“Tillie sure is chatty,” Caroline said as I drove down Farm Lane to the shop.
“Loose lips sink ships,” I said. That was another of Buzzy’s old sayings.
“Riley, let’s stop a sec. I have to check on Sprinkles.”
I parked the Mustang and as we ran up the front porch steps I picked up a grocery bag someone had left by the door. I opened it to find two loaves of banana bread wrapped in tinfoil. I handed her the accompanying card.
Caroline read it. “How sweet. One of Buzzy’s customers left the bread for us.” She shook her head. “We can’t eat all the food we have already. I’ll bring them over to the farmhands later.”
We changed into work clothes, Caroline fed Sprinkles, and we sprinted down to the shop.
As Caroline went to serve customers, I mentally pushed aside the conversation with Tillie. It was time to compartmentalize and be the manager. I remembered Buzzy’s calendar. I’d have to check to make sure there weren’t any more special-order surprises.
Brandon was at the ice cream chiller, placing a tub on a cart under the spout. Brandon’s bony shoulders moved back and forth as he bopped to the music on his headphones.
In Buzzy’s office, I flipped through her calendar. On tomorrow’s page she’d written: Preserve Penniman 7pm. Community Hall. I looked up Preserve Penniman on my phone; the group was dedicated to “preserving Penniman’s historic and natural character.”
I considered what I’d learned from Kyle and Wilmer. Buzzy was looking into land trusts the whole time Mike was planning to develop the farm. The sale would bring in millions of dollars.
I leaned against the desk next to the empty space where the pile of bills had been and wondered if Caroline had considered how much money the sale of the farm could net. I rubbed my tired eyes. One thing I knew about Buzzy and Caroline: money didn’t motivate them.
It motivated Mike.
I’d go to the Preserve Penniman meeting.
I flipped through the calendar to Saturday. Buzzy had drawn a big sunflower around the date: “Sunflower Celebration. D-day!” On Sunday she’d scribbled, “Willow BG for pen.” What on earth did “BG” mean? I recalled Willow’s sketch of Hairy Houdini. Oh, baby goats. I had to start thinking like a farmer.
I flipped through the rest of the calendar, checking for more special orders. None in August or September or October—my breath caught. There was a big purple heart looping around Halloween and the words “Riley’s birthday.” Oh, Buzzy.
“Uh, help … Help? Help!” Brandon shouted.
I rushed to the workroom to find Brandon looking wildly from side to side as ice cream spewed from the chiller onto the floor. I ran to the machine, grabbing an empty tub as I went, then slammed my hand onto the on/off button by the chute. The flow of ice cream didn’t stop. Brandon pulled aside his overflowing tub and I set mine in its place, sidestepping to avoid the puddle of golden vanilla ice cream.
I yanked the power cord out of the wall and the machine ground to a halt.
“I don’t know what happened!” Brandon yelped. “It went crazy! I think it’s possessed?”
“Hang on.” I turned the power back on. Ice cream flowed out. I tried the on/off button again. This time the machine turned off.
Brandon blushed to the roots of his lank dark hair. “Maybe I pressed it too many times?”
I patted his shoulder. “No, I think it’s wonky.” Was that a technical term?
Flo hurried into the kitchen. “That machine acts up sometimes. You have to know how to press the button just right.” The way she said “just right” made me think of Goldilocks and the Three Bears, and I remembered Flo had taught kindergarten for forty years.
“Let’s get this mopped up. I think we can rescue the ice cream. What kind were you making, Brandon?” I asked.
“Ah, sunflower?”
Ah, sunflower. As Brandon mopped, I checked the Book of Spells and found the recipe for sunflower ice cream. I double-checked the mix-in ingredients Brandon had gathered by the machine—he had twice as much sunflower seeds and half as much honey as the recipe called for. At least this disaster gave me a chance to correct the ingredients.
Each layer had to be done in a specific order: honey, caramel, and shelled and roasted sunflower seeds interspersed with rich golden vanilla ice cream. It would’ve been faster and easier to layer in the mix-ins as the ice cream flowed from the machine, but I scooped each layer, drizzled honey and caramel, sprinkled in sunflower seeds, and then carried the heavy tub to the deep freezer. If anything, this job was whipping my arms into shape.
Brandon did do a good job mopping up, I’d give him that, and for the next few hours everything went smoothly. Flo wished us good night as she breezed out at eight. I glanced at the clock. One hour to go. Just before closing, I had to give out the golden ticket, a tradition Buzzy instituted to manage long lines. If the line went out the door, as it did tonight, ten minutes before closing Buzzy gave the person at the end of the line a sign to hold up. That person had to tell everyone who came after them that we were closed. It’s funny how well it worked. The golden-ticket holder then got a free ice cream for their trouble.
Flo hurried back in. “You need help closing.”
“No, really, go ahead, we can manage,” I said.
“I’ve got this.” Flo yanked the sign from my hands and ran outside, then ran back in moments later, smoothing her hair.
It all made sense when the golden-ticket holder stepped in the door—the handsome guy wearing the cowboy hat I’d seen Saturday. Caroline closed the shop door and slid down the shade that said See You ToMOOrow. He touched the brim of his hat as she passed.
I admit I glanced his way as he looked at the flavors board. He had broad shoulders, trim jeans, plus one of those large belt buckles that look ridiculous on most men but on him looked just right.
I scooped maple walnut for the customer in front of me and packed it into a still-warm waffle cone. Flo shouldered past me to wait on the handsome cowboy. Caroline and I exchanged smiles.
“What can I do for you, stranger?” Flo grinned.
He smiled at her warmly. “Good evening.” He took off his hat. Though his hair was more gray than brown, it was thick and long enough to brush his collar. His eyes turned to me and he smiled again.
I swear the ice cream in that cone should’ve melted with the surge of heat I felt. Handsome … rugged … his eyes were a deep, dark brown, the kind you want to sink into and tell your troubles to, because you knew he’d understand.…
“Can I have my cone please?” My customer reached for his maple-walnut cone.
I was pulled back from my reverie. “Yes, anything else?”
Flo chatted with the cowboy and handed him a hot fudge sundae with mint chocolate chip ice cream.
He nodded at the cup. “I notice your mint chocolate chip isn’t green, like in many places.” His voice was husky and rich and smooth, like bourbon, like amber honey.
“We don’t use any artificial coloring or flavors.” Flo was cool. I’d be incapable of forming words.
The more I looked at him, the more the cowboy did look familiar … but I’d probably seen a model who looked like him on the cover of a romance novel in my dad’s bookstore.
The cowboy said, “Thank you kindly,” to Flo, touched his hat to me and Caroline, and went outside. I watched him cross the parking lot as I locked the door behind him. He leaned against a long black vintage Cadillac Coupe De Ville as he ate his ice cream, chatting with a couple sitting at one of the picnic tables in front of the shop.
Later, as I swept up, I watched his car pull out. Texas plates. Of course.
Flo hung up her apron, humming “Deep in the Heart of Texas.”
“I’m not paying you overtime,” I said.
She laughed. “That silver fox is worth every minute. Not often you see a hottie like that.”
“Who is he?” Caroline asked, her voice dreamy.
Flo shrugged. “Don’t know—yet. My sources tell me that he’s been seen in a few restaurants and shops in town. He does stand out.”
“In a good way,” I said. “My knees actually went weak.”
“So did mine.” Caroline’s cheeks pinked.
Flo grinned. “So did mine. And I’ve got arthritis.”
After cleanup, Caroline said, “Let’s drop off the banana bread for the farmhands.”
We went down the darkened drive to the Brightwoods’ farmhouse. The sprawling house had been built in the 1800s with a deeply slanted back roof in the typical saltbox Colonial style, and a series of whitewashed additions connected the house to the large red barn, additions that ensured that generations of farmers wouldn’t have to brave a blizzard in order to tend their animals. A small overhead light illuminated a shingle hung outside a side door: Prudence Brightwood, Midwife.
Warm light glowed from one open window on the first floor of the farmhouse and I remembered that Pru and Darwin had a bedroom near the kitchen. Every window was dark on the second story, where the interns bunked. Even the teen volunteers adopted the early-to-bed rhythms of farm life.
“I don’t want to disturb Pru and Darwin,” I said.
Caroline whispered. “I’ll just put the breads on the table. The door’s never locked.”
“What is it with you people never locking your doors?” I joked. Growing up in Penniman, I’d never locked my door either. Living in cities for so long, not to mention my occasional assignments as an operative, had made me jaded and security conscious.
We cut through the small kitchen garden, the scent of basil, rosemary, and thyme rising as we passed. I followed Caroline into the kitchen, holding the screen door behind me to ease it shut.
A single light glowed over the sink. Despite the hum of the refrigerator and the gleam of the stainless-steel stove, Pru’s kitchen always made me feel that I’d stepped back in time. A long wooden table set with homespun place mats and flanked by long benches ran almost the length of the room. A wooden turned bowl filled with peaches was set in the center on a mat woven in harvest hues. A brick fireplace blackened by the cooking smoke of centuries and tall enough for petite Caroline to stand in loomed at the far end of the kitchen. A rocking chair stood by the fireplace, a basket of knitting nearby. How did Pru find time to knit along with all her farm chores and midwifery?
A clock ticked over the fireplace mantel as we set the wrapped breads on the table. The sound of voices in quiet conversation came from the hallway. We tiptoed out and Caroline slowly closed the door to keep it from banging shut.
As we crossed the garden, Pru’s and Darwin’s voices suddenly streamed from the window.
Pru’s tone was pleading. “Help me understand, Darwin. Why didn’t you say something to the police?” She lowered her voice but I made out one word clearly. “Mike.”
I pulled up short and Caroline bumped into me.
Darwin replied, “I didn’t want Willow to know. I know, I’m a fool. I ruined everything and I’ve dragged you all with me. I can’t lose everything we’ve worked for. I couldn’t take that chance.”
Pru’s response was muffled, but I heard, “You did what you had to do.”
Darwin’s voice: “He wasn’t worth it, Pru.”
With a low cry, Caroline covered her ears and ran home.
He wasn’t worth it? He. Mike? I ran through the shadows after Caroline.