Sally Says Nothing

Sally Sweeney sat front and center at the Truly community hall, bracing for
the annual chili cookoff—a contest as predictable as the town gossip mill.
She’d already promised herself that this year’s debacle wouldn’t end up in
her Sally Says column of the Truly Tribune.

In a small town like Truly, pastors’ wives were sacred territory. Last year’s
write-up had ruffled more feathers than a squirrel in a henhouse and
ushered in about as much squawking. Souls Arbor church still hadn’t
forgiven her.

Still, Sally couldn’t resist attending. Everyone turned out, though the only
thing that ever changed was Lady Larson’s dress. Her bouffant reached
toward heaven, her stainless pot gleamed, and by evening’s end, the mayor
always pinned the blue ribbon on her chest.

“We know who’s gonna win,” whispered Sally’s neighbor, Mrs. Piedmont, who
wasn’t a member at Souls Arbor or a fan of Lady Larson. “Same judges,
same contestants, same winner. Why do we even bother?” Mrs. Piedmont
huffed when her daughter shushed her.

The mayor called the room to order, and the three deacons from Souls
Arbor—doubling as chili judges, bingo callers, and Christmas-pageant wise
men—took their seats. Napkins embroidered with Souls Arbor Chili Cookoff
hung from their necks.

The judges sampled the pots one by one, as murmurs drifted through the
crowd.

Everyone was restless and hungry when they came to the last pot. The
mayor’s assistant quickly dipped a serving from Lady Larson’s for each
judge.

Judge One grinned until his eyes bulged. Judge Two puckered like he’d bitten
a lemon. Judge Three spat his mouthful into a napkin.

The crowd erupted as the judges gulped water, faces red as tomatoes.

Lady Larson rushed to the front. “Sabotaged!” she cried, clutching her pearls
before storming out, her husband trailing after her.

“Please, calm down. We still need to crown a winner,” the mayor stammered.

The judges huddled, dabbed their brows, and handed him a slip of paper.

“The winner of this year’s chili cookoff is—”

“Spit it out already!” Mrs. Piedmont bellowed.

“The mayor paused, clearing his throat. “Well, well. It’s you,” he said to her.

And then to the crowd. “Mrs. Piedmont takes the prize!”

The hall exploded, except for the stunned Souls Arbor faithful. Mrs. Piedmont
waddled forward like a penguin in Sunday heels, celebrating as if she’d just
won the Kentucky Derby. Her daughter buried her face in her hands,
laughing.

After the crowd dispersed, Sally walked the new champion to her car,
carrying her empty chili pot. Mrs. Piedmont snatched it back. When the car
door opened, a half-empty bottle of Ghostly Hot Sauce rolled into view.

Sally raised a brow. “Mrs. Piedmont, why wouldn’t you want me to put the
pot in here?”

“Oh, because—”

Sally cut her off. “I know why. And I’m ashamed of you. But your secret’s
safe with me.”

It would make one heck of a Sally Says column, but Truly had waited long
enough for a new champion.