A Town Called Valentine(11)

The house remained quiet as, from memory, she began to assemble muffins and banana bread on the spacious granite countertops, then started a pot of coffee while they baked.

With twenty minutes to spare, she stepped outside onto the porch, rubbing her arms at the brisk chill, then catching her breath in wonder. The mountains loomed above her, so high and magnificent and close that they didn’t seem real. Snow dusted the peaks even as spring had brought out the green below the tree line. During the drive up, she’d gaped up at the towering peaks and narrow canyons, finding it difficult to concentrate on her driving. But now she was in a wide valley between two mountain ranges, carved out over time by the Roaring Fork River, according to her map. The Silver Creek in Valentine joined with the river down valley. She could see farm fields with high stalks of some kind of grain stretching off into the distance, and a glimpse of what might be a red-roofed ranch house, but no cows.

Emily let the beautiful scene bring her a moment’s peace, then went back inside, knowing she had a long day ahead of her. To her shock, the baking was a disaster. She should have realized something was wrong when the batter seemed too thick. The muffins were flattened when she pulled them out of the oven, and the bread was still batter at the bottom of the pan, though the top seemed done.

She was glaring at her creations when she heard someone enter the room. She turned about, and to her relief, it wasn’t Nate but three elderly ladies, one leaning on a walker, another clapping her hands together with excitement, the third holding Nate’s note.

“Good morning!” said the cheerful one with the note. “I’m Grandma Thalberg. You must be Emily.”

Emily smiled cautiously. “How nice to meet you.”

Mrs. Thalberg had the reddest shade of curly hair Emily had ever seen. She wore a battery of makeup, though skillfully applied, and a colorful housecoat and slippers. She introduced her companions. Mrs. Ludlow, the trim, white-haired lady leaning on her walker, was already dressed for the day in slacks and a bright blue blouse. Mrs. Palmer, plump and vibrant in a paisley dress, pearls, and what must be a blond wig, nodded at Emily and began to wash dishes.

“Oh no!” Emily said quickly. “Breakfast is my way of thanking you for allowing me to spend the night. You mustn’t clean up. Not that I’ve made much of a treat . . .” She trailed off, embarrassed.

Mrs. Thalberg glanced at Emily’s failed muffins and banana bread. “Oh dear, let me guess—you’ve never baked at altitude before.”

Emily smacked her forehead. “I never thought of that! I’ve seen it mentioned on boxed mixes, but I never cook with those.”

“They’ll still taste lovely,” Mrs. Ludlow said kindly.

“Not the banana bread. It’s practically batter at the bottom.”

Mrs. Palmer broke out the aluminum foil. “We’ll cover it and cook it a bit longer. Next time, use a tube pan. We swear by it!”

Emily stared around her as the ladies—widows all? she wondered—began to bring out china and silverware. She didn’t know where anything was, so she brought out the milk and butter.

Then they sat down at the table in the sunny corner of the kitchen and looked at her expectantly. Emily sank down opposite them. They exclaimed over her flattened muffins until at last Emily tried one. They weren’t horrible, but she was known for her baking talents, and this was just upsetting.

Mrs. Thalberg gave a kindly smile. “I’d love to give you the little baking tips we mountain dwellers have learned from childhood.”

“That’s so kind of you, Mrs. Thalberg, but I won’t be in town very long.”

Mrs. Ludlow elegantly patted her lips with a cloth napkin. “Where are you in such a hurry to return?”

“San Francisco, ma’am. I was born and raised there, and I’m going back to college this fall.”

“Good for you. Nate says your mother was born in Valentine Valley.” Mrs. Thalberg shook her head even as she clucked her tongue. “But he didn’t say her name, the silly boy. Yours is Murphy, but that’s not familiar to me.”

“I’m divorced,” Emily said, trying not to feel humiliation, her constant companion these last six months before she’d realized her future could only begin with her. “My mother’s maiden name was Riley.”

Mrs. Palmer, who kept straightening things on the table as if she couldn’t sit still, now froze. “Agatha Riley was your grandmother?”

Mrs. Thalberg gasped, and Mrs. Ludlow put a hand to her heart.