Chapter 3

The Startof Summer Street Fair is in full swing with the main drag blocked off, vendors, tables, and stalls set up, a live band at one end, and all the shops lining the road with their doors open and sale items on display.

I roll up in the freshly painted Peugeot J9, the small European van my grandfather traded for a piece of land adjacent to his because he wanted to grow corn back in the 80s. It stands out like a sore thumb. Thankfully, mine is healing.

This is Pippy's dry run, and we're late. It's kind of both of our faults. Pippy lost second gear and I couldn't go much over fifteen miles an hour all the way here.

But my spot is open and—miracles of miracles—I manage to parallel park, slotting in next to a Korean BBQ truck and the Cross Stitch Society information booth.

Saying a silent prayer, I open the serving window canopy with its black and white gingham print, ready for business.

When I was an angsty teenager, I fought against letting myself enjoy how this small suburb of Omaha comes alive during the summer with weekly events like movies in the park, concerts, and of course the 4th on 4th (of July) which is like a combination of all the aforementioned activities plus a celebration of our corn heritage with big Cobbiton beach, which is like a ball pit but filled with popcorn kernels. There's also a rodeo, talent show, and a corn crown for the corn queen along with polka dancing, and, of course, fireworks.

Inexplicably, 4th Street is the only numbered street in Cobbiton and is the other thoroughfare that intersects Main Street, so I guess the town thought it would be cute to name the festival 4th on 4th even though technically most of the corn-inspired Independence Day happenings occur on Main.

Karen Linderberg, head of the Cobbiton CAC—Community Activities Commission—bustles over. "I was worried you weren't coming."

And I'm deeply concerned that you still wear your hair in a perm, but none of us are perfect.

There goes that snarky and sassy teenager in me. Since returning home, I sometimes find myself reverting. Mrs. Linderberg was also my home economics teacher and neither of us made a good impression on each other.

She said my cookies tasted like ash.

I told her she looked like trash.

But water under the bridge and all that.

I've grown up. Am mature now. And my cookies never tasted like ash. However, Mom and Karen had a history as class president rivals so Mrs. Linderberg may not have liked me by proxy. Then again, Clancy was the teacher's pet.

"I called and left you a message. Had some trouble with Pippy here." I tap the Peugeot with her shiny new celeste blue paint job—the Milk Mustache theme colors are soft white, light blue, and black.

"We offered you this slot because Marnie couldn't make it with the lemonade truck since she's under the weather," Karen says as if preparing to issue me a warning.

"I won't let you down." I reach through the serving window, passing her a wax bag containing two cookies and sealed with a Milk Mustache sticker.

She takes the parcel as if I'm handing her a doggy doo-doo bag.

Since I've matured, typically, when I encounter difficult or disagreeable people, I don't meet them in their little pit of unhappiness or scowl back. I do my best to be bright and uplifting.

Using a sunny voice, I say, "I'm looking forward to a summer filled with events that are perfect for cookies and milk."

She huffs and opens her mouth to say something when I continue.

"And I've paid all the entry fees, so I don't expect there to be a problem." My smile is tight because I'm also not a doormat.

Karen looks me up and down like she doesn't believe me. I don't blame her since I did once set on fire a pencil pouch we'd sewn, resulting in an evacuation of the Home Ec. room. It was an accident. I swear. Mostly. Probably.

I cannot be held accountable for what I did while under the influence of teenage hormones.

The Cobbiton Wagon, a trolley that runs during the summer, and is driven by my neighbor Mr. Gormely, honks as it passes. I wave and Mrs. Linderberg scuttles off, muttering under her breath.

Every Monday, I bring the Gormelys a dozen cookies because Mondays are for cookies, am I right? Mrs. Gormely is retired and part of the Cross Stitch Society. More like Cross Snitch because if I don't wait for her to leave for their weekly meeting before I drop the cookies on the porch, she'll talk my ear off about everyone in Cobbiton's business.

I can't imagine the dirt she has on me with rumors swirling ever since I moved into my grandparents' old farmhouse. Then again, our properties are pretty far apart, so I'm fairly confident she doesn't witness or hear my solo dance parties.

What can I say? Those wooden floors are so perfectly polished that it's impossible not to glide around while belting out a Dolly Parton song at the top of my voice.

After setting out a bistro table and chairs, extending the awning over the serving window, pouring a bowl of water for dogs, and putting out a potted plant along with a welcome mat, the Milk Mustache truck is ready for business.

Sophia Snodgrass ambles up pushing a baby carriage with all the bells and whistles. Literally, bells and whistles hang from the little canopy. Her baby has a big bow on her head and blows bubbles out of her itty bitty mouth.

"Look what the cat dragged in," Sophia says in her faux bubbly tone.

I plaster on a plastic smile and mutter, "More like I rode in on my broom, but sure we'll go with the cat thing."

"Cats and brooms? Sounds like you're Whit the Witch."

That's a new one. To be fair, I wasn't particularly friendly in high school, which was the last time I saw Sophia, but I never took part in the occult.

"Just how many cats do you have in that old farmhouse? I remember your grandmother being the Cat Lady." Sophia makes swirly eyes at me like we're both in on this joke.

Flora, Fauna, and Merryweather kept her company after we lost Grandpa. "None. No cats." Like Grandma, they're gone too.

"Then you must have a rodent problem." She surveys Pippy as if contemplating contacting the health inspector.

Sophia Snodgrass was the Queen Bee at Clarkson High School, home of the Red Hawks, and it seems she's still trying to wield her power. I was over it then and I'm over it now. I do everything in my power not to scowl or say something snarky.

New leaf. Turned over.

"So, you're all alone up there, Whit?" she asks.

I tap the counter. "Yep. Just me and Pippy here. My new business keeps me busy."

"Baking cookies, I see." She scans me from head to waist where my black and white striped apron is tied tight.

I remind myself to play nice. "And you have been too. Who's this adorable baby boo?" I coo at the baby in the stroller, doing my level best not to lose my cool.

"This is McAyla McKenzie. MC for short."

"Cute. Can I get you anything? I have six kinds of cookies today and, of course, fresh milk from the farm."

"So, no cats, but you kept the cows?"

"A few barn cats." I smile, wondering why she's trying to rile me up. Then I remember Clancy is getting married...and he's the one who got away from her claws. I suddenly love Kathleen even more.

Sophia opens her mouth as a slender, pale man with glasses appears. He has a wedding band around his finger. "I've been looking everywhere for you two." No sooner does he peck his wife on the cheek and she flinches like a stray electrical wire zapped her, his eyes light up. "Ooh, cookies."

"Not today," she scolds.

His shoulders drop.

I tried so hard to resist my so-called witchy ways or whatever, but I lose the battle against my will. "Who do we have here? Is this Mr. Sophia?"

"Hey, how'd you know she calls me that?" he asks without irony.

"Figured as much since she won't let you eat cookies." I keep my voice light because I don't want to incur Sophia's wrath more than I already have. At least not much.

The plan was to return home and make friends, not keep enemies.

"It's Sophia Schuster now," she says.

Mr. Sophia shakes his head. "It's a sad state of affairs. No carbs in the house. We're on a strictly raw, vegan, liquid diet ninety percent of the time. The rest is all tofu all the time."

"You'll thank me later," Sophia hisses.

To be honest, it looks like the guy could use a home cooked meal if not a steak.

"What brought you back to Cobbiton, Whit? Tried to be a big boss woman in the city and—?" Sophia asks, leaving the comment open-ended but obviously meaning for me to fill in the blank with the word failed.

The question, What kept you here? is on the tip of my tongue, but I tell myself to take the high road.

"No, I succeeded actually. I climbed the corporate ladder faster than most and landed accounts my seniors only dreamed of. But—" My shoulders drop on an exhale. "In the end, that life wasn't for me."

The truth is, one morning I woke up with a pang of homesickness, longing for fresh air and blue sky, the scent of hay, waking up to milk the cows, and going to sleep with the stars outside my window. Later that night, I was packing up my condo in Chicago.

It didn't help that the guy I'd recently gone on a few dates with was juggling me and two other women—his assistant made a scheduling error and we had an overlap. I wasn't all that invested anyway, but it was a nail in my city-life coffin. Cookies and milk are loyal. Books and cows too.

I thought I had it all, but the pull to return here was strong. I can't quite explain it. However, the moment I entered my grandparents' house with the faint scent of buttery cookies that somehow still filled the air even all these years later, confirmed I'd made the right decision.

I mean, I think so. I still do consulting work a few times a month and have a diverse portfolio of investments. For not quite hitting thirty yet, I'm doing pretty well in the savings department.

Granted, I'm no heir to the Wingate fortune, but I get by just fine. Well enough to try to make Milk Mustache profitable.

"Well, it's interesting that you're back."

My patience wavers. "Interesting? Really, Sophia?"

Mr. Sophia shifts uncomfortably as if he's all too familiar with his wife's attitude.

Undeterred, she continues, "I hear your brother is getting married."

Not unless I find a boyfriend.

But there it is. The old flame still burns. If Sophia had any sense, throughout high school, she'd have tried to be in my good graces. As Clancy's twin, I had an all-access pass. Instead, she did her best to make me feel as small as a mouse, cueing my eleventh-grade transformation into Wild Whit. My therapist and I decided that she gets only a sixteenth of the blame. Nevertheless, her mean girl vibes didn't help matters.

"Yes, it's so interesting for a person to get a business degree, experience success, and then change careers," I say, exaggerating each word.

I'm not above poking her back ever so slightly because she had the biggest, hardest, never-going-to-happen crush on my twin. Thankfully, he quickly saw what kind of person she was and avoided her for four years, but it wasn't easy.

Her poor husband.

"Have you not met Kathleen Wingate, Clancy's fiancée?" I gush. "She's the sweetest. I always wanted a sister and now I have one."

And you don't get Clancy, so there. I know, I know, I'm regressing by being mentally immature, but can you blame me?

Sophia tries to hide her pout.

I extend an olive branch, er, wax bag, containing two jumbo cookies.

Mr. Sophia reaches for them. She slaps his hand away.

"Well, now that you have this little business of yours, I expect you'll be competing in the Annual Cobbiton Cornament."

I frown, having forgotten about Cobbiton's Corn Cooking Tournament. Karen Linderberg hadn't mentioned whether Milk Mustache is eligible since I don't strictly use corn in my recipes, but I do have one for a corn cookie.

"Sure. Yep. You know me, always aiming high." I'll submit my application tonight.

I did hold the pole vault record in high school, not that any of it matters now.

"Well, just so you know, Sophia's Corn Candies won two years ago and I intend to reclaim the title." With a huff she strides away, leaving her husband to push the stroller.

I wave. "Good luck. Great seeing you, Sophia. Nice to meet you and your baby, Mr. Sophia."

After that encounter, an example of why I so badly wanted to leave Cobbiton, I break off a piece of a jumbo chocolate cherry oat cookie, take a nibble, and then set the rest on a plate for free samples.

Visitors and locals alike pass by, purchase cookies and milk, and enjoy the little bistro sitting area. Sophia notwithstanding, business is going well. In the afternoon, a tall man with broad shoulders and a Nebraska Knights Hockey T-shirt walks toward my window. He has a Magnum P.I. mustache and shaggy dirty blond hair. A little girl with lopsided pigtails and a dog that looks like a small bear on a leash guides the animal to the water dish.

"Welcome to Milk Mustache, your full-service milk and cookies food truck. Can I offer you a free sample?" I ask brightly.

He takes off his classic Ray-Ban sunglasses in a slow-motion movie star kind of way.

I meet a pair of blue eyes I haven't seen in a long, long time. They're eyes that started friendly, turned into the eyes of the enemy, and for one hot moment during our senior year camping trip they were eyes that I got lost in. After that, they were eyes I made myself forget.

I physically feel my smile fall off my face. In its place, my guard goes up.

First Sophia, now him. Why didn't I find a work-from-home job?

Full lips ruckling with a smirk, Redd says, "Hello, Whitney."

"Hello, James."

The little girl tips her head to the side, wearing a look of concern. Like a game of copycat—something he and my brother used to torment me with—the dog does the same. Copydog?

"Nobody calls you James," the little girl says as if his name is news to her.

"And no one calls me by my full name," I mutter.

"Maybe that means you're someone," his tone is low, almost gravely.

Something tugs inside. I could go for a cold glass of milk right about now.

James Reddford's expression never gave away what he was thinking. He was part bad boy. Part secret sweetheart. All hockey star. But he saves that for the ice because it's clear how much he cares about his daughter when he places his hand assuringly on her shoulder.

"What do you say we get ourselves some cookies and milk?" he asks her.

She doesn't smile, but something like hope brightens her eyes.

A twinge of jealousy worms through me. I wonder who the lucky lady is.

Redd browses today's cookies, printed on the chalkboard menu. My top sellers are chocolate chip, sugar cookie, and peanut butter. His voice is deeper like he's traveled far from here and has stories to tell. But he doesn't wear a ring, making me wonder about his situation more than is wise.

Redd still moves with the confidence of a lion—with sure and strong steps. Purpose. I vaguely recall Clancy mentioning he was no longer with the LA team. Does that mean he's playing for the Knights now?

He's golden. I mean, olden. Redd got older. And he's charming and somehow more attractive than he was in high school with a larger and more defined physique.

I mean more attractive than a cyclops with seaweed for hair and a giant wart on its nose. Yeah, that's what I meant...and I'm totally failing at being more mature.