“Well,” Nash began, handing over the money, “this may sound crazy, but I was wondering if you had a date for that Retro Prom tomorrow night.”
Cheryl’s dark brown eyes widened for a moment, a touch of pink rising to her round cheeks. “No, I don’t. I wasn’t planning on going.”
“Neither was I,” Nash lied. “But then I was thinking about it and I realized that I never went to prom in high school. I didn’t go to any dances, really. I wasn’t very popular with the ladies, so I missed out on all that.”
Cheryl shook her head. “I find that hard to believe. You’re such a handsome and polite fellow.”
“You know how high school is. I was in an awkward stage. I was smart and quiet. I didn’t play sports or hang with the cool kids. It seems silly to pass up the opportunity to go to a Second Chance Prom when it’s presented, you know? I mean, it’s even an eighties-themed prom, and I graduated in 1988.”
“So did I,” Cheryl said with a smile. “I know what you mean. I didn’t go to my prom, either.”
“What do you say we go together? I know it’s short notice, but I think it will be a lot of fun.”
There was a glimmer of wary excitement in Cheryl’s eyes that made Nash feel a little guilty. This wasn’t the lowest thing he’d ever done to get a story, but it was pretty close.
“I don’t know, Nash. I don’t even know your last name. Are you from around here?”
Nash reached across the counter and held out his hand to her. “I’m Nash Russell.” Cheryl shook his hand, her tense posture relaxing just slightly. “And no, I’m not from around here, but I will be here for a little while longer. Look at it this way—I’ve been coming in here for your ice cream for days now. You’ve known me longer than Cinderella knew Prince Charming, and they had a great time at the ball.”
The last trace of hesitation faded away and Cheryl beamed brightly. Nash should’ve known she was the kind of woman who loved fairy tales and kept waiting for her prince to come. He was certainly not her prince, but hey—he’d spring for the dance tickets. That was something, right?
“Shall I pick you up at seven?” Nash said with a wide, hopeful smile.
“Okay. Seven it is.”
“This pie is awful,” Maddie said.
Blake had to agree with his little sister. It might be because this was the fortieth pie he’d had to try tonight, but he just wasn’t feeling it.
“The filling is watery and has no flavor,” Maddie continued. “You can barely tell it’s apple. The crust is mushy and has none of the flaky texture it should have.”
Mayor Gallagher was sitting at the table with them. “This tastes like my mother-in-law’s apple pie,” he said before pushing the plate away. “The difference is I don’t have to eat any more of this one.”
“How many are left?” Blake asked. He was ready to get out of here. He had a football game tonight, and after that he and Grant were meeting at the family house to go through their dad’s old tuxedos. There was no sense searching for one at a store when they could just raid his stash. Norman Chamberlain was a lawyer with plenty of money, but he was so tight he squeaked. There was no way he’d parted with any of the suits he’d worn over the years.
“Last one,” Estelle Townsend announced as she returned to the room with a tray of small plates. Estelle was the owner of Rosewood Cakes and Cookies. She was also Maddie’s boss. Miss Estelle had personally organized the annual bake-off since it was added to the fair schedule in 1979. As a “professional,” she was not eligible to compete, so it made the most sense for her to oversee the event. The same went for Maddie, who was pegged as a judge instead.
For as long as Blake could remember, Miss Estelle had owned the bakery in Rosewood. She’d made every birthday cake he’d ever eaten and baked the wedding cake of nearly every married couple in Rosewood.
The Piggly Wiggly did have a bakery counter, but no one dared come to an event with cookies or cupcakes from anywhere but Miss Estelle’s shop. The past few months, people had gotten even more excited about visiting the store. Maddie had brought her new arsenal of skills to the shop, filling the glass cases with a selection of e´clairs, tortes, French macarons, and fruit tarts on top of the already decadent cookies, cupcakes, and breads.
“This is entry forty-one, an apple-pear crumb-topped pie.”
Miss Estelle put a plate in front of him with a tiny sliver of the pie.
Blake looked down at it. This one was far superior to the last pie just on sight. Even so he had to force one last bite into his mouth. It had a nice, buttery crust and a sweet, crisp crumble on the top, and the fruit had the perfect texture—not too hard or too soft. It might not be the best pie of the night, but it was top five. At least he was ending the contest on a high note.
On the other side of the Jaycees building, forty-one anxious bakers were waiting to hear the results. He wanted to turn in his scores and leave, but he still had to present the trophies.
Estelle came back a few minutes later to collect their forms. “Just give us time to tally these up and we’ll announce our winners.”
Blake, Maddie, and Otto gathered up their things and headed out front. A crowd of ladies were gathered there, the usual sus
pects by Blake’s estimation, with the exception of Lydia in the back. As far as he knew, she didn’t bake. She’d told him once that she was an executive chef. Apparently doing pastry was beneath her, somehow.
She was in the back row by herself, so she hadn’t come to support anyone. And her eyes were glued on him. It seemed she wanted to get to him when she knew Ivy wouldn’t be around.
Estelle walked up to the microphone and quieted the crowd. “Thank you, everyone, for participating in our thirty-fifth annual bake-off! I’d like to thank each of our judges for dedicating their time and their taste buds to our competition tonight.”