Berried Alive

by Chelsea Thomas

4

  Small Town Scorn

  I AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING to the rumbling sounds of a summer storm. Thunder rattled the windows. Rain pattered on the roof like tiny wet feet. Wind chimes sang in chorus on the front porch. I stretched my arms above my head with a small smile.

  Ah. What a perfect morning for cinnamon rolls.

  When I was little, I had always loved the rain. Every time it drizzled, I would run outside to play. And my mom would lure me back into the house about an hour later with the promise of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls.

  I loved watching her pop open those Pillsbury tubes on the counter. I loved the moment the dough burst through the cardboard. And I loved how my mom added extra frosting to the middle roll, just ‘cuz I loved that one most.

  After my parents died, I had gone to live with Miss May. But she’d continued the cinnamon roll tradition for years, and we always baked a batch from scratch anytime it rained.

  On that rainy morning, I snuck down to the kitchen to make the rolls myself. Although Miss May had always been the baker in the family, she had passed many of her skills on to me. And I was excited to surprise her that morning.

  To start, I made the basic bread dough that Miss May had perfected over the years. I began with instant yeast so I wouldn’t need to pick my nose for hours while allowing the dough to proof. Then I added butter, milk, and eggs. And I made sure I warmed each of the ingredients before adding it to the yeast, an essential step to help the buns rise.

  Although Miss May owned a terrific stand mixer, I didn’t want to lug it out, so I kneaded the dough by hand. As I massaged the lump of dough, I was careful not to add too much flour and I stopped when the consistency was nice and tacky. It was that tackiness that kept the buns soft when all was said and bun.

  Bun pun. Ha. Maybe Germany Turtle was right about my wit.

  A few minutes later, I whipped together a quick filling from sugar, cinnamon, and nearly-melted butter. Then I flattened the dough out, spread the filling across the sheet, rolled it up, cut the buns and placed them in the molds to rise.

  Next came Miss May’s secret ingredient, heavy cream...

  Just before I placed the swirled buns in the oven to cook, I warmed a small pitcher of heavy cream and poured it over the dough. The heavy cream would soak into the dough and help the buns rise and stay sticky in the oven.

  Miss May and I had tested tons of recipes over the years, and the heavy cream drizzle made our buns taste most similar to the buns you can buy at the mall. The drizzle plumped the buns up and created that rich, creamy fluffiness that was so addictive. And that little extra touch is what sent any normal cinnamon roll over the edge of deliciousness, straight to the cinnamon-flavored moon.

  Before long, the smell of cinnamon and dough filled the kitchen and warmed me all the way to my toes. As the rolls baked, I made a quick batch of icing, and brewed a strong pot of coffee. Then the rolls dinged, and Miss May shuffled into the kitchen with a smile.

  “Wow. This is a treat.”

  I smiled. “Rainy day rolls. I wanted to surprise you.”

  I pulled the cinnamon buns out of the oven and iced them in generous dollops. Miss May leaned over and inhaled the cinnamon scent with a satisfied, “Mmmmmmm.”

  “They might not be as good as yours,” I said. “But they turned out pretty well.”

  “You shut up,” Miss May said. “You know these are better than mine.”

  A flush of pleasure tingled on my cheeks. “No.”

  Miss May smacked my arm. “Look at those things! They’re straight out of a magazine. An expensive magazine. Like, $7.95 at the checkout!”

  I leaned down and inhaled the smell of the cinnamon rolls. Cinnamon, sugar, fresh baked bread... Could anything possibly smell better? “Let’s hope they taste as good as they smell.”

  “I’m sure they do,” Miss May said. “So eat plenty, because we’ve got a long day ahead.”

  I slid the tray of cinnamon buns onto Miss May’s rustic wooden kitchen table and we both sat down to eat.

  “What do you mean, we have a long day? Did you get a big order at the bakeshop or something?”

  “No big order,” Miss May said. “We’re hosting an event tonight. I just found out this morning.”

  I put down my cinnamon roll mid-bite and looked at Miss May. “For real? Does it need custom interior design? What are we going to do? I should’ve been working! Not baking stupid cinnamon rolls!”

  “Never say that again,” Miss May said. “There is nothing more important in life than cinnamon rolls. You hear me? Nothing.”

  “OK, but really... What are we going to do? And who hosts an event on Monday night? What’s going on?”

  Miss May pointed out the kitchen window, to the farm. “See all that rain?”

  “Yeah. It’s a summer storm. My favorite.”

  Miss May nodded. “Yeah, it’s nice and all, but Pine Grove’s drainage systems are, how do I put this? Nonfunctional. Town hall got flooded. Lots of places did. So I said we would host the big town meeting in the event barn tonight.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh. OK. So all we need to do is set up the chairs? Maybe a big long table for the town board to sit at?”

  “You know me better than that, Chelsea. I want people to feel welcome. I want to make a personal pie for everyone in the audience.”

  “This is a huge meeting,” I said. “There could be a hundred people there.”

  Miss May smirked. “Like I said. We’ve got a long day.”

  By 6 o’clock that night, Miss May and I had baked 100 miniature versions of Miss May’s famous “Every Berry Pie.” We had also set up folding chairs in the event barn, along with a podium and a folding table for the town board members. I had even managed to string a few market lights from the rafters to give the place a charming glow before the meeting started.

  Teeny arrived on the orchard two hours before the meeting began, “to help with the pies.” At first, she gossiped with Miss May about Germany Turtle and his “undying love for me.” Then she encouraged us to put sprinkles on everything we baked.

  But as the meeting drew near, Teeny paced back and forth in the bakeshop like one of Germany Turtle’s lions in a cage.

  “Teeny. What are you doing? What are you so worked up about?” Miss May asked.

  Teeny spun around. “What do you think I’m worked up about, May!? I hate that stupid Massive Mart and it doesn’t even exist yet. Who needs 96 rolls of toilet paper? I just don’t get it.”

  “That is a lot of TP,” I said.

  “It’s too many rolls!” Teeny pumped her fist for emphasis. “And I checked out Rosenberg’s Massive Mart dow-county, by the way. They sell energy bars in packs of four hundred and fifty. What in the world? If I had that much energy, I’d shoot through the roof like a rocket ship!”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I think you’re good on energy.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Teeny asked, her blue eyes bright and suspicious.

  Miss May held up her hands to calm things down. “Ladies. Let’s stay focused. We’re having this meeting to stop Rosenberg. And that’s what we're going to do. You don’t need to worry about energy bars or toilet paper or rocketships.”

  “That’s what you think,” Teeny said. “I haven’t told you about the Massive Mart food court yet. They sell French fries and chicken fingers and pizza and pie. All the same stuff I sell. And it’s all less than two dollars! And most of it is delicious. I tried it all. It’s not fair. How are restaurants like mine supposed to survive? The place sells Christmas trees too, May! And apples. We’re all doomed if this place comes to town!”

  “Save it for the meeting, Teeny.” Miss May squeezed Teeny’s shoulder. “You’re wasting good stuff here. Great material. The only thing you can do to improve your performance? Muster a few tears. For the newspaper.”

  Teeny laughed. “I’m more likely to scream than cry. But I’ll do what I can.”

  A few minutes prior to the start of the meetin
g, the event barn overflowed with angry citizens just like Teeny. Angry, passionate conversation could be heard throughout the room.

  Over in the corner, Petunia, the owner of the local flower shop, complained to her friend Ethel. Ethel was hard of hearing, so she kept saying, “Huh!?” But Petunia was so worked up she didn’t even notice.

  Up at the front of the room, Arthur tried to start various chants, including, “Rosenberg is scum!” And, “Massive Mart is a Massive Fart.” For obvious reasons, neither of the chants caught on.

  Brian, Rita, and Willow had a hushed conversation along the wall. Rita and Willow wanted Brian to consider moving the coffee shop to another town if Massive Mart opened for business. Brian rejected the idea, citing his love for Pine Grove. Then the girls pointed out that Massive Mart had a coffee shop that sold fifty cent lattes and Brian let out a deep sigh.

  Everyone was so unhappy. Even Miss May’s individual Every Berry Pies weren’t enough to turn the tides of public despair. And to be honest, I was pretty unhappy too. Massive Mart would be way too big for our town.

  And if Hank Rosenberg didn’t figure that out, I shuddered to think what might happen.

  Hell hath no fury like a small town scorned.

  5

  Town Gall

  MAYOR LINDA DELGADO entered the barn, followed by Hank, Sudeer, and several members of the board.

  Petunia heckled as they entered. “Mayor Delgado! Why is Rosenberg with you?”

  “No one is with anyone,” the mayor said. “Sudeer and Mr. Rosenberg just arrived as we did. That’s all.”

  Petunia and several others booed as Rosenberg took a seat in the front row. The volume of angry conversation rose as members of the crowd joined Petunia as she criticized Rosenberg. But Rosenberg didn’t seem to mind the hostility. His condescending smile grew with every remark.

  Thirty seconds later, the mayor took her place behind the podium. But the yelling, chanting and booing continued, so the mayor leaned into the microphone and spoke in a commanding voice. “Silence. Now.”

  From somewhere in the back, Ethel called out, “Say what now?” But other than that, the room fell silent.

  “Thank you,” Mayor Delgado said. “I understand that we all have a lot we’d like to say. I’d appreciate it if we can remain civil in this process. Many of you are here to discuss the planned Massive Mart at the site of what is now the Rosenberg Building on Main Street. Know that we will get to that, but there are several other issues on the agenda first.”

  “I know this tactic!” Arthur stood and addressed the crowd. “She wants to drag the meeting out. Make it so we all get tired. She thinks she can bore us so bad we’ll leave and give up!”

  Petunia stood with a scowl. “I will never give up on this town! Will any of you?”

  The members of the audience shouted back a resounding, “No!”

  The mayor cleared her throat. “Are you finished, Arthur? Petunia?”

  Subtle grumbles of assent flared up from various corners of the room. People tucked into the remnants of the mini pies, trying to calm their nerves with sugar and butter. Not the worst plan.

  “OK great,” the mayor said. “That was very nice. Now onto our first order of business. Deb Albany has requested the floor.”

  Deb, a round woman with cat-eye glasses and a thick head of curly hair, got to her feet. She worked as the secretary for the town lawyer, Tom Gigley, but she was famous in town for never shutting up about her vacations and cruises.

  That day, however, Deb did not so much as mention her most recent cruise (we all knew it had been to the Bahamas). She looked nervous as she took her place behind the podium. And she spoke in a thin, high-pitched voice.

  “Hello everyone. I have a personal emergency and I need your help finding my way to a resolution. My kitty cat, Sandra Day O’Connor, is looking for a life partner.”

  Arthur called out. “For real, Deb? You’re making a cat announcement tonight?”

  “This is my right, Arthur!” Deb glared, then continued. “Sandra is cute and playful. She has a fluffy, white coat. Deep and soulful hazel eyes. And a long, beautiful tail. She seeks a tomcat serious about joining a committed, monogamous relationship. Sandra would like someone with whom she can share her morning milk. Someone with whom she can watch her favorite cooking and gardening shows. She is open and honest and prefers the same from her mate. Let’s get the word out and find a special cat for Sandra Day O’Connor. Thank you and bless you all.”

  Members of the audience exchanged confused glances as Deb made her way back to her seat.

  The mayor had the same confused look on her face as she resumed her place at the podium. “OK. You heard Deb, people. Let’s find love for Sandra Day O’Connor, the cat. Moving on. The chief of police has an important message.”

  I grimaced as I watched Sunshine Flanagan make her way to the podium from the back of the room. Flanagan was Pine Grove’s resident hot cop. Besides Wayne, of course. She always looked glamorous, like she was the star of her own cop show on TV. Her flowing red hair swoosh-swooshed across her back. Her smile was white and bright. And her giraffe legs carried her across the barn in ten swift strides.

  “Good evening, citizens of Pine Grove,” Flanagan began.

  Petunia stood up. “Hey! Who died and made you the chief?”

  Flanagan glared at Petunia so hard I swear I saw one of the fabric lilies on Petunia’s shirt wilt. “Chief Daniels retired last month and named me as his replacement. May I continue?”

  “Fine. But I’m not sure I like you,” Petunia said.

  “I can live with that.” Flanagan shuffled a few papers around, then looked back up. “OK folks. As some of you may have heard, a burglar broke into a home out near Hastings Pond last night. But I’m here to quash the rumors before they begin. This was not a dangerous break-in. No one was threatened. No one was harmed. And the police are taking care of the matter. So keep living your lives. Keep shopping in our stores and eating in our restaurants. There’s nothing to worry about. Thank you.”

  Liz jumped out of her seat, reporter’s notebook in hand. “Flanagan! You can’t just walk away from the podium. I’ve got questions. What did the burglar steal? Whose home was it? Are there any suspects?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss any further details of the investigation,” Flanagan answered.

  “Why not?” Liz asked. “You just told us not to worry but you haven’t provided any details. Have you asked Chelsea and Miss May for their opinions?”

  Flanagan bristled. “The department does not need to consult with amateur sleuths. Not on this matter nor on any other.”

  “When is Wayne coming back?” Liz asked.

  I spoke up without thinking. “Should be in a couple days.”

  Every eyeball in the room swung to me in unison.

  “How do you know?” Liz asked. “Are you and Detective Hudson together now?”

  The event barn filled with whispers and giggles. I did not know what to do, so I babbled. That was my usual move.

  “What? No! That’s crazy. Who? Me and Wayne? We’re not together. We danced one time. Miss May played a song and we danced to it. It was a slow dance, but I mean, there were still a couple of inches between us. At one point our cheeks grazed. That was nice. Oh man, why am I talking? He’s so big and strong. I felt safe in his arms. Can we stop talking about me now?”

  All around me, townspeople giggled. So I covered my mouth, closed my eyes, and waited for the moment to end. Can I be invisible now? Come on, come on, come on...

  The mayor banged a gavel on the podium. “Enough giggling, people! Quiet down. Chelsea’s love for Detective Hudson and her weird babbling is not official town business. You can all talk about it after.”

  Gee thanks, Mayor.

  Mayor Delgado cleared her throat. “Now let’s talk about the planned Massive Mart at the Rosenberg Building.”

  Once again, the audience erupted with questions and conversation. But the mayor talked right over the din
of conversation and the room quieted down in a matter of seconds.

  “I urge each of you to consider the benefits that this kind of store could have within our community,” the mayor said. “Every Massive Mart creates hundreds of jobs. Further, Mr. Rosenberg and his associates have agreed to pay significant taxes on this building and business, at a rate far higher than the average Pine Grove business. Also, I have received a guarantee that the Pine Grove Massive Mart will charge less than any other store in the nation for toilet paper.”

  Arthur stood, red in the face. “What about traffic? What about the impact on other businesses? Also, just for the record, I’m fine with the price on toilet paper now!”

  “Me too!” Teeny said. “If you don’t like the price, use less toilet paper!”

  “And what about Big Dan and Master Skinner?” Arthur asked. “What are they supposed to do?”

  Hank Rosenberg laughed and craned his neck to look back at Arthur. “Are we still talking about toilet paper?”

  Arthur’s eyes bugged out and his cheeks puffed up. He looked like a balloon ready to pop. “No! I’m talking about for life! For their livelihoods!”

  Big Dan, owner of Big Dan’s Auto Repair, stood and raised his hand. “Can I say something?”

  A tall man with a goatee and feathery gray hair, Big Dan was well-known as an honest citizen and a great mechanic. So everyone simmered down when he wanted a turn to talk.

  “Thanks,” he continued. “Yeah. I thought I should say... I’m fine with this.”

  Mayor Delgado blanched. “You are?”

  Big Dan shrugged. “Yeah. Life is about change. I’m bored with being a mechanic. I want to open a donut shop. If that guy Hank tears down my garage? I’ll have no choice but to be Big Dan the Donut Man. I don’t know how to make donuts. But it can’t be harder than building a transmission using spare parts from an old Zamboni.”

  “Have you discussed this with Master Skinner?” Delgado asked. “Is he also fine with the Massive Mart?”

  “I don’t talk to that Skinner guy much,” Big Dan said. “He’s plenty nice. But too intense for me.”