CHAPTER 31
Riggs
“You weren’t exaggerating.”
It’s seven-thirty Monday morning, and I can’t believe the line at the bakery stretches half a block down Main Street.
“I told you we needed to get here early.”
It’s not that I didn’t believe her. I just didn’t think it would be this bad. “They must be some bagels.”
“You’ll see. They have the best coffee and muffins too, but we’re way too late for muffins.”
Too late for the muffins? “What time do they open?”
“Three in the morning this time of year. Ranchers start their days early in the summer.”
“They must be some muffins.”
“They are. The good ones are gone by now. But they make fresh bagels all morning.”
Hmm. Sounds like they’re worth getting up early for. I’ll keep that in mind this week.
The funeral home doesn’t open until nine, so we have plenty of time. While waiting in line, I ask about the women we saw yesterday, the ones who looked like they just stepped out of a 1950s movie. “What did you call them? The Jam Squad?”
“Oh yeah. It’s kind of a funny story. This whole town is obsessed with strawberry-rhubarb everything.
You’ll see when I get a chance to show you around.
Anyway, Olivia, Emma, Charlotte, and Sophia each make their own version of strawberry-rhubarb jam.
Olivia’s is the sweetest, Emma’s has a slight vanilla flavor to it, Charlotte’s has raspberry mixed with the strawberries and rhubarb, and Sophia’s has cinnamon.
You’re going to see their jars everywhere.
They’re kind of cute, actually. They’re these short, old-fashioned Mason jars with rings of lace around the tops and white labels that each have a drawing of the woman who made it.
Everyone calls the jam by the name on the jar.
I like sweet, so I always get the Olivia. ”
“Interesting.”
“Oh, you haven’t heard anything yet. Every week, The Caller, our local weekly newspaper, gets a report from every business in town, then they publish a list of jam sales. The paper comes out today; they sell it at the bakery.”
“Is it like a competition?”
“Yeah, a fierce one. They each have their own local fan base. It’s a big rivalry.”
“Over jam? Yesterday, they looked like friends.”
“More like frenemies. It’s like our own local soap opera, which got super interesting when they took turns dating this one guy, Joe Emmerson.
At first, he was Charlotte’s boyfriend, but then she caught him with Emma.
Then Emma caught him with Sophia. After they broke up, he started dating Olivia.
That lasted until she caught him with Sophia. ”
“Wait, he cheated on Olivia with the woman he just broke up with? Is he back with Sophia now?”
“Depends on the night. If the rumors are true, they worked out an arrangement where each woman has a designated night with him.”
I resist the urge to slap my forehead. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope. I still haven’t told you the best part.”
“It gets better?”
“Oh yeah. The women are all a year older than me. Joe turned nineteen two months ago. He’s a tall, thin cowboy who works on the Shackler ranch, but the crazy thing is—I mean, besides him being ten years younger—is he’s not even good-looking.”
None of this makes sense, yet at the same time, it’s crazy interesting. “Could this Joe guy be some kind of cult leader?”
She laughs. “If you met him, you’d see that isn’t remotely possible.
Being a cult leader would require the ability to form cohesive thoughts.
I think Joe is capable of two thoughts—I’m hungry and I’m horny.
He’s sort of like a puppy you want to scratch behind the ears.
I guess he’s cute in a na?ve sort of way.
You’d have to meet him to understand. Maybe we’ll run into him while you’re here. ”
“I’m kind of hoping we do.”
We’ve reached the entrance to the Drury Lane Bakery. The sidewalk leading to the front door is painted to look like its own street. There’s even a green street sign at the curb that reads “Drury Lane.”
“Why does that name sound familiar?”
“The muffin man.”
I open the door for her, and as we step inside it hits me. In a muffled voice I quietly sing, “Do you know the muffin man, the muffin man, the muffin man who lives on Drury Lane.”
“Yep,” she says. “Clever, huh?”
I give her a nod. “Yeah, it is.”
The display case is full of the biggest muffins I’ve ever seen, and there must be more than twenty different kinds. These aren’t the good ones? Hmm. Next to them are dozens of doughnuts of various kinds and the place smells amazing.
Before I can ask her about the muffins, it’s our turn to step up to the counter. Maddie orders for us. “Four everything lox, two barrels, and a paper.”
“Coming right up,” the young man says enthusiastically.
I’m guessing he’s about seventeen. I’m pulling out my wallet when he leans toward Maddie and in a low voice says, “Sorry about your mom. Jamie said I wasn’t to charge you if you came in. She also asked me to tell you how sorry she is.”
Maddie hesitates. I can tell she hates this, so I quickly step in with, “Thanks.” I drop two twenties on the counter. “This is just a tip from me. I’m Maddie’s friend.”
Maddie looks up at me with gratitude in her eyes. I can already see her tense shoulders relax as she mouths, “Thank you.”
The boy looks at the money like he’s not sure what to do, then he puts it in the register. “Thanks. You’re Riggs, right? Is Ash here too?”
I try to give him my friendliest smile. “No, unfortunately he couldn’t make it. But I think there’s a good chance he’ll be around later this week, and I know he’ll want to see this place for himself. I’ll be sure to let him know to stop in and say hi.”
“That would be great!” he practically stammers, then blurts out, “It was really nice to meet you. I watch all your videos.”
“Thanks, that means a lot to me and my brother.”
We step out of the way so the people behind us can order while customers to our left are picking up their food.
Everything is to-go in plain brown paper bags, and they serve their coffee in huge paper cups that look like wine barrels—narrower at the top and bottom and wider in the middle—with cardboard handles on the side.
From an engineer’s point of view, they’re an intriguing design.
We take our food and coffee back to the truck, then Maddie shows me the way to a nearby river. On the way there, she pulls out the newspaper and starts reading out loud.
“By the narrowest of margins, Olivia managed to take this week’s top spot with impressive sales of 524 jars, outselling Sophia by one.
Last week’s top seller, Charlotte, dropped all the way to last place with 233 jars, citing an ‘unexpected health issue.’ Emma came in third with 468 jars.
Meanwhile, Charlotte is rallying her supporters with a new swimsuit layout on her Facebook page.
‘I think my fans are really going to like it. Who doesn’t love a vintage pinup girl? ’ she told The Caller.”
“Looks like I have some jams to taste.”
“Right? You need to pick one before you leave.”
“I think I will. It’s brilliant marketing. If you’re a fan, you might buy an extra jar or two to help your team out.”
“But no more than two,” she insists, and from her tone, I don’t think she’s joking. Maybe jam is a serious business in these parts.
Now she’s giving me the eye. “What?”
“You know darn well what. Someone like you could make sure your jam wins every week. So, let’s just agree right now that you’ll never buy more than two jars in any given week.”
“Can you buy them online, like anonymously?”
“Riggs!”
“Okay,” I acquiesce with a chuckle. It’s not like I’d ruin a good thing by being a dick. “I promise I’ll never buy more than two of one kind in any given week. But I may buy a few of each kind as gifts. Elsie would really get a kick out of this, and I know a few others who would as well.”
“That’s fair.”
She points to a gravel road up ahead. When I take the turn, the river, with its densely wooded tree line, comes into view. This whole place—the town, the farms, and the pine-forest scenery—is something else.
There are a lot of trucks here, and it looks like everyone is having breakfast on their tailgates. As I pull up, they all stare. This truck really stands out among all the old work trucks, and I wish I had Betsy.
I drop the tailgate, noticing that a cowboy about Maddie’s age at the truck next to us hasn’t taken his eyes off her. He’s with a woman, probably his wife, since they’re both wearing wedding rings.
“A real tragedy about your mom,” he says. “We were sorry to hear about it. Do you need anything?”
“Thanks, Zane, but I’m okay.”
“Honey, you don’t hesitate to ask, you hear me?” the woman says.
“I won’t.” Maddie turns to me. “This is —”
“Riggs Dwyer,” Zane says. “I recognized you when you were pulling in.”
“I was right, it is you! Oh my God!” the woman cries out. She rushes over, throws her arms around me, and gives me the biggest hug. “I love you guys.”
I don’t know what to do with my hands. Her husband is standing right there. Thank goodness I don’t have to figure it out because she quickly lets me go and looks toward the cab of the truck. “Where’s your cute brother? Is he here too?”
I laugh. “Ash couldn’t make it.”
She looks seriously disappointed but pulls her phone out anyway. Without asking, she wraps her arm around my waist, lays her head against my side with a bright cheesy smile, and holds her phone out for a selfie. I lean down and offer my best smile for the camera.
Zane chuckles as his wife comes back to his side while checking out the photo she just took.
Then the cowboy holds out his hand with, “I’m Zane Shackler, and this is my wife, Chelsea.
It’s nice to meet you.” As I shake his hand, I can feel some power in his grip, more than I would have expected from his wiry frame.
“You know you’re the lucky one in this deal, right? ” he says as he gives Maddie a wink.
I like him already. “I do.”