Sparkledove

Chapter 23 #2

“Hi, everyone,” she began. “It—it was really an honor to be asked to judge the gingerbread competition tonight.” She smiled politely at the mayor standing nearby with the cup, then turned back to the crowd.

“So many beautiful offerin’s… I hope everyone got a good look at all the spectacular creations and will bid on their favorite one.

Most of you have been here before, so you know the drill.

” She pointed to the line of gingerbread display tables.

“Submit your bid in the boxes over there with your name, phone, address, the number of the entry you’re biddin’ on, and the bid amount.

If your bid wins, someone from the historical society will call you.

You can pick up your gingerbread house right here, this Sunday between 2:00 and 4:00 p.m. If you don’t have a phone, a volunteer will come by your place with the gingerbread house you won within three days.

So, keep your piggy bank close by. You can also buy table pictures of the fun tonight.

If you’d like a copy, our photographer, Father Fitzsimmons, will be here on Sunday to take your orders.

“Before I announce this year’s winner, allow me to say thanks for makin’ me feel so welcome. Sparkledove is really a—a cool, special place. My words don’t do the town, or all of you, justice. But please know I’m very grateful.”

She held up her notebook.

“Y’know, I took notes on all the entries, hoping to come up with some sort of expert baker rationale to explain my choice for first place.

I certainly get that this time of year has different meanin’s and traditions to different people.

But we get to enjoy those different meanin’s and traditions because we live in a free society.

A society that a lot of our sons and husbands have bravely fought for this past year.

Whether it’s been on supply ships crossin’ the Atlantic, in the Battle of Bataan, the Battle of the Coral Sea, Guadalcanal, and too many other places to name.

They stand and fight to preserve our right to come here and dance, make gingerbread houses, and send our kids to school where they can learn about George Washington, Ben Franklin, and Paul Revere.

I admit, when I was a kid, I didn’t pay much attention to those American heroes.

But I’m sure payin’ attention to ‘em now.

“So, with that in mind, it’s only fittin’ that first place for this year’s gingerbread competition goes to entry number sixteen, a gingerbread rendition of the Statue of Liberty complete with a lighted torch. Whoever you are, come on up and get your trophy.”

A joyful scream of “Eeeeeeeeee! That’s me.

That’s me!” came from the back of the center.

While some laughed and others applauded, Lupe scurried past tables and ran across the empty dance floor with her face beaming like a thousand-watt lightbulb and her hands excitedly waving in the air.

As she climbed the stairs to the stage, Charles Banyan muttered to himself under his false smile, “Christ. She can’t even speak proper English! ”

Meanwhile, sitting next to one another at a table, Stu Frey leaned over to Clara.

“Goldie seems pretty connected to me,” he said.

After the winner received her trophy and the band started up again, Charles walked with Goldie and Lupe over to the stage stairs, where Peter was now waiting.

“Thank you so much, Senorita Goldie!” the winner gushed.

“Hey, all the entries were anonymous,” Goldie replied. “You won it entirely on your own merit.”

“I just hope nobody thinks there was something nefarious going on since Lupe works for me,” the mayor said.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Peter smirked, glancing at his father. “Take her victory and make it about yourself.” He turned and smiled warmly at the winner. “Congratulations, Lupe.”

“Thank you, Senor Peter,” she said. “Thank you!”

“Okay, okay,” the senior Banyan replied dismissively. “Run along now.”

Lupe nodded, then turned and hurried away with her trophy.

Charles looked at Peter. “It’s a legitimate concern,” he emphasized. Then he turned to the visitor. “Very nice speech, Goldie. And that dress. My goodness. I know it’s Stephie’s, but you really give it, uh, a whole new interpretation.”

“Finally. We agree on something,” Peter quipped.

“Thank you both,” Goldie smiled.

“And where have you been?” Charles asked, turning his attention to his son. “You’re only an hour late.”

“Well, unlike Tweedledee and Tweedledum over there,” Peter said, nodding toward Tully and Crosby still standing out of place by the ticket table, “I don’t have a lot of helpers and have a newspaper to get out. What are they doing here anyway?”

“As you’ll recall,” his father replied. “Last year, it was very cold and snowed heavily during the dance. Some people couldn’t get their cars started. One or two others got stuck in the snow. They’re the cavalry since our sheriff has the night off and is here with his family.”

“Hmm,” Peter mulled. Then he looked at Goldie. “Would you like a drink?”

“That’d be wonderful. A whiskey on the rocks, please.”

“Coming right up,” he smiled. “Anything for you?” he asked his father.

“No, thank you. And why aren’t you taking pictures of the dance for The Wing?”

Peter pointed at Father Fitz as he headed toward the bar in front of the storage closet, not far away. “I’ll get ‘em Sunday,” he called.

The mayor humphed and turned to Goldie.

“Whiskey on the rocks, eh? Pretty strong drink.”

“I’m a pretty strong lady,” Goldie answered.

“I, uh, I understand you borrowed Peter’s car and did some exploring of the area.”

“I did. I was a tourist for an hour on the Rocky Mountain Western Railroad, and it was fabulous.”

“Good. Good. Go anywhere else?”

“Yeah, actually. An old acquaintance of mine teaches at Midland Elementary, and I dropped by to say hello. We hadn’t seen each other in years.”

“Oh. Lovely. And who was that?”

Goldie picked the first name that popped into her mind.

“Um, Diana Ross,” she answered, leaning on her penchant for 60s and 70s music.

“Teacher there?”

“Yes,” she lied. “She’s brand new. Just started,” she added, to explain away why her name wouldn’t be on a staff list if Banyan’s men ever obtained one.

“It’s always great to reconnect with old friends,” he agreed.

“Absolutely.”

“Well, I’d better get back to Mother,” he said, referring to Stephie. “Once again, nice comments on stage. Enjoy the dance.”

After the mayor left, Goldie spotted one of the few still unoccupied four-seat tables, went over to it, and sat down. Within another minute, and with drinks in hand, Peter found her.

“Great, you got a table.” He set the drinks down. “Whiskey on the rocks for you. Gin and tonic for me.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“And again, for once, my dad and I are in sync. You look fabulous! Although psychologically, there might be something wrong with me. I’m having a little fantasy about you in a dress that belongs to my mother.”

“As long as the fantasy is about me and not your mother.”

He smiled. Then they took sips of their drinks.

“So, why were you so late tonight?” she asked. “I thought you’d be roaming around getting tidbits about the dance?”

“You know how you get in the swing of writing something and you don’t want to stop?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s why I’m late.” He reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a piece of typing paper. It was folded in threes like a letter, and he handed it to her.

She took it, opened it, and read the headline aloud:

“Visiting Writer Merits Her Own Story.”

She looked at Peter, surprised, then continued reading.

“By now, many people in town know that a writer from Adventure Escape Magazine is visiting Sparkledove to write a story about how we celebrate the holidays. Although this article won’t be published in Adventure Escape until next December’s issue, a few words have to be written about its author.

By doing so, this reporter is well aware he could be accused of priming the pump in an effort to encourage a complementary magazine article, but this journalist will risk it.

“Her name is Karen Maraschino. Yes, like the cherry, and she has a penchant for diving into things. She served dinner to community members at a Thanksgiving potluck held at St. Michael’s Church…”

She looked over at Peter. “How do you know about that?”

“I’m a reporter,” he shrugged. “I know a lot of things.”

She turned her eyes back to the paper and continued: “She braved the elements to go into the mountains and be part of the team that harvested the community Christmas tree. She thoughtfully purchased and delivered a small holiday gift to a community member who recently suffered a tragic family loss. She sought out advice and expertise about gingerbread houses when asked to judge the annual gingerbread house contest at the Christmas community dance. As one can see from these examples, this isn’t a person who is just observing and reporting.

This is a person who is investing. She’s putting herself into the community and making some good friends along the way. ”

There was more to the piece, but an embarrassed Goldie stopped reading, becoming emotional.

“Peter… th—this is incredibly nice. I-I’m not used to such nice things bein’ said about… but, you can’t publish this.”

He took another sip of his drink. “Why not? It’s true.”

“Y-you just can’t, that’s all.”

“Why don’t you read the rest of it?”

“Because I’m afraid I’ll start cryin’ like a baby and it’ll mess up my makeup.”

“Okay,” he agreed warmly. “Read the rest later, then we’ll talk.”

He was distracted when a dapper Ed Peterson walked by their table.

“Hi, Ed,” he said. “How are you?”

Ed was nearly forty years old, thirty pounds overweight, single, and had a round, friendly face. He had a nice-guy reputation and owned the gem store in town.

“Hi, Peter,” he greeted. He smiled at Goldie and extended his hand. “Ed Peterson.”

“Ay, Ed. I’m Goldie.”

“Yes. I just saw you on stage, and the mayor also pointed you out at the tree lighting.”

“Sure,” she remembered. “I was on River Street when Horace Mason used your car for target practice. I’m really sorry about what happened.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, “that was a strange morning. But Horace is paying for the damage, so everything will be set right again. At least, with my car. Don’t know about Horace and Alice, though.”

“Well, you sure look pretty good tonight, I must say,” Peter noted. “You’re puttin’ the rest of us bachelors to shame.”

Ed smiled, pleased with the compliment. “Thanks. It’s a new suit, and you can tell by the way I use my walk, I’m a woman’s man, no time for talk.”

Peter chuckled while Goldie’s mouth fell open.

“Okay,” she said, slamming an open hand down on the table. “That’s it!”

“That’s what?” Peter asked.

“Where did you get that expression?” she asked Ed.

“What?”

“‘You can tell by the way I use my walk, I’m a woman’s man, no time for talk.’ Where did you get that saying?”

“I don’t know. But it’s kinda funny, huh?”

“It’s kinda Saturday Night Fever,” Goldie replied.

“No, honey. It’s Friday,” Peter corrected.

“I know it’s Friday!” she answered.

“You have a fever?” Ed asked.

“No. No! The expression comes from a song that’s in a movie. It’s right at the beginnin’ of the film when John Travolta is walkin’ down the sidewalk and this great Bee Gees song is playin’…” her voice trailed off when she saw that Peter and Ed were a little concerned about her intensity.

She took a pause and a breath to calm down, then continued, “Ed—just tell me—please! Where do you know that saying from? When did you first hear it?”

The round-faced man thought for a couple of moments.

“Huh, I don’t honestly know. I just remember thinking to myself when I heard it: ‘That’s cute. I gotta remember that.’”

“Okay,” Goldie nodded reluctantly, taking a sip from her drink. “Fine.”

“Well, I gotta go,” Ed smiled a little nervously. “See you two later.”

“See you later, Ed,” Peter smiled.

“Hope your fever’s better, Goldie,” he said, moving on.

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t have a freakin’ fever,” she mumbled, totally frustrated.

“What was all that about?” Peter asked.

“Doesn’t matter,” she said defeatedly. She picked up her glass and finished her drink with a long gulp.

“Do you, eh, maybe want to get out of here?” he suggested. “You never have seen my place.”

He made the offer at a moment when Goldie was feeling moved by what he had written, frustrated about all the things she didn’t understand, and lonely since it was the Christmas season and everyone around her seemed to be with loved ones.

“Yeah,” she agreed. “Let’s get out of here.”

Peter likewise finished his drink, then they rose and headed for the coat check. As they went, Charles Banyan, Tully, and Crosby had now huddled in another corner of the center and were talking.

“She went to the school to visit an old friend named Diana Ross,” Charles explained.

“So, no need to break into the school Sunday night?” Tully asked.

The mayor considered for a moment.

“No, go ahead with the plan,” he decided. “Let’s confirm it. Get a copy of the staff list.”

Within a few seconds of Peter and Goldie leaving the dance, the band struck up the romantic Hoagy Carmichael number, “The Nearness Of You,” a slow dance tune.

As they did, Eli was just coming out of the men’s bathroom and went over to his table where his mother, father, sister Dinah, and her boyfriend, an army soldier in uniform, were seated.

Upon his arrival, Dinah, a twenty-two-year-old blonde-haired beauty, rose.

“C’mon, Eli, I want a dance with my big brother.”

“Sorry, sweetie,” he said. “I’m taken for this one. But the next slow dance is all yours.”

His sister turned to her boyfriend, who rose, getting the cue that she wanted to dance.

Eli’s parents did the same. As his family moved toward the dance floor, he limped past table after table, scouting the place for Goldie with a smile of anticipation.

But after nearly two minutes of the three-minute song, the smile withered.

While the female vocalist sang:

“I need no soft light to enchant me

If you’ll only grant me

The right to hold you ever so tight

And feel in the night

The nearness of you”

He realized Goldie was nowhere to be found.