Chapter 12 #2
It’s her turn to be caught off guard by what seems like a random question, but as far as I’m concerned, it works because she doesn’t ask a follow-up question.
I say, “We have several homemade loaves of sourdough and some mini Bundts that are more cake than bread. They’re very delicious. Seems like you could use a sweet to brighten your day.”
Brushing me off, she then presses, tossing out prying, personal questions about Lane, Kai, and me. Okay, I’m not so pure of heart that I don’t struggle with wanting to hide under the table or come up fighting.
Tending to the paying customers, I dismissively mutter, “That’s none of your business.”
“Do you feel threatened or jealous, given LSJ’s history with Xoe?”
“What are you—?” But it doesn’t matter what she‘s talking about, does it? She’s looking for viral clicks and I’m serving baked goods today.
“I hear your bakery is in financial trouble. Perhaps you’re using his popularity—though shaky at the moment—to enhance your bakery brand.”
Something about that question stings like a bee—and not the cute fuzzy kind. Now, we have everyone’s attention. I recognize many people in line and don’t like the idea of them knowing that the Busy Bee is in trouble.
Faltering, I say, “Of course not.”
When I don’t say more to defend myself, it somehow gets quiet, or maybe it’s just silence inside of me. I could sure use Bibi’s advice right now. Even my father—a veritable boxer on ice skates—to tell me where to strike next.
But neither comes. Instead, I hear something else, a voice remarkably like my own, rising up like the sun as it has on so many early mornings when I get up for work. My spine lengthens. My chin lifts.
I could cower. I could defend myself to her and the town. Instead, I remain standing, a quiet fortress of confidence and stare down the reporter. Sometimes not engaging in someone’s nonsense is a more powerful statement than anything I could say.
She can try to make me uncomfortable, concoct stories, and shout them to the world, but I know the truth and it’s that I’m not going anywhere, even if I have to bake out of the kitchen in my house on Sweet Corn Court.
The reporter draws back as the people around her close in, likely curious about what’s going on. Then, I notice their warm looks—ready to come to my defense—are turned my way.
Leah, stance wide, and hands on her hips, is backed by Juniper. Gracie, who I happen to know can wield a jumbo dictionary like nobody’s business, approaches. Her expression is serious in a way that it only is when the two love interests in our book club romance novels aren’t communicating.
To the woman with the microphone and the cameraman, Leah says, “This is the Happy Hockey Days festival. Emphasis on happy. If you’re here to pester our vendors, spread gossip, or do anything other than celebrate all things hockey, our security team will escort you off the premises.”
The camera guy is gone in a flash. Meanwhile, the reporter, or whatever she calls herself, looks at each of us as if weighing how much of a pest she wants to be. Peering at the bakery table, she says, “Well, those muffins do look tasty.”
Smiling, I bag one up for her. “On the house.”
At the woman’s back, Leah mutters, “Now, behave yourself.”
After that brush with near-infamy, Jess gives me a break so I can enjoy the festival with my family. My family. We agree to swap stations later so she can enjoy some time at the event too.
Main Street has been transformed into a winter wonderland of hockey-themed activities.
There are craft stations where little kids can make their own hockey sticks out of pool noodles, a face painting booth run by the high school art students, and at least six different food trucks offering everything from maple syrup snow cones to barbecue.
Plus, there is a buffet of all things corn-related: street corn, corn bread, corn fritters, corn dogs, and more.
The charity game between the Knights and a team of local volunteers is scheduled for two o’clock, with proceeds going toward community enrichment programs—free spaghetti dinners for families in need, youth activities, and events at the senior center.
If the Knights win, they’re matching the funds raised.
The opposition—made up of locals and retired players—has an anonymous donor who pledged to double the funds raised if they’re the winners.
The pot is heating up because Jake Twiles, an NHL player and Olympic gold medalist, now plays for the Knights.
Kai is in his element, dragging Lane and me from booth to booth. He asks, “Can we get our faces painted to match?”
Lane doesn’t seem like the face paint type, but he says, “Like, matching Knights logos?”
“I was thinking Spider-Man, but that’s even better!” Kai jumps up and down.
“That can be arranged. First, we have a hot chocolate contest to win,” Lane says.
In a matter of weeks, I’ve watched this man transform from professional athlete to devoted uncle—father figure—with an ease that takes my breath away.
I love him and the anticipation of living out that love sits sweet on my tongue, like the first bite of a perfect Kringle—buttery layers of promise, with the best part still to come.
But there’s a bittersweetness as well. I hear murmurings about Lane and me, Kai too. Must be speculation after the incident with the reporter, but there are regular people with their cameras lifted, and I can’t help but wonder if they’re recording me and feeding the gossip mill.
Mrs. Gormely, our town nosy nelly—fitting since Bibi once confided that’s her first name—has nothing on the whispers that reach my ears today.
As the afternoon wears on, I start to notice things that nip at the edges of my mind, making me worry.
A group of young women follows Lane from booth to booth, giggling and taking not-so-subtle photos.
They whisper to each other when they see me, their expressions skeptical.
I even overhear one of them comment, “I mean, she’s pretty, but she’s just a small-town baker. What does she have that I don’t?”
The answer, unfortunately, might be “not much.” Especially if all too soon it’ll look like Lane’s father was right about me being some kind of gold digger.
I’m not, but the “final notice” document and back rent debt suggest I’ve just been after his money.
I’m going to have to face the reality that I’ll lose the bakery.
I have no doubt he’ll want to help because the man is generous that way, but I can’t accept it.
Not only because of the way it’ll seem, but because it means I’ve let Bibi down.
I wasn’t able to carry on her legacy. I feel like I have the word failure written across my forehead in face paint.
I push the thoughts away and focus on the hot chocolate contest where Lane is indeed dominating the competition.
He’s made it to the finals against Marsha Simmons (apparently, her secret ingredient is cornstarch) and, surprisingly, Beaumont Hammer, the Knights’ goalie (allegedly, his secret ingredient is something called cereal milk).
“I don’t have any secret ingredients,” Lane tells the gathered crowd with mock seriousness. “Anyone can do this. All it takes is patience and quality ingredients.”
Holding up the bag of vanilla bean marshmallows I made especially for today, I add, “And homemade marshmallows don’t hurt either.”
“My wife knows what she’s talking about.” Lane wraps an arm around my waist, and the casual way he says “my wife” makes warmth all mushy in my chest.
Then I catch sight of Coach Badaszek standing near the game area, and his expression stops me cold. He’s watching Lane with what looks like disappointment or maybe concern. When he notices me looking, he quickly turns away.
That can’t be good.
To keep things friendly, the hot chocolate contest results in a three-way tie, complete with chocolate gold medals. Lane gives his to Kai and he wears it proudly. The kid’s smile broadens.
Since during an ordinary game Kai can’t go to the locker room at the Ice Palace, Lane asks if he wants to help him get ready to play later.
Kai’s smile somehow gets even bigger and the sight of it calms my nerves.
I remind myself that I’ve been under stress too and am probably feeling extra sensitive to things like fan girls and grumbly coaches.
“Guys, I have to head back to the bakery booth.” I hug Kai and then drop a kiss on Lane’s cheek since I may not see him again before the game starts. “Good luck.”
He draws Kai and me to his sides in a family hug and says, “Luck? Not necessary. I have everything I need right here.”
That should make me feel better, but like a pendulum, I keep swinging from worry to calm and back again.
As I pass the main stage on my way back to the bakery booth, a few women approach me, begging to take selfies and asking me what it’s like to be married to LSJ.
They’re not vicious, but having lived a relatively private life, I don’t like this feeling of being scrutinized.
My skin crawls and my temperature spikes.
A man approaches, clad in black. He has a greasy mustache that I don’t think is a result of his taking part in the corn on the cob eating contest. I vaguely recognize him as the paparazzo who was at the bakery earlier.
His eyes rove over me, sending a shiver across my skin.
As I attempt to walk out of his path, he closes the space between us, getting into my personal space.
He hisses, “Listen, you and I could cut a deal. Answer some questions about the Sheridan family and I’ll make sure that little bakery of yours doesn’t go under. ”
I’ve never heard panic being described as a color, but right now it’s a stark shade of white. My mouth goes dry. I freeze. Then, as the rest of his comment catches up to me—that he wants info about Lane and thinks there’s an amount of money he can pay me to betray my husband—I see red.