Waiting for Sparks. Kathy Damp

hand and stepped aside to wait on Sparks, whose eyes had widened at the stentorian bellow.

      “It’s only Beryl,” Vince reassured him.

      Feral Beryl wore a chip on her shoulder the size of Heaven Lake, daring anyone to breathe on it, much less knock it off.

      While Emma was growing up next door to the woman, balls that went over The Berlin Wall never came back, at first. Grumpa would have to go and get them. Then one day Beryl started returning the balls over the fence and that was that. To be fair, Emma thought, Beryl had had her share of hard times.

      After leaving the deli counter, Emma dropped a loaf of sourdough from a local organic bakery into her basket alongside the tomatoes, lettuce and bacon.

      Beryl and her alcoholic husband had screamed at each other for years until the night he’d gone for beer and didn’t come home. Old Mae Cunningham swore that evening’s events had sealed the deep line between Beryl’s eyebrows and gradually added more than a hundred pounds to the woman. Now Feral Beryl lumbered around in a caftan and sandals. Once she retired, she spent most of her time working in her backyard and criticizing town events.

      A warm hand landed on Emma’s shoulder and caught her attention. Sparks. In the produce aisle. Standing very near to her.

      “Look,” he said, his hand remaining on her shoulder until Emma shot a pointed glance toward it. “You don’t want to plan this Jamboree.”

      “I don’t.” Finally they agreed on something.

      He spotted the items in her basket. “BLTs! How ’bout I buy some more bacon and we make ’em together?” At Emma’s silence, he shrugged. “Sorry.”

      Although...maybe the sandwich making would give her an opportunity to convince Sparks to take on the five-day Fourth of July event.

      “I don’t want to plan it, either, to be honest. I’m on vacation. A man of the world, committed to no one. So let’s find someone else.” His grin indicated his pleasure at solving both of their problems.

      Emma sighed and moved toward the checkout. Great. Only she’d already solved both of their problems.

      As she opened her mouth to reply that she was busy—man moratorium, you know—the phone in her pocket buzzed and played the opening chords of “I Will Survive.” She moved a couple of steps away and answered the call. “Hello?”

      It was the nurse she’d spoken to at Garden Terrace, the temporary facility for the next step of her grandmother’s recovery. The doctor had cleared her grandmother for rehab, but Naomi was having none of it. “There’s no medical reason to keep her at the hospital...and I think they need the bed...” The nurse’s voice trailed off. She thanked the woman, said she’d be in touch and ended the call.

      Emma decided on and then added shortbread cookies and chunky chocolate fudge ice cream to her basket as she tried to think of something helpful. A breath later, she felt, rather than saw Sparks beside her, his warmth reaching out to her.

      What was she going to do? Her mind flashed to a picture of her grandmother grinning and holding up a map of England, taunting her.

      She changed directions and headed toward the checkout, and heard Beryl again, informing Vince of more of her opinions. “If I was running the Jamboree, there’d be changes, I can tell you.”

      Evidently, Beryl’s changes would start with changing the organizer’s title from Jamboree coordinator to supreme empress of the universe. Her grandmother would hitchhike from Garden Terrace as soon as she heard crazy news like that. Not that it would ever happen. Nomi would never allow it.

      Emma stepped up to the checkout, Sparks at her side. He had the sense, she was relieved to find, to not say a word. Something. She had to come up with something to get her grandmother to rehab. If she didn’t get better— Tears smarted in Emma’s eyes.

      “I’d get rid of that Cadillac Naomi rides in during the parade. It smacks of elitism. And if you ask me...”

      Nobody had asked Beryl. Nobody ever did. Naomi had first rode in a Cadillac in the early 70s as mayor when an Evanston car dealership offered it; Grumpa had ridden with her as fire chief. Eliminating that tradition from the Jamboree had as much chance of happening as Beryl did of running the show this year or any year.

      Emma’s feet stopped moving. If Nomi knew Beryl was thinking of changing the Jamboree... Of running the event? This...this might work. Her grandmother would never agree to go to Garden Terrace unless—unless her grandmother got something she wanted in return. This time the tears were for Emma herself.

      She hit Redial and was connected to the nurse. “I’ll get her there,” Emma promised. It took only minutes to make the arrangements. A pang in her heart struck deep. But the longer her grandmother was not in rehab, the less she’d recover. Could Emma depend on the lengths Nomi might go to keep Beryl out of the Jamboree?

      Emma closed her eyes, feeling faint. Had it come down to this? The shores of England began to cloud with fog. An image from the movie My Fair Lady, which she and Grumpa loved, faded quickly.

      With the basket slung over her arm, Emma forced her legs to engage and continue walking to the register.

      “Are you—” Sparks began.

      Emma flung up a hand as if to ward off his kindness. “Please.”

      “Can I help?”

      “No.” To get lost in those eyes would ruin everything for her. The man moratorium had to get her through.

      Another intense gaze, and then he nodded as though confirming something to himself. Sparks turned and strode out of the store.

      * * *

      AFTER LETTING TROUBLE OUT, filling the Omni with gas and grabbing a yogurt at the house, Emma headed for the Organic District before driving to the hospital.

      Emma had no doubt that her grandmother would take the bait, once she dangled Beryl’s potential involvement in the Jamboree in front of her. The chasm between Nomi and her neighbor had erupted long before Emma had had memories, and nothing could induce her grandmother to let Beryl replace her.

      A special loaf of bread would, however, hopefully reward the hospital staff for taking care of her difficult relative. They would need a treat, for her grandmother was, so far, still refusing to go to Garden Terrace.

      A few miles out of town, a large carved sign heralded what was referred to as the OD. Organic farmers, ranchers, artisans and crafters rented small wooden stalls and sold their wares to residents and tourists passing on the county road. Organic gardens stretched behind the buildings.