"Clara. Finally!” Mrs. Krinkle spotted me. She was eighty years old with more energy than most twenty-year-olds. Her tacky Christmas sweater had a picture of Cousin Eddie standing in his bathrobe holding the hose to the shitter.
“Nice sweater.” I hugged her.
She winked. “The pooper is full.”
“I’m sorry I’m late, I locked the keys in the truck.”
She gave me a quizzical look. "You lock that poop-box?"
I chuckled. "Not on purpose."
She shoved a bowl of green icing and a piping bag at me. "Make them pretty."
"Yes, ma'am."
I squeezed in between the other decorators. A man was seated across from me. “Donnie?" It was weird seeing him in the wild.
He didn't look up. “I got roped into this.”
"He's very dedicated to the cookie arts.” Clementine, another octogenarian volunteer grinned.
"Very." Another pumped her eyebrows. Donnie's ears went red.
What in the church lady drama was going on?
Squeezing the piping bag, I traced the edge of the cookie with green frosting. "Can we talk about the meeting?”
"Yes. That's the reason we're all here." Donnie grumbled.
The church ladies rolled their eyes.
Mrs. Krinkle pulled up a chair. "Yes, let's get to business."
"The public meeting is critical,” Mrs. Krinkle said. "We need solidarity. They need to know the community has concerns."
"Are we all opposed though?" Clementine asked. "Some people seem excited about the jobs."
"Our job is to remind them what's important. Not just what's new and fancy." Mrs. Krinkle pulled out a map of the town hall with the seating sections marked in different colors. "We've got forty confirmed attendees. You'll each speak and give specific examples of how the rink impacted your life."
"What about Shepherd's cronies?" Donnie asked. "Will they be there?"
“I’d assume so." Mrs. Krinkle kept her face neutral. “There will be supporters there."
We spent the next hour planning while decorating and by the time the last cookie was frosted, I was exhausted.
All the ladies left, leaving me alone with Mrs. Krinkle.
"Are you alright, dear?"
I shrugged. "The town is turning on itself. I hate that everyone is so divided. Is this a mistake? Does it really matter?"
Mrs. Krinkle pulled me into a hug. "Sweetheart. You're doing this for those kids. Of course it matters. Pull yourself together. We have a rink to save."
She handed me a wadded-up tissue from the sleeve of her Eddie sweater. "And Clara? I think that boy is trying to find his way back."
"Back to what?"
"To who he was before he got lost." She patted my cheek. "Now go. Skating practice in an hour, and you look like hell."
