by Peg Cochran
“Perfect.” Coralynne beamed.
Shelby removed the jars from her basket and arranged them in a neat row. Labels affixed to the front read LOVE BLOSSOM FARM.
She glanced at her watch. Billy’s competition would be starting any minute now.
“I’ll be back for the judging,” she assured Coralynne as she headed through the open flap of the tent.
Shelby hurried toward the stable, an old weathered structure that had served the county fair for generations. Just beyond was the riding ring, which was surrounded by bleachers, and a makeshift platform where the announcer would stand and where the winner would receive their ribbon.
“Excuse me.” Shelby inched her way past the other spectators’ knees toward an empty seat in the middle of the row.
She sat down carefully, conscious of the splintered wood beneath her bare legs. She had arrived just in the nick of time—the announcer was blowing his whistle and the first contestant was leading her reluctant mare into the ring.
Billy and his horse were in the wings awaiting their turn. Shelby bit her lip as she watched the horse prance and buck. Billy had been thrown during a lesson a couple of months ago and had broken his arm. Shelby was still trying to figure out how she was going to pay the doctor bills. She had medical insurance for catastrophic emergencies, but apparently broken arms didn’t fall into that category.
The young girl led her horse around several strategically placed barrels, then trotted down the home stretch toward the finish line.
And then it was Billy’s turn. Shelby wasn’t sure what she was more frightened of—Billy falling off his horse and getting hurt again or Billy being disappointed at making a poor showing in the contest.
Shelby needn’t have worried—Billy handled his horse like a seasoned pro, deftly leading the American quarter horse around the barrels and then flying down the open stretch to the finish line.
She could tell by the smile on Billy’s face that he was pleased with his performance.
Even though it was September the sun was still warm, and Shelby used the bottom of her T-shirt to blot the perspiration gathering on her forehead. It was the time of year when you needed a sweatshirt in the morning but could be putting on your bathing suit for a swim by afternoon.
Finally all of the contestants had had their turn. A hush settled over the crowd as the announcer climbed the stairs to the platform draped in red, white, and blue bunting. He tapped the microphone a couple of times, jumping back as it emitted a loud screech that bounced around the makeshift arena.
Shelby found herself digging her nails into the palms of her hands and forced herself to relax and take a deep breath. It didn’t matter if Billy won or not—he had acquitted himself well, and that’s what counted.
After some brief tinkering by a thin fellow with thick black glasses, the microphone behaved and the judge began announcing the winners.
“First place goes to Darcy Meadows,” he said with a flourish.
Shelby noticed the disappointed frown that crossed Billy’s face before his look again became one of anticipation as the judge prepared to announce second place.
“And the second place winner is . . . Billy McDonald.”
Shelby let out a whoop at the sound of Billy’s name.
“One of yours?” the red-haired woman next to Shelby asked.
“Yes.” Shelby grinned, trying not to burst with pride.
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
Shelby barely heard the names of the other winners—she couldn’t wait to give Billy a big hug even though she knew from experience that that would embarrass him.
Shelby scooted past the bare knees of the spectators between her and the end of the row of bleachers, murmuring excuse me as she went. She reached the end and jumped to the ground.
She rushed over to where Billy was retrieving a bottle of water from a large cooler.
“I’m so proud of you,” Shelby said as soon as she was in earshot of her son. She gave him a big hug and kissed him on the forehead.
Billy squirmed like a worm on a fishhook but Shelby didn’t care—she wanted to enjoy this moment of glory with her second born.
“Billy sure did great,” Jim Harris said as he approached Shelby.
Jim was Billy’s riding instructor. He was a thin but wiry man with sinews that looked like steel cables running through his arms. He had a cowboy hat pushed back on his head and was wearing well-worn and very dusty leather cowboy boots. No jodhpurs and gleaming riding boots for him. He viewed riding as a means of getting around a farm.
He cracked his gum along with a big smile. “Next year you’re going to take the blue ribbon, right, Billy?”
Billy nodded shyly, fingering his red one.
“You’ve got a fine young man here,” Jim said, slapping Billy on the back.
“Thanks,” Shelby said, choking back tears. If only Bill was here to see how splendidly Billy was growing up.
She quickly wiped her eyes and thanked Jim.
After Billy had had the chance to splash some water on his face—all he was willing to do by way of cleaning up—it was time for the food contest. He had his ribbon pinned to the front of his overalls, and Shelby could have sworn he was walking with his chest puffed out, he was so proud.
Dear Reader, while it would be nice to win a prize for my jams and jellies, it’s not as important as Billy winning a ribbon—and a red ribbon to boot!
They headed across the field toward the tents. The odor of manure got stronger, and they heard the mooing of cows and bleating of goats coming from the barn.
“Can we get a goat, Mom? Please?” Billy said staring wistfully after the barn.
“I don’t think a goat would be a good idea. We’d have to be sure to keep it out of the lettuce patch and the herb garden.”
“Aww, Mom,” Billy said when they were interrupted.
“You’ve won something, I see.” Jake Taylor strode up alongside them and pointed at Billy’s ribbon.
Shelby always thought Jake looked like he was right out of a romance novel—tall, dark, handsome, and rugged with a charming smile and perfect manners. Shelby rented him the pasture alongside Love Blossom Farm for his cows, and he, in turn, kept her supplied with plenty of fresh milk.
Billy looked like he was going to explode with pride. He told Jake all about the competition as they walked—about how the horse didn’t want to maneuver around that last barrel and how for a fearful moment, when he’d lost his stirrup, he thought he was going to slip off. The entire time he stared at Jake with adoring eyes.
“Are you going to try your hand at some of the games?” Shelby asked.
Jake shook his head. “No, I’m here in my capacity as a member of Lovett’s volunteer fire department. We’re doing a demonstration on using the Jaws of Life. The mayor donated an old black Volvo station wagon for us to use. It should be quite something—I hope you can come.”
“I will.”
Shelby willed herself not to blush. Jake always made her feel like a tongue-tied schoolgirl.
Jake took off at a lope toward the other end of the fair while Shelby and Billy continued toward the tent where a hand-lettered sign affixed to the side read FOOD CONTEST.
“There you are, dear,” Coralynne said in her singsong voice as Shelby entered the tent. “We’re about ready to start, aren’t we, Eleanor?”
A crowd of women had gathered under the tent, many with anxious expressions as they hovered near their own pies, cakes, or jars of preserves.
Judges were seated behind a folding table covered with a white cloth and festooned with bunting along the front. Daniel Mather, a widower and the fairly new rector of St. Andrews Church, was nervously running the tablecloth through his fingers.
Isabel Stone, who was wearing way too much perfume and was overdressed for a county fai
r, was next to Daniel with Mrs. Willoughby, the secretary at St. Andrews, on her other side. St. Andrews was certainly well represented.
Mrs. Willoughby gazed longingly at the lineup of pies and cakes ready to be sampled, her plump sausage fingers drumming against the table.
Coralynne was acting as master of ceremonies and was obviously relishing every minute in her exalted role. She was oozing with self-importance, which Shelby could see was getting on Mrs. Willoughby’s already frazzled nerves.
Billy had wandered off and was sniffing the pies set out on the table.
“Please, please,” Coralynne shrilled. “Don’t go near the pies, young man.”
Billy shrugged and moved away. He sank to the ground as gracefully as a ballet dancer, plucked a piece of grass, and stuck it in his mouth.
A woman came to stand next to Shelby. She was tall and big-boned and was plain to the point of being nondescript, with mousy brown hair and rounded shoulders. She was kneading her mannish hands as if they were slabs of dough.
“Do you have a pie in the contest?” Shelby asked.
“Yes, the rhubarb.” She pointed to a pie that a young girl in cutoffs and a red bandanna was carrying to the judges’ table.
“I don’t think we’ve ever met.” Shelby extended a hand in an attempt to defuse the tension. “Shelby McDonald.”
“Tonya Perry.” The woman smiled.
“You go to St. Andrews, don’t you? I think I’ve seen you at the Sunday service.”
Tonya nodded. “Yes. Back pew, left side.”
Shelby smiled. While no one had assigned seats at the church services, people tended to choose the same general location or even the same pew, over and over again.
The judges were now ready to sample the first pie. Shelby thought she saw Daniel smile in Tonya’s direction.
Mrs. Willoughby closed her eyes as she savored her bite.
“I think Mrs. Willoughby likes it,” Shelby whispered.
“I hope so.”
The judges were wiping their lips with napkins, preparing to sample a blueberry pie. Then it was on to a frothy-looking lemon meringue.
“That’s Jenny Hubbard’s famous lemon meringue,” Tonya whispered to Shelby. “She’s won the contest for the last five years.”
“I’ve got my fingers crossed for you,” Shelby said.
They both watched as Isabel Stone raised a dainty bite of pie to her lips.
As she chewed, a strange expression came over her face. It quickly morphed into a look of panic as she clutched her throat, gasping for air, before being seized by a violent fit of sneezing.
Mrs. Willoughby stood up so abruptly, her chair fell over backward. “Someone go get help!” She flapped her arms around. “Someone needs to get help.”
3
Dear Reader,
I’ve heard of pies or cakes not quite turning out, but I’ve never heard of one knocking a person to their knees before. Although the time I got the bright idea to dye a cake green—I was only twelve years old at the time—it sure did turn people off. Of course the thing was also as heavy as a doorstop. That’s why you have to be extra careful when you measure your flour. If your recipe calls for sifted flour, sift it right into your measuring cup and level it off. Your cake will come out as light as a feather.
Reverend Mather took over in his calm, unflappable way. He rolled up a tablecloth and put it under Isabel’s feet in case she had merely fainted. She was obviously breathing and making small noises of distress, but no one could get a word out of her. And no one could figure out what exactly was wrong, either.
Jenny Hubbard, a tall, thin woman with rounded shoulders that made her look like a question mark from the side, hovered nearby, wringing her hands and protesting that there was nothing wrong with her pie.
“No one has said it’s your pie that’s at fault,” Reverend Mather said soothingly, putting a hand on Jenny’s back and steering her away from the scene.
The rest of the audience—mostly women—crowded around Isabel, staring at her as if she was a sideshow in the circus. Daniel rather gently urged them to move back and give her some air.
News of the incident had traveled like wildfire through the fairgrounds, and soon all the members of the Lovett volunteer fire department had arrived at a trot with two of them bumping a gurney over the uneven terrain as they ran.
They were wearing their black boots and overalls over county fair T-shirts.
By now Isabel seemed to be coming around. She was moaning and tossing and turning as they hoisted her onto the gurney. Coralynne hovered over her, wringing her pudgy hands and making mewling noises.
“Isabel,” she said when Isabel’s eyes opened.
They were red and tearing furiously. She tried to speak but the effort sent her into new gales of sneezing.
The firemen put their heads together with Coralynne and Mrs. Willoughby and decided that the safest course of action was to take Isabel to the hospital for evaluation. An ambulance was already stationed by the riding ring in case of accidents, and one of the firemen summoned it via walkie-talkie.
The ambulance had barely come to a halt before two paramedics jumped out and quickly loaded Isabel into the back. They all stood and watched as it drove away, slowly at first but then gaining speed.
The firemen trickled away one by one and went back to preparing for their show with the Jaws of Life.
Shelby was about to turn away when Tonya clutched her arm. “I wonder what happened.” Her gray eyes were troubled.
“I don’t know. An allergy, maybe?”
Coralynne and Mrs. Willoughby joined them.
“Well, I never!” Coralynne exclaimed, her many chins quivering in agitation. “I wonder what happened.”
“That’s what we were saying,” Shelby said. “We thought perhaps she has an allergy of some sort. Maybe to one of the ingredients in the pie? I’ve heard of people getting a rash from lemon.”
Mrs. Willoughby shook her head and her precariously pinned bun wobbled threateningly. “We’ve never had anything like this happen in the history of the county fair. We’ve been holding the fair here in Lovett since 1945. I was only a toddler at the time, but there are pictures of me standing with my mommy and daddy by the Ferris wheel.” She pulled a handkerchief from the sleeve of her dress and wiped her face. “And certainly nothing like this has ever happened before.”
“Mom.”
Shelby became aware of Billy tugging on her shirt.
“Can we go now? They’re going to demonstrate the Jaws of Life, and Jake’s going to do it.”
Shelby glanced at her watch. “There’s time yet. I want to see who wins the pie contest, okay?”
“All right,” Billy grumbled, kicking at the ground with the toe of his sneaker.
Shelby turned to Coralynne. “Will you continue the contest?”
“I suppose we shall. The crowd is still here.” She gestured toward the group of women waiting expectantly.
Mrs. Willoughby took her seat again as the girl with the red bandanna retrieved the next pie. The judges looked nervous as she presented each of them with a small piece. Mrs. Willoughby took a tentative bite, and her face cleared when she realized there was nothing wrong with the pie. She took another bite and then another.
Daniel sampled a tiny bit of his piece and pushed the rest away.
And then it was on to the next pie. They tasted apple pies, banana cream pies, blueberry pies, and finally Tonya’s rhubarb pie.
“The judges will need a few moments to decide on the winner,” Coralynne announced as Daniel and Mrs. Willoughby put their heads together.
The contestants fidgeted as the minutes ticked by. Finally, Daniel and Mrs. Willoughby looked up and motioned to Coralynne.
They spoke briefly, and then Coralynne turned to address the crowd.
“We have a winner,
” she crowed excitedly.
A hush fell over the crowd.
Coralynne continued to pause dramatically until someone in the back yelled, “Tell us, already.”
Coralynne shot them a disapproving look.
“And the winner is . . .” She licked her lips and took a deep breath. “And the winner is Tonya Perry and her rhubarb pie.”
Everyone clapped politely as Coralynne scanned the crowd.
“Tonya, please step up to get your award.” Coralynne held up a blue ribbon.
There was a rustling sound as everyone turned around to see if they could spot Tonya.
Coralynne waited a few more moments before acknowledging that Tonya was obviously not going to come forward.
• • •
Billy tugged on Shelby’s arm. “Can we go now? I want to try the games. Please?”
“Okay.” Shelby allowed Billy to pull her toward the heart of the fair.
They passed one booth where a large stuffed woolly mammoth was dangling from a hook—the grand prize if you managed to get three Ping-Pong balls in the cups of water placed on a counter several feet away.
“Mom, can I try that, please?” Billy pointed to the stuffed toy. “I want to win that. I can do it. I know I can.”
Shelby had her doubts, but she dug in her pocket for a dollar and handed it to Billy.
None of his balls landed in a cup. He turned to Shelby, crestfallen.
“Can I try again, Mom? Can I?”
“I don’t think so, Billy. The game is very hard. I doubt anyone is going to win that stuffed animal. Besides, the Jaws of Life demonstration will be starting soon. Don’t you want to see it?”
Billy’s face cleared. “Yes! Let’s go.”
An excited crowd had already gathered along the fence surrounding a dented and rusted Volvo station wagon. The black paint was scratched in some places and completely gone in others. The front was deformed by a huge dent to the driver’s-side door, and it was easy to imagine the dummy propped in the front seat being trapped.
Members of Lovett’s volunteer rescue squad were also on the scene, lending an extra fillip of reality to the proceedings. The ambulance should have been there, too, but had been used to transport Isabel Stone to the hospital. Earl Bylsma, whom Shelby knew from St. Andrews, was setting up a gurney, its crisscrossed legs unfolding and making it look like a crane stretching after a nap.
