by Cat Johnson
“I still object,” the old man grumbled.
The bend of Buck’s spine put him at probably about four and a half feet tall rather than his whopping five foot two. But his attitude far outstripped his physical size.
“So noted. Any other old business or new business?” Mudville’s mayor asked. The gavel poised in his hand told everyone he was ready to end this thing.
My middle brother slipped silently through the back door and stood close.
“Stone,” he greeted.
“Cashel,” I returned.
“What did I miss?” he asked.
Pretty much the whole damn meeting, but as long as one of us was here to represent, I guess that didn’t matter. Except that the one usually was me.
“Buck just objected to replacing the swing set at the town park,” I told him.
Cash snorted. “That figures.”
Agreeing, I sniffed out a laugh. I didn’t know which Buck hated more. The kids in this town, or the town spending his tax dollars on stuff for those kids.
“Anything about us?” Cash asked.
“Not yet.” And it was looking good that Morgan Farm might actually escape this meeting without anyone bitching about something we were doing.
Cash’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“I know. I was shocked too.”
That someone didn’t have something to complain about was a miracle.
There was usually something brought up. Our cows were too close to the road. The ear of corn on our painted farm market sign was too big. Or the most surreal from last fall, that our corn maze was too difficult.
It had been all I could do to not crack up when old lady Trout described how she’d gotten lost in it for hours.
Apparently she’d wandered in, unseen by anyone, just before we closed up the market. She’d left her cell phone in her car and, sad but true, there was no one around to hear her scream.
According to her report, she didn’t find her way back out until well after dark. Her husband had been sound asleep in front of the TV and didn’t even notice she was gone.
My little brother Boone had actually had to leave the community house, because unlike Cash and me, he couldn’t hold the laughter in.
Boone still got dirty looks from the old lady for that.
I came to the town meetings as much for the amusement as to be able to defend my family’s business. It was definitely a good day when I could just enjoy the Mudville crazy and not have Morgan Farm in the hot seat.
“I’d like to complain about the new owner of Hampton house.”
“Yes, Alice.”
The eighty-eight year old woman stood, surprisingly having an easier time of it than Buck had even though she was a good ten years older than him.
“He’s planning to tear down the old carriage house and put up a big modern garage there. Big enough for his boat. It’s a twenty-four footer, you know.”
Alice Mudd was the lone survivor still in living in town from the original Mudd family who’d founded Mudville back when it had been nothing more than a patch of dirt along the freight train line during the Civil War.
How she got her information about everything and everybody was still a mystery. Some speculated there was an underground system of tunnels left from the old days that only she still knew about. I had my doubts about that.
However the sly old gal did it, she was no doubt the keeper of all of this town’s goings on. Her knowledge even extended to the new arrivals and the size of their watercraft, apparently.
Cash breathed out a curse. “We used to party in the Hampton’s carriage house in high school.”
“Yup.” What I didn’t add was that I’d lost my virginity in the loft with Emily Pickett during one of the Hampton boys’ legendary parties.
It was a beautiful old turn of the century structure. Still in good shape too, from what I could see. But apparently it wouldn’t hold the new owner’s twenty-four foot boat.
“Fucking city folk.” I let out a huff.
“Yup.” Cash nodded.
In spite of my often complaining about the things and the people in this town never changing, there was one thing that had started to change around Mudville recently and I didn’t like it one bit. The slow but steady influx of strangers seeing the bargain property prices and scooping up the deals.
The real estate bubble had burst and with it came the eventual foreclosures. Combine that with the aging of the community—the old Mudville families whose kids didn’t want to live and work here—and there was more for sale than not in some parts of town.
It was ripe for every lookie-loo in the tri-state area to come looking for a bargain. They’d buy. Then they’d come for the weekend or a few weeks in the summer and leave the properties vacant for the rest of the time.
Some parts were like a ghost town. Or no, maybe more like one of those Hollywood movie sets. It looked like a normal town from the front, but take a peek behind the façade and nothing. Nobody’s home.
But having absentee owners was better than having them start knocking down buildings that had been around for a hundred and twenty years or more.
“Where’s Boone?” Cash asked, obviously moving on from the loss of the Hampton carriage house easier than I was.
“Don’t know,” I said.
He smirked. “Bet I know. He put on so much body spray before he left this morning I could barely breathe after he walked through the kitchen.”
I snorted out a laugh. “And what do you think that means?”
“Oh, I know exactly what it means. The lovely Mrs. Campisi must have some more odd jobs for him to do. Funny how these jobs only come up during the week when her husband is in the city working on Wall Street and she’s up here alone in that big old house the mister bought her.”
I raised my brow. “Damn.”
At least my little brother was taking advantage of the transient city folks in town. Leave it to Boone to make the best of the situation. He was no doubt getting laid and making bank while charging the city folks an arm and a leg for odd jobs.
The crack of the gavel hitting the table up front had my head whipping up. Cash’s too. The deer in headlights expression on his face would have been comical if I didn’t know there was the same look on mine.
We both spun toward the exit. He got to the handle first and swung the door wide. I was out on his heels, sprinting for my truck, keys in my hand.
“Shit!” I skidded to a halt next to my truck.
I was trapped. So many vehicles were wedged in along Main Street my truck was pinned. Bumper-to-bumper.
Mother fucker.
There was no way I was getting the Morgan Farm truck out of a space that tight and I already heard the buzz of chatter closing in behind me as the rest of the attendees spilled out of the door and onto the sidewalk.
Cash rolled up in a matching truck to mine, blocking one lane of the narrow main road as he stopped.
He called out the open window, “Leave it! Get in. We’ll come back and get it later.”
Not about to look that gift horse in the mouth, I took off at a run, flung open the passenger door and jumped in just as I heard, “Stone!”
“Drive,” I grit out between my teeth, eyes forward as I pretended I didn’t hear town gossip Mary Brimley calling my name from the sidewalk.
Cash was laughing a little too hard at my desperation as he hit the gas and we peeled down Main Street, but I couldn’t complain.
“Fuck, that was a close one.” I breathed in relief.
Another ten seconds and Mary would have had me standing there talking for a solid hour. No exaggeration.
“No shit.” Cash shot me a glance. “Bro, you gotta park farther down the road. Or in the old diner lot, like I do.”
There were certain rules one needed to follow to survive in a town this small.
“Yeah, I hear ya.” When I’d seen the spot right in front of the Community House, I’d wrongly assumed closer was better for my imminent quick geta
way.
Lesson learned. And it was one I wouldn’t soon forget.
From the Journal of Rose Van de Berg
MUDVILLE INQUISITOR
1918
Mudville was voted “bone dry” at the election held April 16. The ordinance will take effect October 1.
THREE
Harper
“You know, she doesn’t deserve to have you staying there housesitting for free. Agnes should pay you for this. It’s very inconvenient.”
At this point, I might be willing to pay Agnes to let me stay there, just to be able to put some distance between my ranting mother and myself.
It was going to be a long drive home if she was going to alternate between her trademark pinch-faced silent treatment and bursts of complaints about my decision.
“Oh. Look. I want to stop at this farm stand for some corn.”
Hallelujah. Saved by a giant ear of corn. Or at least a giant corn-shaped wooden sign and an arrow pointing to the Morgan Farm Market.
There was nothing my mother liked better than stopping to buy stuff along the side of the road.
As she pulled in and parked on the dirt, I spied something very interesting in the cornfield. And it wasn’t corn.
The muscled-back glistening with a light sheen of sweat in the sun had to belong to none other than Farmer Morgan himself, or one of his farmhands.
Holy hell, they sure grew them nice upstate. Big. Shirtless. Just like I liked them.
At home, for me to see a guy who looked like this I was usually scrolling through stock photo sites online looking for male models for book covers or ad graphics.
But here was one in living color, live and in person.
The scenario couldn’t have been more perfect as his back muscles worked when he reached out and snapped off the ears of corn from the stalks. Then he twisted at that narrow waist to toss them into the bushel basket on the ground by his feet.
I said another silent thank you to the big guy above for the farm stand that provided so much bounty. A distraction for Mom and for me.
My mother was nuts with all her bitching about this town. By all indications my stay in Mudville wasn’t going to be so bad. The scenery was certainly nice.
“Harper! Are you coming in?” Mom yelled to me from the stand a good twenty feet away when she realized I had yet to get out of the car where I’d been so entranced by the view.
I nodded to her through the glass and finally got my head on straight enough to get myself out of my seatbelt.
By the time I entered the building, I wished I hadn’t.
“That’s a little pricy for a dozen ears,” Mom said.
The teenager behind the counter shrugged. This was probably a part time summer job for her. One that would end in a couple of weeks when school started up again. She didn’t set the prices of the corn, but Mom didn’t seem to care about that fact.
“When was it picked exactly?” Mom asked, looking over the offering critically.
“I don’t know,” the girl answered. “It was there when I got here.”
That answer was met with a humph.
I definitely did not want her in a bad mood over the corn for the whole drive home. I had enough to deal with after the Great Aunt Agnes debacle. You know, with Agnes not being dead and Mom not inheriting the house I’d agreed to housesit for free, and all.
I stepped up to the counter. “Mom, I’m sure it’s fine.”
She shook her head. “You know corn is only good the day it’s picked.”
“Mom, please. Just buy the corn and let’s go. We have a long drive.”
“But how do I know it’s fresh if she doesn’t know—”
“It’s fresh.” The deep male voice, heavy with attitude, cut straight through me. Its low growly timbre seemed to settle in and take residence somewhere in the vicinity of my long neglected lady parts.
I turned at the voice behind us and there he was—my fantasy farmer. Only now I had a front view to go with the back view I’d lusted over.
The glistening chest. The washboard abs, partially hidden by the bushel basket overflowing with corn. The sun-gilded hair set off by the green and gold-flecked hazel eyes.
He was perfection. Well, except for his expression of obvious annoyance.
Not that I could blame him. Mom annoyed me plenty, but she was, after all, a customer and you know what they say. The customer is always right. Maybe that didn’t apply to farmers. I’d never known any personally to ask.
“I picked that batch this morning,” my bucolic god continued.
“Can I have those instead?” Mom eyed the bushel in his hands.
Meanwhile, my own gaze kept straying to the dusting of light hair surrounding his nipples. Damn, I’d love to take a little nibble on one of those.
Jeez. Where the hell had that thought come from? I needed to get a hold of myself.
“Sure. Have at it.” He set down the basket heavily on the counter by his lone young employee.
“I’m sorry about her,” I said, cringing for effect.
“I’m used to you city people,” he grumbled.
I frowned, taking insult at his tone even if what he’d said wasn’t a criticism. Though it was inaccurate. “I’m not from the city.”
He shrugged, apparently not caring about the suburbanite chip on my shoulder.
“I still think you’d sell a lot more if you lowered the price, but fine I’ll take these dozen. Do you have a bag?” Mom asked.
As the girl bagged my mother’s carefully chosen corn, the hottie with the attitude hoisted the basket off the counter by the cash register.
He carried it to the table where the other ears were displayed and started rearranging them. Bringing that morning’s ears to the front. Clearing space in the back for the ears he’d just picked, I assumed.
I didn’t really care what he was doing or why since his task gave me a nice view of his back muscles again. I could enjoy them without being noticed, because I definitely did not want this guy thinking I thought he was attractive. Particularly since he already hated me on sight for my sin of not being from around here.
At least that was my guess after his judgmental sounding assumption that I was a city person. As if that would have been so bad?
So what if I had been from Manhattan? Or even from a smaller city, like New Rochelle or Yonkers. The business people of Mudville could not possibly be so busy they could afford to alienate what few visitors happened to stumble off the highway and into this tiny town.
“Ready?”
“Huh?” I turned at the sound of Mom’s voice.
“I’m done. We can go.” Her purse back on her arm, the bag of her supposedly overpriced corn held tight against her chest, she did indeed look ready to leave.
“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t notice you were done.” Because I’d been too occupied elsewhere.
The hunky corn handler glanced back. “Thanks for stopping. Enjoy your corn.”
The hot bastard was taunting me. Being so super nice that his thanks and wish for our future culinary enjoyment sounded as fake as I was sure they were.
He was hot, but he was starting to piss me off.
“Oh, I’m sure we will. In fact, I’ll be back this weekend for more.”
His brows rose. “On vacation around here ’til then?” he asked.
“No. I’m going to be living here starting Saturday.”
Ha! That’ll show him.
I dropped that bomb and spun, stalking to the car before he could comment. But I didn’t miss the surprise on his face.
Good! I enjoyed that I’d thrown Mr. Confident Corn Peddler into a tizzy.
To complete my dramatic exit, I reached for the handle of the car door and yanked . . . and nearly ripped off one of my fingernails.
“Mom. When and why did you lock the car?” I grit between my teeth.
“I clicked the locks after you finally got out. I didn’t want it to be stolen,” she said, wandering over oh so slowly as she searched for t
he keys in her big purse while struggling to hold the overflowing brown paper bag of corn.
So much for my smooth exit. I stood and waited an eternity for my mother to find the key. The whole time proving to the stranger-hating farmer we were indeed city folks. People who locked our vehicles even though we were shopping in a building with an open front and a clear view of the car just a couple of yards away.
I dared to glance back.
There he was, grinning wide. Laughing at me and my city folk ways, I dare say.
I sighed and turned away. At least corn season would be over soon. Then maybe I wouldn’t run into him around town as he went back to doing whatever corn farmers did in the off season.
I could only hope.
From the Journal of Rose Van de Berg
MUDVILLE INQUISITOR
1919
The Bauer Chemical Co. capital stock has been sold by a custodian. The manager of the company was a major in the Imperial German Army and a paymaster of all saboteurs across the region, a great concern during the war.
FOUR
Stone
I pulled my T-shirt back on over my head as I pushed through the screen door and into the kitchen. “I can’t wait for fucking summer to be over.”
“Stone. Language.” My mother’s voice was low with warning as she stirred the pot of boiling corn on the stove.
I sighed. “Yes, Mom.” It was still fucking true, whether she let me say the word or not.
“What happened to put you in such a mood, sweetie?” she asked.
“Customers. City people, obviously. First the woman complains the corn isn’t fresh, then she wants it for cheaper.”
“Did you give her a discount?”
“Hel—heck, no. Five dollars for a dozen. That’s a dang good price. I bet she pays more than that for whatever fancy coffee she drinks everyday.”
“You should have thrown in some extra ears for free. People like to get a deal,” she said, acting like it was okay.
People liking a deal was what was ruining Mudville. I kept my feelings on the state of the real estate market in this town to myself and instead asked, “Can I help you with dinner?”