At Home in Mossy Creek

by Deborah Smith

  Now he had Magdalene, with whom he partnered outside the ring, too. Theirs seemed to be one of those tumultuous relationships. One day, I’d hear rumors of a break up and the next she’d be climbing all over him. He wasn’t big on public displays of romance, so I could understand why he always had an irritated look on his face when she felt the need to kiss him with abandon in front of everyone.

  I’d tried to tell myself I was satisfied with what was left of our friendship, which had cooled since Magdalene took up so much of his time. I even tried to convince myself that I was the lucky one. Friendships last longer than romantic flings, right?

  Sometimes, though, I let myself wonder what it would be like to kiss Erik, to see if our lips fit together like our bodies had on stage. Erik was broader, but he and I shared the same height and proportions, which made our former act unique. Our torsos, our hands, our arms and legs, even our fingers were the same length. We had been incredibly synchronized.

  I released my hold on the bus, took the whistle hanging from my necklace, and blew a long beep, wobbling like a Weeble but gaining the attention of Creekites and performers alike. “Thanks to the assistance of the mayor’s office and several local civic groups, I’m happy to report that the nice people of Mossy Creek are opening their homes to us for the next two days. Listen carefully as I tell each of you where you’ll be staying.”

  The circus performers craned their heads and waited. Erik pushed his way through the crowd, pried my fingers from the luggage bay door, and linked my arm through his so I could use him as a support. He smelled good, like spearmint gum and cedar. He kept cedar sachets in his coat pockets to keep moths away.

  “Thanks,” I whispered.

  “No problem,” he said, rolling his “r” slightly, his accent somewhere between French and German, like the country he came from.

  “Could you do me one more favor?” I asked, as the rest of the circus performers crowded closer to hear their assignments. “I have a flashlight in my pocket, on my key ring.”

  With a deep sigh of resignation, he gingerly reached his hand toward my coat pocket as if a lion were in there ready to snap his fingers off.

  “What’s the deal?” I whispered, more irritated that I had to rely on others to help me when I was in high vertigo mode, than with him. “It’s not like you haven’t had your hand on my inner thigh with only a thin layer of Spandex between us.”

  “It’s different now,” he said.

  “Different in that Magdalene doesn’t want you touching me for even the most innocent reason?”

  He didn’t answer. Of course, I was making him uncomfortable. Maybe he was worried that he’d somehow catch my vertigo by touching me. Magdalene had voiced such a concern when she first replaced me. Initially she’d refused to work with Erik until a doctor convinced her he couldn’t possibly be a carrier. Stupid woman thought it was a disease.

  The flesh of my thigh, covered in a thin layer of silk underwear, a thick layer of denim, and whatever my pocket was made out of, tingled at his touch. Now that was different. I couldn’t look at him.

  He took hold of the key ring and turned on the flashlight, aiming the narrow beam at my clipboard.

  The words swam along the page. The print flowed like waves rolling in and out with a tide. I tilted my head to the side, and the columns stilled.

  For five minutes, I paired performers with Creekites without incident. But then I got down to Erik and one of our miming clowns. Some considered the mimes troublesome because they never broke character. “Erik and Tartuffe, you’ll be staying with Mr. Win Allen.”

  Tartuffe clapped his hands in glee. Mr. Allen, who was a Mossy Creek restaurateur known by his alter ego, Bubba Rice, didn’t appear equally excited when he stepped forward to claim his guest. In fact, Win/Bubba began scowling.

  Up to this point, the local chief of police, Amos Royden, who reminded me a little of a youngish George Clooney, had been watching the proceedings with little interest. Now he smiled.

  “What’s so funny?” Win Allen asked.

  “Just appreciating the irony.” The handsome police chief arched a dark brow in Tartuffe’s direction. Wicked humor gleamed in Amos Royden’s eyes.

  “Is there a problem?” I asked. “Something amiss with my mimes?”

  “No, ma’am,” Mr. Allen and the chief said in unison, like two boys caught talking in class.

  I proceeded quickly down the rest of the list until I was interrupted by Magdalene. She flounced up to us in a rush of spicy floral cologne. My nose clogged, and my eyes started to water. How could Erik stand it? Magdalene’s perfume was more overpowering than her make-up.

  “Quinn,” she said, spreading her full, glossy lips in a fake smile. “Can you please put me in the same home as Erik?”

  The muscles in Erik’s arm tightened. Was he signaling me? Was that a, ‘Please, say you will,’ or a, ‘No, don’t you dare?’ I couldn’t risk trying to read his face. With the way the vertigo was intensifying, I could barely read the names in front of me, even with my head tilted.

  “Let me see,” I said tightly. I’d placed Magdalene and the rest of the single women acrobats with the Cliftons, a middle-aged married couple from a local community named ‘Yonder.’ Chief Royden said it was quite some distance outside town. Not only did the Cliftons have three guest rooms available, they’d told me their daughter, Rhonda, was a former Miss Bigelow County. I figured if anyone could handle a house full of women who liked to primp and prance, it was the Cliftons.

  “You and the ABC posse already have rooms for the night,” I told Magdalene. The ABC posse was comprised of Ann, Cherie, and Brigitta. Brunette Ann was the nicest. Blondes Cherie and Brigitta weren’t even close to nice unless a man was to be won. Cherie favored t-shirts emblazoned with provocative suggestions of what she was willing and able to do for a man. Brigitta countered by going braless and wearing her street clothes two sizes too small to show off her recently acquired breast implants.

  I scanned the columns on my clipboard and saw that next door to the Cliftons were the Finches, who had just one room to offer. I’d placed Tartuffe’s partner-in-mime, Orlon, with the Finch family.

  Magdalene stomped her Ugg boot. “Can you hear me, Quinn?”

  “Mag, leave her alone,” Erik growled.

  My ears perked. Maybe he didn’t want to be housed near ‘Mag.’

  Win Allen was waiting for Erik and chatting with Chief Royden. I could ask him to trade Erik in for one more clown. Not that I wanted to do anything nice for Magdalene. I would do just about anything for Erik, though. We were buddies, tingly feelings notwithstanding.

  Magdalene tossed her hair and added, “It is Valentine’s Day this weekend. And I should be near to my valentine. Unless you have some reason you don’t want me to be happy.”

  A hush fell over the performers and Creekites, who recognized a verbal gauntlet being thrown down when they heard one.

  I made the mistake of tilting my head so I could see her taunting face, ugly in its beauty. She knew I was infatuated with Erik. Probably everyone else here could see it as well. Could Erik? Would she tell him? I dug my fingers into Erik’s arm until he cleared his throat. He didn’t say anything so I decided he did want to be with Magdalene.

  Mortified, I could do nothing but surrender to her telepathic blackmail. Of course, I’d rather tear her hair out. Fine, I’d give her what she wanted. No, what they wanted, to be near one another for this stupid holiday. “Sure, no problem, Magdalene.”

  “Mr. Allen!” I shouted. “Could you come here, please?”

  Win Allen, who had been frowning at Tartuffe as Tartuffe mimed carrying invisible luggage, walked over. He towered above the semicircle of performers. “What can I do for you, Ms. James?”

  “I hate to ask you this, but would it be possible for our second mime, Orgon, to stay with you? Erik
and Magdalene want to be near one another for the holiday. Would hosting a second clown be a problem?”

  Chief Royden made a strangled sound. Several other Creekites openly snickered.

  Win Allen’s face went darker. Then he sighed and tapped Orgon on the shoulder. “Can I put you work at my restaurant as a waiter tomorrow night, along with Tartuffe? I’m booked solid for the Valentine’s dinners, and I need the help.”

  Orgon nodded and bowed with great flourish.

  Amos Royden, clearly enjoying himself, said, “Put me down for that table you mentioned, Win. I want to watch your new waiters at work.”

  Win Allen chortled. “Table for two? Since when do you have a date? I’ve already got Ida booked. She’s coming with Del Jackson.”

  The police chief’s cool look made Tartuffe and Orgon clutch their chests in mock—or maybe real—alarm. But what was I doing worrying about domestic dramas among the locals? I had my own love triangle to deal with.

  “Okay, okay,” I said, realizing I was sounding like Mr. Polaski. “Erik, since Orgon is staying with Mr. Allen, you can stay at the house next door to the Cliftons. Is there a Mrs. Nancy Abercrombie Finch here?”

  “Awww, man!” A little boy’s disappointed voice rose above his mother’s ‘Yes.’ “I wanted the clown.”

  Relieved when I read off the last name on the list, I smiled at Erik, who wasn’t smiling back.

  “What about you?” he asked, only with his accent “what” sounded like “vhat.” I loved his accent. “Where are you staying?”

  “Me?” I said, wanting to curse instead. The low ringing in my ears rose to a higher decibel. Of course I’d left myself off the list. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll sleep on the bus.”

  “No, you won’t,” Erik said, this time careful to pronounce the “w” the way I would.

  “It’s no big deal.”

  “I’ll sleep there,” Erik said with finality.

  Magdalene glared at me.

  Mrs. Finch cleared her throat to get our attention. She had one of those sleek, short hairstyles that didn’t move when she’d turned her head, following our verbal volleys like we were in a match at Wimbledon. I had no idea why she was so intrigued by our mini-argument.

  Her little boy kicked the blacktop with his shoe. He was miffed that he didn’t get a clown.

  “Miss James, I won’t hear of either you or Mr. Aelbrecht sleeping on the bus,” she said with a spark of mischief in her blue eyes. “You can both stay with us. Now won’t that be nice, Charles? We’ll have two circus people.”

  Magdalene nearly went up in flames.

  The little boy looked at me. “Are you a clown?”

  “No. I’m the lady in charge. That’s better than being a clown.” Except now I was dealing with vertigo and an angry red-haired Belgian who saw my former partner as her sole property. Maybe I was a clown, or something far worse . . . a fool.

  Hannah

  “HE’S HEADED THIS way, Mrs. Longstreet,” my intern Linda Polk announced from the glass front door, which she was supposed to be cleaning. “He’s, like, three blocks away now.”

  I scowled at her from behind the circulation desk. “He who?”

  “You know who.” Linda faced me with a self-satisfied smile. She’d gotten cocky ever since her dad had helped me catch the “library ghost.” “Mr. Crogan has a thing for you, you know. That’s why he comes here after he’s done for the day.”

  “He comes here because he likes to read,” I said firmly as I keyed in an interlibrary loan request and tried to ignore the silly skip in my pulse at her words. “He comes here because there’s little else to do in Mossy Creek at night when you’re staying at the Hamilton House Inn. To my knowledge, it doesn’t have cable.”

  “He could go to the movies down in Bigelow. Or watch a basketball game on the big-screen TV at O’ Day’s Pub. Shoot, he could even read in his room, instead of hanging out here whenever you’re working. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

  Of course I had. Every night for the past three weeks, the New York photographer had entered the library precisely at sunset, like some reverse vampire who hid when the sun went down. He’d chosen a book, lounged on the couch to read it, and then checked it out right before closing. I could only assume he finished it back at the inn, since he always returned it the next night promptly at sunset. “Maybe he doesn’t find his room comfortable.”

  Linda snorted. “He’s got 101, the biggest suite in the whole hotel.”

  “You’ve been to his room?” I exclaimed, thoroughly shocked.

  “No!” She shot me a superior glance. “Katie Bell told me.”

  Katie Bell, the gossip columnist at the Mossy Creek Gazette, was definitely the person to go to for gossip. “I see.” I worked hard to sound nonchalant. “And I suppose she told you plenty of other information about Mr. Crogan.”

  Linda was no fool. With a little smirk, she sprayed cleaner on the door. “Maybe.”

  When she said nothing more, I gritted my teeth to keep from begging her for info.

  After a moment, Linda cut her eyes at me. “Mr. Crogan is a hottie, don’t you think?”

  A hottie? Absolutely. And I lusted after every lanky, dusky-skinned inch of him.

  It was mortifying. Mothers of middle-school children were supposed to limit their lusting to the latest Kenmore appliances and brand-new Beemers, not photographers with gymnast physiques. Which was why I wasn’t about to admit my weakness to Linda.

  Bad enough that my eleven-year-old, Rachel, had also been on my case lately about starting to date again. Just tonight, she’d ragged me so hard I’d had to banish her to the break room, where I knew she’d get engrossed in playing computer games on my laptop. Valentine’s Day was fast approaching, and it was infecting every female in sight, even my daughter.

  That was my only explanation for why she was so adamant about pairing me off. All right, so her dad had been dead for over eight years now, and I was a bit too prone to bury myself in my work, but that didn’t mean I was itching to find another mate. Between my work at the library and my determination to maintain a safe and comfortable home for my clumsy daughter, who had time to date?

  Too bad I couldn’t tell Rachel that. Or Linda, for that matter. “Don’t you leave at five?” I told my intern irritably.

  Setting the cleaner aside, Linda planted her elbows on the circulation desk. “Katie Bell says she’s pretty sure Mr. Crogan isn’t married. He doesn’t wear a ring.”

  “It doesn’t matter. A man like that has to have a girlfriend somewhere.” Probably several, all of them young and buxom photographer’s models. Why should he even look at a modestly proportioned librarian, even one who kept in shape with biweekly workouts?

  “Katie Bell found out that he’s in town taking stock photos.”

  I’d heard that already. I just didn’t believe it. Sure, he did spend from dawn to dusk snapping shots of people and fields and even our famous Sitting Tree, but he did it with a large format camera. I’d read enough to know that most photographers these days had gone digital. Hardly anybody used ten-thousand-dollar Hasselblads with massive tripods and actual film that had to be Fed-Exed to some lab for dark room printing.

  I’d even Googled his name, along with the words photographer and Hasselblad, but if there were any professional photographers named David Crogan, Google couldn’t find them. That alone made me suspicious. Not to mention even more obsessed.

  “How old do you think he is?” Linda asked.

  “I couldn’t begin to speculate.” I’d heard guesses anywhere from twenty-five to thirty-five. I prayed it was the upper end, because the idea of my lusting after a guy more than ten years my junior was worrisome in light of the gossip-fest that erupted when our fiftyish mayor and thirty-fiveish police chief were caught kissing last month.

  �
�Well, I don’t think it matters.” Linda surveyed me up and down. “You’re really pretty, you know, even with the glasses and the khakis. And I bet that if you asked Jasmine Beleau, she’d be happy to give you a few tips on—”

  “Thank you, but I’m not looking for a makeover just now.”

  The door swung open, and we both froze as the object of our speculation entered. Blessedly oblivious to Linda’s not-so-subtle wink in my direction, he approached the circulation desk and slid a copy of Poul Anderson’s Time Patrol into the Return Books slot.

  “Good evening, Mr. Crogan,” Linda chirped.

  “Evening, Miss Polk,” he answered in his deep, whiskey-rough Scottish brogue. Then he acknowledged me with a nod. “Mrs. Longstreet. I hope you’re well this evening.”

  “Fine, thank you,” I said in my professional librarian’s voice.

  Meanwhile, my knees were going weak. I admit it—I’m no different from any other American female. I’m a complete sucker for a British accent. Make it Scottish, and you might as well douse the guy in pheromones. It even trumped the red-brown dreadlocks he wore tied back with a strip of black leather.

  “Has that interlibrary loan copy of The Smoke Ring come in?” he paused to ask.

  “Not yet. I suppose you’ve read the rest of our Nivens?”

  Amusement made his unusual grey eyes gleam like freshly polished silver. “You ought to know the answer to that. You’re the one who introduced me to his works.”

  Linda’s winking was practically a twitch now, which I determinedly ignored. “I’m sorry we don’t have more of his books. But you could always try something other than hard science fiction. Perhaps some Terry Brooks?”

  “Thanks, but fantasy isn’t my cup of tea.” He pronounced cup as “coop.” He leaned one leather-jacketed arm on the front desk in a move that curled my toes like raw potato chips hitting hot oil, then added, “Don’t worry about it, luv. There’s a Heinlein over there I haven’t read in a long while.”

  Luv. I turned to mush. Or moosh, as he would probably say it.