She stood in the midst of her pink-ribboned brides-maids, swathed from head to toe in silk chiffon, a circlet of palest pink tea roses anchoring a gossamer veil to her sleek cinnamon bob. One by one, her friends paired off with dapper cowboys to mosey down the aisle, until Crystal stood alone, her chin high, her bouquet of lilies and roses clutched to her breast.
As she crossed the lawn and swayed down the aisle, the honeyed light of late afternoon caught the flecks of gold in her amber eyes. She looked like a voluptuous fairy engulfed in a cloud of dandelion floss. She took my breath away.
I tore my eyes away to watch her groom’s face. He had the dazed look of a man crawling out of a lifeboat onto dry land. At one point, he rocked forward on his toes and I thought he might bolt down the aisle to greet her. But he held his ground until she stood at his side, gazing up at him with the sure knowledge of her power over him.
Beside me, I heard Bree snuffle. She always cried at weddings. Especially her own.
Beyond her, I heard a muffled groan from Alice, who had her mother’s tender heart but lacked her sentimentality.
Mother and daughter had been clingy for a few days after our tussle with George Gunderson. Alice’s quick thinking, using her e-mail account to send her mother a text message for help, and Bree’s Amazonian book-throwing skills had created a sense of mutual admiration. But, of course, that had melted away after a week, and we’d returned to a familiar state of mother-daughter detente.
I turned my attention back to the bride and groom. They were pledging their undying love to one another, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer.
I couldn’t help but think of George and Rosemary Gunderson. He’d stood by her in sickness, and now she was standing by him in poverty, their assets frozen as authorities sought to determine the extent of his theft.
So much pain, all in the name of love.
It was almost enough to make me swear off romance forever.
Almost.
After the service, the bridal party disappeared for a round of photographs, while the rest of the guests convened in the barnyard for cocktails and the signature Pink Pepperberry “groom’s shakes” we were serving.
I drifted through the sea of guests, passing out champagne flutes filled with luscious deep pink milk shakes. Finn, documenting the day on film, nearly backed over me twice. Both times, he offered me overly polite apologies. The second time, I felt tears well in my eyes.
I finished my circuit, handing my next-to-last flute to one of Crystal’s sorority friends, and then wandered over to greet Cal McCormack. He stood off to the side of the yard, at the fringes of the party, and he nodded in greeting as I approached.
“Truce?”
Cal squinted hard and studied me from tip to tail before dusting his hand on his pants and holding it out for me to shake. “Truce.”
I let his big fingers close around my smaller ones, felt the sinew and strength of his grip. He made me feel fragile and girly. Not a bad feeling, mind you, but one I had no business feeling at that precise moment. I forced my lips to turn up in a teasing smile. “Aren’t we supposed to spit on our palms or something?”
He leaned in close, bringing the scent of leather and line-dried laundry with him. “Nah. I can think of better ways to swap spit if that’s what you’ve got in mind.”
My breath caught and a furious burn licked up my cheeks. “Cal McCormack!”
He chuckled, a low and liquid sound like water at the bottom of a well. “Settle down, Tally. I’m just teasing.” He winked. “Probably.”
I handed him the last flute of milk shake, and he accepted it with a gentlemanly nod of the head. He took a tentative sip.
“Delicious,” he said, a bemused smile on his face. “What’s in it?”
I smiled back. “Raspberries, for one. And a secret ingredient known only to the bride and groom.”
No one other than me, Jason, and Crystal knew that the milk shakes contained a Dr Pepper reduction, which added a rich complexity to the bright note of the berries. I’d even managed to keep Bree in the dark. Not only was I worried about how Dr Pepper-flavored ice cream would be received, but I figured Jason and Crystal would enjoy sharing a secret on their wedding day.
“I can taste the berries, but there’s something else there. Familiar, but I can’t place it.” He shrugged. “Whatever it is, it’s tasty. Reminds me of you. Sweet, but not simple.”
I felt my face heating up at his compliment, and guessed I was probably every bit as pink as the milk shakes.
I suddenly realized we were still holding hands right in the middle of the Silver Jack barnyard. I began to pull away, but just then the band inside the barn struck up “When the Saints Go Marching In,” and folks started pairing up for the grand march.
Cal tugged me around so I stood at his side and dragged me to a spot in line right behind the groom’s parents. I craned my neck looking for Bree, hoping I could get her to take my place, but I watched in dismay as she shoved Alice and Kyle together and then pulled Finn into the line right behind us.
Ahead of me, the line started moving, everyone stomping their feet and shaking their hips in time to the music. When Cal started forward, I followed dutifully, but I felt the force of Finn’s gaze on the back of my neck.
We shuffled through the barn doors and into the reception site. Fairy lights and flowered garlands hung from the rafters and the oak plank floor glowed a mellow gold in the gentle light. Long trestle tables topped with crisp white linens, colorful mismatched china, and dozens of ivory pillar candles lined either side of the big open space. A dozen or so of the older folks were already perched on the benches, nodding their heads and tapping their toes to the beat. The flower girl, one of Jason’s nieces, snuggled on the lap of one plump matron, her white patent leather Mary Janes peeping from the frothy pink spill of her skirts. The woman clasped the child’s hands in her own and clapped them gently together.
Two by two, the bridal party and guests danced down the length of the barn. At the front of the room, the couples peeled off, alternately moving to the right or the left, forming two lines that boogied around the perimeter of the room and back to the door. There, the two lines merged again as each couple met another and formed a group of four.
Cal didn’t have the best sense of rhythm, but he bopped along good-naturedly, swinging our joined hands back and forth between us.
Ahead of me, I watched as Tom and Deena Silver met the Arbaughs, coming from the other side, in front of the barn door. Deena took Mr. Arbaugh’s hand in her own, and the foursome began the trek down the dance floor again.
Cal and I rounded the corner and came face-to-face with Bree and Finn. Cal stiffened just slightly, and I hesitated a beat before taking the last few steps and reaching out for Finn’s hand. To their credit, neither man came to a full stop. Casual observers might not have even noticed the tension between them.
But I noticed, and I was caught squarely in the middle.
Finn, the passion of my past. Cal, with his promise of respectability and stability. Just exactly what I’d always wanted.
If I’d figured out anything over the last year, it was this: you have to live in the now.
As I stood between those two men, one like fire, the other like rock, I realized I needed to focus on who they were at that exact moment. Who I was at that exact moment. How they made me feel.
And I knew which man held my heart at that very point in time.
My heart pounding in my chest, I squeezed his hand.
Pink Pepperberr y Milk Shakes
This is the signature milk shake Tally whipped up for Jason and Crystal’s wedding. The milk shake is a lovely deep-rose color, and the Dr Pepper adds a surprising complexity to the flavor.
2 cups Dr Pepper (preferably with cane sugar)
2 cups frozen raspberries
2 tablespoons sugar
2 pints vanilla ice cream
Mix the soda, the berries, and the sugar in a medium saucepan over high
heat. When the mixture comes to a boil, reduce heat to medium and simmer for about 20 minutes (until the liquid is greatly reduced). Strain the liquid to remove the berry seeds; you should have about 1 cup of syrup. Allow the syrup to cool completely.
Add 1 cup of syrup and 2 pints of vanilla ice cream to a blender and mix on high until smooth and creamy.
Makes 2 large milk shakes.
Peanut Butter S’mores Ice Cream Cake
The childhood flavors of chocolate, graham cracker, peanut butter, and marshmallow find a more sophisticated presentation in this ice cream cake. What’s more, almost all of the components come straight from the supermarket, so this cake is a snap to put together.
CRUST
8 ounces graham cracker crumbs
½ cup butter, melted
3 tablespoons brown sugar
FUDGE SAUCE
1 cup whipping cream
½ cup light corn syrup
10 ounces bittersweet chocolate, chopped
PEANUT BUTTER ICE CREAM
1 quart vanilla ice cream
½ cup peanut butter
FLUFFY LAYER
2 cups nondairy whipped topping
1 7½-ounce jar marshmallow fluff
PEANUT BUTTER CARAMEL
½ cup peanut butter
¼ cup maple syrup1
¼ cup light corn syrup1
TOPPING
1 cup chopped peanuts
DIRECTIONS
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Start by making the fudge sauce: Bring the whipping cream and corn syrup to a boil in a heavy medium-sized saucepan set over medium to medium-high heat. Immediately remove from heat and whisk in chocolate until smooth. Refrigerate, stirring occasionally, until cool but still pourable (about 45 minutes).
When you put the fudge in the fridge, start your crust. Spray a 9-inch springform pan with a little non-stick spray. Combine graham cracker crumbs and brown sugar; mix in melted butter. Press in the bottom and up the sides of the pan. Bake at 350 for about 10 minutes, until set and slightly browned at edges. Remove from oven and cool on counter.
Once your crust is cool and the fudge sauce is set, make your peanut butter ice cream: First, soften the vanilla ice cream enough that you can mix it in a stand mixer or with a handheld mixer. Don’t allow it to soften too much, though, because it will develop ice crystals when it refreezes. Mix the ice cream and peanut butter until well combined.
Spread one half of the ice cream in your graham cracker crust. Top with ¾ cup fudge sauce and spread to cover evenly. Freeze for about 10 minutes. (Keep an eye on the rest of the ice cream to make sure it doesn’t melt—you may need to stick it in the freezer for some or all of the 10 minutes.)
Spread the rest of the ice cream on the cake, then spread with another ¾ cup fudge sauce and freeze for about 10 to 15 minutes.
Meanwhile, make the fluff and the peanut butter caramel: Fold the whipped topping and the marshmallow fluff together. In a small saucepan, mix the peanut butter and the syrup(s) together over medium-low heat until well combined and the consistency of honey.
Spread the marshmallow mixture over the top of the cake and drizzle with about ½ cup of the peanut butter caramel. Sprinkle with the chopped nuts and return the cake to the freezer.
To serve, run a sharp knife around the outside of the cake and release the pan’s sides. Slice carefully, running the knife under very hot water in between cuts. Drizzle serving plates with remaining fudge sauce and peanut butter caramel before topping with the cake.
Serves 12-16.
Read on for a sneak peek at
Wendy Lyn Watson’s next
Mystery à la Mode,
coming from Obsidian in June 2011.
Eloise Carberry folded her arms across her pinkaproned bosom, tsked softly, and shook her head as she threw down the figurative gauntlet. “They sure look alike to me.”
Tucker Gentry drew himself up straight and tight as a banjo string. “Criminy, Eloise. It’s ice cream. It all pretty much looks the same.”
She tsked again.
Tucker and Eloise squared off over a stainless-steel table, bare save for two white paper cups, each holding a single melting scoop of ice cream. One of those cups contained Tucker’s entry in the hand-churned-ice-cream category of the Lantana County Fair, a flavor he called “pepper praline.” The other cup held a scoop of Texas Twister from Remember the A-la-Mode, a smooth vanilla with a swirl of dulce de leche and a kick of ancho chilies.
“They don’t just look the same. They taste the same,” Eloise insisted. Her claim drew gasps from the crowd behind her. Word of the scandal must have spread through the fairgrounds, as the gathering in the creative-arts-exhibit pole barn was growing by the minute.
Tucker was just a little fella, his shoulder blades clearly visible beneath the wash-worn cotton of his blue plaid shirt, but he had honed his speaking voice through years of being the youth pastor at the One Word Bible Church. “I assure you, if Tally’s ice cream and mine taste the same, it’s not my doing.”
Every head in the crowd swiveled in unison to look at me.
As one of the judges in the edibles division, I had been in the exhibit when Eloise made her charge, but since it was my own recipe Tucker had allegedly copied, I’d quickly recused myself from taking any part in resolving the matter. Still, I didn’t consider the dispute personal until Tucker turned the tables and implied I was the thief.
Under the scrutiny of all those onlookers, I felt the burn of a blush lick my cheeks.
I was still trying to figure out how to respond to Tucker’s veiled accusation when my grandma Peachy elbowed her way in front of me.
“Young man,” she barked, “you mess with my girl, you mess with me.”
Some folks might not think an eighty-five-year-old woman with a bum knee would be much of a threat. But Peachy’s name is the only sweet thing about her. She can shoot as straight as she can spit, and I’ve seen her stand down a longhorn bull with nothing but a wire whisk in her hand.
If Tucker Gentry had had the good sense God gave little bunny rabbits, he’d have tucked his tail between his legs and apologized. But instead he narrowed his eyes like he was going to go toe-to-toe with Peachy.
Garrett Simms cleared his throat. He stood a head taller than anyone else in the room, had to be close to six foot four inches, with pale red hair all over his head and just about every visible bit of skin. Despite his height and hirsuteness, he had gentle features, womanly hips, and a quiet, lilting voice. Normally, Garrett didn’t command much respect. But as the head judge of the edibles division of the Lantana County Fair, he wielded considerable power. When he held up his soft pale hands in a plea for silence, the bickering stopped.
“Miss Ver Steeg and I will decide whether Mr. Gentry’s entry should be disqualified.”
Kristen Ver Steeg, the third judge on the panel, shook her head. “Sorry, Garrett. I need to recuse myself, too.”
I can’t speak for the whole crowd, but Kristen’s announcement caught me off guard. Kristen Ver Steeg was a relative newcomer to Dalliance, having opened a small law firm in town just a few years before. Both her office and her swank condo community were out on FM 410, in the part of Dalliance that was more suburb than small town. The only reason she’d been given a spot on the judging panel was that, as a former member of the pageant circuit, she’d volunteered to coordinate the Lantana Round-Up Rodeo Queen Pageant.
In short, Kristen was a Dalliance dilettante. I couldn’t imagine she’d ever crossed paths with Tucker Gentry. And while she might know Eloise Carberry—as the reigning president of the League of Methodist Ladies and a founding member of the Dalliance Fat Quarters quilting club, Eloise knew just about everybody—the two women couldn’t have had enough history to justify Kristen recusing herself. After all, Dalliance is the sort of town where you can’t sneeze without someone’s second cousin saying “God bless”; we had to play fast and loose with notions of “bias” if we wanted to put together a pan
el of judges for any of the fair competitions.
Garrett Simms must have shared my surprise. “Really?” he asked.
By way of an answer, Kristen moved a step away from the table.
Garrett shrugged. “All right, then, I guess I’ll make the call.”
Eloise Carberry handed him a plastic spoon, and Garrett picked up the first cup of ice cream. Tucker’s.
Garrett had just closed his fleshy pink lips around the spoon when my cell phone started vibrating in the front pocket of my jeans.
I pulled it out, cussing under my breath. The screen indicated it was my cousin Bree calling. She was manning the A-la-mode booth over on the midway.
I hustled a few yards away, ducking behind a shelving unit lined with jars of preserves, and answered.
“What’s up?”
“Hey,” Bree said. She never moved faster than a sashay, but she sounded like she’d been running. “I need you back here, pronto. You and Peachy. And bring that man of yours, too.”
“Is everything okay? Is Alice all right?” About the only thing Bree got worked up about was her precocious teenage daughter. Alice didn’t raise much heck, but she still managed to get herself into some sticky situations.
“She’s fine as frogs’ hair. For now.”
“Well, I’m kinda busy here,” I said. “Eloise accused Tucker of stealing an A-la-mode recipe—”
“Tally,” Bree snapped. “This is an emergency. You’ll never in a million years guess who just moseyed past the booth.”
“Who?”
“Sonny Anders.”
“No.” The last anyone had seen of Alice’s daddy, he’d kissed his toddler child on the forehead before driving off into the night with an exotic dancer named Spumanti.
“Yep. Just strutting down the midway, bold as brass.”
Scoop to Kill Page 20
