Sweetest Obsessions - Anthology

by Anthony, Jane

  Panic gripped me as I watched her walk to the end of the sidewalk, right to the edge of the parking lot and stare straight at the truck. A truck that was very clearly illegally parked.

  Towed. Surely, we were about to get towed. I closed my eyes as if that would make the situation vanish, and prayed that Jake would make it back before the blue sirens and tow wench appeared.

  The woman continued coming my way, then smiled and waved at me. I mentally tried to brace myself for the earful I was surely about to receive. I’d been on the receiving end of a sharp-tongued butt chewing before from my own Southern grandmother, and I knew a smile and a wave was a decoy designed to trick you into letting your defenses down.

  Sure enough, around she came toward the passenger side, scuttling quickly but carefully across the parking lot in a pair of khaki-colored orthopedic shoes. There was absolutely nothing to be done. I rolled down the window and prepared for the worst.

  “Hi, dear – are you Molly?” she asked in a kind tone, and catching me completely off guard.

  “Ah, yes. Yes ma’am, I am,” I said, thankfully my brain pulled back on early childhood teachings and reminded me that I’d been taught manners once upon a time.

  She reached into the truck and patted my arm. “I thought so,” she said, and offered me the small gift bag. “I’m Malinda Kay. You can call me Mrs. K or Auntie M – I answer to both,” she said warmly. “And here, are some of our homemade chocolate chip cookies, made ‘em myself this morning. These are the most popular cookies in town – we even sell to-go boxes of ‘em in our restaurant,” she beamed proudly.

  I opened the bag and peered inside. A handful of neatly stacked cookies had been tucked into the tissue paper. I lifted the bag and inhaled the delightful scents of brown sugar, vanilla extract, and chocolate chips. If these cookies tasted half as good as they smelled, I imagined they sold by the truckload. “These smell wonderful – thank you,” I said.

  “Your beau said you’d be out here with the truck, so I thought I’d bring you something.”

  “Oh, we’re not actually,” I began to stammer. But the sweet woman shushed me, and patted my shoulder again firmly. “Wait here.”

  She turned toward a small storage shed, painted in a pretty shade of crimson and trimmed in white, perfectly matching the color palette of the red-bricked buildings on Main Street. She fumbled in her jacket pocket and produced a set of keys, jiggled the lock, then swung open the barn-style door. A moment later, she reappeared, carrying what looked to be a traffic placard mounted on a tripod. She beamed as she turned the sign toward me, so I could read it.

  AUTHORIZED EVERGREEN INN PARKING - VIP

  She placed the sign near the front bumper, then called to me as she made her way back to the inn. “Enjoy your stay!”

  I returned her wave, relaxing against the seat in complete relief.

  Tiki nosed at the bag, before hopping down and trotting toward the back of the truck, no doubt to get his own snack. My stomach rumbled with hunger as I took one of the cookies out of the bag.

  The crisped edges gave way to a soft, chewy center. Mrs. K hadn’t been exaggerating at all; these cookies were absolutely amazing.

  Jake came bounding across the parking lot – pointed to the sign and giving me a huge thumbs-up.

  His smile matched my own.

  “Well, now that we aren’t getting towed – are you ready for that surprise?”

  16

  We squeezed into a small elevator, Jake carrying our two bags of luggage, while I carried Tiki in his cat carrier, along with my purse. The elevator groaned to a stop, and Jake pulled the scissor-gate to the left, stepping out into the hall and holding the door open for me. I returned the favor – holding my hand in front of the sensor, as he tugged our two suitcases out of the cramped space.

  My whole body danced with excitement as we made our way down a long hallway, the plush green carpet muffling our steps. Lamppost style sconces cast a soft yellow glow into the cozy space. Although it was narrow, the hallway was spotless, and the scent of freshly laundered sheets hung in the air. Jake checked the room number on the stamped oval keyring again. We had almost walked to the end of the corridor when he paused.

  “Here we are,” he said, and slid the key into the brass doorplate. He twisted the key to the right and a set of tumblers clicked into place.

  “After you,” he said, opening the door for me, and stepping aside.

  A tiled entryway led me past a hallway bathroom, and into a beautifully decorated living area. A gauzy set of white curtains billowed softly against the far windows. A simple, cut-glass vase rested on a white coffee table, and brimmed with fragrant, fresh lavender.

  I fought to keep my jaw off the floor as I crossed the room and set Tiki’s carrier down next to a lovely chintz sofa, and unzipped it to let him out. The sound of luggage rolling across the entryway caught my attention, and I turned around to look at Jake.

  “Well, what do you think?” he asked, propping the suitcases against the wall.

  “This place is gorgeous,” I said breathlessly.

  And it truly was. Every detail had been carefully attended to. Airy watercolor paintings dotted the walls, in styles reminiscent of the great Impressionists, Van Gogh and Monet. Coming closer to the paintings, I saw small silver frames pinned beside each one, offering more information about each piece. The paintings were named, and had been created by local artists. The price for each painting was denoted in small, discreet lettering.

  Quaint white furniture opened up the space. And just off the living area, two sets of doors opened, to reveal that this was a two-bedroom suite.

  I turned in amazement to look at Jake. “You might just be too much. You know that Jake Hall?” I said, absolutely beaming.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but seemed to suddenly be at loss for a clever response. He walked toward me, and placed his hand gently on my shoulder. His palm was warm, the weight of it reassuring.

  Comforting.

  Inviting.

  Dozens of butterflies flew every which way in my stomach, crashing into each other and into the bottom of my ribs. Jake leaned toward me, and said softly, “You haven’t even seen the best part yet.”

  He swept the billowing curtains aside to reveal a set of brass-handled French doors. Turning the levers, he opened the doors and stepped through. A rush of euphoria tugged me forward, as we stepped onto a wide beautiful balcony that ran the length of the inn.

  Stunning white colonnade pillars stood in perfectly spaced intervals. Jake turned and reached for my hand, and as I slid my palm against his, it felt like one of the most natural things in the world.

  “Do you hear that?” he asked, pulling me gently to the edge of the white railing.

  In pure sensory overload, I hadn’t. The murmur of a crowd, laughter, and the soft rush of slow traffic floated up to greet us. We crossed the wide balcony and I gasped as I clutched the railing with my free hand.

  “Is that?” I asked.

  “It sure is,” Jake smiled, and squeezed my hand.

  The balcony looked out directly over Main Street, humming with life and excitement, beckoning us to come down and explore.

  “Take a few minutes to soak it in, I’m going to get Tiki situated.”

  “Ok,” I said, smiling and relishing the sights and sounds of the festival.

  As I peered over the balcony, craning my neck to gaze up and down Main Street, the sharp light from a camera flash winked from across the street. I searched for the source, and found it – just in front of the deli across the street from the Evergreen Inn.

  A couple stood near the street side curb and leaned away from their cell phone. The man’s arm stretched as far much as it could go, as they tried to get a shot that captured the length of the street.

  I watched as they posed for several pictures together, and took turns trying to get the perfect shot of one another kissing the other one’s cheek. From my vantage point, they looked young – early twenties, if I had
to guess. Maybe they were here on a honeymoon.

  I couldn’t wait to get a few pictures myself and send them over to Tina.

  As I turned from the balcony railing, a cold slice of fear came out of nowhere, gripping as tight as if were an actual hug. I tried to shake it off. It’s just nerves. That’s what I told myself, but something, somewhere nagged at me. I looked up and down Main Street again, and although I saw a lot of friendly faces, I certainly didn’t see any familiar ones.

  Just nerves, girl – that’s all it is. For once, you’re doing something for you – and that’s just the fear of the unknown talking to you. You’ll have to deal with your brother – but that’s later, and it can wait. Besides, he had it coming. It’s about the big celebrity chef got a taste of his own medicine.

  I hadn’t actually noticed that someone had indeed been watching me. And was sitting … still, on a wrought iron park bench, hiding just behind the couple, and furiously snapping pics of me as I walked away.

  17

  That Friday evening, James McGill was looking forward to hobnobbing and thoroughly enjoying another night in Knoxville with some of the city’s most renowned chefs and culinary proprietors.

  Danae Dawson was on a deadline, frantically writing and rewriting an article on a local judge that had been busted using dynamite to ring fish out of the nearby Chattahatchie Creek.

  Ranae Dawson was doing things better left unsaid, and with someone else’s husband.

  Jake had gotten our suitcases settled in our respective rooms and had just phoned in dinner reservations for the next evening with Mrs. K downstairs.

  Content with a full belly, Tiki had claimed the rose-swirled chintz sofa as his domain, and stretched out in the last rays of the afternoon sunshine filtering in.

  I had checked in with Tina, let her know where I was staying, our room number, and sent her several pics of the suite. She was thrilled to hear me admit that yes – she had been correct and I did need to get away for a bit, and that no – Jake Hall didn’t seem to be a serial killer.

  Tina had also informed me that one of our local vendors, Ester Collins had finished making her batches of organic red clover honey for the store’s fall lineup, and Tina was headed over to Ester’s shortly to go pick it up.

  No one was at the farmhouse when Billy George Dalton’s oldest sons, Billy Junior and Kenneth Lee, pulled up to the restaurant with not one, but two, flatbed trailers loaded down with pumpkins.

  18

  The festival was in full swing by the time Jake and I headed out for the afternoon. The air was perfumed with all things fall – kettle corn, street barbecue and hamburgers, and the rich cinnamon scents of roasting chestnuts and almonds. Campfires and controlled leaf burns mingled in the cool air, which was just beginning to turn crisp as the sun slipped behind the white-spired storytelling tents and tall, dark pine trees.

  We had grabbed sandwiches to go from the Evergreen Inn, but my stomach groaned anyway with hunger at the inviting aromas of street food and bakeries. I was thrilled when Jake meandered over to a vendor selling hot chocolate and candied nuts.

  Dinner was shaping up to be a la carte, and would be whatever we could piece together throughout the late afternoon and evening.

  We tried five restaurants in a row, but each was booked solid for dinner reservations, including the restaurant at Evergreen. After so many strike-outs, I was relieved that Mrs. K had been able to squeeze us in at all for dinner tomorrow night, even though it had been for the earliest seating on a Saturday night.

  As we meandered down the cobblestoned sidewalks, I found myself automatically pausing in front of the delightful storefronts. So far, the candy shop had been my favorite.

  A former pharmacy had been transformed into an old-fashioned candy store, and retained the original structure’s raised ceilings, and long marble countertops. Glass shelves that had once held modern medicines of the time, were now dotted with colorful jars of candies. Kiosks held clear plastic bags with pink stripes for customers to fill with the sweets of their choosing. I bought a few handmade spearmint chews, and tucked them into my purse for later.

  Jake had wanted to go into one of the cooking stores. He headed straight for a wall of spices, opening at least a dozen jars to smell the wide variety of seasonings. The store seemed to specialize in cast iron, and three full rows offered any variety of skillet or griddle that you could think of.

  There were skillets of all depths and widths, but the row that most people were drawn to was the collectibles and gift aisle. Laughter rose and fell in waves, as shoppers came across the best Southern quips and pearls of wisdom that could be stamped onto a skillet.

  There were a dozen sizes stamped with, BLESS YOUR HEART and GIVE ME SOME SUGAR along with a several varieties of WHATCHA GOT COOKIN. It appeared that SHUT YO MOUTH had been a popular one, and only a handful of those remained.

  I hadn’t intended on buying anything, but found myself laughing out loud as I came around an aisle end-cap and saw the perfect souvenir for Tina, wedged between dried bags of black-eyed peas and cornbread mixes.

  It was an oblong skillet, and completely impractical for making anything aside from maybe roasting a couple of ears of corn together. But it made up for its impracticality by offering the sage advice, AREN’T YOU A SWEET SPIRIT?

  Which, anyone south of the Mason-Dixon Line knows, is either the classiest of backhanded compliments, or a polite way of saying someone has fallen out of the ugly tree, and hit every branch on the way down.

  I was still laughing when Jake nudged my elbow. He held a few packets of carefully selected spice blends. “Find anything you can’t live without?” he asked.

  I turned the skillet over in my hands for him to read. “For Tina,” I said, blushing at his brief touch. “But I’m not sure I want to carry a cast iron skillet around with us for the rest of the evening. Maybe I can just come back tomorrow and get it,” I sighed.

  Jake shook his head. “If you really want it, I’d buy it now. Everything tends to sell out quickly at the festival, particularly as the weekend goes on.”

  “Hmm, ok then,” I said, and tucked the skillet under my arm, as we made our way through the crowd, toward the cashiers.

  I groaned when we reached the check-out counter. Several copies of James’s first book, “Paradise in Purgatory” had been proudly displayed. I picked one up to see if these were signed copies, and was a bit relieved to find that they were not.

  As we waited to pay, I eavesdropped on shoppers as a few picked up the book to flip through it. Most seemed fascinated with the story, a few declared the book too expensive and set it back down (a point I’d also tried to make with James, and failed), and others hoped to someday meet the celebrity. A few grumbled that they’d been hoping to make a day trip to the restaurant, and were sorely disappointed that it was temporarily closed for a menu refresh.

  Not a soul recognized me, and it felt wonderful.

  Once we made our purchases, we eased back onto the sidewalks and into a rush of people. Several of the storytelling tents had just let out, and festival-goers were quickly picking their way around each other and checking maps and pamphlet schedules to find their next event.

  We decided to go to the Courthouse Tent, the tent drawing its namesake from the elegantly domed red brick Jonesborough Courthouse. The court’s lovely white portico faced Main Street, and throngs of tourists were dotted along the steps taking selfies.

  The storyteller was already on stage by the time we found free seats near the rear of tent, and settled into wooden fold-out chairs, the feet sinking into the soft straw that had been spread everywhere to protect the grounds and parks.

  “Do you know who this one is?” I asked, as I watched the man on stage hang an acoustic guitar around his neck, and start strumming a few notes, and adjusting the tuning pegs a few turns.

  “I think he’s the one from Tallahassee, he’s supposed to be really good. I think this is the one who’s also a fantastic comedian,” Jake said leaning
in.

  “Shh!” an elderly woman hissed at us, as if we were in a church pew, and making noise during the Sunday service.

  Jake lightly elbowed me, and we shared a smirk together at the reprimand.

  “So, how did you first hear about this festival – and how many times have you been?” I asked.

  “One of the guys in my squadron used to talk about this place non-stop. I think it was his dream to be one of the storytellers here. He was from Johnson City – and never let us forget it when that country song came on.

  “I love that song!” I screeched, and could immediately hear the lyrics and wagon wheels begin to turn in my mind, earning us another sharp hiss.

  “SHHH! Some people are tryin’ to listen!”

  “I think Grandma is about to call security on us,” Jake snickered. “What do you say we hit the beer garden before this crowd lets out and gets to it?”

  He stood, then held out his hand. I slipped my hand into his, electricity firing down my arms as he pulled me to my feet. As we headed toward the beer garden, I was thrilled when Jake didn’t let go. We walked hand-in-hand back down Main Street together, the warm closeness of him absolutely intoxicating.

  19

  As we came around the corner of the courthouse, a very energetic pack of Boy Scouts waved raffle tickets at anyone who got within ten feet of them, trying hard to garner attention. Most people politely shooed them away, but my heart warmed when Jake waved back at them.

  It was all the encouragement Pack #10 needed and several of them sprinted over to us.

  “Sir! And ma’am! Would you like to help us get to summer camp this year?” one chubby-faced Boy Scout pitched. He hadn’t run far, but his face flushed red from the exertion.

  Jake grinned. “Well, summer is still quite a bit down the road isn’t it?” he teased.