Page 8

“I appreciate that,” Imogen said warmly. “Are you visiting Fir Tree Grove for the holidays?”

“In a manner of speaking,” the woman said. She extended her hand. “I’m Layla Thompson. I’m a writer for The Portland Chronicle. I’m here to do a feature article on Fir Tree Grove’s Christmas celebrations and local businesses.”

Imogen’s eyes widened, and she shook Layla’s hand enthusiastically, her queasiness momentarily forgotten in a rush of excitement. “The Portland Chronicle? That’s wonderful! We actually had a feature done about the shop a couple years ago in Sweet Tooth magazine. The exposure was incredible. It really helped build the business.”

She still vividly recalled how excited and nervous she’d been for that interview and feature, how carefully she’d prepared samples of her best work. How special it still was that she’d used inspiration from Lincoln’s rink decorations to build the chocolate display that had wowed the interviewer they’d sent. And when the feature had come out, so beautifully photographed and written, it had drawn visitors from all over Maine. The boost in business had been substantial, and she’d even opened a small online store, sending out orders to customers and businesses from out of town since then.

“That’s great to hear,” Layla said, pulling a small notebook from her bag. “I’d love to feature your shop in the article. It seems like exactly the kind of local business that makes Fir Tree Grove special.”

“I’d be honored,” Imogen said, and gestured to the display case. “Would you like to try something? I have some special holiday flavors right now. There’s praline maple syrup fudge, cinnamon peppermint fudge, or eggnog pumpkin fudge. All made fresh this morning.”

Layla glanced at the display case, and chuckled, an uncertain look on her face. She offered a small, apologetic smile. “They sound a bit too adventurous for me, but thank you. I’ll pass.” She paused, then added, almost as if she felt she needed to explain, “I’m not really much into all of the sugar-coated fluff of the season.”

Imogen felt herself blink, caught off guard by the comment. It wasn’t unkind exactly—Layla’s tone had been matter-of-fact rather than dismissive—but there was something about it that felt… off. Here was someone who’d come to Fir Tree Grove specifically to write about its Christmas celebrations, and yet she seemed almost disdainful of the very things that made the season special in the town. Imogen fought back a frown. Why would she come to the town if she disliked the seasonal “fluff,” as she called it, so much? Maybe it was just a job, but Imogen wondered if she really wanted her shop featured in the article after all, if the writer was so offput by it.

Or maybe she was reading too much into it, she told herself. Maybe Layla simply wasn’t a sweets person. That was fair enough. Not everyone had to love chocolate and fudge and all the indulgent treats that Imogen spent her days creating.

Still, there was something about the woman’s demeanor—professional and polite, but still keeping herself slightly apart—that suggested she wasn’t particularly interested in soaking in the Christmas joy that people came to Fir Tree Grove to experience. She definitely didn’t look as if she’d asked to take on the article.

“Of course,” Imogen said, keeping her voice warm. “Just let me know if you change your mind. Or if you want to try anything else—we have plenty of samples. If there’s anything I can do to help with your feature, just let me know. I’d be happy to help. I can tell you more about the shop or the town, places to visit, whatever you need.”

“I appreciate that,” Layla said, and she did seem genuine, Imogen thought, if still reserved. She glanced around the shop, taking in the decorations and the carefully arranged products, scanning the displays. Imogen watched as she took out a notepad and jotted down a few things as she walked around, then snapped a picture or two, her expression faraway.

“How long have you owned the shop?” Layla asked, glancing back at Imogen.

“Eight years,” Imogen answered. “I started it when my daughter was three. I’ve always loved making chocolate, experimenting with flavors and such. I wanted to own a candy shop since I was a kid.”

Layla nodded, writing quickly. “And business is good during the holidays?”

“Very good. Christmas is our busiest season. People come from all over to visit Fir Tree Grove during December, and chocolate makes a great gift.” Imogen warmed to her subject, momentarily forgetting her earlier discomfort. “I try to create flavors that are unique but still appealing to a lot of people, that capture the essence of the season without being too⁠—”

She’d been about to say “gimmicky,” but stopped herself, suddenly worried it might sound like a criticism of Layla’s earlier comment about sugar-coated fluff.

“Too what?” Layla prompted, looking up from her notebook.

“Too expected,” Imogen finished. “I want people to be surprised and happy that they gave my flavors a try.”

“That makes sense,” Layla said. She glanced around once more, then tucked her notebook back into her bag. “Thank you for your time, Ms.… ?”

“Mrs. Blackwell. Imogen Blackwell. But please, call me Imogen.” She managed another smile.

“Imogen,” Layla repeated with a nod. “Thank you. I’ll be in touch if I need any additional information for the article.”

“Anytime,” Imogen said, with a slight wave as she saw Layla preparing to leave.

Layla offered a polite smile in return, adjusted the strap of her camera, and headed for the door. The bell chimed as she left, and through the window, Imogen watched her pause on the sidewalk, look up and down Main Street, then pull out her phone and type something before walking away.

Imogen stood there for a moment, wondering about the woman. There was something almost sad about her, beneath that professional exterior. Or maybe not sad—maybe just… disconnected. Like she was going through the motions of experiencing Fir Tree Grove without actually allowing herself to experience it.

But that was none of her business, Imogen told herself. Layla Thompson would write her article, capture the charm of the town in whatever way she saw fit, and then return to Portland. Just another visitor passing through.

Imogen’s gaze drifted back to the to-go bag beneath the register, and her stomach reminded her that it was still unhappy. The smell of the cheeseburger had permeated the paper bag, and even from several feet away, it made her feel worse.

Maybe focusing on work would help her feel better. Physical activity, staying busy, keeping her mind occupied. That usually worked when she was feeling under the weather.

She headed to the back room where she had plenty of supplies to unpack, ignoring the cheeseburger where it still waited by the register.

There was enough to do to keep her busy until well past closing, even if no more customers came in—which was unlikely to be the case. So, upset stomach or not, Imogen told herself, she better get to it.