The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(93)
Our booth looks especially pretty this year. We’re right on the edge of Main Street, a prime location. Our tent is a cute little yellow-and white-striped number, and underneath, I’ve covered a large table with a brightly embroidered Hungarian tablecloth. Earlier this afternoon, I wound flower lights around the tent poles and through the bars that support the tent ceiling. Two clumps of helium-filled balloons are tied in front—red, green and white, the colors of Hungary. I put out a few vases, arrange some zinnias and late roses, hung out a banner that says Bunny’s Bakery—The Finest In Hungarian Pastries. After I begged for the opportunity to bring some homemade goodies, Iris finally compromised and agreed to make some authentic pastries in addition to the pumpkin cookies. “I’ll do it,” she said. “You have your hands full with those Mirabellis.”
She was right, of course. Yesterday, I drove Gianni to his cardiologist, took Marie to buy some new shoes and a coat. Haven’t seen Ethan for a day or two, though.
“I didn’t bother with pastries,” Iris announces as she and Rose pull up in the Crown Vic they share. “And no one wants to admit they eat prune anymore, so I didn’t make the lekvar kifli.”
“You didn’t? But you made mezeskalacs, right?” I ask. Mezeskalacs are honey cakes, spiced with ginger and nutmeg, perfect for the fall, and something only a Hungarian bakery could supply. Hauling out a bakery box from Iris’s backseat, I peer anxiously within.
Dang it! There’s nothing except those awful tooth-chipping cookies. Knowing Iris, these may well be the same cookies from last year. “Iris, I thought we agreed you’d make some other things, too!” Slightly panicked, I look in the back seat for another box. Nothing. “We don’t have anything else? Why didn’t you call me, Iris? I would’ve made something!”
“I didn’t have time,” Iris announces breezily, applying a coat of Coral Glow. “I was very busy last night.”
“Busy doing what?” I ask.
“For your information, The Tudors was on, Miss Nosy-Pants. And stop worrying! Everyone loves these cookies.” She gives me a peck on the cheek, then says, “Help your Aunt Rose with that cake.”
Rose is struggling to get a wedding cake out of the trunk of the car…well, a plastic cake model covered in spackle-type frosting. It’s a display, meant to charm soon-to-be brides, but unfortunately, this one looks rather dated. It’s not bad…just a little plain, a few easy roses on the top and nothing else. In this era of ornate weddings, we could’ve used a little pizzazz.
“Pretty cake,” I lie, grabbing the edge of the foil-covered tray.
“Oh, this old thing?” Rose answers, peeking around the cake at me. “It’s from a few years ago.” She pauses to blow on the top of the cake, causing a puff of dust to swirl up into my face. “I thought about doing another one, but…”
“The Tudors?” I suggest, coughing a little.
She smiles. “Yes! Do you watch it, too?”
“I don’t, Rose,” I answer.
My mother pulls up in her MiniCooper, looking like Katharine Hepburn about to go out for martinis—wide-legged winter-white pants, a red boatneck sweater, double rope of pearls and patent leather red pumps. “Hello!” she calls merrily, her cheeks pink, skin glowing.
“Hi, Mom. Did you bring the drinks?” I ask. The beverages are Mom’s annual contribution, and I’m hoping for hot cocoa, even if it’s from a mix.
“I thought we’d serve Hi-C,” Mom says, pointing to an industrial-size jug of the sugary drink. “Get that, will you, sweetheart?”
“Great,” I mutter. We have Hi-C and inedible cookies. Starbucks will have cake and brownies, cookies and tarts, not to mention all those dang coffee varieties.
“I hope the Starbucks will be selling that hot chocolate,” Aunt Rose says merrily, echoing my thoughts. “It’s like heroin! I can’t get enough! Oh, look, there are the Mirabellis! Hello!”
Gianni’s Ristorante Italiano is back under previous management. It took Gianni about twelve hours to get things back the way they were, and the cousin’s husband’s brother is now working as a prep chef as Gianni growls and barks, as happy as he gets.
“Hi, guys,” I say, blushing. One doesn’t quickly forget that one’s in-laws caught one in the act.
“How youse girls doing?” Gianni asks the Black Widows, giving me a nod. It’s something.
Marie, at least, is willing to hug me and pat my cheek. “You look so beautiful, Lucy!”
My mother smiles smugly. It’s true…I’m wearing real clothes today. A long, chocolatey brown skirt that stops about three inches from those gorgeous mahogany boots, which are making their debut today. A dark red cashmere sweater. Gold necklace, hoop earrings, even a little eye shadow and lip gloss.
“What are you selling over there?” Rose peeps. “It smells wonderful!”
Gianni’s, Marie tells us, is serving bruschetta (with my bread, ironically, the one good thing that comes out of Bunny’s), bowls of minestrone soup, which is nice, since it’s cool this afternoon and getting colder as the sun sets. Gnocchi with vodka sauce (Jimmy’s recipe…apparently, the cousin’s husband’s brother had changed it and Gianni near stroked out when he was informed). And yes, Marie’s famous tiramisu. I can’t imagine anyone wanting our concrete-textured, clove-saturated pumpkin cookies painted with that garish, tasteless orange frosting when Marie’s tiramisu is available.