by Josie Brown
Coach Lonergan’s eyes open wide.
“Coach, I know what you’re thinking—that this will devastate the team—”
“You’re wrong,” Coach Lonergan interrupts her. “If anything, I’m thinking of the criminal charges they’ll be facing—if you choose to prosecute them.”
Mary thinks for a moment, “Really, I hadn’t thought about that. I’m hoping that the shame of knowing what you and their parents will think of them will be enough.”
“It won’t. They’ll also be kicked off the team—and I’m sure that once I make the principal aware of this, they’ll be expelled from school, too.” She shrugs. “A team is only as strong as its leaders. It’s one of the reasons I’d hoped you’d stick it out with us.”
“If that’s the case, I’ll accept your offer to keep me on the team.” Mary stands up to shake her coach’s hand.
Coach Lonergan stands up too—but hugs Mary instead. “I’m sorry you had to go through this. And I’m sure having to break the news to me wasn’t easy.”
Mary laughs. “I won’t lie to you: I would have loved to have skipped the roofie, and gotten back a day of my life. Maybe someday I can laugh at seeing a video of me on the court. And, no, I don’t take any joy in telling you what Sara and the others did to me. I only wish they didn’t feel the need to hate me.” She shrugs. “Then again, a wise person once told me, ‘Every experience, even the tragic ones, are an opportunity to grow stronger.’”
Mary gives me a wink.
There’s nothing more enjoyable than a day in which the only thing you do is exactly nothing.
Case in point: today, because there is no world crisis that needs my attention. And now that my daughter has dealt with her bullies, all family crises are taken care of as well.
Jack has a different way to unwind. By the time I get home, he has already mowed the front lawn. The way I see it, better him than me.
I sit on one of the chaises on the back terrace. My mind is busy planning tonight’s dinner menu. We look forward to a quiet evening at home with the kids. I’ll let Jack play chef and toss a few burgers on the grill. I’ll make my patented potato salad, and I’ve got a killer recipe for kale salad.
In the meantime, I’ll just sit here and do…absolutely nothing.
Until the phone rings.
The caller is Lori. “Donna, I’m in a panic! I’ve just had a call from the Daisy Scouts headquarters that the cookies are on a truck, to be delivered there, in Palm Springs! I’m in a bind. My oldest daughter has her ballet recital this afternoon. If we can’t pick them up by three o’clock, we can’t get them until Monday afternoon. Would you mind picking up our portion of the shipment?”
Yes, I would, but clearly, someone needs to help Lori. She does so much for the Daisy Scouts already. So, I lie. “Sure, no problem.”
“Thank you! You’re a lifesaver! I’ll text you the address now.”
“Who was that?” Jack asks.
“Lori. She asked if I’d meet the troop’s cookie delivery at the Daisy Scouts’ headquarters—in Palm Springs, of all places.”
“Would you like some company?” He winks at me. “I’ll even let you drive the new Jackmobile.”
I sigh my disappointment. “I’ll take a rain check. The order is so large that we’ll have to take the van. But sure, you can tag along."
Really, it was the wink that did it, but he doesn't need to know that.
And we’re off.
We’re tooling up I-405 when Arnie’s Caller ID lights up on my phone.
“If you’re calling about the Daisy Scout cookies, don’t worry. I’m on my way to pick them up now.”
“So, you’ve heard from Ryan?”
“What? Now Ryan wants cookies, too? He always claims he’s allergic to them.”
“He’s allergic to Daisy Scouts, not their cookies,” Jack says. “I’ve caught him gobbling them up by the handful in Acme’s break room.”
“Donna, the corn delivery driver came clean with another drop of Exodus corn—or in this case, corn syrup, to DeeLiteFull Bakery, in Phoenix. They make custom cookies—specifically, for Daisy Scouts.”
“Oh no,” I murmur.
“Wellborne had an accomplice at the corn syrup processing plant. Dominic was sent to pick him up.”
“He’s home? Well, it’s about damn time,” I mutter. “I can’t wait to see his lovely tan.”
“At least Dominic got what we needed to track the deposit into Wellborne’s account,” Arnie informs us. “Unfortunately, it was a dead-end. The funds were issued by a private company in Hong Kong.”
“Well, that certainly strengthens our suspicions that the MSS was involved,” Jack replies.
“As for Wellborne’s bakery accomplice, he’s already squealing,” Arnie continues. “Wellborne insisted the corn syrup was to be used in a specific batch of cookies: snickerdoodles. To confirm his accomplice’s statement, Acme hacked into DeeLiteFull’s security feed and production database. We have verification that the corn syrup was delivered, and that it was used as instructed. This cookie batch—along with other varieties—is now on a truck heading west on I-10, toward Palm Springs. From there, it will be sorted into the individual troops’ shipments, and sent all over the country.”
“Making it even harder to track the source,” Jack reasons. “Is there any possibility that the corn syrup was used in the other cookies?”
Arnie sighs mournfully. “Let me put it this way—the FDA doesn’t want to take any chances.” I’m sure he’s thinking of his own sugar fix.
“Arnie, where is the truck now?” I ask.
“Satellite surveillance shows it’s just east of the Arizona-California border.”
“Got it. We’ll do what we can to contain it. Alert the FDA, okay?”
“Already on it.”
As you travel through the Los Angeles Metroplex, I-10 goes from being bumper-to-bumper (snaking through downtown), to stop-and-go (passing East Los Angeles), to flowing steadily (in and around Pomona), to practically empty (Thousand Palms).
When we’re fifty miles east of Indio, heading toward California’s border with Arizona, Arnie calls. “The driver has stopped to grab a bite to eat. It’s a place called the Hot Wheels All-Nite Truck Stop. I’ll send you the coordinates.”
Jack laughs. “It’s not necessary. I already know it. In fact, it’s just fifteen minutes from where we are. The FDA can meet us back here. We’ll call when we’ve secured the truck.”
Jack knows of some all-night truck stop, in the middle of nowhere? Interesting. “One of your old hang-outs, I presume?” I ask.
“Not quite, but yes, I’ve been there. Do yourself a favor: pass on the cherry pie.”
I’m sure there’s a story in this. I’ll have to pry it out of him one day with a piece of my own homemade cherry pie.
The DeeLiteFull Bakery truck sits by itself in the parking lot of the Hot Wheels All-Nite Truck Stop.
As instructed by Jack, I pull the car around to the back lot, but I keep the engine running.
The back door is closed. There’s a tin bucket beside it labeled, SMOKERS LOUNGE.
Nice touch.
“Okay, here’s the plan,” he says. “I’ll wait here while you drive back around to the front. Order a coffee, make goo-goo eyes with him, get cozy, grab his keys, and then tell him you’ve got to go to the little girl’s room. I’ll meet you here and you can hand them off to me. Then go back in and distract him until I leave with the truck.”
“I may have a better idea. Just be standing by the truck, so that when I toss you the keys, you’re ready to go.” I reach for the door handle.
Jack grabs my hand to stop me. “Donna, if anything should happen—well, I’d like you to…what I’m trying to say is, will you—”
I put my fingers over his lips. “Jack, when will you learn not to ruin a perfectly good caper with your poorly timed romantic proposal?”
He feigns shock. “I thought any proposal was a good proposal.”
&nb
sp; “Men! You’re all alike!” I kiss him—hard—on the mouth. When our lips part, I whisper, “Just keep trying.”
And I’m out the door.
I roar back into the front parking lot. The DeeLiteFull’s delivery guy hears me, alright.
I pull up right below his window booth, so that he can watch as I purse my lips and apply an undercoat before running over them with a special custom lipstick—in this case, Cherry Noir. One smooch and it’s beddy-bye time.
So that he gets the right idea, I wink at him and then blow him a kiss.
He’s poised to chew a bacon strip, but he freezes. Finally, he rewards me with a grin. Considering how many of his teeth are missing, I wonder how long it will take for him to gum it down? I guess I’ll find out if I stick around long enough to watch him do it.
This guy better not have stinky breath to go along with his rotted teeth.
As I suspected, the café is practically empty, except for lover boy, a potbellied cook, and a bucktoothed waitress scratching her head over a Mad Libs Sudoku flip book. Delivery dude is gaunt, tatted, and eager to make my acquaintance. The truck’s keys are on the table, next to his plate of bacon and eggs.
“Is this seat taken?” I point to his side of the booth. By the way I ask, you’d think it was rush hour at Grand Central Station.
“Only if you’re buying,” he chortles.
I ease down beside him. “Depends on what you’re selling,” I giggle. I signal the waitress.
She sighs heavily. Gee, I hope I’m not stealing her boyfriend.
By the time she saunters over, I’ve made up my mind what I want: outta here.
Instead, I order an egg over easy, bacon, and a cuppa. That should keep both her and the cook busy while I flirt with my new beau.
“You’ve got quite an appetite.” His unibrow rises to his monk’s cut.
“If only you knew,” I say coyly.
He’s not only eating his eggs; he’s wearing them, too—on his upper lip. I reach across him for the paper napkin dispenser. Oops, I graze his forearm with my breast. It doesn’t seem to perturb him.
At least, not above his waist.
With napkin in hand, I wipe off his egg mustache. Yep, that’s got his attention.
We lock eyes.
The next thing he knows, we’re locking lips, too.
It’ll be the last thing he’ll remember before dozing off.
I leave him face down in his bacon and eggs, pocketing the keys as I go.
The waitress is too busy to notice him, or me, heading for the front door.
I trail Jack in the truck to the Indio town limits. As promised, FDA agents are waiting for us.
Jack tosses them the keys to the DeeLiteFull truck, and jumps in my van. Instinctively, he reaches over to kiss me—
Before I can stop him.
The whole way back, Jack sleeps like a baby.
By the time we hit Orange County, he’s awake and refreshed.
“Did I nod off?” he asks.
“Yes,” I reply. “And as your penance, you have to go with me to Hilldale Elementary to break the news to the Daisies that they won’t be selling cookies this year.”
“They’ll never know what a better choice that was than the alternative.”
I’m just happy that we avoided a disaster that would have haunted our children for the rest of their lives, had they survived it.
Trisha and Aunt Phyllis wave at us we pull up in front of Hilldale Elementary School. They aren’t alone. The whole Daisy Scout troop is present, accounted for, and raring to go on their cookie deliveries.
The first to get her order fulfilled is the school’s principal, Miss Darling. As a former scout herself, having a successful troop was one of her stated goals upon joining the school. She stands front and center with the mother who made it all possible: Lori.
“Yikes. This should be awkward,” Jack murmurs.
Suddenly, an idea comes to me. “Let me handle this.”
Jack laughs. “Gladly.”
I’ve barely parked my car when everyone runs over. In no time, my SUV is surrounded.
The color leaves Jack’s face. “I’ve seen when mobs get angry. Maybe we should just skedaddle.”
“Chicken,” I tease. Frankly, I’m just as frightened. For all I know, what I have to say may get us tarred and feathered, but it’s worth a try.
Some of the girls have their noses pressed against the SUV’s window. But their faces fall when they realize there’s nothing in the car.
“Where are all the cookies?” one girl shouts.
She’s not the only one who’s noticed either. The crowd’s concern starts as a murmur, but crescendos into a wail of panic.
I jump out of the car and hold up my hands to silence them. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got some very bad news. The truck carrying the shipment of cookies bound for Los Angeles met with an accident. All the cookies were destroyed. I’m so sorry; we won’t be getting any this year.”
The crowd’s disappointment is shouted in unison. In no time at all it’s joined by the scouts’ sobs.
“Why—this is awful!” Lori exclaims. “If we have to return the purchasers’ money, the troop will go bankrupt!”
“All the troops in the area are facing the same problem. However”—I take a deep breath—“I think I have a solution, if we’re all willing to pitch in.”
“What is it?” one anxious mother asks.
“We make the cookies ourselves—with the help of our Daisy Scouts.”
My suggestion is met with silence.
“It’ll be fun, and a great experience in teamwork,” I insist. “Isn’t that what Daisy Scouts is all about?” Again, not a peep. But, no one’s hung a noose over the school’s flagpole either, so I push ahead. “Each of us has a favorite cookie recipe. Many are similar to our customers’ favorites. To top it off, nothing is better than a homemade cookie! Am I right?”
A murmur goes through the crowd. I strain my ears for the word “lynching,” and am relieved to hear, “possible” instead.
“Are we supposed to tie up our kitchens for the whole night?” asks one mother. “I can’t do that!”
“And what about the ingredients? Who pays for that?” another chimes in.
“The cost may chip away at our profit, but it’ll still be healthy enough to fund all of this year’s projects,” Lori assures the others.
“As for the kitchen, I’ve got a suggestion,” Miss Darling pronounces. “Why not use the school cafeteria’s kitchen? As for ingredients, as soon as you write down your recipes, Lori and Donna can coordinate a list and send a couple of runners with vans over to Costco.”
“We’ll coordinate an assembly line of mixers, bakers, and packagers,” Lori adds. “For packaging, instead of bags, we can use cellophane tied with ribbon.”
“We can even tag the orders with notes. I’m a lousy baker, but I’m a professional calligrapher, so I’ll offer to write them.”
I grin. “You’re hired.”
A mother shrugs. “I’ve got a killer chocolate mint cookie recipe. It’s better than the Daisy version, if I do say so myself.”
I pull a notebook from the van. “Write it down here. I’ve got something I call a Donna Doodle. It’s similar to a snickerdoodle, but a different combination of spices. It tastes something like pumpkin pie.”
“Yum,” murmurs a mother. “I’d buy that.”
“Great idea! Why don’t we can put together a cookie recipe book, and sell it online?” Lori suggests.
Soon, everyone has bought into my Plan B.
Twenty minutes later, we’ve matched recipes to our orders.
It’ll be a long night, but from the look of excitement on our daughters’ faces, I know it will be memorable too.
By midnight, the last cookie is wrapped, and ready to go.
Like the rest of the scouts, Trisha nodded off around ten. The girls slept on workout mats in a corner of the cafeteria, while their parents boxed their own orders. Then aft
er checking it twice, they loaded their cookies and sleepy children into their cars and went home.
Miss Darling walks Lori and me to the door. “I’ll supervise the moms who’ve offered to stay behind for cleanup. Go home and get some sleep.”
Lori pulls us into a group hug. “I can’t believe how generous everyone was with their time!”
Miss Darling pats her hand. “Sometimes, it takes a crisis for others to realize what is at stake, and to chip in. If it’s your child’s happiness, you’ll do what you can to be her hero.”
From the proud smiles on every parents’ face tonight, I’d say this troop has a new annual tradition.
The next morning, I text Trisha’s customers that their orders are ready for pick-up or delivery, along with rave reviews by last night’s samplers: the girls themselves.
When Arnie reads that his cookie order is homemade, he’s too excited to wait for me to drop it off at Acme later this afternoon. In order to take the whole order in one trip, he shows up at the house with Abu’s ice cream truck. Abu has tagged along, to help him load it up.
Jeff and Evan sit side by side at the kitchen table, teaching Trisha how to reconcile sales and the deliveries being made later by Jack and Aunt Phyllis. Scanning their spreadsheets, Abu whistles softly. “Wow! These sales numbers are phenomenal—not to mention the reviews!”
He can’t help himself. He picks one of the Donna Doodles off a plate in the center of the table and takes a bite.
“I can see why they get such raves,” he declares. Suddenly, there’s a gleam in his eye. “Donna, I’ve been thinking about the pie shop. Why don’t we add cookies as a different product line?”
“Sure, okay. But, Abu, if we’re successful, are you going to quit Acme and become a franchise mogul?”
His laugh comes out as a snort. For a fleeting moment, his eyes widen at the thought of what could be his final endgame. But then, he sobers up. “As tempting as that is, you and I both know we’d be bored working behind a bakery counter.”
