“Come on, you can do it!” I call out, joining the crowd as I cup my hands over my mouth.
I get a few weird looks, but I honestly don’t care. This is great advertisement for my pies and pastries, and since I dream of opening my own bakery in a bustling big city one of these days, I need all the advertisements I can get.
For now, freelancing keeps me afloat, working out of my little apartment kitchen with my little cooking license. I’m always looking for new clients. New footholds within the towns around me, whether big like Rockingham City or small like here in Honeysuckle Grove. Most of my stuff ends up in the artisanal bakeries in the bigger cities thirty minutes north and south of here.
One of these days, it’ll be my bakery hiring freelancers because I don’t have enough time in the day to stock my shelves.
Honeysuckle Grove caught my attention for a ton of reasons. It’s quaint. It’s quiet. Everyone seems to know everyone else, and that gives it a homey sort of feeling I haven’t felt in a long time. Living in a place like this would be lovely, especially since people in small towns are usually loyal to local brands.
I’m secretly hoping I can get Honeysuckle Grove to enjoy my particular brand of baking. That way, I don’t have to keep fussing with the uppity artisanal places. Plus, it would be nice to have a client or two a little closer to me so I don’t sink so much of my earnings into gas money.
After all, I need to start putting that money into my savings if I’m ever going to own my own bakery.
The crowd begins chanting, “Eat, eat, eat!” And the energy alone is addictive. Soon, I’m pumping my fist in the air with the locals, watching the countdown on the massive digital clock they have hovering over the contestants’ heads, and beaming from ear to ear.
A lovely rush of calm wind comes in from my left, and I have to smooth my hands over my pleated skirt to keep it from fluttering too much. It carries the scent of those damn’ vineyard grapes, and I feel like I can practically taste them. It distracts me from the countdown with only a few more seconds to go in the contest, but I can’t take it any longer.
Satisfying my sweet tooth has become my top priority.
I slip through the crowd toward the back, making my way to the stalls that are set up with everything from handmade goods to lemonade. There’s a young woman with a baby on her hip selling artwork. I wonder if she’s who made the Blossom Festival banner—it’s gorgeous, and maybe she’d be interested in working on marketing materials.
I go to make a beeline for her stand when the smell of those grapes and something akin to oak hits me so hard that it almost knocks me off my feet.
“Okay, fruit first,” I mutter as I change direction.
Pivoting on my feet brings about two things I’m not prepared for: one, my world tilts. You know those moments where you feel faint, and when you move, it takes the world around you a few more seconds to catch up? Yeah, that.
And two?
My knees feel as if they’ve evaporated.
One moment, I’m on my feet and heading toward the wine stall, and the next minute I’m stumbling toward the nearest support surface I can find. I brace myself against one of the black lampposts that dot the downtown area of this quaint small town, and I have to take a moment to catch my breath.
What in the world?
My blood sugar must be dropping. What time is it?
I ate breakfast before coming to the event, but I haven’t stopped for lunch yet. Maybe that’s my problem. I lift my head toward the sky and draw in a deep breath; the scent of blooming wildflowers laced with the mouth-watering smell of red grapes straight off the vine fills my nose.
The hairs on the nape of my neck stand on end again. It trickles down my arms, and when I look down, I see the little peach fuzz hairs on my forearms sticking straight up, too.
Well. That’s not normal.
Did I remember to take my suppressant this morning?
No, it can’t be.
I dig through my purse, trying to find the little bottle I always carry with me. The scent of the fruit wars with my need to count out my pills to make sure I took it on time this morning. It’s possible I could have forgotten seeing as this morning was a rush to get out the door, though I’m never that careless.
Not with my health the way it is.
Before I can get through the counting, however, the breeze wafts in my direction, carrying with it a scent that now begins to taunt me. I whip around, barely getting the pills back into my purse as I try to locate the source of the scent.
That isn’t fresh grapes from a wine stall. It’s too strong. Too poignant. Too haunting. It’s something different. Something more. Something laced with?—
Fate.
Absolutely not. I refuse to use that word. I have my own destiny to create. My own life to live. My instincts don’t guide what I do—I guide what I do.
