Chapter 18 #2
But I can’t help but think of Daisy. How will life go on for her if the shop she inherited goes out of business?
Declan and I finish our breakfast while I change the subject to ask him about the team and his season. We wash dishes, and then I head out to the Waterford Town Square to help set up for our annual Chili Cook-off.
Buntings of autumn fabric triangles stretch from lamppost to lamppost, a colorful reminder of all the falls we’ve gathered here as a community.
Folding tables covered in checkered cloths fill the grass.
Hay bales are stacked in various spots with pumpkins and scarecrows for decoration.
A group of men is setting up sound on the gazebo.
The air is crisp, the salty-sweet smell of kettle corn from the vendor on the corner wafts on a breeze.
A grandstand is being set up on one end of the square for this year’s six judges—including me and Daisy.
Yes. We’re both judging the chili this year. When I found out she was on the panel, I tried to excuse myself, asking Captain if another firefighter could take my place. He basically told me to man up and do my civic duty.
As the start of the cook-off approaches, contestants arrive early to start cooking.
Crock-Pots and condiments cover the tables, a myriad of extension cords snaking to outlets.
Eventually, townspeople begin filling the grass with lawn chairs and picnic blankets.
Children dart between booths, laughing and yelling.
At noon, Mayor Briggs welcomes everyone.
“We’re so glad to have everyone out here for the annual Firefighter Chili Cook-off.
Now y’all remember, every pot’s been cooked right here in the square, our judges’ll taste ’em blind, and the rest is up to you to determine this year’s winner of the People’s Choice award.
So grab your tickets, try all the chili you can handle, and don’t forget to drop your vote before the bell this afternoon! ”
The day continues with bands rotating to play live music from the gazebo.
Kids play games at the makeshift carnival set up, winning prizes for knocking over milk bottles or making a bullseye.
By midday, the chili tasting is in full swing.
Lines form at the more popular booths, and the trash-talking between contestants starts in earnest.
Elwood Price and Hank Delaney start shouting at one another:
“I only use peppers grown in my own garden!” Elwood brags.
“And I only use peppers that won’t burn a hole through the judges’ tongues,” Hank retorts.
It’s as if a shotgun’s fired and the razzing has officially been sanctioned to begin in earnest. All through the town square, jabs are exchanged with mock offense.
“You call that chili? Looks more like soup!” JoJo Cartwright shouts to Lou Ellen Granger.
“Better soup than that wallpaper paste you served up last year!” Lou Ellen’s husband, Buck, hollers back. Both parties are smiling, but the competitive spirit is palpable.
From another table, Darla boasts, “I add in a secret ingredient that’s been passed down through the generations.”
Jenny Ruskin doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh yeah? I think your chili passed through more than the generations. From what I hear, Truett Lawson said he was stuck to the commode for an entire day after eatin’ it last year! It passed through, alrighty!”
They continue to bicker while Betsy Ann Calahan places her hands on her hips and announces, “Y’all are goin’ down. My chili’s got the perfect balance of heat and flavor.”
“Balance? If that’s balance, I’d hate to see you on a tightrope.” Wade Mullins chuckles at his own comeback.
And on it goes while townspeople mingle with paper cups and spoons, occasionally stopping at the Rotary Club’s soft-serve stand or the youth baseball league’s popsicle wagon to cool their taste buds.
Margie Hensley approaches me. “It’s getting to be time for the judges’ tasting.”
I follow her to my seat on the grandstand. Everywhere I look—kids darting, neighbors laughing, bands playing—I feel the heat building despite the chill in the air.
It’s not the chili.
It’s the thought of sitting next to Daisy.
I’m pulling out my chair when Daisy approaches with another volunteer who points to the chair next to mine.
Daisy turns to her, places her hand so it’s blocking her mouth and says something.
The volunteer shakes her head and says, “Sorry, we can’t.
” I’d bet the fire engine on the fact that she asked to be seated anywhere but directly next to me.
Daisy squares her shoulders and strolls over to the chair, pulling it out and then turning to face me.
“O’Connell.”
“Clark.” I nod once to greet her.
“Listen. You may be my neighbor. You may have to check my smoke detectors. You might even have to occasionally pick up your sister’s orders from Moss and Maple. But we are not friends.”
“I’m well aware.” The words scrape out harsher than I mean them to.
“Good.” Now she nods once, only hers is more definitive.
My chest tightens. Why does it matter so much if she dismisses me?
The urge to say something—anything—to try to set the record straight swells in me and dissipates.
Mercifully, Mayor Briggs steps up to the microphone. He announces each of the judges by their name and position in the community. We each wave when our name is announced.
Then he says, “Chili samples will be presented anonymously in numbered cups. Judges will score on the categories of aroma, consistency, flavor, spice, and appearance. Townspeople will have one more hour to continue voting for People’s Choice while the judges complete their evaluation of all the entries. ”
I glance at Daisy. She’s staring out into the crowd, a kind smile on her face as her eyes connect with someone she knows. I remember a time when she smiled like that at me. I wonder if I’ll ever be a recipient of one of her smiles again.