by Diana Stone
In the store, he has several breeds of fluffy new babies. There must be 20 of the little-girl-chicks milling around in a big box with a heat lamp. Each breed varies in personality, color and egg production. Those are the three most important things for me.
I used to stand guard over my hens when I gave them the freedom to scratch in the manure pile. They would come running when I called “girls” in a high pitched voice. They had to hold their wings out for balance as they ran. Early one morning, my neighbor’s dogs broke into my coop and killed them. She didn’t show any remorse and she isn’t even white trash. She is just entitled and thinks her dogs should be able to run loose on other people’s property. I have a lot of memories I need to overcome, and a lot of animosity toward some people. I also have an issue with untrained dogs.
Joe comes in and pulls me away from my thoughts. “Hey Jess, what will it be for you today?”
“Veronica needs the usual, three bags of rice bran. How’s life treating you?”
He rolls his eyes. “Did you see that gal who just left, the one with the low cut tank top and breasts pushed up to here?” He points to his throat.
“I guess I missed it.”
He laughs in frustration. “She keeps coming on to me, and she knows I’m married. I’m not interested, but can’t tell her that, I need the business.”
“Is this another one?” I ask in amazement.
“Yeah, they think I’ll give them a discount if they dress like that. I’m not interested in loose women who want discounts. I’ve got a marriage on the rocks and I don’t need an affair.”
“Well, you’re young and good-looking, and you look great in a sweaty shirt.” I laugh, keeping it light. He’s tall, fit and muscular. I can see his muscles straining through the cotton. And he’s super nice, what’s not to like?
“Thanks, in that case maybe I should change into a dry shirt,” he modestly replies.
“Don’t change your shirt, it’s good for business!” I laugh.
I’m not coming on to him. He’s too young for me, and I have a theory about married men: They don’t leave their wives. I had a friend who was seeing a married guy. Sure, he complained about his wife, but he never divorced her. She finally understood he never would. Although come to think of it, I know several guys who left their wives to marry the other woman. One of them was my husband. So much for that theory, I guess they do leave their wives.
We chat a while longer, then I remember to ask something else. “Does Jack Courtland have horses?”
“Yeah, he has some old racehorses. I deliver to his place once a month. Why?”
“I heard about an old horse who was about to die. They took him to the vortex and he got well.”
“That vortex is a weird thing,” he agrees.
“Have you been there?”
“Yeah, a while back, after dropping off a load of oat hay. I got talking to his barn manager. He wanted to show me the vortex, so he took me up the canyon. That area is way back in the hills. It’s kind of different back there, you know, strange. It doesn’t have a natural feeling,” he pulls a face. “It felt creepy.”
“Oh, what was creepy about it?” I’m intrigued.
“It was really quiet. It’s like it’s back in time, like from the dinosaur days. There weren’t any birds or animals around. Outside, there’s a tree that’s twisted like a corkscrew, and oak trees don’t twist. I felt the need to leave,” he says with a laugh.
“Do you think you can take me on your next delivery, will they let me see it?”
“You must love ghost stories at camp-outs.”
“Well, it sure sounds interesting, and it’s closer than Sedona. If the guy is around, do you think he’d take me?” I’m trying to sound calm.
“Sure, you can come. I don’t know if he still works there. I haven’t seen him for a few months. I can ask the other guys.”
“When are you going again?” I ask, eagerly.
“I don’t have a delivery for another few weeks. I’ll call you and let you know—if you really want to go. I’m not sure I want to go back. I’m not a wuss, but I don’t like it,” he admits.
“Thanks, I’d like to see what it’s all about. Here comes your next customer. I’ll talk to you soon, and thanks,” I give a quick wave.
“Sure thing.” He gives a mock salute and gets back to work.
So I’m in town and I need to do something else productive. I’ll head to the bakery. I can justify it because Veronica needs an apple strudel. I need a strudel as well, I’ve been good lately. I’ll allow myself one. Come to think of it, a few chocolates aren’t too bad for me either. A little sugar and cocoa never hurt anyone.
It’s a quiet morning for wine tasting. I like to see people flowing around town like a stream. It gives the place a happy, active feeling. This town is small and loves its day-trippers. It also loves its quiet star-lit nights.
I slide my truck into a space in front of Monica’s.
The door makes a little chime as I enter. She has easy listening music playing, I hadn’t noticed that before. The scent of spice and sweet baking is in the air. When did she hang those larger-than-life photographs of chocolate? Huh, I see a lot more today than I did last time. I’m in a better frame of mind.
Monica walks out carrying a tray loaded with fresh pastries. “Jess, great to see you again.”
“Hi Monica, you’re looking good. I have apple strudel on my shopping list, do you have any today?”
“I wouldn’t dare run out. What brings you to town?”
“It’s a slow day at work, so I’m doing errands.” I reach out for a small chocolate bite she pushes toward me. “I called Liliana and enrolled in her intro to wine tasting class. It was great, I learned about etiquette and flavors. Though I’m having trouble identifying flavors. I just go with ‘this one’s good’, or ‘wow’, that’s really nice.”
“You mean like Merlot vs Syrah vs Pinot?”
“That, and the fruit flavors of the grape. For example—raspberry flavor. Is it sun-dried, snow-covered, shade grown or what?” I think I made up some new flavors.
“Oh, no,” she laughs. “You’re funny. You’re feeling better today aren’t you?”
I stop and think for a moment. “Yes I am, now that you mention it.” And she thinks I have a sense of humor. That’s another thing HE didn’t think I had. I feel even better after her comment. Thanks, Monica!
She’s arranging the pastries in the display cases behind their corresponding signs. There is a full row of Apricot & Amaretto pastry. I should buy one of those, I could really use one.
“It seems, I need to amend my shopping order to include the Apricot & Amaretto.”
“Jess, don’t get plump like me,” she passes across a small piece that broke off another pastry. “Here, try this.”
I pop it into my mouth. “Mmm, what is this!?” It’s heavenly.
“Orange liqueur with chocolate.” She grins.
“The liqueur jumps right out. You use a generous amount!
“That’s the way I keep happy customers.”
Her phone rings, interrupting my next comment. It looks like bad news. She answers the caller, “Yes, I understand, I know it can’t be helped. I’ll figure something out. Get well, bye.”
“Hell,” she growls, looking frustrated.
I don’t want to intrude on her call, but she looks upset. “Someone’s sick?”
“My pet-sitter, she has a bad case of the flu. Real flu, not just a runny nose.”
“Are you going somewhere?”
“Yes, tomorrow night. I’m going to my mother-in-law’s birthday party for the weekend. It’s in Oregon, I already have it booked. But I can’t leave Nicki alone,” she looks distraught, her eyes flitting left and right for an answer. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Who is Nicki?”
“My cat. She’s 18, I can’t take her to a kennel.”
That would help my cat withdrawal problem. “How long are you going? Perhaps I can look after her?”<
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“It’s only 2 nights. I live in Solvang, just down the road,” she looks hopeful.
“I’m a cat lover going through withdrawals… I’d be happy to look after her.”
“Are you sure? I hate to impose,” she says. “Since you work for Veronica, I know you’re trustworthy. She came in last week and singing your praises.”
I’m glad to know I already have a good reputation. “I can stop by to feed her, or stay overnight, whichever you prefer.”
“Can you possibly stay over?” she sounds hopeful, “I don’t want to leave her alone all night. When no one is home, she wanders around crying, it’s so sad.”
“I’ll come with my iPad, and search the internet for wine tasting videos.” It will give me a break from my sleeping bag.
She passes me an Apricot & Amaretto pastry. “Enjoy, it’s on the house.”
“Thank you.” I take a small nibble, then a second. It’s not too sweet, and oh, so flavorful, “There are benefits to befriending a fabulous baker,” I compliment.
“Thanks to you, I’ll be even more fabulous when I return, because I’ll actually get some sleep.” She smiles. “Do you think you can come over this evening? Nicki will get to know you, if you can stay for a while.”
“I’d love to, it’ll be nice to get away from the ranch.”
The first group comes through the door. Monica grabs a pen and paper. “Here’s my address. I’ll try to get home by 8:00 if that’s okay.”
“Being self-employed doesn’t give you much time off… see you at 8:00,” I give a quick wave and step outside into the warm morning.
Hmm, what can I do now? If I return to the barn, I can check on Bunny and clean tack for a couple of hours. Then I’ll head into Solvang for a peek around before going to Monica’s.
Back at the ranch… my girl looks comfortable, that’s always a good sign. She still needs to pass the oil, but I hope it’s only a matter of time. There’s nothing I can do except wait. It doesn’t help by sitting in a chair, watching her.
I find Veronica and place the bag of strudels in her eagerly waiting hand. I doubt they’ll last long.
“Remember you’re on a diet,” I playfully admonish.
“Yes I am, but I need to keep my energy up. I’d better have a bite to test them,” the bag crinkles as she looks in and nearly swoons. She dips her hand in and removes one pastry. It’s beautifully wrapped in celadon-green tissue paper painted with a flowing silver script. She takes a bite, chews, and moans. Another bite. And another, properly self-paced, until it’s half-gone.
“Your willpower is lacking,” I good-heartedly sneer.
With a mouthful, she says, “Oh shut up,” while holding in a laugh.
“Should I hide the bag?” I hold my hand out to her.
“Ye fjoi lajrf aljdfl,” she mumbles with a few crumbs falling from her mouth.
“What are you saying? Your mouth is full,” I can’t help but needle her.
She swallows, says nothing, but hands me the bag for safekeeping.
“I’ll be watching Monica’s old lady cat while she’s out of town. I’m going to visit tonight. I’ll be staying for 2 nights but back here each morning. I just wanted to let you know. You’ll be here, right?”
“Yes, I have piles of paperwork. I’m glad you’re getting to know people.” She looks into my eyes and asks, “Can she pay you in baked goods?”
“I’ll make sure of it,” I laugh, agreeing.
I keep busy until about 3:00, then shower up and head to Solvang for the rest of the day.
12
Exploring Solvang
The afternoon crowd is in full swing. A bicycle touring group passes through town with at least a hundred riders in tight spandex, spattered with company logos.
Finding a place to park is a problem. I have to cruise up and down the streets, looking. I try several streets over, to Alisal Road, on the east side of town. Whew, here’s a spot. I pull in, drop it in park and jump out. Just in time for my adventure.
In front of me is the windmill I always see on the Solvang postcards. I snap my own photo. It hits a different place in my memory when it’s from my camera.
There are lots of restaurants, but I’m not really in the mood for food. I had my usual protein shake just before I left. But it would be fun to do some ‘recon’ and check out a few bakeries in town, to judge their quality against Monica’s.
Good, here’s a tourist-magazine stand. Reaching in, I select the glossy one. It will have the places to see. For now, I’m flipping through the pages for a map to the bakeries. There are five, but I’ll take three that are closest. That’s a lot of competition in one town, unless there are so many tourists that they’re all busy.
I plot my route and begin with anticipation.
First: Petersen’s Bakery. I make a mental note that it has a cute exterior, but a generic interior. The showcase is full of pastries. “I’d like an apple strudel, please.” I’ll compare something they all make. Since I’ve tasted Monica’s, I can judge them against hers. The man places it in the bag. I thank him, pay and exit. I write my notes on the bag, but save the actual taste test for later.
Studying my brochure, it shows bakery 2 is in the middle of town. Solvang is small, but navigating the crowded sidewalks takes a while. That’s okay, I can always use the exercise. Unless they taste awful, my pastry taste test will increase my daily intake of calories. Even if they aren’t great, it’s doubtful I’ll actually throw them out. If I save them for later I’ll be hungry, and it will make them taste better.
I arrive at bakery 2: Sven’s Bakery. Old world exterior, fantastic even older-world interior. Several people are at the showcase deciding how to indulge. Looking around, I see the owners have paid attention to detail, giving it a look of an Old Danish tavern. The walls are brick and have dark stained wood beams. It looks rich with history. The showcases have wood tops and glass cases. Inside, the pastries look really nice. Again I select the same, “An apple strudel, please. Your bakery is gorgeous.”
“Thank you, I’m Sven.” He elaborates a little, “I saw you looking at the walls. We used imported wood and did the work ourselves. My grandfather is a brick mason,” he states with pride.
“You’ve done a great job with the European look.” His strudel is pricier than the first bakery. I guess he has to pay for the decor. Again, I write my notes on the white pastry bag.
Then, bakery 3: Coffee-Hus. It has a charming exterior, the inside is nicer than the first bakery, but not at all like Sven’s. “An apple strudel please.” After he bags and hands it to me I walk out, making notes.
Now, the good part. There’s a bench right here, but it’s in the full sun. Looking around, I see a wooden one in the shade of a lovely old tree farther down the road, and it’s calling my name. I stretch out my walking stride and claim it before anyone else gets the chance. I sit down with a happy grin. Now—to begin my taste test.
How do I want to do this? I remove each strudel and lay it out on its bag. Darn, I don’t have a knife. I’d like them cut in half so I can taste both the filling and dough at the same time. I’ll have to test the first bite without the filling.
I take a nibble from each corner to compare against the others. Sven’s pastry crust has the better flavor. Then I break each in half and drag pieces of apple out with my teeth to try the filling alone. His is great. The apples taste real and they look hand sliced and imperfect. You know, not cut with perfect machine slices or little cubes. There isn’t much of that sugary-jell inside, it’s just apples. His tastes like quality food. The other two are just so-so.
However, compared with Monica’s, while his are good, hers are a cut above. Her apple filling has other subtle flavors complimenting the apple. She has worked her magic on her pastries because she knows spices and secrets, which probably include liqueur.
I’ll eat Sven’s strudel on my drive home and keep the others for when I have a weak moment.
I’m still sitting here, looking at my
watch. It’s 5 o’clock, so I still have lots of time before meeting Monica. What do I want to do? I guess I’ll wander around. I start by looking in windows, doing the tourist thing, and people watching. There isn’t anything I want to buy in the art galleries. I think I can skip the foot reflexology. I already have a hat. Oh look, here’s a chocolate store. Chocolate is interesting… I could do another taste test. No, I’d better not, not today— I’ve had enough sweets.
Scanning my magazine, I come upon another idea. There’s a local brewpub, the price is right, and I haven’t been to a beer tasting before.
While walking back to my truck, a sight stops me in my tracks. That weirdo-suspect Pickett, from Jack’s party, is walking out of a restaurant with an older woman on his arm. He leans in and gives her a kiss on her cheek. Her body language says they are in a relationship… I bet she’s his next forgery victim.
I wrestle my phone out of my jeans pocket and take a quick photo for evidence. Then I press the speed dial number for the Solvang police. It’s a good thing I always program the local police in my phone.
“Hello, 911, what are you reporting?” asks the dispatcher.
“I’m following a suspect wanted for battery. I’m the victim, I made a crime report a few weeks ago. I’m on Copenhagen, the number is um.” I can’t find an address. “I’m at First and Copenhagen, south-east corner. The suspect is walking westbound with an older woman.” I wait for her questions.
“I’ll send a unit. Where is the suspect now?”
The dispatcher stays on the line with me while I follow them as carefully as I can. I dodge behind someone every time there’s a gap in the crowd. I have the magazine in my right hand, ready to put up to hide my face.
They stop and look in many of the shop windows. I hope he can’t see me in the reflection. I’m giving updates to the dispatcher while holding the magazine up to hide my face. That’s kind of obvious, in its own way.
The lady on his arm has short gray hair and is well dressed. Even from my vantage point two stores away, I can see her cream-colored skirt suit is tailored. She looks to be in her 70s. They’re laughing and chatting like they don’t have a care in the world. He’s doing a nice job of acting in love with her, placing little kisses on her cheek. She looks like a sweet grandmother, but certainly not his. Not with the way he’s draping himself over her. She’s much too old for him. That’s why I think he’ll swindle her. It’s also based on his criminal record Jack told me about.