Dirty Rotten Tendrils (2 page)

“It’s a different kind of morning, Miss Abby,” he said solemnly, then pulled the wet squeegee from the top of the pane to the bottom and dried it with his yellow rag.

Jingles wasn’t normally given to deep thought, and for him, that comment qualified. “It’ll be fine, Jingles,” I called. “We’ve got solid citizens in New Chapel. They’re not going to go crazy because a local boy who took first place on a reality TV show is coming back to town.”

Jingles just kept wiping the glass. On the other side of the window, the shop’s owner was setting out an array of tropic-bright purses and stylish spring jackets. She waved and smiled.

Another benefit of small-town life is the friendliness of the townsfolk. Also, the easy pace. You can amble down any sidewalk and not be bothered by rushing commuters, jostling crowds, jackhammer drilling, or vendors shouting—

“Hey! Look out!”

A man in a cherry picker gestured frantically toward an old wooden sign dangling by one nail over the gift shop’s doorway. With a gasp, I jumped back seconds before the sign broke from its tether and crashed onto the sidewalk in front of me, kicking up a cloud of dust and debris.

The shop owner, Mr. Hanley, who was about 140 years old, called from the recessed doorway, “Sorry, Abby. Gotta get my new signage up today, you know.”

His
signage
? He pointed to a shiny new sign leaning against the side of the store. Instead of HANLEY’S GIFTS, it said YE OLDE GIFT SHOPPE.

“No harm done, Mr. Hanley.” I shook detritus from my hair, brushed off my navy peacoat, took a deep breath, and continued up Lincoln Avenue toward Franklin Street.

At that moment a white pickup truck sporting the town logo pulled up alongside me with a shriek of dry brakes and a backfire of thick gray smoke. A man in tan overalls jumped out and began placing orange cones around a cracked square of the cement sidewalk. Another man followed with a jackhammer, which he immediately fired up.

Plugging my ears with my fingertips and trying not to inhale the fumes, I scurried toward the corner. As I waited for the light to change, I was joined by at least ten people, with a dozen more on the sidewalk across the street. On the green light, we surged forward en masse and narrowly missed being run down by two cops on motorcycles followed closely by a white stretch limousine. The limo driver laid on his horn, glaring at us as he sped past. Two black limousines followed. They honked, too, just for the practice, I suspected.

Behind them came a line of vans with satellite dishes on top and markings on the side for the four national television stations, ABC, CBS, NBC, and Fox, and our local cable channel, WNCN. They were followed by several more vehicles with men hanging out the windows armed with huge cameras with telescopic lenses. Three police cars trailed the parade, their sirens and lights fully engaged as they approached the courthouse, as though to impress upon the citizens the importance of the limousines’ occupants.

“That was him in the white car!” someone behind me screamed, and at once I was swept along with a tide of people in their stampede to follow the convoy, now creating a snarl of horn-honking traffic on the far side of the square. I managed to break free at the curb and make a frantic dash to safer shores.

As I stood with my back pressed against the door of the Down the Hatch Bar and Grill, people began to descend onto the courthouse lawn in droves, some carrying signs that said, WE LOVE YOU, CODY!, others waving banners, caught up in the kind of frenzy that only a celebrity could create.

And then, as though someone had cried “Action!”, all along the streets surrounding the courthouse, workers emerged, some carrying paint cans and ladders, and others erecting scaffolding, pushing wheelbarrows stacked with bricks, and toting brightly colored awnings. The parks department had even sent men to spruce up the cement planters.

I stared around the square in astonishment. Then I noticed Jingles watching me with a look that said,
I told you so.

The door behind me opened suddenly, and I had to grab the frame to keep from falling in. “Morning, Buttercup,” said my boyfriend, bar owner and ex-Army Ranger Marco Salvare. He kissed the top of my head. “Come on inside and brighten my day.”

I turned to face him, trying to form my distress into coherent words. Marco’s forehead wrinkled as he studied me. “Are you okay?”

“I want my small town back!” I wailed, and flung myself into his arms.

 

 

Seated across from Marco in the first booth at Down the Hatch, which wouldn’t open until eleven o’clock, I propped my chin on my hand and sighed grumpily. “If this is a sign of what’s to come, I’m leaving until it’s over.”

“Come on, Abby. It’s not that bad. When was the last time a celebrity came to New Chapel?”

“Cody Verse is hardly a celebrity. Two months ago only a handful of people had even heard of him. All he did was win a contest.”

“You say that like it was the local spelling bee,” Marco said. “
America’s Next Hit Single
is a national television event. Cody had to outperform thousands of people just to get on the show.”

“I get that, Marco, but come on! He didn’t win the Nobel Prize. He sang a song that he cowrote with his friend and then took all the credit for.”

“Or so his friend claims,” Marco reminded me. “A friend who stands to gain a lot of money if he wins his lawsuit. Don’t scowl at me. I hear what you’re saying. Cody Verse’s sudden fame has been blown all out of proportion.”

“It doesn’t hurt that he’s dating Lila Redmond, either.” Lila was the new It Girl, the hottest starlet since, well, whoever the last It Girl was.

Marco leaned back to stretch, lacing his fingers behind his dark, wavy hair, putting his hard-muscled torso on display. Today he was wearing jeans and a formfitting navy T-shirt with the white lettering DOWN THE HATCH running the length of one sleeve. He was a yummy-hot male and all mine.

“I need coffee,” he said, and got up to go to the coffee machine behind the bar. “I didn’t get home last night until two in the morning.” He held up the pot. “Want some?”

I shook my head. Not to hurt Marco’s feelings or anything, but his bar was not known for its coffee. Or its decor, for that matter. The last time Down the Hatch had been decorated must have been in the seventies, when burnt orange, avocado green, and dark walnut paneling were all the rage and a blue plastic carp passed for wall sculpture.

I heard cheering in the distance and got up to look out the big plate glass window at the front of the bar. “You should see the crowds now. Little kids, too. Did they call off school today? Maybe the mayor declared a holiday . . . Cody Verse Day.”

“The lawsuit should be settled in a day or two,” Marco said, coming to stand beside me with a coffee mug in his hand. “Then everything will return to normal.”

“With Ken ‘the Lip’ Lipinski as Cody’s attorney? No way. When I clerked for Dave Hammond, I sat in on a few trials and saw Lipinski in action. The Lip is the kind of lawyer all those nasty jokes are about. He lies, stalls, grand-stands, and cheats, and somehow he manages to get away with it because he wins huge settlements for his clients. Trust me, Marco. Lipinski will do everything in his power to turn this lawsuit into a major media event.”

“And Dave will do everything in his power to keep that from happening,” Marco countered. He had done private investigative work for Dave and, like me and many others, came to know Dave for the hardworking, honest, decent man he was.

“I’m afraid he’ll be fighting a losing battle, Marco. Dave usually refuses to take a case when Lipinski is on the other side, but this time he was hired before he knew who the opposing counsel was. Now he’s stuck.”

Marco took a swallow of coffee. “Why doesn’t he withdraw his appearance?”

“Because the Chappers have been with him for a long time, and he wouldn’t do that to loyal clients. Have you noticed that Dave hasn’t been himself lately, like something’s weighing on his mind? Maybe it’s his caseload. Being a public defender is never an easy job, and with the crime rate rising, he’s busier than ever. Or maybe he’s having some kind of midlife crisis. Whatever it is, having to deal with the Lip in a big, splashy civil case isn’t going to help him any.”

“I thought Dave’s client was a young guy—Cody Verse’s high school buddy,” Marco said, heading for the bar. “Sure I can’t get you some coffee?”

“No coffee, thanks. And technically, yes, Dave’s client is Andrew Chapper, one half of the former Chapper and Verse duo. Andrew’s grandparents have been with Dave since he first hung out his shingle. They’re the ones who brought Andrew to see Dave. Apparently, they raised Andrew after his parents died in a car accident.”

Marco rejoined me at the window carrying a full coffee mug. He put his arm around me, and I leaned my head on his shoulder. Dave had helped me many times during my struggle to stay afloat in law school and often since then. I would do whatever I could to pay him back.

“I wish I could help Dave somehow,” I said with a sigh. “Proving that Andrew cowrote the winning song is going to be tough. And who knows? It might not even get that far. If the judge rules in Lipinski’s favor on his motion to dismiss, it’s all over. Case closed. Andrew loses.”

Marco nuzzled my ear. “It’s not all bad news today, Sunshine. We’ve got something to celebrate, remember? Your engagement ring should be resized and ready to wear.”

Oh, right. About that . . .

With the corners of his mouth curving in that sexy way of his, he lifted my left hand to his lips to kiss my fingers. “What do you say I pick it up and give it to you at dinner tonight?”

“Marco, we need to talk.”

S
eeing the flicker of dismay in Marco’s gaze, I paused. Obviously I hadn’t phrased that right. Still, considering all we’d been through together, he couldn’t possibly doubt my commitment to him, could he?

Yet I had to keep in mind that being a fiancé was new territory for Marco, whereas I was familiar with the topography. I was engaged to Pryce Osborne II, the elder son of a preeminent New Chapel family, while attending my first and only year of law school. When the law school gave me the boot, so did my fiancé. The Osbornes didn’t want the stain of my failure on their name.

Naturally, an experience like that could cause me to have a few scary thoughts about the forthcoming nuptials. But as I had to impress upon Marco, I wasn’t doubting my decision to marry him, only the wisdom of spreading the news at this particular time. I just had to convince Marco that keeping the news to ourselves was in his best interest, too.

It wouldn’t be easy. We’d picked out a beautiful half-carat diamond, and he was justifiably proud of it. And in truth, keeping our secret wasn’t what I would have preferred, either. I couldn’t wait to wear the ring and announce to the world that we were engaged.

Just not yet. Not until I’d righted a wrong that I’d set in motion. The tricky part would be trying to avoid calling attention to that little factoid. I’d alienated a future mother-in-law once. I didn’t want a rerun.

I wrapped my arms around Marco’s ribs, pressed my ear against his solid chest, and hugged him hard. “I love you, Marco, and I can’t wait to put that ring on my finger. It’s just that considering what else is going on, I think we should keep our engagement a secret a while longer.”

“The
what else
being Rafe’s ad hoc wedding plans?”

“What else?”

“I don’t get it. Why should we let his foolishness affect our plans?”

“You know what a stir your brother’s surprise announcement caused. Your mom didn’t come right out and say so, but I could tell by the shocked look on her face that she believes Rafe is making a huge mistake in marrying Cinnamon and she would love nothing better than to talk him out of it. Not that I blame her.

“I mean, how could Rafe possibly know Cinnamon is the right person for him? How insane is it to meet a waitress during his first week as a bartender at Hooters, and date her twice before asking her to marry him? Rafe even admitted he knows little about Cinnamon’s background. I’m sure he knows even less about her as a person, except what he sees on her exterior. So what can he possibly be thinking?”

“Probably about what he sees on her exterior.” Marco sipped his coffee.

No doubt he was right. Cinnamon was one sultry babe—and by
babe
, I meant not yet of legal age—and Rafe was a virile twenty-one-year-old guy whose maturity level hovered somewhere in the vicinity of a fourteen-year-old’s.

I hugged Marco again. “Thank goodness you’re not like Rafe. You see what’s below the surface, not just what’s on top.”

Marco’s eyes darkened the way they always did when he had romance in mind. “What do you say we go back to my office and explore that concept?”

I ran my hands up the front of his shirt. “I like the way you think, Salvare.”

His mouth curved up devilishly. And then suddenly he was ushering me through the bar toward his office in the back. “We’ve got thirty minutes until my staff starts arriving.”