Southbound Love & Laughs

Maren Caldwell arrived at the Seaside Jubilee with a reservation confirmation glowing on her phone and one carefully rehearsed opening line trapped behind her teeth.

The boardwalk smelled of fried shrimp, hot sugar, and the ocean’s damp refusal to behave. Gulls shrieked over the rooftops. Somewhere ahead, a brass band was attempting “Sweet Home Alabama” with the confidence of men who had never met a correct key. Along the rail, food trailers stood shoulder to shoulder in bright coastal colors, their awnings snapping in the wind.

Maren checked her reflection in her phone. Her lipstick remained in place. Her hair, despite the humidity, had not yet become a regional weather event. She wore a pale blue sundress, sensible sandals, and the expression of a woman who had absolutely not spent forty minutes deciding whether sensible sandals suggested approachability or orthopedic despair.

The reservation said: Lowcountry Bites, seven o’clock, table three.

Her blind date’s name was Dorian Finch.

She knew three things about Dorian. He had a pleasant voice on the phone, worked with the festival’s music committee, and had once described himself as “pretty good in a crisis,” which Maren considered either promising or a warning label.

She found Lowcountry Bites beside a trailer painted with enormous shrimp wearing sunglasses. The sign above the service window read LOWCOUNTRY BITES, though the final S had peeled away and now dangled by one corner like a tired tongue.

Maren lifted her chin, smoothed her dress, and approached.

A teenager in a red visor leaned out the window. “Pickup or emergency?”

“Neither, I hope.” Maren held up her phone. “I’m here for a reservation.”

The teenager squinted at the screen. “Table three?”

“Yes.”

“Inside.”

Maren glanced at the trailer. “Inside the trailer?”

“That’s where the tables are.”

She should have paused. She should have noticed the trailer had no visible dining area, only a narrow service window and a handwritten sign warning CUSTOMERS NOT TO LEAN ON THE MUSTARD.

Instead, she smiled. “How charming.”

The teenager shrugged with the weary dignity of someone who had already witnessed three adults lose arguments with a soft-serve machine. “Back door.”

Maren followed a painted arrow around the trailer. The back door stood open. Warm air rolled over her, carrying the scent of shrimp, butter, and something sweet enough to strip paint.

A woman in a yellow apron pointed toward a folding table crowded with paper cups. “Table three’s through there.”

“Thank you.”

Maren stepped inside.

The trailer was not a dining room. It was a moving kitchen with a floor, two narrow counters, and one folding table wedged between a cooler and a tub labeled PEANUT BUTTER FUNDRAISER - DO NOT SHAKE.

Maren stopped so quickly her sandal squeaked.

A broad man in a crab-print shirt looked up from a clipboard. “You’re late.”

“I’m precisely on time.”

“That’s what late people say.”

“I’m meeting Dorian Finch.”

The man scanned his list. “Dorian’s not here.”

Maren glanced at the reservation confirmation. “This is Lowcountry Bites.”

“It is.”

“Table three.”

The man pointed at the folding table. “That’s table three.”

A ladle swung overhead as the trailer rocked in the wind. It smacked a metal shelf with a clang.

Maren decided the evening had begun with an eccentric flourish.

“Perhaps Dorian is outside,” she said.

“Perhaps.” The man handed her a paper cup. “Hold this.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Peanut-butter sample.”

The cup landed in her hand before she could refuse. Inside it sat a glossy brown mound that trembled with the motion of the trailer.

“I don’t think I’m supposed to be sampling.”

“Everybody’s supposed to be sampling. That’s how we raise money.”

“For what?”

“Something important.”

A gust shoved the trailer sideways. Maren caught herself against the counter. Her elbow struck the tub.

The lid popped.

The peanut butter did not spill so much as launch.

A thick brown ribbon sailed across the narrow kitchen and slapped onto the crab-print man’s clipboard. Another blob hit the ceiling. A third landed squarely on Maren’s blue dress, just below her ribs, where it spread with the slow confidence of roofing tar.

The teenager at the window shouted, “Not again!”

Maren looked down.

The peanut butter gleamed against her dress.

The crab-print man looked at his clipboard. “That’s the fourth time today.”

“That does not make me feel better.”

“It means we’re improving.”

A woman in a yellow apron appeared behind Maren. “Who shook the tub?”

“No one shook the tub,” Maren said.

The trailer rocked again.

The remaining lid slid across the counter and dropped open.

A wave of peanut butter slumped onto the floor.

The woman stared at it. “Someone absolutely shook the tub.”

Maren backed toward the door, but her sandal met the brown smear. Her foot shot forward. She grabbed the nearest object, which happened to be the teenager’s red visor.

The visor came off.

The teenager ducked.

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