[piosenniel]

Cook and the Mayor

Cook had finally given the baby back, saying she needed to change into her own party dress. Rose had been found a seat in the shade amidst a group of other ladies and none too far from the Grannies’ punch bowl. Ginger and her other children were in her field of view, and Rose could hear them laughing as they played a game of tag. ‘I’ll be just fine here, dear,’ she said smiling up at Sam, as he ruffled the wispy curls on Daisy’s little head. ‘Just fetch me a small cup of the punch,’ she continued, ‘then you go about your business.’

Sam nodded and went to the large wooden ‘punchbowl’. After much pleading and pointing toward where Rose sat waving to him, Granny Chubb accorded him the honor of a small mug of brew for the missus. ‘Now, I’m counting on your honor, Master Samwise, to deliver this without stealing a taste.’ ‘Mayor and hero, or not,’ the others chorused, ‘we’ve got our eye on you!’ Sam held the cup high in the air as he walked back to his wife, not wanting the least impropriety to mar the day. And then, just as he brought it down to hand to Rose, he mimed him bringing it to his own lips for a taste. Rose laughed and rescued the undrunk cup from his grip, holding it up triumphantly to the Grannies. Sam gave them an impish look as he nodded his head toward the three. ‘Does smell good, Rose,’ he said, watching her sip at the golden liquid with its reddish tints. ‘And tastes even better,’ laughed Rose again, draining the last drop. She settled Daisy against her as the baby drowsed. Winking at Sam, she began to tap her foot to the music that was playing. ‘Save a dance for me later, my dear,’ she said, then shooed him away.

By the time he had found his was to the keg of nut brown ale and grabbed up a thick ham sandwich, Cook had come back out to join the party. She hailed him, motioning him to come join her at one of the tables set up in the yard. News of the Shire was exchanged between the two and an accounting of the comings and goings at the Inn was given by Cook and tucked away securely by Sam. He liked to know what sorts of people were traipsing through the Shire and what they were up to and any other sort of tidbit of information Cook had managed to ferret out about them.

Another half pint later, and one for Cook, and they got round to the business of the day. ‘Now we thought they’d stand over there just at the edge of the grass,’ Cook said, ‘neath that little bower of elms. It’s not too far from the dancing area, and once you’ve tied their wrists it’ll be but a step or two out for them to start their first dance together as mister and missus.’ She looked over the rim of her mug at Sam. ‘You’ve brought the twine, haven’t you?’ He patted the upper pocket in his coat and nodded as his fingers felt the little bulge there. ‘Now from what I could get out of Miz Zimzi, their words to each other will be short. And, oh . . . they’ve got rings for each other, so don’t go tying them up until they’ve put them on, mind you.’ Sam raised his brow as she Cook gave her ‘instructions’ then the features on his face gentled. She just wanted things done right, and what’s wrong with that, he thought to himself. ‘I’ll mark that well, Miz Bunce,’ he told her. ‘Rings before twine.’

‘Let’s give the eaters and drinkers a little while longer before we do the little ceremony,’ Cook said, looking about the yard with a grin at the party-goers. She liked to see people enjoying her cooking. ‘I’ll just go talk to Derufin and Zimzi about it.’

‘And how will I know we’re all ready,’ Sam said, his voice a bit mumbly as he tucked into a substantial, flaky, tater and mushroom pasty. He took a swallow of ale to wash it down as he waited for Cook’s answer.

She thought for a moment, then spied the dessert table. ‘That’s it! You’ll know it’s time to start when I bring out the cake . . .’