8. Rian

8

RIAN

B anners of brilliant blue and sunny yellow flutter in the cool breeze as Jessa and I approach the large white tent set up next to town hall for the first weekend of the annual family cookoff competition. Delicious aromas of chocolate, spices, and buttery baked goods swirl around us, beckoning and tempting.

Inside the spacious tent, families bustle about at long counters that have been set up like kitchen workstations, gleaming appliances and colorful utensils laid out before them.

It reminds me of that popular baking show from the human lands that Jessa loves to watch, except with a vibrant mix of human and monster competitors. An orc stirs a massive cauldron, a pixie pipes delicate frosting flowers, and a centaur folds dough with deft hooves. Each family also has their premade competition entry with them.

Every weekend for the next five weeks, we’ll be judged on two entries: first, the premade item that we bring from home, something that we can decide on ourselves, which is meant to really wow the judges; and second, the item that we create live during the weekend. For the item we prepare live, every family makes the same thing and the judges compare them against each other.

Jessa trudges beside me, face stormy. She hasn’t said a word since we left the house.

I sneak a sideways glance at her as we make our way to our assigned station.

“Smells amazing in here, doesn’t it? This is going to be fun!” I try to muster some enthusiasm despite her sour attitude.

Jessa just shrugs, eyes locked on her phone. My heart sinks. I’d hoped that once we arrived at the tent, Jessa would remember how much she loves this competition.

But she’s still upset that I signed us up, even though she’d told me she wanted to win this year. Apparently I was meant to read between the lines in her interaction with Ember and assume that she definitely felt this competition was for babies. She’s also mad that I’m asking her to be here, with me, instead of gallivanting off with her friends who she sees at all hours of the day already.

Jessa flat-out refused to help make our first submission—a towering croquembouche of caramel-glazed choux puffs garnished with spun sugar, toasted hazelnuts and dark chocolate drizzle. Well, that stung.

Plus, I feel guilty submitting it as a pair despite doing all the work alone. But if I don’t submit something, we won’t be able to continue in the competition.

I swallow and tell myself I’m doing this for Jessa, for us, my family. I know my daughter. Once we get going, she’ll shake off her hormonal irritation and start to enjoy herself.

I think.

I set the pastry masterpiece down carefully on our counter. The rich scent of butter and sugar fills the air. My mouth waters despite the pit in my stomach.

“You ready to wow the judges, honey? I think our croquembouche has a real shot at winning the day. Now we just need to do well in the live contest.”

Jessa rolls her eyes. “Sure, Dad. Whatever.”

I reach out to squeeze her shoulder, but she shrugs me off. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea after all…

A hush falls over the tent as the judges take their places at the front. They make an impressive trio—a statuesque elf with cascading black hair, a rotund dwarf with a magnificently braided beard, and a chic vampire in a tailored suit. Their keen eyes sweep over the contestants, and I stand up straighter, determined to make a good impression.

“Welcome, competitors,” the elf announces in a melodic voice. “We can’t wait to judge your first submissions. The prep time is now finished; please bring your creations to the front, if you haven’t already.

“And I’m so excited to announce our first live challenge! Today’s task is to create a complex and flavorful stew. You have three hours to craft your dish. The winning family will receive an advantage in the next round.” She smiles enigmatically. “Begin!”

Excitement surges through me as I turn to our table, already envisioning the rich, hearty stew I’ll concoct. Jessa, however, remains slumped on her stool, thumbs dancing across her phone screen.

“Ready to start chopping vegetables, Jessa?” I ask brightly, trying to coax her out of her funk.

“Hm?” She glances up, blinking. “Oh. Yeah, I guess.”

I hand her a cutting board and a pile of carrots, onions, and potatoes. She sets to work, but her movements are sluggish, disinterested. Across the tent, Jessa’s longtime classmate Tina and her father are already bustling around their station, a well-oiled machine.

“Look at Tina,” I point out. “Let’s get going so we can beat her.”

Jessa rolls her eyes. “Ember says that Tina is a nerd. I don’t care if I beat her.”

Ugh, that Ember girl again. When I was a young minotaur, I remember my parents saying they could always just tell when one of my friends was bad news, and I thought they were being ridiculous. Turns out, it was true. Sighing, I focus on the task at hand.

As the minutes tick by, I lose myself in the familiar rhythm of cooking. The air fills with the mouthwatering scent of simmering broth and sautéing garlic. I add a pinch of this, a dash of that, coaxing the flavors to meld and deepen.

But every time I look over at Jessa, my heart sinks. She’s barely progressed, her vegetables haphazardly chopped, her attention still fixated on her phone.

The judges drift past, and I catch their furrowed brows, their disapproving frowns.

“Jessa, honey,” I murmur, leaning close. “Why don’t you put your phone away for a bit? I could really use your help to make sure we can finish on time.”

“I am helping,” she mutters, not meeting my eyes.

“It would mean a lot to me if you were more present.” I keep my voice gentle, but I can’t quite mask the pleading note. “This competition is important to our family. Remember?”

Jessa’s shoulders hunch, and for a moment, I think I’ve gotten through to her. But then she shakes her head, her expression hardening.

“It’s important to you, Dad. Not me.”

My heart cracks a little at her words. I open my mouth to respond, but the judges are approaching, clipboards in hand. I straighten up, forcing a smile.

“Tell us about your stew,” the dwarf says, peering into our pot. Ladling a serving into a bowl for each judge, I launch into a description of the locally sourced ingredients and a special blend of spices. I can’t help but notice how the judges’ gazes linger on Jessa, on her disengaged posture and half-hearted efforts.

The cream base is hearty, filled with perfectly cooked wild rice and seasonal vegetables. The cuts vary between my skilled hand and Jessa’s irregular chops with each spoonful, but I know it at least tastes delicious.

As each judge lifts a spoonful to their mouths, I watch delight fill their eyes.

“Delicious, as always Rian.” The elf says. “Is that black garlic?”

“No, nothing that fancy this time.”

The elf hums in answer, relishing another bite. “The way you cooked each vegetable perfectly, maintaining their individual flavors, is sublime. You’ve always been such a skilled cook.”

“Skills aside, this is a…collaborative competition,” the vampire says with a cool tone. “I wish we could have seen more of that in the end result.” Shame prickles under my fur.

The other contestants bustle around, cleaning up and comparing notes, Jessa and I sit in strained silence as the judges taste each stew, giving their comments.

I know I need to do something to fix this widening rift between me and my daughter. But as Jessa hunches over her phone, shutting me out completely, it dawns on me how much I’m at a loss.

The joy of cooking, of creating something together, has always been our special bond. If we can lose that, what else might we lose?

Tina and her dad win the day. Jessa and I score in the middle of the pack, docked plenty of points due to her non-participation. Our low starting score will make it hard to come back in the weeks ahead; the overall winner is decided by an average of all the scores.

With a heavy sigh, I turn back to our station and start packing up.

As we step out of the tent into the warm afternoon sun, I turn to Jessa, trying to keep my voice light. “Well, that was a bit rough, but we made it through. What do you say we grab a celebratory ice cream on the way home?”

Jessa barely glances up from her phone. “Whatever.”

I feel my frustration mounting. “Jessa, can you please put your phone away for a minute? I’m trying to talk to you.”

She rolls her eyes. “What’s there to talk about? We didn’t score well, big surprise.”

“That’s not the point,” I say, struggling to keep my composure. “The point is that we’re supposed to be doing this together, as a family. But you barely lifted a finger in there.”

Jessa’s head snaps up, her eyes flashing with anger. “I told you, Dad, I wanted to go over to Ember’s today, not do this babyish competition with you.”

I blink, taken aback by her outburst. “But... we’ve always loved doing this together. You said you wanted to win this year. It’s our tradition.”

“Maybe it was our tradition,” she retorts, her voice rising. “But I’m not a little kid anymore, Dad. It’s embarrassing to be seen doing this with you. Anyone could’ve walked by the tent!”

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. And there they go again, my reactive minotaur instincts rearing their ugly head. A hidden, rational part of my brain knows that the words are a bad choice before I say them aloud, but they come tumbling out of my mouth anyway.

“Spending time with your family should not be embarrassing. You should be proud of it. And if that’s the kind of rhetoric you’re picking up from some of your new friends, like Ember , then I don’t think I want you spending much more time with them.”

Jessa’s eyes widen and she scoffs, outraged, but I continue on. Again, rationally, I know going further is only going to make things worse, but the beast inside me speaks instead.

“You will participate in this competition, Jessa, because you were excited about it until someone told you not to be. And you are absolutely forbidden from bringing your phone with you as the competition continues. If you can’t learn to be respectful and present, I’ll take it away from you entirely.”

“You can’t do that! You keep talking about respect and family, but you don’t give me any respect! You’re the worst dad ever!” Tears are streaming down Jessa’s face as she turns on her hoofs and storms off.

Leaving me standing there, deflated and alone.

How did we get here? When did the easy, loving relationship I had with my daughter turn into this battlefield?

I think back to Myrtle’s enchanted notebook, to the message I wrote in desperation.

I miss you.

And I do, more than ever. She always knew how to handle difficult parenting moments with such grace and wisdom. Without her advice, I feel like I’m floundering, like I’m failing Jessa when she needs me most.

Sighing, I shoulder our things and head back to the bakery, my mind churning with unanswered questions.

How can I bridge this growing divide between me and Jessa?

How can I show her that I’m not trying to embarrass or control her, that I just want to spend time with her, to share in something we both used to love? To build memories together before she’s fully grown up?

The homey scent of cinnamon and vanilla welcomes me as I step into my office at the back of the bakery. Normally, the familiar aroma would soothe my frayed nerves, but today, it barely registers. My mind is consumed with thoughts of Jessa, of the hurt and anger in her eyes as she ran off.

I sink into my chair, the weight of the day pressing down on my broad shoulders. Reaching for a pen to start jotting down ideas for the next round of the competition, a soft glow catches my eye.

It’s coming from the enchanted notebook.

My heart races as I lean forward, hardly daring to breathe. Could it be? Is some part of Myrtle still here, ready to offer the guidance I so desperately need?

With trembling hands, I open the notebook, my eyes scanning the page.

But the words that greet me are not the comforting, sage advice I’d hoped for. Instead, the message is sharp, sarcastic. And the handwriting a neat, professional script that looks nothing like Myrtle’s looping scrawl.

I’m not sure who you miss, or if this is a game you’re playing—I’ve heard rumors of possessed notebooks trapping people inside—but in case it’s Myrtle I wanted to let you know she has passed away and give my condolences. It seems I’ve inherited this along with a few other things from her.

If this is a possessed journal, I can’t handle a haunting on top of everything else, so please don’t take over my body. I don’t understand all this magic stuff, and I’m not sure I want to.

– N

I blink, my mind reeling.

N. N must be… Natalie?

She must have found the notebook among Myrtle’s things when clearing out the apartment, I realize.

But she doesn’t know anything about the notebook, that much is clear from her message. Who does she think she’s writing to?

A plan begins to take shape, one that can solve at least one of my problems, perhaps. A way to persuade Natalie to see Elderberry Falls—and me—in a new light. If I can use this notebook to show her the magic and charm of our little town, maybe, just maybe, she’ll reconsider selling the building to Munchin’ Morsels.

I chew on my pen, debating. I know it’s a risk. Communicating with Natalie without revealing who I am could backfire, if she finds out and is more angry with me than ever.

On the other hand, if it could mean saving the bakery, preserving the heart and soul of Elderberry Falls...

I take a deep breath, and begin to write.