Chapter 4
Alex
After sitting in my room at the inn, working on my plan for the series of articles I’m doing for The Traveling Taste over the next few months, my back aches and I could use a distraction. I decide to go out for the afternoon. I’ve seen flyers posted throughout the town about a charity event that’s meant to raise money for young children. The event seems like it’s pretty popular among the townies, and I’m curious about it. I figure it may be worth attending in case there’s something to it that I can mention in one of my articles.
When I arrive at Willow Park, the crowd’s thick, and it’s hard to maneuver around without bumping into someone. Most of the townies seem to be shooting ice pellets at me with their eyes, probably due to my review of Elmwood Falls Heritage Bakery. But it’s nothing I haven’t encountered before. I’ve learned a long time ago that people, particularly in quaint towns like this, struggle to appreciate a critique that doesn’t coddle their local pride. It’s a narrow perspective I’ve grown rather accustomed to rising above. I merely smile in their direction and carry on.
The town has this unmistakable Mayberry vibe, the kind that makes you expect to see a sheriff with one bullet in his pocket sauntering down the street. I half expect Barney Fife to pop out from around the corner, awkwardly adjusting his hat and offering an overly serious, “Now, let’s keep the peace here, folks.” But instead of Barney, my eyes eventually settle on Emma handing out muffins with a bright, infectious laughter. There’s an ease about her, a natural affinity with the people she serves. Her hair dances in the soft breeze, framing her face in a way that’s strikingly attractive.
I catch myself staring, my attention discreetly hidden behind feigned interest in a nearby stall selling handmade quilts. The memory of our encounter this morning lingers in my mind, her fiery spirit clashing with my critical observations. Despite the tension between us, I find myself drawn to the way her passion translates into every gesture, every word. Even in her anger, there’s an undeniable grace about her.
Her nose twitches when she’s particularly animated, a small detail that I find unexpectedly endearing. It’s these little things that keep my thoughts lingering on her more than I care to admit. As a critic, I’ve learned to appreciate the finer details, and with Emma, it’s these nuances that capture my attention, challenging my initial impressions.
“How long do you plan on staying in town, Mr. Carter?” the woman selling the quilts asks as she leans against her table, arms folded over her chest.
“A week,” I tell her.
“Word has it you’re planning on visiting other restaurants in town,” she says.
“That’s right. I’m going to two different in-house dining places each day. The articles will come out every two days in The Traveling Taste over the course of the month.”
“What made you choose Elmwood Falls?” A man approaching the table, says, his eyes like steel as they look at me. “Because I’ve seen your articles a few times. You visit high end places. Not one-horse towns.”
“I suppose I needed a change of pace.” I force a smile, then add, “If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to visit other stands.”
Turning away from the quilts, I refocus on Emma. I’m approaching her stand, when her friend notices me—the same one who crashed into me the other night. She nudges Emma and gestures subtly in my direction. Emma’s expression shifts from cheerful to guarded as she catches sight of me.
“Beautiful day for an event, isn’t it?” I address them both, but my gaze is fixed on Emma. I’m curious to see how she’ll react, aware that my presence might be unsettling for her after our last encounter.
Emma’s response is a tight-lipped silence. Clearly she’s still peeved about the review I’d given her bakery. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had someone disagree with my tastes.
Rhonda, whose name suddenly clicks in my memory, offers a friendly smile. “It’s a wonderful day, yes, I agree. Hope you’re enjoying the event, Alex.”
“Certainly am, Rhonda. Thank you.” I turn back to Emma, meeting her wary stare. “I might even indulge in one of your muffins. How much are they?”
“For you?” Emma’s tone is icy. “Five hundred.”
“Emma!” Rhonda chastises her softly, then looks back at me. “It’s pay what you want day. Whatever you feel it’s worth. Money goes to charity.”
I nod, surveying the array of muffins laid out on the table. Selecting one from the center, I hope for a particularly juicy bite.
Emma watches me, arms crossed. “Just remember, it’s a fundraiser for children.”
There’s a part of me tempted to leave without paying, just to get a rise out of her. But I don’t intend to let children in need suffer for any reason. I pull out my wallet and place two crisp twenty-dollar bills on the table. “For the children,” I say, meeting her gaze.
At first, her mouth drops open in surprise, then after a glance at Rhonda, who raises an inquisitive eyebrow, Emma’s expression softens to a reluctant acknowledgement.
I pick up the muffin, giving it an appraising look. I take my time studying the treat, mostly to gauge Emma’s reaction, but when I hear a soft huff coming from her pink lips, I look back at her with satisfaction. “I must say, despite our previous…misunderstandings, I find your passion for baking quite remarkable.”
Emma raises an eyebrow, her arms still crossed. “Is that so? Coming from Elmwood Falls’s newest critic, I’m not sure if I should take that as a compliment or brace for another scathing review.”
I can’t help but chuckle. “Consider it a compliment. For now.”
I take a bite of the muffin, letting the flavors settle on my tongue. It’s definitely moist. “Not bad, Emma. But I must say, in the world of culinary arts, innovation is key. Sticking to tradition can be…limiting.”
Emma’s eyes flash, a hint of fire behind them. “There’s more to food than just innovation, Alex. Sometimes, tradition carries flavors that ‘innovation’ can’t replicate.”
I take another bite, contemplating her words. “True, but without pushing boundaries, we risk stagnation. Where’s the thrill in that?”
Her gaze is unwavering, challenging. “Maybe the thrill lies in perfecting what you already know, in deepening the roots rather than constantly chasing the new.” Her face is becoming more red by the minute.
I smile, intrigued by her perspective. “A fair point. But consider this, Emma: isn’t it possible to honor tradition while still exploring new horizons? To blend the old with the new?”
She seems to think about this, her stance softening slightly. “Well, not everyone is looking to have their palates challenged. Some just want a taste of home.” I can tell she’s struggling to maintain her position.
Our eyes lock, and I find myself unable to look away.
Rhonda clears her throat, breaking the moment. “Well, I think it’s great to have both tradition and innovation. Keeps things exciting, right?”
I nod, forcing myself to look away from Emma’s gaze. “Indeed, it does. And speaking of excitement, I’m looking forward to seeing what else Heritage Bakery has to offer. Who knows, I might even find myself pleasantly surprised.”
Emma’s response is a half-smirk, half-challenge. “You just might, Alex. You just might.”
As I step away from the stand, muffin in hand, I wink at Rhonda, who blushes and lets out a soft giggle. Emma murmurs something to her friend, her tone low and inaudible. I can’t quite catch the words, but the slight narrowing of her eyes tells me it’s probably not a compliment. Interesting how even her slight expressions are so vividly communicative.
Continuing my stroll through the charity event, I browse the various stands, each showcasing the quaint charm of Elmwood Falls. From handcrafted trinkets to homemade preserves, every item tells a part of the town’s story. I make a few purchases—a wooden keychain, intricately carved, and a small jar of spicy apple chutney. Simple, yet they carry a sense of authenticity that I’ve often missed in my urban expeditions.
I nibble on the muffin as I walk. It’s a decent bake—nothing groundbreaking, but there’s a comforting quality to it. Each bite is consistent, the flavor familiar. It’s the kind of ordinary excellence one might expect from a small-town bakery. Yet, I can’t help but ponder over the muffin’s unassuming appeal. It doesn’t challenge the palate, but it satisfies in a way that’s hard to define at this moment.
My thoughts drift to Heritage Bakery. It’s clear that her baking resonates well with the locals. Maybe there’s an aspect of her culinary skills that I haven’t fully grasped yet. It’s not a revelation, but more of a trivial thought at the back of my mind.
Finishing the muffin, I discard the wrapper and continue my exploration.
After visiting all the stands, I return to my room at the inn to drop off my purchases and to get my pad. I decide to go to the Elmwood Falls Diner for an early dinner. It’ll be the third eatery I’m visiting for my series.
The bell jingles when I open the door, and the girl behind the counter glances at me before returning her attention to the magazine she’s reading.
I’m the only guest, but I’m assuming it’s because the majority of the town is still attending the charity for the children.
Suddenly, the girl’s eyes widens as she looks at me again. She stands up straighter, knocking the magazine to the ground.
“You’re that food critic—I mean, hi.” Her face turns red. “I was only reading because, well, it’s slow, and I…”
I hold up my hand to stop her. “I’m a critic of food, not the people.”
“I’ve read some of your stuff. Well, my mom did. You’ve criticized people, too.” She claps a hand over her mouth, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d think her eyes were about to launch out like a pair of cartoon springs.
“Only those who make the food less enjoyable,” I say with a chuckle. “Not everyone’s as charming as this little town.” I smile at her, feeling slightly amused at her reaction to my presence.
“Well, if rude people make the food less enjoyable for you, then shouldn’t nice people make it even more enjoyable?”
“What’s your name, young lady?” I ask.
She hesitates, then says, “Elise.”
“Well, Elise, you make a fair point,” I say. “It’s true, the demeanor of those around us can indeed enhance or detract from the culinary experience. A bit like how a sullen waiter or a charming host can change the mood of a meal. Your straightforwardness, for instance, adds a certain zest to our conversation here. As for Heritage Bakery, let’s just say the bakery and I had a bit of a…complicated introduction.”
Elise shrugs. “Well, everyone’s entitled to their option, I guess. But, you know, Elmwood Falls has a way of growing on people. You might be surprised what a little time here can do. So, what can I get you, Mr. Critic?” She says it with derision laced in her words.
I step closer to the counter. “Why don’t you surprise me?”
She looks at me thoughtfully. “I bet you’ll love our chicken pot pie.”
I nod. “Quite so. I’ll take that, then.” My eyes scan the menu above her head, and when I see the apple pie, I’m reminded of my conversation with the florist’s husband. “I’ll also take a slice of your apple pie.”
“Coming right up.”
I wait patiently for Elise to gather my order, and when she hands it to me, I go take a seat at a table. As I’m spreading the food and notepad out, I can feel her gaze on me. I take my fork and start stirring into the pot pie, but before I can take a bite, I notice Emma and Rhonda walking toward the diner. Emma’s laughing at something Rhonda says, then they embrace each other before Rhonda walks away.
Emma’s walking into the diner now, but when she steps inside, the smile falters into a frown as she looks my way. I offer her a friendly smile and stand to greet her.
“Why don’t you join me?” I gesture to the empty chair across from mine.
For a moment, Emma hesitates, her gaze flickering between me and the door as if weighing her options. Then, with a reluctant nod, she strides over to the counter. I watch curiously as she leans in, murmuring something to the girl behind it. My name pops up in their hushed conversation, followed by an eye roll from the girl. Emma lets out a sigh and places her order, her body language tense.
When she approaches my table, takeout bag in hand, she takes a seat without a word, leaving the bag untouched.
“How are you finding Elmwood Falls?” she asks finally, her tone carrying a hint of forced casualness.
“It’s…unique,” I reply, careful to keep my tone neutral. “Definitely different from other places I’ve been to.”
Her expression shifts subtly, a flicker of annoyance crossing her features. “So, it doesn’t quite have the exotic allure of Paris, I assume?”
I realize too late how my words might have sounded. “No, no, Emma, that’s not what I meant—”
But she’s already standing, the chair screeching against the floor in her haste. “You know, it’s interesting,” she says, her voice tinged with sarcasm. “You parade around as a critic of food, but it seems you’re more interested in critiquing lifestyles and small towns you don’t understand.”
I start to protest, but she’s already gathering her things, her movements sharp and quick. “Enjoy your visit, Mr. Carter,” she says, her voice cool. “I hope by the end, Elmwood Falls lives up to your refined tastes.”
With one last glance, half apologetic and half defiant, she strides out of the diner, the door swinging shut behind her.
I look over at the girl behind the counter, and she merely shrugs as another customer enters.
Rather than speaking up, I force myself to focus on my work and judge the taste of the pot pie, but for some reason, it wasn’t as enjoyable as I’d hoped, and somehow I believe it has nothing to do with the quality of the food.