7. “NO PROMISES, NO DEMANDS. LOVE IS A BATTLEFIELD.”
“NO PROMISES, NO DEMANDS. LOVE IS A BATTLEFIELD.”
Jocelyn’s breathing hadn’t calmed down until she parked in town. For all she knew, Soren was still in her house. She couldn’t think about him. Not what he said or what he might want to talk about. It was all ridiculous.
The street was still quiet as she walked Cordelia towards the wharf. The scarecrows were out and about, uniquely decorated to reflect each store’s aesthetic and draw attention for the judges today.
The judges were an elite board of grade schoolers prepared to abuse their authority and take bribes of candy. It was the only form of corruption that Hideaway Bay allowed, and now it was an annual tradition.
“Jocelyn, dear, I thought that was you!” Astrid paused from sweeping outside of the Wilde Kettle. “Well, good morning, Cordelia. I’d bend to pet you, but my hip’s been in a fit for days. Jocelyn, did I see you limping?”
“I twisted my ankle last night.”
Astrid clicked her tongue. “Oh, that’s a shame. Let me get you something for the inflammation.”
“That’s okay—”
“Now, now, don’t argue. I know a thing or two about aches and pains, and I won’t take no for an answer. You just stay here while I mix a tincture up. Maybe take in our beautiful scarecrow. Wren designed it this year.”
“Thanks. I’ll do that.” Jocelyn never went inside the Wilde Kettle on account of all the dust and cats lying around.
As she waited on the sidewalk for Astrid to return, she admired her scarecrow as instructed, smiling at the creativity. Judging by the flowy skirt, long blonde hair made of hay, and the feathered top hat, it was supposed to be Stevie Nicks.
Clever.
“Here you are, Jocelyn.” Astrid handed her a brown bag of herbs. “You take that down to Esther and have her steep it in hot water for you. It’ll have that swelling down in no time and should help with the pain.”
“Will it cause drowsiness?”
“Not at all. I cut it with yerba so it should give you a nice kick in the ass.”
“Thanks, Astrid. What do I owe you?”
“Don’t insult me. You just be sure to send those children up here with their ballots. Tell them we have candied apples—the good caramel kind, not those red ones the jeweler’s pushing.”
It was ground-level corruption at its finest. “I’ll be sure to let the judges know.”
After Jocelyn stopped by the Harbor Crumb to get her tea brewed, she headed to the green.
The tables were already set up and draped in deep red linens with miniature hay bale centerpieces.
Jocelyn unloaded the bowl of Halloween candy from her tote and set it beside the wooden ballot boxes—one box for the chili cookoff votes and one for the scarecrows.
Cordelia perked up the moment she spotted Rufus sleeping in the gazebo, so Jocelyn took a few minutes to walk over and let the dogs play. Rufus was older than dirt, so he didn’t have much pep, but Cordelia pranced around him regardless, being her usual spastic self.
“Hey, Joce,” Lola approached the gazebo with a large box in her arms. “You’re here early.”
“Morning, Lola. I’m meeting the new musician.”
“Oh, that must be the girl I saw performing on the corner the other day. Talented. Where did you find her?”
“I think she found us first. Wren got her card for me.”
“Well, I’m glad. We need a new female musician to mix things up. Maybe get some good feminist rage music on the setlist and we can have ourselves a party.”
“Uh, I think she does mostly folksy covers of stuff from the early two-thousands and the nineties.”
“I’m gonna ask if she knows that “Goodbye Earl” song. That gets all the girls going.”
Jocelyn laughed. “Nothin’ like a song about murdering an abusive ex.”
“Hey,” Lola shrugged. “Earl had to die.”
She wasn’t wrong.
As Jocelyn continued setting up and dressing the tables for the day, Lola unloaded a variety of paints and brushes at the pumpkin painting station.
She might have blue hair and make a living selling adult toys at Knotty & Nice, but she started her career as a preschool art teacher, so she still volunteered whenever the town had an arts-and-crafts request.
“Paige should be here soon with the pumpkins. Gus is driving them in on the hayride wagon.”
“Perfect.” Jocelyn snapped back the lid of her tea and winced at the first sip. Ugh, what the hell was Astrid giving her?
Saturdays were always busier than Fridays due to people’s work schedules. The shoppers wouldn’t be out for another hour or two, but the store owners were already dragging out awnings and tables, setting up goods to sell that day.
As a recognized board member and the town’s event chairperson, Jocelyn never completed a single task without interruption. Someone was always asking her something.
Where were the outlets?
Was it okay to park there?
Was there Wi-Fi access?
What time did the chili cookoff begin?
All of this information had been emailed to everyone who needed it multiple times, but the questions persisted. Jocelyn’s job was to keep things flowing.
Mayor Quimby loved to showboat, but rarely knew anything about the logistics of their festivals. Then there was Simon Mosely, jack of all trades and master of none. Simon liked to steal the mayor’s limelight by dressing up as Hideaway Bay’s mascot, Captain Claws.
And of course, none of this would be possible without their number one sponsor, Hawthorne Fishery.
Jocelyn rolled her eyes at the Hawthorne’s contributed scarecrow on one of the lampposts by the wharf.
Their scarecrow was usually a sea captain, but this year it wore a designer suit—most likely one stolen from Soren’s closet, a pretentious mocking of his new position as CEO put together by his brothers, no doubt.
By the time she choked down her tea and chased it with a chocolate bar, her foot was feeling better. Convinced Astrid was some sort of herbalist witch, she took Cordelia for a walk up Main Street to check on the shop owners and see if anyone needed anything.
As merchants waved and called good morning, Jocelyn felt her day shift.
Her volunteer work grounded her in a way her regular job could not.
It got her out of the house and into the community.
It gave her the opportunity to help others and show some gratitude for the melting pot of people that had been her family since her mom and dad moved across the country and abandoned her a decade ago.
“Excuse me, Jocelyn Collins?”
Jocelyn turned to find a brunette woman holding a guitar case. “You must be Camille.”
“So nice to meet you. The woman at the café told me where to find you.”
Jocelyn reached out a hand. “You found me.”
She shifted her guitar to shake Jocelyn’s hand and revealed a round pregnant belly. Another pregnant woman just about her age. It was like the universe was trying to pick on her.
“Thank you again for the job.”
“Of course. The whole town’s been enjoying your sets. It’s time we give you a bigger stage. If you follow me down to the wharf, I can show you where to set up.”
By the time she showed Camille where she’d be performing for the day, the townspeople participating in the chili cookoff showed up. The briny autumn air mixed with woodsmoke and the sharp bite of warm chili seasonings as several crockpots warmed along the tables.
“Jocelyn, we’re out of outlets.”
“Already?” She’d put several power strips out that morning. “I’ll have one of my helpers get some more.”
By ten o’clock the vendors officially opened.
The street filled with pedestrians as Camille’s angelic voice carried over the murmurs of shoppers.
She strummed familiar folksy tunes on the guitar, favorite classics like Bobby McGee, and covers of Johnny Cash and The Cranberries.
People on the grass lingered to sing along and hear what she might play next.
Everyone seemed to enjoy the new musician, praising the alternative edge she brought to old classics whenever they placed their votes at Jocelyn’s table.
Some even laid blankets down to enjoy the concert while they tested chili samples and nibbled on pastries from the bakery while sipping hot cider and pumpkin lattes from the café.
Families wandered through, placing scarecrow votes and testing what each participant claimed was ‘the best chili they’ll ever try.’ Jocelyn had no doubt that the whole town would be farting up a storm by dinner.
“She’s the fifth pregnant woman I saw today,” Mrs. Larkin commented, eyes on Camille as she slipped her vote into the ballot box. “I think Hideaway is having a bit of a baby boom.”
“Or an epidemic,” Jocelyn muttered.
“What’s that, now?”
“I said thanks for your vote.” Jocelyn smiled.
“Well, between you and me, Harold is still using too much cayenne. But he’ll never listen.”
Mrs. Larkin moved on, but her comment lingered.
There were a lot of pregnant women. Far more than five by Jocelyn’s count. And once she took her eyes off the parade of bellies and actually looked at the women’s faces, she realized a lot of them were friends from high school and women from the library’s book club.
What were they feeding the men around here?
“What on earth’s putting that sour puss on your face on such a nice fall day?” Ellen approached, holding a sample-sized bowl of chili.
Jocelyn looked up at the librarian and asked, “Does it seem like there are a lot of pregnant women around?”
Her friend scanned the crowd. “No more than usual.”
“Really? Seems like a lot to me.”
“Well, if that’s the case, you’ve got no one to blame but yourself. Those new books sold out in one day. Keep writing those sexy heroes, and people will keep having sex. I’d bet your words helped fertilize half those eggs out there.”
Jocelyn scoffed. “You can’t blame me for this.”
“Sure, I can. You’ve got the whole town all horned-up over Viggo the Well-Endowed and Tormund the Impressively Thick.”
“Oh, come on, Ellen. I’d never name a hero Tormund.”
She tossed her chili bowl into the trash bin then flipped open a small spiral scratch pad and jotted down a note. “Cumin and oregano.”
“What are you doing?”