Prose and Cons

by Amanda Flower

  “Emerson, you can’t come with me this time.”

  He stared at me with his big amber eyes.

  I put my hands on my hips, determined not to let him get the best of me. “How am I supposed to bring the cookies home with you in the basket? Do you want the cookies to be ruined?”

  He flattened his ears and cocked his head. It was his most pitiful face, which caused me to cave every single time.

  I shook my finger at him. “I mean it. You can’t come.”

  The old-fashioned ironwork lampposts flickered to life as the sun made its downturn west. I didn’t want to be biking cookies back to Charming Books in the dark. I didn’t have time for Emerson’s stubbornness.

  The tuxie crouched lower in the basket and dug his claws into the towel I kept there to make the ride more comfortable for him. If the towel was any indication, Emerson and I both knew who would win this one.

  I sighed. There was no arguing with the cat when he dug his claws in. “Fine, you win. Again.”

  He purred and settled into the bottom of the basket as I set off from Charming Books. At the curb, I paused to take a look at the periwinkle blue Victorian with its tower, delicate gingerbread, and wraparound porch. Sometimes, I still couldn’t believe I was living and working there again after over a decade away. I smiled. It felt right. At some point over the last four months, I had accepted my prodigal return to the village and my place as the Caretaker of the shop. Grudgingly, I admitted to myself Grandma Daisy’s warning had been just—I needed to be more careful not to reveal what the shop’s essence could do. I kicked off from the sidewalk.

  The ride between Charming Books and La Crepe Jolie was typically a short one. The village was so tiny that a bike ride from end to end took no more than fifteen minutes.

  However, the evening before the Food and Wine Festival, the trip took longer than I expected as vendors and a few early bird tourists crowded River Road, the main street in Cascade Springs, which began in the shopping district where Charming Books was but then took a sharp turn to follow the path of the Niagara River.

  A green space and trail on the river side of the street, called the Riverwalk, included a park, the local swanky spa, and the village pavilion. On the other side of the street away from the river, there were more businesses, like La Crepe Jolie, and the stately town hall.

  White canvas tents operated by local restaurants and wineries dotted either side of the road and the filled park as vendors made last-minute preparations for the festival. The park boasted the premier food and wine tents, and I knew that was where Morton Vineyards’ booth would be. I planned to avoid the park at all costs, and the town hall itself for good measure. I didn’t want any impromptu meetings with the village mayor, Nathan Morton, the boy-now-man who’d broken my heart when I was seventeen.

  In the months since I had moved back to Cascade Springs, I had expertly avoided Mayor Nathan Morton, my ex-boyfriend, which was no easy feat in a village with only a few thousand people. My best diversionary tactic was duck and cover. It was not uncommon for me to throw myself behind a bush or around the side of a building like an army private diving into a foxhole to avoid being seen by the village mayor.

  I hit my bike’s brakes as a pair of tourists stared up at the town hall and its domed clock tower. A large banner emblazoned in purple and gold script announcing “Cascade Springs Food and Wine Festival” hung just below the clock tower. With all the attractions New York’s Niagara region had to offer, tiny Cascade Springs was the place to be this weekend, and we expected an influx of several thousand tourists.

  Other small towns held Oktoberfests this time of year, but not Cascade Springs. The village fought for its reputation of high-class refinement. Because of this, while other towns touted brats and beer gardens, Cascade Springs brought out the wine and cheese.

  With the maple and oak trees at their autumnal peak, it was easy to see why the Food and Wine Festival was held in the zenith of the season. It was as if the entire town was fringed in gold, bronze, and scarlet and any gap in color was more than made up for by the village groundskeepers, who coddled the village’s public green spaces with unadulterated devotion. The planters and gardens overflowed with mums and asters of every color. All year round, the village groundskeepers took immense pride in the upkeep of Cascade Springs’ green spaces, but for the annual Food and Wine Festival, they brought their A game.

  The question on my mind remained. Would the Poe-try Reading at Charming Books be attractive enough to the thousands of tourists to entice them away from the food and wine tents?

  I chimed the bell on my bicycle’s handlebars and the pair stepped to the side. I imagine Emerson, with his white forepaws braced on the front of the basket, gave them his signature smile as we passed. The two gawked at the cat and snapped photos of Emerson and me with their phones.

  After his photo shoot, Emerson settled back into the basket.

  I was just under way again when I hit the brake hard for two college-aged girls who stumbled directly in my path. They laughed and clutched plastic wineglasses close to their chests in order to avoid spilling any of the precious contents. It looked like they had scored a sample from one of the wine merchants a day early. I didn’t look too closely at the two girls, afraid they might be some of my students from Springside Community College, where I was an adjunct English professor. In the student-professor relationship, it was sometimes better not to cross paths in the wild for everyone’s sake.

  Finally, feeling like I had just run a gauntlet, I parked my bike in front of La Crepe Jolie, a delightful French café. I gave a sigh of relief that the town hall was now behind me and dropped the kickstand on my bike, hopping off. In the same motion I removed my bike helmet in a practiced move.

  “Violet, over here!” Lacey Dupont waved at me from the front door of La Crepe Jolie, which she co-owned with her French-Canadian chef husband, Adrien. Adrien had moved to Cascade Springs to open the café a little over five years ago, fallen in love with my old schoolmate Lacey, and, as far as I knew, never set foot on the other side of the border again.

  I smiled at her, and Emerson jumped from the bicycle basket to my arms. The cat quickly latched himself to my right shoulder like he was a black-and-white fur wrap that I’d haphazardly tossed around my neck.

  Lacey placed her hands on her ample hips. “Violet Waverly, I thought you were going to mow down those two girls on your bicycle.”

  I shook out my long strawberry blond hair, which felt like it was in a tangle of knots from being tucked under the helmet. “It wasn’t even close.”

  She laughed. “That’s good. It wouldn’t do for you to crash into the tourists. I’m sure the town council and the mayor would have something to say about that.”

  I ignored her comment about the mayor. Lacey, my grandmother, and half the town would love nothing better than to see Nathan and me back together like some kind of local storybook fairy tale. As much as they wished for that, it wasn’t going to happen. I wasn’t a storybook princess and didn’t pretend to be, and Nathan was far from Prince Charming.

  “Grandma Daisy sent me over to collect the cookies for our reading at Charming Books tomorrow,” I said, hoping she would drop any more talk of Nathan. “It was so kind of Adrien to offer to bake them. You both must be terribly busy with the café and the festival. I hope the cookies weren’t too much trouble.”

  White blond wisps of hair escaped the enameled barrettes on either side of her head and framed her rosy cheeks. “My Adrien loves nothing better than an all-night baking marathon. That’s when my love is in his true element. Daisy called me when you left Charming Books, so I have the boxes right here for you.” She pointed at the white metal tables with matching chairs. On one of the tables were four large bakery boxes. I blinked at the boxes. “Are those all for the Poe-try Reading?”

  She gave the top box a loving pat. “You bet.”

  I bl
inked again. “Lacey, how many cookies did you give us?”

  She held up her hands as if in surrender. “Don’t blame me. It’s all Adrien. You know when he gets to baking. There’s no stopping him.”

  I still didn’t take the boxes. “Don’t you need some of these for the café or for your tent at the festival? There is no way we will have enough tourists at the reading to eat all of these.”

  She waved me away. “Oh, I have plenty more where those came from. Adrien made twice as many for the café and for the booth.”

  “What’s in here?” I asked, nodding to the boxes.

  “All Adrien’s favorites: madeleines, sugar and lemon, macaroons, Langues-de-Chat, and three kinds of meringues. He included an extra dozen of the lemon madeleines. He knows those are Daisy’s favorite.” She smiled.

  My mouth watered just from hearing all the names of the cookies. “Thank Adrien for us both. I should head back. There’s a Red Inkers meeting tonight, and we are going over final preparation for the reading tomorrow.”

  She scratched Emerson on the top of his head. “How are you going to transport these cookies back to Charming Books with him riding shotgun?”

  Emerson purred in my ear and shifted his weight on my shoulder. I could almost hear his thoughts. “Me? How could I ever be a problem?”

  “That’s a good question.” I set Emerson back in his basket, and he propped his white paws on the basket’s front rim as he did when he was ready for the next adventure. Since Emerson was always ready for the next adventure, he posed like that a lot. “If you have a sack,” I said, “I can carry the cookies in the bag and Emerson can keep his spot.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea in this traffic?” The space on her forehead between her eyes creased. She must have been remembering my near collision with the college girls.

  Even with the population of the village tripling for the festival, it was nothing compared with the rush hour I’d endured in Chicago. “I’ll be fine,” I reassured her.

  With a shake of her head, she slipped inside the café. She was back in less than a minute with a large canvas bag. She carefully packed the boxes of cookies inside. “Still doesn’t seem safe to me. If you get in an accident, I’m going to tell Daisy I tried to discourage you.”

  I chuckled. “She’ll believe you. Don’t you worry about that.” I thanked her for the cookies one last time and kicked off the curb.

  With my violet helmet securely on my head, a cat in my bicycle basket, and one hand on the handlebars, I pedaled down River Road in the direction of Charming Books. My other hand held the tote bag of cookies, which was so heavy that I had to lean in the opposite direction to avoid toppling over.

  As I cruised around one of Cascade Springs’ ubiquitous horse-drawn carriages parked in front of the town hall, I made the mistake of glancing up at the hall itself. Dusk had fallen in the time that I had been gone from Charming Books to retrieve the cookies. Despite the fading light, I could clearly see Mayor Nathan Morton standing on the hall’s top step as if surveying the festivities of his town, but in reality, his gaze was locked on me. Under one of the village’s streetlamps, I felt like a spotlight shone on me, and with no bush to dive behind in sight, I pedaled away as fast as I dared with my heavy load of cookies, feeling his eyes on my back the whole ride home.

  I was so distracted by spying Nathan that I nearly hit a man who was marching across the road with a harmonica hanging from a stiff wire from his neck and an acoustic guitar strapped across his chest. He wore rectangular wire-rimmed glasses and had a full, well-kept gray beard. A long gray ponytail hung down his back over the lined flannel coat he wore. I had never seen him before, but that was to be expected. Most of the people in the village during the festival were visitors.

  The man smiled at me in such a disarming way, I almost dropped the sack of cookies. Emerson crouched low in the basket as if he expected a crash.

  “I’m so sorry,” I called as I pedaled on.

  I could have been wrong, but I would have sworn I heard him say, “That’s all right, Violet,” behind me. I shook the thought from my head. I must have heard him wrong, because there was no reason for him to know my name, no reason at all.

  THREE

  I made the turn on River Road toward Charming Books, and the crowds of tourists began to thin. The closer to home I drew, the more certain I was I’d misheard the man with the guitar. He didn’t say my name, or if he did, was that really all that surprising? Grandma Daisy was one of the most prominent figures in the village. It wasn’t impossible for people in the village I didn’t recognize to know who I was because of my grandmother.

  The strap of the cookie bag was biting into my fingers, so I hopped off my bike and walked it the last few feet to Charming Books.

  Anastasia Faber, a Red Inker, stood under a streetlamp a few feet from the fence that surrounded Charming Books’ small front yard. Anastasia had her back to me and she held a cell phone to her ear. “You aren’t listening to me,” she shouted at the person on the other end of the call. “I don’t have time for your excuses!”

  I inched closer, unable to squash my curiosity about her conversation.

  Anastasia gripped her cell phone so tightly I was surprised it didn’t crack as her knuckles turned white. “Fix it. Do you understand me? Find out who is behind this. I don’t care how you do it, but fix it. If you can’t, I will find someone who can.” She ended the call, opened her large purse, and tossed the phone inside. She spun around and gasped when she found me just a few feet behind her. “How long have you been standing there?” she demanded.

  Had any of the other Red Inkers greeted me like that, I would have been shocked and even a little hurt. However, for Anastasia, it was a pretty standard greeting. It was her way of saying “hello.”

  I held up the bag from La Crepe Jolie. “I just picked these up from La Crepe Jolie. They’re cookies for tomorrow.”

  She curled her lip at the bag of cookies as if she thought I was just using them as a decoy. Maybe I was. I was insanely curious about Anastasia’s phone call and felt terrible for whoever was on the receiving end of her rage. Anastasia was typically irritable and unpleasant, but I had never heard her furious before. It wasn’t a good look for her.

  She turned her glare on Emerson, who stared back at her in that impassive cat way that clearly said that he couldn’t care less about her or her troubles.

  I broke into their staring contest. “Anastasia, is everything all right?”

  She smoothed back her silky brown hair with her ever-present headband, which was rust colored today, perhaps in honor of fall. “Everything’s fine, perfectly fine.” She pursed her lips. “Let’s hope it stays that way and the reading tomorrow isn’t a complete disaster. Charming Books doesn’t need any more poor publicity after your grandmother was accused of murder over the summer, does it?” With that, she marched into the bookshop, leaving me to carry in the bakery boxes myself. I refrained from sticking my tongue out at her behind her back, but only because a tourist nearby would have seen me do it.

  “Nevermore!” Faulkner cawed from his perch halfway up the centuries-old birch tree as I stumbled into the shop with the tote bag of cookies in my arms. Emerson wove in and around my feet. It was a miracle that I didn’t trip over him.

  “Violet, let me help you with that.” Grandma Daisy hurried toward me and took the bag from my arms. She set it on a side table.

  “Thanks.” I sighed with relief.

  “Are all these cookies for tomorrow?” she asked as she unpacked the boxes.

  I nodded. “Adrien may have grossly overestimated how popular the Poe-try Reading will be.”

  Grandma Daisy grinned. “If it’s a flop, we’ll have enough cookies to drown our sorrows.”

  I glanced around the main room of the bookshop. “Where’s Anastasia? She came in the shop a few seconds before me.”

 
“She ran into the kitchen,” Grandma Daisy said. “She muttered something about needing to freshen up before the rest of the Red Inkers arrived. I just stepped out of the way. There’s no point in engaging that woman until absolutely necessary.”

  “Grandma . . .” I said.

  “Violet.” She mimicked my tone. “You know as well as I do Anastasia is rearing for an argument. It was written all over her face when she stomped inside. I hope she doesn’t cause a scene at the Poe-try Reading tomorrow. This event has great potential to drum up business for the shop.”

  I thought of Anastasia’s argument over the phone, which I overheard just a few minutes ago. “I hope she doesn’t either.”

  “Did he make lemon madeleines?” Grandma Daisy lifted the lid to one of the boxes and peeked inside. “Those are my favorites.”

  “Yes,” I said, running my fingers through my hair as best I could to remove the bike helmet tangles. It was a futile act. “And Adrien made an extra dozen just for you.”

  “Nevermore!” Faulkner called again as he swooped down from the tree and onto his perch in the front window.

  I gave the crow the hairy eyeball. “You’re getting way too much mileage out of that quote.”

  Faulkner bobbed his head and repeated the famous quote from “The Raven.” Ever since the poem was read aloud at the Red Inkers meeting the week before, the crow had been repeating “Nevermore” over and over again until I wished the word could be stricken from the English language forevermore.

  Despite my annoyance, I didn’t tell Faulkner that he was a crow, not a raven. There was no reason to take the fluff out of his feathers.