The first day of the fair dawned with a hint of fall in the air. Edith counted on the strength the Lord promised to get through the next few days. The doctor had pronounced her well enough to travel but cautioned her to be careful. The fair demanded a lot of stamina.
They had traveled to Rutland by wagon, but Edith looked forward to seeing motorcars at the fair. One dealer had already set up an exhibit with two shining machines. Half-a-dozen men crowded around it, studying the engine the way ladies might examine a particularly well-made dress.
“You’ll have to find time to visit the cars, Grant.” Edith stapled a green-checkered bunting to the front of their booth.
He hovered over her on a stepladder, placing a custom-made sign overhead. Edith had insisted that they call the business “Oscar Farms” since they had named both products after her family.
Once he finished, he came down and put his arm around her shoulders. “Oscar Farms, Grant Oscar and Edith Grace, Proprietors.” Pride rang through his voice.
“That sign alone makes me feel good. In spite of everything.” She waved her hands. “God let us get here. Adding a Bible verse to the labels was smart.”
“After all, ‘How sweet are thy words unto my taste! Yea, sweeter than honey to my mouth!’” Grant wiggled his eyebrows. “I could mention some other verses about honey, but I don’t think anyone wants to hear that they’ll vomit if they eat too much of it.”
Edith pretended to gag. “That’s only common sense.” She stepped back to study the effect. If heart, hard work, and quality alone could win, they’d jump to first place in a minute.
Grant joggled her arm. “Ladies are gathering for the baked goods competition.”
Edith’s stomach flip-flopped. Winning at least a couple of the baking competitions would make their bid for business that much stronger. No one cared about also-rans. “You’ll have to stay here. We can’t leave the booth unattended.”
Mama appeared like an answer to an unspoken prayer. “I’m sorry I didn’t get here earlier. I was caught up in admiring the quilts. But I’ll take care of the booth so both of you can hear the judges’ decisions.”
Edith managed a “thank you” as her feet headed for the corner of the pavilion. With Grant and her mother’s help, she had met her goal of entering all six categories of baked goods. She had her eye on the grand prize that stood four feet from the ground, for the best baker out of the hundreds spread before the judges. The ten-dollar monetary award would be nice as well.
Several women greeted Edith. In her first competition last year, she had shocked the competition by winning the quick-bread division for her apple walnut loaf. That had started her dream, in fact. If she could win one category, the only one she’d entered, why not try for all?
Mrs. Rowe, a lady with a commanding presence both in height and girth, approached. “She’s won the grand prize for the past three years,” Edith whispered to Grant.
“So glad to see you again. May we expect to see your apple walnut quick bread again this year?” Mrs. Rowe smiled like a cat waiting to pounce on a mouse who dared to come too near.
Edith held her head high. “Why, no, Mrs. Rowe. I’ve made something different.”
Mrs. Rowe studied the tables, as if trying to guess which plate held Edith’s entry. “Perhaps it’s that rich plum cake.”
Edith held back a giggle. “Why, that lovely cake must be your entry. I’m sure it’s delicious.” But not as good as hers was, God willing.
A hush settled across the crowd as the judges marched behind the tables. Edith wouldn’t want to be in their shoes, differentiating among dozens of entries from a single bite. The verse about too much honey and vomit came to her mind, and she hoped they didn’t get ill from partaking of so many delicacies.
Cookies came first. One judge had to break one in pieces because she couldn’t bite into it. It remained in her mouth a long time before she could chew it. The unfortunate baker’s face turned as red as her hair, and she buried her head against her husband’s chest.
Grant would care if she lost the contest, but he wouldn’t hold her in his arms. Those strong arms that could make a woman swoon.
The judges tried her honey ginger cookie without visible reaction. That was true of most of the tastes, so she told herself not to worry.
After every taste they made notes. When they finished, they retired to a corner and compared notes. A few quick minutes later, they had reached their decision. The lead judge headed down the table, placing the third-place yellow ribbon by a plate of sugar cookies, the red second-place ribbon by snickerdoodles. Edith held her breath. If she hadn’t placed at all, she would be heartbroken.
With a broad smile, the judges placed the blue ribbon by her honey ginger cookies. She spun around, wanting to cheer. Instead, she offered congratulations to the other ribbon winners.
Ladies offered her congratulations as well, including Mrs. Rowe. That spoke well of her, because her snickerdoodles came in second.
Grant didn’t say a word, but the joy gleaming in his eyes said it all.
One blue ribbon made Edith hunger for more. When she won a second blue ribbon, for her blueberry honey quick bread, and then a third, the congratulations turned into astonishment, and Edith could hardly hear what anyone had to say.
By the end, she had won four blue ribbons and two second-place ribbons. Her knees felt rubbery. Grant placed his arm around her, and she held on like an anchor, anxious to know whether the last big prize was hers.
One of the male judges picked up the trophy, and the room held its collective breath. Grant wasn’t sure who was more excited, him or Edith. She should win. No one else had come close.
The judge cleared his throat, and Edith’s fingernails dug into Grant’s arms. “We have a clear winner for the best baker in this fiftieth anniversary competition, since she placed in every category. Congratulations go to Edith Grace, of Edith’s Good Eating.”
The trophy dwarfed Edith. She placed it on the table while she spoke. “Thank you so much. I appreciate winning in the presence of so many wonderful cooks in the state of Vermont. And most of all I want to thank God, who answered my prayers.”
With that, Grant took the trophy before it dropped on Edith’s foot. “May I take a photograph for the paper?”
Edith agreed—why not? A photo would draw attention to the trophy, and their business. After the powder flashed, the reporter asked, “Miss Grace, do you have another trophy you wish to announce?” He pointed to Grant, who was holding the trophy.
Grant couldn’t help smiling, but he didn’t take the bait. “You’ll hear from us again. We expect this to be the first of several wins for Oscar Farms.” With that, he settled the trophy against his shoulder and slipped his other arm around Edie’s elbow to lead her away.
The trophy brought a lot of attention to their booth. Both women and men sampled her baked goods, and she introduced them to the “winning ingredient”—the honey. If they wished, she let them sample the honey butter, which sold as quickly as the bread. Win or lose, the Oscar Farm products were off to a good start.
Edith’s confidence in the honey proved true when it won its category. With five blue ribbons, two red ribbons, and one grand trophy, they should fare well in the business competition.
Grant couldn’t measure how much he hungered for a win. He craved, needed, to settle their debts and make certain the farm was on a secure financial footing before he would officially ask for Edith’s hand. He decided against the pulling contest after he saw the contestants hardened by years of scrabbling out a living in spite of Vermont’s harsh climate.
A different set of judges made the rounds throughout the day. “I wish we could see the other booths as well.” Edith rearranged the display to catch the eye as their supplies dwindled.
“Your mother will bring us news,” Grant said.
She didn’t answer, and he understood. He wanted to see for himself as well.
The judges didn’t make it to the Oscar Farms stall until the afternoon was well advanced. Over half of the baked goods had sold, leaving empty spaces on the shelves. Both the stickiness of honey and the creamy smear of butter had left their marks. Edie was wiping it down as best she could, one eye on the judges, one on the shelves. She scrubbed at one particularly stubborn spot and then dried it off.
The judges—three men, all of them successful entrepreneurs—approached. “Miss Grace. Mr. Oscar.” The youngest of the men, handsome and charming enough to win the ladies, spoke first. “Congratulations on your performance in the baking competition, Miss Grace. We have been looking forward to trying some of these amazing recipes.”
The second judge, round and friendly, pointed to the fifth blue ribbon. “I see you won first place for your honey as well. Well done.”
Both Grant and Edie smiled at that.
Edie looked worried. He could almost read her thoughts. What if they’re disappointed? “I have been sampling her cooking ever since I returned from the navy, and I haven’t tasted anything like it in all the world.”
The silent judge raised an eyebrow at that statement, but when he bit into a cookie, pleasure chased away any doubts about his opinion. “Your baking speaks for itself. But what makes the honey special?”
Edie spread honey butter over a muffin before handing it to them. She also offered each judge a honey dipper to sample the honey by itself, leaving the explanation to Grant.
“As you know, honey takes its flavor from the sources of the pollen. All the flowers God saw fit to put in Vermont fill the meadow where our log gums stand. When I was in the navy, I brought a jar of honey with me. Whenever I was homesick, I’d taste the honey and be reminded of all that was good and right at home.”
The final judge let the honey drip into his mouth. “You may be on to something.”
The trio didn’t ask any additional questions before they proceeded to the next booth. Edie’s green-glazed eyes mirrored the worry in his heart. His mouth felt too dry to speak, so he sipped from a glass of water. “Let’s shut down our booth and enjoy ourselves for the rest of the day.”
“Good idea.” She grabbed a box and started filling it. Their laughter released some of their tension as they packed their goods in boxes and baskets and covered the stack with a blanket. “Let’s go see the motorcars, shall we?”
Amazing that oil from the ground could make a car move without horses. If anything made him envious, these beauties would. “They say these things can go as much as twenty miles an hour.”
“Oh, Grant.” Edie put her hand to her mouth. “If we win, we must get one of these things. I could sell my baked goods to so many more places if we could ship them faster.”
The salesman noted their interest. “They say engineers in Europe are making engines with wagon beds behind the cab. They call them trucks. But for now—you’re right, this car could revolutionize your business.”
Grant’s jaw clenched while Edie chatted as if buying a car were possible. When they paused their discussion, Grant said, “Let’s find your mother and head to the hotel.”
Edie glanced over her shoulder one last time before they got too far. “Buying a car would be a good investment, Grant. Of course, we need to come up with a business plan first.”
Grant shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. Once they picked up Mrs. Grace, the two women talked so much that he just listened—and hoped they wouldn’t notice.
He was wrong. Once they reached the hotel room, Mrs. Grace went to the dressing room. Edie turned on Grant. “After the day we had, I expected to celebrate. Instead, you look like you’ve gone to a funeral.”
“No. Yes.” He blew out a deep breath. “I can’t afford a car, not now, not in five years—I don’t know if I can ever get one. There’s something you don’t know, the reason why I need to win that prize.”
Her forehead wrinkled. “So, you—we—can get our business started more easily.”
He shook his head. “I—Pa and me—need the money for the farm. Pa’s missed several payments. If we don’t pay, in full, we’ll lose the farm.” He turned his back to her. “I should have left the navy a long time ago, but I didn’t know how bad things were.”
“I didn’t know.” Edie circled around so she was facing him. “Why didn’t you tell me? We can work things out.”
He stepped away from her. “There is no ‘we’ until I know I can support a wife.” He knew he sounded angry. In truth, he was desperate.
“Pardon me.” Mrs. Grace stepped into the room. She had heard the entire humiliating confession. “Sit down. There’s something I probably should have told you a long time ago.”
The women sat on the hotel chairs and Grant took the bed. Mrs. Grace spoke again. “Grant, your father never told us that he was having problems. And Edie, there’s something you don’t know. Mr. Oscar loaned us money that helped us save our farm back in ’93. And he said we could pay him whenever we had the money. We were waiting until we’d harvested the last of our crops this year, but—we have the money. He should have asked.”
Edie gaped at her mother, and Grant was sure a similar expression appeared on his face.
When Mrs. Grace mentioned the amount, Grant couldn’t believe it. If his father loaned that much money to other farmers … “The bank may work with us if we can give them that much.”
“As soon as we get back to Spruce Hill, I’ll make sure the money is transferred to your bank. We should have done it months ago. If you win, we want you to use the prize money to start your business.”
“So what do you say, sailor man?” Edie had her hands on his lapel.
“That tomorrow won’t come soon enough.” Grant leaned forward and kissed her briefly. She ran for the dressing room, her cheeks a bright red. His joyous laughter followed her.