Chapter 13
Ali
Keep Lakeside Wild. That was the stroke of genius I came up with.
All Jake’s talk about the wildflowers made me remember how passionate Gibby was. The town’s dedication for wildflower landscaping was already here.
This, I knew how to do. All the parties that I’d hosted or attended.
All the club openings. All the times I’d triaged my own reputation or advised a friend’s comeback.
I knew how to make exes live to regret letting me, or a friend I happened to be helping, get away.
I understood that rebranding had power. And little old me knew how to harness that power to perfection.
My stomach growled as I combed my hair back post steaming shower after the baptismal cold plunge. I scrolled through my camera roll on my phone to see the shots Jake took of me. My breath actually hitched a little at how lovely I looked. He’d captured me perfectly.
I selected two of the best and posted them to my feed. Misha and I’d decided it would be a good idea to show up on social every now and then to avoid too many questions about my whereabouts and my situation. Content like this would make it seem like life as usual, enjoying retreats and luxury.
I swiped at the bathroom mirror, removing condensation. Okay, Ali. Time to get a job!
I knew Betsy’s game. And I knew how to play that game. Hard to get? Ha! I’d perfected that game. I was going to make myself indispensable to Betsy and this community.
I pulled open the door to the market and heard the tired bell jingle, announcing my entrance. Country music continued to croon overhead. Was that Shania Twain revving me up? I tugged my sunglasses off my face in the fashion of someone ready to work.
The fluorescent ceiling bulbs hummed above, but they didn’t stand a chance against the sunlight that flooded the store through the front windows.
Rectangles of light in the shape of the display windows pocked the aged linoleum floor and showered the entire space in a bright glow.
Dust particles danced in the harshest gleams. It almost looked like spotlights.
My stage was set. It was time to work my magic.
I reached for a red plastic basket, lifting the thick black handles, and slid them onto my forearm.
I listened for signs of Betsy or Eric. No one stood behind the counter.
I started down the aisles, adding a couple of benign items into the basket.
All props for my plan. Well, that and I needed food for the cabin. Snacks were essential.
My plan was to pose as a normal, everyday shopper but then notice a problem or challenge and solve it in my unique way, thereby impressing Betsy, proving my capabilities, and ultimately getting hired.
Shania sang about only wanting to have a good time, but this song ignited a fire in me that made me feel like I could barge through any door and be the boss of any room. I shimmied my shoulders to the beat.
As I sashayed deeper down the aisle, I heard voices coming from the back room. It was Betsy. She sounded frustrated. I inched closer and leaned toward the opening to hear more, wishing I could turn the guitar solo in the Shania song down a tick or two.
“It’s impossible. Why would I have written that number down? Frank. Please. I can’t take on this much inventory,” she said.
“I hear ya, I really do. But that’s what the order slip said, and we went ahead and filled it.
Took a whole lot to pull it off, I won’t lie.
We’re just a small farm, y’know. This one order?
It’s ’bout what we normally do for a whole month of farmers’ markets.
But my crew rolled up their sleeves, we got it done, and—well—here it is,” the man, Frank, said.
He had a slow, thoughtful cadence. When he said well, I could imagine he was adjusting his hat at the same time.
“Can’t you take some back and add it to your farmers’ market lot? You’d already be ahead,” Betsy said. “Our season hasn’t picked up yet. I don’t have the cooler space to store this much.” She sounded desperate.
Bingo. This was my entrée.
Now, just to figure out what exactly was this overloaded order?
“This was a real big order for us—biggest we’ve ever taken, truth be told, Miss Bets.
My crew was fired up, workin’ double-time to make it happen.
I can’t just turn around now and tell ’em it was a mistake.
I damn near lost a couple of ’em tryin’ to meet that deadline.
We hire folks with special needs on purpose—it’s part of what we’re about.
They’re not used to that kinda pressure, and it rattled some of ’em real hard.
So . . . yeah. We did the work. It’s done.
And I gotta stand by it—for their sake,” Frank said. “It’s cheese, Miss Bets. It’ll sell.”
Thank you, Frank! That was my cue.
“Excuse me. Hi. My name is Ali. I just arrived in town. I’m the newest associate here at the Corner Market,” I said, stepping into the back room and extending my hand, meeting Frank for the first time.
“Yes, ma’am. Nice to meet you. I’m Frank,” Frank said.
“Ali is new to town and doesn’t actually work here, so I am not sure why she is introducing herself like that,” Betsy said a little haughtily. Then to only me she dropped her voice and said, “I’ll be with you in a moment.”
“I couldn’t help overhearing your dilemma. And I think I have a solution,” I added quickly, ignoring the death beams coming from Betsy’s eyes.
“Yes, ma’am,” Frank said in a way that invited me to continue. All this ma’am stuff was so charming.
“If I understand this correctly, we”—I pointed between Betsy and me—“now have a large order of cheese that we need to move quickly. But we don’t have the cooler space to store the abundance while we try to sell it. Am I right so far?”
Both figures nodded. Betsy crossed her arms.
“This much cheddar would make a mouse tap out,” Betsy mumbled and sighed.
“The cheese isn’t the problem,” I said. “The cheese is beautiful and—I couldn’t help also hearing—the mission of your farm is so inspiring.” I paused to let that compliment land.
“Thank you, ma’am. We at Kind Ridge Creamery are proud of our mission and our product,” Frank said.
“Ooh, I must get out there for a tour!” I said.
“Your point, Ali?” Betsy asked. She was in such a mood!
“Well. This sounds reminiscent of the Versailles Ball fiasco from a few years back,” I said.
“The what?” Betsy asked with a sigh.
“Exactly! You didn’t hear about it because I was able to solve it before it got too out of hand.”
I turned toward Frank to tell my story. “A few years ago, I was helping organize a black-tie masquerade charity ball for a luxury children’s hospital foundation at a mansion in the Chicago suburbs.
The headlining guest chef—a Michelin-starred culinary prodigy—had a diva-level meltdown and walked out!
On the night of the event! And it was because his custom sea salt—harvested by artisans in Iceland, obviously—didn’t arrive.
It was a disaster. The menu was wrecked.
Guests were already arriving. There were actual influencers in ball gowns crying over truffle risotto. ”
“What are you even talking about?” Betsy said, her hands resting on her hips. Her tone was impatient, but she remained calm. Although her eyes were bulging at me as if to ask what I was doing.
“I’m talking about how I coined the ever-popular ‘Gala Grazing: A French Artisan Experience’ on that. Very. Night.”
Again, I turned to Frank for the rest of my story.
“So I scanned the pantry. I was determined to fix the disaster. I mean, it was ultimately for the sick kids, you know. You wouldn’t believe how quickly guests forget the cause they are spending ten thousand dollars a head to support when the threat of not being fed sets in.
Anywho, I spotted hundreds of mini croissants that the caterer brought as backups.
So we pivoted. I recruited waitstaff, and we laid out a beautiful build-your-own croissant canapé station, and it was a hit beyond belief.
And ‘gala grazing’ became a thing.” I ended my story with a shrug and nose scrunch to further punctuate the happy ending of the story.
Betsy pinched the bridge of her nose with her fingers.
“Well, Miss Bets”—yep, he did adjust his hat with his delivery of well—“it sounds like you have a solution in the works. I need to be going. It was nice to meet you, Ali. Best of luck.” And with that, Frank moved his handcart out from under the large stack of boxes and backed it out the service entrance.
“Bye, Frank. Please pencil me in for that tour,” I said with a flutter wave of my fingers. “He’s amazing! A real cheese farmer, and so polite!” I said to Betsy with a head tilt.
She did not look amused. Her shoulders fell and she leaned her forehead against the stack of boxes.
The boxes stood about a foot taller than her small frame.
She let out a groan. “Do you need help ringing up your groceries? I need to get back to figuring out this cheese problem.” She pulled her head back, looking at the boxes.
“Oh God, it’s so much cheese.” Another groan.
“How much cheese, exactly?” I asked.
“Two hundred pounds,” Betsy said. And then under her breath she added, “It had to be a typo. An extra zero. Oh God.” There she went with the sigh of despair again.
“I think you need a little Shania energy right now,” I said, referencing the song that was playing overhead when I walked in, although it wasn’t playing at the moment.
“What?”
“Never mind,” I said.
“Ali, look. This is a real problem that impacts real profits and losses, and . . . it’s not something someone like you would understand,” Betsy said.
“I beg to differ,” I said with a bit more directness than I intended. “I have an idea. I think it could work. Wanna hear it?”
“Do I have a choice, kid?” Betsy asked.