Page 37 of Three Days of Holiday

It was a common complaint. Whoever ended up sitting next to Johnny’s always mentioned their rudeness. The group was one of the biggest orchards in their section of the state, meaning they almost always made it to the finals.

They hadn’t beaten me, though. Their designs always lacked those extra touches on the big day. No matter how hard they tried or how much money they pumped intothis competition, they didn’t have an eye for design. Until they fired their current operations manager, they didn’t stand a chance. The woman had no creative vision.

Considering it was Johnny’s niece, they didn’t have a hope of winning anytime soon.

“Well, where do you want to set up the projector?” Jack asked.

I looked up from my phone, spearing him a second of a glance. “Just a second and I’ll help.”

Will: I warned you. That team is always a bunch of rude fuckers.

They were so obsessed with covering up in their design with their big fake cardboard walls because they knew they’d eventually steal elements from anyone else’s table if given a shot. They expected everyone to steal their ideas because they would steal everyone else’s ideas. It was horribly bad circular logic. Most importantly, dirty tactics never produced winners.

I finished my text to Holly, tucked the phone back in my pocket, and then found a position to view our tables from one location. We needed to get our lighting perfect so the projector properly displayed the image of falling snow.

Shawn and Diane struggled with a table covering in the back, doing the job of one person with two incompetent people. Jack held the projector up and moved it from left to right with my hand signals.

Holly had a point. Our area looked dark. I planned it that way. Every single piece of fabric I purchased was black. In fact, I bought out all the black fabric at every store I passed from my farm to the finals. Our spacelooked as far away from winter camping as you could get, but that’s because we hadn’t finished yet.

Jack hit the perfect spot, and I gave him two thumbs up to secure the projector before I walked back toward the tables. “Come on, guys. Only a little time to go. We got it this year.”

Our tables were coming together nicely. I only had to finish securing the last pieces of black fabric, arrange our table settings, and bring out the award-winning pie.

I may have been irritated with fifty percent of my team, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t rally together during our last hours, win the competition, and go home happy before I took over the farm and changed every single one of their lives.

Together we worked hard,and the hours slipped by quickly until final presentations were called and the judges strolled into the room to inspect each display.

It was go time.

Now or never.

Time to secure our winning streak.

I took a deep breath and moved into position.

Holly’s fake trees with her fake snow smelled, but the look she pulled off for each table was just short of amazing. A fake tree balanced on each of her five tables wrapped in beautiful buffalo plaid fabric. She stationed mini campfires in front of each chair with long skewers and marshmallows. The judges could make their own s’mores. Except rather than graham crackers, she’d stacked thick cookies at each setting.

It would definitely be the type of camping trip I’d want to go on. Especially if I got to have her in one of the cute pup tents they stationed in various locations throughout their space.

“I know I shouldn’t have two pieces, but this is the best apple pie I have ever eaten,” George Mars—otherwise known as judge number four—said.

I handed him another napkin and a new plate with the biggest piece of apple pie we served. It was more than twenty-five percent of each pie because not only did you want your food to be delicious, but you wanted a large portion. Finals were not the place to skimp on sweets.

“Don’t be ridiculous, George,” I said, patting him on the back as he took his plate. “We have more than enough pie to go around. It’s made from my grandmother’s own secret recipe.”

Every orchard had a secret recipe for apple pie. It was basically a condition of being an apple orchard. The only thing most people didn’t know was that I made a few adjustments to grandma’s standard recipe. Most of them included upping the sugar content.

“It’s almost 2:30. We need to announce the winner, George,” Betsy Mars said, stopping right next to George and eyeing his extra piece of pie. “You can’t show favoritism like this.”

He rolled his eyes and turned to face the short, stout woman who chastised him. “I highly doubt another piece of pie is showing favoritism.”

“What will your doctors think? You don’t eat my pie that way.” I stifled my laugh at her comment. I supposed she was allowed to say things like that when judge number four was her husband.

The lights in the room dimmed, using the same technique they used to shush us when announcing the regional winners.

Betsy made her way to the top of the stage and left the microphone in its stand rather than bringing it down to her height. It forced her to stand on her tiptoes to speak into it. “The time has almost come to announce the winners of Maine’s Annual Apple Cider Taste-Off. We’re going to take a few minutes to let our judges tally their votes and make a final decision.”

She glanced at her husband, who shoveled the last three bites of pie into his mouth as he pushed into the judge’s circle where they stood whispering with one another. Hopefully, the sugar rush he should experience at any second would be enough to give top ranks to Causebay Family Farms.

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