by S. E. Babin
* * *
DixielandDan: Good day at The Dorm?
Diaz: Yeah. I might actually get some sleep tonight.
DixielandDan: Tucked up in bed?
Diaz: Just climbed in. You?
DixielandDan: Pretty close, actually. Early night for me.
Diaz: That's rare.
DixielandDan: No kidding. Well, Happy New Year.
Diaz: Thanks. But you're a week late, Jazz Man Genius.
DixielandDan: I know. But I'm just getting around to celebrating tonight.
Diaz: Oh? And how are you celebrating?
DixielandDan: I'm at your front door.
* * *
Tanya stared at the phone for a full five seconds before she yelped and hopped out of bed, pulling the sheet with her and wrapping herself as she ran. She looked through the peep hole then wrenched the door open.
“Dan!”
He stood on her doorstep, smiling and raising one brow as he took in the sight of her, naked except for a sheet. “My return flight takes off in twenty-two hours and forty-six minutes.”
Tanya pulled him into her apartment and slammed the door.
* * *
THE END
About the Author
When she was a kid in Scranton, Pennsylvania, Geralyn Vivian Ruane Corcillo's favorite Christmas present was a box set of four Agatha Christie paperbacks her mom put in her stocking one year. When she grew up, and streaming songs were a new thing, her husband Ron knocked her Christmas socks off when he downloaded her all-time favorite Christmas song, “Snoopy's Christmas,” by The Royal Guardsmen. These days, Corcillo and her husband like to spend Christmas having dinner with friends and talking about 80's movies.
Most of all, Geralyn Corcillo loves connecting with readers! Reach her at:
@geralyncorcillo
geralyncorcillothewriter
geralyncorcillo.com
Also by Geralyn Corcillo
Find her books on Amazon: Geralyn Corcillo
In Love in the Limelight Series
Miss Adventure
Queen of the Universe
Catch a Falling Star
* * *
Drakenfall Series
Upstairs, Downstairs … and the Lift in Between
A Drakenfall Christmas
* * *
Short Stories
4 in the Afternoon: Four Romantic Comedy Short Stories
The Miraculous Power of Butter Cookies
Holly Tierney-Bedord
1
When Dob and Sally Buefred’s daughter Barbara turned six months old, she won the Green County Beautiful Baby prize. She was awarded a piggy bank filled with silver dollars, a hundred dollar savings bond, and a coupon for photo sessions for life from local photographer Nat Wilbury.
Unfortunately, Nat died two weeks later. Dob and Sally were miffed about this for a while, being young and poor, and needing to get their money’s worth out of things, but they soon forgot their loss when they discovered the fantastical news that they were expecting another baby.
“Let this baby be as wonderful as Barbara,” said Dob.
“All babies are wonderful,” said Sally. But secretly, she agreed with her husband.
When little Bonnie came along, Sally and Dob and all their friends and relatives agreed that, if it was possible, Bonnie was even cuter than her sister. Her spark was somehow sparkier. Her giggles were gigglier. Her diapers were less stinky and filled up somewhat less frequently than her older sister’s had.
All the world adored Bonnie, except Barbara, who went out of her way to smother her sister with pillows and blankets. Luckily, this was all taking place back in the days when pillows were coated in latch-hooked yarn, so you could never really get a good seal over someone’s face, and blankets were crocheted and called afghans, and in the style that left them with large, breathable holes.
Barbara and Bonnie didn’t agree on much except their mutual contempt for one another, until their baby sister Brandi came along. Brandi arrived on a snowy morning in November, 1976, prompting the expression “Third time’s a charm” to become the family’s motto. And charmed little Brandi was. Her cuteness and grace were in a realm that reached far outside the New Glarus, Wisconsin standards of beauty. When she was a year old and the Buefreds were riding the Illinois toll road to visit Dob’s grandpappy in the Windy City, a cop pulled them over for speeding, took one look at Brandi, and called up his talent scout sister in Los Angeles.
The next dozen years were a rush of small but frequent parts in commercials and situation comedies. You may remember Brandi from such roles as LITTLE GIRL SHINY TEETH #2 from the Sparkle Mouthwash Commercial of 1984, or RUNNING HURDLE TRIPPING GIRL from the Shave-Rite Gel for Teens commercials of 1988-89. And who could forget LITTLE SISTER OF BAD BOY RICK who appeared in episodes 71 and 73 of That McAlister Clan?
But then, in late 1989, puberty hit. This was before acne could be dealt with in any feasible manner. The Buefred girls were all teenagers then, living with their parents in a rented, mildew-tinged shack in West Hollywood. The entire family had survived off Brandi’s earnings for so long that none of them knew how to fend for themselves.
Sally Buefred had a bit of that hardworking Wisconsin tenacity left over from her days on the farm, and it coursed slowly but surely, like a chuggy locomotive, deep inside her veins. She took one look at Dob, dozing on his recliner, and realized he’d gone soft. Too soft to be of any use. “Girls,” she said to her daughters, “we need to pull together.”
“Like, how do you mean?” asked Barbara.
“Financially,” said Sally. “We need to bring in some money. Pretty soon we won’t even be able to afford groceries.”
“I don’t care about food,” said Barbara. “I’m happy just watching TV and drinking the occasional malt.”
“You’re bringing me down, Mom,” whined Bonnie. “Can’t you just write a check for what we need?”
“No,” said Sally. “We’ve relied on your little sister long enough. It’s made all of us forget that we, too, can be contributors. It’s really just a matter of deciding how.”
“I’d like to keep supporting you all, but I’m not good at anything but acting,” said Brandi, coming out of the bathroom with dabs of toothpaste all over her face.
Barbara and Bonnie went back to watching Jake and the Fatman.
“Think!” said Sally, jumping up and turning off the television. “There’s got to be something we can do to make money.”
“Well,” said Bonnie, “our high school is having a craft sale next weekend to raise money for our holiday pageant costumes. I could whip up some mini teddy bear cross stitched ornaments.”
“How would selling crafts at your school help us earn money?” asked Sally.
“It doesn’t matter, because the craft sale has been canceled,” said Barbara, “on account of the Brat Pack is giving us their old clothes.”
“My middle school is having a bake sale,” said Brandi, desperate to contribute to the conversation. After all, it was her failing appearance that had gotten them into this pickle.
“How would you know?” asked Bonnie. “You never even go to school.”
“I do so,” said Brandi. “Now that I don’t get tutored on set I go at least three times a week. More if Dad remembers to drive me.”
“You know, girls, that bake sale’s not a bad idea. I used to be quite the baker,” said Sally. “Here’s a solid plan: We’ll use Brandi’s bake sale as our practice run. We’ll see what sells best, and then we’ll go from there. When’s the sale?”
“Tomorrow,” said Brandi.
“Tomorrow? Okay. Nobody panic! Get in the kitchen right now, girls, and start practicing!” screamed Sally. She went out to the family room and flicked Dob’s ear a few times. He awoke with a sputter. “Get down to Vons and buy us some cookie ingredients,” she told her husband.
“But we’re broke,” he reminded her.
“Use this,” she said, handing him the piggy bank
Barbara had won as a baby.
“Why?” he asked, wiping the drool trail from the side of his stubbled face and blocking his eyes with a TV Guide.
“Pay attention! I need butter, flour, white sugar, brown sugar, powdered sugar, eggs, some of those sugary sprinkles, chocolate chips, oatmeal...”
“What do you want with all these ingredients?”
“Quit with the questions! I’m trying to save our family,” said Sally. “Either pick up the groceries I need, or go out and get a job.”
“I’ll be back with your groceries soon,” said Dob, tucking the pig beneath his arm and smoothing his flannel shirt down over his sweatpants. Sally watched as, a moment later, their rusty station wagon rumbled out of the driveway. She sighed, kissed her knuckles, and sprinkled her fingers up at Jesus. “Please, guide him in his shopping,” she prayed. “Our future depends on these cookies.”
* * *
“This is quite the bake sale,” Sally said the next day when she and Brandi arrived at Brandi’s school after dropping off the older girls at their high school.
“I warned you, Mom.”
“Who’s that woman over there, with the oversized sweatshirt and the kinky hair?”
“Which one?” asked Brandi.
“That one, with the splatter-paint denim skirt over the turquoise leggings, and the big ruby ring on her hand. She seems to be running the whole show. She looks snooty.”
“That’s Kristina Spader. She’s Jessica’s mom.”
“Your arch nemesis Jessica?” asked Sally, picturing the golden-haired little skunk who’d beat out her daughter for the part of HIGH SCHOOL DANCE OFF RUNNER-UP in the afterschool special starring half of the Saved by the Bell cast. In Sally’s opinion, this loss has been the downward turning point in her daughter’s once illustrious career.
“Mehhh. I’m not sure I’d call her that. But yes, that’s Jessica’s mom.”
“She looks like a tramp,” said Sally, who still preferred the oversized bellbottoms and polyester turtlenecks she’d been wearing since the 70’s.
Brandi nodded. “She runs the bake sale. We should probably take our cookies over to her. She likes to decide where everything goes.”
“Oh, does she now? I think we’ll set up right here. Right in front of the trophy case. There seems to be a nice, big, empty spot, waiting just for us.” And with that, Sally Buefred began unpacking plastic baggy after plastic baggy of freshly baked cookies. She’d brought an extra jar of sprinkles, and when she had everything arranged just to her liking, she dusted her sample tray with a flourish of tiny silver balls.
“Excuse’m moi,” said Kristina Spader, sauntering up to Sally and Brandi. “Did you sign up to present at this bake sale? Because everyone presenting has already checked in. And darn it all if I don’t have one extra spot.”
“We’ve squeezed ourselves in here just fine,” said Sally. “Care to try one?” She gestured like a game show model towards her artfully arranged spread of coconut clusters, oatmeal melties, chocolate chip caboodles, and peanut butter bungalows, and then up to her masterpieces: Yummy, flaky, slightly crumbly, just-sweet-enough-but-not-too-sweet butter cookies. She cleared her throat, ever so delicately, but in the curdle of phlegm was the subtle yet definitive message that she had kicked all their asses.
“Nope,” said Kristina Spader, tapping her clipboard. “Your name’s not on here. Pack ‘em up. We’ll find a place for you next time. Maybe. Hard to say. The spots fill up so fast.”
“You wouldn’t seriously turn us away, would you?” asked Sally. “That would be like turning down free money for the school.”
Kristina Spader’s blush-stained cheeks turned a deeper shade of crimson. “Would you look at what you’ve done? Your sprinkles have contaminated Louise Baylor’s Special K bars! That really crosses a line. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“But my daughter Brandi is a student here. We have every right to contribute to the bake sale.”
“Do you even know what we’re raising money for?” asked Kristina Spader, a small, evil smirk making her lips curl up like a dead leaf.
“Umm… Hmmm,” said Sally. Lying, and even guessing at an answer that she had no idea about, had never come easy to her. Blame it on her strict Catholic Midwestern upbringing. She rubbed her nose, scratched her head, and then went for it: “Costumes! Some costumes for the Christmas pageant,” she said, semi-decisively. Brandi winced and shook her head.
“Try again,” said Kristina.
“New sporting equipment?” Sally whispered, desperately.
“Not even close,” scoffed Kristina. “Shall I scoop these back into your Tupperware containers, or have you got it?”
“It’s art supplies. Right?” Brandi tried.
“Sayonara, ladies,” said Kristina.
* * *
“Well, Mom,” said Brandi. “At least we get to eat them now.”
“We’re not going to eat these. I know you’re only twelve, and too young to understand this, but we need to make some money. We’re going straight down to Hollywood Boulevard and we’re going to sell these. Zits or no zits, I think you’ve still got what it takes to impress a crowd.”
“Thanks, Mom. I’m thirteen, actually, and I have a pretty good understanding of money. Even if we sell these cookies for a dollar each, which seems unlikely, that would only be about two hundred dollars. I made fifteen times that when I starred in those gummy vitamin commercials. I think we might need a new plan.”
Sally Buefred’s face crumbled like the cookies in her hands. “You’re right, Brandi. We only have one option.”
“Get me a prescription to heal my blemishes?”
“I’m afraid it’s not that simple. We’re going to have to move back to New Glarus, Wisconsin, and live at my parents’ farm.”
“I thought I was going to be a star! I even learned to tap dance!” Brandi cried. “Couldn’t we find some way to get by until I make it through these awkward years?”
“I’m afraid not, my little Brandi-snifter. Easy come, easy go,” Sally Buefred replied solemnly.
* * *
Two days later the Buefreds were driving across Nebraska, munching on their leftover cookies, dreaming of how great it was going to be to eat cheese all day and to never have to worry about working again. Dob and Sally were gushing about how cozy and homey Christmas on the farm would be, and Bonnie and Barbara were enjoying a rare moment of camaraderie, playing a tiny game of magnetic checkers together. Brandi was curled up in the back of the station wagon, taking a nap, when a heavy, gray cloud rolled in and tiny pellets of ice began pelting the station wagon.
She awoke with a start, confused and alarmed by the sound. “What’s going on?” she asked her family.
The radio was on and at first they were all too consumed with their own lives to notice her. She leaned over the seat, rubbing her eyes. “What’s the stuff coming down from the sky?” she asked again, a little louder this time.
“It’s called weather,” said her sister Barbara.
“Yeah, it’s snow. Or sleet. Something like that. No biggie,” said Bonnie. “King me!”
“It is a little slick out here,” Dob remarked.
“And the tires are as bald as a bowling ball,” Sally added.
“But I’m a good driver,” Dob reassured them, just as the car went careening across the highway and skidded into the corner of a billboard.
* * *
“You’re lucky it wasn’t worse,” said the tow truck driver.
“How do you figure?” asked Dob. “The car doesn’t even run now! And we’re hours from our destination!”
“I meant that at least you’re all fine. Not a scratch on any of you. I’ve seen it all, in my line of work. Count your blessings.”
“Easy for you to say,” said Sally. She took a bite of a cookie, unsure how else to find any comfort, and then passed the container around to the group. They were at the Big Platte Lodge, a rundown motel in the middle of nowhere. Th
e tow truck driver had delivered them here since it was the closest place he could think of where they’d be able to spend the night.
“Mind if I try one of those cookies?” he asked them, after he’d unloaded their car in front of their motel room.
“Go right ahead,” said Sally.
The tow truck driver – Bob was his name – took one bite of Sally’s buttery, melty, flaky butter cookie, and his eyes flew open in fond remembrance. “Grandma…” he whispered.
“They’re good, aren’t they?” said Dob, taking a quick break from recognizing his family’s devastation to be proud of his wife.
“Amazing,” said Bob. “You know, the truck stop across the way is looking for a baker.” He pointed just up the highway to a long, low building surrounded by gas pumps, semi-trucks, and dying pricker bushes. A huge, half-lit spinning sign reading Free Shower with Breakfast helped to lure in sweaty travelers from a seven mile radius.
And so it came to be that for two whole years, while the Buefreds lived in the Big Platte Lodge saving up to buy a car, the Traveler’s D-Lite Truck and Travel Plaza in Cozad, Nebraska had the best cookies of any truck stop on the Great Plains.
* * *
Twenty-five years later
* * *
The first flakes of snow had just begun to fall on the quaint chalet rooftops that dotted New Glarus, Wisconsin when Brandi Bliss pulled her shiny red SUV into the second stall of her four-car garage. She sighed, unloading her yoga mat, Trader Joe’s bag, and bouquet of harvest themed flowers. “Forty,” she whispered to herself. “You’re actually going to be forty. How gross.”
Once inside, she arranged her flowers and restocked her bowl of fruit, and put her yoga mat in its place in the corner of the coat room off the foyer. The cleaning lady had just left, so there was nothing, not even laundry, to do. For the zillionth time she picked up the phone to call her mother, and set it back down. It had been a year since Sally Buefred had passed away, and Brandi still couldn’t get used to it.
