by AlLee, Jennifer L. ; Breidenbach, Angela; Franklin, Darlene
He reached out, and his fingertips grazed the curve of her cheek. “Ella, I—”
She jerked back as if he’d cut her. “No. I’m sorry. But after everything … I just can’t.” She hurried away, sliding between booths, where she disappeared into the flow of people.
What had she meant? Can’t what? Can’t trust him? Can’t think about their time together? Can’t admit she still loved him?
Max slammed the door on those thoughts. They were part of another time, one they couldn’t get back. He needed to focus on the present. He had a job to do, and he’d best get back to it.
But first, he needed to stop by the bakery displays and find something on which to sample his margarine.
By the time Max had made his way back to his own exhibit, he’d managed to banish thoughts of Ella Daniels from his mind. For the most part. It had been over a year since he left the dairy, and he still thought about her nearly every day. He’d come to accept the fact there was no way to completely remove her from his memory. Instead, he threw himself into his work.
Stepping up on the raised platform, he thanked Eric for taking over during his break and sent him back to the Majestic Electric booth. Max set down the box he was carrying and took out a sack filled with fluffy biscuits. He’d failed at several tries to find a homemaker who didn’t sneer at his proposal. Then he met Susan Reynolds, a progressive young baker who was thrilled to be associated with margarine. She was so happy to be involved, the single Miss Reynolds also gave him a plate, a knife, and an invitation to join her family for Sunday dinner. He politely declined the dinner but took everything else with a smile and effusive thanks.
Max took a container of margarine from the Majestic Electric refrigerator next door and put it on the table. Then he worked on the biscuits. As he cut them into thirds—so there’d be enough to go around—and arranged them on the plate, people began to stop in front of his table. Unlike Homemaker’s Hall, the Hall of Innovation was populated by a majority of men. Regardless, the lure of free food was apparently enough to grab their attention. Thankfully, several were accompanied by their wives. Max knew that, while the men held the purse strings, the women really made most of the buying decisions, especially when it came to food.
This was going to work out better than he’d hoped.
Max smiled and addressed the people as he worked. “I’m so glad you came to see what the Joy Margarine Company has for you. How many of you use margarine already?”
Only two hands were raised, and those only to shoulder level. He was used to people who were embarrassed to admit they used margarine. Chances were good at least half the crowd had but wouldn’t admit it.
“In that case, let me show you the best thing to happen to biscuits since God created honey.”
Wanting to show them the entire process, Max took the lid off the container and used a spatula to scoop the contents out into a glass bowl.
“As you can see, fresh margarine is white. It’s perfectly fine to use it as is, but many homemakers like to give it a little color first. That’s why, with every purchase of Joy Margarine, we include a bottle of food dye.”
Max hadn’t realized until the moment he reached for the bottle that he wasn’t wearing his suit jacket. “Excuse me one moment.” He retrieved it from the back of the chair he’d left it on, dug in the pocket, and found the bottle. Returning to the table, he held it up for the crowd to see.
“I’ll tell you a secret.” He continued talking as he removed the lid and poured a few drops into the container. “Dairy farmers like to say that margarine is inferior because we have to add coloring. What they don’t tell you is that color is added to butter, too.”
A few surprised gasps came from the crowd as he mixed.
“The coloring doesn’t change the taste or the quality of the margarine in any way.” He held the bowl up, showing how he’d managed to achieve an even, pleasing yellow tint. “See how lovely that is? And it was easy, wasn’t it?”
Affirmatives rose from the crowd. Several of the women were smiling, and one clutched her husband’s arm and whispered in his ear. He had them on the hook. Now it was time to reel them in.
He picked up a piece of biscuit. “Here’s something you can’t do with butter.” He slathered on a generous amount, spreading it easily with the knife. “Soft and smooth. Spreads like a dream. Now, who wants to be the first to try it?”
Almost everyone responded, except for a burly man in the front. Max could tell by looking, he was the kind of fellow who was skeptical about everything. If he could win this man over, he’d tell everyone he knew about how fabulous margarine was.
“Here you go, sir.” Max held the biscuit out to him. “Why don’t you give that a try?”
The man hesitated, but eventually he took it, raised it to the woman beside him as though offering a toast, then popped the whole thing in his mouth. Max watched closely, wanting to experience that split second when skepticism turned to delight.
What he saw was skepticism turning to shock then to disgust.
The man coughed hard, his eyes bulging and watering. The woman pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her dress and handed it to him. He promptly spit out the partially chewed biscuit and wadded up the cotton square, all the while coughing and retching. Max jumped down from the stage and pounded the man on the back.
“Are you all right, sir?”
“Stop hitting me!” It came out as a strangled cry.
“I’m sorry,” Max said. “I thought you were choking. I—”
The man put up his hand in a signal for quiet. He leaned over, hands to his knees, and took several deep breaths until the coughing subsided. When he stood up straight, he looked at Max.
“That was, beyond a doubt, the worst thing I’ve ever tasted in my life.”
Max wasn’t sure what to do. He’d never seen anyone react that way. “I am sorry, sir. Perhaps it was the biscuits? I should have tasted them first.”
Another man who was right in front of the table reached up and grabbed one. All watched expectantly as he smelled it first then pinched a piece from the side and popped it in his mouth. “Nope. That’s a good-tasting biscuit, right there.”
Unhappy rumblings spread through the crowd as the people began to walk away. Desperate to save the situation, Max jumped back on the stage and called to them. “It was probably just a bad batch. Let me get another container.”
The unfortunate taster, whose face was still blotched with red from the exertion of coughing, shook his head. “What, and let you kill me this time? No thanks. You couldn’t pay me to eat that vile stuff.”
As they walked away, Max made out bits and pieces of what they said.
“Batch probably went bad in the refrigerator when the electricity went out.”
“Told you it was bad.”
“See, butter is better.”
Max tossed the biscuits back in the sack then he stared down at the bowl of margarine. What had gone wrong? He picked it up, looking closer, and then it hit him.
The smell.
Margarine had no discernable smell. But he was definitely getting a whiff of something pungent as he brought the bowl closer to his face. It almost smelled like … onion?
That was crazy. He put the bowl down then used his index finger to swipe up a bit of margarine. One taste was all it took to convince him. It was definitely onion.
How had that happened? He was relatively confident there wasn’t an onion anywhere in the building, so how had the margarine become tainted? Someone must have altered it on purpose. But why? He’d taken the container from the refrigerator in the Majestic Electric exhibit. They were his partners. Not only that, but someone was watching what went on at all times. No one could have gotten to it. Which left only one answer.
The food dye.
He unscrewed the cap and held it beneath his nose. After muttering a few impolite words under his breath, he put the cap back on. It smelled as though someone had pressed the juice from an onion and adde
d it to the bottle. Somehow, someone had managed to sabotage his food dye, therefore ruining the margarine. Now at least one man, and probably many of the others, would forever have a negative impression of the product.
Whoever did it would have to know that he mixed the coloring into the margarine as people watched, and know that he kept the bottle of dye in his jacket pocket. A thought popped into his head, just the seed of an idea. He tried to ignore it, to push it away, but the more he tried, the more it grew.
He stepped to the edge of his display and motioned to the one next door. “Eric!”
The young man hurried over. “Already time for another break?”
“No. A question. When I was gone before, did anyone come behind the table? Maybe go over to the chair?”
Eric cocked his head to one side as he thought. “No. Not that I saw.”
If he was there the whole time, there was no way he would have missed it. “Did you stay here the whole time?”
“Almost. At one point, quite a few people were asking questions, so I had to go help John. But it was just for a few minutes.” Eric frowned. “Why? Did something happen?”
“Maybe. Don’t worry about it. Thanks.”
Max moved slowly back to the table. He picked up the bowl and dropped it into a trash basket. It hit the bottom with a thud at the same time Ella’s words rang in his ears.
“As if that vile product could possibly compare to butter.”
He didn’t want to believe it, but it made sense. When she’d come by the other day, he’d been mixing color into the margarine. She’d seen him drop the bottle in his pocket. Today, she would have had plenty of time to sneak into the exhibit. It was a terrible thought, but who else would do such a thing? She already believed he’d tried to undermine her, so why not respond in kind?
Ella had sabotaged him.
Chapter 6
Maybe partnering with Igloo hadn’t been such a good idea.
Ella got up from the stool, her stiff joints protesting with every move. She stretched her muscles, reaching for the ceiling then pressing her fingers into the small of her back and leaning backward.
She’d spent far too long in the icehouse, but she didn’t have much of a choice. The time it took to fashion new peacock feathers for Mr. Henderson had cut into her cow sculpting time, putting her behind schedule. She was heading into the third day of the fair, and she had only gotten the basic form of the cow done. By now, she should have been finishing off the fine touches on the head. The people who’d been coming by to watch her do that had been disappointed to find the icehouse doors closed. She had to open up to the public tomorrow. But first, she needed to warm up.
Stepping outside, she was shocked to find she’d worked so long, the sun had gone down and now the moon was out, grinning like Lewis Carroll’s Cheshire cat. Papa had brought her food at some point, though Ella didn’t know exactly when. He’d admonished her not to work too hard then had gone off to meet some farmer friends whom he only saw once a year.
Ella sighed. It would probably be another night of sleeping on the cot. A low moo got her attention, and she walked over to Geraldine’s stall.
“You want my attention, too, do you?” She rubbed the cow’s nose. “Don’t worry. Tomorrow, you’ll get all the attention you want.”
“Miss Daniels!” A voice boomed behind her. “A word.”
She whirled to see Max. He looked decidedly unhappy, which unnerved her almost as much as the fact that he’d called her Miss Daniels.
“Being rather formal tonight, aren’t you?”
Max’s frown deepened. “It seems we’ve gotten to that point. After today, you made it clear that there’s nothing between us anymore but animosity.”
“Oh, that.” Ella sighed. “Max, I’m sorry. I’ve been thinking about it, and I realize I may have gone a bit too far.”
“A bit? You altered a food product.”
“What are you talking about?”
Either he didn’t hear the question or he chose to ignore it. “Thanks to you, at least a dozen people are now convinced that margarine is abhorrent. But even worse, that man almost choked to death on the sample I gave him. Is that what you wanted? To kill somebody?”
Now Ella was getting upset. “I was apologizing for the words we exchanged earlier. I have no idea what you’re talking about. You should know there’s no power on earth that could make me touch margarine.”
Even in the moonlight, Ella could see the red on his neck rising from beneath his collar. “But you have no issue with touching the dye bottle, do you?”
“You are making no sense whatsoever. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have more work to do. Good night, Mr. Sinclair.”
She marched right back into the icehouse, only to have Max follow her inside.
“Oh no,” he said, pulling the door shut behind him. “We’re not finished.”
Ella pressed the heel of her palm against her forehead, trying to hold back the dull throb that was becoming an incessant pounding. “Please, listen to me. I didn’t do anything to your margarine, or your dye, or anything you own. You have to believe me.”
“Really? The same way you believed me when I told you I didn’t paper the walls of this building with libelous posters?”
What did he mean by that? “Are you finally admitting that you did it?”
“No!” Max ran his fingers roughly through his hair. “I’m saying that I did not do it, and you had no right to do what you did today.”
Ella jammed her fists on her hips. “I didn’t do anything!”
They stood that way for a moment, fuming and glaring at each other.
“This is ridiculous,” Ella said. “I will not engage in a screaming match with you. Stay here all night if you wish. I’m going to the storage room, and if you follow me in there, you’ll find yourself at the pointy end of a pitchfork.”
She stormed past him to the door and gave it a good push. Except it didn’t budge, and Ella bounced backward, stumbling over her feet.
“What in the world?” This time, she approached the door with caution and pushed. Still nothing. Then, as panic began to rise, she grabbed the handle and shook the door.
“Step aside,” Max said. “Sometimes, you just need a man to handle things.”
The glimmer of satisfaction she felt when his try was as useless as hers quickly faded as the reality of their situation sunk in.
“We’re locked in here.”
“How does something like this happen?” Max paced from one end of the building to the other. “Why would the door to an icehouse lock on its own?”
“It doesn’t.” Ella stood in the corner, hugging herself against the cold. “Someone must have come by and put the lock on.”
“With us inside? No one is that stupid.”
“Whoever it was must have thought the building was empty.”
“Then that person was deaf, because there’s no way he could have missed us yelling.”
Ella shrugged. “I have no idea. But it looks like we’re stuck in here until my father comes back in the morning. No amount of pacing is going to change that.”
Max stopped short and looked around, assessing the situation. Thankfully, the building wasn’t completely full of ice. Because of the need to leave space for Ella to work on the butter cow, a good-sized section was empty, the floor covered in straw.
“You’re right.” He walked up to her. “We won’t freeze to death in here, but it’s going to be rather uncomfortable. I suggest we stay close to each other to keep warm.”
Her eyes flicked away from him. “As long as we’re in here, I could keep working on the cow. That would be the reasonable thing to do.”
“Or, we could sit on the floor together and try to get a little shut-eye,” Max said. “You look exhausted.”
That was all it took to convince her. “I am tired. All right.”
As Ella settled herself on the floor against the wall, Max looked around for anything he could use as a covering. There w
as a coat, a smock, and a pair of gloves in her work area.
“Here you are.” He draped the coat over her knees and handed her the gloves.
Her nose wrinkled. “Those gloves are stained with butter. No matter how much I wash them, it never all comes out.”
“Put them on. You’re trying to stay warm, not going to a ball.” He sat down next to her and covered himself with the smock.
Now that they were sitting together, their sides pressed against each other, he had no idea what to say. So he made inane conversation.
“It’s too bad you don’t keep wood and matches in here. We could build a fire.”
“Then all the ice would melt. And the cow.”
“But it would be cozy.”
She chuckled. “I suppose. And if the butter melted off the cow, then we could burn the wooden frame underneath.”
“If we had some bread, we could make toast and soak up all the butter.”
Ella looked up at him, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, she laughed. Not a fake, polite laugh, but a real chortle that came from deep down. It warmed him more than any fire could and gave him the courage to take a chance.
“Would it be all right if I put my arm around you? To conserve warmth, of course.”
Her laughter dying down, Ella nodded. “Seems that would be the sensible thing to do.”
He draped his arm over her shoulder, tucking her in under his arm. It only took a moment for Ella’s tense body to relax, and she leaned against him, resting her head on his chest. They stayed that way for a while, quiet, with nothing but the sound of their breathing in the space. Max shut his eyes and let himself remember another time, when the only thing he’d wanted was to be with her and he couldn’t imagine a future without her. How had everything gone so wrong?
“Max?”
He opened his eyes. “Hmm?”
“You really didn’t put those posters on the icehouse, did you?” She didn’t move as she asked the question.
“No. I really didn’t.”
“I believe you.”
It was as though someone had lifted a great weight from his shoulders he hadn’t even known he was carrying. All the energy he’d put into defending himself and being upset with Ella had pressed down on him, making him unhappy and unreasonable. With her belief in him came a sense of calm and clarity.