overflowing sink, “I haven’t finished cleaning up from breakfast.”
***
“When do we get to try one of your legendary pies?”
I replaced a tray of clams and turned to smile at Andi Jordan, the reporter from the Daily Mail . She was a young woman in her twenties, with blunt-cut hair and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that reminded me of John Lennon's. The clambake was in full swing, and the clams were disappearing as fast as I could put them out.
"First we have to finish off the clams,” I told Andi, who had a little bit of clam juice on her sharp chin. She was so thin I was longing to sit her down at my table and give her an entire pie. With an extra helping of ice cream. Next to her stood a lanky, good-looking young man with a camera.
My eyes lingered on the camera slung around his neck and the tripod tucked under his arm. I gave the inn a quick critical glance. The white-curtained windows sparkled in the afternoon light, and the window boxes overflowed with sweet peas, verbena, and brilliant fuchsia geraniums. A breeze from the sea brought a whiff of beach roses wafting over me, mixing with the delicious scents of fresh rolls and clams. Everything looked perfect. I hoped the photographer would snap several shots of the inn; I could use the press.
I turned back to Andi. “Well, since that was the last pot, I’d say we’re just about ready to move on to dessert.” I surveyed the crowd of islanders spread across the sloping green lawn. They were wolfing down the food faster than we could bring it out. “You’d think they hadn’t eaten in weeks,” I said. “I hope we’ve got enough.”
"I've heard you specialize in pastries,” Andi said. “I’m looking forward to trying the pie.”
"You can have the first piece. I promise.”
My friend Charlene spotted us by the table. She hustled over to see us, the cow apron still clinging to her ample curves. “Do you think it’s time for pie?”
"That’s just what Andi was asking,” I said. “I think so.”
As Andi and the photographer helped themselves to another few clams, Charlene and I headed back to the kitchen and started lugging out pies. “Too bad you didn't get Gertrude,” she whispered.
"Gertrude Pickens? The reporter who just about accused me of murder a few months ago? No, thank you,” I said.
"I don't trust this Andi woman,” Charlene said. “Did you see what she wrote about that new bakery in Bar Harbor last week?”
"The one with those delicious apple turnovers?” I asked.
Charlene nodded. “Ms. Jordan evidently found them dry.”
"Uh oh,” I said, casting a glance at the reporter, who was lingering near the pie table while the photographer snapped shots of the spread. She definitely did not have the build of a woman dedicated to the sampling of baked goods. I glanced down at the pie in my hand. The crust had turned out perfectly – golden brown lattice over beds of dark, plump Maine blueberries. How could she find fault with it? I set a fresh pie on the table and cut a large piece – it was still a bit warm – for Andi, saying a small, silent prayer.
The islanders, smelling pie, swarmed the dessert table behind her as she examined the piece with a critical eye. “Did you bake all of these?”
All twenty-four of them.”
"They look just delicious. If they taste as good as they look, maybe we could put the recipe in the paper.”
I beamed at her, my worries dispelled. “That would be great.”
"My photographer has been shooting all morning, but do you mind if we get a few shots of you in front of the inn?”
Did she mind? I would have begged for it. I reached up to adjust the collar of the silk blouse I had donned with just such a contingency in mind. “That would be great.”
"How about if we get a shot of you with one of the pies? I love the lattice tops. They’re beautiful!”
"That would be great!” I said. “Let me just go and get a few more pies for the table.” Charlene was slicing, but could barely keep
***
“When do we get to try one of your legendary pies?”
I replaced a tray of clams and turned to smile at Andi Jordan, the reporter from the Daily Mail . She was a young woman in her twenties, with blunt-cut hair and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that reminded me of John Lennon's. The clambake was in full swing, and the clams were disappearing as fast as I could put them out.
"First we have to finish off the clams,” I told Andi, who had a little bit of clam juice on her sharp chin. She was so thin I was longing to sit her down at my table and give her an entire pie. With an extra helping of ice cream. Next to her stood a lanky, good-looking young man with a camera.
My eyes lingered on the camera slung around his neck and the tripod tucked under his arm. I gave the inn a quick critical glance. The white-curtained windows sparkled in the afternoon light, and the window boxes overflowed with sweet peas, verbena, and brilliant fuchsia geraniums. A breeze from the sea brought a whiff of beach roses wafting over me, mixing with the delicious scents of fresh rolls and clams. Everything looked perfect. I hoped the photographer would snap several shots of the inn; I could use the press.
I turned back to Andi. “Well, since that was the last pot, I’d say we’re just about ready to move on to dessert.” I surveyed the crowd of islanders spread across the sloping green lawn. They were wolfing down the food faster than we could bring it out. “You’d think they hadn’t eaten in weeks,” I said. “I hope we’ve got enough.”
"I've heard you specialize in pastries,” Andi said. “I’m looking forward to trying the pie.”
"You can have the first piece. I promise.”
My friend Charlene spotted us by the table. She hustled over to see us, the cow apron still clinging to her ample curves. “Do you think it’s time for pie?”
"That’s just what Andi was asking,” I said. “I think so.”
As Andi and the photographer helped themselves to another few clams, Charlene and I headed back to the kitchen and started lugging out pies. “Too bad you didn't get Gertrude,” she whispered.
"Gertrude Pickens? The reporter who just about accused me of murder a few months ago? No, thank you,” I said.
"I don't trust this Andi woman,” Charlene said. “Did you see what she wrote about that new bakery in Bar Harbor last week?”
"The one with those delicious apple turnovers?” I asked.
Charlene nodded. “Ms. Jordan evidently found them dry.”
"Uh oh,” I said, casting a glance at the reporter, who was lingering near the pie table while the photographer snapped shots of the spread. She definitely did not have the build of a woman dedicated to the sampling of baked goods. I glanced down at the pie in my hand. The crust had turned out perfectly – golden brown lattice over beds of dark, plump Maine blueberries. How could she find fault with it? I set a fresh pie on the table and cut a large piece – it was still a bit warm – for Andi, saying a small, silent prayer.
The islanders, smelling pie, swarmed the dessert table behind her as she examined the piece with a critical eye. “Did you bake all of these?”
All twenty-four of them.”
"They look just delicious. If they taste as good as they look, maybe we could put the recipe in the paper.”
I beamed at her, my worries dispelled. “That would be great.”
"My photographer has been shooting all morning, but do you mind if we get a few shots of you in front of the inn?”
Did she mind? I would have begged for it. I reached up to adjust the collar of the silk blouse I had donned with just such a contingency in mind. “That would be great.”
"How about if we get a shot of you with one of the pies? I love the lattice tops. They’re beautiful!”
"That would be great!” I said. “Let me just go and get a few more pies for the table.” Charlene was slicing, but could barely keep
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