Town in a Blueberry Jam chm-1

by B. B. Haywood

  It was a good life, a simple life, and it had been her salvation, Candy thought as she headed back to the barn to check on Ray. She and Doc had been through a lot, but the farm had healed them both. Right now, she couldn’t imagine living any other place on earth than right here, on Blueberry Acres in Cape Willington in Downeast Maine, just a mile or so from the sea.

  Five

  When she walked back into the barn, Ray was cursing.

  “What’s wrong?” Candy asked.

  But he didn’t have to answer. She saw the problem instantly — he had put the hinges on backwards, so the sides of the booth folded the wrong way.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Candy,” he said, his eyes bright with held-back tears and his hands trembling. “I just got ahead of myself and wasn’t thinking.”

  Candy sighed and set the basket of eggs on a sideboard. “It’s okay, Ray. Come on, I’ll help you fix it.”

  Working together, they unscrewed the hinges and got the sides on the right way. Then, while Ray set to work on the shelves on the back of the front piece, Candy took up Ray’s hammer to nail brackets onto the ends of the crossbeams, so they could be easily attached to the tops of the side pieces.

  Candy wasn’t the handiest person on the planet, and she swung the hammer wildly at the nails, missing the flat heads more than a few times and swearing under her breath as she pounded away. But she got the damned nails down into the damned wood without hitting herself on the thumb or fingers, which was good enough for her.

  She had two of the brackets on and was reaching for a third when she realized Ray wasn’t doing anything. Looking up, she saw that he was frozen, staring at her.

  Her brows knitted together in annoyance. “What’s wrong now?” she asked crossly.

  Ray pointed. “M-myy... m-myy... my hammer.”

  Not understanding, Candy looked down at the tool she held in her hand. “Yeah, what about it?”

  It took Ray a moment to speak. “It’s... it’s brand new.”

  He was right about that. He must have just bought it at Gumm’s Hardware Store in town. It had a red fiberglass handle with a black cushion grip and a polished claw head that looked as if it had never been used — except by her just now. She noticed that she had scarred the head in a few places and nicked the handle.

  “Oh,” she said as understanding dawned on her. “Guess I am being a little rough with it, huh?” She rose, crossed to Ray, and held it out to him. “Here.”

  He took the hammer gingerly in his fingers, practically cradling it, as if he were afraid it would snap in half if he held it too tightly.

  Candy looked around the barn. “I think Doc’s got an old hammer around here I can use.” It took her a few moments to find it, but soon she was back at work. As she nailed on the last few brackets, she looked up to see that Ray had wrapped the red-handled hammer in a white cloth, placed it back in his toolbox, and had taken out another one, older and well used. He apparently had no intention of using his shiny new hammer any more that day.

  In another twenty minutes or so they were done. Candy stepped back to admire their handiwork. “Thanks, Ray,” she said, hands on her hips. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  After that, things got really awkward. With the booth done, Candy tried to shoo Ray on his way so she could finish up the banner and the other things that needed to be done. But he seemed reluctant to leave.

  It took him a full ten minutes to pack up his tools while Candy paced about impatiently. After that he hemmed and hawed in the driveway, talking about the weather, about the folks in town, about fishing, about anything he could think of to delay the inevitable.

  Candy couldn’t help glancing at her watch, feeling the press of time. Finally, as gently as she could, she said, “Ray, I’ve got a lot to finish up to get ready for the festival tomorrow. Thanks again for helping with the booth.”

  “Um, sure thing, Miss Candy.” He paused a moment, his gray eyes shifting. “Can I help you with anything else? I got some spare time today.”

  “Today’s not a good day. Maybe next week when things calm down, okay?”

  “Doc said something this morning about fixing the banister. He said some of the spindles were loose.”

  “I’ll have him give you a call and we’ll set something up. You’ll send us the bill for today, right? And, um, I’ll buy you a new hammer if you want. I didn’t mean to nick up that one with the red handle.”

  He nodded absently but still he hesitated, looking down at his steel-toed boots, kicking at a stone. Finally he set his jaw firm, as if he had made up his mind about something. He looked up at her.

  “Miss Candy,” he said with great seriousness, “would you go out with me some day?”

  “What?” The word came out as sort of a bark, surprising even Candy. She was a little embarrassed by her outburst, but the look on Ray’s face never wavered. He had put the question out there. Now she had to answer it.

  “Ray,” she began softly, “you’re a wonderful person and all, and one of these days you’re going to meet some lucky woman...”

  She came to an abrupt stop when she saw the look in his eyes change. The sense of hopefulness that had been there a moment before turned wary, protective, as if he were bracing for the rejection he knew was to come.

  Candy hesitated. What could she say to him without hurting his feelings? Her body relaxed a little as the tension seemed to leak out of her. She hadn’t realized she had been holding herself so stiffly.

  “Oh, Ray...” Finally, impulsively, she took a step toward him and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “I’ll think about it, okay?” she said as she heard a car horn beep.

  They both turned. Coming up the lane was an old red Volvo, driven by a balding, distinguished-looking gentleman with a white handlebar moustache.

  “Oh, it’s Herr Georg!” Candy called happily, waving. She pronounced his name the German way, the way he liked it pronounced — gay-org.

  Georg Wolfsburger was a German immigrant who had lived in Cape Willington for nearly three decades — and, in truth, he helped put the sleepy coastal town on the culinary map with his Black Forest Bakery, a quaint little shop nestled between a bookstore and a coffee shop on Main Street. Though patrons could always find scrumptious breads and cookies at Georg’s bakery, they came mostly for his specialties — cakes and pastries baked from old German recipes.

  His blueberry strudel was to die for, and the cherry, blueberry, and especially chocolate cheesecakes were heavenly. Brides-to-be and their mothers came from as far away as Boston and Connecticut to purchase Herr Georg’s towering wedding cakes, and cars with license plates from such distant and exotic places as New York, New Jersey, Ohio, and Pennsylvania, even Colorado and California could be found parked in front of Georg’s shop throughout the summer and well into the fall.

  Georg and Candy had struck up a friendship soon after she moved to Blueberry Acres. In season, Georg bought pounds and pounds of fresh blueberries from her, and she often helped out in his shop during busy periods. He had even helped her perfect the recipes for her muffins, scones, and pies, offering up a secret ingredient for each one — olive oil in the muffins, for instance, or a touch of vanilla in the scones. She still would not reveal these secret ingredients to anyone else, including (or perhaps especially ) her father. Doc had many positive traits, but discretion was not one of them.

  Herr Georg brought the old Volvo to a stop in a roiling cloud of dust and climbed out of the car, carrying a pink pastry box. “ Guten tag, Candy!” he called with a wave as he joined them. “Hullo, Ray,” he added with a polite nod.

  “Afternoon, Mr. George,” Ray responded in a guarded fashion. He followed the lead of many of the locals, who refused to use the German pronunciation of Herr Georg’s name, believing that if he lived in America, he should be referred to as an American would be.

  Georg appeared not to notice, though he immediately turned his back to Ray, focusing his attention on Candy. “I’ve brought something specia
l I just took out of the oven, and I couldn’t wait to show it to you,” he said in an accented voice as he held up the pastry box. “Could I perhaps tempt you with a little afternoon delight?”

  Herr Georg’s innuendo was not lost on Candy, but she knew his insinuations were harmless and usually didn’t let them bother her. In fact, at times she even thought them charming in an Old European sort of way.

  “Ray and I just had some pie,” she said with a teasing smile.

  “Oh, but you must try this,” the baker coaxed, tapping the box with a well-manicured finger. “It’s quite decadent.” The way he wiggled his eyebrows, trying to entice her, reminded her of Groucho Marx.

  “Herr Georg, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to fatten me up.”

  “I promise you, it will be worth your while.”

  Candy grinned. “Promise?”

  “Of course!” said the baker heartily.

  “Then how could I possibly refuse?” Her gaze shifted. She nodded at the handyman. “Ray’s been helping me out with the booth today, but we’re all finished. Right?”

  Ray seemed to finally get the hint. He let out a breath of resignation through his nose as his whole body slouched. “Um, yeah. Yeah, we are.” Forlornly he tossed the toolbox into the back of his truck, climbed into the cab, and drove off with a halfhearted wave.

  “Nice fellow,” Herr Georg observed as Ray’s truck disappeared down the lane. “A bit slow but friendly enough. I’m having him over to the shop on Monday to put up some shelves.”

  “Oh, Ray’s great,” Candy agreed as she watched the truck drive away. Then she turned and took the baker by the arm, steering him toward the house. “So, tell me, what have you got in the box?”

  “Oh, well, as I said, it’s quite special. It’s a German pastry called a linzerschnitten.”

  Inside the kitchen, he dramatically opened the box and let her smell the aroma first, then with a flair lifted out a plate that held the layered torte pastry.

  “It looks delicious,” Candy said. “What’s in it?”

  “Three thin layers of spicy dough made with ground almonds, hazelnuts, cinnamon, and lemon zest. There’s a delightful buttercream between each layer. And on top, a layer of almond paste, followed by a layer of fresh blueberries, topped with a crosshatch of dough, all delicately baked to a crispy brown. In Germany, raspberries, apricots, or cranberries are usually used for the fruit topping, but of course blueberries are a must here.”

  “Of course.” Candy nudged the still-warm, golden brown crosshatching with her pinky. “Herr Georg, no one makes pastries as flaky as yours.”

  He grinned at the compliment, showing off the gap between his two front teeth. “Would you like a bite?”

  “More than one, I hope. I’ll put on the tea.”

  Herr Georg’s linzerschnitten was like nothing Candy had ever tasted before, but she’d come to expect only the best from him. They ate two small pieces each, washing them down with cinnamon-orange tea. Herr Georg left the rest for Doc and Candy to enjoy as dessert that evening.

  The baker carefully surveyed Candy’s preparations for the festival, pronouncing her pies and scones among the best looking he had ever seen. Then, late in the warm afternoon, she walked him out to his car.

  “I’ve made several batches of inzerschnitten for sale at the festival tomorrow,” he said as he climbed into the driver’s seat.

  “Guess I’d better bring along my checkbook then.”

  “Ah, Candy, meine liebchen, your money is no good with me. You know that.” He winked at her as he started the car. “I’ll save one for you.”

  After he drove off, Candy walked back into the kitchen and began to pack up the baked goods and gifts for the festival in the morning.

  Doc called just before dinnertime. “Sorry I’m late, pumpkin, but I got sidetracked. I stopped in at the diner to check the news about Jock, and it looks like something’s up. Rumor is they’ve found some incriminating evidence at the scene, but we don’t know what yet. Finn’s checking it out now, so I thought I’d hang around in case he needs any backup. I probably won’t be home for dinner. You want to join me here?”

  She was tempted but, in the end, decided she still had too much to do. “What about the festival and the booth? We still have to load up the truck.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it when I get back. We’ll do Chinese another night, okay?”

  Candy couldn’t help feeling disappointed as she hung up. “Another Friday night alone,” she muttered to herself as she dropped into a chair, surrounded by silence.

  On an impulse she called Maggie, just to find someone to talk to, but all she got was an answering machine.

  She hung up without leaving a message.

  In a moment of weakness she thought of calling Ray but quickly decided that was crazy.

  “Well, guess it’s time to get back to work,” she said as she rose. And then she spotted Herr Georg’s linzerschnitten sitting on the counter where he had left it.

  She finished off the whole thing right then and there, washed down with half a bottle of white wine.

  Doc would just have to find his own damned dessert.

  Six

  By seven thirty the following morning Candy and Doc had set up their booth on Cape Willington’s Main Street, which was blocked off to traffic for the festival. They had a prime spot — at the northeast end of the street in front of McGuire’s Travel Agency, just across from Duffy’s Main Street Diner — so they’d get plenty of foot traffic all day.

  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 t
oo 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?”