Читать книгу A Man Of Influence - Melinda Curtis - Страница 10
ОглавлениеIT WAS THE “what ifs” that drove Tracy Jackson crazy.
What if she could eat as many oatmeal raisin cookies as she liked and still fit in her skinny jeans? What if she didn’t have to get up every morning at 4 a.m.? What if she’d participated in that brain shock therapy after her car accident?
Yeah, no way was Tracy going to let anyone attach an electrode to her head and send a jolt of electricity through it.
Since cracking her skull against a semitruck, she’d gone from being a motormouth to being idle in a conversation. She talked in short sentences, especially when she got flustered. She had the occasional brain fart when she couldn’t remember a word. Doctors said her progress toward beating expressive aphasia was hindered by the stress Tracy put on herself.
Stress? How about high self-standards?
Before the accident, Tracy had been among the top of her class at Harmony Valley High School. She’d been a double major in college. She’d thrived on the fast-paced, competitive jungle of a large advertising agency. After the accident, she’d used her advertising connections to land a television news production job.
Okay, so maybe television wasn’t the best fit for her current verbal skill set. She’d had a meltdown live when the reporter she was working with had vomited at a crime scene. Tracy’d had to take over the microphone and she’d gone as mute as a deer in the headlights. Maybe that’s why her news station job had been phased out—their way of firing her without actually firing her. And maybe being canned had forced her to sit down and think about listening to what the doctors ordered so that her life wouldn’t seem like a dead end at age twenty-six, so that she could take another fork in the road and work on overcoming aphasia.
Mildred Parsons rammed her walker into the counter of Martin’s Bakery in Harmony Valley, bringing Tracy back to the fork she sat at in the road. “Two pumpkin spice scones and a latte.” With her poofy white curls and poofy pink cheeks, Mildred looked like Mrs. Claus. The lenses of her glasses were as thick as ice cubes, and were apparently just as hard to see through. She squinted at Tracy and handed over her wallet. “I should have a five in there. Keep the change, dear.”
“Thanks.” That quarter tip would really help build Tracy’s retirement fund. She took the five and handed the wallet back.
Mildred bumped against the counter again as she turned. Bang-turn. Bang-turn. Bang-turn. A perfect 180—not—that got her out of the way of the next elderly resident.
The morning rush was in full swing.
While Tracy made Mildred’s latte, she took Agnes Villanova’s order—hot green tea and a vanilla scone. Accepted Agnes’ exact payment. Plated the scones. Served them. Took Rose Cascia’s order—chai latte with soy milk, no scone. Admired the former ballerina and Broadway chorus girl’s kick-ball change. Made change. Wondered what was keeping bakery owner Jessica in the kitchen—she could use her help.
Greeted Mayor Larry in his neon green and yellow tie-dyed T-shirt—coffee, two packets of sweetener, no cream. Smiled patiently while Old Man Takata debated whether to order the bran muffin or the chocolate croissant. There was no debate. He always went with the croissant. But his indecision gave Tracy time to make another pot of coffee.
Tracy didn’t need to say much as a baker’s assistant. She just had to move quickly. She was the only thing moving fast in this remote corner of Sonoma County. In a town where the average age of the one-hundred-plus residents was in the seventies, most things went at walker speed. Case in point: the game of checkers being played in the corner between Felix, the retired fire chief, and Phil, the should-be-retired barber.
The town council sat at a table in the middle of the bakery. Mayor Larry espoused the merits of controlled growth, while Rose, the no-growth advocate, tried to talk over him with her high-pitched outside voice. Eunice Fletcher sat quilting in the window seat, occasionally glancing down at Jessica’s baby in a small playpen. She was about due for a coffee refill.
It was just another Friday morning in Harmony Valley. Tracy felt no stress at all.
And then he walked in.
Morning sunlight glinted off the blond highlights in his brown hair and outlined his broad shoulders. His eyes were the dark brown of coffee, no cream. Those eyes catalogued everything in the bakery, as if he thought there’d be a test later.
The conversation in the room dwindled and died. Chairs scraped. All eyes turned toward the newcomer, because Harmony Valley wasn’t a pass-through town. It was practically the end of the road.
“Don’t. Scare. Him.” Dang it. Stress jabbed repeatedly at her stilted speech button like a child playing ding-dong ditch. Tracy swallowed her sudden discomfort and waved the man to the counter.
“Who came in?” Mildred asked, voice on the max volume setting. Apparently, she hadn’t put in her hearing aids this morning, and couldn’t see through her ice cube lenses.
Mr. Golden Glow chuckled as he approached the counter. He moved out of the sunlight and became...no more normal. Still gorgeous. He walked as if he owned the room, exuding a vibe Tracy had always admired—power, prestige, a winner of corporate boardroom games. Didn’t matter that he wore jeans and a polo shirt. That walk said suit and tie. His confident air said, “I know people who can get you a job.”
Tracy’s mouth went dry, because she needed a better job. Unfortunately, she could practically feel the full extent of her vocabulary knot at the back of her tongue, clogging her throat.
She tried to remember her latest speech therapist’s advice. Breathe. Relax. Turn your back on the person you’re talking to.
Okay, that last one was Tracy’s antidote. But it worked. Not that there were many opportunities to turn her back mid-conversation or in an argument without looking like a total jerk.
And how could she forget the advice of her speech teacher in college? Breathe. Relax. Imagine your audience is naked.
“What’s good here?” Mr. Tall, Perfect and Speech-Robbing stepped in front of her.
Tracy’s gaze dropped from his steel gray polo to the counter. Oh, for the days she dared imagine the opposite sex naked. “Coffee.” That was good. Normal sounding. If you didn’t count the frog-like timbre of her tone. She cleared her throat. “Scones.” She waved a hand over one of the pastry cases that her boss, Jessica, worked so hard to fill.
“Why do you suppose he’s here?” Rose, never shy, asked the room, shuffling her feet beneath the table. That woman never sat still.
“Maybe he’s lost,” Eunice piped up from the window seat.
“Not lost,” the stranger said cheerfully, smiling at Tracy as if they shared a private joke.
The joke was on him. This was Harmony Valley, where people had no respect for personal boundaries and could have taught the FBI a thing or two about interrogation.
“Visiting relatives?” Mildred squinted his way.
“Strike two.”
Tracy had never been a believer in eyes twinkling. But there you go. His did. Despite that power-player vibe. Or maybe because of it. Her body felt a jolt of electricity, as if it ran on twinkles, not caffeine.
Old Man Takata held up a chunk of chocolate croissant. “Health inspector?”
“Thank you all for playing.” The newcomer grinned, scanning the menu board above Tracy’s head while the room erupted with speculative conversation.
Tracy felt the urge to apologize for her hometown homies. “We don’t get many...” She searched for the word amidst the nerve-strumming intensity of his very brown eyes. “...strangers here.”
“No worries. I’m a travel writer.” His voice. So silky smooth. Like the ribbon of chocolate Jess put on the croissants. “I’m here for the Harvest Festival.”
If he thought that would bring the room back to normal, he was wrong. The bakery customers exchanged dumbfounded glances. This was what Harmony Valley had been waiting for—exposure. No one really believed it would ever come, because the town had been off the radar for a long time. More than a decade.
When Tracy was a teenager, the grain mill had exploded. To this day, Tracy couldn’t think about her mother and her mother’s co-workers being burned alive without a sickening churn in her stomach. Back then, Tracy had been devastated, too young to understand the ramifications beyond the heart-wrenching grief over losing Mom. Without jobs, the majority of the population had moved away. Those who’d remained were mostly retired. But now there was a new employer in town. A winery, started by Tracy’s brother and his friends. People were returning. New businesses were opening. What they needed were tourists and the dollars they’d bring. What they needed was this man and his readership—whatever that might be.
“Thought I’d come up early,” the travel writer added. “Find a room, and do a story on the town and its winery.”
Mildred gaped. Rose gasped. Phil covered a snort with a cough and received several dirty glances.
Tracy sighed. Yes, there was a story here. Probably too many. There just wasn’t a hotel within a thirty mile radius. Rumor had it the Lambridge twins were going to open a bed and breakfast—next spring. Mr. Travel Writer wouldn’t find a room this week unless he wanted to bunk with Mildred.
“A travel writer.” Mayor Larry stood in all his tie-dyed dignity, tossing his gray ponytail over his shoulder and approaching the counter. “Welcome, welcome. I’m the mayor.” Larry gave the town council the high sign—a repeated head tilt toward the door, as in: emergency meeting needed to find the travel writer a place to stay.
But Rose only had eyes for the newcomer, Mildred was legally blind and Agnes was digging in her purse.
Larry pumped the travel writer’s hand as if he drew water from a well. “Why don’t you sit down and let Tracy bring you some coffee and a scone?”
Tracy held her ground because Mr. Travel Writer didn’t seem like the black coffee type. If she had to guess, she’d go with a shot of espresso with a splash of half and half. Besides, the hunky travel writer hadn’t accepted Mayor Larry’s offer.
“The town council meeting will start in five minutes,” Agnes said, proving she’d received the mayor’s message after all. “Phil, you’re on the agenda today.”
Phil, the town barber and the Lambridge twins’ grandfather, glanced up from the checkerboard. He was the one person in the room who hadn’t been staring at their visitor, most likely because the guy had crisply cut hair and no need of a visit to Phil’s barber chair. “But my game—”
“Can wait.” Mayor Larry grabbed Phil’s spindly arm and helped him up.
Agnes, Mildred and Rose mobilized. The fire-drill search for a hotel was in full swing.
“It’s not even Tuesday,” Phil wailed, referring to the town council’s regular meeting day as he allowed Larry to lead him out the door.
And just like that, the morning rush was over.
From his playpen, Gregory gave one of his happy-to-be-alive shouts. Eunice leaned over and quacked at the baby, eliciting giggles from Jessica’s son.
Chocolate croissant eaten, Old Man Takata moved into Phil’s spot with a rattle of his walker.
Before Takata could settle in Phil’s seat, Felix executed a three-hop move and grinned. “King me.”
“Seriously?” Takata grimaced.
The bakery quieted enough that Tracy could hear the creak of the oven door as Jess worked in the kitchen. Her speech therapist would have encouraged her to start a conversation with the newcomer, who still stood across from her at the counter and who looked nothing like a travel writer, not that she’d ever met one before. But all Tracy could think about was how normal she looked at the moment and how that image would shatter if she opened her mouth, how the warmth in his eyes would turn pitying and how low her spirits would then sink.
She said nothing, but her head began to nod as if trying to fill the silence with movement.
“I swear, I showered this morning.” The travel writer tugged the placate of his polo as if airing out his shirt. “I’ve never emptied a room before.”
“It wasn’t you,” Tracy fibbed. Good. Very good. She could appear intelligent. If she could just get a handle on the nervous head nodding.
“That’s what my last girlfriend said.” He gave a self-deprecating laugh. “It’s not you. It’s me.”
Was he flirting with her?
Tracy used to love to flirt. She used to be the Queen of the One-Liners, the Princess of Comebacks, the Junior Miss of Verbal Jousting. Now she was just a head-nodding simpleton. “Latte? Sssss-cone?”
His smile softened like chocolate on a warm spring day. He probably thought he was so gorgeous he made her tongue-tied.
Little did he know, Tracy’s tongue was permanently in knots.
* * *
“YES TO BOTH latte and scone.” Chad introduced himself and smiled at the pretty, petite blond behind the counter. He’d spent the past month relearning the feel of lips curving upward over his teeth, the deep sound of his own laughter, the subtleties of a nuanced joke.
He’d slept in, eaten junk food and driven up the western coast from California to Canada and back again with a laptop, a small suitcase and the box he’d taken with him from the office in his trunk. He’d enjoyed the culture, sophistication and women the cities of Portland and Seattle had to offer. It wasn’t until he’d returned to an empty penthouse in San Francisco that he’d remembered the story lead sheet and thought about what was next for him.
The choices he faced...
He could freelance or write for someone else. He could work in editorial for another publication. Or he could start his own travel magazine—one tailored to other happy bachelors. Take his relearned smile and remembered laugh and be so successful Barney and the Lampoon and the father he’d buried would regret letting him go.
And didn’t that bring a smile to his face?
According to his research, Harmony Valley had nearly been a ghost town until a winery begun by dot-com millionaires had breathed life into it. A winery founded by wealthy bachelors in the middle of nowhere? Now, there was a story. The “why” behind it intrigued Chad. What did this small town have which made it special to three single men? The buzz was the town may be barely breathing, but it abounded with quirky traditions it was loath to give up.
So here he was in Harmony Valley for the Harvest Festival, hoping he wasn’t too late and could beat the Lampoon to the story. He’d landed on a new name for his column and had the Happy Bachelor Takes a Different Path website all set up with content loaded from his experiences in Portland and Seattle. All he needed to do was press publish. But first, he needed a strong lead article. Something that set this phase of his travel life apart from the previous thirteen years.
Yep, here he was in Harmony Valley, the smallest small town he’d ever seen, looking for a unique experience for bachelors. Only problem was: he didn’t write about small towns. He wrote about hip and happening urban locations that hip and happening urban bachelors wanted to visit.
This was...
Shades of his elderly parents.
Harmony Valley might just as well have been a retirement community. He’d seen a few people walking around—all white-haired, wrinkled or balding. He’d driven a circuit of the downtown blocks a time or two—there were only a few each way. There were more empty buildings than businesses. And this was the only bakery.
He glanced around. Where was the local sheriff? Where were the local trades? Where were the moms coming in to get a morning dose of caffeine after dropping off their kids at school? Where were the singles setting up shop for an hour or two to get work done and perhaps meet someone?
They were all conspicuously absent.
Still, Chad soaked in the ambience that was Martin’s Bakery. In a way, it had the hidden-treasure vibe his Lampoon readers appreciated. A window seat with a deep cushion and pillows, a collection of tables and mis-matched wooden chairs that looked as if they’d been here for a century. The yellowed photos of bakery workers hanging on the wall seemed to prove that point. Dark brown beadboard trim was capped with a chair railing on the side wall. Three bakery cases made an L shape in the space. A large chalkboard hung on the wall behind the register. The daily special: pumpkin scones. And the coffee... Chad breathed in deeply. The coffee smelled rich and fresh, as if it had just been ground for him.
So maybe the people weren’t hip. Gray and white hair, walkers and canes, polyester pants and orthopedic sneakers. At least they looked healthy. And maybe they weren’t happening in the where-it’s-at sense. The two old men reset their checkerboard instead of an online game. But they had a certain spunk. He just wasn’t sure what Harmony Valley offered made for a good first column to launch his online travel magazine.
Chad claimed a table next to the old woman quilting in the window seat. There was a crib beside her with a cooing baby. She had the air of a talker, and Chad needed details to decide if this story was worthwhile. There was still time to drive to San Francisco for the Union Street Wine Walk or Monterey for a celebrity golf event.
The old woman’s hair was an unusual color, a purplish-gray more suited to the alternative scene in Soho than a remote corner of Sonoma County. She wore bright pastels—pink, yellow, lime green. The kind of colors he associated with spring. Her complexion was free of age spots and had a healthy pink glow.
She glanced at him over the edge of her black-rimmed readers, much like a chaperone making sure he behaved at a middle school dance. “We don’t get too many drop-ins this far out from the highway, especially not writers.”
“I’m looking for undiscovered gems.” Rare, those gems. And the places that weren’t jewels? The dud locations he’d written about in the past were among his most popular columns at Bostwick Lampoon. Currently, the town was more dud than diamond, which cheered him up.
“We’ve always been a gem.” The old woman stared at him, as if they were playing a game of who would blink first. “The winery is changing things here.”
“For the better?” A sly opening in case she didn’t want Harmony Valley to change.
“Yes.” She gazed down at the baby, who gripped his toes and crooned softly. “Before the winery came to town, I’d never seen a baby born. And I’d never imagined such a beautiful creature would be the result of the horrors of childbirth.”
Chad opened his mouth to reply, but said nothing. Was the baby hers? She had to be staring down eighty. His parents had had Chad in their fifties—late, but not this late. The old woman should have thought this through. Parents needed to be young enough to keep up with their kids.
She didn’t notice his doubt. “I mean giving birth... The pain and the bl—”
“Eunice.” Tracy delivered Chad’s order with a warning for his talkative neighbor. Her shoulder-length blond hair was just-out-of-bed tousled. Her bright blue eyes reflected both intelligence and vulnerability. “We agreed. Childbirth details. Are not. Bakery. Appropriate.” Tracy blew out a breath and turned to Chad, avoiding eye contact by looking at his shoulder. “Anything else?”
He brushed at the cap of his sleeve and whatever it was Tracy saw there. “No, thanks.” He was grateful she’d saved him from the details of childbirth no bachelor wanted to hear. “Is the baby yours?” Because despite it being medically possible for it to be Eunice’s, he sincerely hoped—for the child’s sake—it wasn’t.
“The Poop Monster?” Hands up, Tracy backed away. “No.”
“Gregory is Jessica’s. She’s the owner here. I’m his godmother.” The pride in the old woman’s voice was unmistakable. “Isn’t he the most perfect baby you’ve ever seen?”
Chad leaned in for a closer look. Gregory paused in playing with his feet to stare back. He must have decided Chad passed muster, because he gave him a drooly smile that plumped up his already chubby cheeks. As babies went, the Poop Monster was cute and practically the only town citizen not to run at the sight of him.
Gregory kicked his feet and made a sound like a small motorboat.
“He likes you.” Eunice’s gaze turned to Chad and speculation. “Do you like babies? Are you married?”
“Eunice!” Tracy froze mid-turn. She had tentative curves, as if she’d recently gained or lost weight and couldn’t decide if she was going to gain or lose more.
“I don’t mind questions.” Questions led to conversation. Chad liked to get the measure of a town. But he couldn’t seem to get a bead on Harmony Valley. Or Tracy.
“Good.” Eunice removed her glasses and deposited them on her head, fluffing her purplish curls into place around them. “Men always ask about jobs. We women need more important information. Where are you from?”
“San Francisco.” Who knew for how long. The penthouse he’d shared with his dad, once filled with hospital equipment and round-the-clock nurses, seemed more like a mausoleum than a home.
“Welcome to Harmony Valley.” Eunice leaned forward, opening her eyes wide and blinking slowly in a way that was oddly hypnotic. “Are you or have you ever been married?”
“No.” Wait a minute. Chad sat back in his chair. He was always looking for an angle on a story, asking personal questions in a way that didn’t intimidate, not the other way around. “How’d you do that?”
“It’s my eyes.” Eunice blinked them in rapid succession. “They’re violet, just like Elizabeth Taylor’s. I’ve been told they have special powers.”
Shades of retired superheroes. Chad almost laughed. Almost, because her stare had worked on him.
“It’s the shock.” Tracy picked up a rag and spray cleaner, along with a gray tub for dirty dishes. “Of all that purple.”
Eunice harrumphed, as if used to Tracy’s teasing, and then fluffed her hair again. “Where is Jessica? She promised to try one of my mother’s recipes. I don’t see Horseradish-Doodles in the case.” She stood, smoothing her pink polyester pants and setting the orange and navy quilt pieces aside, and then she marched toward the kitchen with a sly half glance at Chad. “Watch Gregory for me, will you?”
“Let’s pray...” Tracy’s back was to Chad as she cleared a table in the corner. “That we never sell Horseradish-Doodles.”
“Horseradish-Doodles.” Chad had traveled all over the world. To the dirtiest dives and the most luxurious five-star establishments. He’d never heard of Horseradish-Doodles. “Is that a salty snack or a cookie?”
“Who knows?” Tracy shuddered.
Chad made a mental note to include Eunice and her Horseradish-Doodles in his piece.
In the playpen, the baby’s kicks became more violent. He gave a little shout.
“Gregory wants you to pick him up.” Tracy didn’t turn around.
“I’m not sure that’s wise.” Chad didn’t do babies. He’d heard there was a trick to it—picking them up, holding them, changing their diapers.
The old men playing checkers chuckled.
“Ah.” Tracy turned and stared at Chad’s shoulder once more. “You’re one of those bachelors.”
Intrigued as to how she’d lump him, Chad pretended ignorance by taking a sip of his latte.
“You’re afraid babies are contagious.” Tracy’s smile. It was honest and mischievous. It hit Chad in the gut, warming him quicker than his latte.
Gregory shouted louder. Chad ignored him, trying to dissect the appeal of Tracy’s smile. He liked women with sophistication and polish. Tracy didn’t wear any makeup. Her black A-line apron wasn’t sophisticated. She was as simple and homey as the town seemed to be.
Seemed? Nothing was as it seemed in Harmony Valley.
Someone called for Tracy in the kitchen.
“Go on. Pick him up.” Tracy carried her loaded tray toward the swinging kitchen door. “He won’t break.”
“You’re leaving him with me?” Chad could be a kidnapper or a child molester. He could grab the kid and be out the door before the checkers champs could say, “King me.”
“Thirty seconds.” Tracy disappeared through the swinging kitchen door. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought she’d been grinning.
Gregory shrieked, a test run to a full-blown tantrum, for sure.
The old men chuckled some more. Feminine laughter cascaded from the kitchen. These people didn’t think he could do this.
Chad could pick up the kid. He could change a diaper. He’d changed them for his father. He’d changed so many he’d vowed never to change a diaper again.
He bent over the edge of the crib, getting a more pungent whiff of the Poop Monster. “You don’t want me, kid.”
Gregory grinned and drooled. But when Chad didn’t pick him up, he kicked out again, blinked like Eunice and then shrieked.
Chad felt as if he was being studied, tested and stalked. By a baby. Not to mention the women in the kitchen.
Gregory gave another shriek, and then his lower lip began to tremble and his eyes to water.
“Don’t do that.” Chad reached for the kid. “They’ll think I’m torturing you.”
Before his hands reached Gregory, the kitchen door swung open. A woman with an olive complexion and a thick, dark ponytail hurried toward the crib. “Eunice, Gregory isn’t a meter you use to measure a man. I’m so sorry.” She swept Gregory into her arms and spun him around. “Hello, baby mine.”
Gregory rewarded his mother with a round of giggles that eased the tension in Chad despite the awful smell coming from the kid’s pants.
Eunice returned to the window seat and tsked. “I had such high hopes for you, Chad.”
