Cinnamon Toasted by Gail Oust Page B

been invited, I added silently. “How was your trip?”
    “Fabulous, just fabulous.” Sandy’s green eyes sparkled at the memory. “Eightcountries on five continents. We were so exhausted, we stayed in London a couple extra weeks to catch our breath.”
    “Sounds wonderful.”
    “I’d love to tell you all about it, but I don’t have time. You’ve probably heard from Reba Mae that I’m directing Steel Magnolias at the opera house. It’s scheduled to kick off the winter theater season. I’m on my way to a meeting with the set designer, but Iwanted to stop by for a few items first.” She dug through a designer tote and produced a shopping list. “I need saffron, a gram ought to do it—I prefer coupe,” she added. “Vanilla—beans, not extract—and cardamom. Seeds, no shells.”
    “No problem.” Humming to myself, I plucked the requested spices from the shelves. Any sale of saffron always lightened my mood.
    Sandy handed me her American Expresscard. “I know saffron is horrendously expensive, but a little goes a long way.”
    Still humming, I rang up the items and bagged them. “Here you go.”
    “Thanks,” she said. “But before I run off, I wanted to extend a personal invitation to a party Craig and I are throwing next Saturday—an Oktoberfest. I’m asking all my guests to bring a German dessert or side dish to share.”
    At last, the long-awaitedinvite. “Can’t wait. I’ll be there,” I said, but she was already out the door. Apparently, all was forgiven. My thoughtless remark about her extensive travel was now water under the bridge.
    I resumed dusting the shelves, my mind now on food. What should I take? Potato dumplings with a sprinkle of grated nutmeg? Or apple strudel with a generous teaspoon of Vietnamese cinnamon? Maybe lebkuchen,a German spice cookie. Oh, how I wished all my problems were this simple.
    *   *   *
    Doug was prompt as usual, dressed casually in jeans, a long-sleeved rugby shirt, and a sweater draped across his shoulders in readiness for later, when the temperature dipped. I’d dressed even more casually than Doug, in jeans and a sweatshirt in red and gold, the team colors.
    “Hey”—he grinned—“no one can sayyou don’t have school spirit.”
    “Is this too much? Does the sweatshirt clash with my hair?”
    He tugged a curl and pulled me in for a kiss so warm and sweet, it made my toes curl. A noise from the floor above startled us apart. “Your houseguest, I presume.”
    “’Fraid so,” I said. “I offered to fix Melly dinner, but she said she’d make something later.”
    Doug placed a hand at my waist and steeredme toward the door. “Any idea how long she’ll be staying?”
    “I’m not sure.” I had a sinking feeling that Melly’s house would remain off-limits for some time. I turned my key in the lock. “It could be awhile.”
    “Why’s that?”
    “You know what a stickler McBride is for detail.” For some odd reason, I felt reluctant to discuss the ME’s preliminary findings with Doug. After all, “preliminary” meantjust that—preliminary. It might amount to nothing. Nothing at all. Melly was entitled to the benefit of the doubt. When did I turn into such a Pollyanna?
    “No telling when the painters will finish at CJ’s,” I said. “Amber insists on having the entire house redone. She consulted an interior designer at some fancy furniture store in Augusta, who told her the current color scheme is all wrong. And,”I added, “I think Melly’s leery of broaching the subject of her return home with McBride.”
    Doug held open the door of his SUV. “If she has nothing to hide, she has no reason to worry.”
    I slid inside the car. It sounded simple enough—provided Melly had nothing to hide. But what if she did?
    Doug climbed into the driver’s side, and we headed in the direction of High Cotton. As Doug talked abouteveryday things, my thoughts wandered. Melly had admitted Chip’s visit was for more than milk and gingersnaps.