employee locker, then headed up to the toy department. She’d grown fond of Jake Finley. He was a kindhearted young man, a bit reserved, to be sure, but willing to take a risk he believed in. The robots were one example of that, his pursuit of Holly another.
Walking toward the elevator, she saw J. R. Finley, who’d just come into the hallway. He stopped, and his eyes automatically went to her badge.
“Mrs. Miracle,” he said thoughtfully. He seemed to be mulling over where he’d heard it before.
“Mr. Finley,” she said in the same thoughtful tone.
“To the best of my recollection, we don’t have an employee here at Finley’s named Miracle.”
Emily was about to identify herself, but before she could, J. R. continued.
“I pride myself on knowing the name of every employee at the Thirty-fourth Street Finley’s. Including seasonal staff.” He narrowed his eyes. “Just a minute. I remember my son mentioning you earlier.”
“The name is Merkle,” Emily told him. “Emily Merkle.”
Finley shook his head. “Can’t say I’m familiar with that name, either.”
“If you check with HR, I’m sure—”
“You’re working with my son in the toy department, aren’t you?” he said abruptly.
Emily frowned. “Are you always this rude, or are you making an exception in my case?”
He blinked twice.
He was used to everyone kowtowing to him. Well, she wouldn’t do it.
“I beg your pardon?”
Emily met his look boldly. “I was saying something, young man.”
J. R.’s head reared back and he released a howl of laughter. “Young man? My dear woman, it’s been a long time since anyone referred to me as young.”
Compared to her, he was practically in diapers. “That’s beside the point.”
He seemed confused.
“As I was saying,” Emily continued politely, “if you care to check with HR, you’ll find that I was hired last week as seasonal help.”
“Only last week?” J. R. smiled at her. “That explains it, then.”
“It does, indeed.” She started down the hallway and was surprised when J. R. kept pace with her.
“You are working with my son, correct?”
“Yes. The toy department is extremely busy this time of year, as you well know.” She glanced pointedly at her watch, wanting him to realize she should be on the floor that very moment.
“My son made a huge error in judgment by ordering five hundred of those expensive robots.”
She was puzzled by his willingness to discuss business—and family—matters with a short-term employee. But she couldn’t let his comment go unchallenged. “You think so, do you?” she asked mildly.
He gave her a startled look, as if no one had dared question his opinion before. “I know so,” he insisted.
Emily was curious as to why he felt Jake was wrong and he was right. “Please tell me why you’re so convinced your son’s about to fail.” “Good grief, woman—”
“Call me Mrs. Miracle.”
“Fine, Mrs. Miracle. Do you realize exactly how many of these … Intellytromps he needs to sell by Christmas? That’s less than two weeks from now. It’ll never happen.”
“They’re Intellytrows.”
“Tromps, trons, whatever. They won’t sell. Mark my words. It would take