By eight o’clock Candy had set out her items for sale, all arranged neatly on the booth’s display counter, which she’d covered with a blueberry tablecloth she’d bought at the L.L.Bean store in Freeport.
She attached the banner she’d made to the tops of the front posts and wove blue and white crepe paper streamers around the posts to add some color. Finally, she hung gift baskets from hooks in the crossbeams above her head. The baskets swayed gently in the sea breeze that always seemed to be coming in from the ocean.
When she was done, she stepped out into the street to have a look at it all. She was pleased with what she saw. This was her third year selling homemade items at the festival but her first time with a booth; the last two years she had gone the novice route, setting up a card table near the park. This year she’d decided to put a professional spin on the blueberry-selling business, purchasing booth space along Main Street and significantly increasing the variety of items she offered.
Now all she had to do was sell it all, and she’d provide a much-needed boost to the Holliday household finances.
By eight thirty the crowds began to arrive, and by nine the streets of Cape Willington were swarming with festival-goers. Events had kicked off at seven thirty that morning with a pancake breakfast at the American Legion Hall. The Fun Run at eight thirty was followed by 5K and 15K races. The flea market at the First Congregational Church was about to open, a pet parade was scheduled for noon, a local folk band would start playing in Town Park at one, a blueberry pie-eating contest would take place at three, and other events would follow throughout the afternoon.
Things would really get rolling with the Blueberry Festival Parade at five. Featuring the Blueberry Queen contestants, it would wind its way around the Coastal Loop and end up at the Pruitt Opera House, where the Blueberry Queen would be crowned after a pageant that started at six. The day would culminate with a dance at the Cape Willington Community Center at eight, presided over by the Blueberry Queen and her court.
There was no doubt about it—it was going to be a long but fun, and most certainly fruitful, day.
The weather cooperated nicely. A bright late July sun rose through a nearly cloudless sky. The heat and humidity of the previous day had broken overnight. Today was cooler and crisper, a perfect festival day.
Still, by midmorning the temperature had risen into the seventies and threatened to approach eighty. Main Street was well shaded, so Candy didn’t have to worry too much about her chocolate-covered blueberries melting in the heat, although she did keep the bulk of them in coolers she had brought along to prevent just that. With any luck, she’d have them all sold by noon.
The large pies went quickly (at twelve dollars apiece), and she sold the T-shirts, soap, and cookies at a good clip, as she knew she would.
Doc helped out in the booth for a while, until the boys showed up. They were in an anxious mood. Bumpy’s wide ruddy face was ruddier than usual as he finished off a doughnut, brushing crumbs down the front of his wrinkled Hawaiian shirt, which he always dragged out of the closet on holidays and special events like the festival. Artie, looking disheveled as he pushed horn-rim glasses up his blade-thin nose, carried a clipboard, on which he jotted notes about the items he had purchased that day and planned to resell on eBay. Finn wore an exquisitely serious expression on his bearded face and, despite the heat, was dressed in an ever-present tweed jacket, patched at the elbows and fraying at the ends of the sleeves. “Got more news,” he announced to Doc as they approached the booth.
Doc was instantly drawn in. “About Jock?”
Finn nodded. “That evidence they found? It’s a flashlight.”
“Ha! I knew it!” Doc announced proudly, pounding a fist into an open hand.
“They found it on the rocks below,” Finn went on, sounding not unlike Joe Friday in Dragnet. “It’s got someone’s initials on it.” He lowered his voice to a gruff whisper as he leaned in closer. “Not Jock’s, though.”
Doc’s eyes narrowed. “Whose?”
Finn leaned back, hitched up his trousers, and shook his head. “Haven’t found that out yet. I’m on it, though.”
“You headed to the diner?”
The boys nodded. For a strange moment they reminded Candy of the Three Stooges, especially Bumpy, who with his crew cut and generous proportions bore more than a passing resemblance to Curly. And now that she thought about it, Artie Groves, with his straight black hair, could pass for a much taller Moe. She almost expected them to start slapping each other around. Doc rubbed at his hip before he turned to her, looking like a little boy about to ask if he could go outside and play. “Leg’s starting to bother me a little. Mind if I take a break?”
Candy gave him a gentle push, letting him know he wasn’t fooling anyone. She was surprised he had lasted as long as he did. “Go ahead, get off your feet for a while. I’ve got help coming.”
He gave her a grateful smile. “I’ll be right across the street if you need me,” he said, and off he went with his crew.
Fortunately, Candy had arranged for Maggie’s daughter to stop by to help out in the booth. Tall, dark haired, and serious, Amanda Tremont was soon to be a senior at Cape Willington High School, with dreams of becoming an architect. Candy knew she was always looking to make a little extra cash, so it hadn’t been difficult to persuade her to help out at the booth for a couple of hours.
With Amanda working beside her, Candy was able to handle all her customers during the busiest part of the day—mid to late morning—and the battered gray cash box behind the front counter began to fill up with tens and twenties, and even a few fifties and hundreds.
As midday approached, Candy found that, rather than feeling tired or stressed, she was energized and actually enjoying herself. Main Street, lined with colorful booths and banners, and crowded with chattering tourists, families with little children, elderly couples strolling along, and groups of excited teens huddled together like seagulls against the wind, had taken on a festive atmosphere.
Blueberry pies and T-shirts and garlands were everywhere. Peppy music drifted from loudspeakers attached to lampposts. Sounds of laughter could be heard up and down the street. Everyone seemed to be in a good mood, yet there was an underlying melancholy that lay just beneath the surface, Candy noticed, though for the most part folks avoided talking about Jock’s passing. It was whispered about here and there, yes, but it was still too shocking, too unbelievable, to bring out into the open on such a sunny festival day.
Just after noon, Herr Georg stopped by to pay his respects and purchase one of Candy’s mini pies. Ray made an appearance and walked away with a dozen large muffins—probably eleven more than he’d originally intended to purchase. Candy gently tried to talk him out of buying that many—she knew he lived alone and couldn’t eat them all by himself—but he insisted, telling her they were his favorite.
Other townspeople passed by or stopped to say hello. One was Judicious F. P. Bosworth, a fortyish gentleman whose father and grandfather had both been judges, hence the lofty name. But rather than following in the family business, Judicious had skipped out on his senior year of high school and backpacked his way through Europe and Asia, winding up years later at a Buddhist monastery on a mountaintop in Tibet. He had been close to thirty when he had finally returned to Cape Willington a decade ago, firmly convinced he had mystical powers and could make himself invisible at will.
At first, when told of Judicious’s peculiarity, Candy had found it endlessly odd and amusing, but eventually she had warmed to the idea of having an invisible man about town, and accepted Judicious as just another townie. She had also rather easily fallen into the town-wide practice of inquiring about Judicious’s status whenever she encountered him around town. “Are you being seen this morning, Judicious?” she would ask him, or “Mr. Bosworth, are you here?” If he responded, then clearly he was visible and a conversation could ensue, during which Judicious usually revealed himself to be well informed and erudite. But if he declined to answer or simply walk
ed away, then he was considered to be invisible, and Candy would think nothing more of it and go about her business. Following accepted practice around town, she would always inform others whom she encountered that day as to the visibility—or lack of it—of Judicious. And Sapphire Vine, the gossip columnist for the local paper, kept a running count of Judicious’s days of visibility and invisibility.
Today, Judicious waved and mouthed a pleasant “Good morning” to Candy as he passed by. Obviously he was being seen on this fine day.
Another visitor to the booth was Bertha Grayfire, the fifty-something chairwoman of the town council, who stopped by to say hello. Bertha was dressed nicely in a lime green frock and a large floppy hat—a distinctive change from the Dolly Parton outfit she liked to wear to Halloween parties or to amuse trick-or-treaters. The outfit had been a hit for years, and Bertha usually tried to one-up herself each time she wore it, coming up with ever more elaborate hairdos and overdone makeup. She had also been known to warble a few tunes made famous by her country-singer idol. Today, she chatted briefly with Candy before walking off with a couple of T-shirts for her grandchildren and a few bars of soap for herself.
All in all, it was turning out to be a very good day.
During one of the lulls in the action, while the pet parade was making its way down Ocean Street to the delight of the large crowd that had gathered, Candy had a few minutes to talk with Amanda. “So, are you all ready for the big night tonight?” she asked. Amanda was to be one of the contestants in the Blueberry Queen Pageant that evening.
But instead of being excited about it, Amanda shrugged and picked absently at a broken fingernail. “I guess so. I really don’t want to do it.”
That took Candy by surprise. “Why not? I thought you were looking forward to it. It sounds like a lot of fun.”
Amanda tilted her head a little but kept her gaze cast downward. “I just don’t want to, that’s all.”
“Well,” Candy said after a moment, “maybe you’re just a little nervous about it.”
Amanda shrugged. “Maybe. It doesn’t really make any difference if I’m there or not. Everyone knows Haley Pruitt is going to win.”
Candy tried to temper the flash of anger that shot through her. “No she’s not! Who told you that?”
Haley Pruitt was the granddaughter of Helen Ross Pruitt, the town’s wealthiest citizen and owner of Pruitt Manor, an English Tudor-style “summer cottage” that sat out on the point near Kimball Light.
Amanda seemed completely disinterested by the conversation. “No one told me. I just know. She always wins everything.”
Candy let out a breath of exasperation. “Amanda, she doesn’t win everything. You can’t think like that. You have as good a chance to win as anyone. Besides, you’re much prettier than Haley.”
Amanda looked up, her soft brown eyes hopeful. “You really think so?”
Candy smiled reassuringly. “I know so. You just have to go up there and do your . . .”
She was interrupted when Amanda’s serious demeanor suddenly brightened and her eyes flashed with excitement. “Oh, hi, Cameron!” Amanda said with more energy than she had mustered the entire morning.
Candy’s gaze shifted. A tall, shaggy-haired teenage boy with a lopsided grin and intelligent green eyes stood in front of the booth.
“Oh, hi, Cameron,” Candy echoed.
“Hi,” said Cameron, barely looking at her. Then, more shyly, he added, “Hi, Amanda.”
“Hi.”
There was an awkward silence in which both teens looked at each other and then looked over at Candy. When neither of them spoke, apparently tongue-tied, Candy asked, “Having a good time today, Cam?”
The boy shrugged. “Not really. Working,” he said in a voice surprisingly deep for someone his age.
“Oh, that’s right. How are things at Gumm’s?” Cameron worked at the town’s hardware store during the summer.
“Busy.” He paused. “How are things going here?”
“Just great,” said Candy cheerily. “Amanda’s helping out a lot. She’s doing a great job.”
“Hmm.” Cameron’s eyes flicked from Amanda to Candy and back as he fidgeted and chewed his lip. He seemed to want to say something but didn’t quite know how to say it. Or maybe something—or someone—was preventing him from saying it. Candy guessed that “someone” was her. The kids probably wanted a few minutes by themselves, she realized. Young love and all that.
Leaning over, she dug a twenty-dollar bill out of the cash box. “Tell you what,” she said to Amanda. “Why don’t you and Cam run over to Duffy’s and get some lunch? And you can bring me back something.”
Amanda snatched the bill from Candy’s hand almost before the words were out of her mouth.” ’Kay. What do you want?”
Candy’s first thought was to ask for the usual—a salad and a Diet Coke—but what the hey, it was a festival day, right? Why not celebrate a little? “How about a cheeseburger, extra pickles and mustard, fries with lots of ketchup, and an extra thick chocolate shake,” she said quickly before she changed her mind.
“You got it!” Amanda dashed around the back of the booth, grabbed Cameron by the hand, and pulled him away with her. He flashed a silly grin at Candy before he turned and followed his girlfriend. “Back in twenty minutes,” Amanda called over her shoulder, waving.
Candy chuckled. “Yeah, right. Twenty minutes. Like that’ll happen.”
Turning her attention back to her booth, she started rearranging the items on the front counter. As she did, she noticed a large, bearded man standing to one side, surreptitiously watching her as he pretended to read the label on one of her pies. Catching her glance, he shot her a tight smile. “You’re pretty good with teenagers,” he observed.
Candy laughed. “I don’t know about that. But we get along pretty well together. They’re good kids.”
The bearded man squinted in thought as he turned to glance back over his shoulder. “She looks familiar. Do I know her?”
Candy gave him the once over. “Who wants to know?” she said protectively. She wasn’t about to discuss Amanda with a stranger.
He pointed a finger at his chest. “You want to know who I am?”
“That’s right.”
It wasn’t much of a clarification, but he seemed to get it. His mouth formed the tight smile again. Could be it was constricted by all that facial hair? “Oh, I see. I thought you knew.”
“Why would I know?”
“Well, it’s just that . . . my name’s been in the . . .” A bit flustered, he finally stuck out a hand. “Sebastian J. Quinn.”
“Oh. Hello.” She shook his hand, which dwarfed hers.
Now, as she took a closer look at him, she realized he did look vaguely familiar. His size was imposing. He was tall and a bit heavy, though not overweight. He wore dark gray slacks, a crisply pressed khaki shirt, and a shiny green and rose cravat, the likes of which had gone out of style thirty years ago. Okay, fifty. Truthfully, it had never been in style. He cradled a newspaper under one arm and held four or five small burgundy-colored books in his meaty left hand.
It took her a few moments, but it finally dawned on her. “I have seen you in the paper. You’re the poet, right?”
His smile genuinely widened. He bowed slightly. “The very same. I’m honored you’ve heard of me.”
“Well, just about everybody in town has heard of you, haven’t they? You’re here for the pageant, right? One of the judges?”
“Actually, I’m vacationing in the area. I must admit, I’m quite taken with your lovely little town. I’ve rented a cottage on the coast for a month. Acting as a judge for the pageant is a last-minute arrangement.”
“So I’ve heard.” It had been front-page news in the local paper. The organizers of the Blueberry Queen Pageant liked to have at least one celebrity judge every year, in addition to the regulars. The frenetic search for this year’s celebrity judge had been widely reported by Sapphire Vine in her column. According to her
reports, Stephen King, who lived up in Bangor, had been asked (for the fifth year in a row) to be a judge but had graciously declined. Other offers had gone out, but none had been accepted. For a while the search had seemed destined to failure. Then, when someone found out Sebastian J. Quinn was vacationing in the area, he had been asked and had ultimately agreed to become this year’s celebrity judge.
“It’s quite an honor for us to have a poet of your stature as a judge,” Candy continued.
“Oh, well, that’s a very nice thing to say. Tell me, are you a fan of poetry?” Sebastian asked.
“I guess you could say that. I’ve read Robert Frost, Walt Whitman, that sort of thing.”
“Any of my works?”
Candy hesitated. She knew he was fishing for a compliment. “Of course.”
“Oh? Which ones?”
“One of the early ones.” She thought a moment, trying to recall the title. “Something about chaos,” was all she could remember.
“Mm. Yes, that one. The Bell of Chaos, it’s called.”
“That’s right! The Bell of Chaos. I enjoyed it a lot.”
“Yes, you and many others.” Sebastian looked quite unimpressed. “I won the Pulitzer for that, although I think my later works are much better.” He held out one of the burgundy-colored books he was carrying. “Here’s my latest. A Drop of Peace.”
“Oh.” Candy gingerly took the book that had been thrust at her and flipped through the pages. “It looks wonderful,” she said, closing the cover and handing it back. But Sebastian waved it away. “Keep it. My gift to you. Here, I’ll sign it for you, though I’m afraid I don’t know your first name.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I guess I neglected to introduce myself. It’s Candy. Candy Holliday.”
He looked at her curiously, glanced up at the sign over the booth, then back at her. “Of course. Holliday’s Blueberry Acres. Candy, though? That name is quite . . . unique.”
“It’s sort of an inside joke. I was born on Halloween.” After a moment she added, “My parents had a warped sense of humor, I guess.”
That tight smile returned. He seemed to have practiced it a lot. “Hmm, yes, I see.” He scribbled something hastily on the book’s front page, signed his name, starting with a large swooping S, then slapped the cover closed and shoved the book toward her. “There you go. Do enjoy. Now, I must confess, I’ve heard you make the best blueberry pies in town. That’s why I came over, to check out your wares. . . .”
Town In a Blueberrry Jam Page 5