Page 56 of The Sweetest Ingredient

Lowering the poster, I backed away toward my bike with Mochi at my side. I guess winning Bishop’s trust would be harder than I thought, but I wouldn’t give up until I’d earned his forgiveness.

Pedaling home, the sky was a canvas of watercolor blues and pinks, as if even the heavens couldn’t decide on a proper mood. The quaint cobblestone streets of our small town lay quiet, except for the occasional bark from Mr. Henley’s overzealous schnauzer, who seemed to think he was the size of a mastiff. As I rounded the corner, still smarting from Bishop’s brisk dismissal, I nearly collided with the human equivalent of a walking kaleidoscope.

“Hello, hello, Kenzi!” Vivian Lark exclaimed, her clothing flapping in a vigorous breeze. “Biking is all about balance, isn’t it? Though I suppose that’s a metaphor for life too, huh?”

I skidded to a halt, narrowly avoiding a crash into her. Vivian stood there, somehow embodying the word ‘pizzazz.’ Her clothes were a clash of colors that could give the rainbow a run for its money. An oversized pair of glasses perched precariously on her nose, magnifying eyes that sparkled with the latest scoop. The fiery tendrils of her hair, more untamed than Mr. Henley’s schnauzer, were twisted into a messy bun so high it could scout out the gossip before she did.

“Sorry, Vivian.” I huffed, catching my breath and trying not to seem like I was fresh from a rejection rodeo. “You look...nice.”

With a laugh that bubbled up like a well-shaken soda, she twirled, making her skirt billow around her. “Why, thank you. This old thing?” She gestured to her ensemble with a grin. “It’s just something I threw together after my morning interview with the mayor. Well, I said to myself, ‘Self, you need to add some zest to the affair.’ You know how dry political types can be.”

“Zest is one word for it,” I said, eyeing her polka-dot blouse paired with a striped skirt only Vivian could pull off.

I glanced back down the road toward Bishop’s house and my heart pinched. But I wouldn’t cry in front Vivian or my Bishop rebuff would be featured in her next gossip column.

She adjusted her glasses with a shrewd frown. “And you, darling, look like someone ran over your dog.” She tilted her head, glancing at Mochi in the basket. “No one did, I hope.”

“Ha, no.” I forced a slight smile. “Just the remnants of a long day.” I straddled my bike, ready to pedal away from the conversation and back into my own muddled thoughts.

Vivian leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, thick with the promise of juicy gossip. “Darling, Kenzi, have you heard the latest on Maxwell Turner?” She paused dramatically, her eyes gleaming with the glee of a child about to share the biggest secret ever found in a cereal box.

My gaze drifted to a couple of sparrows lazily circling above us, then flying off. I paused, one foot on the pedal, the other still grounded, as if her words were an invisible force field keeping me in place. “Maxwell? What about him?”

“Kenzi, darling, brace yourself because this is juicier than a ripe peach in August.” She glanced around dramatically before continuing. “He’s been smuggling in pastries and those fancy mini-cakes from a highfalutin bakery out of town. Then he passes them off as his own creations at Sweet Sensations.” Her eyebrows arched in mock horror. “It’s a scandal! A culinary caper of confectionery proportions!”

My mouth fell open. “No way. How do you know that?”

Vivian face glowed with the thrill of the scoop. “Well, if you must know, I caught him red-handed—or should I say, flour-handed? I was snooping around for a new story, as one does, and there he was, in the dead of night, unloading boxes with ‘Fancy Feast of Flour’ written all over them. And no, it’s not cat food; it’s that swanky bakery’s name from a nearby city.”

I raised an eyebrow, barely containing my smirk. “It sounds like Maxwell’s baking skills are about as genuine as a three-dollar bill. Who knew the secret ingredient to his success was a dash of deceit and a sprinkle of scandal?”

She snickered, pushing up her glasses with a self-satisfied air. “I know, right? The article goes live tomorrow.”

“You’re going to blast this all over the front page?”

“Front and center,” Vivian confirmed with a grin as vivid as her neon pink blazer. “The whole town will be gobbling up the news along with their morning coffee. Maxwell Turner’s fraudulent fluffery will be outed.”

“Wow.” A laugh escaped me, light and surprised. “Thanks for the heads-up, Viv. This is...wow. I mean, Bishop’s going to flip when he hears about this.”

“Kenzi, darling, it’ll be like lighting a firework inside a hen house,” she said, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet. “All feathers flying and squawks echoing about town.”

We stood beneath the awning of The Yarn Barn, a craft store that had become an impromptu landmark with its multicolored skeins of yarn. The air was thick with the aroma of rich chocolates and roasted coffee beans from a nearby cafe.

“Make sure you get your copy early.” Vivian tucked a stray curl back into the fortress of her messy bun. “This edition’s going to sell like hotcakes—or should I say, like Maxwell’s counterfeit confections?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I said, my mind already churning with the possible aftershocks of her exposé.

“And, Kenzi...” She tapped the side of her nose. “You didn’t hear it from me.”

I feigned innocence, pressing a hand to my chest. “My lips are sealed. Cross my heart and hope to eat stale scones.”

Vivian twirled away, her laughter lingering in the air like bubbles escaping from a soda can.

I hopped back on my bike, the seat slightly damp from the mist that had been playing at drizzle all morning. The wind picked up as I pedaled, an annoying adversary that caused my hair to fly wildly around my face.

The town blurred by as I rode, each familiar shop front and eatery passing like stills in a flipbook. The pet store window boasted a new litter of puppies tumbling over each other, their barks muffled behind the glass. I made a mental note to doodle them later, maybe even feature them in my next design or a new recipe—Pupcakes, perhaps?

“Ah, Bishop’s going to love hearing about Maxwell,” I said to Mochi, who barked once in reply. “It’s like finding out Mr. Darcy is actually a golem designed to recite poetry and brood attractively.”

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