Chapter 19
The Fourth of July at Honey Lake looks like America threw a party and invited every patriotic decoration ever manufactured, then deep-fried the whole thing.
It’s late afternoon, and the festival is in full swing. By the looks of it, all of Vermont showed up.
The lake sparkles under the July sun, crowded with boats of every size—pontoons draped in bunting, kayaks with tiny American flags stuck everywhere, and one fishing boat that looks like it lost a bet and had to dress up as Uncle Sam’s birthday cake.
The air is alive with the sounds of summer—loud enough to wake the dead. Kids shriek with sugar-fueled joy as if they’ve been mainlining cotton candy. Baseball bats crack from impromptu games on every patch of grass.
Speakers blast everything from “Born in the U.S.A.” to what sounds like a mariachi version of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” while boat engines hum and swimmers splash as if the lake is the only thing standing between them and spontaneous combustion.
The smells are even better—charcoal grills pumping out enough smoke to take down half of Vermont, kettle corn you can practically taste from fifty yards away, and funnel cake mixing with sunscreen and that unmistakable festival scent—part excitement, part sugar, and part barely controlled chaos with a strong chance of heatstroke.
“I can’t believe we pulled this off,” I announce, stepping back to admire our booth with the kind of pride usually reserved for edible art, sheer determination, and a deeply questionable relationship with craft store credit cards.
Thanks to my personal craft store incident, the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery booth looks like the Fourth of July got a little carried away. Bunting drapes every available surface, and star-shaped lights are flirting with strobe territory.
We’ve really committed to the theme.
“Pulled it off?” Suze snorts, adjusting a banner that reads Sweet Land of Liberty Desserts in glittery letters that hurt to look at and may have long-term consequences.
“Effie, we’ve created a visual assault.”
“In the best way possible,” Lily adds loyally, straightening a display of flag cupcakes that somehow survived transport. “It’s festive. Potentially seizure-inducing, but in a good way.”
“We shouldn’t be winning anything,” Suze says. “We should be arrested.”
“If Coop is doing the arresting, I guess I won’t mind so much,” I say.
“Me either,” Lily quips, and just like that, my hit list grows by one.
Our competition clearly had the same idea in the decorating department—just with restraint and, I’m guessing, professional help from people who know the difference between festive and needing a sedative.
The hardware store’s booth looks as if it was designed by someone who actually knows what they’re doing: elegant star-spangled streamers, tasteful lighting that doesn’t require medical attention, and music playing at a volume that won’t cause permanent hearing damage.
“Look at that,” Suze mutters, eyeing their setup with the kind of resentment that comes from looking like a clearance rack at the dollar store. “I heard they hired actual decorators. Show-offs with their sense of proportion and basic design skills.”
“I still say we should have gone bigger with the glitter,” I say, watching sunlight bounce off our display in ways that could probably signal extraterrestrial life.
If a spaceship lands and is looking to kidnap someone, I’m nominating Carlotta and Aunt Cat first. Uncle Jimmy can go, too—for public safety.
And if we’re using that criteria, I should probably start packing.
Have I mentioned the sugar is going to my head?
“Any more glitter and we’d be visible from other solar systems.” Lottie laughs, emerging from behind the booth, with Noah and Everett in tow as if she’s leading a parade of extremely good-looking men who double as emergency response.
All three of them are wearing matching red, white, and blue aprons that make them look like part of a very attractive cooking show I’d watch even if the food was questionable.
“Well, well,” Lily muses. “Look what the star-spangled cat dragged in. The usual suspects with their big throuple energy.”
She’s not wrong. Also, Lottie Lemon is one of the luckiest women alive—despite that whole corpse-finding hobby of hers.
“The booth looks fantastic,” Noah says, clearly high on flag-themed brownies. “Though I think I might be developing a glitter addiction. Is that normal?”
“Nothing about this is normal,” Everett observes with the dry wit that makes him everyone’s favorite judge, his eyes lingering on Lottie in a way that suggests his interest extends beyond baked goods. He’s into her cupcakes. We get it.
He nods. “That said, I see potential.”
“Speaking of abnormal situations,” Suze mutters to Lily, not bothering to lower her voice, “how long is this supposed to go on?”
“Which part?” Lily asks. “Because I feel like there are layers.”
I roll my eyes. “You two have been tracking this like it’s a competitive sport.”
“I’m not tracking anything,” Suze says. “I’m waiting for it to end.”
“You say that,” Lily murmurs, watching Lottie with open curiosity.
“She’s not ending anything,” I say. “She’s thriving.”
“That’s exactly the problem,” Suze mutters. “And my sweet son is caught in the crossfire.”
“Mom.” Noah shakes his head.
But I nod, because we all know how this ends. In a bed built for three.
“I can hear you,” Lottie calls sweetly, not sounding particularly bothered.
“We know,” Lily trills back. “We’re not trying to be subtle.”
Noah clears his throat, his cheeks a little red—either from the heat or the attention. “Maybe we should focus on the booth competition?”
“Oh, we’re focused,” Lily assures him. “Very focused on the dynamics at play here.” She winks at Everett, and she’s testing her luck.
Everett looks completely unbothered by being the subject of festival gossip. “This may be the most entertaining booth here. What’s the judging criteria?”
“For the booth or the contest for Lottie’s heart?” Suze asks, already unimpressed.
“Suze,” Lottie warns, fighting a smile.
“What?” Suze bats her eyes and misses innocent by a mile. “If Mayor Nash is judging on visual appeal, he should consider the whole package—decorations, food, and the overall aesthetic of the staff.”
“The aesthetic?” Noah repeats, not entirely sure how to take that.
“Well,” Lily jumps in, clearly enjoying herself, “you two do add a certain appeal to our setup. Very all-American. The kind of men who make women want to salute something other than the flag.”
“Lily!” I gasp, trying not to laugh.
“What? I’m being honest. These are premium examples of American masculinity. We should be advertising that.”
“Charming,” Suze mutters. Then she spots someone approaching our booth with the determined stride of people hypnotized by glitter. “Customers incoming. Try to look professional—and maybe don’t say anything that requires an apology.”
That’s a big ask for this crew.
Historically speaking.
A family of four approaches, the parents already a little overwhelmed by the sensory assault that is our booth while their kids bounce like they’ve hit the festival sugar early.
“Can we get four flag cupcakes and a dozen of those star cookies?” the mother asks, raising her voice over a mariachi version of “Yankee Doodle” that could go either way.
“Coming right up!” Lily chirps, boxing up their order. “That’ll be twenty-two dollars, and thank you for supporting the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery, one cupcake at a time.”
As they walk away, the father mutters, “I think that booth just gave me a contact high.”
“Mission accomplished,” I declare after all but creating a public health hazard in the name of pastry sales.
From across the festival grounds, I can hear the enthusiastic announcer at the Sparks and Stripes Speed Dating pavilion calling out rotation numbers like he’s running a very romantic cattle auction.
Through the crowd, I catch glimpses of Niki working the event as if she’s running for Miss America, her red bandana top and strategic smile devastating the male population of three counties.
She’s got a line of potential suitors stretching halfway to the lake, all of them looking like they’ve just discovered the meaning of life involves three minutes alone with my sister.
And knowing my sister, she’d give them all seven.
Even more impressive is Loretta, who appears to have turned speed dating into a form of gladiatorial combat where men compete for the privilege of hearing about her extensive divorce history.
She’s holding court like a glamorous empress, and I swear I can see dollar signs in her eyes as she sizes up each candidate’s earning potential with the efficiency of a CPA in tax season.
“Your sister is going to break some hearts tonight,” Lily observes, following my gaze toward the romantic battlefield.
“That’s the plan,” I reply. “Niki believes in equal-opportunity heartbreak. She’s been repaying the male population for years. It’s very democratic of her, when you think about it.”
“Speaking of missions,” Lottie says, checking her watch, “Mayor Nash should be making his rounds soon. Everyone ready to charm our way to victory?”
The mention of Mayor Nash makes my stomach do that familiar flip that reminds me I’m supposed to assassinate the man about to judge our booth. Not exactly a common problem.
I absently pat my purse where Buttercup, my trusty Glock, nestles next to breath mints and receipts like the world’s most inappropriate accessory.
The silencer’s wrapped in a red, white, and blue scarf because apparently even assassination gear gets festive on the Fourth.
Uncle Jimmy’s deadline is tonight, and when the fireworks start—with all that noise and chaos—it’ll be the perfect cover for a little municipal downsizing.
Not that I’m thrilled about it. Mayor Nash seems like a genuinely nice guy—he helps old ladies cross the street and remembers birthdays. Unfortunately, that’s not part of the criteria.
My dog likes him.
Which feels like a betrayal.
Timing-wise, it’s not ideal—celebrating independence while taking out a public servant—but my moral compass has been pointing to flexible for a while now.
“Oh, we’re ready,” Lily declares, eyeing Noah and Everett with great interest. “Between Effie’s glitter explosion and our premium man candy, we’ve got this locked up.”
“Man candy?” Everett raises an eyebrow, more amused than offended.
“Premium grade,” Lily confirms with a wink. “Locally sourced, organic, free-range masculinity.”
“I’m not sure whether to be flattered or file a complaint,” Noah teases.
“Be flattered,” Lottie advises as her cheeks grow pink. “These ladies know quality when they see it. Effie, are you ready?”
“As ready as we can be,” I say, trying not to think about Uncle Jimmy’s deadline—or the fact that Watson has developed a serious crush on my intended target.
Some Fourth of July celebrations are subdued—tasteful decorations, quiet reflection. Others look like freedom exploded in a craft store.
Ours comes with a side of innuendo.
I’m starting to think it’s the more honest version.
And I’m oddly proud of that.