Chapter 20
When I find a card in Mabel’s little recipe box for something called Fourth of July poke cake, I have no idea what that means, but I know I’m making it.
I get the ingredients I need from Mr. Freeman, and next thing you know, I’ve created an absolute work of confection art!
It’s a white sheet cake in which I poked little holes with the end of a wooden spoon and poured in strawberry Jell-O while it was hot, so the strawberry flavor spreads lightly through.
Then I iced the top, first with vanilla pudding, then a layer of Cool Whip.
And then—here’s the most exciting part!—I created an American flag design using blueberries in the star area and rows of sliced strawberries for stripes.
I’m pretty pleased as I carry my incredible cake toward Matt’s backyard, now bustling with people and dotted with folding camp chairs.
I’m wearing a red tank top and a blue ball cap embroidered with a little American flag that I also found at the market.
It’s not a look I would ever have considered before this moment of my life, but .
.. things are different here. I’m different here.
I find a dessert table, where I spy brownies and lemon bars, a plate of chocolate chip cookies, pies of strawberry, blackberry, and apple, a patriotic-looking Jell-O mold that also seems to involve berries, and .
.. another American flag poke cake that makes my heart drop like a stone.
Because I’m just that immature. I guess I wanted to make a nice impression on the Lost and Found crowd, and now I feel way less original than I did five minutes ago.
“Oh, you done a nice job on that, honey.” I look up to see Grace’s friendly face—a welcome sight.
She’s leaning on a walker and sporting not only a glittery flag T-shirt but a headband from which red, white, and blue sparkly stars sprout up like antlers.
I’ve never seen her in anything other than a simple housedress, and in this moment, I love her all the more.
I love her enough that I’m comfortable saying exactly what I’m thinking. “It never occurred to me there’d be another one.”
Grace just swipes her free hand down through the air and says, “Pshaw. Can’t have too much strawberry poke cake.
” Okay, so it’s not original at all—at least here.
Everyone knows about strawberry poke cake.
“I made the strawberry pie,” she tells me.
“The two should go mighty nice together on a plate.”
“See you made it,” comes a deep voice from my other side.
I look up to find Police Chief Matthew Cordray giving me a smile. And in that smile I suddenly see how much he holds this place together. He doesn’t have to throw this party, but I suspect he does it every year and that it reminds these people they have a town, and a community.
I smile back. “I did.”
He glances down at my cake, which I’m still trying to place on the table—I’m scooting a couple of desserts around with my free hand to make room.
“I’m lookin’ at a thing of beauty right there,” he says, then raises his gaze from the cake to my face in a way that turns my cheeks hot.
“You’re gonna be in trouble with Joy Lynn, though. ” He adds a wink, but I’m not amused.
“What do you mean?”
“The flag cake’s kinda her thing.”
Well, that figures.
He leans in close enough for me to feel the heat of his body, which isn’t quite touching mine but feels like it is anyway. “Yours is prettier, though.”
Okay, flirtation aside, I’m strictly focused on the matter at hand. “Just when she was starting not to hate me, too.”
At this, Matt shrugs. “Joy Lynn’s affection is about like the weather. Never know when it’s gonna blow one way or the other.”
I just look at him, thinking he sounds like a man who knows her well.
“Point bein’,” he goes on, “that it’s best not to let it bother ya.”
I offer a nod, intrigued anew about the nature of their relationship.
“I’m about to start grillin’,” he announces. “You okay hangin’ out with Grace?”
“Of course,” I say, struck by his concern.
It’s nice that he recognizes he invited me to a party where, despite his claims, so far there aren’t many people I know.
It also strikes me that in my usual life, no one would ever worry about me at a party—because I know how to talk to people, and as a local celeb, people usually want to talk to me .
This, now, feels more like middle school—once again, Jessie Fox is on the scene.
But the truth is, I’m not that young girl anymore, and I can still talk to people, even if they don’t know what to make of a stranger with such short hair.
I get acquainted with a farmer named Billy who tells me he and his boys “work coal,” and I think of Matt’s father dying from that particular profession.
Neighbors from farther up Lost Valley Lane ask how I like staying at Mabel’s and compliment the snapdragons they’ve seen on their walks—as if I had anything to do with them.
When I meet a woman named Kaylie, who cuts hair at the Snip ’n’ Clip near the Piggly Wiggly, she tunes in instantly to my post-chemo hair situation, saying, “Now them fine little baby curls’ll grow out in a few months and need to be trimmed once you get some length.
If you’re still here then, come and see me.
” I thank her, but explain I’ll be back home in Cincinnati by that time.
Soon enough Mr. Freeman arrives, and then Jo and Conrad, and I realize I’m actually enjoying myself.
Conrad brought a case of wine, which of course makes him a popular guest. I notice that he and Jo are as different from most people here as I am, but that we all three fit in anyway, that everyone welcomes the outsiders more than I might have expected a month ago.
Grace, Jo, and I are sitting in camp chairs, balancing paper plates in our laps, when a man I haven’t met comes walking up to say, “Are you the news lady stayin’ at Mabel’s place?”
I blink, surprised. No one here ever associates me with being a newscaster. “That’s me.”
He holds out his hand. “Junior Barnett. Pleased to make your acquaintance. I heard from Matt what you been doin’ with our lost items, tryin’ to find ’em homes, and I can’t thank ya enough.”
I think he’s probably also thanking me for clearing his name in the big lost-and-found scandal, but I just smile and tell him I’m happy to meet him as well.
“That pile of stuff has long been ... well, like an anchor weighin’ down this town, and to think that even some of it might get back to wherever it belongs does my heart good.”
Junior Barnett is clearly a glad-hander with a bit of used-car salesman about him, but I can tell he cares about the town, perhaps in the same way Matt does, and I like him.
“I kind of stumbled into it,” I tell him, “but I’m happy to help as much as I can.
I’ve only found the owners of a couple of things so far, but it’s a start.
I’ll keep at it while I’m here, and maybe someone else will want to take over the effort when I leave. ”
Junior Barnett’s face falls. “Leave? Oh, you can’t leave, Ms. Fox. This town needs you.”
I gape at him. The very suggestion is absurd.
This is a limited-time gig, no two ways about it.
But I’m careful not to be rude or insulting to the town as I choose my next words.
“That’s kind of you, but I’ll be returning to my job at WRTB in another month or two.
I’ll do what I can in the meantime, though. ”
We exchange a little more conversation, but I can tell I’ve really burst his bubble.
I guess Matt neglected to explain how temporary my stay here is.
After he departs, I say to Jo and Grace, “I feel bad now. But once the ball is rolling, it should be easy enough to get someone else to take over what I’ve started, right? ”
Jo lowers a fork to her plate and holds up both her hands. “Don’t look at me—I’ve got a winery to run and a dog to take care of.” As if on cue, Socks, who came along to the party, trots up next to her chair.
Grace isn’t any more helpful, saying, “Cain’t imagine who else would have the know-how for such a thing besides you, honey.”
I get it. She’s older and has no internet knowledge. So I try to explain, “Well, a lot of people know how to use social media, and even if it requires a trip to Brandywine—or actually just to the Piggly Wiggly—it’s a pretty easy task.”
“Except for the parts you’re forgetting,” Jo says knowingly.
I switch my gaze to her. She’s wearing pink-lensed sunglasses today, her silvery locks falling in waves around her face. I’m not liking everyone’s resistance to the idea that someone else could operate the lost and found, so it comes out a bit dry when I say, “Enlighten me.”
“Most people around here don’t know how to use social media.
Because they have to work too hard to access it.
And even those who do ... well, you, my dear Jessica Fox, have a platform.
Many thousands of people who are interested in what you have to say.
You have a built-in audience happy to spread the word about all those lost things. No one else here has that.”
Oh crap. She’s right. I guess it’s something I’ve almost come to take for granted. I have the ability to reach people in a way no one else in this town can.
But that’s not my fault, and there’s nothing I can do to change it. So I simply say, “Those are good points, I admit. I’ll just have to post as many of the lost things as I can until I leave and hope for the best.”
I’m approaching the dessert table a little while later when I come face-to-face with Joy Lynn.
I’ve seen her from a distance, and had kind of hoped to keep it that way, but nope, here she is—sporting star-spangled boobs in a tight, strappy top and another denim mini-skirt, saying snippily, “I heard you made that other flag cake.”
Oh boy. I was having such a nice day. I’m tempted to tell her to get a life.
But then I remember that conversation I overheard, the one where it sounded like she has a lot of problems, and I also remember suspecting her heart was once broken in a way she’s never come back from, so instead I reply, “I found the recipe in Mabel’s things and thought it would be a nice way to commemorate her. I didn’t know it was your thing—sorry.”
She seems surprised by the apology, like it completely threw her off her game.
When she answers, her voice comes out a little softer, more like when she’s telling me what numbers to punch on the jukebox.
“That’s okay. You did a nice job—just a little heavy on the strawberry stripes. That part takes a light touch.”
It’s a fair criticism—her strawberry stripes do look better than mine, wavier and less rigid. “Thanks,” I tell her. “I’ve never made anything like that before and I appreciate the tip.”
She nods casually. “Anytime.”
Then she walks away. I feel like I’ve dodged a bullet.
As I peruse the dessert table, I hear Matt nearby and steal a glimpse of him talking with a lanky, awkward-looking teenage boy. “Tobe,” he says, “what’s up, bud? How’s your summer?”
I instantly recall hearing Joy Lynn on the phone, referring to someone named Toby—who I assumed was her son—so I find myself listening closer as I cut a square of my own cake, eager to see if it’s any good.
“Sucks,” Toby replies. “Workin’ on Chuck Pelfrey’s farm every damn day, and don’t even get to keep any of the money.”
Ah, yes—because he has to help Joy Lynn pay the bills. So far he sounds like a punk to me, but I feel for him anyway.
“I hear ya,” Matt tells him—so apparently he’s aware of this situation, too? “It’s a tough spot to be in. But I know your mom appreciates it, even if she might not be good at showin’ it.”
At this, Toby softens a little. His mood appears to shift with the breeze, like his mother’s. “She shows it enough, I guess. Tells me all the time how shitty she feels about it.”
“I know this sounds like a line,” Matt tells him, “but things’ll get better. Just gotta hang in there for now.”
The boy says nothing, but I catch sight of a nod as I maneuver a slice of Grace’s pie onto my plate as well.
“Fish bitin’ in Chuck’s pond?” Matt asks.
The boy perks up some. “Pretty much, I reckon.”
“Why don’t you give me a call later this week—we’ll make plans to do some fishin’.”
“Sounds good,” Toby concludes.
I use a pair of tongs to add a lemon bar to my plate, then start back toward my little group of friends, filled with fresh questions.
Matt acts like a dad to Joy Lynn’s son? What’s that about?
And I assume that fishing in Chuck Pelfrey’s pond is kind of like picking Jeb’s blackberries—you don’t have to ask, you just do it?
And exactly what is the nature of Matt’s relationship with Joy Lynn anyway?
I haven’t even seen them communicate with each other today, but he’s buddying up with her boy?
Of course, what do I care?
I don’t, in fact. Since he and I are just friends.
Friends who flirt some, I suppose. And earlier he was a friend whose flirtation I felt ... well, between my thighs. In fact, I feel a little shiver just remembering it as I ease back into my chair.
“Almost time for the fireworks,” Grace says.