Town in a Blueberry Jam

minutes,” Amanda called over her shoulder, waving.

Candy chuckled. “Yeah, right. Twenty minutes. Like that’ll happen.”

Turning her attention back to her booth, she started rearranging the items on the front counter. As she did, she noticed a large, bearded man standing to one side, surreptitiously watching her as he pretended to read the label on one of her pies. Catching her glance, he shot her a tight smile. “You’re pretty good with teenagers,” he observed.

Candy laughed. “I don’t know about that. But we get along pretty well together. They’re good kids.”

The bearded man squinted in thought as he turned to glance back over his shoulder. “She looks familiar. Do I know her?”

Candy gave him the once over. “Who wants to know?” she said protectively. She wasn’t about to discuss Amanda with a stranger.

He pointed a finger at his chest. “You want to know who I am?”

“That’s right.”

It wasn’t much of a clarification, but he seemed to get it. His mouth formed the tight smile again. Could be it was constricted by all that facial hair? “Oh, I see. I thought you knew.”

“Why would I know?”

“Well, it’s just that… my name’s been in the…” A bit flustered, he finally stuck out a hand. “Sebastian J. Quinn.”

“Oh. Hello.” She shook his hand, which dwarfed hers.

Now, as she took a closer look at him, she realized he did look vaguely familiar. His size was imposing. He was tall and a bit heavy, though not overweight. He wore dark gray slacks, a crisply pressed khaki shirt, and a shiny green and rose cravat, the likes of which had gone out of style thirty years ago. Okay, fifty. Truthfully, it had never been in style. He cradled a newspaper under one arm and held four or five small burgundy-colored books in his meaty left hand.

It took her a few moments, but it finally dawned on her. “I have seen you in the paper. You’re the poet, right?”

His smile genuinely widened. He bowed slightly. “The very same. I’m honored you’ve heard of me.”

“Well, just about everybody in town has heard of you, haven’t they? You’re here for the pageant, right? One of the judges?”

“Actually, I’m vacationing in the area. I must admit, I’m quite taken with your lovely little town. I’ve rented a cottage on the coast for a month. Acting as a judge for the pageant is a last-minute arrangement.”

“So I’ve heard.” It had been front-page news in the local paper. The organizers of the Blueberry Queen Pageant liked to have at least one celebrity judge every year, in addition to the regulars. The frenetic search for this year’s celebrity judge had been widely reported by Sapphire Vine in her column. According to her reports, Stephen King, who lived up in Bangor, had been asked (for the fifth year in a row) to be a judge but had graciously declined. Other offers had gone out, but none had been accepted. For a while the search had seemed destined to failure. Then, when someone found out Sebastian J. Quinn was vacationing in the area, he had been asked and had ultimately agreed to become this year’s celebrity judge.

“It’s quite an honor for us to have a poet of your stature as a judge,” Candy continued.

“Oh, well, that’s a very nice thing to say. Tell me, are you a fan of poetry?” Sebastian asked.

“I guess you could say that. I’ve read Robert Frost, Walt Whitman, that sort of thing.”

“Any of my works?”

Candy hesitated. She knew he was fishing for a compliment. “Of course.”

“Oh? Which ones?”

“One of the early ones.” She thought a moment, trying to recall the title. “Something about chaos,” was all she could remember.

“Mm. Yes, that one. The Bell of Chaos, it’s called.”

“That’s right! The Bell of Chaos. I enjoyed it a lot.”

“Yes, you and many others.” Sebastian looked quite unimpressed. “I won the Pulitzer for that, although I think my later works are much better.” He held out one of the burgundy-colored books he was carrying. “Here’s my latest. A Drop of Peace.”

“Oh.” Candy gingerly took the book that had been thrust at her and flipped through the pages. “It looks wonderful,” she said, closing the cover and handing it back. But Sebastian waved it away. “Keep it. My gift to you. Here, I’ll sign it for you, though I’m afraid I don’t know your first name.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I guess I neglected to introduce myself. It’s Candy. Candy Holliday.”

He looked at her curiously, glanced up at the sign over the booth, then back at her. “Of course. Holliday’s Blueberry Acres. Candy, though? That name is quite… unique.”

“It’s sort of an inside joke. I was born on Halloween.” After a moment she added, “My parents had a warped sense of humor, I guess.”

That tight smile returned. He seemed to have practiced it a lot. “Hmm, yes, I see.” He scribbled something hastily on the book’s front page, signed his name, starting with a large swooping S, then slapped the cover closed and shoved the book toward her. “There you go. Do enjoy. Now, I must confess, I’ve heard you make the best blueberry pies in town. That’s why I came over, to check out your wares…”

What could she do? The man had just given her a free book. Fortunately, she had sold out of her larger pies, but he still walked away with a mini pie, a couple of cookies, and four blueberry scones, plus an extra-large T- shirt, all free of charge.

“You know, sweetie, I think you’ve just been taken.”

“Huh?” Candy twisted around. Standing behind her, arms crossed and wearing a suspicious smile, was her best friend Maggie Tremont, Amanda’s mother.

“Oh, hi, Mags. What was that you said?”

Maggie tilted her head toward the huge bulk of Sebastian J. Quinn as he made his way down the street, stopping at various booths along the way. “I think he just ripped you off for some free goodies.”

“Wasn’t the first time today.” Candy smiled bleakly and held up the book. “Besides, he gave me this. It was sort of an exchange… I think.”

Maggie looked unimpressed. “No one wants to buy his moldy old books of sappy poetry. He probably can’t sell the damn things. I bet he gets them for nothing and uses them to get free stuff from suckers like you.”

“Go ahead, rub it in.”

“I’m telling you,” Maggie went on, “you’ve got to protect yourself. There are vultures everywhere.”

Candy gave her friend an appraising look. “You’re sounding a bit cynical. Been a rough day?”

Maggie waved a hand at her. “Honey, you don’t know the half of it. That pet parade almost did me in. Got attacked by a goat with a tennis-shoe fetish.”

Candy couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re making that up.”

Maggie’s dark eyes twinkled as she made an X across her chest. “Cross my heart. Couldn’t keep him from chewing on my shoestrings.” She held out her left shoe as proof. The shoestrings had obviously been chewed on.

“It wasn’t one of Sally Ann Longfellow’s goats, was it?”

“The very one. She was all dressed up, with an old cowbell and a beat-up hat with a plastic flower in it, but she still looked raggedy, like she’s been sleeping outside all summer.”

“The goat?”

“No, Sally Ann. The goat actually looked in pretty good shape.”

They both laughed at that. Maggie could always make Candy laugh, no matter what. They had met shortly after Candy moved into town. She’d gone to the local insurance office to check on Doc’s homeowner’s policy, and there Maggie had been behind the front desk. They hit it off immediately and had been close friends ever since.

Maggie checked her watch, then flicked her eyes left and right. “So where’s that daughter of mine? I’ve got to get her to the hairdresser’s.”

“I sent her and Cameron over to Duffy’s to get some lunch. My treat.”

Maggie eyed her with horror. “What? Are you mad, girl? Do you know how much food that boy can pack in? He was born with a bottomless pit instead of a stomach. He practically lives at our place. He’s eating us out of house