by Jacquie Gee
“Yeah. Sure,” I say, though, no approval is necessary.
“With Dave’s business in jeopardy and what’s been going on with the bridge, we’ve both been pretty stressed out, lately.”
“I’m sure, you have. What type of business is Dave in?”
“He runs an extreme-sports enthusiast company.” I frown. “You know, the kind where people pay a lot of money to be dumped out in the middle of the nowhere and left to rough it for the weekend.”
“People do that?” I scowl.
“Oh, yeah. Scads of them. Rich people mostly. Looking for a thrill. Pays amazing money, too.”
“So no one from around here, then?”
“Right. Dave started it after he caught a bunch of people out in our woods, living in tents, trying to hunt moose with bow and arrow. A couple of them nearly killed each other with arrows, and some others nearly froze to death. That’s when Dave decided, there’s a business in this! and started one up. He figured if people were gonna tresspass in our woods and try and rough it, he might as well supervise, and make them pay. And, give them a proper experience while he was at it.” She smiles. “He’s always been an outdoorsman. That’s when he started teaching people how to survive up there for a weekend and turning a profit. Though the money has slowed down considerably over the trouble with the bridge.” Trudy sighs. “If nothing else, it’s stopped the people from trespassing.” She gives up a laugh. “Anyway, that’s how Dave Sports Extreme Enthusiast Tours was born.” She sips her Kool-Aid.
“How often does he hold tours?”
“Twice a week. He takes people up to those old cabins up on the bluffs, you remember the ones. Where everybody used to go necking in high school.” She blushes red. “Anyway, he dumps them off there and leaves them for a week with the moose and bears and raccoons. They think they’re all alone up there, but of course, the trees are all heavily wired with surveillance cameras. Don’t want anyone to get killed on our watch. Dave feeds them food from the military store up at the base in Moncton to help create the roughing it affect.” She puts the roughing it in air quotes.
I wince at the prospect of the whole thing. The mosquitoes up there alone would be enough to drive me out, let alone army food.
“I don’t get it.” I scowl.
“I don’t get it either. But for some reason, people pay big money to be tortured.”
“Do they ever get any moose?”
“Occasionally. Mostly they're just lucky not to shoot one another.” She tilts her head and laughs loud. “I’m so sorry. I keep getting us off topic.”
“No, it’s okay. It’s interesting.”
“Anyway—” she flicks her eyes to one side— “I keep holding out hope that things will get better and turn around for us.” He stares at her ring again.
“I’m gonna hold out that hope for you too,” I say.
She looks at me and smiles, her eyes shining. “I still love him,” she blurts.
“I’m sure it’ll work out,” I say.
“I hope so, but he seems so much happier upstairs without me.” She looks whistfully toward the ceiling.
“If he truly is, he’s an idiot.” I smile.
“Maybe he is an idiot.” She picks at a nail and grins.
I can’t help myself—something about her crushing expression makes me ask the question. “What about you, Trudy? Are you truly happier with him living upstairs?”
She ponders the thought a moment. “Oh…I dunno.” She waves off my inquiry. “No, no…of course not.” She then adds, definitively. “I mean…I don’t know for sure.” She gazes dreamily past my head. “It’s not terrible being alone. It’s just different, you know?” She looks back to me, her gaze narrrowed. “It’s not like there’s a lot of choice when it comes to men here in Heartland Cove.”
“You could always leave Heartland.”
“Right.” She laughs.
“I’m serious.”
“I know, but…” she bites her lip. “I’m not you.” She swats my knees.
“You wouldn’t have to go far. I bet there’s plenty of good men just up the road a bit.” I hope.
“Perhaps.” She thinks about it. “Anyway, enough about me.” She shoos the thought away and sits up tall. “Let’s talk about why you’ve come.” She grins. “I trust you won’t say anything about Dave and I, right?”
“It’s in the vault.” I turn the key on my lips.
“Cookie?” She slings the tray in my direction, lifting off the silver dome. A collection of homemade, fancily-iced sugar cookies appears, which I must say look freakin’-to-die-for. “You make these?” I ask.
“Of course.” She smiles.
“You decorated them, too?”
“Um hum.” She shoots me a look like, who else would do it?
I pick one out, a lovely silver, shiny frosted one coated in a design of intricately woven, blue lace. I examine it closely before taking a bite. The piping work is amazing. “Wow,” I say. “This is fabulous. Like I mean, truly fabulous.” I talk around the cookie.
“Oh, stop. You’re just being nice.”
“No. I’m not. Seriously.” I swallow down the buttery, sugary goodness.
“You really think so?” Trudy blushes.
“Are you crazy? These are actually better than fabulous.” I take another bite.
“Wow, thanks.” She plays with the trim of her dress. “That’s a real compliment coming from you. Considering the whole cupcakery thing.”
I privately berate myself for not getting to know Trudy Swenson—I mean, Palmer—sooner. Who knows, we could have been business partners.
I reach out, snagging a second cookie—a heart-shaped, pink fondant-frosted one. The basket weave piping design is absolutely flawless, exquisite, and unique—not to mention the precision of the beading she’s added to the top. I snap the cookie between my teeth, marveling at its crisp yet light and flaky texture. “You did all this bead work yourself?” I chew and talk, which is rude, but I have to know.
“Yes. Some of them are a bit wobbly, but I try—”
“Stop it? Those are amazing. Very meticulously executed.” She’s nuts. These cookies are done to perfection.
“I’m glad you like them." She clasps her hands together again and squeezes them shyly.
“Like them. I love them.” I take another bite. “What’s the filling in this one?” I hold it out. It’s like a jam, but I’m sure it’s not jam.
“Blackberry compote. My own concoction.”
“Your own, eh? No one else’s?”
“I don’t think so…” she answers slowly. “Why?”
“Just wondering.” I could use her talent back in New York.
“I use blackberries from the bluffs. Pick them myself.”
Maybe it’s a good thing she and Dave are breaking up
“So this is buttercream in your fondant, right?” I lick my lips, trying to place the taste.
“No, actually, half of them are dressed in buttercream, and the others are made with maple syrup and half-fat buttercream.”
“Maple syrup? Seriously?” That’s the taste.
“I do some with cream cheese, too. I’m told they’re delightful.” She giggles.
“I’m sure they are. I’d love to try them sometime.”
“Okay. I’ll make you some. I’ve been putting rhubarb in the new ones, on accounta it's in season—”
“Even better.” I grin.
The kids in the kitchen squeal, shifting Trudy’s attention away. “I’m afraid we might be running out of time for conversation, what did you come for?” Her gaze swings back.
“Mmm, yes. About the fair,” I say licking icing from my fingers.
“The fair?” She winces.
“The Potato Festival one.”
“Oh, the major event.” She sits back.
“I hear you and my mother have been planning for it.” I take a napkin and dab the corners of my mouth.
“Oh, yes." Trudy's happy expression fades. She
releases a nervous laugh. Heat blotches speckle her arms and neck. “To tell you the truth…” she fumbles with the hem of her dress. “We haven’t gotten that far with the plans.”
“Great, cause I’d like to help you with them?”
“No, you don’t understand. We don’t have any plans.” Her voice drops.
“But, isn’t it—isn’t it like, happening in a month.”
“Yes.” She gulps.
“Then—?”
“It’s not that we haven’t tried, it’s just— We haven’t been making much progress, and I didn’t know what to do.” She twists her hands.
“But Aunt Penny said you’d been meeting with Mom twice a week for over a month, now.”
“We have, it’s just—” she swallows. She shifts uncomfortably on the sofa. “Truth is, I couldn’t get your mother to focus long enough to come up with anything solid, or practical,” she mummers. “And I don’t feel right about imposing my thoughts on her. After all, I am only co-chair.”
“So, you have no plans at all.”
“No. Nothing solid. We have a few wild ideas, but not plans. Here, let me show you.” She dashes from the room and comes back a second later with a notebook in her hands. “I don’t know how to say this, so I’m just gonna say this.” Her lashes flutter. “Your mother’s a little out there. Her ideas are a little—grandiose. Couple that with her recent attention problems,” that’s a nice way to phrase it, “and it sort of felt like being stuck in the movie Groundhog Day. She’d come over, we’d live in the moment, she’d make a crazed suggestion, I’d write it down, and suggest how it might not work, then the next time I’d see her, she’d forgotten it, and we’d start all over again.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. My mother, grandiose? “So, the notebook is full of her suggestions?”
Trudy nods and flips open to a page. “I warn you, none of these are feasible.”
She’s right. There are scads of them, page after page after page, but they’re all absolutely ridiculous.
“When your mother’s on, she’s on, I tell you. And some of these would be great if we all lived in Hollywood, not in Heartland Cove, but…” She shakes her head. “To bring any of these to life here would be impossible—what with the goal being to raise money and not to spend it.”
I shift forward in my seat.
“As you can see,” Trudy points to a page, “these ideas just cannot happen. I don’t even think some of them are legal.”
I laugh. “A pie-eating contest featuring well-known celebrities,” I read. “Not the junk-kind from around here, real celebrities. The celebrities would take to the stage (in the pig barn) and perform a live concert, which we will tape and televise (like the We Are The World concert, back in the 1980's). All this will be televised on a live telethon with call-in donations from the public, during which we’ll tape them and cut a record from to sell for more proceeds." I look up.
"Wow. That's not at all convoluted.” I laugh. “I wonder what the celebrities would have to say about that?”
Trudy laughs with me.
“Who was she thinking of inviting? Just curious."
“The list is right there, below it.” Trudy points.
“Brittany Spears. Z Z Top. Mick Jagger. Wow,” I say.
“Yeah, she was very disappointed Michael Jackson was dead.”
“I bet.
I continue down the list, reading out the more interesting ones. “Hold an Indy car race around the river (through the bridge). Invite famous Indy drivers to compete. Enter the race on the International circuit. Sounds like a plan,” I grin.
“Oh, how about this one.” Trudy points. “Organize and play a game of Plinko. Drag Bob Barker out of retirement to host it.”
“I’m sure he’d love that! Oh, and this,” I point. “Number forty-four: Hold a celebrity dunk tank event, featuring country-western musical celebrities, Keith Urban, Garth Brooks, etc. Fill the tank with marshmallows instead of water (we don't want to wreck their hair), and have each one of them take a bite of marshmallow as they exit, to be auctioned off later on eBay.”
I looked it up. “Arranging permissions slips alone on that one would be a nightmare.”
Trudy nods. “You see what I mean, they’re all nuts.”
“Wait.” I stare at the page. “What about number eighteen?”
Trudy leans over. “‘A Magic Mike-type show for the ladies of the region, featuring Matthew McConaughey, Pierce Brosnan, and Tom Hiddleston (and maybe a little something for the younger girls, maybe that Beiber creature.) G-string donations will be set at a minimum of twenty-dollar. All proceeds to go to save the bridge.” I look up from the page. “I’m dead surprised Mom didn’t name Sean Connery on that list.” I reach for my Kool-Aid.
“Oh, she did.” Trudy bites a cookie. “Then she canceled him over too much back hair.”
I spit out my Kool-Aid.
I glance down at the idea again. “You know what?” I say, slowly. “That might not a bad idea.”
“Are you mad?” Trudy asks.
“No. I mean, if we downsized the idea a bit. You know, use local talent, instead of the big names listed here. Get some guys from around the region to participate—”
“Like, ‘Thunder from Down Under!’” Trudy’s eyes light.
“Exactly! No hot Aussies, just Heartland Cove guys.”
“Well, we do have one hot Aussie.” Trudy flicks her brows and tips her head to the side. “Your mother’s man-toy.”
There’s that expression again.
“You mean Trent.”
“Of course I mean, Trent. You know any other hot Aussies around here?” Trudy waggles her brows. Nope, can’t say that I do. “So, it’s settled then.” She drops her hands into her lap. “We’ll hold a Magic Mike-type show to raise money for the bridge repairs and invite people from far and wide to come see it.”
“Right. And let’s call it Magic Michael, so we don't get sued.”
“Good plan.”
“So, are you gonna ask Trent then?” She turns to me. “You know, since he’s close with your Mama, and all.”
“I suppose.” I drag out the answer, the full impact of the awkwardness of that moment bearing down on me.
“Okay, now who else can we ask?” Trudy slide forward, grabs for paper and taps her chin with pen. “Who in this town will get up on a stage and dance to raise money?” She glances at the ceiling. “Better still, who do we want to get up there?” She giggles.
“I hate to say this but—how about Dave?”
“Oh, no…no, no.” She wags a finger.
“And if I ask Trent, you have to ask Dave.”
Trudy's shoulders fall.
“As I recall he’s pretty hot.”
“He is that.”
“Deal?” I stick out a hand.
She hesitates. “Deal. Though I don’t think he’ll agree to do it.” She shakes my hand.
“Why not? Dave Sports Enthusiast Tours stands to lose just as badly as the rest of us if the bridge goes away. And from what I understand, if Jebson wins and a highway ends up running through the middle of Heartland, there won’t be any woodland left for him to adventure in.”
“I’ll mention that as a selling point.” Trudy bites her nail. “
“After all, everybody’s gotta give their pound of flesh.” I write that down and smile at her. “Now, who else can we ask?”
Trudy smiles shyly. She scoots closer to me on the sofa. “Maybe Bernie Bates, you know, for the older set.”
“Bernie, from Bates’ Baits?”
“Yeah. He is pretty buff.”
“And how would you know that, Ms. Trudy Swenson?” I nudge her with a teasing elbow.
She lowers her lids. “Because he likes to skinny dip in the river on Saturday nights.”
“He does?”
“Um-hum. Under the bridge. He’s been doing it for years.” She giggles.
“Shut up!” I punch her shoulder. Apparently, Heartland Cove is a lot more
exciting than I thought.
“I just happened to be standing on the porch with a glass of wine one night last August, when, there he was... Now I stand out there a lot more.” She laughs.
“I don’t blame you.” I join her. “I can’t imagine purposely wanting to take a dip in the old St. Smellsofpee.”
“‘St. Smellsofpee,’” Trudy snorts. “That’s funny. I’ve always called it the St. Screwmeover. Ever since… you know… I kissed Dave there for the first time and fell in love, which has led to… impending disaster.”
“That bridge has had some effect on a lot of people around here, hasn’t it? I blame the legend.”
There’s an old saying here that ‘a kiss on the Heartbeat Bridge leads to the perfect pairing.’ Of course, I think that was just an old leftover piece of advertising cooked up by my great-grandfather to draw people to the bridge.
“I kissed Jebson there for the first time, too.” I glance over at Trudy. “And the last.”
We share a look and laugh. “I say, if we find anybody worth it, we stay off the bridge. Deal?” She raises her palm.
“Deal.” I slap it. “Now, back to the task at hand. Who else can we ask?”
“Oh, I know!” Trudy snaps her fingers. “What about, Marigold Matthew’s younger brother, Ben? He was always a little hottie.” She smiles wide and tilts her head.
“Oooh, Trudy, look at you noticing.”
She jumps her brows. “I’m married, I’m not dead.”
“Oh, and Andy Spence," I add to the list. “If he’s still around.”
“Yeah. He always was a keeper.” Trudy grins. “Even more so now. He’s been working out to enter the Mr. Universe pageant.”
“He has?” I lift a brow. Something new sparks in Trudy’s eyes. “Oh, I just had a delicious second thought.”
“What?”
“What if we get them all to pose for a calendar, you know, like those firemen do, only ours will star our own home-grown hot men, not firemen. We can sell it before the show to drum up publicity and for extra funds.” She folds her arms.
“Trudy, that’s a fantastic idea. And we can use the photos on social media to further promote the event!” I leap across the couch cushions to hug her. “That’s a brilliant idea!” I write it down.
“Oooh, we can call it ‘The Heartthrobs of Heartland Cove County,” she adds, spreading her hands out across the air.
