“A detective, how convenient!” Vivian lets out a tinkling laugh that sounds rehearsed. “Maybe I should keep him on speed dial. People have been threatening to off me for my recipes for years.” She winks over at Meredith as if sharing an inside joke.
We all laugh politely, but I notice Meredith’s knuckles turning white around her purse strap.If someone did ‘off’ her, they’d be doing this town a favor. Thatwoman's soul is more soured than week-old buttermilk in August. And she’s about as welcome here today as a skunk at a garden party. She’s right about one thing—not a baker here can stand her.
Yikes. If thoughts could kill, Vivian would be six feet under already.
Peggy makes small talk with the women as the Pumpkin Palooza Harvest Festival churns around us in a whirl of orange and gold. Children dart between booths with faces sticky from caramel apples, and the air smells like someone liquefied autumn and sprayed it everywhere—cinnamon, nutmeg, woodsmoke, and the distinct scent of leaves turning crisp. Okay, so there is no such scent, but there should be.
Overhead, strings of lights sway in the breeze, and somewhere a fiddle plays a jaunty tune that makes even the most rhythm-challenged toes tap.
Party crasher at nine o’clock!Cricket’s thoughts slice through the ambient noise as she prances toward us with Rookie bounding behind her while Mr. Jolly Beary bounces on his back.
Hattie! I found THREE people giving out free cookie samples behind the cider booth!Rookie says with a woof of excitement.And they all said I was a good boy!
Because you’re shameless,Cricket sniffs, leaping onto a nearby hay bale.I, on the other hand, maintain my dignity while procuring provisions.
Is that why you have whipped cream on your whiskers?Rookie counters.
Cricket’s paw immediately goes to her face.Tactical decision. The dairy farmer who gave it to me might give MORE next time if he thinks I enjoyed it.
Before I can respond to their banter, a tall, willowy blonde approaches with a tray of what looks like miniature waffles drizzled with amber-colored sauce. Her honey-blonde hair is pulled back into an elegant ponytail, and she moves with the easy confidence of someone who knows their baked goods are scrumptious without trying too hard.
“Sample of pumpkin spice waffles with maple bourbon butter?” she offers, stopping before our little group. “They’re bite-sized, but the flavor is anything but small.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Clarabelle says, nabbing one faster than you’d think possible for someone her age.
Vivian tilts her head, examining the offering. “Autumn. Always resourceful, aren’t you? Always taking a cue from my bakery? Sometimes I think you flat-out stalk me.” She lets out a cackle, but she’s the only one laughing. “No, thank you.” Sheturns her nose up at the waffles at hand. “They look a touch too crisp around the edges for my liking.”
“Vivian.” The blonde—Autumn—maintains her smile, but I notice a slight tightening around her eyes. “Always a pleasure to receive your constructive feedback.”And her big mouth always has something to say.
“As you should,” Vivian counters.It’s too bad the idiot doesn’t understand that REAL success means making something once and selling it over and over, not constantly having to reinvent herself every season like some desperate influencer.
Vivian’s thoughts hit me with a surprising force. There’s genuine venom behind her pleasant expression.
“Let me introduce you,” Vivian says, switching to hostess mode as she nods to Peggy, Clarabelle, and me. “This is Autumn Harrington. She owns Sunrise & Cinnamon, a little brunch spot down by the beach in Pelican Cove. Autumn, this is Clarabelle, Peggy, and Hattie.”
“Little brunch spot?” Autumn repeats with a forced laugh. “We seat two hundred on weekends, but who’s counting?”
“Quality over quantity, darling,” Vivian says with a dismissive wave. “Though I suppose when your business model is built on bottomless mimosas, the food doesn’t have to be memorable.”
Ouch,Cricket meows from where she’s rubbing against Autumn’s ankles.That’s colder than the fish you forgot to thaw for our dinner last week.
I think they’re going to throw fists!Rookie’s tail wags hopefully.Humans are so strange. Why don’t they just sniff each other and get it over with?
An uncomfortable silence stretches between us, broken only when a booming male voice erupts from a nearby podiumfestooned with pumpkins, cornstalks, and enough fall-colored bunting to decorate a small country.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the seventh annual Pumpkin Palooza Harvest Festival Baking Competition!” A wild applause spontaneously breaks out all around us along with a fewhootsandwoots. The man at the microphone is distinguished-looking, with silver hair and a charismatic smile that probably sells whatever he’s promoting before he even opens his mouth.
“I’m Oliver Prescott, your head judge and host for today’s delicious proceedings,” he continues, gesturing grandly out at the festivities at hand. “We invite everyone to sample the incredible creations our bakers have prepared, available at the very reasonable price of three dollars per tasting plate. All proceeds benefit the Brambleberry Bay Food Pantry!”
The crowd cheers, and Oliver raises his hands to quiet them for a moment.
“And remember to cast your vote for your favorite at the judges’ table. The grand prize of twenty thousand dollars will be awarded to one talented baker in exactly one hour! The winner will be crowned the Pumpkin Queen or King! May the best pumpkin spice creation win!”
The crowd erupts again, surging toward the baking booths with the determination of shoppers on Black Friday.
It’s as if all of Maine has turned out this afternoon, despite the threat of rain—and judging by those dark clouds, possibly a monsoon. But nothing comes between New Englanders and their fall festivals. We’d wear snorkels if we had to.
“We should get back to our booths,” Vivian says, already edging away.
