Town in a Blueberry Jam

Ray,” she said, hands on her hips. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

After that, things got really awkward. With the booth done, Candy tried to shoo Ray on his way so she could finish up the banner and the other things that needed to be done. But he seemed reluctant to leave.

It took him a full ten minutes to pack up his tools while Candy paced about impatiently. After that he hemmed and hawed in the driveway, talking about the weather, about the folks in town, about fishing, about anything he could think of to delay the inevitable.

Candy couldn’t help glancing at her watch, feeling the press of time. Finally, as gently as she could, she said, “Ray, I’ve got a lot to finish up to get ready for the festival tomorrow. Thanks again for helping with the booth.”

“Um, sure thing, Miss Candy.” He paused a moment, his gray eyes shifting. “Can I help you with anything else? I got some spare time today.”

“Today’s not a good day. Maybe next week when things calm down, okay?”

“Doc said something this morning about fixing the banister. He said some of the spindles were loose.”

“I’ll have him give you a call and we’ll set something up. You’ll send us the bill for today, right? And, um, I’ll buy you a new hammer if you want. I didn’t mean to nick up that one with the red handle.”

He nodded absently but still he hesitated, looking down at his steel-toed boots, kicking at a stone. Finally he set his jaw firm, as if he had made up his mind about something. He looked up at her.

“Miss Candy,” he said with great seriousness, “would you go out with me some day?”

“What?” The word came out as sort of a bark, surprising even Candy. She was a little embarrassed by her outburst, but the look on Ray’s face never wavered. He had put the question out there. Now she had to answer it.

“Ray,” she began softly, “you’re a wonderful person and all, and one of these days you’re going to meet some lucky woman...”

She came to an abrupt stop when she saw the look in his eyes change. The sense of hopefulness that had been there a moment before turned wary, protective, as if he were bracing for the rejection he knew was to come.

Candy hesitated. What could she say to him without hurting his feelings? Her body relaxed a little as the tension seemed to leak out of her. She hadn’t realized she had been holding herself so stiffly.

“Oh, Ray...” Finally, impulsively, she took a step toward him and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “I’ll think about it, okay?” she said as she heard a car horn beep.

They both turned. Coming up the lane was an old red Volvo, driven by a balding, distinguished-looking gentleman with a white handlebar moustache.

“Oh, it’s Herr Georg!” Candy called happily, waving. She pronounced his name the German way, the way he liked it pronounced — gay-org.

Georg Wolfsburger was a German immigrant who had lived in Cape Willington for nearly three decades — and, in truth, he helped put the sleepy coastal town on the culinary map with his Black Forest Bakery, a quaint little shop nestled between a bookstore and a coffee shop on Main Street. Though patrons could always find scrumptious breads and cookies at Georg’s bakery, they came mostly for his specialties — cakes and pastries baked from old German recipes.

His blueberry strudel was to die for, and the cherry, blueberry, and especially chocolate cheesecakes were heavenly. Brides-to-be and their mothers came from as far away as Boston and Connecticut to purchase Herr Georg’s towering wedding cakes, and cars with license plates from such distant and exotic places as New York, New Jersey, Ohio, and Pennsylvania, even Colorado and California could be found parked in front of Georg’s shop throughout the summer and well into the fall.

Georg and Candy had struck up a friendship soon after she moved to Blueberry Acres. In season, Georg bought pounds and pounds of fresh blueberries from her, and she often helped out in his shop during busy periods. He had even helped her perfect the recipes for her muffins, scones, and pies, offering up a secret ingredient for each one — olive oil in the muffins, for instance, or a touch of vanilla in the scones. She still would not reveal these secret ingredients to anyone else, including (or perhaps especially ) her father. Doc had many positive traits, but discretion was not one of them.

Herr Georg brought the old Volvo to a stop in a roiling cloud of dust and climbed out of the car, carrying a pink pastry box. “ Guten tag, Candy!” he called with a wave as he joined them. “Hullo, Ray,” he added with a polite nod.

“Afternoon, Mr. George,” Ray responded in a guarded fashion. He followed the lead of many of the locals, who refused to use the German pronunciation of Herr Georg’s name, believing that if he lived in America, he should be referred to as an American would be.

Georg appeared not to notice, though he immediately turned his back to Ray, focusing his attention on Candy. “I’ve brought something special I just took out of the oven, and I couldn’t wait to show it to you,” he said in an accented voice as he held up the pastry box. “Could I perhaps tempt you with a little afternoon delight?”

Herr Georg’s innuendo was not lost on Candy, but she knew his insinuations were harmless and usually didn’t let them bother her. In fact, at times she even thought them charming in an Old European sort of way.

“Ray and I just had some pie,” she said with a teasing smile.

“Oh, but you must try this,” the baker coaxed, tapping the box with a well-manicured finger. “It’s quite decadent.” The way he wiggled his eyebrows, trying to entice her, reminded her of Groucho Marx.

“Herr Georg, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to fatten me up.”

“I promise you, it will be worth your while.”

Candy grinned. “Promise?”

“Of course!” said the baker heartily.

“Then how could I possibly refuse?” Her gaze shifted. She nodded at the handyman. “Ray’s been helping me out with the booth today, but we’re all finished. Right?”

Ray seemed to finally get the hint. He let out a breath of resignation through his nose as his whole body slouched. “Um, yeah. Yeah, we are.” Forlornly he tossed the toolbox into the back of his truck, climbed into the cab, and drove off with a halfhearted wave.

“Nice fellow,” Herr Georg observed as Ray’s truck disappeared down the lane. “A bit slow but friendly enough. I’m having him over to the shop on Monday to put up some shelves.”

“Oh, Ray’s great,” Candy agreed as she watched the truck drive away. Then she turned and took the baker by the arm, steering him toward the house. “So, tell me, what have you got in the box?”

“Oh, well, as I said, it’s quite special. It’s a German pastry called a linzerschnitten.”

Inside the kitchen, he dramatically opened the box and let her smell the aroma first, then with a flair lifted out a plate that held the layered torte pastry.

“It looks delicious,” Candy said. “What’s in it?”

“Three thin layers of spicy dough made with ground almonds, hazelnuts, cinnamon, and lemon zest. There’s a delightful buttercream between each layer. And on top, a layer of almond paste, followed by a layer of fresh blueberries, topped with a crosshatch of dough, all delicately baked to a crispy brown. In Germany, raspberries, apricots, or cranberries are usually used for the fruit topping, but of course blueberries are a must here.”

“Of course.” Candy nudged the still-warm, golden brown crosshatching with her pinky. “Herr Georg, no one makes pastries as flaky as yours.”

He grinned at the compliment, showing off the gap between his two front teeth. “Would you like a bite?”

“More than one, I hope. I’ll put on the tea.”

Herr Georg’s linzerschnitten was like nothing Candy had ever tasted before, but she’d come to expect only the best from him. They ate two small pieces each, washing them down with cinnamon- orange tea. Herr Georg left the rest for Doc and Candy to enjoy as dessert that evening.

The baker carefully surveyed Candy’s preparations for the festival, pronouncing her pies and scones among the best looking he had ever seen. Then, late in the warm afternoon, she walked him out to his car.

“I’ve made several batches of inzerschnitten for sale at the festival tomorrow,” he said as he climbed into the driver’s seat.

“Guess I’d better bring along my checkbook then.”

“Ah, Candy, meine liebchen, your money is no good with me. You know that.” He