“I didn’t view it as a vital piece of information, seeing as how I’d never met you.”
The woman makes a sound, kind of like ahmph. “I hear you owned a bakery in Chicago.”
Instead of answering, I ask, “Are you checking up on all the entrants?”
“Yes.” Her face is even, her lips in that permanent scowl. “It’s prudent to know one’s competition.”
Even if her baking is so good it makes a man of the cloth denounce religion, there’s no way she can take over the bakery. Her people skills are terrible.
“Okay, well, bye.” I scoot around her. “Nice seeing you again.”
I don’t know if she answers, because I don’t stop. Grandma is in step beside me, and I can feel the curiosity coming off her in waves.
“She’s my competition,” I explain, rolling my eyes.
“No she’s not,” Grandma quips.
“She’s in the contest.”
“Right. But she’s no competition of yours.”
I grab Grandma’s hand, bringing us both to a stop, and hug her tightly.
Sometimes, a person really just needs to have someone in their corner. Lucky me, I have two someones.
* * *
“Grandma,I’m going down to see Brady. He asked me to visit when we got back.” He probably wants to know what was up with me this morning. I told him only once, at the very beginning, about the day when I was supposed to be getting married. I’m sure he doesn’t remember.
“Bye, hon,” she responds, walking off to her office.
On the way down to Brady’s I notice for the first time since I arrived this summer how beautiful this place really is. The wide, sloping lawn of green grass, gently giving way to the trees, and beyond them, the guest cabins. Sunlight filters through the trees, dappling the ground I walk over.
Maybe, for the rest of my life, this day will be a sad one for me. Or maybe this year will be the hardest, and each subsequent year will feel easier, until there is no longer pain but only a memory.
I round the corner to the front of Brady’s cabin, quickly climbing the steps and knocking on the front door.
“Hi.” Brady opens the door only partially, just enough for his large frame to fit through. He steps out, his body pushing me back a couple feet.
“Brady, what is going on?”
“Here,” Brady says, ignoring me and holding out what looks like a t-shirt that has been rolled up length-wise. “Turn around.”
“Is that a blindfold?” I ask, doing as I’ve been told.
Brady slips the fabric over my eyes and pulls tightly. I can feel him tying the knot at the back of my head. He gets a couple stray hairs tied in too, and I wince in pain. When he lets go of the knot, the pain ceases.
“Can you see anything?” he asks.
I squint my eyes, trying to see through the fabric, but I really can’t. I shake my head.
“Good,” he says. “Now, let me guide you.”
He stands behind me, gripping my forearms and propelling me forward.
“Step,” he says, and I assume we’re at the front door. It’s weird to take a step when you can’t see, and so I’m certain I’ve lifted my leg too high. It makes me think of how I’d walk if I were wearing clown shoes.
He instructs me where to turn and helps me sit down. I sit with my hands in my lap, excited and impatient. I’d love to rip this thing off and see what he’s doing.
