Wax by Gina Damico Read Free Book Online

electric blue November sky. The sure-to-be-brutal Vermont winter hadn’t started in earnest yet, but the air was cold and crisp, and Paraffin was cranking up the adorable. Kids rode their bikes, squeezing in a few last days of fun before the snow started to fall. New parents pushed carriages down the sidewalk and cooed at their gurgling spawn. Elderly couples walked hand in hand on the shore of the lake and tossed bread at the geese, who thanked them by pecking at their ankles, the bastards. A large banner strewn across Main Street reminded everyone of the bicentennial celebration on Tuesday, as if anyone could forget. It had been declared a town-wide holiday​—​schools, banks, and the post office would be closed​—​and promised entertainment, fireworks, a raffle, and, of course, the big parade.
    Poppy opened up her mouth to complain about the marching band, but Jill interrupted her with, “Not a word about the marching band.”
    â€œI . . . wasn’t. I was going to say that I’m . . . glad my wax twin has vacated the gazebo.”
    â€œWonder what happened to it.”
    â€œOh, the sanitation department destroyed it. They called early this morning to make sure that was all right.”
    â€œAnd you didn’t ask to keep it? But your cheekbones!”
    Poppy pulled the car into a parking spot across from Smitty’s. She got out, stretched, and looked across the lake. The equilaterally triangular Mount Cerumen perked up like the ear of a cat, listening to everything going on in town. Beside it, on a smaller hill, sat two tanks the Grosholtz Candle Factory had once used to store its surplus liquid wax. The tanks had been designed to look like two large pillar candles, and flames were sometimes lit atop their roofs to complete the picture​—​but other than that, they were no longer operational. Lightning had struck them both years ago, ripping holes in their exteriors and thereby destroying their ability to retain heat, and so the factory had abandoned them in favor of more modern wax storage technologies.
    Jill had already crossed the street. “You coming?” she asked. “Or is staring slack-jawed at the lake part of your ingenious plan?”
    â€œComing! Hang on!” Poppy removed her bag from the back seat and began the laborious process of cramming The List into it.
    â€œLeave The List,” Jill said, exasperated. “What possible task could you need to fulfill at a donut shop other than stuffing your face?”
    Poppy relented. “Fine,” she said, walking to the back of the car. “But I’m putting it in the trunk for safekeeping! Prying eyes and such!”
    Smitty’s was packed. The gossipy townsfolk had emerged in droves to gab about the prank​—​the same people who had waved at the cameras when
Triple Threat
came to town to do a puff piece on their hometown hero. Before the bloodletting, of course.
    â€œShe’s our shining star!” Smitty had said on camera of Poppy, the label of “Local Donut Shop Owner” below his name, his forehead glistening with sweat. Smitty always reminded Poppy of a garden gnome​—​short, pudgy, cherry nose, bald on top with a ring of hair around the back of his head, and beloved by a minority for reasons incomprehensible to the majority. “Always knew she’d hit the big league,” he’d crowed. Then something had occurred to him​—​something involving the word “marketing”​—​and his grin grew wider. “Now, how about a maple cruller? Vermont’s finest!”
    And now here he was again, gleefully shilling confections to his hungry clientele, bragging loudly about his new bagel oven. It was allegedly the largest of its kind in New England, so specialized that only he was allowed to use it or even be in the same room as it. “Can bake seven hundred and twenty-four at