by Darci Hannah
The moment Jack mentioned it, I perked up. Call it lack of sleep. Call it impulsivity. Call it totally turned on by his long, lean-muscled legs. Whatever it was I was driven to blurt out, “I do have one. This Sunday, in fact. Hannah and I are going to the Renaissance fair with Tay. Lance is jousting in a tournament.”
Jack raised a ruddy brow. “Sounds fun.”
“Come with me!”
The invitation was a shock to us both, and I silently cringed as he paused, giving my impulsive request more serious thought than it deserved. He was still thinking when Hannah came bounding around the corner from the lobby, dressed in her yoga clothes with her rolled up yoga mat under her arm. Beneath the long, light blonde hair, her pretty face was flushed with exertion.
“Hey.” She smiled in greeting, her blue eyes shining even brighter due to the intense color of her cheeks.
Jack did a double take. “What the heck are you doing here?”
“Trying to steal Silvia’s boy toy,” I remarked, grinning at Hannah.
“Hardly.” Her breezy laugh fooled no one.
“Peter McClellan,” I told Jack. “Silvia’s assistant. Have you met him?” Apparently, he hadn’t.
“And he’s not her boy toy,” Hannah said with a mild air of disapproval. “More like an indentured servant if you ask me. But he handles the arrangement as best he can. He’s very resourceful.” Her brow wiggled as she leaned against the counter. She plucked a scone bite from the sample plate and popped it in her mouth. A dreamy look crossed her pretty face, compelling her to add, “He’s a sensitive soul—a real deep thinker with strong, sensual hands and a very creative mind.”
“Who’s perfectly fine with the fact that he’s being kept by an old lady,” I added.
“Smart move for a starving artist.” Jack grinned. “So what were you doing with him?”
“Giving him a private morning yoga class by the lake.” Hannah’s grin was positively impish, and highly inappropriate, indicating that a wee bit more than yoga had taken place this morning on the beach.
Jack and I exchanged a look, after which he said, “This guy must be something if you’ve come all this way to give him a private yoga class.”
“He is, which reminds me, Whit. Jenn wanted me to let you know that we’re hosting our first goat yoga class on the lawn Friday morning.”
“You’re having that here?” Jack questioned.
I shrugged in defeat. “Why not? We’ve already got a painter on the lawn. What’s the harm in adding another spectacle?”
“Nothing,’ Jack said, an odd smile touching his lips. “Only I doubt Hannah’s told you that she’s borrowing Thing One and Thing Two for the class.”
“What?” I cried and shot Hannah a look. “You’re using those little hellions?”
“Relax, Whit. They’re adorable little creatures. The serenity of the setting will be good for them and precisely what they need. And they’re not afraid to engage. Peter thinks it will be quite freeing, for all parties involved.”
“I’ll bet he does,” Jack concurred with a look of mild concern. “And speaking of Peter, be careful, Hannah. If I know anything about Ms. Lumiere it’s that she can be very possessive of her things, her assistant included.”
Hannah pooh-poohed the warning. “He’s not her thing, Jack, just an employee. And he’s going to try to come with us to the fair on Sunday. You’re coming too, right?”
“Yeah. Of course,” he said, which I believed surprised us both. A thoughtful smile came to his lips as he took his pastry bag off the counter. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Good. Whit’s probably already told you that we’re meeting here at eight. She’s driving. And if we’re real nice to her she’s even threatened to provide some of her delectable cherry baked goods for the trip. Oh, and come in your best medieval attire. We’re all dressing up for the occasion.”
“Sounds entertaining. And good luck Friday. The kids are really looking forward to their field trip to the Cherry Orchard Inn.”
Nine
F riday morning, after a short night’s sleep, a long pre-dawn bout of furious baking, and a busy morning shift at the bakery counter of Bloom ’n’ Cherries!, I was beginning to have my doubts about Sunday’s outing. It was sheer lunacy, but I honestly didn’t know if I was ready to spend the entire day in Jack’s company. Oh sure, I wanted too, but there was still the problem of Tate. If he got wind that we were all going he’d insist on coming too. And that would be a disaster. Not only would it be awkward for all parties involved, but Jack and Tate would be putting their bromance to the test. One could only guess what that might mean at a Renaissance fair.
No, my plate was already full to bursting. The frenetic pace of the inn was really beginning to wear on me, making me believe that Jack might have been right. I needed a day off or I’d snap. But the staff was already overworked, and who else was there to handle the problem of our celebrity guest? Grandma Jenn was semi-retired and preferred to use her talents in the kitchen. Mom was our social chairman and event planner and was already spread very thinly between her duties at the inn, the orchard, the Cherry Cove Women’s League, and the Chamber of Commerce, not to mention the demands of being married to Dad. She was often on her own planet. Therefore, it came as no surprise when she popped into the kitchen while I was glazing three trays of warm cherry scones and demanded I appear on the back lawn at five p.m., washed, dressed and wearing some outfit laid out on my bed. I had no idea what that was about, and, honestly, I was too tired to care.
After a long morning of baking I went out to the lawn to make sure Silvia had all she needed to begin her morning painting. The chairs had been set up near the gazebo and Erik was already manning the stand, arranging the plates, silverware and mugs for easier self-service.
“Geez, Ms. Bloom,” he remarked upon seeing me. “Sleep much? You look like you could use some serious caffeinating yourself.” I was about to demure when he handed me a mug full of hot black coffee.
“Dear Lord, this smells like heaven,” I mumbled and took a good whiff. I didn’t even bother to protest when he placed a plate in my hand. The scone, surrounded by a spoonful of lemon curd and a dollop of clotted cream, looked delicious, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten a thing all morning.
“Go ahead,” he said, directing me with his head to the patio. “Take a load off. I’ve got it from here.”
I was on the patio finishing my coffee and contemplating basking in the glorious sunshine all day, when Hannah appeared on the lawn. She was leading Jack’s two little goats. A sizable class of twelve followed, including Tay and her mom, Mrs. Cushman, Edna Baker, Ingrid MacLaren and Peter McClellan along with a handful of brave guests. Mom and Grandma Jenn, dressed in their brightly colored yoga outfits and carrying a tub full of yoga mats, brought up the rear. The moment Tay saw me she veered from the group and came over to join me on the patio.
“How’s she doing that?” I marveled, gesturing to Hannah. The goats were following her and behaving remarkably well.
“Bribery, of course,” Tay remarked, pointing to the bucket Hannah was carrying. “It’s full of sliced carrots. Aren’t you going to join us?”
I had just eaten a cherry scone washed down with two mugs of black coffee. I wasn’t about to do yoga with goats, no matter how bizarre it sounded. In fact, watching the yoga-pant-clad menagerie heading to a quiet spot near the lake, I felt the whole idea was mad. I looked at Tay. “I just ate a scone. I’m going to have to take a pass on this one.”
She grinned. “That’s a great excuse. I think I’ll grab one of those as well and join you.”
While Tay and I ate scones and chatted about men, Renaissance fairs, and why it was imperative she keep our outing on Sunday from Tate, it became obvious that Ms. Lumiere wasn’t too pleased about the competition unfolding on the other side of the lawn. The rapt attention of her loyal following was waning
as laughter and joyous goat-screams caused heads to swivel. And who could blame them? It was quite the spectacle.
Tay and I had never laughed so hard in our lives as we watched Hannah conduct a yoga class while Thing One and Thing Two pranced and bounded around and on top of the bodies on the mats. Their curiosity was endearing, especially when rewarded with a carrot for thrusting a velvety nose in the face of an unsuspecting yogi doing a downward dog or jumping on the back of a person in plank. As all food-motivated creatures do, they caught on quickly. Bodies crashed to the mats in fits of giggles. Cloven hooves frolicked on Lycra-covered flesh. Laughter inspired chaos, and everyone was having a great time … until the treats ran out. That’s when Jack’s goats really showed their true colors.
Peter McClellan, as flexible as we thought him to be, was displaying an impressive skill on the mat and didn’t flinch when Thing One landed on his back. However, when no carrot was forthcoming the goat decided to eat Peter’s man bun. The neatly coiled hair was chomped with such gusto that Peter yelped and crashed on the mat. Thing Two took umbrage with Char’s backside when she was in downward dog. That’s when the stubby horns, swaddled in tape for the event, were employed.
Tay was laughing so hard she could barely breathe. “Oh my God, that goat just … butted my mom’s butt! Did you see that?” I did but was laughing so hard all I could do was nod. “Knocked her to the mat! A most undignified way to get out of that pose. And look,” she continued, stifling her giggles. “Char does not look pleased.”
I stopped wheezing long enough to remark, “It’s the risk you run whenever goats are involved.”
The laughter was contagious. Even Char had succumbed to it when Thing Two bounced off after his next victim. In fact, I was having such a great time with Tay, watching our friend conduct her first-ever goat yoga class, that I had nearly forgotten about all the pressure I’d been under since Silvia arrived. It all came flooding back, however, the moment the goats decided to abandon the class. Hannah yelled out to us in warning, but it was too late. The goats had already smelled the cherry scones.
Tay and I jumped to our feet and tried to head them off before they reached the stand, but the little creatures moved like ninjas on crack. We tried to warn Erik until we realized that he was more interested in recording the unfolding chaos on his iPhone than stopping it.
“Put that damn thing down and help us!” I cried, which he eventually did, but not before the scones had been reduced to crumbs and every coffee mug sported hoofprints. The goats themselves evaded capture. They took off again, this time heading for Silvia and her easel.
Silvia had been so put-out by the boisterous yoga class that Fred Beauchamp gave her a pair of noise-canceling headphones. What had probably been a romantic gesture on his part was now a threat to the woman’s health. She had her back turned to the oncoming goats, concentrating instead on a stunning landscape of Cherry Cove Bay. All warning cries fell on deaf ears. Silvia, oblivious, kept painting.
Her admirers, taking action, began leaping from their chairs, attempting to stop what was certain to be a calamity. Jack’s goats, master escape artists, continued bounding through the throng of bodies desperately trying to grab a pert tail or spindly leg. Thing One was finally apprehended by Inga MacLaren, Jack’s mom. Thing Two, however, had scrambled free of potential captors. He was the scrappier of the two, a little alpha-male as well, and was determined to rattle Silvia’s masterpiece. With horns lowered, he charged.
Silvia turned, saw the goat, and screamed.
Thing Two, undeterred, leapt for the painted canvas.
A collective gasp rose from the crowd of onlookers as Fred Beauchamp, embarking on another chivalrous gesture, also leapt. Man and beast collided in midair. They also collided with Silvia. All three fell to the ground with a cringe-worthy thud. The painting was spared but not, unfortunately, Hannah.
The moment Silvia was helped to her feet the tirade began. It was an ugly, ugly scene. Hannah was publicly shamed and reduced to tears. And the only resolution that would appease Silvia and her friends was banning Hannah (and the goats) from the inn for the duration of the portrait painter’s stay. It was unconscionable, but for the greater good I was forced to go through with it. I’d never hated anyone as much as I hated Silvia Lumiere in that moment. She had made me banish my own friend. It was going to be a long summer.
I had barely recovered from the calamity of the morning when I was called out to the back lawn for my five o’clock meeting. Dressed in the red blouse, navy skirt, and yellow scarf Mom had laid out for me, I soon realized that my entire family was similarly dressed and standing in front of Silvia’s easel. I wasn’t ready to face the portrait painter. Yet it was the sight of Tate, standing there as well, that really set off the alarm bells.
“What’s going on?” I demanded. Dad, having been summoned from the orchard, and wearing an outfit that matched Mom’s, looked about as excited to be there as I was.
“Oh, for the love of simpleminded idiots!” Silvia boomed, spinning on me. “What does it look like we’re doing, Ms. Bloom? Having tea? Do you see a teapot?” She cast me one of her infamous snooty glares, a look that began with her aging pixy head thrust straight back while her beady black eyes shot down her nose and through her zebra-striped glasses. “I am painting your family’s portrait. Think of it as a thank you gift.” A charming smile appeared on the painter’s lips as she spoke. She looked at Mom, Dad, and Grandma Jenn with a kindness I never believed she’d been capable of had I not witnessed it myself. Once again, I thought that maybe I was wrong. Maybe I was misinterpreting Ms. Lumiere and her demanding nature.
“I’m impressed with your generosity,” I told her. “I understand that your portraits go for a premium.”
Her lips pulled into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Oh, this isn’t free, Ms. Bloom,” she whispered so that only I could hear. “What it means is that I’ve managed to squeeze you in to my very tight schedule. You should be thankful for that alone.”
I narrowed my eyes, determined to make a stink, when Silvia held up a cautioning hand.
“Do not sully this occasion with your petty issues, Whitney. Your poor judgment and that ridiculous friend of yours with the goats have done quite enough damage for one day. And stop staring at me like that. Your face is turning red. It’s very unbecoming. My suggestion, if you do not wish to upset your mother’s dream of a family portrait, is to forget this conversation, smile and get over there by your brother.”
It was unbelievable. Silvia was pointing at Tate. What had Mom done? Tate, grinning at me as if it were all a big joke, beckoned with a playful finger.
“He’s not my brother,” I hissed.
“Duh,” she said, adding a look that made me feel even more stupid.
Mom, visibly overjoyed that her dream of a family portrait was finally becoming a reality, was also blind to Silvia’s true nature. I wasn’t entirely certain her attitude toward Ms. Lumiere was all part of the ‘greater good’ mentality but rather because Mom was a charitable Christian, a model of true Midwestern hospitality, and slightly out of touch with reality. She also couldn’t fathom anyone being purposely mean and manipulative because she didn’t have a mean bone in her body. “I’ve called Tate over to stand in for Bret,” she explained. “I just couldn’t ask your brother to fly in from Europe for a sitting. It’s such an imposition.”
“Mom. What about using a picture, like I suggested? Ms. Lumiere could just paint him in.”
“Terrible suggestion,” Silvia remarked. “I could, of course, but I won’t.”
“She’s right,” Mom agreed. “This seems so much more natural, dear. And Tate’s a shoo-in, isn’t he? It was Silvia’s suggestion. Once she has the pose and our physical dimensions all fleshed out she’ll just switch out Tate’s face with Bret’s.” Mom cast her loving, motherly gaze on Tate.
Grandma Jenn, not so easily beguiled as her daughter, cas
t me an ironic grin. “Lucky Bret,” she remarked. “He’s grown four inches and put on fifty pounds of sculpted muscle, all without lifting a finger. Not to mention that he now towers over his father. I wish I had a stand-in. Younger, of course, and bustier.”
“Yes, lucky Bret,” Dad muttered. “Come on, Whitney. Jump in beside your brother. The sooner you do, the sooner we all get to carry on with our lives.”
Silvia—and I had to believe it was out of pure spite—demanded that I stand hip to hip with Tate, place my hand on his shoulder, and tilt my head toward his with a fake smile plastered on my lips. While she worked away, sketching the details of our family portrait against a spectacular evening sky, it took everything I had to not erupt in a fit of exhausted giggles and run away. I kept reminding myself that I was doing this for Mom and Dad. I tried not to think about the tons of things yet to do on my daily list. Tate, bored to tears as well, entertained himself by whispering inappropriate things in my ear and tickling me with the arm Silvia insisted he place around my waist. It was a highly unbrotherly pose. Really, the only thing that made it bearable was the thought of Bret and what he was going to say when he saw his head on Tate’s body.
“Eyes forward, head still!” Silvia yelled at me. It was her mantra, and I was, quite frankly, getting a little tired of hearing it. I had looked away for only a moment, but it was long enough. A blur of blonde hair moving at speed caught my eyes. I turned for a second look, confirming my suspicions that the hair belonged to Hannah. Apparently the term “banned for the summer” had a different meaning for her. She was behind a row of tall bushes, dressed in black and running as stealthily as she could for the beach. I nudged Tate, directing his attention to our friend.
“You two!” Silvia shrilled, pointing her sketching pencil at us. She was at her wit’s end. “For the love of all that’s holy—”
“We know. We know.” Tate cut her off with a disarming grin. “Eyes forward, head still. But here’s the thing, Silvia. If you’re as good as you claim you are, you should have it by now. And if not, you always have the picture Mr. McClellan took earlier, for reference. Where is he, by the way? Slipped off an hour ago and never came back. Which reminds me, Whitney and I have a dinner engagement.” I looked at him and nodded, playing along.