COLE
Stepping into Baywood Beans is an instant sugar rush. For a second, I hover on the threshold, adjusting to the noise that can only come from a festival committee meeting held by some of the quirkiest people I know. It’s chaos, yes, but the kind I can handle. If I’m caffeinated enough.
“Hi, sweetie,” Delilah smiles, a coffee pot in one hand and a plate of muffins in the other. Her t-shirt saysSudoku Sustains Me.“I saved a slice of carrot cake for you, just in case. You want it?”
“Tell me that was a rhetorical question,” I grin. “As if I could say no to your carrot cake. Also, can you put a double shot into my latte?”
Baywood Beans is the only coffee shop in town and my happy place outside home. Its trademark carrot cake and whimsically painted tables with their complimentary Sudoku grids are quite the tourist attraction, especially during summer.
“Sure honey, just take a seat next to Henry and I’ll come right over,” Delilah says, nodding toward the long table at the back. It’s reserved for committee meetings like the one we have today about the upcoming Baywood Music Festival.
Delilah’s identical twin, Dorothy, waves from behind the counter. “Six minutes, fifty-two seconds!” she announces proudly, pointing to the chalkboard where the Bloom sisters keep their Sudoku records. “Not bad for someone who was told balancing a checkbook might be beyond her.”
“It’s not just impressive, it’s inspiring,” I tell her before sliding into the chair next to Henry Ashford.
A former Londoner, Henry moved here last spring after buying the old loft house near the lake. He transformed the space into an edgy photography studio.The Baywood Gazetteran a feature about him,though it was probably more for his rumored aristocracy than any deep fascination with tripods.
“What have I missed?” I whisper. Henry’s wry demeanor is a welcome contrast to the abundant Southern hospitality usually surrounding me. Something about his gray eyes makes you want to breathe slower, like he’s got calm bottled on a shelf.
“Harold just banned stand-up comedy,” Henry replies. “Steve wanted a one-hour prime time slot for himself on the main stage. He mentioned something about getting a doctor’s certificate for being exceptionally funny.”
“It was a sunstroke diagnosis. In 2015,” I grin, thanking Delilah who arrives with my coffee and cake. I sip at my latte, half-listening to what Steve’s saying across the table while stealing a glance at Henry, wondering once again what made this reserved, dry-witted man choose Baywood of all places. My hometown is great but we also have a billboard that says:
“What We Lack In Common Sense We Make Up In Confidence!”
Steve Pell is a prime example. I listen to him pitching his last minute idea of turning the festival area into a leather-clad man cave with neon lights and bar carts.
“Absolutely not,” Harold Bramble, our self-appointed festival manager, huffs. “Baywood Music Festival is about honoring the town’s proud heritage,” he continues, crossing his arms. “Nothing else matters.”
“An excellent song,” Henry says, dry as toast. A few people chuckle.
My mouth is suddenly dry, but I push forward anyway. “Surely music matters?”
Half the table turns toward me. My ears burn, but Harold just scoffs, waving me off.
“Music schmusic! I’m of a mind to ban music entirely,” he declares, puffing up. “Except hymns, of course. And the marching band. Andpatriotic ballads. Those are acceptable. And the high school choir, well, tradition demands it. But apart from all that, no music whatsoever! Baywood must preserve its dignity.”
Steve smirks. “So basically you’re just banning rock and pop.”
“Precisely!” Harold beams like he just solved world hunger. Then he frowns. “Springsteen’s allowed.” He narrows his eyes at Steve. “What do you have against Bruce?”
Just then, Ann-Sabrina Fenton, owner of Fenton’s Books and a very vivid imagination, leans forward. “Henry, have you given more thought to my suggestion?”
Henry’s starting to look a bit pained. “I’m sorry, Ann-Sabrina, but I’m sticking to events and family portraits. I’m not saying your ‘fairy-themed boudoir’ idea is bad, it’s just not for me,” he says, polite but firm.
“What is this whimsical nonsense?” Harold asks, glaring at Ann-Sabrina. She glares right back at him, unfazed.
“No concern of yours. Also, I want to rename the festival. The Baywood Music and Fae Festival would send the right message to the more ethereal beings among us.”
Steve pretends to speak into an imaginary phone. “Hello, Ann-Sabrina, this is reality calling.”
Ann-Sabrina sticks her tongue at him. “Steve, your sense of humor is calling. It’s apologizing for being an utter failure.”
I press my lips together to keep from laughing. I’d been wary about joining the festival committee, but so far, it’s been wildly entertaining.
Then, the bell over the door jingles and Earl Davenport, the town baker, bursts into the café, puffing.“Sorry I’m late, but I just had a close call with death!” he exclaims. Nobody flinches; Earl’s near-death experiences are a daily occurrence.
He barrels on, undeterred: “A rogue watermelon rolled off the back of a truck, picked up speed down Main Street, and it honest to God charged atme like I was the target all along, y’know? Without my strong survival instincts I’d be a pulp smear on the sidewalk. I blame the truck, y’know, for disregarding fruit transport safety protocols.”
