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Authors: Connie Brockway
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surprised, “because of the butter sculpture.”
Jenn Lind’s perfectly arched brows lifted.
“My office received a fax this morning from the AMS publicity department saying that you were going to be grand marshal of the Fawn Creek sesquicentennial this December.”
This definitely caught her off guard. “Well, I—”
“There was a bullet on the bottom saying that you would be appearing alongside the butter sculpture of you created at the Minnesota State Fair by Steven Jaax.” Piccatto held up a piece of paper.
Jenn’s face abruptly cleared. “Then the sculpture must be a facsimile. The original was melted down and used at the Lutheran Brotherhood Corn Feed the weekend the fair ended. All of the princesses donated their sculptures to the event. It was well covered by the local media. I’m sorry but I—”
“No,” Piccatto insisted. “I called the town. They swear it’s the original. Apparently your parents had it in a freezer in a”—he shuffled through some papers—“barn all these years.”
“Really?” She seemed a little discomposed. “Still, whoever sent out that press release may have gotten it wrong. It may be the same source that has me accepting Fawn Creek’s flattering invitation to be their grand marshal, which, I must tell you, I have regretfully declined due to my current obligations to AMS—”
“Excuse me!” Vice President and Programming Director Dan Belker, who’d been standing along the wall with the other coterie of AMS officials, beaming like a proud grandfather, bustled over to Jenn’s side. He raised a hand. “This is all my fault, I’m afraid. A representative from Fawn Creek contacted me late yesterday with information regarding the amazing discovery of Mr. Jaax’s butter sculpture,” he explained. “The conversation got around to how they’d invited Jenn to be their grand marshal. I wasn’t surprised to hear that she’d declined because of the shooting schedule for
Comforts of Home
. Jenn has a great work ethic.”
He patted her shoulder approvingly. “But I got to thinking about it, and well, I called Mr. Davies and after a quick chat we agreed. You just don’t turn down an honor like that. So I called the town back, and knowing how she feels about Fawn Creek and how happy this would make her, I accepted on her behalf.
“I haven’t had a chance to tell her yet.” He nodded at Jenn, who was regarding him with a wide-eyed stare, frozen between amazement and … something else. Probably delight. Probably.
An abrupt, odd, but transforming smile suddenly covered her face. “Well, then, thank you, Mr. Belker. I can’t tell you what this means to me. Thank you.”
She rose to her feet. “So! I’m thinking this is as good a place as any to wrap this up, eh, friends? So thank you for coming. It’s been my pleasure.”
Chapter Seven
1:50 p.m.
Park Plaza Hotel hallway
“You laid on the Minnesota accent a little thick there at the end,” Jenn’s agent, Natalie Fishman, said as Jenn finished shaking the last reporter’s hand and escaped into the hall beyond the conference room. “I was afraid you were going to break out the ‘Sure, you betcha’s.”’
“Not to worry, my small, cynical friend,” Jenn said lightly.
Only a nudge over five feet and just poking into her third decade, with her stick-straight black hair chopped off at her jaw and her thin, flat figure, Nat looked uncannily like an Edward Gorey character. One of the scary children.
“And ‘Fond of the Fawn?”’ Nat said, falling into step beside Jenn as they headed to the other side of the hotel, where the AMS executives were waiting. “How do you sleep at night?”
“Rocked to sleep by the sound of all those thousand-dollar bills crinkling inside my mattress,” Jenn said cheerfully. It had been a slam-dunk performance.
Nat made a disgusted sound that turned into a chuckle. “You don’t even like Fawn Creek.”
“So what?” Jenn asked. “It’s an arranged marriage.
Jenn Lind’s perfectly arched brows lifted.
“My office received a fax this morning from the AMS publicity department saying that you were going to be grand marshal of the Fawn Creek sesquicentennial this December.”
This definitely caught her off guard. “Well, I—”
“There was a bullet on the bottom saying that you would be appearing alongside the butter sculpture of you created at the Minnesota State Fair by Steven Jaax.” Piccatto held up a piece of paper.
Jenn’s face abruptly cleared. “Then the sculpture must be a facsimile. The original was melted down and used at the Lutheran Brotherhood Corn Feed the weekend the fair ended. All of the princesses donated their sculptures to the event. It was well covered by the local media. I’m sorry but I—”
“No,” Piccatto insisted. “I called the town. They swear it’s the original. Apparently your parents had it in a freezer in a”—he shuffled through some papers—“barn all these years.”
“Really?” She seemed a little discomposed. “Still, whoever sent out that press release may have gotten it wrong. It may be the same source that has me accepting Fawn Creek’s flattering invitation to be their grand marshal, which, I must tell you, I have regretfully declined due to my current obligations to AMS—”
“Excuse me!” Vice President and Programming Director Dan Belker, who’d been standing along the wall with the other coterie of AMS officials, beaming like a proud grandfather, bustled over to Jenn’s side. He raised a hand. “This is all my fault, I’m afraid. A representative from Fawn Creek contacted me late yesterday with information regarding the amazing discovery of Mr. Jaax’s butter sculpture,” he explained. “The conversation got around to how they’d invited Jenn to be their grand marshal. I wasn’t surprised to hear that she’d declined because of the shooting schedule for
Comforts of Home
. Jenn has a great work ethic.”
He patted her shoulder approvingly. “But I got to thinking about it, and well, I called Mr. Davies and after a quick chat we agreed. You just don’t turn down an honor like that. So I called the town back, and knowing how she feels about Fawn Creek and how happy this would make her, I accepted on her behalf.
“I haven’t had a chance to tell her yet.” He nodded at Jenn, who was regarding him with a wide-eyed stare, frozen between amazement and … something else. Probably delight. Probably.
An abrupt, odd, but transforming smile suddenly covered her face. “Well, then, thank you, Mr. Belker. I can’t tell you what this means to me. Thank you.”
She rose to her feet. “So! I’m thinking this is as good a place as any to wrap this up, eh, friends? So thank you for coming. It’s been my pleasure.”
Chapter Seven
1:50 p.m.
Park Plaza Hotel hallway
“You laid on the Minnesota accent a little thick there at the end,” Jenn’s agent, Natalie Fishman, said as Jenn finished shaking the last reporter’s hand and escaped into the hall beyond the conference room. “I was afraid you were going to break out the ‘Sure, you betcha’s.”’
“Not to worry, my small, cynical friend,” Jenn said lightly.
Only a nudge over five feet and just poking into her third decade, with her stick-straight black hair chopped off at her jaw and her thin, flat figure, Nat looked uncannily like an Edward Gorey character. One of the scary children.
“And ‘Fond of the Fawn?”’ Nat said, falling into step beside Jenn as they headed to the other side of the hotel, where the AMS executives were waiting. “How do you sleep at night?”
“Rocked to sleep by the sound of all those thousand-dollar bills crinkling inside my mattress,” Jenn said cheerfully. It had been a slam-dunk performance.
Nat made a disgusted sound that turned into a chuckle. “You don’t even like Fawn Creek.”
“So what?” Jenn asked. “It’s an arranged marriage.
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