“You act like you’ve never seen a cake walk before,” a voice beside her piped up.
Quincy jumped, startled at the sudden intrusion. But only for a moment. “I haven’t,” she said wryly, not bothering to glance over to where Logan had suddenly materialized out of the crowd. “And I’m not entirely sure what the point is.”
“The point,” Logan said succinctly, “is to win cake.”
“Ah,” Quincy said. “Yes. That does explain it.”
“Come on,” he said suddenly, grabbing her hand. “They’re getting ready to start back up.” He dragged her over to the circle and dropped two tickets into a hat held out to the walkers by a little girl and stepped onto the paper number nine at his feet.
“Come on,” he said again, giving her a little tug. She stepped up onto number ten.
“What are we supposed to do with a cake?” she asked. “Do you have a car? Because I walked here.”
“You really overthink things, you know?” he said lazily.
Quincy was gearing up to respond, to defend herself. Of course she overthought things. Life wasn’t easy when an unknown entity was following you around for unknown yet assuredly despicable reasons. But she didn’t have the chance because just then, the music started back up. Logan nudged her in the back and she started walking.
“The trick,” he said from behind her, “is to keep one foot on a number at all times.” Quincy glanced down at her feet to make sure she was following along. “That way, once the music stops, you don’t have to scramble to find one.”
They kept moving at a snail’s pace around the circle, Quincy being careful to not overrun the man in front of her. A couple of kids, siblings by the look of them, broke away from the quilt their parents had laid out on the grass for lunch and were darting in and out of their circle, chasing each other and laughing like only children could. The brother finally caught up to the sister and grabbed her from behind, tripping her and sending them both rolling. The laughter hit a new level and the people walking to the music couldn’t help but smile too. Childhood was so simple, Quincy thought. Nothing but sunshine and laughter. Or at least it should be. She missed that.
The music stopped as abruptly as it did before and the line halted. The old fiddle player reached into his hat again and this time produced the number twelve. Quincy closed her eyes and shook her head.
“Now I’m going to show you what we do with a cake if we win,” Logan said, jumping out of line to claim his prize.
Chapter 14
Quincy
It didn’t surprise her at all that Logan had won. Of course he had. She followed him to the cake table and watched him accept some sort of pie from the woman presiding over the table, his smile and wink enough to make her blush. He had a way with people, she’d give him that.
“Come on.” he said, turning Quincy towards a tree set a little way from the main festivities. “I’ve got a blanket in my pack. We can spread it out in the shade and take care of this,” he said, holding up his pie.
“Take care of it?” Quincy said skeptically. “Like, the whole thing?”
“Please,” he said dismissively. “Like you can’t eat half a pie.”
He transferred the pie to one hand and used his other to grab hers, pulling her towards the tree. “Here,” he handed her the pie and pulled his backpack off. Before he tossed it on the ground, he reached inside and pulled out a thick flannel blanket that he spread on the ground around the tree’s trunk. Then he toed his shoes off and sprawled down in the shade.
“This will work. Come on,” he said, reaching for the pie, “you know you want to.” She really kind of did.
“Fine,” she said flopping down on the other side of the blanket. She dropped her backpack and kicked off her own shoes. “What kind of pie is it?” She scooted closer, watching as Logan unwrapped the pie. He handed her a fork.
“Gooseberry,” he said with delight. “I haven’t had gooseberry in years!” As amazed as he’d been that she’d never seen a cake walk, she wasn’t about to admit she’d never heard of a gooseberry.
“Here,” he said, setting the pie down on the blanket between them. “Dig in.”
He did, with gusto, so she followed suit. She wasn’t sure what a gooseberry was or why they were green but with Logan inhaling it like a starving man, she supposed it couldn’t be that bad. She took a small bite and smiled. Not bad at all. They sat in silence for a couple of minutes, enjoying the pie and letting the festival wrap around them.
“I suppose,” she said after awhile, “that if we’re going to roam the festival together, and if I’m going to eat your pie, then maybe you should call me Quincy.”
Logan nodded gravely, keeping his eyes fixed on the pie. “Does this mean we’re finally friends?” he asked, scooping up another forkful.
“Well,” she said, considering. “Despite my excellent wards and security measures, you did manage to claw your way in so,” she paused and he finally looked up, “I suppose it does.”
“Never doubted it for a minute,” he said, smiling at her. “And it’s ‘cobbler’.”
She shook her head. She had so much trouble keeping up with this guy. “What?”
“It’s cobbler. You keep saying pie, but this is a cobbler. As you friend, I feel a sincere obligation to educate you.”
“What’s the difference?” she asked. Pie, cobbler, whatever. It was good either way.
“A pie,” he said haughtily, “has a bottom crust.”
He speared another piece of the pie, or cobbler, with his fork and held it up so she could see.
“Note the distinct lack of bottom crust. Clearly this is cobbler. Plus,” he said, shoving the fork in his mouth, “look at this crumb topping. This is the most amazing thing ever.”
She did have to admit, she’d never had anything with a top crust like this. It was crumbled and golden brown, which she would normally have frowned upon, but the juices from the pie/cobbler thing had soaked into the crust and softened the bottom layer, leaving it gooey and delicious.
“It’s called streusel,” he said helpfully. “In case you didn’t know that either.”
“Well, whatever it’s called,” she said, tossing her fork down, “I can’t eat anymore.”
“Oh, come on,” he retorted. “We’re just getting started.”
“Not if we’re going to hit up that pretzel stand over there,” Quincy said, pointing in the general direction of the food tents.
“You know what? You’re right.” Logan tossed his fork down too and dusted off his hands. There was still almost half a pie left and Quincy felt justified in her smugness.
“How are you going to walk around with a half a pie, or cobbler, or whatever, for the rest of the day?”
He scoffed. “Like that’s a problem.” He held the pie up over his head. “Free cobbler,” he bellowed. “Come and get it!”
“Logan!” Quincy exclaimed, aghast. “We ate out of that container. You can’t just give it away!” But apparently you could.
“Is that gooseberry baby?” a sweet lady with a soft drawl asked.
“Yes ma’am,” he answered. “Homemade, straight from the cakewalk. We ate all we could and decided to pass it on.”
“Well bless your hearts,” she beamed. “Gooseberry’s my favorite. Thank you baby,” she said again, in the way that only southern women could get away with. “You’ve made my day.”
She turned away. “Clara Belle!” she yelled. “Look what I got for us!”
She disappeared into the crowd and Logan turned back towards Quincy. “See. No need for thinking.” He jumped to his feet. “Come on.”
Clearly, Quincy thought, climbing reluctantly back to her feet. She still couldn’t believe someone had taken a half-eaten pie from them. Was that sweet little lady and Clara Belle really going to eat something strangers had just been eating? She glanced over to where they’d fanned themselves out under a big shady tree. Apparently so.
“Things are just different this far sout
h.” Logan remarked. Her thoughts must have been written all over her face because he grinned. “They’re a trusting lot. Especially the older generation.”
“I suppose,” she said. “You’d have to be to eat after complete strangers.”
“Well, worry about it later,” he said. “Let’s go get some pizza.”
Quincy trailed Logan through the food vendors, watching in wonder as he bought them massive slices of pizza, a couple of soft pretzels, a giant plate of nachos, and then two ice cream cones.
“Here,” he said, handing one over. She almost groaned.
“Where are you putting it all?” she asked in amazement.
“I’m not exactly outpacing you. You’ve eaten everything I have,” he bluntly pointed out.
“Yeah, well, I wish I wouldn’t have. I’m stuffed.”
“You’ve got enough room in you for one little ice cream cone,” he challenged, taking a big bite off the top of his.
She sighed and gave her own a good lick. “I suppose,” she said doubtfully.
“You’re not a calorie counter, are you?” he asked disdainfully. “Food should be enjoyed, not measured.”
“Easy for you to say,” she snapped. “Guys never seem to worry. It takes actual effort to stay in shape you know.”
He shot her an appraising look. “You’re a runner, aren’t you?” he asked. “I’m army. I know a runner when I see one.”
“So?” she asked.
“So you have to worry about it a lot less than other people. Which means no complaining.”
He did have a point, she conceded silently. It didn’t change the fact that she had spent the entire afternoon eating and was so full she could barely breathe, but somehow she still found room for the cone.
They walked as they licked, stopping to watch the pony rides for a few minutes. With Logan momentarily preoccupied with something besides talking her ear off and stuffing her full of junk food, Quincy took a moment to look around. The squares were still packed with people, although the families with younger children were scarcer than before. She glanced at her watch, surprised. It was later in the afternoon than she’d thought. It wouldn’t be much longer before the sun began to set. They had passed Caroline and her bread and jam again an hour or two ago and she’d mentioned there were going to be fireworks once it was dark. Quincy hadn’t intended to stay this long, let alone stick around until dark, but she didn’t want to go. Her one day of normalcy was wrapping up too quickly and she hated to see it end.
Logan nudged her. “Hey, there are some chairs open in the shade over there,” he said, pointing towards the south end of the fair. “Want to snag them?”
Quincy nodded gratefully, ready to get out of the sun. It certainly wasn’t as hot as it would have been the month before, but without the cloud cover, the sun was surprisingly strong. She let Logan plow a path through the masses and they both collapsed down into the chairs right with relief.
“Well,” he asked. “What now?”
“What now?” she repeated. “Can’t we just, I don’t know, sit for a few minutes? Preferably in silence,” she added meaningfully.
He laughed. “If you’re trying to tell me I talk too much, don’t bother. Meaner folk than you have tried and failed.”
She couldn’t help the small smile and he smiled back, reaching up and tapping her nose with a finger. “The sun really brought those freckles out.”
She pushed his hand away. “Is it bad?” she asked, almost afraid to know the answer. She had kept her freckles covered as Kara Scott and Grace Elliott, just like she’d changed her hair and eye color, height and weight. But she’d gotten tired of the charades and had decided to forego the disguises as Quincy. It was still a different look, after all, than she’d ever gone with and no one had to know which was her actual appearance. But maybe she should have covered the freckles up after all.
“Nope,” he answered, poking at her face one more time. “They’re cute.”
“Stop it,” she said, swatting at his hand again. But it was only a halfhearted swatting. This was her day to be normal. Maybe it was okay to get a compliment. The fiddle player was still at it but the cakewalk had folded for the day. The table that had been loaded with different cakes, pies and/or cobblers, and cookies had been cleared off and the paper numbers pulled up off the pavement. Now that the game was over, he had settled into softer tunes, slower, lulling Quincy into a daze. Her lack of sleep from the night before had been held at bay by the constant walking and sugar Logan was pushing on her but now that she was still, the music filled the corners of her mind, overwhelming the static and the noise she’d shoved off to the side just like before. She let it roll over her, closing her eyes and drifting along with the music. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed but suddenly, she felt an absence beside her and knew Logan had moved away. She opened her eyes and saw the fiddle player had stopped for a break and Logan had moved over to talk quietly to him. When he saw her eyes open, he waved her over and she reluctantly pushed up to her feet.
“What are you doing?” she asked, curious.
“Mr. Edgar here was just showing me his fiddle. He made it himself.”
Mr. Edgar, whether that was his real name or something Logan had made up on the spot, ran his hands along the neck. “Carved the body out of an old maple in my backyard what got struck by lightning,” he said. “Weren’t easy, and it took a couple of tries, but I got her eventually.”
“Wow,” Quincy said. “That’s...amazing.” And it was. It was hard to believe this old farmer had made such a beautiful piece out of nothing.
“Can I hold it?” Logan asked suddenly.
“Logan!” Quincy scolded. “You can’t hold someone’s hand-made fiddle. You could break it.”
Logan looked almost hurt by that. “I’m not going to break it,” he said as Mr. Edgar held it out willingly. He took it, holding it softly by the bow and the body.
“Here,” he said after a minute, pushing it suddenly into her hands. She took it out of reflex, not really sure what to do with it.
“Like this,” Mr. Edgar said, helping her curve her left hand around the neck the way she’d seen him do. He picked up the bow and pushed it into her right hand. “Go ahead Little Missy,” he said. “Give her a pull and see what happens.”
“I know what’s going to happen,” she muttered darkly. “Horror. Terror. Nothing even resembling music.”
But no one seemed to be paying them any attention and Mr. Edgar didn’t seem terrified that she was about to desecrate his beautiful fiddle. Logan grinned at her.
“Come on Quince,” he said. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
Now there was a happy thought. But she shoved it aside. Day of normalcy. Day of normalcy. Sure, she decided. Why not. As she adjusted the hand holding the neck of the fiddle slightly, letting her fingers slide along the strings a little more, she felt the noise in her mind finally die. Completely. Totally. She felt her focus narrow sharply and then blast outward, both taking in and shutting out everything else around her. Her eyes swept the crowds without really seeing as her right hand brought the bow up towards the fiddle. The sight of Mr. and Mrs. Boatright pointing at her was there and gone. Caroline, still at her booth, tucked into a cozy chair behind a table, taking a long drink of something cold and dark. Brandon, standing off to the side of the main action, watching her with a speculative look in his eyes. The screams and yells of excited children, racing to escape both their parents and sleep for as long as they could. She played. She didn’t know how long she played or what she played, but when she stopped, there was total silence. And then applause. Loud, exuberant applause that woke her slowly from the haze she had fallen into.
“You should have said something, Little Missy,” said Mr. Edgar, taking the fiddle back and giving her an approving nod. “You play better than me.”
Shattered Highways Page 10