“I told you we should have taken the other road,” said Mel, her arms across her chest. The slight smile on her lips was a smug one. “Didn’t I say that Main Street was going to be blocked off today because of the Harvest Festival?”
“I meant to drive this way,” Stuart replied defensively. “Besides, I think we should see the mayor open up the festival before we head on over to Derry Pond.”
“Whatever you say. But considering the interview you did with him yesterday, I don’t think the whole thing will be all that interesting.”
“It’ll be more interesting than that swimming competition.”
“You aren’t going to welsh on your promise, are you?”
“You’re the one who promised for me,” he replied as he parked in a side alley beside a hat shop just outside of Main Street.
They got out of the car and Mel tucked her tote bag securely under her arm. “You aren’t scared of that swimming competition, are you?”
“Who, me? No way. I just think reporters should be exempt from all this physical exertion stuff.”
“But then you won’t be able to actually live the story,” Mel replied. “If you experience it all yourself, it’ll be that much easier to write.”
“I don’t need experience. I have a pretty good imagination so I could make everything up and no one would be the wiser.”
“But then that would be fiction, not news.”
“No.” They had walked out of the alleyway and were at the moment standing in front of the hat store. Looking down Main Street, the sidewalks were surrounded by white tents hovering over fold up tables strewn with all sorts of merchandise. The vendors themselves, wearing large pocketed aprons for more efficient money gathering, stood beside or sat under their respective tents, not so subtly eyeing the early festival visitors. “If you know so much about gathering experience and writing news stories, why don’t you just write the article?” said Stuart.
“You’re the one with the writing skills,” she said. She held up her camera which was secured with a strap looped around her neck. “I’m just the one who points and shoots.”
At the town square on the grass island at the center of the blocked off roundabout, the scaffold that the workers had been building the previous day was finally finished. It stretched upward, perhaps a story and a half to two stories tall. The metal pole supports were completely covered with sheets of plywood that had been painted a deep brown. A symbol of a horned animal—a bull or a stag or a ram, one couldn’t quite tell, perhaps it was something else altogether—was drawn at the four sides of the scaffold. There was a ladder leading up to a platform where the Horned King and his consort were to appear at the last day of the festival. A symbolic red ribbon was tied between two poles at the ground in front of the scaffold.
A crowd had gathered around the place, gawking and taking pictures. Mel and Stuart pushed their way through the growing throng of people to secure a place near the front where Mel proceeded to snap pictures. The mayor, Elwood Hinton, and the town clerk, Belinda Montgomery, were at the front near a small foot high platform. Another man was there standing next to the mayor and the clerk, a tall middle-aged man with steel gray hair and thick handlebar mustache. He glanced, bored at the crowd. Hinton caught sight of the journalists from Hot Tread, and recognizing them, began preening for the camera.
Despite the growing noise of conversation, the clock from the church at the end of Main Street could be heard chiming the tenth hour. With that cue, the mayor stepped onto the small platform with a microphone in his hand to greet the crowd.
Mel paid little attention to the fat mayor who rambled on about the beginning of the Harvest Festival and how it was a grand annual tradition that went back for ages, back to when the founders of Gavot arrived at the town to settle down. Instead, her eyes were drawn to the clerk and the man beside the podium. The man was whispering into the clerk’s ear. Belinda Montgomery nodded, but her expression remained unreadable. Finally, the mayor stopped his mouth, and from the pocket of his brown jacket, produced a pair of scissors which he proceeded to use to cut the red ribbon at the foot of the Harvest Festival scaffold. When the ribbon fell to the ground, the crowd gave a cheer and the edges of the gathering began to automatically disperse.
“Well, that was real exciting,” Mel said, deadpan.
“I liked the ribbon cutting the best,” replied Stuart. He shoved his hands into his leather jacket. Earlier in the morning, he had buttoned it up, covering his latest technology themed t-shirt. “So why don’t we go take a look around at what they’re selling at all these vendors?”
“I don’t think so. You’re just stalling. We’re going to Derry Pond now or we’ll be late.”
“Aw, Mel.” But he just sighed and walked beside her as they made their way back down Main Street to the rental car. “I was hoping you would forget about that.”
“Sorry, no. I’m not senile yet. Besides, it’s not like you to drag your feet about something you like. I thought you liked swimming. Granted, I’ve never seen you swimming, but I’m taking Mad Dog’s word that you do it in your free time.”
He snorted. “Free time? I try to make it to the pool at least once a week.”
“Okay, then.” They had reached the car and they got in. Stuart started the engine and a moment after, they were cruising down Camden Road, in search of the small street that Ida Townsend had mentioned that was an alternate route to the pond that was owned by one of the few farmers still around the area. “It is a pond though and not a disinfected indoor pool. You’re not a germ freak, are you?”
“I’m careful about my health,” he said, “but it’s not that. I actually grew up somewhat in the country. One of my uncles owned some land with a pond where my friends and I went skinny dipping.”
“All right. So maybe you are afraid to lose.”
“I’ll probably lose in the whole scheme of things, but I am not going to let that painter beat me.” He said this casually so that Mel could tell that this wasn’t the reason either that he was hesitating about the swimming. “Have you ever gone skinny dipping, Mel?”
“Only in a bathtub.”
He tsked. “You’re missing something by not trying it in a pond.”
“And you’re changing the subject.”
“There’s a reason why I’m changing the subject.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ll know soon enough why I’d rather go shopping on Main Street than going out to this competition.”
She frowned at his enigmatic comment. “Sometimes you’re really complicated.”
“Oh, I’m not complicated at all. I’m surprisingly simple.”
“That’s the most bald, outright lie I’ve ever heard.”
Farmland passed them and soon a couple of trees began to take over the countryside. They arrived at an intersection where a large sign, handwritten in bold red paint, indicated that they should turn right to get to Derry Pond.
“Really, I am quite uncomplicated,” Stuart argued. “If I had a beer, a challenging video game, and a naked babe, I’d be the happiest guy in the world.”
Mel rolled her eyes. “And I suppose this naked babe is serving you the beer?”
“Most definitely. Although she doesn’t necessarily have to like video games.”
“Why not? I thought most people who played any sort of game would like to have an opponent.”
“Yes, but she’d be around for a different reason altogether.”
She sighed. “Well, there’s the pond. It’s rather hard to miss. It’s more like a mini-lake.”
The road they were driving on had petered out into a dirt track and eventually dead-ended into a grassy field where cars and trucks were parked in a rather haphazard fashion. Stuart parked next to a beat up tan car that looked like it only had enough room for a couple of midgets and stretched his legs when they were finally out. The pond itself was across the makeshift parking lot. Under the sky, it was a clear black mirror with a few tall weeds standing at the edges.
A sizeable crowd had already arrived at Derry Pond. To one side, folding tables and chairs were set up, but they were filled with food to be grilled and party supplies. Two hefty middle-aged men in shirts and shorts were preparing two large grills for the lunch time barbecue. Around the rest of the lake, people had spread out picnic cloths and blankets. Some were standing about, mingling and talking. Others were lying on their blankets attempting to get tanned. Mel already had her camera out and was snapping pictures.
Some men were already ready in their swimming trunks, eyeing the edge of the water. One man, short, balding, holding a stopwatch, was instructing some young boys to take their positions around the pond so they could corroborate the winner of the race. Stuart wandered over to a group of middle aged people standing a little ways from the water. They looked like locals and he had a vague idea for querying them about their opinions on the competition.
“Ooo! Look who we have here!”
Stuart found himself freezing at the sound of the leering feminine voice. An arm slipped around his shoulders and he smelled alcohol.
“Ladies, he made it after all!”
He didn’t have to turn around to know who this was, but nonetheless, he found himself shoved around and suddenly he was in the midst of a hoard of old ladies in out-of-date floral, bottles in hand, clearly drunk before lunch time. He had not noticed them earlier. How on earth did the Bingo Club suddenly materialize in this place? Mel. Where was Mel?
Petunia Granger, the president of the Bingo Club, had her hands on the prize and didn’t want to let go. “I’m so glad you made it to the swimming competition,” she cackled. “My friends and I are so looking forward to it.”
“Uh, yeah.”
The other ladies leered at him and waved their beer bottles around whooping. There should be a law about public drunkenness, he thought. Where was Mel? No doubt, she was probably laughing her head off if she noticed.
“It’s always the same with just the locals,” Petunia pouted. “But it’s nice to see some visitors participate. It spices things up.”
Good grief. He fervently wished that he was anywhere but there, but no one heard his wish.
One of the other old ladies latched onto his hand. “So you decided to come here without your girlfriend, eh?”
He felt himself flush. “Actually, Mel is here. She’s the one who suggested I come in the first place. She should be around taking pictures…” He deliberately failed to mention that technically, Mel was not his girlfriend.
Petunia gave him a lipstick-stained grin. “Too bad and I thought I would have you all to myself.”
Stuart cringed as the president of the Bingo Club moved as if to kiss him.
“Hey Stuart, it looks like you’re quite popular around here.”
He turned at the familiar voice. “I thought you were still taking pictures.”
“I’m saving some for the competitions,” said Mel. “Morning ladies. Are you all here to watch the competition?”
“Of course,” huffed one of the members of the Bingo Club. “We organized the whole thing, didn’t we? So of course we wouldn’t miss it.”
The photographer nodded, seemingly oblivious to the women still surrounding the reporter. Is she going to stand there all day chatting with them? Stuart thought in despair. Mel continued, “It looks like your organization paid off. Plenty of people here. A success, I’d say. A lot of the other guests at the bed and breakfast that we’re staying at have also decided to join in the competition.”
“How nice,” said Petunia, bored.
“Oh, look, there’s Laurent,” said Mel. “He’s a swimmer and a painter.”
Some of the old women glanced where she was indicating and squealed in delight. Wondering what was going on, the rest of the Bingo Club turned their heads to see what was the matter. Petunia Granger slightly loosened her grasp on the reporter. Stuart took the opportunity to slip a couple paces away from her.
“I also heard that he specializes in nudes.”
With that remark from the photographer, the Bingo Club and their president took off toward the figure in black who was chatting with someone near the barbecue grills. At the noise, the painter looked up to see the club bearing down on him. His eyes widened in alarm.
“Of course, I don’t really know if he specializes in nudes or not,” she continued when the Bingo ladies were out of hearing. “He might as well be a post-modern abstract cubist for all I care.”
