“They would if we called them about it,” Tad says.
“What about Ronnie Howard?” Angelica says, “he loves human interest stuff like this.”
“His girl Bryce in the lead?”
“Tad, that’s brilliant.”
“Well,” I say, setting the filled bags on the counter of the booth. “Forty-five dollars please.”
Tad pulls out his wallet and hands me a hundred dollar bill. “Keep it, hon.” He takes one bag, she takes the other.
Angelica smiles at me and adds, “When you change your mind, just call CAA in Hollywood and ask for Lew Weissman. You’ll love Bryce, she’s a doll.”
Words escape me, but there are only a few accurate words for me to choose from, so I’m not long in stuttering my measly and weaselly thanks. “Well, thank you again for coming down. You’re welcome back anytime.”
They smile at me, Angelica giving me a slow, knowing nod. “Lew Weissman at CAA. He’ll be expecting your call.”
I smile awkwardly, tossing out a nervous little chuckle. “Well, I don’t want to disappoint him...or you...so early on, but I don’t think I’ll be...”
“You do have a phone, right?”
“Um, out in the phone shed, sure.” Before she has a chance to ask, I add, “Gets long-distance and everything.”
They chuckle and she gives me a little wink before they drift back into the marketplace, their crowd of video crews and photographers following along them like a cloud of flies on a band of grazing horses.
But these flies are annoying us more than they are the horses that fascinate them. I can’t avoid the glares of my neighbors from nearby. In a flash, they go from basking in the glow of our visitors’ celebrity to wallowing in a pool of jealousy and bitterness that they showed some interest in me, and not in them.
All because of that stupid contest.
And something tells me that it’s only going to get worse.
* * *
The next day I whip up more of my newly famous Whoopie breakfast pies, in addition to shoo fly and even my zucchini pies. Gramm makes some breakfast casserole, a few loaves of friendship bread and plenty of cider.
We bring the foods to the site of the new schoolhouse expansion, which winds up including a demolition of the existing schoolhouse and replacing it with an entirely new structure.
It’s going to take almost every penny we raised at the bake-off.
And everyone at the site is just as grateful for the food as for the money they’re earning to build the school. Simon and Daed and Abram are all working at the site, pulling down the old walls and clearing the debris. They’re all happy to take a break and enjoy the food, and my Daed takes me aside and we stroll casually around the site.
I’m happy to spend some alone time with Daed, and even happier that he wants to spend some alone time with me. And stepping away from the plaster and dust and dirt clinging to the air and into the fresher gusts of wind just a few hundred yards from the demolition makes it even nicer.
“You’ve done a great thing here, Hannah,” he says, his brusk tone wrapped around these loving sentiments. “I know you did it because I...because we asked you to. Us, your family. I want to thank you for doing that.”
“Daed, I...”
“And for allowing us to be that to you...family, I mean.”
“Daed...”
“No, please, Hannah, let me finish. I am not comfortable or...easy with so much personal expression. But some things must be said.”
I smile and wait, letting him say the things he wants -- no, needs to say. “You have made me very proud, and very happy,” he adds.
I give him an affectionate little lean against his massive arm. “How is Abram doing? I miss him.”
“And he you,” Daed says as we look across the field at the growing young man who seems to be developing more and more since I’ve moved out. “In your place, he’s grown, assumed a bigger role in the family. Again, a family I disallowed him any real part of for so much of his life.”
“Daed, you have to let it go. That’s all past.”
“I...I can’t, Hannah.” He takes a step away from me, but stops himself. He doesn’t want to walk away, but he’s struggling to face me, to face this. “You don’t know what kind of ... guilt I feel, memories haunting me ... ”
“Daed, remember Genesis, 19:25-27.”
Daed looks up and into his memory of the glorious word. “But Lot’s wife looked back, and she became a pillar of salt.”
“Yes, Daed. God wants us to keep looking forward.”
He gives me a comforting smile and a healthy squeeze, powerful even with only one of his arms. He says, “Let’s rejoin the others.”
* * *
I spend more and more time at the marketplace. With my pies fast sweeping the gossip circuit of Lancaster and York Counties, people are coming in for them in greater numbers. And business really erupts after the Tangelica visit hits the internet and a show called something like TZM (or maybe MTZ?), a collection of celebrity paparazzi clips. All of the sudden everybody wants to try my pies, buy as many as they can and just, I dunno, experience the whole breakfast Whoopie phenomenon. I don’t mean to be immodest, but I really can’t keep up with the demand and usually sell out before noon everyday. The more I make for the next day, the more they buy. There is still nary a crumb to be found when I go home for the day.
One day I’m cleaning up when a young man in a leather blazer and gold jewelry approaches me. He kind of slinks up, shoulders rolling, spine curling a bit, looking around as he steps up to the booth.
Please don’t ask me out on a date, is my first thought.
In a very thick New Jersey accent, he says, “I would like some of your delicious pies if you please, miss.”
I can only offer him a smile. It’s all I’ve got in stock. “I’m sorry, but if you come back tomorrow, I...”
“Oh, yo, tomorrow? I ain’t local, honey, a’ight?” His quick show of temper worries me, but he reels it in quickly, and that puts me at some ease. He says, “Sorry ‘bout d’at, long drive an’ all. But, c’mon, it’s me you’re talkin’ to ‘ere. You ain’t got a single freakin’ Whiplash pie...?”
“Whoopie pie,” I say, not meaning to correct him but speaking too quickly to stop myself. I’ve never heard it called a Whiplash pie or anything even close. The fact that he calls it that sends a shiver down my spine. “Anyway, I’m sorry that I’m all out. I will be back tomorrow. I can set some aside for you, if you like.”
He leans back a bit, looking at me with a new perspective. Impressed. He says, “Well, see now, ‘ats what I’m talkin’ ‘bout, ‘at’s a way to do business. I tell you what, honey, you set a few aside and we’ll be in tomorrow for a little sample.”
“We?”
He smiles, but it’s a reptilian smile, unfriendly. Still, he seems to enjoy it. “What time, darling?”
I’m not sure why I have to give that some thought. I arrive at the same time every morning, and sell my pies to whomever wants them without discriminating against anyone.
Anyone.
Ever.
I shake my head a bit to clear my mind. “nine o’clock.”
He smiles and bows a bit, overly courteous in a way that leaves an indescribable nausea in the pit of my stomach. He says, “See you tomorrow,” in a very friendly manner, nothing at all that should be a lingering concern.
Yet it follows me home, this anxious feeling that what I dreaded was coming to pass, more quickly and perhaps more horribly than I’d imagined.
Oh, don’t be ridiculous! I tell myself. You’re profiling this man just because of a few general characteristics, his clothes and his accent. How dare you? ‘For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you.’ Don’t you dare turn into one of the very same people you complain judge you so harshly. Keep that imagination in check, Hannah!
The next morning, I’m disappointed to see how right I actually was initi
ally.
I get to the booth at eight-thirty as usual and set up my pies, those that are wrapped for takeaway and those ready for eating on the spot. There’s not too much to set up, but there is the cash box, the calculator, and none of that has much of a chance of holding my attention after my very first customers of the day.
I recognize the young man from the day before, but I don’t recognize the older man who stands in front of him. He’s perfectly dressed, in his early 60’s, stout and dignified in his tailored suit, an overcoat draped over his shoulders and a silver-handled walking stick in his hands. His smile is small under his pencil-thin mustache, cradled between his ample jowls.
The man from yesterday says, “You remember me, right? From yesterday!”
“Glad to see you again,” I say, turning to his elderly companion. “This must be your father.”
The older man smiles, his posture straightening and his chest expanding as he chuckles to enjoy my compliment. He looks back at the younger man and mutters something in what sounds like Italian. The younger man says, “My grandfather,” without having a chance to say more.
The old man leans forward and extends his hand. In a thick Italian accent, he says, “Vincenzo Carapucci,” raising my hand to kiss.
Carapucci? I repeat to myself. Like the judge from the bake-off?
The old Vincenzo asks, “May I sit?” even though his young grandson is already placing a wooden chair beneath him.
The grandson says, “I’m Paulie, by the way, nice to meet ‘chas. So, you said you’d set a few of d’ese pies aside, right? ‘Cause my grandpop, he came all the way down from Trenton.”
“I remember,” I say, and they really did come at the right time. The pies are as fresh and delicious as they’ll ever be, and I’m happy enough to put two on a couple of plates and set them down, one in front of each man.
Vincenzo looks at it, vaguely unimpressed. He snaps his fingers and Paulie raises a picnic basket and sets it on the counter. I have to admit, for a moment, just a quickly passing moment, I’m a little worried.
What’s in that basket? A gun?
Paulie pulls out a bottle of red wine and two crystal glasses. He sets the glasses down and opens the bottle, pouring a glass for Vincenzo. He moves the bottle to the second glass, Vincenzo asking me with his eyes if I’ll join him.
I must politely refuse with a demure shake of my head.
Vincenzo smiles and nods and waves his grandson away. A moment passes before Paulie hands him a silver-plated knife and fork, which old Vincenzo uses to cut himself a slice of his breakfast Whoopie. Paulie stands behind his grandfather, dutifully ignoring his own pie.
Vincenzo lifts the piece to his lips and eats it, chewing slowly and carefully, washing it down with a sip of red wine. At nine in the morning.
Well, who am I to judge?
After the bite, he sets down the utensils and wipes his lips on a cotton napkin his grandson has at the ready. He leans back and mutters, “Incredible! Questa è la pasta migliore che abbia mai assaggiato. Noi dobbiamo averlo! Ma, la donna è un'artista, trattarla con il massimo rispetto, Paulie!”
I don’t speak Italian, but certain words I do recognize, and I think I already know what old Vincenzo thinks.
And what he wants.
He looks at me and smiles, kissing his fingertips the way the Italians sometimes do.
I say, “Well, at least I know what that means!” We all share a chuckle.
Paulie says, “My grandpop, he wants to talk to you about, y’know, doing some business.”
“Of course,” I say with a friendly smile. “How many pies would you like?”
Paulie smiles too, but it doesn’t feel quite as friendly. “All of ‘em...forever.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Old Vincenzo says, “You must excuse my grandson, he’s young and raised in a city, not like the lovely country environment you enjoy.”
“Not at all, sir. If I only knew what you’re asking of me...?”
Vincenzo smiles, almost too broadly. “We...I’m just a simple businessman, and my wife, I know she would love these cakes. But, I can’t make them for her, I can’t make this trip to buy from you. I’m hoping you’ll allow me access to...the secrets of how you make these wondrous pastries, so that I can provide them for my family and friends.”
“And, if we should turn it to a business angle,” Paulie says, “well, that’d be part of the deal.”
“Of course, you’re free to do as you wish,” Vincenzo says. “I am grateful just for the opportunity to make you this humble offer. And, of course, I’m not asking you to walk away from the table...unhappy, or uncared for.”
Okay, Hannah, I say to myself, take it easy. If this man is what he seems, then you’ve just been propositioned by the New Jersey mafia. Organized crime. They’re moving in on the Whoopie pies! And you know how these things go. First they offer to buy you out, and if you don’t go along with it, they have...more effective ways of asserting their influence.
My mind races with horrible images I can barely stand to describe, houses burning, guns firing.
Worse.
And I’ve brought this terrible influence into the community, I realize, at least that’s the way everyone will see it. But what does it matter how they see things when a crime spree is tearing Lancaster apart?
Okay, I tell myself, just get through this carefully and you might walk away without a scratch.
I say, “With all respect, I really couldn’t. I’m sorry.”
“And why is that?” Paulie asks, “if you don’t mind me axin’.”
“Well, it’s just that...”
I don’t say, To do business with organized crime would comprise my integrity, do untold damage to the community, setting us back hundreds of years and going against everything we believe in, ethically and morally and religiously?
Instead I say, “Because to sell it would be wrong, no matter who the buyer is.”
“It’s a family secret,” Vincenzo suggests.
“No, I actually just invented it myself,” I have to add, unwilling to lie or at least unable to do it both quickly and effectively.
And because I don’t know what you’ll wind up using the proceeds for, and I shudder to think what those things might be.
“And it’s really quite simple anyway...”
Well, you can’t copyright a butter glaze, can you? I have to ask myself. And you certainly can’t do business with these men.
“I’d feel badly,” I go on, “...dishonest...selling it to you or anyone.”
But what harm can there be in just...giving it to them? That’s not selling them anything, that’s not doing business, just a little chat and that’s all there will be to it.
“When I can just tell you how to do it yourselves.”
Vincenzo and Paulie look at me skeptically, eyebrows wriggling, jowls giggling. They share a few muttered words in Italian, and Paulie asks me, “You mean, just ... just tell us, for nothin’?”
“Yeah, why not? It doesn’t make any difference to me. You can make as many pies as you can manage, and do whatever you like with them.”
Vincenzo leans forward, voice going low. “And, in return...?”
I let the doubting moment linger. Whoever this man is, whatever he truly wants, I’m the one with the power here, because I’m the one who doesn’t have any needs. I shrug and say, “Nothing. The secret of the kingdom of God has been given to you.”
They consider those words from Mark 4:11, then look at each other and then back at me. Vincenzo asks, “You believe in God?”
“Of course,” I say. “We Amish branched out from the Mennonites, in the Protestant tradition. German origin, largely, some Swedish and a few others.”
Vincenzo smiles, holding his hand up in front of his face to lend grandeur to his proclamation: “We’re Italians...Catholics.”
I can only offer a smile in return. “Well, peace be with you,” I say.
He lowers his head slowly, a gallant and
respectful gesture. “And with you.”
* * *
The visit plagues me for the rest of the day. Was that really some old-fashioned mafia don I’d given my pie recipe to? I had to wonder, or just some old fellow with delusions of grandeur, or perhaps just an old man with an eager nephew and a hungry wife.
What’s the difference? I have to challenge myself. If he was a danger or a menace, then the best and safest course was to just give him the recipe he wanted and avoid any further commitment. I haven’t profited, and in fact any potentially dangerous confrontation has been averted, so really I have nothing to second-guess myself on here.
Still, something nags at the back of my brain. Have I made some unwitting deal with the devil? Is there any other kind?
Yes, I have to answer myself. And this isn’t one of those. And honestly, he was probably just some old guy.
So I put the matter or more less to bed. At least I try. But through dinner it nags at me, and even Gramm can see that I’m preoccupied. But I don’t feel like I can just blurt out that I think the Godfather just came up to me and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.
So I just circle around it privately, in the secret ocean that swirls in my skull when the the storm clouds gather.
I’ve done a good thing with the bake-off, I have to admit, even if it wasn’t exactly my choice. And even if it has some unpleasant side effects, there has been every bit as much good as bad to be gained from the experience.
So maybe it’s time I quit while I’m ahead.
I say, offhandedly as the notion comes to me, “What if I stopped baking?”
Simon and Gramm look at me with new intrigue and obvious uncertainty. “Hannah,” Simon says gently, “you love making those pies, don’t you? How many times have you gone on about what a personal experience it is, what a meditative, contemplative time. You love it, I know you do.”
Gramm just looks at me. She can see me more clearly than Simon, even my own husband. Or perhaps she’s just got the experience to recognize my tactics more clearly.
Whoopie Pie Betrayal - Book 2 (The Whoopie Pie Juggler: An Amish of Lancaster County Saga series) Page 6