Me: I feel like we need to address the Pop-Tart thing. Those are not baked goods.
Clyde: Um, I heat them in the toaster.
Clyde: Usually.
Clyde: Sometimes I just raw dog them and eat them right out of the package.
I laughed so hard that I nearly dropped my phone.
Clyde: I cannot believe I just said that.
Clyde: Please ignore me.
Clyde: Pretend I did not just use “raw dog” in polite conversation.
It took me a moment to compose myself.
Me: I’m sorry. I cannot. I screenshot it for posterity.
She replied with the same glaring GIF.
Clyde: Okay, what are your three favorite baked goods?
Her embarrassment and misery were palpable, even over text. She was typing fast over there to change the subject. And I’d let her. Mostly because I didn’t want her to freak out and stopmessaging me. I liked having her here, like this. Right at my fingertips. Even if I should be keeping my hands to myself.
With my grin far from fading, I responded,Blueberry lemon scones, sourdough bread ...
I let the answer hang there, knowing she’d fill the silence with her curiosity.
Clyde: And?
Me: And your blueberry muffins.
The Kirby Falls Business Association meeting was being held in the library’s meeting room. It had a podium at the front and probably ten rows of chairs with a narrow central aisle.
I stood in the back near the refreshment table.
The library hadn’t really been on my radar growing up, which was ironic considering how much I read now, as an adult. I didn’t have fond, paperback-scented memories of story time or library programs. There hadn’t been summer reading events to keep me busy in middle school. Instead, I’d found trouble more often than not.
I caught sight of several local business owners, sitting and chatting in their seats. Margaret Mahroney from the flower shop downtown. The lady who always wore a bright caftan and owned Paperback Writer, the bookstore and gift shop I frequented.
I spied the Clark bunch in the front row. Bonnie was sitting beside a woman who looked like an older version of herself. I knew her parents were involved in the day-to-day runningof Grandpappy’s and assumed the person next to her was her mother. Maggie Clark sat on the woman’s other side. She was my sourdough supplier and we were well acquainted. Two empty seats remained at the end of their row, and I wondered briefly if they were for Brady Judd and his girlfriend.
I didn’t have to wonder long because a moment later, Brady breezed through the door I was thinking about escaping through.
“Hey, Jack. You made it.”
I thought he was going in for a handshake, but instead, he thrust a large Tupperware container into my hands.
He grinned. “Take a few before the vultures descend. They’re delicious.”
MacKenzie Clark gave me a brief smile over Brady’s shoulder before saying, “Bring me one of those. I’m going to sit down.” Then Brady jumped like he’d been pinched on the backside.
If he minded, he didn’t show it. Instead, his ultrabright smile widened. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You want to sit with us?” Brady asked me as he popped the top off the storage container. “I can grab a chair from the back.”
“No, that’s alright,” I replied, accepting the swirled brownie he passed me in a napkin. “I might have to take off early.”
