“We look forward to it,” Mae said as the reporter and cameraman walked away.
“You were perfect,” I started. “Except?—”
Mae broke down in laughter before I could finish.
“Real funny. Next time we get interviewed on live TV, I’ll be sure to mention your first culinary attempt—feeding brownies to the neighborhood.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh, look, customers.”
Mae frowned before stomping off, apparently not amused, just because the brownies were so undercooked her “customers” needed a spoon to eat them.
Shooting me a glare that was undermined by the corner of her lips lifting ever so slightly, we finished out the day serving mostly desserts. By the time we packed up and jumped in the truck, I was exhausted. Thankfully our B&B was less than a ten-minute drive from the grounds.
“I brought a bottle of wine. Know it’s not your favorite, but I can’t drink it all by myself.”
“If that’s an invite to your bedroom, Mae, the answer is yes. I’ll drink Jeppson’s Malört if you’re leaving the adjoining door to our rooms open for me.”
I’d never uttered a truer statement despite the fact that Mae took it as a joke.
“How do you know we have adjoining rooms?”
“Asked for them specifically.”
“Why? And the real question is why would they give them to you?”
“Said we were coming for the festival and didn’t want to walk far between rooms.”
Mae snorted. “You mean you didn’t trust me not to wander off?”
“No, I didn’t trustmenot to knock on your door.”
“You’re impossible.”
Over the years, we’d had hundreds of similar conversations. The thing was, over time, they lost their effect. Mae always thought I was joking because she’d made her stance on us getting together crystal clear.
I almost lost Pia trying to figure shit out. Don’t make the same mistake.
Grow the fuck up, get your shit together and show Mae there’s more to you than some smooth lines and a halfway decent pour.
Except, I wasn’t joking. Less now than ever before.
19
MAE
The B&B was much smaller than Heritage Hill, probably a third of the size. But Parker knew the owner and had arranged it for us, which we appreciated since the first few places we called were sold out for the weekend. Technically, we could have headed back to Cedar Falls for the night, but having to replenish a few ingredients in the morning before setup was going to make for an early wake-up call as it was.
“Cute place,” I said as we waited to check in.
“Can I help you?”
Beck stepped up to the counter as I wandered around the front room that served as the lobby. The house was on the same lake as our festival, heading south. Reading an article on the wall, I learned it was owned by a husband and wife, the latter of which was helping Beck now. The article, from over twenty years ago, mentioned she was a chef.
I wandered over to the counter.
“And these are your keys,” the older woman said. “Up those stairs, the last two rooms on the right.”
