Glad Tidings: There's Something About Christmas / Here Comes Trouble. Debbie Macomber

When the wheels bounced against the tarmac, Emma was ready for the solid thump of the tires hitting concrete, but the landing was surprisingly smooth. She slowly released a sigh of pent-up tension; she’d lied about her weight and lived to tell the tale. Now all she had to do was make it through this interview and find something noteworthy about Earleen Williams and her fruitcake recipe.

      Oliver taxied the plane off the runway. He cut the engine and as the blades slowed, he unbuckled his seat belt and picked up his clipboard.

      Emma was just starting to breathe normally again when Oscar sneezed.

      “You might want to leave the perfume behind for the next flight,” Oliver said matter-of-factly.

      Emma wiped her cheek although most of the spray had been directed elsewhere. She resisted the urge to tell Oliver he could leave his dog behind, too. At this point, she didn’t want to risk offending the pilot—or his dog. And, she supposed, it wasn’t really Oscar’s fault….

      Crawling behind her, Oliver opened the door and climbed onto the airfield. Emma followed, bent double as she made her way out of the aircraft, feeling a sense of great relief. He offered her his hand as she hopped down. She was hit by a blast of cold air, which she ignored. Staring down at the ground, she was tempted to fall on all fours and kiss the tarmac.

      A white van bearing the name of a local furnace company pulled up to the plane. Oliver spoke briefly with the driver, then walked over to where Emma stood.

      “How long do you think the interview will take?”

      “Ah …” Emma didn’t know what to tell him. “I’m not sure.”

      He stared out toward the Cascade Mountains, only partially visible in the distance. “We’ve got bad weather rolling in.”

      “Bad weather? How bad?”

      “Don’t worry about it.”

      “I …” How could he say such a thing and then expect her not to worry? She was already half-panicked about the return flight and he’d just added to her fears.

      “Do what you have to do and then get back here. I want to take off as soon as I can.”

      “All right.” She glanced around and felt a sense of dread.

      “What’s wrong?”

      “I …I don’t have any way of getting to Earleen’s house.”

      “Not a problem,” Hamilton said, walking to the other side of the plane.

      Emma assumed he was going to ask the guy in the van to give her a ride, but that turned out not to be the case. He climbed back inside the Cessna and returned a moment later with a large leather satchel.

      “What’s that?”

      “A foldable bike.”

      Emma watched as he unzipped the bag and produced the smallest bicycle she’d ever seen. “You don’t honestly expect me to ride this … thing, do you?” The wheels were no more than twelve inches around. She’d look utterly ridiculous. Nervous as she was about this first interview, she hoped to make up in professionalism what she lacked in experience.

      “What’s wrong?” he asked, frowning.

      “I’ll phone for a taxi.” It went without saying that the newspaper wouldn’t reimburse her, but she absolutely refused to arrive pedaling a bicycle Oliver Hamilton must have purchased from a Barnum and Bailey rummage sale.

      “Hold on,” Oliver barked, clearly upset. He walked over to the van this time and spoke to the driver. The two had a short conversation before Oliver glanced over his shoulder. “What’s the address you have to get to?” he shouted.

      Fumbling to find the slip of paper inside her briefcase, Emma read off the street name.

      “She can tag along with me,” the driver said.

      “Great.” Oliver flashed the other man an easy smile.

      “Thank you so much,” Emma murmured, grateful to have saved the taxi fare. She hurried around to the passenger side and opened the door. One look inside, and Emma nearly changed her mind. The van, which must’ve been at least ten years old, had obviously never been cleaned. The passenger seat was badly stained and littered with leftover fast-food containers, plus half-eaten burgers and rock-hard French fries. A clipboard was attached by a magnet to the dashboard and several papers had fallen to the floor.

      “You getting in or not?” the driver asked.

      “In.” Emma made her decision quickly and hopped inside the van. She could just imagine what Walt would say if she announced that she’d missed the interview because she refused to get inside a messy vehicle.

      Earleen Williams lived on a street called Garden Park in a brick duplex. The van dropped Emma off and drove away before she had time to thank the driver. He was apparently glad to be rid of her and she was equally thankful to have survived the ride. She’d worry later about getting back to the airfield.

      Straightening her shoulders, Emma did a quick mental survey of her questions. She’d reviewed her class notes about interviews and remembered that the most important thing to do was engage Earleen in conversation and establish a rapport. It would be detrimental to the interview if Emma gave even the slightest appearance of nervousness.

      Emma so much wanted this to go well. She didn’t have a slant for the story yet and wouldn’t until she’d met Earleen. If she tried to think about what she could possibly write on the subject of fruitcake, it would only traumatize her.

      Knowing Oliver was probably pacing the pilots’ lounge, Emma walked onto the porch and pressed the doorbell. She stepped back and waited.

      “Oh, hi.” The petite brunette who answered the door couldn’t have been more than five feet tall, if that, and seemed to be around sixty. It was difficult to tell. One thing Emma did conclude—Earleen wasn’t at all what she’d expected. She wore a turquoise blazer and black pleated pants with a large gold belt and rings on every finger. Big rings.

      “You’re Earleen?”

      “I am.” She unlatched the screen door and held it open for Emma. “You must be that Seattle reporter who phoned.”

      “Emma Collins,” she said and held out her hand. “Actually, I’m from Puyallup, which is outside Seattle.” There was a difference of at least a quarter-million readers between the Seattle Times and The Examiner—maybe more. The Seattle Times hadn’t sent her a circulation report lately.

      “Come on inside. I’ve got coffee brewing,” Earleen said, smiling self-consciously. “This is the first time anyone’s ever wanted to interview me.”

      They had a lot in common, because this was Emma’s first interview, too, although she wasn’t about to mention that.

      Earleen looked past her. “You didn’t bring a photographer with you?”

      Actually she had. Emma would be performing both roles. “If it’s all right, I’ll take your picture later.”

      “Oh, sure, that’s fine.” Earleen touched the side of her head with her palm as if to be sure every hair was neatly in place, which it was. She smelled wonderful, too. Estée Lauder’s Beautiful, if Emma guessed correctly. Just as well Oscar wasn’t around or he’d be sneezing on her pant leg.

      “I thought we’d talk in the kitchen, if you don’t mind,” Earleen said as she led the way. “Most folks like my kitchen best.”

      “Wherever you’re most comfortable,” Emma murmured, following the older woman. She gazed around as she walked through the house and noticed a small collection of owl figurines lined up on the fireplace mantel, among the boughs of greenery. The Christmas tree in the corner was enormous, and it had an owl—yes, an owl—on top.

      The