The Chicken Sisters(36)
“I do want to trade stories. I’m actually not that great at Facebook—I only use it professionally. I’m totally behind.” She smiled, she hoped with regretful charm, and went on. She took the flyer she’d printed this morning at the motel out of her LESS IS MOORE tote bag with a cautious glance at Barbara. Her mother liked to have Mae’s help, but one wrong word and she was likely to begin to see that help as bossy or, worse, back talk, and that would be the end of it. But her mother had always liked Kenneth and clearly liked Patrick. If they bought in, she might, too.
Mae spoke carefully. “We might have a few things to do before the cameras show up. Maybe—straighten up a little?” A quick glance at Barbara showed a neutral face. “And I thought we might offer a special tonight. You guys could help share it, maybe, let people know?”
Kenneth picked up on the dance Mae was doing as if they’d been planning ways to work around Barbara just yesterday. “Of course. Mimi’s looks great, its fabulous classic self, but there’s always something you can do for a camera. And a special is a great idea. What do you have?”
“Chicken, of course,” said Mae. “Salad, fries. But with a slice of pie.” This was where it got dicey. Putting the pie on the special was a risk—there wasn’t always pie, especially if her mother was feeling pissed off at the world, but Mae figured even Barbara would pull out all the stops for Food Wars.
“Perfect,” Patrick said, looking at Barbara, who smiled back at him, flooding Mae with relief. Pie it was, then. “Best pies in the world. We’ll share it like crazy.”
Mae smiled. “Sweet,” she said. All she wanted was their help getting Barbara on board, but she would take the rest. “Every little bit helps.”
Patrick looked at her sharply, and Mae realized he had caught the implied slight. His eyebrows went up. “Every little bit.” He laughed. “Show her, Kenneth.”
Kenneth took out his phone (the latest, with no case, in the manner of the person for whom replacing a phone or a cracked screen was nothing) and opened Facebook. “We’ve been sharing Food Wars like mad,” he said. “Of course, we put an Inn spin on it.” Mae took the phone and scrolled down—it was a Merinac Main Street page, and she could see it was popular from the astonishing display of likes. The last posts were about supporting Food Wars, and one included a lengthy discussion about what a successful series could do for the entire town. Kenneth saw her reading it.
“That’s nothing compared to the conversation on the Listserv,” he said, and took the phone back. “And of course we covered Twitter and Instagram, too. We’re huge on Instagram. I think you’ll probably have a lot of out-of-towners trying to get in tonight as well as the locals. Frannie’s, too. We told anyone who can’t get in to bring their takeout here. I warned Andy last week, and Amanda, too, to be ready for a rush.”
Kenneth held out the phone again, this time open to an Instagram post with 14,903 likes. “It’s going to be a gorgeous weekend, too. We should get some road trippers.”
“I’m putting your special up now,” Patrick said, taking a picture of the flyer arranged on the coffee bar with a fork and knife beside it. “Especially if you amplify”—he gave her a look, and she knew he was fully aware that she didn’t follow them—“you should have more of a crowd than you can handle.”
Mae, who had assumed her hometown would have essentially no social media presence, now felt like a fool. The posts were well designed, each a thing of graphic beauty, and she suddenly remembered that Kenneth and Amanda had had art in common, although Kenneth took a much more practical approach when he picked web design. She was busted, and she knew it.
“Didn’t think we had it in us, did you?” said Kenneth, and his eyes were kind. “It’s okay. You’ve been gone a while. I’ll come find you later, after the thing tonight. We’ll catch up then.”
“That would be great,” Mae said, meaning it. “For now—coffee? Please, Patrick? I’m following you right now. I’ll make up for lost time.” He smirked, but it was a friendly smirk, and Mae felt like she was getting off easier than she deserved. “And maybe a couple of those muffins? We’ll take some to the kids. They’re just at the playground.”
Patrick returned to his station behind the espresso machine while Kenneth loaded a bag with chocolate chip mini-muffins. As he handed Mae her mocha, Patrick looked over at Barbara, who was heading for the door, leaving her empty cup on the table. “Want me to make some pies to send over tonight?”
Mae jolted to a stop. This had been going so well—what was Patrick doing? Horrified, Mae waited for her mother’s explosive response to the suggestion that she would need outside pies, but Barbara instead looked thoughtful. “You get started this morning,” she said. “More blueberry, I think. And strawberry rhubarb. I’ll check in on you later.”
Patrick seemed unperturbed by this opaque response. “Sounds good,” he said.
Mae, carrying her coffee and the muffins, followed her mother out onto the sidewalk. The fat dog stood up, too, nudging at Barbara’s hand with her square black-and-white head.
“He’s going to make you pies?” Honestly, if things got any weirder, she was going to have whiplash from all the mental double takes. She ran a few steps to catch up with Barbara, being careful not to spill her coffee.