A Man of Influence (21 page)

Chad did. They could be as unpredictable and protective of their independence as randy teenagers. He stared out the window, on the lookout for a blue Cadillac.

“You don't need to walk me up,” Chad said when Slade pulled in front of the large green Victorian.

“I feel it's my duty. I was supposed to be on the crew today and I used my injury as an excuse.” He walked next to Chad at a pace that was as slow as Mildred's fastest walker speed. “Are you sure you're okay? No nausea? Double vision?”

“I just hurt.”

Leona opened the front door. “I hear Lilac nearly killed someone this time.” She eyed Chad as he approached the porch. “He's not bleeding, is he?”

“He's not spurting arterial blood, if that's what you mean,” Slade said wryly. “We need to get him comfortable. Acetaminophen, bandages, ice packs.” He held Chad's arm up the stairs. “Were you normally this clumsy as a kid?”

“I was worse.” He hadn't exactly been the star of the soccer team. Or any sports team for that matter. In high school, he'd been the captain of the debate and chess teams three years running.

Leona blocked the doorway. “Turn around.” A royal command.

“Why?” Chad was feeling the need for a pain reliever.

“You can't come in until you're clean.” That's when Chad noticed she had a dust broom in her hand.

Slade began to protest, but Chad knew it was no use. “I'll never get in if we argue.”

She brushed the remaining leaves and twigs from his back, assured herself his blood wasn't spurting and opened the door for him to come inside. “Mr. Jennings, you may go. Mr. Healy, upstairs with you. I'll be right up with what you require.”

Chad doubted that. He watched her disappear down a dark hallway and shuffled into the living room. It seemed as if he'd barely laid down when Leona began shrieking.

“Not on the couch! Not on the couch! Have you no sense of value?”

Chad rolled his head to the side. His body was an aching throbbing mess and he probably looked as if he'd been in a cat fight. “Why is it you don't have any pictures of your family in this house?”

She stopped trying to lift his feet off the couch. “Have you been snooping?”

“No. There are no pictures here or in the foyer or the dining room or on your refrigerator. Why?” He was a columnist. He noticed details. He'd planned on questioning her some other time. But his timing stank.

“My family is none of your concern, Mr. Healy.” Leona handed him an ice pack. “I'll give you five minutes to get off my couch.” She fled the room.

He put the ice pack on the back of one hand. His parents were old, like her. They were stuffy, like her. But they'd loved Chad. They'd had pictures of him on their refrigerator, in their offices, on their phones. He dragged himself upright, shifting the ice pack to his forehead, and went to the one place he knew he'd be cared for.

* * *

“W
HAT
ARE
YOU
doing up here?” Tracy had spent the afternoon tracking down women who'd given Jessica recipes, but not stories.

She'd heard about Chad's near miss with Lilac's Caddy, but she'd also heard he'd been delivered safely to Leona's, where speculation ran high that he'd be tossed to the curb rather than nursed back to fighting form.

She'd climbed the stairs to her apartment only to find Chad sprawled across her bed, plastic baggies of ice positioned across his body like bulbs sprouting in a spring flowerbed. Seeing him in her bed, she'd had that fairy-tale flutter in her heart and recalled his promise of a romantic gesture. If this was his idea of romance, where were the rose petals?

Tracy shook Chad's arm. “Are you dead?” If not, he would be soon.

“If I was in heaven, there wouldn't be so much pink.” Chad didn't open an eye, but he didn't have to. There was pink everywhere one looked in Tracy's apartment.

“How did you get in?”

“Lucky for me, no one locks doors in Harmony Valley, except Leona.”

Now he found something to appreciate about the town? “I'd ask you if you were in pain. But I'd rather know why...you chose to crash on my bed.”

“Crash.” He forced a laugh. “I'll never abuse that word again.”

She leaned over him and brushed a thick lock of sun-kissed hair from his forehead, only to find a scratch from one temple to the other above his green-tinged sink bruise. His hair was damp, as if he'd been sweating.

“It's hot up here,” he said, as if reading her mind.

“It's the heat from the kitchen. It felt like an oven in the summer.” She catalogued the damage—his shirt torn in several places, the scrapes and gouges although nothing was oozing blood, the angry red bruises already formed on his arms. The danger had been more serious than Flynn had led her to believe. He could have died! The impact of nearly losing him blindsided her. She sat too quickly on the edge of the bed. “I hate to ask if you've checked for damage beneath the denim.”

“Just bruises.”

“Did Leona toss you out?” If she had, Tracy was going to exchange harsh words with her.

“I'm beginning to feel you've bet money on that event. That's the second time you've asked me.” He cracked open one eye. “I rummaged in your medicine cabinet for a pain reliever. I expected to find pink nail polish. All I found was black.”

“I've been in a dark phase. Since the accident. The apartment came in pink.”

“I also was in your freezer to get ice and your kitchen drawers looking for bags to put it in.” He closed one eye. “You don't have enough food in here to feed a rabbit.”

“Good thing I don't have any rabbits.” Honestly, she lived on baked goods and vegetables. Was that so bad?

“You also don't have any steak. I would've settled for a hamburger.” He sighed. “Leona wasn't sympathetic to my wounds and I knew I couldn't invade her kitchen...at least not without her knowledge.”

That was as good as admitting that he'd snooped in Leona's kitchen at some point during his stay. He should have been an investigative reporter.

“My mother used to make me tea when I got injured to calm me down.” His voice had that vulnerable note that played on her heartstrings. “My dad used to make me steak to replenish my blood cells.”

“They sound like wonderful parents.”

“They were. They were just...old.”

And firm, he'd said. And angry with each other. They'd had Chad when they were already set in their ways. But that wasn't the issue here. “You...want me to make you tea and steak?”

“Would you?”

“Sure.” She struggled to keep the excitement from her voice. “If...I can read your column before you publish it.”

“I'll buy you flowers instead.”

“There's enough pink in this room without flowers from you.”

“I'm not sure I'm going to write the column.” His voice fell to failure levels. “My advertising sponsor won't return my calls.”

She brushed the back of her hand over an unmarred section of his cheek. “You'll publish it. You're not a quitter.” She felt a twinge of betrayal for Harmony Valley, but it was Chad who needed bolstering right now.

“You think I'd buy you pink roses?” He blew out a breath and shifted an ice pack higher on his shoulder. “You like dandelions. You're a daisy girl through and through.”

“Plain and simple, like my speech. Is that it?” Plain. His opinion of her stung. Never mind that he was right. Had she always preferred daisies to roses? Or was this a preference that had evolved from her speech de-evolving?

“You're not plain.” He'd been so cavalier about his injuries, that the sudden annoyance in his voice made her sit up straight. “In case you haven't noticed, everyone talks in fits and starts. Your stops are just more pronounced than others.” He groaned. “Except when you drink or are mad at me.”

Or she was in the shelter of his arms. “Then...you should let me read the column early. You know I'll be mad at you. And then I can really test my speech skills.”

“Maybe I don't want you to be mad at me.”

She didn't say anything, because she'd already built her hopes up too often for this man, only to have them tumble back to earth. He was a fluke. Plain and simple.

“Maybe I need more than steak and tea in exchange.”

“I'll...throw in a baked potato and some rabbit lettuce.”

A weary head shake. “I was thinking more along the lines of this bed. It's more comfortable than the one I pay for at Leona's.”

“If I let you stay here...you'll give me the read?” Tracy glanced around. There was no couch, no daybed, no pullout. This wasn't an apartment for two people who weren't sleeping together. It was more sparsely furnished by Jess than most hotel rooms. Still...how badly did she want to see his column?

“Those are my terms—tea, steak and this bed.”

“Deal.” She took his hand and shook it. Never mind that they'd made and broken several deals already. She had high hopes for this one.

He opened both eyes. “Really?”

“Yes.” She gathered some of her things and stuffed them into a large black leather tote.

He watched her in silence until she moved toward the door. “What are you doing?”

“I'm going to get your steak. I'll cook it for you in the morning.” After a good night's sleep in her childhood bed at home.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

T
HERE
WERE
SOUNDS
in the bed & breakfast.

There were never sounds in the bed & breakfast.

Chad rolled over in bed without a spring squeak or a mattress sag. He would have ignored the sounds if not for a stab of pain on his arm where it was scraped and bruised. He sat up blearily.

Female voices drifted up to him.

Leona never talked to herself. She barely talked to him.

The room was bathed in pink light.

And then the smell of cinnamon drifted to him, grounding him in a pleasant reality. He was at the bakery. It was who-knew-what-time of the morning. It was dark and he was suddenly famished, having not eaten dinner last night.

A few minutes later, he'd showered and borrowed Tracy's toothbrush and showed himself downstairs.

“You...don't look quite so dead this morning,” Tracy said, handing him a mug of green tea. She indicated he sit on a stool at the island counter. “You're scabbing over nicely.”

Chad took that as a compliment.

“I've got your steak right here.” She had the microwave running on the hold-warm setting.

Soon, Chad was eating his steak, drinking his tea and thinking fondly of his parents.

“We're using you as a guinea pig,” Jess said, smiling lopsidedly. “Duffy drew the line at tasting these until I had them perfected.” She set a plate of two biscuits next to him, along with two pats of butter.

“What are they?” They smelled like rosemary.

Jess turned her attention back to a mixing bowl. “Sweet—”

“Biscuits,” Tracy finished for her. She was arranging cookies like dominoes on a display plate.

Chad devoured the biscuit, only belatedly realizing both women had stopped working to stare at him. “Did I belch and not realize it?”

Tracy took a step closer. “How do you like the biscuits?”

“Why?” He stopped eating. “Did you poison them? I was going to order you flowers.”

“Forget the flowers.” Tracy glowered at him in that endearing way of hers. “We agreed on your column.”

“The biscuits are a transformation recipe,” Jess explained, ignoring their argument.

“Do...you remember Eunice talking about Horseradish-Doodles?” Tracy's glower downgraded to a frown, and then one corner of her mouth curled upward. “These are Sweet Horseradish Biscuits.”

“I don't taste horseradish.” Chad swept his tongue around his mouth. “I taste rosemary, but there's a sharpness to it.”

“Horseradish,” both women said. They high fived.

“Let's try them in the case this morning,” Jess said.

In no time, Tracy had the rest of the batch on a plate and disappeared into the dining area with them.

“I feel as if I've been conned,” he said, feeling more content in the morning than he had in a long time.

Jessica had a gentle smile that was welcoming. “You shouldn't complain since you liked them.”

He had and he was still hungry. He finished the second one off as Tracy returned. “So today is setup day for the Harvest Festival. What does that mean?”

“Mostly...it means the townspeople get an extra day outside their home to visit with each other.” Tracy's sentences were long and strong this morning. “There's...not much setup to do.” She plated mini carrot-cake loaves and then took the frosting bag and expertly drizzled icing on top. “There's the stage. And PA system. Chairs to sit on. Tables for activities. Pumpkins to be stacked. The bowling lanes to be marked.”

“Tracy is going to win pumpkin bowling and become the Harvest Festival Queen,” Jessica teased.

“I'm not competing. But you...” Tracy shook her finger at Jessica. “You have to try it. You've never done it before.”

Chad had to ask. “Is there a competition for the king?”

Tracy didn't do a good job of hiding a smile. “It's the nail-driving competition. You have to drive a nail into a piece of wood with one strike.”

His finger throbbed just thinking about wielding a hammer again.

“Come back in the summer. We...have a contest for the cutest male legs,” Tracy deadpanned.

“That's more my speed.”

Tracy didn't roll her eyes, but Chad knew she wanted to.

* * *

“C
HAD
'
S
NICE
,” J
ESSICA
said to Tracy after Chad left to return to Leona's house.

“Don't get ideas. We're barely friends.” And didn't that hurt to admit? “He...doesn't know what he wants out of life.”

“And you do?” Jessica crimped the edges of a sugar-free apple pie Old Man Takata had ordered.

“Well...” Was it just last week she'd wanted desperately to return to the fast-paced world of advertising? These past few days, her life had felt so full. She hadn't thought about it at all.

Duffy entered, carrying a babbling Gregory. “He's an early riser, just like his mother.” He strapped Gregory in a high chair, kissed his son on the top of the head and then kissed Jessica goodbye. “See you ladies at lunch.”

Tracy sighed. Two years ago, she'd been at the top of her game in advertising. She'd had a vague idea about family, but couldn't visualize it. But lately, seeing Gregory with Duffy melted her heart. She could visualize a little boy or two with sun-kissed brown hair. They'd be cheerful, resilient boys. Like their father. And she'd be a good mom, getting them off to school and never missing a dinner for a demanding client's last-minute deadline. Not that she wanted to be the head cook. Take-out would be nice every once in awhile.

Jess put dry cereal on Gregory's tray. “You never answered my question.”

“I don't know.” The challenge of the video excited her, but the actual job? Not so much. She was no better than Chad, not knowing what she wanted out of life.

“I can confuse the issue further.” Jess twisted a dish towel in her hands. “In order to make this place work long-term, I need more business.” Her hesitant smile spoke louder than her words about fragile dreams and the fear of failure. “You increased our sales with your blog ideas. You could help me get more wedding cake business, too.”

“Be your marketer?” Tracy was flattered. But she was also a realist. “Jess...you can barely afford to pay me now.” Her peers in advertising would scoff. And truth be told, Tracy felt a twinge of embarrassment at the idea of introducing herself as a marketing manager for a small-town bakery.

But her peers would already deduct intelligence points for her speech pattern. And she was her own harshest critic. Jess was offering what she'd wished for days ago—a job without a job interview.

“We could work something out—bonuses, commissions—couldn't we?” She wasn't looking at Tracy anymore. She was looking at the pictures on the wall. Generations of Martin's. In a place that didn't judge.

* * *

“L
ATE
NIGHT
, M
R
. H
EALY
?” Leona was waiting for Chad when he returned to the bed & breakfast. A few strands of hair were loose in her normally military neat hairstyle.

Was she worried about him? Or did she think he wouldn't pay her for a night he hadn't slept here? “Spent in the infirmary. I received better care there than you offered.” She'd been more concerned with her precious furniture than his health. “I hope you didn't report me missing with the sheriff.”

Her nose went in the air. “You're too early for breakfast.”

“Already had it, so you can put those store-bought donuts back in their box.”

An expression flashed across Leona's face that was half hurt, half anger. “You have two more nights, Mr. Healy. Two more nights.”

He went upstairs to change his clothes, but it wasn't until he came back down and was out the door that the finality of it hit him. His time at Harmony Valley was coming to an end. He needed to figure out his relationship with Tracy.

Correction:
He needed to quit screwing up the foundation of what could be a relationship with Tracy.

The town square was already a beehive of activity. The older generation sat in chairs and in walkers beneath blankets and heavy jackets and tried to direct Flynn and Slade, who looked upon Chad's arrival as one looked upon the cavalry in a foot soldier's losing battle.

“We're putting up the stage first.” Flynn gestured to his truck and the big sheets of plywood it held. “How are you with a power drill?”

“Do you ask me these questions just to humiliate me?” Chad had never worked a power drill in his life. “I thought I was banned from power tools.”

“A drill really doesn't qualify on my list. Slade and I are going back to the mayor's storage unit to load up the bleachers. I don't want someone—” Flynn gave the high sign toward the gathering of the elderly on the lawn. “—to try to assemble the stage and fall or have a piece of wood fall on him.”

“I can't do this on my own.”

“I recruited the best.” Flynn pointed to an old white truck pulling into the square. “Tracy's dad.”

“Ben hates me.” Chad wasn't proud of the whine his voice, but he was still working the kinks out of his bruised body. “Take me to the storage unit. Leave Slade here.”

“Sorry, buddy.” Flynn slapped him on the back, causing Chad to flinch. “And sorry again. But the mayor doesn't let anyone else see what goodies he's got stored there. He certainly won't let a reporter—”

“Columnist.”

“—see what's inside there.”

“Hey, boys.” Ben held a cup of coffee as if in toast. “I thought you'd have everything set up by now.”

“We've just got to get the stage unloaded and then you can work your magic.” Flynn hurried over to his truck.

“I'll be assisting you today.” Chad was determined not to complain about his wounds in front of Ben, or make a fool of himself, or drill a hole in Ben's appendages.

“We're not performing surgery.” Ben finished his coffee and tossed the cup into the trash.

“Just tell me what to do.”

And Ben did. They laid out the pieces of the four-foot-tall stage frame and attached the hinges with screws and a drill, until only the last corner was remaining.

“Why don't you put these screws in?” Ben handed Chad the drill and the bag with the screws.

Chad preferred to decline. But at that moment, Tracy showed up.

“Hey, Dad. How's it coming?” She kissed her father's cheek and managed not to greet Chad.

“Good, Sunshine, but I see Rutgar over there fiddling with live wires.” His gaze focused across the square. “Can you two finish while I go prevent a catastrophe?”

They both assured him they could.

“Well.” Tracy peered at the inside of the stage. “What are we doing?”

Chad pretended he knew what was what. “We need to fit the corners together and screw the hinges on.” How had Ben done this? Hinge first on one board? Or one screw on each hinge side? Chad leaned over the three-foot-high particle board and attempted to screw the hinge in upside down. “It went in.”

“Don't sound so surprised.” Tracy's blond hair tumbled into her eyes. “I guess...that means you've earned the right to put in the next one.”

Agnes called Tracy over to a group of elderly in a row of chairs.

Audience gone, Chad felt relieved. He needed to regroup. Should he invite Tracy to the B&B to read his column? Or ask her to dinner?

He leaned over again and tried to screw the hinge on the other corner board. The screw fell to the ground and the boards inched apart. But Chad was determined to get this. He supported the boards with his knees, leaned upside down and tried to put another screw in. The screw slipped. The drill slipped. The tips of his fingers got drilled.

He shouted. He nearly fell over the side of the walls on his head, but lurched back, only to drag his fingers up the plywood and tumble to his butt to the ground. The back of his head bounced off the pavement.

Tracy's face swam in front of his eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Do I have any fingers left?”

“The fact that you're joking means you're okay.” She stood and said to the crowd, “Give him space. He's okay.” She resumed leaning over him.

“This town hates me. Literally, it's out to kill me.” Not any of the people specifically. Just the town in general.

“If that were true...it's doing a horrible job.” She took his arm and helped him up. “But...it might be karma from you trying to write one of your belittling columns about it.”

“I don't believe in karma.” He looked around at the elderly faces. They reminded him of his parents. This was a community he could simultaneously relate to and be concerned for. The contradictions were there. They'd been there the entire time. This was a place where old traditions contrasted with new ways, and where old people coexisted with the young.
This is the story.

That Pollyana story wouldn't attract any advertisers.

“I'm going to have you sit with Agnes while I finish up the hinges.” Tracy pointed him in the direction of others unable to help setup. Older others.

Chad's head throbbed. He glanced down at Tracy, wishing he could look at her all day. “You know how to operate power tools?”

“Hello?” She patted his arm gently, as if she knew he was battered all over. “I grew up on a farm.”

Chad walked away, but not to the peanut gallery. He pulled out his phone and dialed Marty.

“I had you on my list of people to call today,” Marty said by way of greeting. His tone was riddled with a bad-news vibe. “That article you sent wasn't the slam dunk I needed.”

Chad sat on the curb, rubbing a palm over his forehead, trying not to lose his cool, trying to think fast to avoid disaster.