Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“What the hell are y’all doing in here?!” she demands with her hands on her hips.
Her lips are pursed and her eyebrows are tugged together in annoyance. She’s definitely not amused by our late-night antics, and Sawyer must realize it.
“Hey Queenie, you sure look pretty in that little hat.”
His flattery eases her furrowed brows a bit, but it’s not enough to get us out of trouble. Maybe he should have complimented her nightgown too. She gets them two for twenty dollars down at Nichols, and she loves to brag about it.
But it’s too late for that; her finger comes up to wag at us. “Hope y’all enjoy baking because I needed every last one of those cookies for the bake sale tomorrow morning. I promised Stacey Wolfe twelve dozen.”
This is how Sawyer and I come to be baking cookies with Queenie at 1:30 in the morning. And she doesn’t let us sit back and watch either. We’re the ones mixing and scooping while she instructs us from the sidelines with her arms crossed. “You’ll need twice as many chocolate chunks as that if you expect them to be any good.”
Once we have a batch in the oven, Sawyer goes to lie down on the couch, throwing an arm over his eyes. I think all those cookies have finally hit him.
I lean down to look in the oven, checking to see the cookies are baking right. The last thing I want to do is remake them again. Once I confirm they’re doing their thing, I notice Queenie watching me with a secret little smile.
“That boy’s smitten over you,” she whispers. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Hate to break it to you, Queenie, but I have absolutely no clue.
CHAPTER 9
It’s not enough that I remake the stolen cookies. I’m also enlisted to work the bake sale alongside my mother. Stacey Wolfe—the head organizer—was a teacher at Oak Hill High School for thirty years before she retired, and now she spends most of her free time trying to raise money for the school district. Her newest goal is to bring in reading and math specialists for the elementary grades. It’s a noble cause so I try not to complain about melting under the summer sun. Apparently Stacey thinks it’s best to set up right on Main Street to get the most foot traffic possible, so we’re directly outside Nichols with no shade to be had by the time the sun’s blazing overhead.
I’ll admit, I was skeptical of how a simple country bake sale could generate enough of a profit to make a dent in these specialists’ salaries, but I quickly come to realize this is no small operation. At least fifty people drop off items between eight and nine AM, and there’s a line winding down the block by the time we open half an hour later.
Cash is waved in front of my face. “Gimme a dozen lemon bars. Two of Mabel’s cherry pies if you got ’em, and of course, a half-dozen of Queenie’s chocolate chunk cookies!”
It feels like I’m working in the Walmart electronics department on Black Friday. People are shouting, cutting in line, demanding sweets. Queenie’s cookies sell out in thirty minutes. The mini cheesecakes and key lime pies go soon after. One man cries when I tell him we’ve run out of Mabel’s cherry pies.
“My wife is gonna kill me.”
We’re down to pecan pie bites and brownie bars when my brother’s McCall Heating & Air truck pulls up in a vacant space a ways down the street. He must have come straight from a job because his cheeks are red and his hair is matted with sweat near the temples when he strolls up.
“Hey, Mama,” he says, leaning over the table to kiss Queenie’s cheek. “Sold out of the cookies already?”
“You had to get here early for those,” she says with a proud smile.
David clicks his tongue. “Cruz’ll be mad about that. He made me promise I’d bring some home.”
Upon hearing that her beloved grandson wants some of her homemade cookies, Queenie promises to make Cruz his own personal batch and drop them off later.
An impatient customer grabs Queenie’s attention and David looks over at me, taking me in from head to toe, biting back a shit-eating grin.
“Love the outfit.”
He’s talking about the chef’s hat that rises a foot over my head and the apron I was forced to put on when I arrived that reads Donut Worry, Be Happy.
“Be careful or Mom’s going to enlist you too.”
He holds his hands up. “No can do. I’ve got to be at a house a couple blocks over for a twelve o’clock appointment. Air conditioner’s blown. Maybe next time.” He winks before pointing at a brownie bar. “How much for one of those?”
“Ten dollars.”
“TEN DOLLARS?!” He laughs as he pulls out his wallet. “That’s highway robbery.”