Pressing the Issue

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  Rhett gestured.

  The man hustled in that direction. An elderly woman with winter-white hair and knobby cane chased after him. Apparently, the cane was a prop.

  A younger woman, an archer who had slung a fake dead bird over her shoulder, strode by.

  “Hello, fellow hunter,” she said to Rhett in passing.

  “Hello, to thee,” Rhett said.

  “Do you know her?” I asked.

  “Nope. Hunters always greet other hunters. It’s a fair custom.” He gestured to a pottery stall on our right with the placard Beaufort’s Beautiful Pottery. Beneath that was a handwritten sign that read Lessons within. Rhett said, “Hey, remember our trip to Taos?”

  Our two-day excursion had been heavenly. We visited art galleries, went on long walks, and attended a pottery class.

  Bailey said, “Hey, Jenna, isn’t this the stall for the couple that’s staying at Pepper’s place?”

  “I believe you’re right.”

  We stepped inside.

  “Aren’t those beautiful?” Bailey gestured to the assortment of long-necked pottery displayed on two narrow tables, which were front and center in the tent. Each piece of pottery was a color of the sea: aqua, azure, cerulean, and navy.

  I nodded. “My favorite colors.”

  Rhett said to me, “They’re offering lessons. I think we should throw a pot.”

  “If I could learn to make something like those, I’m in.”

  “Ha! I’ll be lucky if I can throw something that doesn’t look like a glob of mud,” he quipped.

  In Taos I’d struggled; Rhett had given up.

  “Yoo-hoo, Sean, I need help.” An elderly woman in a nun’s habit, who was sitting on a stool by one of the five pottery wheel stations at the rear of the tent, waved to a handsome dark-haired man stationed at the sales desk.

  Sean Beaufort, I assumed. He was wearing an elaborate gold-and-royal-blue Elizabethan costume—Petruchio from Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew, if Pepper was correct. He didn’t seem to hear the woman. He was too busy blowing his nose while reading something on his cell phone. So much for total authenticity at the fair, I mused, though I had to admit, my cell phone was nestled in the left-hand pocket of my skirt. Just in case.

  “Sean, please,” the woman pleaded. She twisted the pottery wheel. The cube of clay sitting on top wobbled.

  To the left of the woman stood a cafeteria rack installed with trays. Works of art sat on the trays. Apparently, Beaufort’s Beautiful Pottery had done well on the first night of the fair. Beside the rack, a table covered with a pale blue tablecloth held a variety of pottery tools, including a clay hammer, a mallet, a wire cutter, and a variety of scrapers. I didn’t see a kiln. Most likely the Beauforts took the finished works to wherever they had stowed their kiln—Pepper’s perhaps?—and would fire the art there.

  “Sean.” The woman blew out an exasperated breath.

  “What? Oh, sure. Sorry, Mrs. D.” Sean pocketed his cell phone and snatched a fresh tissue from a box on the sales desk. He skirted around a steamer trunk fitted with antique brass inlays to get to her and apologized further, adding that he was helpless when it came to making pottery and his wife would return momentarily. “Why don’t you take a piece of clay and roll it between your hands so you can get the feel of it?”

  “Wonderful idea,” she murmured, now beaming at him. All she had wanted was attention.

  “Jenna!” a woman hollered.

  Recognizing my chef’s throaty voice, I pivoted. Katie hailed me from our stall, the Nook’s Pasties, which was located in the center aisle, kitty-corner from the Beauforts’ stall. Katie’s sous chef was running the café for the evening. They would alternate days operating the booth at the fair.

  I waved to her.

  “Go,” Rhett said. “I’ll set up our lesson.”

  “Forget it. We’ll do it later. Come with me.” I yelled to Katie, “Be there in a sec.”

  Cutting a path through the swarm of revelers was challenging, but I managed. Bailey and Rhett trailed me. When I arrived at the stall, I hugged Katie. To the left of our bentwood booth—Katie had been adamant about designing our stall with a true medieval flair—stood a bold, red-striped stall. No one was manning it yet.

  “What’s going to go in there?” I asked.

  “Tankards and Mead,” Katie said. “It’ll make for a lively location, don’t you think? Do you like my costume?” She plucked the puffy sleeves. Like Bailey, she had dressed in a common tavern wench’s outfit. Hers was rust and cream with a cream apron. The colors went well with her skin tone.

  “Love it.”

  “Very unique,” Bailey teased.

  “Hi-ho, Jenna.” Hannah Storm, a tall, athletic woman with black spiky hair, paced in front of Ye Olde Wine Shoppe, the neighboring white canvas booth. Inside her stall, she featured wines from Hurricane Vineyards—which she owned—as well as antique winepresses, corkscrews, wineglasses, and wine racks. Aged wine barrels and a burlap carpet gave the stall a rustic look. A wine-tasting setup was laid out on the petite oak bar.

  “Hi-ho, Hannah,” I said. “Pray tell, what is that you’re holding?”

  In her hands she wielded a tool consisting of a copper foot welded to a copper pole. “It’s a . . . a . . .” Hannah sneezed. The black ribbons on her garland of flowers kicked up. She plucked a tissue from beneath the sleeve of her smoky black gown.

  “Bless you,” Katie, Bailey, Rhett, and I said in unison.

  “Thanks.” Hannah dabbed her nose. Dropping the fair accent, she hissed, “How I loathe pollen season.”

  “What are you dressed as?” Bailey asked. “A Renaissance widow?”

  “Don’t be silly.” Hannah giggled. “You know me. I always wear black. I’m a lowly saleswoman.” She nodded at her foot-pole thing. “As for this, my dear friends, it is a winepress tool. Isn’t it great?” She offered a sassy smile. “I had a few made specifically for the fair. Back in the day, they didn’t have all the new-fangled equipment we have now.” She waggled the tool in my face and pointed to the stash of other similarly shaped tools slotted into a white oak wine barrel. “I’ve sold three already.”

  Rhett lifted one and, like a baton twirler, wove it through his fingers. “Clever.”

  “Oho!” Katie raised a finger. “Hannah might have sold three of those, but I’ve peddled over thirty of our pasties.” On a long table, she had assembled trays with a variety of Cornish pasties. The warm brown color of the pastry was beautiful. The aroma of meat, cinnamon, and something else—rosemary?—was downright sinful. Copies of How to Make Cornish Pasties: The Official Recipe cookbook were featured on a nearby table. Whoever purchased one of the books would need to know how to convert from metric to U.S. measurements, so Katie had printed up a few freebie reference cards.

  Hannah said, “Right before you showed up, I was begging Katie for the recipe for the pork pasty, but she refused.” She pronounced the word properly—pass-tee. “Can you believe the gall?”

  I bopped Hannah on the shoulder. “Didn’t she tell you that you’d find it in the cookbook?”

  Hannah growled. “You sneak.”

  Katie coyly played with the apron of her costume. “You never asked.”

  “Sold!” Hannah lifted a cookbook from the stack and thrust it at Katie. “Hold this for me, my dearie, and watch and weep.” She beckoned a redheaded woman in a purple gown who was approaching. “Fair lady, how now? Come hither. See what I have to offer. Me-thinks you could do well with an antique winepress.”

  Bailey knuckled Hannah on the arm. “Wow. Listen to you. You’re a hawker now.”

  “Verily, I am.”

  Clearly intrigued, the woman in purple moseyed to Hannah. Bailey, Rhett, and I bid Katie and Hannah adieu and moved on.

  “I like Hannah,” Bailey said. “She’s got spirit.”

  Rhett agreed. “Her older brother, Hugh, and I were good friends until he left the country.”

  “I didn’t know she had a brother.” I’d rec
ently met Hannah when she’d become fascinated with five-ingredient recipes. Being an aficionado myself, we had instantly bonded. “Why did he leave?”

  “He hated the family business and wanted to work in the food industry. That’s how we got to know each other. He took a few cooking classes from me at the Grotto before . . .” Rhett didn’t finish. The memory still galled him. The Grotto was where he had worked as a chef until the owner burned it down on purpose. The incident had left a bitter taste, which was why he’d switched careers. “It didn’t help that Hugh was allergic to grapes.”

  I tittered. “I’m sorry. Allergies aren’t funny, but the likelihood of being allergic to the very thing your family did for a business seems ironic. Can you imagine a wheat farmer being allergic to gluten?” I clasped Rhett’s hand. “Do you think Hannah misses him?”

  “I know she does. She could probably use help tending to their aging grandmother, but I’m not sure she’d let on. When Hugh finally found the courage to quit town, she was ecstatic for him.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Paris. Living the dream. He has his own bistro. He’s earned one Michelin star and striving for the second. By the way, he and Cinnamon dated back in high school.”

  “Re-e-eally?” I said, dragging out the word. I love getting insider information on our chief of police.

  We neared Thistle Thy Fancy crafts booth, which was situated next to Pepper’s beadery. Dolly Ledoux was standing at the entrance. “Hark! If it please thee”—she waved a bouquet of thistles at us—“come inside and make yourself a strand of beads or a wreath for thy hair.” She was dressed in the same emerald green wench costume she’d worn to the shop earlier, her blonde hair twisted messily with curly tresses spilling out, and she spoke with an English accent instead of her Southern one.

  Inside her tent stood numerous wooden-doweled racks upon which hung selections of ribbons, beads, silk flowers, and floral wire. A wide, easel-style pegboard filled with finished wreaths stood at the rear of the tent. A do-it-yourself table crowded with other supplies was situated in the middle of the tent. Two teenagers, a little girl with her mother, and a craggy-faced man occupied the various craft stations. Each worked intently on a project.

  “Dolly, what pretty trims,” I said, admiring the ribbons. “Did Hannah make her wreath here?”

  “Aye. Indeed, she did.”

  “I will return to make one for me,” I told her. “Perhaps tomorrow.”

  “Bless thee.”

  Bailey, Rhett, and I continued along the wharf.

  “I love this fair,” I said. “Everyone is so merry.”

  “It’s a wonder that Dolly is,” Bailey said.

  “Why?”

  Bailey glanced over her shoulder. “Didn’t you hear?” She leaned in close. “Nick dumped her. I think that’s why she was visiting your aunt this morning. She wants a magic spell that will help her keep him.”

  Rhett guffawed. “Vera doesn’t do magic spells.”

  “Dolly thinks she can.”

  For the second time I wondered whether Dolly’s anxiety was what was causing the negative vibes that Lola, Bailey, and I were picking up.

  Bailey said, “I heard she was so distraught over losing Nick that she destroyed a shelf in the stockroom at her shop with a baseball bat.”

  I gasped. “You’re kidding. A bat?”

  “Makes sense,” Rhett said.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “In high school she was a softball star, and in college she set the NCAA career home run record. A baseball bat would be the first thing she’d reach for.”

  “You know this because . . .”

  “She comes into my store. She likes to fish. We talk.” Rhett spread his hands. “She said her temper kept her from going pro.”

  Bailey said, “Huh. I was wondering what all those trophies in her shop were for.”

  I hadn’t paid attention to the trophies because whenever I visited Dolly’s place for items to use in our displays, I was so in awe of her sense of color that I didn’t look beyond her wares. Plus, entering the shop reminded me of time spent with my mother, which made me a tad emotional. Mom and I had often created craft projects. She could paint like a dream, knit like a professional, and her beading handiwork was almost as good as Pepper’s. How I missed her.

  Bailey punched my arm. “Have you seen Tito yet?” She started popping up and down again, trying to peer over the crowd.

  “Nope. I’ve been keeping my eyes peeled. Rhett, do you see him?”

  “Not even a glimpse.”

  Bailey huffed. “He said he was meeting the mayor by the Punch and Judy puppet show.”

  “That’s located on South Street. Follow me.” I cut through the center aisle and exited between Mum’s the Word Diner and a tent filled with toys. The Word, as the locals call it, serves some of the best comfort food in town. Its cheery and retro turquoise-and-yellow theme always gives me a boost. “There.” I pointed. “I spy a horde of poppets yonder.”

  “Cut out the fair-speak,” Bailey snipped. “Lead me in that direction.”

  Teasingly, I wagged a finger. “Temper, temper, speaking of temper.”

  “I’m feeling a little claustrophobic. I need air.”

  In her defense, if I were as height-challenged as she was, I’d be gulping in breaths of air.

  “This way,” Rhett said. “Jenna, help me out.”

  He took hold of one of Bailey’s arms. I hooked my hand around the other. Together we steered her to the Theater on the Pier, a modest playhouse that offered a variety of performances throughout the year.

  In front of the theater stood a charming red-and-gold puppet show booth with illuminated signboards that featured a city view and stars in the sky. Children sat in a semicircle in front of the setup. Adults were huddled behind them. The puppet show was under way. Traditionally, Punch and Judy is an over-the-top and aggressive display. I caught snippets of parents criticizing the violence. Nervous laughter abounded.

  “There’s Tito,” Rhett said. “Standing next to Nick Baldini.”

  “Where?” Bailey pleaded. “I still can’t see him. Why is he talking to Nick? Does Tito look worried? Please don’t tell me Nick is canceling the wedding venue. He wouldn’t do that to me, would he? I mean, we’re friends now and—”

  “Relax,” I said. “Everything’s fine.” I urged my pal to climb the diner’s steps for a better view. “Tito isn’t talking to Nick at all. He’s interviewing the mayor, as promised.”

  Bailey peered in the direction I was pointing and exhaled. “Whew! Got it. Bye.” She pressed through the throng and dashed to Tito. When she reached him, she acted like she hadn’t seen him in months. A big kiss on the cheek. An arm around his back. It tickled me to see my friend so happily in love.

  “Speaking of Nick,” Rhett said, “who’s that woman with him?”

  Chapter 3

  “I have no clue who she is,” I said to Rhett.

  Nick, a sizeable man in his early forties and clad in a lavish red-and-black King Henry VIII costume—very apropos since he was the lynchpin of the fair—was stroking his black goatee while chatting with a willowy blonde with dark roots and alluring eyes. She was dressed in one of the prettiest gold gowns I’d ever seen, with narrow burgundy inserts in the skirt and a hint of burgundy lace peeking above the low-cut bodice.

  “I don’t think she’s a local,” Rhett said.

  “Me, either.”

  The glittery ribbons on the wreath that graced the woman’s hair fluttered in the breeze. A ribbon twined itself beneath her turned-up nose. Nick freed it with his pinky and slipped it back where it belonged. She smiled tentatively. Was she the reason Nick had ended it with Dolly?

  Nick said something. The woman shook her head and dabbed her nose with a handkerchief. As she did, she caught me looking her way. Her eyes narrowed. Quickly, she ended the conversation and fled by skirting the crowd.

  A roar from the fairgoers drew my attention. Punch and Judy was at that
critical point where Judy made her entrance carrying a club.

  “Look out, Punch!” a few children shrieked.

  Nick flinched at the violence. Was he wondering whether he should beware of Dolly Ledoux and her baseball bat? He didn’t hang around to watch the outcome. He hightailed it the same way the woman in gold had gone.

  “Jenna! Rhett!” Mayor Zeller, a squat woman with more energy than the Energizer Bunny, came rushing toward us. The folds of her brown innkeeper’s skirt whisked to and fro. A brown jacket buttoned to the neck completed the ensemble. “Did you see which way Nick Baldini went?”

  “Toward the carney games.” I pointed. I could see the rise and fall of his crown.

  “Ooh, that man is quick on his feet. I was coming to nab him when Tito Martinez waylaid me.”

  “Why do you need Nick?” I asked.

  “We’re shooting an instructional video so the newbies at the fair can learn the language and see how to build a character. Would you and Rhett catch him, please, and remind him? I have to rally the other players. We’re meeting in the big tent in the parking lot.”

  Aha. That was what the tent was for.

  “Whatever you do, don’t let him wriggle away. Nick’s a sly dog.”

  The mayor was right. Nabbing Nick wasn’t easy. As if he knew we were in pursuit, he slipped into one booth, out the other side, and into another. Before we could draw near enough to chat, he eluded us again by circumventing the crowd. When we were in range to yell to him—me, gasping for air; Rhett, laughing out loud—I noticed Nick was holding a wine tool as well as a piece of cerulean long-necked pottery. Apparently, in his escape, he’d done some shopping.

  “Nick!” Rhett bellowed over the roar of the swelling throng. “The mayor needs you for the video.”

  He acknowledged us with a wave and detoured toward the entrance to the Pier. Within seconds he slipped through the draped entry and disappeared.

  “C’mon, Rhett.” I tugged him forward. “Let’s watch them make a movie.”

  Giving up my job in advertising was one of the best decisions I’d ever made, but I missed being around cameras and actors and hearing the word Action. Granted, the fair’s instructional movie would probably not be up to the same professional standards that I was used to, but it would be fun to observe.