Scones and Sensibility (6 page)

And while delivering delicious baked goods I would keep my eye out for prospective matches for Mr. Fisk, my dearest sister, and Miss Wiskerton.

The revelation was so romantic and full of promise that I was hardly able to contain my joy.

Though moments ago the delivery job seemed like a thorn in my side, it was actually not a burden after all.

It was destiny.

I kissed my father upon his cheek. “Yes, I believe it has much promise, Papa!” And I took up my deliveries and stepped out into the sun that hadn’t yet overpowered the breeze with its heat. Then, placing the paper bag in the light brown wicker basket on my bicycle, I set my favorite straw hat with pink roses on top of my head and pushed off down the sidewalk.

I would search this morning for a young woman that would become the missing ingredient in the lives of my bosom friend and her father.

My hopes had faltered a little by the time I arrived at the bank. My back was drenched in tickling perspiration and the only woman I had spied who wasn’t already married and chasing after a slew of children
was Miss Wiskerton, who seemed to have fallen asleep, for her backside resembled a prize-winning tomato and the seagulls were circling above her.

I pushed through the bank doors and smiled at the cool air that met each drop of moisture on my skin. Though I hated air conditioning with its stale, manufactured air, and much preferred the wild, romantic breeze off the ocean, I had to admit it felt very pleasant at the moment.

I stepped up to the receptionist and smiled. “Here are the bagels you ordered.”

The woman, whom I’d seen only a handful of times at the local market, nodded, took the bag of bagels, and spent such time counting and recounting the exact amount of money that I wondered if a job at the bank was really the job for her.

“Here you are. And there’s an extra quarter and a lollipop in there for your effort.”

“Thank you,” I said, and stepped out.

A quarter and a lollipop? I breathed deeply in and out, filled with indignation. Though I was but twelve, I was not so young as to be treated like a child.

I shook my head as I pushed off my bike and headed back home. She had been fair, with a warm smile and straight teeth, but she was permanently off the list of
potential women for Fran and her father. The thought of her treating Fran and me like mere children made my blood turn circles and I felt like I could fall into a swoon at any moment.

No, the woman that Fran and her father needed was someone who: was kind, smiled often, knew how to make a variety of recipes, though did
not
like chicken cordon bleu, and treated Fran like a human being and not a child.

Lollipop indeed!

Back at the bakery, Papa was leading my mother in a slow waltz around the empty kitchen, humming in her ear. Mama turned to me as I walked in. “Oh, Polly, you’re back already. Here are three other bags of pastries, bagels, and breads to be delivered. I’m glad you found a way of incorporating this into your goal,” she said, smiling.

I was beginning to mistrust that smile.

I set the bags in the basket and retreated down the sidewalk on my bicycle once again. All three deliveries were on the boardwalk, which was delightful to all of my senses. So many savory scents intertwined with each other in the air that I was forced to stop for a moment and walk to the end of the small pier. There, with the waves crashing beneath me, the breeze
whipping my auburn curls in a swirl around me, and the sun warming my cheeks with a slight rosy tint, I was convinced I was in heaven itself. I imagined a young man with dark hair and stormy eyes touching me on the shoulder.

“My lady? Are you well?” he asked. His eyes were concerned, though a small smile crept upon his lips
.

“Why yes, you just startled me,” I replied, the light illuminating—

“You okay?” I opened my eyes to find a rather rotund, portly man standing before me, with a beard that was much in need of a trim.

He was not the least like the young man in my daydream, but he did save me from being too terribly late in my deliveries. “Nope, I was just …,” I said, walking briskly back to my bike. “Never mind. I’m okay. Thanks … I mean, thank you, good sir.” And I pedaled off down the weathered wooden boardwalk.

The first two deliveries went well, but I purposefully saved the delivery to Up and Away Kites as my last stop. Mr. Nightquist had owned the shop ever since I could remember, and I adored him more than just about any other person besides my own family and Fran. He had a cheery disposition and reminded me very much
of what I envisioned Matthew Cuthbert to be like: generous and kind, round around the middle like a muffin, and sweet as melted chocolate.

When I was little, Mama and I would walk along the boardwalk and stop every afternoon to pay Mr. Nightquist a visit. He had been a family friend before my parents had married, and has known my sister and I ever since we were babes. He had first taught me to fly a kite when I was little and had bequeathed to me his dear wife’s leather-bound books (
Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre
, and
Wuthering Heights
), which were the prizes of my bookshelf.

I’d never known Mrs. Nightquist because she’d died the year before I was born, but he talked of her often, and from the picture he kept by the cash register, I could see she had been a handsome woman with kind eyes and a delicate dimple on her chin.

I grabbed the small paper bag and peered into the shop as I had done since I was able to walk. A loud wail, proceeded by screams and bellows that ruffled my spirit, pierced through the glass window.

The child could be none other than Charles Hildeburg.

Though I despised rolling my eyeballs for any
reason whatsoever, I’m afraid the reaction came naturally and without my permission whenever Charles Hildeburg was a part of the situation.

Dear Mr. Nightquist.

His daughter, Melissa Anne, a young woman I had always had the highest regard for, had locked herself into matrimony with a man who was quite below her in all things. The man called himself Bruiser and his last name, Hildeburg, did not compliment Melissa Anne’s name very well at all.

With Bruiser, Melissa Anne had a single child, named Charles, who was widely known in town as having a very disagreeable disposition and the irritating habit of screaming and wailing loudly whenever he did not get what he wanted.

If only I had been able to help Melissa Anne to make a suitable match.

My heart mourned for Mr. Nightquist at the thought of him having to be connected with Charles and Bruiser by blood and by marriage.

The door to the shop blew open, and Charles sprinted onto the boardwalk with a very frazzled Melissa Anne attempting to capture him.

I sighed and smoothed my dress, pinching my cheeks to add just a hint more color to my complexion.
Surely the pastry would soothe Mr. Nightquist’s soul at least for the time being.

The bell above my head tinkled a greeting as I walked inside.

“Good morning!” a deep voice called from the back. “Welcome to Up and Away Kites!” Mr. Nightquist was cordial to everyone—a quality I prized highly.

“Good morning,” I called from the cash register.

“Is that? Could it be?” There was the sound of empty boxes falling to the ground or being kicked out of the way as the voice came closer. “Is it my girl? My Polly girl?”

I felt my cheeks blush a rosy red and I twisted on my heels. Though I hated being treated like a child by everyone else, with Mr. Nightquist I couldn’t help but feel six years old again, and honestly I adored it. “Yep, it’s me,” I said.

He peeked around the side of the wall and smiled. “It is you! My day just took a turn for the better!” I held out the small bag to him, but he took it and flung it on the counter and instead took my hand and twirled me around.

I giggled.

Once he was done twirling me like a top he took the bag and opened it. His eyes closed as he sniffed the
bag, the same response that I gave when my mother had finished baking an apple streusel. “Hmmm. There is nothing like a Madassa chocolate croissant and blueberry muffin delivered by my favorite girl in New Jersey to make my day!”

I giggled again, then spied a torn kite atop the counter.

Mr. Nightquist picked it up. “Missy and Charlie came by to visit this morning,” he said, holding it up and sighing.

I nodded, “Yes, I saw them depart at quite a speed, though I fear that Charles will win their race, much to Melissa Anne’s dismay.”

Mr. Nightquist rubbed his balding head and smiled. “Yeah, he’s a bit of a challenge.”

I bit my tongue quite hard to keep myself from uttering more thoughts on the subject of Charles and his current upbringing.

“And how is your daughter faring?”

He shrugged. “Well, it’s always good to see her, even if she thinks I’m an old man that needs looking after.”

“Why, whatever do you mean? You are at the height of both fitness and health,” I exclaimed.

“Oh, she’s got me eating more pills than a horse,
and for some reason she thinks I can’t cook a decent meal.” He sighed. “She comes over most evenings, which gets a bit much at times. But I know she means well. She just thinks I’ve been alone too long and I need a mother to take care of me or something.” He retrieved the croissant and set it on a napkin. “But enough of that. You’ll stay for a bit and keep an old man company?”

I peered down at the small, delicate watch I kept hidden in my dress pocket. “I’m afraid I cannot. Parting is such sweet sorrow,” I said, performing an elegant curtsy. “I am afraid that I am tied to the working world this summer.”

He waved a hand at me and laughed. “Aren’t we all? I’ll be sure to order this more often,” he said.

“Have a most wonderful day.” And I walked out and started for home.

It was only when I passed an older couple holding hands and walking in the sand along the beach that I realized that perhaps Melissa Anne was correct about one thing, though it had nothing to do with having a mother.

Mr. Nightquist, the kindest, dearest, most well-bred older gentleman in all of New Jersey, was utterly, completely, and sadly alone.

Yet my heart leapt with hope inside me. I would find the perfect match for both Mr. Fisk and dear Mr. Nightquist!

And indeed, though I would not hand my beloved Mr. Nightquist to any woman, I could not help but think of the equally lonely Miss Wiskerton.

I smiled.

Love was truly in the air.

I
went straightaway to my bosom friend’s home to tell her of my wonderful idea. She would be most excited, I was sure, and I could hardly contain the delicious excitement that bubbled within me.

Once more Mr. Fisk was out in the sunshine, much to my great joy. And indeed, he was hanging an elegant swing on the porch—perfect for two lovers!

My heart nearly burst inside me!

“Well hi, Polly! You looking for Fran?”

I smiled. “Indeed I am, Mr. Fisk. Is she about?”

He laughed quite heartily and pointed to the backyard. “I think she’s in the backyard making bracelets.”

“Thank you,” I said, yet hesitated from moving in that direction a moment longer. “That is quite a lovely
swing, I dare say,” I said. “Quite cozy and romantic.”

Mr. Fisk looked up at me, smiled, and said, “Good, I’m glad you think so,” and went back to hanging it up.

I giggled to myself and proceeded to the backyard, where I found my beloved friend swinging in her hammock, a long bracelet made of bright, flowery colors upon her lap. “Oh dear Fran,” I declared, rushing to her side. “Would you like to accompany me to Macko’s for a delicious Italian meal? I have much to tell you of, and”—at this I could barely contain my excitement, and squealed—“you’re going to be so excited, I just know it!”

She swung her legs over the edge and set the bracelet down at once. “Yep, let’s go! I’m starving!” And together, hand in hand as bosom friends, we strolled toward the boardwalk.

Fran bit into a piece of Macko’s pizza, the cheese stretching out a few inches before breaking apart and hitting her chin with a saucy streak.

“So what do you think is wrong with him?” she asked, though it took me three tries to understand her with her mouth overflowing with pizza.

Her manners were hopeless. Believe me, I have tried to reform her.

I sipped my lemonade, enjoying the clinking of the ice against the glass. “What’s wrong with your father?”

“Yeah. I mean, raspberry torte, Polly? Besides the chicken cordon bleu, he’s never made anything other than mac and cheese. This is getting serious. So what do you think? Has he told you anything?”

“Indeed, we did converse.” I nodded and smiled to myself, then took out the handkerchief and smoothed it with my fingers. “You remember Gilbert and Anne? Or Elizabeth and Darcy? Even Jane and Mr. Bingley?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Um … I think so.”

“Well, it is my opinion, and I have kept track of the time since your mother left and of the months your father has been making chicken cordon bleu, that …” I paused to mount the tension in the air. “That … your father needs to find his Anne. He needs an Elizabeth in his life.” The thought sent my heart soaring.