Extortion wasn’t Libby’s style, but a little bribery? Maybe. Aunt Emma had transferred a lot of vacant lakefront property to Libby, maybe she could use that for the bribery component.
“And don’t forget to tell her, no rent on the building and no rent on the cottage.”
Aunt Emma had spent her life savings and sizable inheritance to buy land and homes in her own effort to stave off corporate development. Between the two women, they owned property all over the area. Now it was up to Libby to figure out how to stave off total bankruptcy for her aunt and herself. A lot was riding on Libby’s ability to rehab an entire town.A lot.
“The one on Orchard Beach and Cottage?” Libby ran through the catalog of stuff they had between the two of them to rent, sell, or renovate. The cottage on Orchard Beach was tiny, but it was right on the lake, and it was adorable. It didn’t have heat and only one bathroom, but you couldn’t beat the view.
“Yes, talk about a stroll down memory lane.”
“Right, her grandparents' old farm stand was on Manitou Road, on the other end. She’ll drive right by the old place to get to Orchard Beach if she says yes. Nothing like pulling at the heartstrings.”
Libby remembered the fresh corn on the cob, the juicy peaches, and the giant tomatoes at the old Benton Farm Stand. Hope did, too. She had to.
“Well, her kids are grown, and her husband is puny; in my opinion, the cottage is plenty of room for now.”
“Aunt Emma, you shouldn’t be creeping on social media.”
“Pshaw. Go to Vegas. If you can’t convince Hope to come home to Irish Hills, lure some other chef. They’re going to be crawling all over with that contest underway. It’s like the Super Bowl of cooking.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“I saw that on TikTok.”
“You’re pretty with it for ninety-something.”
“You should see me dance! I’ve almost got the moves to Lizzo’s new song down perfectly!”
Libby was amazed by her eccentric aunt, but in the end, the woman was committed to the plan fully. Libby was, too, so it was time to nicely bribe her old friend to join the cause.
Libby flew from Detroit to McCarron Airport, took an Uber to Fremont Street, and watched, in awe, as her old friend, a charter member of the Sandbar Sisters, cooked her heart out.
The odds were stacked against this plan. Libby’s life had been in total disarray when she’d taken a detour back to Irish Hills. But Hope seemed to be thriving. She’d won the recipe contest the day before and was now one of ten competing to be the best cook in the world!
It was amazing. Hope’s life had turned out beautifully, and she was at the top of her game in a competitive field. Libby was so proud of who Hope had become.
Still, maybe there was a chance that Hope felt the same about Irish Hills as Libby did.
And as her aunt had pointed out, if Hope said no, this place was teeming with amazing cooks. Maybe someone here would jump at the opportunity Libby was offering.
Libby watched as Hope glided through her food preparation. She seemed to glow with purpose as she added ingredients, mixed them in her bowl, wielded her little thermometer, and sampled her work along the way before moving to the next step.
Libby watched as her friend lent a competitor a stick of butter in the adjacent kitchen station. She did it with a wink and a smile. Hope was generous where Libby would have been throwing elbows and trying to win.
Hope was in competition with these people, but she was being gracious.
In the woman, Libby could see the girl she’d rode bikes with, got sunburned with, and who was an integral part of their little summer gang of girls.
Her chestnut hair was mostly white in the front. A huge lock of it grabbed your attention when you looked at her. Right now, Hope’s thick hair was pulled up and away from her face. Still, the snowy white locks glowed from her widow’s peak. Libby was envious. She had gray, not white, and nothing glowy about it. Libby needed J.J. and a day in the salon to keep her hair color. Hope was rocking the white streaks like, well, a rock star.
Her face had changed in thirty years. A few crinkled lines at the eyes, and a furrow at the brow, marked the decades. They were signs of whatever Hope had endured during her life. Good and bad. No matter how life had unfolded, by the time you got to fifty, well, everyone who got this far had lived through something. Ups and downs.
But it was the same Hope: the warmth, the little flirt in the smile she gave to her fellow competitors, her deep laugh as a spectator cheered how she garnished her dish. Libby would recognize that laugh anywhere, anytime.
And Hope’s eyes hadn’t changed. Libby remembered Hope’s eyes. They were the color of amber; they had sealed the doom of the hearts of teen boys throughout the county back in their day.
Libby watched as the competitors turned their dishes in.
In an hour, they’d all find out how they fared.
