Chapter 6
Alex
The next day, I choose to have breakfast at Elmwood Falls Diner. I failed to write a review on the pot pie and apple pie because Emma distracted me. However, I think it’ll be nice to change it up and review it for breakfast. When I arrive, it’s the girl who I conversed with yesterday, as well as an older man and a woman. The woman looks a great deal like the girl, so I’m guessing they must be related. Mother and daughter, possibly.
When the girl sees me, she widens her eyes in surprise, but doesn’t say anything. It’s the man who speaks first.
“If it isn’t Alex Carter, the food critic. Welcome to Elmwood Falls Diner. I’ve been wondering if you planned on stopping by. I’m glad to have the chance to meet with you.”
“Thank you,” I say, my eyes falling on the young girl, whose face turns red. I’m guessing she failed to tell her parents I did stop by yesterday. I choose to not tell on her and instead focus on the warm welcome from her father. “It’s a pleasure to be here. I’ve heard good things about your diner.”
The man beams with pride, gesturing to a booth. “Please, have a seat. Can I start you off with some coffee?”
“That would be great.”
The man nods. “Elise will be with you to take your order. I’m Carson, and this is my wife, Maggie.”
“A pleasure to meet you all,” I say as I make my way to a table.
As I take a seat, Elise approaches cautiously, pad in hand. “What can I get for you?” she asks.
I lean back, setting my elbow on the back of the table. “Forgive me, I didn’t ask your name yesterday, Elise.”
Her cheeks redden again. “I’m sorry if I was out of line, Mr. Critic, I mean Mr. Carter. You won’t tell my parents, will you?”
“Tell them what?” I wink at her, and she gives me a small smile.
I glance at the menu, then back at her. “What’s your recommendation?”
“The breakfast special is my favorite,” she says. “It has a lot of food, and I tend to eat a lot.”
I chuckle. “Well, in that case, I’ll have that.”
She nods, scribbling down my order as her father comes over with the coffee and a bowl of creamer. He sets it down in front of me and I watch as he pours the coffee.
“I hope you’re enjoying your stay in Elmwood Falls,” Carson says. “Let us know if there’s anything we can help you with here. Elise will be happy to show you around.”
Elise’s eyes widen, and I can tell it’s an idea she’s not too fond of, given our earlier exchange. But I’m thinking that maybe it is a good idea. After all, I am partly here on vacation, and I don’t think I’d mind a tour of the town.
I smile at Elise. “I think I’d like that, actually. That is, if she doesn’t mind.”
Before Elise can answer, her father does. “She certainly doesn’t, Mr. Carter.”
My eyes are on Elise. “How does that sound?”
“Sure,” she says, a little dejectedly. “Whenever you want, it’s fine.”
“Great, then it’s settled.” Her father’s smile widens as he claps his hands together. “Elise will get your breakfast order in.”
Elise hesitates before shuffling toward the kitchen.
“Whatever you need during your stay here,” Carson says, “Elise will see to it.”
I nod. “Thank you. It’s appreciated.”
He stands there in silence for a moment more, until I assure him I don’t need anything right this second. I’m used to being treated like royalty in the dining world. No one wants a critic to leave a negative review of their business, so they often go above and beyond to be impressive. In my years as a food critic, I’ve often felt like an actor in a well-rehearsed play, where everyone knows their lines and the scenery is meticulously set. The authenticity of the culinary experience often gets lost in this performance. They see the critic, not the person, and their efforts to impress often overshadow the genuine passion and artistry that I yearn to discover.
It’s a double-edged sword. While my critiques can uplift establishments, they can also inadvertently strip the dining experience of its spontaneity and sincerity. What I truly seek is the unguarded moment of culinary brilliance, the unscripted passion of a chef wholly absorbed in their craft, unaware of critical eyes. Maybe that’s why Elmwood Falls, with its unpretentious charm and Emma’s unassuming yet fervent dedication to her baking, intrigues me more than I care to admit.
When the bell jingles, signaling new arrivals, Carson reluctantly tells me to enjoy my meal as he helps the new patrons. Their eyes briefly fall on me, and I recognize a few from yesterday’s charity event, although their names escape me.
I look out the window as people walk around the small town. The diner’s located in a small shopping area, and everyone seems to be spending their Saturday morning indulging. It’s the kind of relaxed, unhurried pace you expect in a place like this. I’m looking forward to getting out tonight and blending in with the small-town crowd.
So far, nothing I’ve seen in Elmwood Falls is like Paris or even Italy. In Paris, the air is thick with the history of culinary masters. Every bistro and café feels like a gateway to centuries-old traditions. The streets are an endless parade of sophisticated flavors and elegant dining experiences. In Italy, it’s the rustic charm, the passionate embrace of simple, fresh ingredients turned into culinary masterpieces. There’s an artistry in the casual trattorias and the lively markets, a sense of life being lived out loud.
But here in Elmwood Falls, it’s a different world. The pace is slower, the culinary scene more modest. The charm here isn’t in historic grandeur or vibrant street life. It’s in the genuineness of the community, the straightforwardness of the food. There’s no pretense of haute cuisine, no race to outdo the chef next door. Instead, there’s a comforting simplicity, a focus on familiar flavors that speak of home and hearth.
It’s a contrast that’s both refreshing and a bit disorienting for someone like me. In a town like Elmwood Falls, the dining experience is less about the food’s innovation and more about the warmth it brings, the way it ties into the tapestry of small-town life. It’s an experience that’s as far removed from the culinary theatrics of Paris or the passionate intensity of Italy as one can get, yet it has its own unique appeal—an unspoken promise of culinary discoveries yet to be made.
Elise brings me my breakfast, and I eat, savoring each bite. Much like Emma’s brownies, I find that it’s not too hard to mess up scrambled eggs, bacon, and pancakes. However, I’m impressed that there’s something to the pancakes that makes me feel at home. I can’t quite put a finger on it, but it pleases me.
After I finish eating several minutes later, Carson insists that my meal is on the house, then he tells Elise to give me a tour of their small town. I open the door, letting her walk out first.
“Where do you want to go first, Mr. Carter?” she asks, a hint of nervousness in her words.
“First,” I tell her, “please call me Alex. Second, what’s your favorite place in town?”
She thinks for a second, then points in the distance. “The park. I go there all the time when I’m doing my homework. My mom prefers me to do it at the diner, but that’s really because she wants to look over my shoulder. I can’t concentrate when she does that.”
I chuckle as we start walking. “I know the feeling. My mother always did the same to me. She did that because it was important to her for me to make good grades in order to stay in the boarding school she sent me to.” As we stroll toward the park, I add, “My mother was quite the academic herself. Always believed in excellence. She had this unwavering idea about the power of words and knowledge.”
Elise nods, kicking a pebble along the path. “Did you like that? Being pushed to do well?”
I pause, considering the question. “In a way, yes. It drove me to achieve things I might not have otherwise. I grew up with her constantly pushing me to analyze and critique.”
She looks up at me, a curious glint in her eye. “Is that why you became a food critic?”
I let out a half-laugh. “Maybe. I think I wanted something that was the polar opposite of literature and academia. Food was tangible, sensory. But the habit of critiquing, of dissecting every detail, that stuck. I also saw myself as someone who would travel to all the exotic places in the world.”
“Why are you here, then?” she asks as we walk into the park. “Elmwood Falls is definitely not exotic.”
“Well…” I let out a loud sigh. It wasn’t my idea to come here. I wanted to go to Cancun, but my editor insisted that I do a series of articles about small towns. For some reason, she decided I should go to Elmwood Falls. “It was chosen by my editor,” I tell Elise. “But I also wanted to get away. The night before I left, I decided that maybe Elmwood Falls would give me the chance to think about things.”
“What kind of things?”
I keep my focus ahead. I don’t want to tell Elise too much about my issues back at home. I do know I need to face them. Still, she’s only a teenager, and I’ve no desire to confide in anyone, let alone a kid I don’t know.
“Tell me about this park,” I say, changing the subject.
She glances up at me, then looks away.
“Well, it’s old,” she tells me. “It’s been here since the town was founded. There’s a legend that it’s lucky, especially the old Elm tree in the center.”
“Lucky?” I ask, my interest piqued despite myself.
“Yeah, they say if you make a wish under it, it’s bound to come true. Kind of silly, but it’s a nice thought.” She shrugs, a small smile playing on her lips. “People come here for picnics, festivals, or just to hang out. It’s like the heart of Elmwood Falls.”
I nod, finding myself unexpectedly intrigued by the quaintness of the town and its traditions. “Sounds like this town holds onto its roots pretty strongly.”
“Definitely,” she agrees. “Sometimes, that’s a good thing. Other times, it can be a little…much. But mostly, it’s a nice place to be.”
“What about that?” I point to the trail that leads to the waterfalls.
“That’s one of my favorite places to be,” Elise says. “I had my first kiss there.”
I raise a brow, but keep silent.
“Will you take me?”
“Sure.”
As we walk, the path narrows, leading to the sound of cascading water that grows louder with each step. We’re both quiet, and as we reach the waterfall, its spray casting rainbows in the sunlight, Elise turns to me, her expression earnest. “Isn’t it pretty?”
I take in the view, the sound of the waterfall filling the air between us. “It certainly is remarkable.”
We stand there for several more minutes before we agree to turn back and finish the tour.
Elise takes me to a few more places in town, telling me what she knows about the histories of the buildings. I find myself impressed that she knows so much of the town’s past. So, I asked her about it.
“I’ve always been interested in history,” she tells me with a shrug. “I’ve thought about being a historian or something like that, but there’s not much need for a historian in Elmwood Falls.”
“You could be a teacher,” I tell her. “Or what about a tourist guide? I imagine your festivals bring in a lot of new people. Take the children’s charity event. I’m quite sure this town doesn’t have that many people living here. You could show them around, the way you’re doing to me.”
“I never thought of that,” she says. “But there’s not exactly a tourist business here.”
“Why not start one? Every type of business starts somewhere. Your town, Elise, can blossom with newcomers. It can give people a place to call home away from home.” I smile down at her. Her eyes twinkle at the idea. “Or you can even extend your horizon. Leave Elmwood Falls and see what the world has to offer.”
“For someone who everyone else thinks is a jerk, you’re not that bad, Mr. Carter. I mean, Alex. Sorry.”
I smile down at her. “It’s okay. And is that what people think of me?”
She nods. “They don’t like what you said about Elmwood Falls Heritage Bakery. They think you’re cynical and snobbish. And Emma’s worried that Mrs. Marlow will be angry about what you said.”
“Mrs. Marlow?”
Elise nods. “She owns Heritage Bakery. She’s really, really rich, so she and her husband are on some kind of world cruise or something. Mrs. Marlow made the bakery what it is. My best friend, Ashley, said that Mrs. Marlow refused to let Emma bake her stuff. But while Mrs. Marlow is away, Emma’s been kind of slowly introducing her pastries because she wants to buy a bakery someday.”
“So everything she’s baking now are her own recipes?” I ask.
“Most,” Elise says after thinking for a minute. “From what I remember, the brownies and croissants are Mrs. Marlow’s recipes. They’re a favorite, so Emma keeps them on hand. But my mom says everyone’s been buying Emma’s because she’s wonderful. I’m lactose intolerant, so I can’t taste them.”
“That’s too bad,” I tell her.
Elise looks at the watch on her arm and gasps. “I have to get going. I need to finish my homework for Monday, because I can’t work on it tomorrow.” She pauses. “Is that okay with you?”
“Of course,” I say. “I’ve enjoyed the tour immensely. And I appreciate you taking the time.”
“Oh, and before I forget, thank you for not telling on me that you came in yesterday and I gave you a hard time. It’s just, I like Emma a lot.”
“I get it,” I tell her with a reassuring smile. “But just between you and me, I value genuine effort and honesty far more than a staged show. After years in this line of work, I’ve developed a knack for spotting the difference. There are those who try too hard to impress, and then there are those who barely put in any effort. In the end, neither fairs well.”
“Oh, I get it, I think.”
I shrug. “It’s nothing personal. Just one man’s opinion.”
She nods, looking as though she wants to say more, but changes her mind with a sigh. “Well, I better get going.”
“Right. You’ve got homework. Well, I appreciate you giving me a tour, Elise.”
She smiles at me and starts to walk away, but she pauses and turns back to me. “I don’t think you’re as bad as you make everyone think you are, Mr. Carter, Alex.”
When she walks away, her words echo in my mind. It’s not like I try to make people think one way or another about me.
I start walking in the opposite direction of Elise until I find myself standing in front of Elmwood Falls Heritage Bakery. Once again, it’s packed. I open the door and barely hear the bell jingle. Emma’s back is to me as she’s slipping a tray into the double oven. Most of the cases are empty, save for a few brownies and croissants. I smile to myself, knowing now that the pastries are likely the owner’s. In a wicker basket on top of the counter, I see crumbs and a sign that reads: Free Croissants.
I wait until Emma turns around. She looks tired. It must be a rough workday for her, I’m guessing. I gesture to the croissant basket. “Guess I was too late for the free ones.”
“You wouldn’t like them, anyway,” Emma says matter-of-factly as she turns toward an oven that started to go off. She quickly grabs an oven mitt and removes a tray of sizzling hot tarts. The aroma of it fills the bakery, stirring my stomach into a silent protest. I find myself wishing there was at least one of those free croissants left for me to “liberate” discreetly.
“I don’t know about that,” I say with a smile. “Croissants happen to be my favorite type of pastry, especially when they’re not held captive behind glass.”
Emma turns to face me, holding her tray a few inches away from the counter. Her expression shifts from surprise to a kind of bemused skepticism. “Really? And here I thought food critics preferred their pastries with a side of pretentiousness.” She sets the tray down with a heavy sigh. “Want them or not? I’m kind of busy.”
“Actually, I’d rather have a taste of yours,” I tell her. Again, she looks at me with shock. “I take it these croissants are Mrs. Marlow’s, the actual owner of the place?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” I say. “Have a good day, Emma.”
I turn to walk away, and despite the urge of turning to see if she was watching me, I head toward the inn. As I walk, my phone chirps in my pocket. Looking at my caller ID, I see it’s my editor calling. I answer.
“Hey, Roxanne.”
“Alex! How’re you liking Elmwood Falls?” Roxanne’s accent drawls out. Sometimes I wonder if she’s trying to sound more southern than she actually is.
“It’s…nice,” I say. “Certainly peaceful here. I don’t think I’ve ever walked more.”
“I’m glad you’re liking it, Alex.” I’ve worked with Roxanne for many years, and I know her well enough to know that she’s got something up her sleeve.
“What’s going on, Rox?” I ask her.
“How would you like to extend your stay beyond a week?”
I consider the proposition. While it wasn’t in my original plan to stay here longer than the week, I must admit the idea is appealing. I stop walking and look toward Elmwood Falls Heritage Bakery. If nothing else, I look forward to seeing more of Emma.
I can’t explain it, but I’m drawn to her.
“What do you need me to stay for?” I ask Roxanne.
“Elmwood Falls is hosting the Great American Broadcasting Network. They’re sponsoring the national bake-off. I signed you up as a judge!”
I frown. I’ve seen the competition many times, and I’ve even attended a few in Paris when I was there on business. But I’ve never been interested in judging the competition.
“Why would you do that without asking me first?”
Roxanne lets out a loud, long sigh, the kind she does when she knows she’s going to get her way, no matter what I want.
“It could be good for you, Alex. For your career.”
“I don’t want to judge the contest, Roxanne. My career’s fine.”
“Listen, Alex, it’s not just about what you want. This is a significant opportunity for the paper. We’re talking about enhancing our public image, strengthening our community relations. Your participation in this event is pivotal. You know how crucial it is for us to maintain a strong presence in community events, especially one as significant as the Great American Broadcasting Network’s national bake-off.” She pauses to let her words sink in before continuing. “Refusing to be a part of this might be perceived as a lack of commitment to our paper’s values and to the broader goals we’ve set. In our industry, public engagement is key.”
There’s another brief silence before she continues. “I don’t need to remind you of the competitive nature of our field. We can’t afford to have key journalists on our team who aren’t fully aligned with our goals of public engagement and community involvement. I’m sure you understand the implications, Alex.”
“I get it,” I say, despite the knot forming in my stomach, “we need to rub elbows with the public, wave our banner at every shiny event. But since when did becoming a judge in a baking contest become a benchmark for journalistic integrity?”
I can almost picture Roxanne rolling her eyes. “It’s not just about the contest, Alex. It’s about perception, about showing we’re more than just headlines and bylines. Think about it.”
I sigh, looking back at the bakery. The irony isn’t lost on me—me, judging a bake-off? Ridiculous. But then again, I’d be able to be in the company of a certain baker for a while longer. Once again, I don’t know why the idea appeals to me, but it does.
“All right, Rox,” I say. “You win.”
“I always do, Alex.” Roxanne chuckles. “Keep up the good work.”
I end the call, letting out a sharp breath before continuing my way back to the inn. I suppose I could look at it another way.
I don’t have to go back home and face things right away.