Strawberry Scandal, page 4
“I didn’t know you made poundcake,” I muse.
“Sure do. Not prize-winning poundcake, mind you, but tasty enough to lose the competition with my head held high.”
“Huh. My poundcakes always come out too dense to be enjoyable.”
Betty’s movements slow. Her eyes turn cautious, and I can tell she is choosing her words carefully. “Would you like me to show you how I make mine?”
My posture lightens at the turn the morning is taking. “How do I say yes without squealing and begging?”
Betty’s shoulders relax, and she turns her focus back to the chocolate cupcakes with a grin stretching her cheeks. “Let me finish this up. Then we’ll make a new kind of mess in here.”
I turn back to my notebook, this time with renewed energy and optimism. If I can finally make a poundcake that’s light and fluffy, then I will truly be unstoppable.
6
SHOPPING FOR STRAWBERRIES
After Betty blew my mind with the best poundcake I’ve ever tasted, a trip to the Colonel’s General Store is in order, so I can get all I need to put together the Cupcake of the Month. Of course, everything takes me far longer than I can accurately predict, given that my coordination skills do not include walking with a crutch.
Still, I manage to hobble through the spic and span parking lot into the store with my grocery list and cupcake sketch shoved in my pocket. From the outside, the place looks like a long, one-story log cabin. On the inside, the shelves are made of wood. It carries anything from tackle for fishing to nylons to actual food for humans.
The Colonel’s General Store stocks everything, it seems, except for strawberries, which are completely sold out.
I don’t know what I was expecting. Of course the main ingredient for the upcoming festival in Sweetwater Falls would be long gone off the shelves of the only grocery store in town. It’s the one catch to living in a small town.
Slightly deflated, I maneuver my cart with the crutch sticking out of it around the store, gathering up what I need for the poundcake. It’s not a great idea to use the cart as my crutch, but I am running out of ideas as to how to make this whole thing work.
Coordination has never been my top skill.
When my phone rings, I know it would be tempting fate to dig it out of my purse and answer. I need all hands on deck right now, which means whichever book Marianne is reading today, I’ll have to wait until I am finished checking out to hear how much she loves it.
Buttermilk goes into the cart, along with more eggs than anyone (other than me on my last several trips) has ever purchased here in one go. I like popping open the lid and looking over the eggs, all neatly lined in their cartons. They look happy that they’ll be made into the most delicious poundcake that ever was. I can’t wait to whip up batch after batch of them.
Though, I’m not sure I’ll be whipping up much of anything, given how frustrating my crutch has been to work with.
Dwight turns his cart down the aisle where I am scouring the shelves for a jug of balsamic vinegar. “Hey there, Cupcake Queen.”
“Hello yourself, Dwight. Been out on your boat lately?” It’s all he’s been talking about to anyone who will listen. It’s sweet, how enthusiastic he gets about things.
Dwight’s brown eyebrows lift with excitement over the chance to gush about his favorite topic. “Oh, of course. I’m taking my dad out again this afternoon. Would you like to come along? It’s the perfect day for it.”
I offer him a smirk as I pass by the white balsamic vinegar in search of aged red. “I have a feeling you’d say that about any old day, unless it’s snowing or raining.”
Dwight holds up his hands in surrender. “You got me. Best purchase I ever made, that boat. What do you say? Feel like testing the waters today?”
It’s a nice offer, and one I intend to take him up on at some point. “I can’t today, but soon.” I motion to the end of the aisle in the direction of the produce. “The colonel is all out of strawberries, so I’m going to have to make a trip to Hamshire after this. Then Logan’s coming back from his training week tonight, so I have plans to see him.”
I wonder if I shouldn’t have mentioned my boyfriend and the job training he’s receiving. Logan’s told me that Dwight wasn’t his biggest fan. One of the cruxes of his displeasure was that Dwight attended the police academy at the same time Logan did. Logan graduated, while Dwight did not. Given that Logan’s father is the sheriff, Dwight attributed Logan’s subsequent success in his field to nepotism.
Dwight’s mouth twinges only slightly, but he breezes past any discomfort that might be surfacing for him. “Another time, then.” Dwight reaches over my head to grab several cans of peas off the shelf. “And yeah, come this time of year, the colonel can’t keep strawberries in stock more than a day before they’re sold out.” He motions to a display table a few feet from us that features jugs of red juice stacked artfully to resemble a tall strawberry. I’m not sure how they did it so perfectly. It’s impressive. “Can I assume you’re entering the strawberry bake-off?”
I shake my head, leaning more heavily on my cart. My gait is wonky from using the four-wheeled contraption as a crutch. However easier I thought using the cart as a walking stabilizer would be, I was wildly incorrect. “I haven’t decided on that yet. I’m working on filling this week’s orders.”
A goofy grin widens his cheeks. “You got an idea already? It’s a secret, isn’t it. Come on, Charlotte. You can tell me.” Dwight elbows me hard in the side. My unsteady hip jerks too far to the left, which bonks my shopping cart forward at just the wrong angle, slipping out of reach.
I have nothing on which to steady myself. “Oh, no!” I cry out, my gait wobbling. Tipping to the side, I struggle to gain purchase on the nearest shelf. My sore ankle lands hard on the floor to steady me, but that only serves to cause me to cry out again when my body tips more dramatically.
But all of that is nothing to the alarms going off in my head when I catch sight of my fleeing cart, which is headed straight for danger. I throw myself at my cart, forgetting that my ankle cannot support my weight.
My exclamations of distress are less troubling than the ominous crash of my cart into the display table, which is home to about three dozen juice bottles, frozen in the middle of their own circus trick.
“Watch out!” I shout mostly at myself, since I am the only person near enough to the ensuing chaos to find it perilous. No matter how I splay my hands, there is no stopping the avalanche of juice bottles that go toppling to the floor. Dozens of large bottles strategically stacked to look like a giant strawberry come crashing down, ruining the display. The jugs fall into my cart and all over me.
Dwight hops back, but I am not so lucky. Several bottles slam down on my side and my bum foot, sending more pain shooting up my already wounded leg.
What started out as a trip to the grocery store ends up being my second trip to the Emergency Room in as many days.
7
LIBRARY LOVE
Marianne should be the best person to cheer me up when my sprained ankle has been reinjured with a hairline fracture, but my best friend can’t stop chuckling at my plight. “I mean, twice in less than a week? What are the odds of you hurting yourself this often? Oh, Charlotte.” She covers her mouth and tries to cough over her chuckle. “I’m sorry. It’s not funny.” She turns off her engine and steps out of the car, shuffling around to my side to help me out.
Because now I need help with even the smallest task.
“It’s a little funny,” I admit. “I’m sure if the Colonel’s General Store had security cameras, my little stunt would have made it into some sort of show that features hilarious hijinks caught on tape. I can’t believe what a mess I made. Does the colonel hate me?”
Marianne is still unable to fully stifle her snicker. “The colonel doesn’t hate anyone, least of all you. But I added a half dozen complimentary cupcakes to the list for this week’s orders to ease any frustration that you’re worried you caused.”
“You know me too well. Thanks for doing that.”
Marianne holds my purse while I get myself situated on my crutch. She doesn’t give it back to me once I’m ready but carries it for me without me even thinking to ask for the favor.
That’s a good friend.
“Thanks for carrying my purse too,” I add, jerking my chin toward Hamshire’s mega grocery store. “If this place doesn’t have strawberries, I quit.”
“Quit what?” Marianne grabs a cart for us from the corral, which is another favor I need. Man, they’re starting to stack up. I suppose I’m grateful the only person who is annoyed by how much help I need is me. Marianne isn’t bothered one bit.
“Name the thing, and I’ll quit it. You’ve never seen quitting so good.”
“Of course.” She navigates us through the busy lot, making sure to keep my pace so I don’t try to hobble too fast for my own safety. My slow hops are tedious, but Marianne doesn’t complain about that. She saves her displeasure for the moment we step inside the store. Her hackles rise as she grips the cart like it’s a shield. “It’s overwhelming in here. I would only come to this store for you, I hope you realize. There are so many people and way too many choices.”
I point at the banner hanging from tall ceiling, indicating our destination. “There. That’s the produce section. We’ll get our strawberries and head home.”
Marianne’s expression mutates to a mix of hesitant and determined. She maneuvers through the store until we reach a welcoming bin of all the strawberries a bakery could ever need. We load the cart in silence until I notice Marianne’s movements are jerky and laced with worry.
She doesn’t like big city life. I don’t mind it, since I grew up in one, but I can see how different the pacing of the world is here, even though it’s barely half an hour from us.
I decide to distract her with conversation. “Did you start a new book today? I couldn’t get to my phone earlier when you called.”
Marianne’s nose scrunches. “I didn’t call you this morning. I was elbow-deep in the donations bin with Agnes. Rip is letting me host a free books table at the strawberry festival.”
“That’s nice. Is that like, an extension of the library? You bring a stack of books for them to check out and scan their card there?”
Marianne shakes her head. “I’ve never had the guts to do it, but this year… I don’t know. I’m all kinds of gutsy.” She motions around the crowded superstore. “I mean, look at me. I’m Marianne the Wild!” Even her declaration comes with the caveat of keeping her higher-pitched voice at a respectably meek volume. She smiles at me. It’s her first happy expression since we entered the store. Her olive skin is beautiful all months of the year, but when the sun darkens it a few shades, it makes her eyes shine even brighter, and her smile appear bigger and more beautiful. She presses her palms to her cheeks as if she cannot believe how daring she is to be taking on such a mountain.
I shake my head at her, pride shining through. “Why, whoever thought that Marianne Magnolian would be wild enough to host her own table at the strawberry festival?” I pretend to think real hard to find examples. “Oh, just about everyone who’s ever met you guessed you’d be awesome at it. Now tell me everything. Then assign me a job so I can help.”
Marianne’s dainty posture lifts her onto her toes like a ballerina coaxed to higher heights by the swell of a violin. “Really? I assumed you’d be focused on your entry for the baking competition, so I didn’t think to ask you. But yes. Please, yes. It would be so much better if you were at the table with me.”
I decide on the spot that the baking competition isn’t for me. “Nope. I didn’t plan on doing anything for the baking competition. I was hoping for a place to insert myself in the festival somehow. It’s a good thing you came along.”
She loads the legions of strawberries with more vigor now, pushing out the panic that comes from being in this metropolis for more than a minute. “It’s a free book table. You can take a book from our donation pile and bring it home with you. No library cards, no need to return anything, no cost. If they want, they can also bring a book they’re finished reading to leave at the table for other people to try out.”
“That’s really cool,” I admit. “I mean, people always mean to stop by the library, but sometimes they forget to make the time. But this is a way they can enjoy a book without having to worry about making the trip or returning the book.”
“Exactly! Oh, I knew you’d get it. I had the idea a few years ago, but every year, I back out. It’s hard to explain why it’s a great theme for a table at the festival. Plus, who wouldn’t want a new book for the summer? It’s the perfect time to crack open a new novel. Take one to the beach. Take one to read outside in the backyard on freshly mown grass.” Her tone turns romantic, as it always does when she gets swept away by her passion. “Though reading in the fall is good too. Fireplaces. Hot tea on a cozy couch, all curled up with a book.” Then she tacks on more to the daydream. “Winter is perfect, really. More people are on break for the holiday, so they take time to slow down and read. Everything is more peaceful and quiet when it’s snowing out. Nothing pairs better with Christmas cookies and hot cocoa than a good book.”
“So Spring is the only time it’s no good to read a book?” I tease.
Marianne blinks at me, scandalized. “No! Not at all. Spring is the best time for a new book. Everything is coming back to life. Oh, reading fun, non-scary romcoms are best in the spring. A sweet little meet-cute makes you think anything is possible. Planting your garden and then relaxing with a book? There’s nothing better.”
I can’t help the giggle that comes out of me. “You are just about the best thing that’s ever happened to that strawberry festival. I can already tell. Now, how do we translate whatever poetry that just was into something the rest of the town will latch onto? Because I think we all want to love anything as much as you love books.” A flicker of an idea flashes in my mind. “Bookmarks.”
“Oh, I have plenty. You can pick your favorite if you need one.” She reaches over the cart and grips my hand. “Please tell me you haven’t been folding over the page corners to mark your spot. I know I love you, but that might test our friendship.”
I press my lips together through my laughter, hoping to hide any books I’ve bunny eared from Marianne’s careful scrutiny. “I meant we could put out supplies for kids to decorate their own bookmarks. That might make them want to take a book home so they can use their cool new bookmark.”
A sudden intensity increases Marianne’s hold on my hand. “If they all learn to love bookmarks, that might stop an entire generation from folding over the corners of pages. Charlotte, you’re a genius!”
“If only all cataclysmic problems were so easily solved,” I joke. There is nothing more captivating than Marianne on a mission, especially when that mission is related to her love of literature. Her smile turns rapturous, and the timid demeanor she often clings to is cast aside like a flourish of a soprano’s opera cloak.
“Reading goals!” she exclaims, as if I should be following her train of thought and have landed myself at her station at exactly the same time the light hits her eyes to make them shine anew.
“Huh?” I tilt my head to the side, grabbing up one carton of strawberries for every five Marianne loads into the cart.
“We can have pretty, specialized cards for people to write out their summer reading goals. Wouldn’t that be great? Oh, Betty has the loveliest handwriting. Do you think she would mind writing out the cards? Just one, and I can make copies to hand out.”
“I’d imagine Betty would be happy to help.” I motion to the cart that is nearly full with berries. We are garnering quite a few curious looks from the passersby. “Betty came up with the cupcake flavor of the month.”
Marianne whistles appreciatively. “I didn’t know you would hand over such an important decision to anyone. Good for you, learning to delegate.”
I chuckle at the compliment that feels left of center. “I’m not sure that’s true in this case. It’s more like I was stumped, and she taught me a few tricks in the kitchen that worked out great.”
Marianne takes one more carton and holds it aloft. “Does being your chauffeur get me a sneak taste of the cupcake flavor of the month before it’s released to the public?”
I love that she treats my passion as if it’s a big deal to her as well. “It sure does. It also entitles you to not have to be within a five-mile radius of me when this boot comes off my foot. It’s going to unleash an unholy stench so powerful; it’s sure to affect bird migration.”
Marianne tips her imaginary hat to me. “A lofty gift, indeed.” She switches back to her one-track mind as she wheels us toward the checkout. Her anxiety at being in a such a crowded store dissipates the more she distracts herself with her happy place. “The library has so many great programs. I wish the kids took advantage of them more often.”
I grimace as I hobble alongside her. I don’t actually know a whole lot about the different programs that go on at the library, which, I realize, is a massive oversight. “Which programs are you looking to get more heads at?”
“All of them, really. But the story hour for young ones is so poorly attended that I’m considering cancelling it.”
I can tell this is a sore spot for Marianne. “What advertising are you doing for the event?”
Marianne shrugs. “It’s on the website every month.”
My mouth pulls to the side. I’m her best friend, and I didn’t know there was a children’s story hour. “I wonder if we could give it a boost somehow. Bring in special guest readers. Put up flyers in the library. Maybe ask if we can get the event sent out through the elementary school’s newsletter to parents.”
