by Reid, Penny
Ten minutes later, I sat in the front seat of my father’s car. Thirty silent minutes after that, I walked behind him into an abandoned storefront on Main Street next to Udderly Ice Cream, paper covering the inside of the windows to block passersby from peering inside. I heard voices as soon as we were inside but couldn’t make out what they were saying or who their owners were.
He ushered me toward the back of the empty shop, and I allowed myself to be steered until we reached a small conference room filled to the brim with bakers.
“I’m here, and I look who I have with me.” My father gestured to my body with an exaggerated movement, like I was one of those game show cars up for grabs and he was one of those game show models, waving his arms around.
I walked to the table and took the second to last empty seat while several sets of eyes moved over me, most of them felt various shades of unfriendly, which didn’t unsettle me one bit. Walking in here reminded me of entering the judging barn at the state fair, an apt name for the building where the judges sampled confections prior to announcing the ribbon winners, but also where fellow contestants judged each other.
Only one gaze did not feel unfriendly, Elena Wilkinson’s. The woman, sitting in a folding chair at the edge of the room rather than at the table, sent me a small, shy smile, but didn’t quite meet my eyes. I’d known her for many years as my father’s secretary, and though she was soft-spoken, she’d always been lovely to me when we did talk.
Conversely, her sister’s gaze was the most hostile, and she made no attempt to disguise the intensity of her dislike. She sat at the head of the conference table, and if looks could kill, I’d be dead three times already.
Pulling my phone out of my bag, I made a show of checking the time before placing it on the table surface, facedown—Cletus said face up or down didn’t matter.
Meanwhile, my father was still talking. “I believe you all know my famous daughter, Jennifer Sylvester. But I don’t know if she knows each of you.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to contradict him because I did recognize everyone present. They were the same folks gathered at Daisy’s two weeks ago, the only addition being Elena. Tricia Wilkinson, Roger Gangersworth, Posey Lamont, Deb Brightwell, Josephina Ortiz, and Hamell Jefferson.
“She knows us,” Roger Gangersworth cut in, currently leaning against the back wall rather than sitting at the table with most everyone else. His gaze seemed more exasperated than unfriendly as it moved to me. “It’s nice to see you,” he said, the words unconvincing, but at least he made an effort at manners.
“It’s nice to see you too,” I said automatically.
The older man gave me a brief, emotionless smile, and then pointed his attention at my father. “Can we get on with it? Many of us have day jobs we need to get back to and only have an hour for lunch.”
“Fine, Roger. Here’s how things stand. As you all know, Jennifer has left the Donner Lodge as of two weeks ago and is a free agent. She and I have negotiated a deal, just this morning, where I’ll be taking over her social media accounts—with all those millions of potential customers—and she’ll be a face of Farm Bakes. The Banana Cake Queen will rebrand all her social media presence to Farm Bakes, and—”
“No.” Tricia Wilkinson leaned forward in her seat, her hands on the table balling into fists.
My father sighed dramatically, rolled his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Tricia—”
“No. We don’t need her.”
“Now, Tricia. We’ve talked about this. Over a million followers on Instagram alone, last I checked. That’s a lot of folks. Building that kind of audience from scratch—if we ever even managed to do so—would take years. When Jennifer announces Farm Bakes, reservations will come pouring in immediately. Not only does that mean instant proof of success for Farm Bakes, that means all y’all will be able to quit those day jobs earlier rather than later.”
“I agree with Kip.” Josephina raised her hand. “I’m tired of doing the books for my sister’s law firm. I’ve always wanted to be a baker, that’s my passion, and Jennifer has access to all those people. We should take her up on the kind offer.”
“I also agree.” Roger lifted two fingers in the air. “I’ll still keep my day job, for a time, until we see what’s what, but people all over the world love the Banana Cake Queen persona. That alone is a brand that’ll give everything we do credibility.”
Tricia closed her eyes, shaking her head slowly. “Not you too, Roger. Not you, of all people.”
“You and Deb and me did what we did, but now it’s time to move forward and let the past go.” He sent me a quick glance, one that seemed to be tinted with guilt. “If we want Farm Bakes to succeed and get the farm stays booked, dangling the promise of her involvement is a winning idea. Folks would—will—pay good money to take a cooking class with the Banana Cake Queen.”
“Fine.” Tricia’s eyes flew open, her lips curved in an unhappy downward arc. “Then we’ll take over her social media accounts for the audience, but nothing else changes. I’m still the head baker. Farm Bakes and Tennessee Treats are mine, not hers.”
“Tricia, come on. That’s not going to work.” My father strolled over to where Elena sat at the edge of the room, his tone one I recognized as one he used to employ on my mother when he wanted his way. “Besides, it doesn’t matter who has the title of head baker.”
“Shut up, Kip,” Tricia snapped, pointing at him. “The only reason you’re here at all is because of me. I’m the one with all the connections. I’m the one with the business plan. I’m the one—”
“But I have the capital, don’t I? And I have the largest stake, and therefore the largest vote.” My father placed his hand on the back of Elena’s chair.
“But you don’t have fifty-one percent of the vote, Kip. Without me, you need at least three others to side with you.” Tricia seemed to take pleasure in reminding him of this fact, and it was the closest she’d come to smiling since I’d entered the room.
“I’m with Tricia.” Deb Brightwell hit the table with the flat of her palm. “This is Tricia’s brainchild, and she should get to decide who is involved.”
“I’m sorry, but I disagree. We’re all invested, we all get a say. At first, Jennifer should be listed as the head baker. It only makes sense,” Posey Lamont said softly, using a gentle voice I’d never heard from the woman. “Then, once we have her audience interested in the product rather than the person, you take over as the public face, Tricia. You’ll still be calling all the shots in the background the whole time. We just use her face. How does that sound?”
“This is such bullshit.” Tricia shook her head faster. “This is my idea. This was all my idea!”
“And it’s a brilliant idea, but Kip is right.” This came from Hamell. “Using that one jumps us ahead five years, at least. And look at her”—he motioned to me without looking at me—“she’s a beautiful, young woman. That’s a huge part of her success that can’t be overstated. Sex sells. Now look at us”—he gestured to the rest of the bakers, including himself and Tricia—“we’re a bunch of middle-aged, average-looking folks. No one wants to have sex with us.”
“Hamell, you are disgusting.” Deb Brightwell lifted her nose and sniffed, like Hamell’s words stank.
“Whatever, Deb. You know it’s true.” He sniffed right back. “The point is, why would anyone want to follow us on social media? She’s a movie star, and we’re the chorus. She has the looks, we have the talent. Let’s use her to get what we want—which is establishing Farm Bakes, then spinning off Tennessee Treats as a global brand, sold in grocery stores. There’s nothing wrong with this change to the plan.”
“That’s exactly why I think this change to the plan is a bad one, the wrong one.” Tricia stood, like she couldn’t stand to listen to any of them any longer. “I don’t want her”—she pointed at me—“and I don’t want her audience. Her audience isn’t our audience. People who want sex appeal over substance. She shouldn’t get to win
—Every. Single. Time— just because of what she looks like, that’s not what we are about.”
“You know as well as I do, that girl’s cakes are fantastic.” Hamell pointed at me too, again without sparing me a glance. “She doesn’t win just because she’s sexy.”
I looked at my father, expecting him to . . . say something? But then again, he’d always told me that a woman was responsible for the lust she inspired in others. He likely considered Hamell’s comments my fault.
“No. No!” Tricia lifted her hands to her ears, covering them. “No. I started Farm Bakes and Tennessee Treats in opposition to everything that little tart stands for—which includes nepotism and sleeping your way to the top.”
Many of them began talking all at once, and Tricia lowered her hands to join in the yelling match, but the only two statements I heard clearly were Roger saying, “That’s uncalled for,” and Josephine saying, “Tricia, that’s enough.”
Josephina stood, her chair scraping against the floor, and pointed at Tricia. “Some of you may not like that this young woman has won the baking blue ribbon every year for the last six years, and I understand your frustration, believe me, I do. I want to be a baker. I want to share that love with others. I wanted to be a part of Farm Bakes, teaching the farm stay tourists what I know. That’s why I’m here. I don’t care who gets the credit, or who is the ‘face’ of Farm Bakes or Tennessee Treats. I was opposed to that sabotage business”—her glare bounced between Roger, Tricia, and Deb—“and now I refuse to sit here and listen to y’all tear Jennifer down for nothing but being young. She is an excellent baker, you know she is, and she earned those blue ribbons.”
“On her back,” Tricia said meanly, sending me another murderous look.
Who, precisely, she thought I’d slept with, I had no idea. I’d been underage when I’d won the first time, and all the judges were in their seventies and eighties. Clearly, Tricia’s view of the world was more than a little askew.
“That’s it.” Josephina stepped away from the table, throwing her hands in the air, and making for the door. “I’m done. I will not be a part of this venture. If someone wants to buy me out, you know where to find me.”
“I’ll be in touch!” my father called after her, stepping away from Elena’s chair, an unconcerned smile on his features.
“You can’t afford those shares.” Tricia crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing on my father.
He merely smirked. “Oh, we’ll see about that. Now, let’s vote.”
“No!” Tricia leaned forward, placing her hands on the table. “We need time to discuss this. We’ll vote next month.”
“We don’t need any more time.” Roger pushed away from the wall, looking and sounding tired. You just want the time to bully people into voting with you.” Then to my father, he lifted his chin. “Go ahead, I think we all know who’s going to win.”
“All those in favor of bringing Jennifer—and her social media accounts—on board, raise your hand.” My father’s hand was already in the air as he asked this, an unperturbed expression pointed at Tricia’s homicidal one.
All the bakers except Tricia and Deb lifted their hands—Hamell, Roger, and Posey. I noticed Elena didn’t raise her hand, but then no one seemed to expect her to participate. She must not have any shares.
Grinning, my father dropped his arm and shrugged. “Well, looks like we’re all about to get a lot busier.” His gaze slid to me, and he winked. “And my wife is about to receive another hell of a wake-up call.”
* * *
My father and Elena drove me back to my house, sticking around and requesting I make him—and Elena as a byproduct—his favorite chicken and broccoli recipe for lunch. But he made sure to tell Elena five times that they needed to leave around 3:00 PM so I could make myself presentable for Billy Winston.
Gag.
While he sat on the couch, flipping through TV channels, Elena sat on one of the stools in the kitchen, watching me as I prepared the extremely simple dish. For good measure, I placed my phone on the countertop, figuring—if I had to suffer through another few hours with my father—I might as well pump his mistress for information.
“I’d like to learn how to make this dish for him,” she said, a genuine smile on her face. “He talks about how great of a cook you are all the time. I’ll probably never be as good as you.”
“No problem.” I returned her smile, not for the first time wondering what sway my father had over this sweet woman. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
“No, thank you.” She seemed to squirm on her stool, looking at me like she wanted to say something but held herself back.
As I patted dry the chicken breasts with a paper towel, I asked, “What’s on your mind, Elena?”
“I’m so sorry for my sister,” she said, the words launching out of her mouth.
“You don’t need to apologize for your sister. I understand her perspective, having an idea and feeling like someone else is changing it without her consent. It must be hard.”
“You are the sweetest, Jennifer. I keep trying to tell her how kind and noble you are, not at all like your momma.” Her voice and eyes seemed to harden with the words your momma. “I’m so glad you and your daddy are free from her.”
Working to keep my expression neutral in the face of Elena’s dislike for my mother—the woman whose husband she’d been sleeping with for six years—I pulled the broccoli out of the fridge.
“Anyway.” Elena visibly shook herself, trying real hard to force her mouth into a smile. “If Tricia actually talked to you, she would know. But she’s just—just—” Elena cut herself off with a sharp sigh. “She’s had a hard life, and she does things—bad things—because she doesn’t know how else to get her fair share.”
Considering the older woman for a moment, I thought back to the meeting, what had been said about sabotage and such. Then and now, I felt absolutely certain that Tricia had been the one to kill Mr. Badcock’s chickens. She’d also hit my momma on the head, dragged her to the bee boxes, and left her for dead—or she had some big part in it. Roger and Deb had, apparently, helped her in some capacity too.
But despite everything, I still couldn’t see Roger burning bee boxes and dragging my mother to her death. Plus, he’s strong enough to carry momma, he wouldn’t have to drag her. No. Roger may have supported the attempted sabotage, but I suspected the furthest his contributions went was buying up all of Mr. Badcock’s eggs.
“Your sister reminds me of my brother, Isaac,” I said gently, because it was true. “He was always very stubborn, certain of himself in a way I never was. I admired him for it.”
“Your father never talks about Isaac.”
“Doesn’t he?”
“No. He’s said for a while now that he only has one child.” She tipped her head toward me. “He loves you a lot, you know.”
My hands stilled. In fact, every inch of me stilled except for the angry beating of my heart. That man didn’t love me. He wanted to control me. Love had nothing to do with control, not one bit.
Knowing this wasn’t a good topic of conversation if I wished to keep my cool, I asked, “Deb and your sister must be good friends, huh? It was nice to see them stick together like that.”
Tricia nodded enthusiastically. “Oh yes, they’ve been friends forever, ever since 4-H, when we all raised chickens together.”
Chickens. 4-H. Hmm . . .
“You know, I’d love to have chickens, but I hate the idea of cutting their poor necks, all that blood. I wish there were some other way of doing it without the cone and knife.”
Elena sat straighter, her eyes brightening. “Oh! There is! You can wring their necks.”
“But isn’t that difficult? I’m awfully small, and—”
“You use a broom. Tricia is the master at it. She can do ten chickens in five minutes, and they make no fuss at all.” Elena beamed, obviously so proud of her sister’s abilities as the chicken grim reaper.
And all I could think was, P
oor Mr. Badcock.
She continued, not seeming to notice my dismayed frown. “And Deb is just as fast. They really are best friends and do absolutely everything together. They even used to have a bakery in town, before—uh—well, before the lodge’s bakery kinda took over.”
I frowned, searching my mind for any memory of a bakery in Green Valley when I was growing up. “I did not know that. What was it called?”
“Tricia’s Treats. She started it all by herself, with help from no one.” Elena clicked her tongue, a soft sound of sadness. “She hasn’t been the same since it closed. But there’s just not enough business for two bakeries, and with the Donner Bakery being such a big name and—well, never mind. Now she works at one of the big grocery stores in Knoxville as a cake decorator and Deb works with a few local farmers, helping with chores and such. Anyway, Deb has always been there for us. I think she’d do just about anything for Tricia.”
I smiled at Elena, seasoning my father’s chicken with rosemary and sage, and wondered if “anything” extended to attempted murder.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“I know that you're selfish, selfish beyond words, and I know that you haven't the nerve of a rabbit, I know you're a liar and a humbug, I know that you're utterly contemptible. And the tragic part is”—her face was on a sudden distraught with pain—“the tragic part is that notwithstanding I love you with all my heart.”
― W. Somerset Maugham, The Painted Veil
*Cletus*
“What do you think?”
“I think . . .” Stroking my beard, I stared at the empty sandwich plate in front of me. “I think the only thing Kip Sylvester is guilty of is cheating on his wife, being a shit father, and a terrible human.”
“Agree.” Shelly leaned forward, placing her elbows on the kitchen table.
