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The entrance to Tipsy Tavern is a metal archway with a hanging sign. The medieval font and the dark wooden deck stretching all around the restaurant add to the Swiss-inspired feel of downtown Buttercup Ridge. I adjust my sweater and smooth my jeans. My fanciest article of clothing is a form-fitting fern green dress I’ve reserved for Christmas Eve. Jeans are the best I can do and, honestly, jeans are more me.
The tavern is busy. I can hardly hear the music over all the chatter, but that’s okay. It’ll drown out any awkward silences that might occur. Dates are different than a spontaneous rendezvous at a Gingerbread Festival. My stomach churns because I haven’t done this sort of thing in a while. I’ve been too hung up on pastry.
I see Brant sitting at the bar. Winnie laughs as she fills up his glass of water. Winnie spots me instantly and waves in my direction. There is no backing out now. I push aside the to-do list in my head. It isn’t easy. Tomorrow is the day before the big party. It’s the day I’ll be recipe testing and doing most of my baking. My phone buzzes in my jacket but I ignore it. I’ll check my messages later.
Brant grins as he waits for me to join him at the bar. It’s tricky to get to because there are tables everywhere. They don’t seem to be situated in any sort of pattern, almost like Winnie decided to pack them all in regardless of the restaurant’s square footage. When I finally reach the bar, Winnie pours me a glass of water and hands me a menu.
“Sorry about the crowd, hun,” Winnie shouts over the music. “We add extra tables during the festival. If we didn’t, we would have a line down the street.”
“Please, order whatever you want on me,” Brant says.
“I see you left the Bells Yeah shirt at home this time,” I reply. I’m used to seeing him in his uniform and glasses now. He scratches the side of his head. His sandy hair is parted to the side and gelled. He is wearing a thin, navy sweater and his glasses are nowhere to be seen.
“I thought I would exercise some maturity and prove to you that I do own some big boy clothes,” he answers.
“What’ll you have, hun?” Winnie looks almost the same as she did last night with her powder blue eyeshadow and matching blouse.
“Just a cola, please. I have an early morning and I need to keep a clear head.”
Winnie raises her eyebrows and looks at Brant. “Well, aren’t you both on the same wavelength? I’ll get y’all the Delford special. Root beer with butterscotch syrup. It’s what I give the little ones.”
“Thank you, Ma’am.” Brant raises his water glass.
“Y’all better be ready to choose an appetizer by the time I get back.” Winnie hurries to the kitchen and Brant shakes his head.
“It appears that this date is being chaperoned,” he comments.
“Small town, right?”
“Yes, cheers to that.” He clinks my water glass. “I hope you’re okay with a summary of our evening being printed in the Buttercup Gazette.”
“They do need to keep tabs on their most eligible bachelor.”
“What’ll the Buttercup Knitting Circle talk about if they didn’t?” he jokes. “Seriously though, I thought we could just eat and walk around the festival while I’m not on duty. Just two friends out and about.”
The butterflies in my stomach calm themselves. “I like the sound of that.”
“Also, I agreed to be on-call tonight so cheers to the Delford special,” he adds.
“To adding more sugar to an already sugary drink,” I reply. “The children of Buttercup Ridge send their sincere thanks.”
Brant chuckles. “How do you feel about pickle fries?”
“I’m intrigued.”
Winnie returns with our drinks and Brant orders appetizers. The noise around us seems to fade the more we talk. I take sips of the Delford special and listen to Brant’s story about how he came to be a paramedic. I follow by telling him about Grandma Liz and the glory days of her former bakery. Dad sold it after she passed away.
“How does one go from prima ballerina to pastry chef?” Brant studies my expressions.
“Well, I was a never a prima ballerina,” I correct him. “You can’t throw around a title like that. I was a little better than average, but not good enough to be the star of the show. I always figured I would move on to teaching.”
“And now you are a teacher.” He takes a swig of his Delford special and presses his lips together. “Okay, my sugar-meter is almost to the top.”
“No dessert then?” I laugh. I have plenty of Delford special left in my glass and I don’t intend on finishing it.
“I’m not in the mood to fall into a sugar coma tonight.” He discreetly pushes his glass away and takes a bite of fried pickle.
“Baking made me happy when I was younger,” I explain. “Especially baking with Grandma Liz. After I injured my back, I guess you could say I went searching for some of that happiness I’d lost over the years.”
“I know the feeling.” He sighs, focusing on the last cheese fry. “It’s nice to know someone’s got it figured out.”
“Oh, don’t be fooled.” I wave my hands in front of my face. “I headed down a path without thinking about the destination. Next year, I’ll go back to teaching at the school until my contract is up. After that, who knows?”
“Perhaps I can persuade you to come to Buttercup Ridge,” he replies. “It’s the busiest tourist town in northeast Georgia. And before you say anything, no, it’s not the only tourist town in northeast Georgia. At least, I don’t think so.”
“I don’t think Ethel and Lottie would appreciate having two bakeries on Main Street. Besides, I don’t want to cause trouble.” My eyes dart to the clock behind the bar. We’ve been talking for almost two hours.
“Some healthy competition isn’t trouble,” he points out. “But yeah, you’re right. That would send the drama in this town over the edge.”
Winnie knocks on the counter, tearing my attention away from Brant. “I told Hadley your food is on the house. See you two love birds later.” She knocks on the counter again. “Another one for good luck.”
“Where are you off to when the tavern is packed to the brim with paying customers?” Brant scratches his chin.
“Rowena and the snowflakes are performing again,” Winnie says. “I’m not going to miss it this time.” She zips up her leather jacket and lazily drapes a hot pink scarf around her neck.
“Wish her good luck from us,” he says.
“You’re welcome to mosey on over and tell her yourself,” Winnie answers. “Bye, kids.”
Winnie maneuvers through the restaurant while staring down at her cell phone. She can probably navigate her way through the crowds of people with her eyes closed. Brant dabs his lips with his napkin. This is my cue to leave – to say I have to go back to Buttercup Manor and practice my entry for the Gingerbread Confections Contest. My candy has to be submitted Thursday morning and a winner will be chosen by Thursday afternoon. But the Gingerbread Festival only happens once a year and so does the gingerbread dog costume competition parading around its entrants tonight.
Unfortunately, Pudding will not be participating.
“Did she say she missed Rowena’s last performance?”
“Yeah.” I take a deep breath. I’m itching to know the reason why but that itch always gets me into trouble.
“Huh.” Brant rubs the back of his neck. “That’s a bit strange. She was there last night.”
“She made a run for it last night,” I respond. “Don’t you remember?”
“I was a little distracted.” He grins
“Winnie booked it when she saw that cop,” I explain. “Any ideas why she might have done that?”
“Wait a minute.” Brant crosses his arms, slightly leaning back on his barstool. “What makes you think it was the cop?”
“Because he was looking for her. I heard him say so before we left.” I shrug. I know what I heard. I also know that in a town like this, Winnie can’t ditch being questioned by the police for long.
“That’s not like Mrs. Delford to do a thing like that,” he says. “Oh, wait. Never mind.”
“Now you can’t say a thing like that without explaining.” I twirl a strand of hair until he starts to explain.
“There were some fishy things going on around here back when Mr. Delford ran the show,” he mutters. “But that was years ago.”
“Where is Mr. Delford now?” I ask.
“Locked up, unfortunately.”
“Oh.” I nod, imagining how hard it must be to run Tipsy Tavern alone. I see how taxing the manor is for Narine to manage on her own and that was before she broke her toe.
“What do you say we walk across the street?” Brant changes the subject. “I don’t mind seeing another breakdancing gingerbread man now that I’m prepared for it.”
I put on my jacket and follow Brant outside. I don’t notice how stuffy it was in the tavern until I breathe in the evening air. My cell phone buzzes again and I glance at it quickly. Another text from Bree. I drop my phone back into my pocket. Down the street from us is the Alpine Bakery. The hanging metal sign of a soft pretzel sways back and forth. The lights in the bakery are off but I imagine Ethel is manning her tent at Buttercup Park.
“You heard about the second fire, right?”
“It’s all my mother can talk about,” he comments. “Two days in a row. They say some inspector person is paying them a visit this week. They run the risk of being shut down until they get their ducks in a row.”
“And so close to Christmas,” I reply. “That’s terrible luck.”
“Are you still standing by that sabotage theory?” He escorts me across the street. Groups of people, tourists and locals, are slowly strolling toward Buttercup Park.
“I did see something odd today, but it’s probably nothing.”
“Okay.” He focuses his attention on the festival and the fact that there are a handful of dogs in costumes just ahead of us.
“Don’t you want to know what I saw?”
“You said it was probably nothing,” he responds.
“You should be even more curious than I am. You live here.” I shake my head and observe a bulldog in a Grinch sweater. The sweater really suits the annoyed look on the dog’s face.
“Right. Tell me then.” He pauses in the middle of the archway leading to the heart of the Gingerbread Festival. A couple wearing matching reindeer headbands awkwardly redirect their path and walk around us.
“I saw Narine’s first paying guest,” I say quietly, glancing over my shoulder like Mackey Granville himself might be lurking behind us listening. “He stepped out of the bakery moments before the smoke alarms went off.”
“I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.”
“He was in town when the fire happened on Monday too,” I continue.
“Poppy, you and I were both in town too,” he points out. “I think you need stronger evidence than that.”
“How about a gut feeling?” I touch my abdomen. “Every once in a while, my gut gets it right.”
“What does your gut say about the dog contest because I’m seeing a lot more costumes than last year?” he asks, scanning the lane ahead of us. We continue walking toward the stage where a woman dressed as a candy cane is reading winter-themed poetry.
“It says that a little Yorkie Pudding would have stood a good chance of winning if she wasn’t so stubborn.”
The smell of baked goods grows stronger the closer we get to the stage. I see Ethel’s pretzels in the hands of just about everyone. It lifts my spirits to see that another fire in the kitchen hasn’t stopped her from selling her festival fare.
“Brant!”
The voice echoing through the crowd is familiar. A young girl with shimmery gold eye shadow and flecks of glitter in hair blocks our path. Her eyes fixate on Brant, hardly even noticing I’m standing right next to him.
“Rowena, how’s the shoulder,” Brant says, greeting her.
“It’s great,” she answers. “A little sore but great. We’re about to go on stage again. Will you be there?”
“Sure.” Brant shrugs.
Rowena’s eyes light up. “This is for you.”
She hands Brant something small and shiny. He holds it up to the string of holiday lights illuminating the nearest tent. I squint. There is something engraved on it.
“Is that a—”
“Guitar pick,” Rowena finishes. “Yes. It’s a little thank you from me.”
“You play the guitar?” I tilt my head. Rowena glances at me for the first time. She does a horrible job of hiding her frown.
“Not really but I’ve always wanted to learn,” he answers politely.
“It’s engraved with a S,” Rowena continues. She takes a step closer to Brant and farther from me. Brant scratches the side of his cheek. “For Sherwood? Your last name?”
“Right,” he responds. Thank you very much.” He immediately points to the stage in the distance. The seats surrounding it are already full. All that’s left is standing room. “You better get going or you’ll miss your cue.”
“Okay.” She turns to leave.
When Rowena disappears into the crowd, Brant studies her gift again before shoving it into his pocket. He shakes his head. I doubt it is the first time Brant has received that sort of attention from a former female patient, but Rowena is just a teenager.
“Sorry if that was awkward,” he apologizes. “I just smile and nod really.”
“And now you have a reason to buy a guitar,” I add.
“Yeah.” His forehead creases as he stares off into the distance. “It’s a pretty random choice of gift, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.” I sniff the evening air and my stomach growls even though I just ate. I still have enough room for one more thing. “But forget about all that for a minute and tell me something. What are the chances we can buy a sweet pretzel without Ethel or Lottie seeing us?”
“Let’s find out.”
