Page 65 of Book and Ladder
I always felt like an alien in my own family. There were a few years where I legitimately wondered if I had been adopted. If it weren’t for the fact that I look just like my dad and brother, I’d have probably investigated my suspicion. I never felt as naturally included and accepted as Declan and Maeve are.
“You okay?” Declan asks.
“I think I’m having a mid-life crisis,” I admit.
“In your twenties?” His question isn’t mocking.
“What can I say? I’m a savant.”
“You’re just figuring out your lines,” Declan says with easy assurance. “I had it easy that way. I never came back home—found my place in the world—separate from the O’Connell legacy.”
“And you play football—for the pros. You lived up to what they wanted.”
He nods. I’m shocked at how a simple bob of his head hasthe impact of a year’s worth of therapy. I feel validated and seen.
“I’m sure our parents being back has been an adjustment,” he says.
“Yeah. It has. Mom’s dead set on seeing me engaged to a debutante. Dad’s got this development in mind …” I trail off, not knowing what side of the fence Declan is on. He tends to be team Mom and Dad on most issues.
“That’s his business, Pat. He’s a developer. He always wants to improve things. There’s a sense of leadership and protection he brings to every situation and community. He believes he’s doing a favor to the people. Usually, he’s not wrong.”
“What if he is?” I ask.
“Then that town gets a Home Mart or a condominium complex. Life goes on.”
“Life goes on,” I echo.
But I can’t help but think of Daisy. How will life go on for her if the shop she inherited goes out of business?
Declan and I finish our breakfast while I change the subject to ask him about the team and his season. We wash dishes, and then I head out to the Waterford Town Square to help set up for our annual Chili Cook-off.
Buntings of autumn fabric triangles stretch from lamppost to lamppost, a colorful reminder of all the falls we’ve gathered here as a community. Folding tables covered in checkered cloths fill the grass. Hay bales are stacked in various spots with pumpkins and scarecrows for decoration. A group of men is setting up sound on the gazebo. The air is crisp, the salty-sweet smell of kettle corn from the vendor on the corner wafts on a breeze. A grandstand is being set up on one end of the square for this year’s six judges—including me and Daisy.
Yes. We’re both judging the chili this year. When I foundout she was on the panel, I tried to excuse myself, asking Captain if another firefighter could take my place. He basically told me to man up and do my civic duty.
As the start of the cook-off approaches, contestants arrive early to start cooking. Crock-Pots and condiments cover the tables, a myriad of extension cords snaking to outlets. Eventually, townspeople begin filling the grass with lawn chairs and picnic blankets. Children dart between booths, laughing and yelling.
At noon, Mayor Briggs welcomes everyone. “We’re so glad to have everyone out here for the annual Firefighter Chili Cook-off. Now y’all remember, every pot’s been cooked right here in the square, our judges’ll taste ’em blind, and the rest is up to you to determine this year’s winner of the People’s Choice award. So grab your tickets, try all the chili you can handle, and don’t forget to drop your vote before the bell this afternoon!”
The day continues with bands rotating to play live music from the gazebo. Kids play games at the makeshift carnival set up, winning prizes for knocking over milk bottles or making a bullseye. By midday, the chili tasting is in full swing. Lines form at the more popular booths, and the trash-talking between contestants starts in earnest.
Elwood Price and Hank Delaney start shouting at one another:
“I only use peppers grown in my own garden!” Elwood brags.
“And I only use peppers that won’t burn a hole through the judges’ tongues,” Hank retorts.
It’s as if a shotgun’s fired and the razzing has officially been sanctioned to begin in earnest. All through the town square, jabs are exchanged with mock offense.
“You call that chili? Looks more like soup!” JoJo Cartwright shouts to Lou Ellen Granger.
“Better soup than that wallpaper paste you served up last year!” Lou Ellen’s husband, Buck, hollers back. Both parties are smiling, but the competitive spirit is palpable.
From another table, Darla boasts, “I add in a secret ingredient that’s been passed down through the generations.”
Jenny Ruskin doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh yeah? I think your chili passed through more than the generations. From what I hear, Truett Lawson said he was stuck to the commode for an entire day after eatin’ it last year! It passed through, alrighty!”
They continue to bicker while Betsy Ann Calahan places her hands on her hips and announces, “Y’all are goin’ down. My chili’s got the perfect balance of heat and flavor.”
