Reminiscing Over Rainbow Gelato

By Renee Canter Johnson

On the heels of professional failure, flavor chemist Sabrina Bianco travels to Martha's Vineyard to reopen her parents' ice cream parlor, hire a manager, and return to North Carolina before a co-worker snags her promotion.

Secretive about his reasons for returning, Tommy O'Brien, the man who left Sabrina and the island seven years earlier to pursue his dream photographer career, shows up to photograph the creamery for the local newspaper.
Forced to work together, will they rekindle their relationship, or is Tommy's interest in her unique flavor creations for nefarious reasons?

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: May 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781509235797

Renee Canter Johnson

Renee Canter Johnson is the author of To Ride A Wylder Horse, Reminiscing Over Rainbow Gelato, Behind the Mask, Herald Angels, The Haunting of William Gray, and Acquisition. To Ride A Wylder Horse is Johnson's sixth novel with The Wild Rose Press and highlights a few of her favorite things: horses, storytelling, and romance. Renee holds a BS in Business from Gardner-Webb University, has studied in France and Italy, and is a fellow at Noepe Center for Literary Arts on Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts. She lives on a farm in North Carolina with her husband, Tony Johnson, and two very spoiled German shepherds named Hansel and Hannah. Renee Johnson is a member of the North Carolina Writer’s Network, Authors Guild, Romance Writers of America, and She Writes. Her essays have appeared in Bonjour Paris, Study Abroad, and Storyhouse. Renee blogs at two sites: http://writingfeemail.com for personal observations and photography, and http://reneejohnsonwrites.com where she focuses on the craft of writing. You can follow her on Twitter at http://twitter.com/@writingfeemail and on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/renee.johnson..549436.

Book preview

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One glance propelled me from my self-indulgence as I stared into my manifested youth. A summer’s work started the collection, and several more added to its contents, winnowing away some items, replacing them with others. I touched the shadowbox—our shadowbox, mine and Tommy’s—with reverence. Nobody else would treasure such a thing. I was surprised it was still here, instead of tossed away like some junk in a storage unit or a long-forgotten box in a basement. Nothing inside was valuable, except for the precious, irreplaceable memories. I could barely believe the compartments retained most of their original contents—glossy misshapen blue and green glass, smoothed by all the rolling in the waves and the sand, a tiger’s eye marble, and a dried baby starfish.

Lifting a piece of the most transparent, sky-colored sea glass, I held it to the light. Thinking of how its color resembled Tommy’s eyes, I wished whatever island magic manifested Mrs. Lockwood would turn the trinket in my palm into the one person I both longed and feared seeing more than anyone else. Tommy O’Brien, where are you?

Praise for Renee Johnson

Renee Johnson’s writing is raw, sublime, and beautiful…

~ Justen Ahren, author

~*~

Renee Johnson is a natural storyteller with a graceful elegance of style.

~ Janet Hulstrand, author

~*~

The references to historical facts ground the book in reality and make it that much more believable to the reader.

~ Karen Hunt, a.k.a K.H. Mezek, author

~*~

THE HAUNTING OF WILLIAM GRAY is a workout for the mind and emotions as Renee Canter Johnson brings you back in time for an intriguing romantic adventure.

~ Jane Seskin, author

Reminiscing Over Rainbow Gelato

by

Renee Canter Johnson

One Scoop or Two

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Reminiscing Over Rainbow Gelato

COPYRIGHT © 2021 by Renee Canter Johnson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Rae Monet, Inc.

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Edition, 2021

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-3579-7

One Scoop or Two

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

To my fellow writers at Noepe on Martha’s Vineyard: Jane Seskin, Karen Hunt, Mark Weideranders, and Margot Douaihy. Although we write in different genres, the point is, we write.

To my editor Leanne Morgena, a partner in this creation. Thank you for your guidance.

To my granddaughter, Oaklynn Gray Johnson, my newest reason for writing stories with hope, encouragement, love, and female empowerment.

Chapter 1

The choppy water rocked the ferry from Woods Hole to Martha’s Vineyard, compounding my angst. As soon as the boat docked, and the captain dropped the gangway, I collected my belongings and rushed toward the aluminum ramp.

Ms. Bianco—Sabrina—wait, a shrill voice yelled.

Turning, I glimpsed a woman waving her arm excitedly as she pushed through the crowd. A large tote bag swung from one elbow where it joined the purse slipping off her shoulder as she waved and ran. Although she didn’t look familiar, I stopped just short of the slope.

The lady slowed from her chase but continued approaching. Sabrina Bianco? You left this on the seat. She retrieved a computer case from the collection hanging from her arm.

I glanced at the assortment of luggage pieces and bags I’d trudged with me from Boston and groaned. How can I be so forgetful? Mine?

She switched hands and pulled a hoodie over her mane of red hair before holding out the bag. If you’re Sabrina Bianco, it is. I saw the case on the seat beside the one you vacated and read its tag.

In closer proximity, her green eyes looked familiar. Have we met?

Her attention drifted to someone beyond the dock. Gotta dash. Try to hang onto this.

I took the computer from her outstretched hand and reached for my purse. I can’t tell you how much trouble you’ve saved me. Let me reward you with—

Nonsense, she yelled over her shoulder as she merged with the exiting throng.

Hugging the nearly lost computer to my chest, I took a few breaths before continuing down the ramp. The recent stress in my life sparked forgetfulness, and a dozen different problems simultaneously competed for my attention, most of which I couldn’t solve.

Hailing the first car in the short line by the exit’s transportation sign relieved me of the dreaded wait as I was exhausted from the recent events with work and family.

The cabbie’s weathered hand reached around the taxi stand and wrapped long fingers through the luggage handle. Before rolling the bag away, he reached back and yanked open the car’s rear door. Name’s Fred. Where you from?

My eyebrows pinched inward. Regardless of what everyone said about Southern hospitality, few areas sported people as friendly as those on Martha’s Vineyard. I considered ignoring the question but feared perceived rudeness would reflect poorly on my parents’ establishment. As I was only here for four weeks, the request seemed benign. North Carolina.

He grabbed the smaller suitcase. North Carolina. You don’t say? And where you headed?

Having lost a vintage train case in Atlanta when a taxi driver failed to notice it by the stack, I peeked around the back to make sure each bag wound up in the vehicle before replying. Summer Street. Edgartown Creamery.

He stopped the trunk lid from slamming shut and peered around its edge. A crooked knuckle pushed the golf-style beret off his forehead. The ice cream parlor?

I found his tone incredulous and his expression curious. Yes. His eyes almost disappeared into the fleshy folds beneath them as he winced.

If you don’t mind me saying, North Carolina’s a far piece from Martha’s Vineyard, especially if it’s ice cream you’re wanting. Besides, I don’t think they’re open. Most folks don’t get cranked up around here until Memorial Day.

I’m not buying ice cream.

Fred pushed the trunk lid the final inches downward and raced around the side of the car. Are you sure I can’t drop you and your belongings at a rental or a hotel first? Crowds haven’t descended on the island, yet. I can wait by the curb while you register.

I scrambled into the backseat with my carry-on, laptop, and purse, not even bothering to maintain eye contact. The entire island of Martha’s Vineyard retained about fifteen thousand permanent residents. During the season stretching from Memorial Day to Labor Day, the population grew more than tenfold as tourists and those who wintered elsewhere returned. No. I’m sure. Edgartown Creamery.

Shrugging, he slipped behind the wheel, mumbling something about being at sea level and excessive flooding. It’s been a wet spring, so far. Last thing we needed. All that snowmelt nearly sank the island. He snickered.

He had the northern drawl I’d missed but was way too chatty. Dad would find you irritating, but Mom would adore you. She’d have asked you a thousand questions by the time we arrived in Edgartown. He went on and on about the island until I tuned him out. Occasionally lifting my gaze, I nodded or murmured something which he could take as agreement or disagreement. I’d honed the skill to fine art, and he could interpret my reply, in whatever manner he wished, and be happier for it. I should have reacted similarly to Cola Academy’s flavor challenge when the judges announced my campaign’s failure.

Pressing fingertips into my forehead, I tried to snuff out the belittling self-talk surfacing whenever my mind reverted to my latest abysmal creative results. Was I too cocky? Did I think because all my other new flavor campaigns were raging successes that anything I created would have similar results? How did I miscalculate?

Perhaps the product failure was due to a mistake. Yes, that had to be it. What if a mislabeling or some other strange mix-up occurred? I snatched my phone and scrolled the screen, looking for admissions of error. The last communication from my lab assistant two days prior confirmed the shock of nearly everyone at Cola Academy.

My heart shuddered as I thought about it. All my newly blended recipes tasted delicious in the lab and were well received in the rollout for double-blind testing. I’d given this past failure-of-a-campaign as much attention as the seven before. For each of those, my reward was placing first every year of my career until now. The triple loss was unimaginable, a nightmare from which I expected to awaken. Muscles tightened along my shoulders. The luggage didn’t cause this tension. This pressure accompanied me from Charlotte to Boston to Martha’s Vineyard.

I rubbed my neck, kneading the muscles leading from my shoulders. Charles’s sneer flashed in my mind. Since Stewart Dickerson clawed his way from the second assistant, my immediate supervisor, Charles Reavis, found fault with all my creations. Suddenly, Charles and Stewart hung out after work, on weekends, and took regular lunch breaks together. Not that I minded their budding friendship. I certainly didn’t want to spend extra time with Charles, but they exuded a strange vibe whenever I rounded a corner unexpectedly. Their mouths caught in half-cocked speech. Shiny eyes, glinting with guilt, complemented their rosy cheeks. The impression was they were either talking about me or talking over something they wished to keep from me.

Charles’s comment when I’d asked about taking leave to help my parents washed over me with the white-hot flash of rage. Might as well. Maybe you’ll regain some of your fleeting inspiration. If not…—the shrug, the smirk, the over-friendly pat against Stew’s back when he burst onto the scene as though merely waiting outside the door for the signal he was replacing me sooner rather than later.

The tightening in my shoulders continued down my back, forming knots and sending jabs along my spine. Stretching as much as possible until my head nearly hit the car’s roof, I cracked my neck and exhaled a long breath. I needed to get back there soon, or it would be too late if it weren’t already.

Breathing in studied measures, I calmed myself. I’ve already weathered one crisis in Boston, arrived in Edgartown to face another while leaving the third behind at Cola Academy in Charlotte. Don’t bring those disasters here. Dwelling on them will only cause delays.

While I knew my advice was correct, I couldn’t help thinking of the humiliation in Charlotte. So much was at stake, including the promotion which dangled before me as a given before this catastrophe. What’s going on down there? Surely they will not remove my name from the promotion consideration because of one mistake or one family crisis? Continually checking messages didn’t help, so I stowed my phone in my purse and commanded myself to stop brooding.

Fred must have asked something to which I’d not replied. He stopped talking and stared through the mirror—that now seemed intrusive—with a stretched mouth and raised brows.

If he found me peculiar, I didn’t blame him. My requested destination was an ice cream parlor, as though I had a desperate yearning for dessert. Fred had probably expected me to say The Kelley House, Point Way Inn, or the cleverly named street address of a summer rental like 12 Shipwreck Bay or 35 Pirate’s Cove. I don’t think I introduced myself, Fred. I’m Sabrina Bianco.

Bianco? His lips curled into a