Page 2 of Deep Fried Devotion
"Well," Jennie said slowly, consulting her papers with the desperation of someone looking for a miracle, "it appears that Mr. Walsh's contract was signed by the entertainment committee, and Miss Summers' was processed through vendor services. Both committees thought they were booking this space."
"But we're both here and there should only be one deep fried truck."
“The more the merrier, I always say,” Jennie announced. “You can slide in right next to Birdie.”
“What do you mean?” Soren asked in askance.
"She means," Mrs. Plum announced with the authority of someone who'd been attending this fair since before electricity, "you'll both have to squish in a bit and make the best of it."
Birdie felt her heart sink toward her sneakers. This corner spot had been her entire strategy. Prime foot traffic, maximum visibility, the best launching pad for her grandmother's dream. Sharing it would mean sharing profits and maybe the fair goers would like Soren’s deep fried stuff better than hers.
"I'm not sharing anything," Soren said, echoing her thoughts with unfortunate clarity. "I have a business plan that depends on being the only specialty deep fried concoctions."
"And I have a dream that depends on making this work," Birdie shot back. "My grandmother saved for years to start a food truck business. This fair was going to be her debut before she got sick."
"Now, now," Jennie interjected, clearly desperate to avoid an outright vendor war. "We don't have time to reassign locations or renegotiate contracts. The corner is big enough for two trucks if you're willing to work together."
"Work together?" Soren looked like she'd suggested he juggle flaming torches while riding a unicycle.
"Share the electrical hookup, coordinate your customer flow, maybe even collaborate on some items." Jennie’s voice was full of forced cheer. "Think of it as a unique opportunity."
The growing crowd of onlookers murmured their approval. Birdie caught snippets of encouragement: "Fair's about community anyway," and "Two trucks are better than one," and Mrs. Plum's decisive, "Young people these days need to learn compromise."
Birdie looked at her truck, with its hand-painted signs, then at Soren's sleek operation that probably had backup plans for its backup plans. They were oil and water, sugar and salt, everything different about the food industry compressed into one small corner.
But the alternative was giving up her spot, and that meant giving up on her grandmother's dream.
"I'm willing to try," she said, directing her words to Jennie but watching Soren's reaction.
All eyes turned to Soren, who stood like a statue of controlled frustration. The morning sun had climbed high enough to illuminate the sharp lines of his face, and Birdie noticed details she'd missed in the first shock of confrontation: the way his dark hair caught reddish highlights, the small scar above his left eyebrow, the fact that his chef's coat, while spotless, had been mended along one seam with careful stitches.
"Fine," he said finally, the word emerging like it had been physically extracted from him. "But I have conditions."
"Of course you do," Mrs. Plum muttered, earning a few chuckles from the crowd.
"No music during prep hours. No interference with my equipment. And absolutely no..." He gestured vaguely at Birdie's truck. "...rainbow chaos bleeding into my setup."
Birdie bristled. "Excuse me, but my setup is carefully designed to create a welcoming atmosphere that—"
"Sparkles," Soren interrupted. "Everything you own sparkles."
"Sparkles make people happy."
"Sparkles make people think they're at a children's birthday party, not purchasing gourmet food."
"Gourmet?" Birdie's voice rose. "You fry stuff just like I do. Just like most fair food is fried. It’s not gourmet, it’s comfort food, guilty pleasure food.”
"I create innovative culinary experiences using molecular gastronomy techniques."
The crowd watched this verbal tennis match with the fascination of people witnessing either a train wreck or the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
Jennie cleared her throat. "Perhaps we could focus on the practical arrangements? You'll need to coordinate electrical usage, waste disposal, customer queuing..."
Birdie took a deep breath, channeling every lesson her grandmother had taught her about killing people with kindness. "We can work together, Jennie. I won’t make waves.”
Soren stared at her for a long moment, as if compromise was a foreign concept he was struggling to translate. "I won’t either. Thank you."
The words seemed to cost him, but they were genuine.
