by Jacquie Gee
“Morning folks!” A voice calls out over the music from the other side of the bridge and I fear one of the townsfolk has woken up and is going to spoil everything before we can finish. Trent drops his guard, but not his flipper, thank goodness. He stops dancing and looks up. I jerk around myself. “Hate to break up all the fun but—” Constable Grafton approaches, but upon closer inspection, it's not him, it's a man dressed in a Ministry uniform, an officer of the Ministry, but a different one than from before. He stalks across the covered bridge through the dimly-lit tunnel and out on our side into the light. He's left his Ministry car parked and running, door ajar, back on the other side.
“Can I help you?” I shout over the music, signaling for Trudy to kill it. She does, and the officer’s voice comes through loud and clear.
“You can help by getting off the bridge.” He holds up a piece of poster board paper. “Oh, whoa, whoa, whoa…” the officer shields his eyes. “I didn’t realize—” He’s suddenly caught sight of Trent.
Trent scrambles for his clothes.
“What?” says Sal. “You didn’t realize, what?”
“Look, I don’t want any trouble here. I just got an order from the township stating to come out here and close this bridge down."
“What?” We all shout together.
The officer holds out the poster board again. He waits for Trent to finish getting his robe on, then shuffles to stop in front of me.
“But the bridge is already closed. To motor traffic. Not pedestrian.” I study the poster in his hand. Looks to be another official order from the court.
"Well, that's about to change, I’m afraid,” the officer flips says.
“That’s ridiculous.” Trent scowls, stepping up to join me.
Vera looks up from under her camera cloth, but says nothing. What is going on here?
"I'm afraid you’ll need to vacate the premises, immediately," the officer barks, chewing gum. "The bridge has been deemed unsafe for passage of any kind now. It’s scheduled for demolition sometime next week.”
"Next week?" Everyone shrieks. "When, next week?" I shout after them.
"Dunno ma'am. Gotta check that out with the Mayor.” The officer shifts his weight.
“He's bluffing," Bernie shoots forward. "Or there would be a date on this paper. There’s no date!” He stabs at the poster in his hands.
"Either that or they don't want us to know the date." Trudy’s hands pinch her hips.
“Who sent you here?” I have my suspicions, but wanting hear it from him.
“Look, I'm just supposed to clear the bridge, okay.” The officer holds up his hands. “The boss just told me to come out here and take care of this before the start of my shift, that’s all I know.”
"And do you normally do things before start of shift?" I glare him down.
"No. Not normally."
“Well, then?”
“How did you even know we were here?” Sal presses in.
The officer says nothing, but Vera clears her throat.
I whirl around. “Who else knew we were here?” I put it to the group. Vera shifts nervously in her orthopedic shoes. She averts her eyes, left. "You." I lunge at her. "You've done this." I stub a finger into her chest. Vera staggers back.
"Whoa, whoa." Trent pulls me off. “We’ll deal with her later,” he says under his breath. “Right now we need to deal with this.”
"Look, I'm just doin’ my job here, okay." The officer steps closer and tips his hat. "Now, I’m afraid I’m gonna have to ask you all to leave—"
"And if we don't." Bernie draws up to his full height, becoming a big-chested wall.
"Then, I guess I'll have to use force." The officer reaches behind him, for a billy club.
"It's okay. It's okay." Trent raises his hands. "I think we’ve got what we need.” He glares in Vera's direction. "At least, I hope we do.” Vera cowers.
I could spit in her face I'm so angry at her right now. I can't believe she'd risk me spreading her secrets. Jebson must have something big over her.
Bernie shoots her a look of disdain that causes her to squirm, which will have to be enough for now. I give her the signal, and she sets about gathering up her photography stuff.
"Look," I approach the officer. "There's nothing in the order I was given that says foot traffic can't travel the bridge. Are you sure this is right?"
"And you are?"
"Becca Lane, Laura's daughter, owner of the bridge."
The officer laughs. "Cause it says right here, the municipality owns it." He points to a line on the poster he is about to hang.
My lips part. I stare at the words.
"The one signed by the court," he adds.
Trent steps up beside me, teeth clenched. “This is not the time or place," he whispers to me. "Nor the person we should be challenging, on this. Let's go." He grabs my arm and tries to steer me away, but my feet stay firmly planted. "Come, on. We'll challenge this later. It's not worth ending up in jail over.”
"You're sure about that?"
"You're far more effective out here than in there." He tugs on my arm lightly. “This is bullocks. I know it, you know it, everyone here knows it,” Trent stretches out his hands, "but like the man said, he’s got a job to do." He stares into the officer’s eyes.
“Trent's right," Bernie chirps up. "It ain’t worth starting trouble over. You never know how far Jebson might be willing to take things.” He stares at me through worried eyes, and I know what he's alluding to.
I bare my teeth, drop my head, and reluctantly retreat from the bridge. Trent, Trudy, Sal, and Bernie follow, Bernie's eyes never leaving the officer's as we go. Vera toddles off last, her gear in tow, as I look back at the officer and glare.
"Sorry, ma'am." The officer shrugs. "Just following orders."
He turns, stretching out a roll of caution tape from one corner of the bridge's opening to the other, creating a big yellow ‘X' across the entrance.
Chapter 42
Operation Neighborhood Watch takes effect immediately. We have no idea when Jebson might attempt to bring the bridge down, so we’ve decided as a community we can't afford to take our eyes off it. Even if we're not allowed on it.
All the neighbors have agreed to keep a watch on the bridge during the day, and Trent and Bernie will spell each other off for the night shifts. We only have a few more days until the big event. And we can’t be without a bridge for that.
“Any word?” I say to Trent when he shows up back home from town.
“None what so ever. It’s like the whole thing’s top secret.” He slams down his keys.
“Did you file our petition about ownership of the bridge?”
“I did. But the clerk tells me, it’s not gonna do much good unless you can produce proof. Also, he doesn't give a shite about our argument for foot traffic, though Mrs. Peterson promised to try and get it before a judge this afternoon. She has an in with one, so let's hope it works. We need it open for the festival."
"Tru dat." I pace.
"Isn't a paid tax bill for the premises, proof enough of ownership?" Aunt Penny asks.
"According to Judge Clancy, who was there this morning, no."
“We’ve got to get our hands on that deed.” I turn to Aunt Penny.
“I know, I know, but I seriously don’t even know where to look.” She scratches her head.
“What about Mom?”
Aunt Penny flashes me a look that says, why are you even asking me that.
“We need to figure this out, and quick,” I say to Trent.
I spend the afternoon searching Mom’s apartment with Aunt Penny and come up dry. Neither one of us knows where else to look. We’ve gone over Mom’s apartment, Aunt Penny’s apartment, even the shop. And Mom doesn’t even know what we’re talking about.
It’s an off day for her. More off than on this week.
I’m seriously torn about what’s happening to her.
Trent’s on night shift tonight, which means he’ll be
sitting by the river, staring at the bridge all night long, so I’ve decided to surprise him with a special box lunch.
I add two creams to the coffee—just the way he likes it—then pry two warm cupcakes from their baking tins, and slip onto a plate to cool. One three-time award-winning, New York Buttercream Supreme— the store favorite, and then my all-time favorite—a Chocolate Salted Caramel Surprise. The whole room smells like a dark cocoa swirled with a little almond. Two of my most favorite smells.
I can't believe it's taken me this long to get back to baking. I’ve never gone this long between making cupcakes. And yet I’ve been here a full month and never touched the oven.
There’s just been so much to do. So many distractions.
At the same time, I haven’t felt this grounded since I left New York. With the festival only a couple days off, the excitement is mounting. I even find myself getting excited, despite all the obstacles in our way. Though I normally couldn't give a hoot about a country festival, this is much more than your average country festival. There’s so much more riding on this.
I take out my phone and text Tia, though it’ll be an hour earlier where she is.
You surviving up there all alone in the big city?
She answers right away.
Hey, you! Yeah, not bad! Busy, busy, which is awesome. The streak continues. But nothing I can’t handle. How’s things out there in bridge land? Closing in on the grand finale, are you?
So far, so good. I text her back. I’ve been keeping her abreast of the craziness, while I’ve been here. Bridge. Mom. Everything. Well, almost everything. No Trent.
And your Mom?
I hesitate, not knowing how to answer that question. She’s okay.
Awesome.
Awesome. I type back, then pause before adding. Miss me? I have to know, I mean, jeez, it’s been a whole month. I hope my best friend and business partner isn’t ready to trade me in for a new one.
Like crazy, she writes, and my heart sings. When are you coming back?
Soon. I text, reflexively. Though the truth is I’ve no idea when. There doesn’t seem to be an end to the insanity here. And there’s still the matter of what to do with Mom, long term.
I look up from the screen feeling weirdly torn about that. I want to go to back to NYC, I do, it's just—I mean, I love my business and Tia, and everything about my life in New York—but a small part of me wonders if I’ll ever be able to leave my Mom the way she is now. And then there’s Trent.
I mean… if there is any Trent.
I admonish myself for jumping to that premature conclusion.
Something sharp turns in my stomach, and I erase the whole notion.
What am I doing? The man hasn’t even kissed me yet, and here I am putting my designs on him.
Why hasn’t he kissed me? I mean, he almost did. That counts, right?
Or am I wrong? Maybe I just imagined he was gonna kiss me. I tap my lip.
No. He’s just a friend. A friend, helping out another friend, I tell myself —a really hot friend.
I bite my lip.
Besides, I’m not ready for a relationship, yet. Am I?
Goodness knows it’s been long enough. I try not to think of how long it actually has been.
I realize I’ve left Tia hanging.
I’ll text you as soon as I know what’s going on.
kk! She texts back. Happy Potato Mashing Event!
International Potato Festival, I correct her.
Oh, right.
Sell the heck out of those cupcakes.
Always, she text, followed by an XO, which I repeat.
The conversation drops there, and I slide my phone into my jean’s back pocket, then turn around to take inventory. Sandwiches, coffee, cupcakes. Set. I pop the cupcakes into Styrofoam containers, so I don't spoil their icing and wrap the sandwiches in wax paper like Mom used to when I was a kid. Then I drop the whole kit and kaboodle into a brown paper bag, and I'm ready to go. I scoop up the coffees and head out the door. And a jacket ’cause it’s quite cool outside, and I plan to visit for a bit. I fight to balance the coffee mugs, waitress-style as I open the door, bag in my teeth, as I push through, and trundle down the steps of the porch and off toward the bridge.
It’s darker than dark out here, and the crickets are in rare form.
“Hey you," I say when I reach the river’s edge, standing on the bank above where Trent is sitting perched on a lawn chair on the path near the bridge’s base, next to the rocky edge of the river.
Rapids rush past at a furious speed. Water tangles through the rocks.
“Hey, yourself." Tent glances up over his shoulder, that balmy smile of his in full deep-dimpled bloom. Gosh, I love that grin.
I start down the side of the river bank, stepping sideways like my Dad taught me when I was a kid, so I don't slip in the damp grass, but I get up a little too much speed on the last few strides and trip on the grass, stumbling forward. Trent reaches up, catching me before I topple completely over, nearly dumping myself into the grasp of the St. Smellsofpee. We share a small brief session of breath-gulping laughter, and I straighten up, thrilled that I managed not to drop anything.
“Never could perfect that technique,” I say, glancing over at the roaring river, rushing past. Its gleaming dark blue surface threaded with rocks. A skin of shiny moonlight glimmering on top. “Then again, I never did like being this close to the river." I shiver, placing the coffees and cupcakes down.
A strange tingle creeps up my spine and not because of the cold, because of the memory crowding in on me of the day I tried to learn to swim and failed, epically. The disapproval from my Dad.
The scenario plays out in my head, again, Dad in the water, me on the barge. The disappointed look on his face. My knees knock just thinking about it. I’m draped in a shroud of guilt.
My only source of constant approval has been my mother.
And now she’s slowly fading away from me.
The thought of that makes me tremble. I’m not ready for that. I push the notion away and turn my attention back to Trent. “How’s it going?” I say, ditching all the negative thoughts.
Trent drops his hands from my waist, where he’s held me up and takes his seat in his lawn chair again. “Oh, not too bad.” He settles back and invites me to sit in the space next to him. “The crickets are happy,” he says to me. “And I’ve seen the odd fish jump.”
“Have you?”
“Yeah. I think it was a salmon.”
“We don’t have any salmon around here.”
“Oh, well, then, whatever it was, it was a big one.” He shows me with his hands.
I laugh and settle down into the chair next to him, normally reserved for his jacket and coffee, and we share a brief, but fantastically luring glance that lasts for moments. Then his eyes fix back on the bridge, and I feel cold and lonely that he’s looked away.
I hand him his coffee, and he warms his hands around it. "Seems our friend Jebson has got himself into a bit of hot water.” A wry smile comes to his lips.
“How’s that?”
“Seems he made a promise he can’t deliver.”
“Really?”
“Um.” He sips his coffee. “Rumor has it, he told the bigwigs up in Ottawa he’d have the bridge down and out of their way by mid-August. And they’d be breaking ground on their highway by the end of the month.”
“Is that so?”
“Um hum. Even invited a representative from up in Parliament to come over and help him break ground in a ceremony, which he has scheduled for the twenty-second.”
“Of August?”
“That’s right.” He drags his eyes onto me.
“How’d you find all this out?”
“Seems Vera Williams’ secure server isn’t as secure as she thinks.” He hands me his phone to show me an email.
“That horrible person. Getting information like that and not passing it onto us.”
“Did you honestly think she would? Besides,
we need to keep her information secret so we can steal it from her.” He makes his brows jump and taps his lips, signaling for me to keep it quiet.
I raise the flashlight and take another sweep of the bridge, checking for activity. My heart thumps extra hard when a group of pigeons flies off, and I think I see movement.
“So, what’s in the bag?” Trent snoops.
“Oh. I brought you a little something.” I hold it up the sack.
“What is it?” He beams as if I've just handed him a birthday cake. In a way, I sort of have.
“I thought you might be hungry." I knock shoulders with him, teasingly.
"You? Fixed me. Something to eat?"
“Why? Is that against the law or something?”
“No, it’s just never happened, yet." He digs into the bag pulling out the Styrofoam containers one at a time, and the wax paper packet last. “Ah, just like my grandma used to do.” He waggles the sandwich in the air.
“Seriously? My Mom did the same.”
He pulls back the wrapping and stares at the bread. I’ve taken bits of it, all around, trimming off the crust and turning the sandwich into the shape of a heart.
He stares at it, equally shocked and surprised.
“Cute,” he says.
“You don’t like that I did that. I’ll make you another,” I say.
“No. No need. This is good.” He takes a bite. Reaching over, he touches my hand, and suddenly our fingers are threaded. My heart picks up double speed. “Mmm, dis is very good,” he says, chewing. He tips the second half of the sandwich up like he’s toasting me with it. "What do we have here?" He peeks in the top of the Styrofoam. His eyes light like lanterns in the dark. "Cupcakes, seriously?" He looks up at me.
“Did you bake these?”
“I did.”
“These are your creations?"
"Who's else would they be?”
"No, I mean, your very own recipes.”
“Yes, of course, my famous Chocolate Salted Caramel Surprise.” I point to it. "And my three-time, award-winning, New York Buttercream Supreme.”
"Really?” He picks the chocolate one up. “So, this one here is your signature cupcake, is it? Your Claire du Lune, so to speak.”
