Midsummer's Mayhem

by Rajani LaRocca

  The café was beautiful inside, decorated in pale greens, with clusters of wooden tables, mismatched chairs, and vases bursting with fresh wildflowers. Soft, dreamy music played overhead, and the faint scent of tree pollen and grass wafted through the air. It felt like being in the woods. The place was empty; there wasn’t even anyone behind the counter.

  A bright pink poster near the door caught my eye:

  Attention Bakers Ages 8–13!

  Enter the

  While Away Café

  Midsummer Baking Contest!

  First Round: Bring in your BEST baked goods

  to earn a Golden Leaf!

  Second Round: The Golden Leaf Winners will bring in

  more baked goods to be judged and

  will be narrowed down to THREE.

  Third Round: A Live Bake-Off

  on Midsummer’s Eve!

  Your Delectable Delights could win you

  Enchanting Prizes!

  A wave of warmth trickled through me like melted butter. A baking contest! In Comity!

  “A heartfelt welcome to the While Away,” came a nearby voice. Startled, I turned to find a curly-haired waitress right next to me.

  “How may I help you have the sweetest day?” she asked.

  My excitement about the contest had made me forget what I was doing. I spotted the display case at the opposite end of the room.

  “Can I look at your pastries?” I asked.

  The waitress curtsied, flopping her brown curls forward, and indicated the way. She wore a wild skirt made of fresh green leaves and bright pink flowers.

  A variety of tempting treats filled the pastry case. There were pies, cookies, brownies, tarts, and my favorite, cupcakes. Each cake was beautifully decorated with perfectly piped frosting—swirls and rosettes, leaves and miniature flowers. I decided to get two different cupcakes and give Dad a choice when he got home.

  “I’d like one of the chocolate cupcakes, please, and that purple one with all the flowers.”

  “Oh, yes. And will you have a drink, my dear?” Her accent was slightly odd, but I liked it.

  “Just the cupcakes, thanks.”

  She put them on a plate and led me to the back of the store. “Come sit you down then, at this table here.”

  I hadn’t planned on staying, but I felt bad leaving the waitress to a completely empty café, so I followed her. I could sample each cupcake, decide which was best, and buy another for Dad. I sat at a table where I could see out the back windows to a small footbridge that went over the river to the woods. It was only a couple of miles through there to my house—Emma and I had walked home on that path countless times.

  The waitress made no move to leave and sort of hovered near my elbow. I sniffed the chocolate cupcake. It smelled rich, and it looked inviting, with a dark swirl of frosting on top—right up Dad’s alley. I peeled back the paper wrapping and took a bite while the waitress watched my face.

  To my surprise, the cake itself tasted like cocoa-flavored cardboard. And the frosting was too sweet, with an oily texture. I put the cupcake back on the plate and forced myself to smile.

  “Your face is quite a sight,” the waitress said, twisting her hands. “It’s awful, am I right?”

  I looked at her. She seemed barely older than Riya, with big blue eyes and a small pink flower pinned to her hair.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s a tad dry. But let me try the other one. . . .” I quickly unpeeled the pretty purple cupcake and took a bite, which I regretted immediately. This cake was too moist—soggy and falling apart, like someone had soaked it in juice. The frosting, lovely as it looked, tasted like a sugary version of the papier-mâché paste that Jules had once tricked me into tasting when I was six, telling me it was mashed potatoes. This time I couldn’t hide how disgusting it was and had to spit it out.

  “Is this supposed to be a grape cupcake?”

  “That’s right. Oh dear, she’ll be so angry now!” The waitress gave me a sheepish look. “It’s not for lack of trying, but know-how.”

  “You baked these?”

  “Yes, and no one likes them, don’t you see? My—the owner is so very cross with me.”

  It seemed unfair to put this girl in charge and then be angry with her, since it was obvious she knew nothing about baking. “Isn’t there anyone who can help you?”

  She flared her nostrils. “The one who knows the most won’t lift a hand. We struggle every day, you understand?”

  Wait a second . . . was she rhyming? “But—”

  “We try, and though we all must play the part—” She leaned toward me and whispered, “We have no clue of how to even start.”

  “Why don’t you get a good book on baking? I can recommend a few I love,” I said.

  “Perhaps.” She leaned toward me again. “You seem to know an awful lot. Could you perchance assist us with our plot?”

  “But I’m not—”

  “Oh, that would be so lovely. You’re a dear. I’ll go speak with the owner. Just wait here.” She started toward the counter.

  “But—”

  She looked back at me pathetically. “Please tell me that you’ll help us. ’Twould be awesome!”

  I sighed. “What’s your name?”

  “Peaseblossom.” She dipped a small curtsy.

  What kind of parents saddled their kid with that name?

  I held out my hand. “I’m Mimi. I don’t know if I can help, but I’ll try.”

  Peaseblossom took my hand and kissed it. She hurried to the back of the store while I rubbed my skin in confusion.

  A few minutes later Peaseblossom reappeared and led me into a small office at the back of the café. I found myself standing before a beautiful young woman with a river of dark hair. She turned the pages of a book while seated on a velvet chair behind a worn wooden desk. A bowl of pink roses sat on the desk and filled the small space with a heady, sweet scent.

  “And, in the spiced Indian air, by night, full often hath she gossip’d by my side,” the woman said in a low, melodious voice like a perfectly played oboe.

  “Excuse me? Um—Peaseblossom said you wanted to talk to me.”

  The woman closed the book gently and looked at me with bright green eyes that matched the flowing dress she was wearing. “I’m Mrs. T, the owner of the While Away. I hear you’re quite the baking master.” She sat very straight and still.

  I shrugged. “I like to bake for my friends and family.” Not that any of them noticed. Except for Mom and Dad, and they didn’t count.

  “Please, my dear, do take a seat.” She motioned to a stool—more like a tree stump, I realized as I sat. “I don’t doubt you’re better than this sorry lot.” She waved at what I assumed must be the door to the kitchen, where I could hear pots and pans being banged around, followed by a loud screech. Peaseblossom squeaked, then looked at the ground. There was an awkward silence.

  “It’s hard to bake if you don’t know what you’re doing,” I said, and Mrs. T narrowed her eyes. Well, that sounded obnoxious. “I mean, my dad always says that baking requires precision.”

  “Your father is a baker of renown?”

  “No, he’s a food writer. He works for Culinary Adventures, the online magazine. He also sometimes writes features for the Comity Journal.”

  Mrs. T looked at me blankly. She was clearly very new in town.

  “Anyway, he’s a great taste tester. He helps me improve my recipes.”

  Mrs. T arched an eyebrow. Her moss-colored eyes bored into me like she could read my mind. “And what, pray tell, is your name, my young friend?”

  “Mimi Mackson.” I shifted in my seat so I didn’t have to look her straight in the eyes.

  “Well, Mimi Mackson, tell me what you like to bake.”

  “Lots of things—brownies, cookies, pies, tarts, scones. But cupcakes are my favorite. I like to flavor them with unusual spices and herbs.”

  “I see. And what’s the last thing that you made?”

  “Double-choco
late brownies with cinnamon and cayenne, to welcome someone home.”

  “And prior to that?”

  “Cheddar-chive biscuits.”

  She waved her hand in front of her face like she smelled something bad. “No, no, my word, that will not do at all. Just sweet things, please.” She stood and paced behind the desk. “Ha! Cheese and chives! I wouldn’t dream of baking, eating, or even serving those, not to win the world.”

  Well, that was strange. Sweet isn’t sweet without savory. One isn’t good without the other—I thought everyone knew that. Even the most sugary dessert needs a dash of salt.

  Mrs. T sat again. “So tell me then, young Mimi. The best sweet thing you’ve ever, ever made?”

  “Hmm . . . lemon-lavender cupcakes, I guess. To celebrate friendship. At least, my best friend, Emma, before she—”

  “I dare say that’s more like it! I do hope you will bring your baked goods here so I may judge them.”

  I pushed my hair out of my eyes. “For the contest?”

  “Yes, of course. You’ll have a chance to win extraordinary prizes.” Her face lit up, and her smile looked like it could stop a war. Or start one.

  This was the first good thing that had happened since Emma told me she was moving. I pictured myself spending hours creating masterpieces with butter and sugar, eggs and milk, nuts and spices. If I won the contest, everyone in Comity would talk about me, the eleven-year-old pastry prodigy. Maybe Puffy Fay would hear about it and feature me on his show. Maybe he’d even ask me to write a cookbook with him! I’d end up as the most famous member of my family, more impressive than my superstar siblings, and no one would ever call me Mimi Mouse again.

  “Think how you could boast to all your friends!” Mrs. T continued, like I needed more convincing. “You must bring in your best work for the contest.” She held her hand out as if showing me a ring. Behind her, Peaseblossom looked at me hopefully.

  I reached out and shook her hand. “I’ll get started right away. In the meantime, you should get a copy of Mischief and Magic in the Kitchen.”

  Mrs. T tilted her head. “What did you say?”

  “It’s a great baking book written by world-famous pastry chef Puffy Fay, who grew up right here in Comity. It has lots of foolproof recipes, including a fantastic one for chocolate cupcakes. No grape cupcakes, though.” I smiled and tried to wink at Peaseblossom, but all I could manage was a large blink of both eyes. That’s right, I can’t even wink right. Peaseblossom seemed to understand, though, and wrinkled her nose sweetly at me. “It even features a recipe created by the winner of Puffy Fay’s first Big Time Bake-Off. Kind of like your contest, but for grown-ups.”

  “P! Look into that at once,” said Mrs. T.

  Peaseblossom nodded vigorously, the flower in her hair quivering.

  Mrs. T leaned back in her chair and looked down at me. “I have no doubt you’ll win a Golden Leaf and join us for the final rounds on Midsummer’s Eve. Go and prepare, my dear. Go bake something from your heart. Bring it here before June twenty-second. Oh, and there is a theme for the first round. Here, take this.” She handed me a small piece of paper with a poem:

  A game to seek the talents of this town,

  A treasure to safeguard from greedy thieves.

  A lofty tree bedecked in soaring crown,

  A lovely green-gold canopy of ________.

  Mrs. T leaned toward me. I shrank into the seat and looked at the poem again. A riddle! I read it again, more slowly, and mouthed the words to myself. Okay—town rhymed with crown, and the second line ended in thieves. So that should rhyme with the last word in the fourth line . . .

  “Leaves?”

  Mrs. T clasped her hands. “You’re clever. We’ve had quite a few who had no idea, even with hints. You wouldn’t believe some of the guesses. Yes, the theme for the first round is leaves.”

  Well, that was a weird theme for a baking contest. “Leaves. Right. I’ll do my best.” I hoped I could dazzle her with my flavors. I glanced at the clock on the wall; Dad would be home soon. I stood. “How much do I owe you for the two cupcakes?”

  “Two cupcakes? Twenty dollars, please,” Mrs. T said.

  Twenty dollars? That was pretty steep, and it was all I had with me. Now I couldn’t buy anything else for Dad. I reached into my pocket and handed the bill to Peaseblossom, who took it from me sadly.

  Mrs. T beamed at me. “I have a special treat for you, my dear. I made it with my own two hands. I hope it inspires you to return soon and often.”

  “But I don’t have any more money.” And based on the cupcakes I’d tasted, I wasn’t sure I wanted to eat anything else from the While Away today.

  “No charge, of course.” She fiddled in a desk drawer, blew on something in her hands, and held out a tiny golden box.

  “How beautiful. What is it?”

  “A rare and precious chocolate.”

  “My—Mrs. T, don’t you think—”

  “Silence, P.”

  Peaseblossom grew quiet and looked at the floor.

  “Thank you,” I said as I accepted the box. “I’ll take it home and eat it after dinner. I’ll be able to enjoy it more that way.” I didn’t want to risk the chance that I’d spit it out all over her floor.

  Mrs. T inclined her head regally.

  I walked back into the café, followed by Peaseblossom.

  This was an odd place for sure, but not necessarily in a bad way. I couldn’t wait to start planning for the contest.

  “We hope you have the sweetest of sweet days,” Pease-blossom said as I went out the door.

  Outside on the sidewalk, I glanced back as I strapped on my bike helmet. Peaseblossom and Mrs. T had disappeared into the back; the café was empty again.

  But as I pedaled down the street, I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching.

  CHAPTER 3

  A STRANGE HOMECOMING

  Dad’s laptop bag was already sitting in the mudroom when I got home. I sat on the bench and scrutinized the chocolate box, which looked like a miniature treasure chest. I opened it, gingerly picked up the chocolate inside, and examined it from all angles. It was a work of art, embellished with minuscule vines and teeny purple icing flowers, and covered in a shimmering gold dust. But would it be delicious? I hope Dad won’t be too picky about how it tastes, I thought as I put the chocolate back and sprinkled it with the golden powder left on my fingers. I wanted to enter the contest, and I didn’t want Dad’s opinion of the While Away to be ruined by a less-than-perfect confection. I snapped the lid closed.

  I set the box next to me as footsteps thumped down the stairs.

  “Daddy!” I jumped up.

  “Mimi Mouse! I was wondering where everyone was.” Dad dropped his running shoes and swept me up in a hug. I inhaled the familiar scent of cucumber shampoo in his sandy hair.

  “How was Houston?” I asked as he set me down.

  Dad’s warm brown eyes crinkled with his smile. “Hot. But the food was great, and I’ve got a lot to write about.”

  “What was your favorite bite?” I asked.

  “Savory or sweet?” he asked, grinning.

  “Savory first, then sweet,” I said, grinning back.

  “Well, I had an incredible pork shoulder in a brown sugar–tamarind barbecue sauce. It was the perfect combination of sweet and sour.” Dad has an amazing palate; he can tell whether the nutmeg in a soup has been freshly grated or not.

  “That sounds delicious. And the best dessert?”

  “Hands down, a piece of pecan pie. It made me think of you. I took notes—it was flavored with vanilla bean and cinnamon rum. But I bet we could make one even better.”

  “Ooh,” I said. “Maybe with five-spice powder? I think that would go really well with the sweet pecans.”

  “That’s my girl, the master of combining unusual flavors.” He ruffled my hair.

  “Especially when you help me,” I said.

  Dad sat on the bench, and I plopped down next to him.

>   “I couldn’t wait for you to get back. So much happened while you were gone,” I said.

  “Tell me.”

  “Well, there’s a new café in town.”

  He grinned and raised his eyebrows. “I bet you already checked it out. Is it Mimi-worthy?”

  I paused. “Well, they’re having a—”

  “Hey, Dad.” Sweaty, dusty Henry walked in the door.

  Dad stood and hugged him. “Hi, buddy. What’ve you been up to?”

  “I was next door helping the new neighbors move in.”

  “Well, that was generous of you.” Dad clapped him on the shoulder. “Nice folks?”

  “Yeah. The kid, Cole, is going to be a junior in the fall, like Riya. He’s pretty cool.”

  “Where are Mom and the girls?”

  “They’re out at practice until at least six, I think,” Henry said.

  Dad glanced at his watch. “Then I can squeeze in a run before dinner. Have to work off all that food from the trip!”

  And there went my chance to talk to Dad alone.

  “I’ll go get washed up,” said Henry. “I’ve got to go over all my lines before play rehearsal tomorrow. I go, I go; look how I go, Swifter than arrow from the Tartar’s bow.” He ran up the stairs two at a time.

  I was bursting with everything I wanted to tell Dad. The song. The bird. The contest! But I sat silently and watched him tie his shoes. He was always in a great mood after a run. Maybe that would be the best time to tell him about the While Away and ask for his help preparing for the contest.

  “I won’t be long,” he said. “I’ve spent too much time sitting on airplanes lately.” He noticed the chocolate box on the bench and picked it up. “That’s pretty. Yours?”

  “It’s for you. I got it in town.”

  “I knew you’d have something waiting for me.” He opened the little box, popped the chocolate into his mouth, and made a face. “Oh! That’s bitter. Must be extra-extra-dark. But there’s a very sweet center that tastes of almonds and honey, and . . .” He smacked his lips. “Something floral.”