Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 95712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 479(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 479(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
“Everything’s peachy,” he replied, glancing back at me before he walked away.
My mother shook her head and walked into my office. She reached down and took one of my Swedish Fish. “How do you eat these things and stay so thin?”
I shrugged. “Good genes?”
She chuckled, motioned for me to sit back down, and she took a seat as well.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yes, why wouldn’t it be?”
Studying her face, I replied, “Because you seem like something is wrong.”
“Fine. There are two things we need to talk about. One—The Daily Dirt.”
Leaning forward, I scowled. “What did they say this time?”
“They mentioned the annual pie contest.”
“This early?”
She nodded. “You know why, don’t you?”
Now I had to fight to keep the smile off my face. My mother and Grace Miller always went toe-to-toe in the annual pie contest. My mother’s cherry pie had won more than Grace’s caramel apple pie, which, honestly, was heavenly. But Mom’s cherry pie was to die for.
“Can’t say I do,” I answered.
Mom’s mouth fell open slightly, as if I’d offended her by not knowing the reason. “It’s obvious. She’s trying to hype up her stupid caramel apple pie by writing about it!”
Pressing my lips together, I nodded gravely. “Did she write about her pie?”
Sighing in frustration, my mother nodded. “Yes, Emeline, she did! She mentioned how many times she’s won, and then, at the end of the article, she said this year’s cherry crop isn’t looking so good! What in the hell? She doesn’t even grow cherries.”
My hand flew up to cover my smile.
“This isn’t funny, Emeline Wilde. The woman is raising doubts about the cherries. People are going to have it in their heads my cherries are no good.”
“Mom,” I started in a calming voice, “no one is going to think your cherries…aren’t good.” I had to press my lips together to keep from giggling. After a stern look from my mother, I got myself in check. “Everyone loves your cherry pie, and no matter what Grace or Janet writes, people will know your cherries are as delicious as ever the second they taste them.”
She leaned back in her chair. “I need to fight fire with fire. I’ve gone too many years letting that woman take digs at me in her little subtle ways. No more!”
I jumped when she shouted the last two words. “What do you mean, fight fire with fire?”
Mom stood, placed her hands on her hips, and smiled. “I’m going to have an article written in my own newspaper!”
“What?” I asked, nearly knocking over my chair as I stood. “You don’t own a newspaper.”
She chewed on her lip and nodded. “Can’t talk right now, Emeline. I need to do some research.”
Blinking, I rushed to follow her to her office across the hall. “Mom, you can’t just start a newspaper.”
She sat down behind her desk, pulled the old-fashioned Rolodex toward her—which I still didn’t understand why she used—pulled out a card, and held it up.
“Ha! Here we go.” When she saw my confused expression, she smiled. “I’m going to call a friend of mine in Denver.”
Shaking my head, I asked, “And?”
“She owns The Colorado Post. I’m going to ask her to do an article about River Falls and our annual pie contest, and mention me and my famous cherry pie.”
I was pretty sure my mouth was hanging open in stunned silence.
“Don’t you see?” When I didn’t say anything, she went on. “Not only will it bring even more people to River Falls, which will be great for the economy, but they’ll come just for my pie! It’ll drive Grace mad!”
I held up my hands and closed my eyes. “Okay, wait, Mom. Where is this really coming from? You don’t have to prove anything to Grace Miller.”
“I know I don’t, but she crossed a line when she went after my cherries. And my hen!”
Blinking at her, I asked, “She insulted Mildred?”
Mildred was my mother’s pride and joy. We often teased her that she loved Mildred more than her own kids.
“Yes! In the same article, she said Mildred wasn’t really an Orpington! She crossed two lines.”
“What about all the times she went after the family? Like when she claimed it was really Gatlin working as a farrier, and not Ensley?”
She waved me off. “Everyone knew those were made-up lies.”
“What about when she said I didn’t deserve to win the state championship in barrel racing?”
Snapping her head up, she pointed at me. “I went down to the gift shop and demanded she retract that!”
I bit my lip. I’d forgotten she’d done that.
“Are you trying to say I care more about my cherries and chickens than I do my own kids?”
“No. But do I need to remind you about the time when the new pediatrician asked you my birthdate, and you gave him Mildred’s birthday, instead.”
Her cheeks turned pink. “That was one time, Emeline. Are you ever going to let that go?”