Vanilla Vengeance

by Molly Maple

  Though Marianne and I are still new to each other, at the risk of being nosey, I go out on a limb and poke at her previous words. “You mentioned last year was rough. What happened?”

  Marianne plops down in a chair at the table, drying her hands on a rag. “You don’t want to know.”

  I touch my bare toe to hers. “Try me.”

  She leans her elbows on the table and props her chin up on her fists. “It’s fodder for town gossip. Embarrassing, really. We were engaged and he cheated. Jeremy moved out of Sweetwater Falls to go chase his dreams of being a country singer, and he took the girl he was cheating on me with along for the ride.”

  My upper lip curls on principle. “Yuck. He sounds terrible. I can’t believe he did that to you.”

  Marianne’s shoulders slump. “Yeah, well, it was going on a lot longer than I realized. The cheating,” she clarifies. “Apparently everyone knew except for me. I was naïve. We were junior high sweethearts. Dated all through high school and beyond. He proposed four years ago, but whenever we had conversations about setting the date, he dodged them.” She sits back and points to herself. “See? Naïve.”

  “I don’t think trusting the man you know best makes you naïve. I think it makes you amazing, and makes him a jerk.”

  Marianne casts me a wan smile. “Thanks. Jeremy the jerk. I like it.” She waves off my concern. “It’s all fine. Every now and then he sends me a postcard. I’m over it.”

  I gape at her. “Why is he sending you postcards? He cheated on you and broke your heart!”

  Marianne dips her finger into one of Winifred’s plastic bowls, where I have been storing my batches of frosting. She sucks on the digit, breathing in and out through her nose before she pops her finger back out. “He’s out living his life, and I’m here, doing nothing with mine. I’m boring. I’m the same person I’ve always been, and there’s no end in sight.”

  I purse my lips, finding several things wrong with her assessment. “First off, you’re a lot of fun. Not many have the stomach to sit around on a Thursday night and talk about murders. And people who read aren’t boring. They are going on adventures every day. You’re an adventurer at heart; you just haven’t gotten off the bench in a while.”

  “Understatement, but thanks.”

  I set down the meringue and start shoving things into the fridge for safekeeping. “We are not boring,” I rule, determined now more than ever to prove how true that is. “We are going to do something fun. Do you keep Jeremy’s postcards?”

  I know the answer before she says it.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. We are going to your place to grab them, and then we’re going to do something fun and unpredictable, because that is the wild sort of woman you are.”

  She blinks at me, looking lost and forlorn. “I am?”

  I nod, tugging her out of her seat and shoving her toward the door. “Get your shoes on.”

  “What about the cupcakes? You need to finish them, Charlotte.”

  “I will later. This is more important.” I fix her with a smile while mischief dances in my eyes. “Marianne the Wild has her destiny to fulfill.”

  I put in a call to Winifred, telling her to grab the girls, ditch the fish and meet up with us.

  If I have to be brave, then Marianne is going to be wild—even if it is only for one night.

  14

  Firelight Bravery

  Karen’s wiry smile is a thing of beauty. She truly does look like a jailbird set free, though I wonder if that has always been her way. Her smile lines are engrained in her face, framing her brown eyes and pink-painted lips. “Anything that involves fire is a yes in my book.”

  Marianne clutches a shoebox to her chest, clearly torn between frightened and excited, which appear to be two sides of the same coin. “I don’t know about this.”

  Agnes’ arm hasn’t left Marianne since I announced the plans for the night. It has remained curved around Marianne’s back, with her other hand occasionally rubbing up and down Marianne’s bicep. Whatever move Marianne makes, her makeshift big sister is going to go there with her.

  I love it.

  Winifred sets two more split logs down in the fire pit, and then crumples up some newspaper to shove underneath.

  She owns an axe. I take notes in my head, filing that away as a possible murder weapon.

  But Winifred isn’t a killer. She can’t be. I refuse to believe that this woman I love has evil lurking in her bones.

  My aunt’s hands are deft at striking the match and lighting the paper. Before long, the fire is crackling and marshmallows are being roasted, because that is what you do when you are having a girl night.

  Winifred goes into the house while Karen pokes at the fire with a long stick. “I love a good campfire. This one looks like it could use some more kindling, though. What do you say, Marianne?”

  Poor Marianne looks on the verge of either laughing hysterically or vomiting. “Are we sure this is the thing to do?” She clutches the box to her chest. “I mean, what if Jeremy and I get back together someday? I might want the things Jeremy gave me.”

  I stand near the fire, warming my hands and keeping my gaze on the orange and yellow licking the wood. “You kept a few things that were important to you. Enough for you to look back decades from now and remember the good times. But the rest isn’t worth holding tight to.” I turn my chin and level my focus on her. “He isn’t worth holding tight to.”

  Karen raises her fist. “Hold tight to the good times, burn the bad. Only look back in the rearview mirror when the cops are chasing you.” She sits back in the lawn chair, cozying into position. She throws Marianne a wink. “Maybe not even then.”

  Agnes inches closer to the fire, bringing Marianne along with her. “You only live once, but if you keep clinging to that box, you’ll live with a ghost of someone who deserves to be forgotten. Let some other poor soul cling to a box of him. You have too much purpose and promise for that.”

  Maybe we are goading Marianne on too much. This has to be her step forward, not one we do for her. All we can do is keep the fire going and be patient.

  Winifred ambles out with a tea tray. It’s laden with a steaming teapot of the turmeric tea I bought her, five delicate cups and five of my vanilla cardamom cupcakes. “Here we go, girls. Can’t have roasted marshmallows without tea. It’s uncivilized.” Her limp is slightly better than it was last week, but it is still noticeable. Poor thing.

  We all take our cups, staring into the flames as we sip slowly. The fire is hypnotizing, lulling us into a state of peace I didn’t realize I had been seeking. When Winifred catches my eye, she winks at me, trading her secret smile for mine.

  Though I am still almost certain she killed Gerald, I cannot bring myself to dig deeper. If she is a murderer, so be it. She is still my family, and for now, that is enough to quiet any unsettled parts of my spirit.

  The rest will figure itself out.

  For now, there is only tea. Only campfire. Only marshmallows. Only cupcakes.

  Only Marianne’s clear angst.

  The quiet settles in on us, calming my nerves and washing away any hint of unease. I love how clear the night sky is in Sweetwater Falls. There isn’t as much light pollution, so the stars pop ever more visibly. “This isn’t a moment you can get in the city.”

  Agnes keeps her arm affixed to Marianne’s shoulder, her side tucked tight to her little sister’s. “It’s a moment we wouldn’t have had tonight at all, if our city girl hadn’t suggested it. Life is what you make of it. I think that tonight, we are going to make a new memory.” She kisses Marianne’s temple. “A new future.”

  Another blanket of silence falls over us, filled in only by the crackling of the fire and the shifting of the wood as it burns.

  I truly have missed out on this portion of living. I’ve filled my life with second-guessing and shutting up, when I could have been warming the parts of me that threaten to ice over for good.

  A sound so faint, I nearly miss i
t at first, wafts through the evening air. The sun is setting, giving the moon full use of the sky. I can hear a lovely hum, a melody that takes shape and draws me in.

  Karen is singing. She has a voice that strikes me as both precious and powerful, coaxing the night to let us be part of its magic. The tune gives birth to a song that fills my soul in ways I didn’t realize I needed.

  The refrain comes three times between verses stacked with oaths of loyalty and love.

  “Mine, my dear.

  Mine, your love.

  Mine, my sweet.

  Thine, my all.”

  My heart can barely take the emotion that crests every time Karen sings the chorus. I’m not sure if it’s the words, her angelic voice, the campfire, or the combination of all three, but I find contentment easier than I am usually able. The burnt smell of the wood permeates my hair and clothing, reminding me that not everything has to be a step forward. Sometimes it is necessary for me to just be.

  Be in the moment.

  Be with friends.

  Be myself, however strange that person might be.

  Winifred steps up to the campfire ring with a card in her hand. “I was going to give this to Gerald. I saw it at the grocery store and thought it was funny. Thought it would make him smile. I didn’t even have an occasion picked out. It was a ‘just because’ sort of thing.” She bows her head, stilling before the fire as she hugs the greeting card. When my aunt lifts her head again, she tosses the card into the fire. “Rest well, Gerald.”

  I don’t even realize my eyes are damp until my breathing hitches. I didn’t know the man, but in this short time I have lived in Sweetwater Falls, I feel as if I understand a side of my aunt I never knew before. It’s inspiring to watch her love so openly and live without regret.

  Even now, she burns the token of her affection for the man, knowing it will not bring him back.

  When Winifred steps away from the fire, I help her to sit in her lawn chair. I don’t comment on the tremble in her hands when I press her teacup between her palms. With gentle fingers, I wipe away the tear that has fallen onto the apple of her cheek.

  With her free hand, Winifred grips my fingers. “Don’t say no to the unknown. Don’t let worry get the best of you, little sister.”

  The nugget of truth blasts me with its potency. All the time, I let worry get the best of me.

  I squeeze her hand, willing her words to guide me. “I won’t.”

  My insides glow with warmth. Genetics have made me her great-niece, but love and choice have made me her little sister. I love it.

  I love her.

  When movement catches my eye, I turn and see Marianne approaching the fire. “Jeremy was everything to me,” Marianne admits. “Maybe I let my world become too small because of it. I didn’t see what was obvious to everyone in town—that he was a cheater.”

  Agnes migrates to her side. “What is obvious to us is that you are better than him. Take that with you. Nothing else.”

  Marianne nods once and then opens the shoebox. A teddy bear topples into the fire, sending smoke up as the flames devour the poor animal. Next comes a series of letters, all eager to become kindling. “I kept only the best parts of him in a separate box. These are all the love notes he wrote to me while he was cheating.”

  I am so proud of Marianne. Watching her stand up for herself is admirable. Witnessing the wild flash of daring in her eyes as the last of the items sizzle and burn in the fire pit is a thing of beauty.

  As I look around at the women who are only lit by the fire, the stars and their own internal force, I am grateful I came to Sweetwater Falls. I want to be one of these incredible women.

  And somehow, I finally am.

  Just like them, I am wild.

  And just like them, I am finally brave.

  15

  Cupcake Negotiations

  I was bold last night, stepping a foot forward into my instinct. Instead of the vanilla cupcakes I know will sell just fine, I glazed each cake with the cardamom vanilla glaze before topping them with a vanilla meringue. The combination made me swoon, but at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter what I love; it matters what Robert can sell.

  Standing in the parking lot of the Spaghetti Scarf and staring at the sign, I wonder if this is my chance, or if I will always be searching for a place where my dream can to come to light.

  Clutching the box of cupcakes in my hands, I don’t recall an ounce of the bravery that led me to this moment. I remember very little of the raised chin I felt in the glow of the firepit. As I stand outside of my car, it occurs to me that I very easily can turn right back around and go home. No harm, no foul.

  No rejection.

  No risk.

  Anxiety ramps up, reminding me that I am no good at this. I am a rule-follower. I take direction well. I harmonize in the background, knowing a solo is well out of my comfort zone.

  I can’t do this.

  I turn back around and slide my cupcakes in the passenger’s seat. This is too big a push. I want this too badly. If it doesn’t happen—if Robert rejects my cupcakes—I will be devastated. At least this way, if I go home now, I will only be mildly discontent, which is a far cry from devastation.

  As if she can feel me chickening out, my phone buzzes in my pocket with Winifred’s name on the screen. “Hey, big sis. Do you need me to pick anything up from the store for you?” I figure a quick subject jump will help me be able to hide from her disappointment, and my own.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  My brows push together. “Coming home. Why?”

  “Did you show your cupcakes to Robert?”

  The sigh is probably all I need to give her, but she deserves actual words, I suppose. “It’s a bad idea. I made the wrong flavors. He’s not going to like these.”

  “Is that so? Did you ask him?”

  The long pause guts me, bringing to light my shortcomings that might always be there. “No. I just know he won’t like them. I can wait tables. It’s fine.”

  “It’s not fine. My little sister isn’t destined for a bland, fine life. You are brave, my dear.”

  I glance down at my shoes. “Maybe I’m not. Maybe I’m vanilla.”

  The doom in my own words hits my chest, splintering my ribs with self-condemnation that weights my soul.

  I don’t believe in myself.

  I expect judgment to fill my ears, but instead it’s love that greets me. “Hold on, honey cake. I’m coming.”

  “Huh?”

  I don’t expect for Winifred to round the corner of the Italian eatery with her phone pressed to her ear. I really don’t expect for Karen and Agnes to come behind her, heroic grins beaming on their faces.

  Winifred marches right up to me, grips both my shoulders and fixes me with a hard stare. “Nobody gets to call my little sister ‘vanilla’—not even you.” Then she opens the passenger’s side of my car and nods for Agnes to grab the box. “Excuse me. We’ve got an empire to build.” Winifred jerks her chin from Karen toward me. “Karen, you look positively feeble, dear. Charlotte, be a darling and give Karen your arm to lean on.”

  I don’t think twice as I extend my arm. “Here, Karen. Are you okay?” But as I take in her pallor, she looks steadier than I feel.

  It’s not until we reach the entrance of the Spaghetti Scarf that I realize I have been conned. Karen didn’t need me to lean on; she was my guide, not I, hers.

  A protest bubbles in my throat but I swallow it down. I am supposed to be Charlotte the Brave, not Charlotte the chicken with vanilla cupcakes in her car.

  Winifred squares her shoulders and tilts up her chin. “We’re here to see Robert.” She says it with all the boldness of a warrior storming the enemy’s kingdom. I half expect her to mount a horse and pull out a sword.

  Or an axe.

  The hostess trots off and returns with Robert, who is wiping his hands on a towel.

  Instead of greeting me, his eyes fix on my aunt. “Winifred,” he says in manner so c
old; my spine stiffens.

  Aunt Winnie lifts her chin, daring him to have a problem with her. “Hello, Robert. Good to see you.”

  Robert grumbles, making it clear he does not echo the polite sentiment. I guess he wasn’t hoping Winifred would be his new mommy.

  His demeanor shifts when his eyes light on me. “Oh, yes. Hello… um… Forgive me. I don’t recall your name. I remember the cupcake, but not the name.”

  I curtsey, and inwardly groan at myself for doing something so formal and stupid. “Charlotte, sir. I brought you a sampling to try for your menu.”

  His eyebrow quirks at my inept curtsey, no doubt wondering if I hit my head on the way here. “Yes, that’s fine. Come on back. I’ll call Roberta up. She will want to try them, no doubt. She has more of a sweet tooth than I do.” He chuckles to himself. “My boring tastes are probably why the desserts in this place don’t sell well.”

  We exchange pleasant smiles while I try to keep my knees from visibly shaking. Robert disappears into the kitchen, leaving me and my three elderly bodyguards at the hostess stand.

  Karen’s hand rests on my shoulder while Agnes stands at my side, fixing her fingers to my wrist. “Steady, woman,” she urges.

  I love that they aren’t telling me to simply get over my anxiety. They are taking me seriously, filling in the gaps where my tenacity falls short. Even though I was more than willing to let myself fail on pursuing my dream, they are not.

  It is for this reason I decide that I love them—lawbreakers or not.

  Robert comes out and escorts us to a table off to the side, laden with a stack of small plates, two glasses of water and a knife.

  Robert is all business, but when Roberta rounds the corner and lays eyes on me, she is pure emotion. “Charlotte! My sweet angel. Robert tells me you brought us some desserts to try.”

  Agnes kisses Roberta on the cheek and sits down beside the woman. No one is about to tell her she is being presumptuous in taking Robert’s chair. Robert simply goes and fetches another for himself while Winifred and Karen stand by my sides like sentries.