It’s her turn to be caught off guard by what seems like a random question, but as far as I’m concerned, it works because she doesn’t ask a follow-up question.
I say, “We have several homemade loaves of sourdough and some mini Bundts that are more cake than bread. They’re very delicious. Seems like you could use a sweet to brighten your day.”
Brushing me off, she then presses, tossing out prying, personal questions about Lane, Kai, and me. Okay, I’m not so pure of heart that I don’t struggle with wanting to hide under the table or come up fighting.
Tending to the paying customers, I dismissively mutter, “That’s none of your business.”
“Do you feel threatened or jealous, given LSJ’s history with Xoe?”
“What are you—?” But it doesn’t matter what she‘s talking about, does it? She’s looking for viral clicks and I’m serving baked goods today.
“I hear your bakery is in financial trouble. Perhaps you’re using his popularity—though shaky at the moment—to enhance your bakery brand.”
Something about that question stings like a bee—and not the cute fuzzy kind. Now, we have everyone’s attention. I recognize many people in line and don’t like the idea of them knowing that the Busy Bee is in trouble.
Faltering, I say, “Of course not.”
When I don’t say more to defend myself, it somehow getsquiet, or maybe it’s just silence inside of me. I could sure use Bibi’s advice right now. Even my father—a veritable boxer on ice skates—to tell me where to strike next.
But neither comes. Instead, I hear something else, a voice remarkably like my own, rising up like the sun as it has on so many early mornings when I get up for work. My spine lengthens. My chin lifts.
I could cower. I could defend myself to her and the town. Instead, I remain standing, a quiet fortress of confidence and stare down the reporter. Sometimes not engaging in someone’s nonsense is a more powerful statement than anything I could say.
She can try to make me uncomfortable, concoct stories, and shout them to the world, but I know the truth and it’s that I’m not going anywhere, even if I have to bake out of the kitchen in my house on Sweet Corn Court.
The reporter draws back as the people around her close in, likely curious about what’s going on. Then, I notice their warm looks—ready to come to my defense—are turned my way.
Leah, stance wide, and hands on her hips, is backed by Juniper. Gracie, who I happen to know can wield a jumbo dictionary like nobody’s business, approaches. Her expression is serious in a way that it only is when the two love interests in our book club romance novels aren’t communicating.
To the woman with the microphone and the cameraman, Leah says, “This is the Happy Hockey Days festival. Emphasis onhappy. If you’re here to pester our vendors, spread gossip, or do anything other than celebrate all things hockey, our security team will escort you off the premises.”
The camera guy is gone in a flash. Meanwhile, the reporter, or whatever she calls herself, looks at each of us as if weighing how much of a pest she wants to be. Peering at the bakery table, she says, “Well, those muffinsdo look tasty.”
Smiling, I bag one up for her. “On the house.”
At the woman’s back, Leah mutters, “Now, behave yourself.”
After that brush with near-infamy, Jess gives me a break so I can enjoy the festival with my family.My family. We agree to swap stations later so she can enjoy some time at the event too.
Main Street has been transformed into a winter wonderland of hockey-themed activities. There are craft stations where little kids can make their own hockey sticks out of pool noodles, a face painting booth run by the high school art students, and at least six different food trucks offering everything from maple syrup snow cones to barbecue. Plus, there is a buffet of all things corn-related: street corn, corn bread, corn fritters, corn dogs, and more.
The charity game between the Knights and a team of local volunteers is scheduled for two o’clock, with proceeds going toward community enrichment programs—free spaghetti dinners for families in need, youth activities, and events at the senior center. If the Knights win, they’re matching the funds raised. The opposition—made up of locals and retired players—has an anonymous donor who pledged to double the funds raised if they’re the winners.
The pot is heating up because Jake Twiles, an NHL player and Olympic gold medalist, now plays for the Knights.
Kai is in his element, dragging Lane and me from booth to booth. He asks, “Can we get our faces painted to match?”
Lane doesn’t seem like the face paint type, but he says, “Like, matching Knights logos?”
“I was thinking Spider-Man, but that’s even better!” Kai jumps up and down.
“That can be arranged. First, we have a hot chocolate contest to win,” Lane says.
In a matter of weeks, I’ve watched this man transform fromprofessional athlete to devoted uncle—father figure—with an ease that takes my breath away.
I love him and the anticipation of living out that love sits sweet on my tongue, like the first bite of a perfect Kringle—buttery layers of promise, with the best part still to come.
But there’s a bittersweetness as well. I hear murmurings about Lane and me, Kai too. Must be speculation after the incident with the reporter, but there are regular people with their cameras lifted, and I can’t help but wonder if they’re recording me and feeding the gossip mill.
