Love Finds You in North Pole, Alaska (3 page)

“If anybody answers it, will you do the interviews?”

Olive harrumphed. “ ‘If,’ the biggest little word in the English language.”

As Bryce headed for the back room, he envisioned the first line of the ad: W
ANTED:
P
ART
-T
IME
M
ANAGER
.
Just don’t send me a
woman,
Lord
, he prayed, because of all the things Bryce didn’t need right now, yet another heartache topped the list.

Squinting, Sam adjusted the visor to cut the sun’s glare. If only her rowdy brothers could see her now, steering a twenty-five-foot RV down a major highway with the skill of a professional semi driver.

They’d given her a hard time on Easter Sunday, when the family had gathered at her parents’ house for dinner. Scott, the eldest, had dropped his fork when she announced her plans.

“Are you crazy?” he’d asked. Then right on down the table it went, with Seth, Shane, Steve, Spence, and Stu nodding like a row of bobble-heads. Only her youngest brother—named Bill when her mom had run out of S names—had given Sam a thumbs-up.

“Dad,” Scott had implored, “talk some sense into her!”

“Don’t look at me,” the family patriarch had said. “She’s more stubborn than your mother. When she makes up her mind to do something…”

Sam had read all about the candy-cane-striped lampposts and fire hydrants that decorated North Pole, but seeing them in person as she rolled into town nearly took her breath away. An excited giggle escaped her throat as she slowed to gaze at the gigantic Santa statue. In Sam’s mind, this was the perfect place to settle down.

From the day in second grade art class when she’d created her very first Nativity card, Sam had always felt an intense passion for Christmas. It had been Sam who’d roused the Sinclair family’s holiday spirit every year by decorating the house. She’d have started the day school began in August, if her mom would have allowed it, but she curbed her enthusiasm by beginning on Thanksgiving night. By the time she’d turned twelve, her dad had put the brakes on the ornaments and garlands Sam bought with her babysitting money.

“You’ve filled every nook and cranny in the house with doodads and knickknacks,” he’d told her. “If this keeps up, we’ll become known as ‘That Crazy Christmas Family’!”

When she got a place of her own, Sam quickly filled the basement of her townhouse with snowflake-decorated boxes of Christmas adornments. Selling them to make the move to Alaska had been one of the hardest things she’d ever done.

The whole mess surrounding her move faded from memory as she drank in the sights. She’d have more than enough time to muse about it once she settled in at her new job.

Thoughts of running her own kitchen energized her despite the dozen hours she’d spent behind the wheel. She had worked long and hard, earning her bachelor’s degree in culinary arts, and growing up the only girl among seven siblings had helped her develop traits her classmates envied, such as leadership skills and a natural ability to make and maintain peace.

Two years as the assistant chef at a popular Baltimore eatery whetted her appetite for bigger, better things, and after much thought and prayer, Sam began a serious search for a kitchen of her own. When she found nothing in the area to suit her background or her dreams, she paid a visit to church and fired a heartfelt plea heavenward, asking God to lead her to the place and the work He thought best fit His plans for her life.

As it turned out, the Lord made His will known in the dentist’s office, as Sam watched a home and garden show on the fuzzy screen of the TV affixed to the reception room’s ceiling. When the program featured an annual ice sculpture festival in North Pole, Alaska, it was all she could do to tear her eyes from the glittering pictures when the hygienist called her name. Then, while waiting for the doctor to give his final approval to her newly shined molars and bicuspids, Sam paged through a travel magazine and nearly squealed out loud when colorful photos of the town leapt from its center pages.

Sam couldn’t wait to get home and type “North Pole, Alaska” into her computer’s search engine. Item after item popped up, each making her more certain that God wanted her there. She didn’t question
why
the Lord would invite a girl who’d never been a fan of cold weather to a place like this. But if He wanted her in North Pole, then her new motto would be “Alaska, here I come!”

And now, as she turned off the motor, the excitement that had been building during the long trip to her new home threatened to flag her as a wet-behind-the-ears youngster—the last image Sam wanted to project when meeting her boss for the first time! So she darted into the back end of the RV for a quick change of clothes and some fresh makeup, praying the entire time that Mr. Edmunds would recognize, as they talked, that she only
looked
younger than her twenty-six years. Grinning as she fluffed her curls, Sam told her reflection, “Doesn’t matter what he thinks
today
, because tomorrow—and every day after that—you’ll show him what you’re capable of!”

Donning a beige suede blazer, Sam grabbed her purse and headed for the lobby, whistling “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah” as she marched up to the counter. She was greeted by a freckle-faced young man who matched her smile, tooth for tooth. “Do you have a reservation, miss?”

“No, but I do have an appointment with Mr. Edmunds.” She glanced at her watch. “Ten o’clock.” And she was right on time.

As the boy left to announce her arrival, Sam gave the lobby a quick once-over. From where she stood, she could see the sandwich board inviting hotel guests, tourists, and North Pole residents into the Silver Bells Restaurant. No doubt Mr. Edmunds would give her a tour of the kitchen, to ensure that tomorrow, she’d be familiar with—

“Miss Sinclair, I presume?”

Sam spun around and met the bespectacled eyes of a tall, gray-haired gentleman. “And you must be Mr. Edmunds,” she said, extending a hand.

After giving it a hearty shake, he invited her to sit in one of the wingback chairs near the huge stone fireplace. “Can I get you something to drink while we talk? Coffee? Tea? Hot chocolate?”

“No, I’m fine, thanks.” Sam would much rather just get down to business, so that when she called her family later, there’d be plenty of good news to report.

“I don’t quite know how to tell you this,” Edmunds said as she took a seat. “There seems to have been a terrible misunderstanding.” He rubbed his chin then adjusted his eyeglasses. And on the heels of a heavy sigh, he said, “I’m afraid the chef’s position has been filled.”

Sam’s heart pounded. Surely he was mistaken. Or maybe she’d misunderstood. Or
he’d
misunderstood. Sam opened her purse and withdrew the letter he’d sent weeks ago to accompany their employment contract. Why, he’d even gone to the trouble of writing out directions to help her get from the Alaska border to North Pole!

He nodded sheepishly at the document in her trembling hands. “I…I’m terribly sorry, Miss Sinclair, but it seems my authority as manager here has been, shall we say,
usurped
.” A stern frown sketched a furrow between his eyebrows. “Dan Brooks, the hotel’s owner, gave the job to his nephew.”

“B–but…but I’ve come all the way from
Maryland
for this job!” She tapped the letter. “We…we have an agreement!”

Edmunds leaned forward, as if that alone could make up for what he was about to say. “No one feels worse about that than I do.”

“I can think of one person who’s sorrier,” she muttered. Then brightening, Sam sat up straighter. “Surely if we remind Mr. Brooks that you wrote this letter as his representative…”

Again, Edmunds’ pained expression silenced her. So Sam shook the letter. “I can’t believe a successful businessman such as Mr. Brooks would think his nepotism outranks a written commitment. I’m all for people helping family members, but…”

The expression on Edmunds’ face silenced her and told Sam what words needn’t: “Dan Brooks is a powerful and stubborn man. Once he’s made up his mind…” A one-shouldered shrug punctuated his statement.

Ordinarily, Sam was calm and even-tempered. Everybody said so. But these were hardly ordinary circumstances. “I considered this a binding contract, Mr. Edmunds. I took you at your written word, sold my townhouse—and everything in it—gave up my car, spent weeks on the road making my way here in time for this meeting.” Suddenly, she was on her feet, pacing the plush carpeting between her chair and his. “This is highly unprofessional and…and dishonest!” she steamed. “And if you don’t mind my saying so, it’s downright
mean
, to boot!”

“You’ll get no argument from me, Miss Sinclair. Jobs here are hard to come by. Still, I hope you’ll understand when I say my hands are tied.”

For a reason she couldn’t explain, the adage “You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar” popped into Sam’s head, followed quickly by “Never burn your bridges.” Maybe God was trying to tell her that, somewhere down the road, Mr. Edmunds—or even Mr. Brooks—could help her secure other employment in North Pole. And she would do her level best to get a job here and make things work out. Because the idea of calling her parents and brothers, telling them she’d fallen flat on her face,
on the very day she arrived
…

Sam shivered involuntarily at the thought and squared her shoulders. “Mr. Edmunds, do you see that RV in the parking lot?”

He followed her gaze then nodded.

“That’ll have to be my home until I can find another job.”
Flies and honey
, she reminded herself, and sweetened her tone. “So, is it all right if I run an extension cord to an exterior outlet, just until I get on my feet?”

On his own feet now, he grabbed her hands. “So, you intend to stay in North Pole?”

Lifting her chin, Sam crossed her arms over her chest. “Yes, sir. I most certainly do.”

He drove a hand through his hair. “Well then, of
course
it’s all right! Anything I can do to make you more comfortable, just say the word.”

She considered asking him if he knew a good lawyer in town but shot him a half grin instead. “Maybe you can vouch for me if I need a personal reference.”

“But of
course
I will!” He turned her hands loose as the freckle-faced kid signaled to him. Reaching into his suit coat pocket, Edmunds withdrew a dinner coupon and scribbled something on the back. “This will entitle you to free meals for as long as you need them.” Pressing it into her hand, he added, “And if anyone in the restaurant questions you, send them to
me
.”

Oh, right
, Sam thought,
send them to the guy with no power
. Besides, why would she want to eat in the place where the new chef was eighteen, if that? “Thanks,” she said as the threat of tears prickled behind her eyelids. Before they could spill down her cheeks, she headed for the door, wondering how in the world she could have misread God’s signals so badly.

“Miss Sinclair,” called Edmunds, “wait, please…”

She held her breath and willed the tears to subside as he caught up with her.

The hotel manager handed her a copy of
The North Pole Daily Star
. “Perhaps you’ll find something to your liking in the want ads.”

Sam murmured a less than enthusiastic “Thanks” and tucked it under her arm before shoving through the big glass doors.
Please, Lord
, she prayed,
just let me make it to the RV before the waterworks start.

Bryce paced the well-worn hardwood floor at Rudolph’s, hoping a qualified assistant would soon materialize. Because if he had to spend one more ten-hour day cooped up in this cramped, cluttered gift shop, frustration might just drive him out the door, where he’d bellow like a wounded bull moose. And in a town like North Pole, that just might invite trouble…of the four-hoofed kind.

He’d placed the want ad in the paper just as Olive had suggested. So far, his poor aunt had suffered through four dead-end interviews. The first was a housewife who spoke so softly, Olive found herself nodding even though he couldn’t make out a word the woman said. And while the arthritic man with the cane spoke more than loudly enough, Olive admitted it wasn’t likely the poor fellow had the stamina to last even one hour, let alone six hours, five days a week.