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That Place Called Home

By D.L. Lane

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Chapter One
Mason Miller was a talented man in many ways—athletic, well-read, good with money, socially adept, gifted in the kitchen when it came to his business, proficient with technology, excellent organizational skills, and at one point in his life people said he had a brilliant legal mind. But no one had ever called him a talent when it came to décor.
Ever.
Humming to himself, he strived for contentment. But, upbeat tune aside, he didn’t enjoy the job of creating window displays. Regardless, though, he’d made up his mind to get one of his many projects done and marked off his list before he closed his shop for the night. So, with the last strand of blinking lights in place, Mason backed up, his lambswool-covered shoulder blades pressed against the glass, and tilted his head. I’d get a better view from outside. His cell phone pinged, interrupting the idea of hopping down from the platform and heading out to properly inspect the scene he’d made.
Dropping his gaze, Mason pulled his phone out of his shirt pocket, glanced at an e-mail notification for an order, and promptly tapped the screen to view the details.
2-boxes-16ct-item #148-chocolate sea salt caramels
1-box-12ct-item #123-peanut butter chocolate biscotti logs
1-box-32ct-item #108-assorted gourmet chocolates
It had only been six months since he opened his Choc-Oh! Cottage and, small-town or not, in-store sales were steadily increasing by the day. The coffee bar he’d installed seemed to be a big hit too, although what continued to look as if it were to become the real money maker was his online store. Since the day he’d started the web-based portion of his business, Mason had been shipping boxes of handmade artisan chocolate across the U.S.
Quickly, he scrolled down to see the shipping address on the order—New York. The city that never sleeps.
Part of him was happy he’d left that particular rat-race behind; nonetheless, he admitted, he’d swapped one busy lifestyle for another. Being the owner and head chocolatier of the COC wasn’t easy, and sometimes he didn’t know if he was coming or going in his attempt to make a success of his new venture. However, Mason was finally taking a hobby he’d learned from his grandmother and making something of it, using her old recipes and some of his own, so he supposed the long hours he put in was worth it.
“Goodnight, Mr. Miller,” Kasey said, interrupting his reverie. “I cleaned the espresso station and coffee bar and closed out the till. The cash bag and the register tape are in your office, so I’m going to clock out.”
Without really looking at her, a slight grin escaped his too stoic face. “All right. Goodnight. And thanks.”
Mason marked the notification on his phone for a reminder. He’d fill and ship the order first thing in the morning.
Taking a few steps forward, he jumped off the display stage. The holiday window exhibit was good enough. Besides, he still had a work schedule to complete for next week, and since he pretty much lived at the store, rarely making the trek to the bank during regular working hours, he needed to get a deposit ready. He’d drop the bank bag into the night box on his way to the too-big home he’d, for lack of a better word, inherited.
Resigned to burning the midnight oil, he strolled to the back of the shop, slipped the phone into the pocket he’d tugged it from, and looked up to see Kasey grab her timecard from the drab steel-gray holder on the wall.
“Oh, yeah,” she said, drawing his attention to her again as her fuchsia nails tapped against the card. “Those little sampler boxes with the gold COC insignia we’ve been using? They’re getting low.”
Shoving his fingers through the short stubble of his freshly cut hair, he said, “I placed an order for more yesterday, but thank you for taking the initiative and letting me know.”
“No probs.” She stamped her card and placed it back into the slot. “One more thing.”
“Okay.”
“I need to leave early Thursday, so I asked Penny if she could come in to cover for me, and she said she could.”
“That’s fine.”
“All right. Thanks. See ya tomorrow.”
“See you then,” he said. “Oh, and it’s starting to snow, so be careful driving home, Kasey.”
She put her bright cranberry-colored coat on. “I will, Mr. Miller.”
Once Kasey gathered the rest of her things—purse, iPod, and winter gloves she never wore—Mason went to the front door and locked up behind her, keeping watch through the glass storefront for a moment to make sure she was safely inside her car. Cedar Point wasn’t a crime Mecca, but he felt somewhat protective of her. Silly though it might be, he still saw that little dark-haired girl who used to live next door, running through the sprinklers on his parents’ front lawn in the summer, not the young woman she’d grown into.
Feeling tired and old, Mason scrubbed a palm down his face, mumbling, “You’re only thirty-eight,” attempting to reason away the mindset of being ancient, then glanced back out the window.
As soon as the rusted clunker Kasey drove chugged away, he unplugged the neon open sign and left his spectator’s spot, ready to finish up his nightly chores.
****
Breckin sat inside her compact car, watching the snowflakes fall. They hit the windshield in white lacy perfection before dying a tragic death, dissolving against the warm glass. Once transformed into a liquid, the multiple winding streaks distorted the view. Idyllic Main Street, with its Victorian storefronts, had turned into a blur, and the Christmas lights adorning the poles of the streetlamps became an abstract version of a festive watercolor.
Peeking at her pale reflection within the rearview mirror, she tugged the collar of her wool coat up as a surreal feeling overtook her. She’d left town in a hurry, disappointed by the one person in the world who she’d thought she could always rely on. But shoving her pain aside, Breckin refused to be heartbroken. Though her refusal didn’t seem to matter, even though she focused on other things, like how she’d always wanted to travel—become a chef. And when she had pictured her future, it was bright and shining. No way was she going to be stuck in tiny Cedar Point like her mother, becoming just another overworked Mom and ever-present member of the PTA. Nope. Breckin made up her mind after the scare during her senior year—she would never settle for the mundane, which in her mind meant no white picket fences for her. Back then, visions of becoming the next Julia Child, hosting a cooking show with book deals, danced in her head.
Following her dazzling dream, Breckin flew to France, enrolled in one of the most prestigious culinary academies Paris had to offer, and walked the straight and narrow path toward her imaginings. Until she met Daniel Arquette—a brilliant chef and part-time teacher at the culinary academy. He’d been handsome, charming, and witty. And since she was nursing a broken heart, she’d been too easy to seduce; or perhaps it was just time to expand her narrow relationship horizons. Either way, it wasn’t long until word leaked about the two of them fraternizing. Of course, he was asked to resign his position at the academy, and she was promptly dismissed.
Distraught, she then thought about returning home with her tail tucked between her legs, but Daniel convinced her that being booted out of the snooty school wasn’t the end of the world, and whisked her away to his beautiful Paris apartment. Two weeks later, she was working alongside him as a pastry chef. Two years later, what started as a crush on an older, exciting, world-wise man, had turned into something real.
They were married in a small picturesque chapel nestled in the French countryside the day before she turned twenty.
With a weary sigh, Breckin realized how, somewhere along the way, she’d allowed her skewed priorities to shift, and a picket fence no longer seemed so wrong. She’d thought to spend her life with Daniel, envisioning both of them side-by-side, growing gray together. It didn’t matter she wouldn’t become a famous chef, because she would have been doing what she loved—baking and cooking with her husband in the restaurant they opened together with funds he’d borrowed from his father. And she didn’t even mind he was the one in the spotlight with lucrative book deals, because it had been a huge boon for their business. Everyone from Hollywood stars to dignitaries had dined at their place, including the Prime Minister, more than once.
There wasn’t any doubt, Daniel’s career had turned white-hot, and she’d been there along for the ride, but she was fine holding onto his coattails. Though, when it came to their personal life, everything hadn’t been perfect. However, as far as she was concerned, they’d been pretty good, even if someone else often entered her mind. When that happened, Breckin would shove those memories away and focus on her present, enjoying her life, especially when La Eatery Arquette received their first coveted Michelin Star, and there was talk about opening a second restaurant. But after a devastating loss, things changed. Or maybe all their problems happened before then, and she didn’t admit to them until it was too late.
“Don’t think about it,” she whispered to the woman in the rearview mirror.
No longer wishing to see the sadness etched into her face, she looked away from the shattered creature staring back at her and returned her green gaze to the windshield. It didn’t look as though the snow would be stopping any time soon, and she needed to get on with things before the weather took a nasty turn for the worse.
Reaching, she turned off the heater, then the ignition, and attempted to keep her mind on the task at hand—grabbing a few gifts for her sister’s upcoming Christmas bash and gift exchange. Apparently Danica, and her surgeon husband Marcus, threw one heck of an event every year, and it was all the rage among their snobbish professional crowd. While there wasn’t any denying Breckin wasn’t in the party mood, if she didn’t go—and didn’t show up bearing gifts—she’d be reminded yet again what a horrible older sister she was.
Reconciled to enduring the upcoming festivities, she grabbed her bag from the passenger’s seat and stepped out of her Kia Soul, a shiver racking her frame.
It was colder than she remembered the winters to be in the Pacific Northwest, but she bucked up and hopped over a slushy puddle, blinking to keep the drifting flakes from sticking to her lashes, and made her way to the book store.
The storefront sparkled with little multi-colored twinkle lights and sported faux frosted glass. She grinned. With the current developments in the weather, the frost on the glass would soon be real.
As she opened the door, jingle bells greeted her.
Wiping her cheeks, Breckin stepped into the place she’d considered her second home in her youth, taking in the smell of brewing coffee as she glanced around. Even though years had passed, nothing much looked different.
“Breckin Lorry? Is that you, dear?”
While she was using her maiden name again, it was still sort of a shock to her system to hear it, but, like it or not, Breckin Arquette no longer existed.
Trying not to look forlorn, she turned to see Bea Clark pluck the glasses nested in the gray curls of her hair free, placing them on her apple-doll face. “Hi, Bea. Yes, it’s me.”
“I heard you were back.”
Her eyes widened. “I’ve only been here for twenty-four hours!”
Bea rounded the register. “Small town. Word travels fast; you know that.”
Sure does. She bit her tongue, giving her full attention to the woman who waddled over, wearing a long red and white skirt with a bright red sweater that had a fuzzy white collar. The bejeweled candy-cane pin she’d tucked into the fake fur sparkled beneath the florescent lighting, reminding Breckin of the picture-perfect Mrs. Claus.
“You’re looking good, Bea.”
“Psft…” She waved her speckled hand. “I don’t know about that. I’ve got a bit grayer and a whole lot plumper since I saw you last.” Her one-time employer hugged her tightly before releasing her. “I’m so sorry to hear about all that nasty business with your divorce.”
It was glaringly obvious the cat was out of the bag, so Breckin knew Mother had spilled to her bridge buddies. Heck, for that matter, the particulars had probably made the rounds on the phone tree.
I wonder if their gossip line has gone cellular now. Letting the thought drop, she held the polite smile she’d put on, forcing herself to relax her stiff shoulders. What was done was done; nothing to do about it. After all, in the scheme of life, she supposed there were worse things other than the whole town knowing about the epic failures that forced her to move back home; however, what exactly could be worse eluded her at the moment.
“Thank you for the condolences,” she said, remembering her manners.
“Of course, dear.” Bea patted her arm. “Now, tell me. What brings you in on such a snowy evening?”
 

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