by Lori Wilde
But the popping of fireworks drowned out her cries. They left him bloodied on the ground. Wounded, broken. She tried to go to him, fought the cousin holding on to her, but the other cousins, snarling cruelly and covered in Luke’s blood, had grabbed her and forced her into their car. They took her home and when her mother had seen her, all hell broke loose. The names her cousins had called her were nothing in comparison to her mother’s wrath.
Melody closed her eyes. The sheriff had appeared on their doorstep, looking for her cousins. Luke was in ICU.
Of course, her mother and father had forbidden her to see him, but she’d gone anyway. Yet when she tried to see him there had been so many angry-faced Nielsons in the waiting room that she hadn’t had the courage to face them all by herself, so she’d slunk away, discouraged and heartbroken.
It was only the next day that she learned that Luke’s older brother, Jesse, had gone after her cousins in an attempt to avenge his brother. Jesse had been drinking, celebrating the holiday. He was so livid, so full of rage that he’d lost control of his car on the dark mountain road, flipped over twice before it landed in the ravine, crushing the life out of him.
Such a dreadful waste.
A brackish taste filled her mouth and she dropped her head into her hands. What was she thinking? An affair with Luke could only end one way. Was the fun they would have worth the inevitable hurt they were bound to feel? And what if they weren’t lucky enough to keep their fling private? If their families found out it would only make things worse.
She couldn’t do this. Couldn’t go through with it.
Resolved, she took out her phone and wrote him a text. Sorry. Changed my mind. We can’t do this. Too much at stake.
For the longest time, she stared at what she’d written, then finally, she took a deep breath and pressed send.
THE VANDALISM BOTHERED Melody.
Not because the damage to Luke’s office was so awful. She saw it the next morning when she drove past City Hall. One sanitation worker was busy replacing the glass in the pane that had been knocked out, another was painting over the black graffiti on the outside of the building proclaiming: “Nielson’s Sucks.” The culprit didn’t know when to pluralize and when to use an apostrophe. Or else they’d been intoxicated when they’d spray-painted it. Either way the vandalism was minor, pretty run-of-the-mill.
No, it wasn’t the damage that bothered her so much, but rather the act of vandalism itself. Someone in her family was responsible for this. And that someone had lashed out at Luke.
It was a stone thrown in the subterranean pool of animosity. The ripples had started, ripping the wounds open again. Something had to be done.
Last night’s resolve not to enter into an affair with him strengthened; she tightened her hands on the steering wheel and instead of continuing on her way to the Chamber of Commerce, spun the Corvette in an unauthorized U-turn and headed for the Sheriff’s Department.
Her cousin Calvin was coming down the steps as she was headed up them. His eyes were bleary, his uniform rumpled. He paused when their gazes met.
“You’ve been up all night,” she said.
Calvin nodded, even though her observation had been a statement, not a question.
“Our cousins are keeping you busy.”
“We don’t want to see this mess get out of control again.” He readjusted his Stetson.
“What are you doing about it?”
“Repairing the damage from the vandalism as quickly as possible. Beefing up patrols on holidays and weekends.”
Melody sank her hands on her hips. “In other words, sweeping things under the rug.”
“Sheriff Reardon and Mayor Nielson agree it’s what’s best for the town.”
“So no charges pressed?”
“We don’t know who did it for sure.”
She snorted. “But you’re not investigating it.”
“It’s not worth the man-hours. The vandalism is minor. A new windowpane. A fresh coat of paint.” He kicked the side of the steps with a toe of his cowboy boot, but did not glance up. “It’s just kids letting off steam.”
“It was just kids who beat Luke to a pulp fifteen years ago.”
“This is an isolated incident. Someone was pissed off because Luke won the side-by-side race. We have these Fant-Nielson dustups from time to time, cousin. You just haven’t been here to see it. Nothing has gotten out of control since what happened to Luke. It isn’t going to escalate. It’ll die down.”
Heat burned her chest, spread up her neck, and it wasn’t from the morning sun. “And yet, it’s been ninety years since the feud started. When do you estimate it’ll start dying down exactly?”
“I hear you, Mel, but it’s not my call. Besides, you’ll be gone soon enough. It’s not really your worry anymore.”
“Excuse me? Cupid is my hometown. Why would you assume I don’t care?”
He held up both palms. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m going home to get some sleep. If you want to buck the system, I suggest you take it up with either the mayor or the sheriff.”
She clutched her hands to her shoulders, stacked elbows in front of her, and watched Calvin walk away. Yeah, she could do that, but she doubted it would do any good. What would be the point? If she let herself get within ten feet of Luke, she’d start rethinking her position on their affair. One smile from him and she’d be butter. Butter had no backbone. No resolve.
He’d already responded to the text she’d sent him last night with ??? U sure? Her answer had been a solid YES! And that had been the end of the digital conversation. She’d been relieved, but she hadn’t trusted his silence. He could be planning to show up in person and convince her otherwise.
And those lips of his could be very persuasive.
Besides, it was an election year for Sheriff Reardon, and he’d do his best to keep things peaceful. Plus she already knew Luke’s stance on the family feud. Keep things quiet. Don’t push.
To her way of thinking, they should be pursuing opposite tactics. The feud should be publicized. The participants in it shamed. And anyone committing criminal acts should be held accountable. Yes, taking that stance might make things worse in the short run, but the town had been sticking its head in the sand over the feud for far too long. Luke thought he could quell this grudge by keeping the peace, but sometimes you had to break a few eggs to make an omelet.
Question was, how best to handle the situation?
She had to be careful. A creative solution was needed. Something visceral, emotional, and universal. Something that would take all the skills she’d learned on Madison Avenue.
Even if she had to bend the rubbery truth to do it.
Chapter 16
Dear Cupid,
The worst has happened. Our families discovered our love and it has ended in the gravest of disaster. Blood has been shed. Ugly words have been said. There’s no going back. No undoing what’s been done. How can we continue to love when our families hate each other so much? To bring peace, all we have to do is break up. But he is the other part of me. Without him, I will never be whole. But can I be responsible for bringing pain and suffering to others simply so I may have happiness? My beloved says we have to do what is right. Why does that mean we have to let each other go?
—Tearfully yours,
Modern Day Juliet
“Wow,” Lace said the Monday after Cinco de Mayo and the financial failure that was Sand Fest. “How are you going to answer that one, Melody?”
Melody fingered the letter she’d written and dropped into the letterbox Sunday morning after she confronted Calvin. It might have been fictional, but reading it out loud to the group, she felt the sharp, awful pang of loss that she had felt on that long-ago Fourth of July. Fiction came from truth, after all. Now she understood why Michael Helmsly had been so frustrated with her honesty. The literal truth was often a stumbling block to creativity. A figurative truth could be more sincere than the real thing.
>
“I don’t know. Any suggestions?” she asked.
“Tell Juliet it’s for the best,” Melody’s mother murmured. “Love does not exist in a vacuum. There are other people in your life. Other loves.”
“But what if Juliet’s love for her beau could actually heal the rift?” Melody posed the question. “If only their relatives would give young love a fighting chance.”
“I don’t ever see how that could happen,” her mother said. “Not when it comes to a family feud.”
“Your family should know.” Junie Mae scooted back her chair. “They’ve specialized in perpetuating grudges.”
“It’s not me.” Her mother looked around the table. “Auntie Delia, you were at the heart of this. You’re the one who remembers when the Nielsons burned down Cousin Zeke’s house. What was that like?”
“Actually,” Great-Aunt Delia said, “it was never really proven to be Nielsons. You know Zeke did like the whiskey a bit too much and he was a chain smoker. He could have lit the house on fire himself and blamed it on the Fants. Back in those days they didn’t have arson investigators around here. Mostly, folks took things at face value. If it looked like a duck, walked like a duck, quacked like a duck, they called it a duck.”
Her mother looked startled. “Are you saying that the Nielsons might not have burned down Zeke’s house?”
“I’m saying there’s all shades of truth, depending on where you’re standing.” Great-Aunt Delia unwrapped a Werther’s candy and popped it into her mouth. She offered the package around the table. “Butterscotch?”
“So what do you think I should tell Juliet?” Melody asked.
“Tell her to move away. Get the hell out of this place. There’s no reason to live in a nest of crazy. Tell her to save herself while there’s still time.” Great-Aunt Delia snorted.
“Excuse me,” her mother said. “Are you calling me crazy, Aunt Delia?”
“You’ve got your feelings hanging on the outside, Carol Ann. I was talking about that there Juliet and her family. Not you. Not this Fant-Nielson mess.”
“You know Juliet is a Fant or a Nielson.” Her mother got to her feet. “She has to be.”
“Now don’t you go looming over me. Just because I’m not as spry as I used to be before I bunged up this hip, doesn’t me you can sass me. I’m still the matriarch around here. Sit back down.”
Her mother did not sit. “I’ve heard you light into your share of Nielsons over the years. Now that you’re old you’ve suddenly turned saintly on us?”
“Me? A saint? No more than you are, Carol Ann. I’m just tired of seeing people fightin’ when they could be lovin’.” She shot Melody a pointed look. “So go ahead. Tell that Juliet to leave the place that’s got her so tore up, with or without her fella. She deserves to have a peaceful life.”
MELODY TOOK GREAT-AUNT Delia’s advice and on Wednesday posted a reply to the second Juliet letter, telling her to get on the plane to anywhere, just as long it was away from the feuding families. Although she had to admit that it was sort of weird being both Juliet and Cupid, asking advice and giving it to herself.
When she posted the reply to the Cupid Web site blog and used social media to get the word out about the blog, she was startled to discover the site had gotten a thousand hits in less than two hours. Much of it due to traffic from her people retweeting the Twitter feed from her personal account. She had more clout than she realized. Her reply generated controversy, many of the readers taking her to task for her advice.
“Why should Juliet run away?” one reader asked. “That’s cowardly. She should stay and fight for love.”
“All those people involved need to have their heads examined,” wrote another. “Why can’t they see how their hatred is harming their children?”
“Tell Juliet to get pregnant. What are the parents going to do then? If they want to see that grandbaby, they’ll have to learn how to get along.”
It was all so easy to say what you’d do in that situation, but walking a mile in someone else’s shoes was never easy. Most people simply couldn’t step outside themselves long enough to put on someone else’s skin. She’d picked up a few empathetic skills in advertising. In order to sell stuff, you had to figure out what the consumer wanted. Advertising was based on emotions. That’s why anyone bought anything. Selling insurance? Make them feel fear. Selling cars? Make them feel sexy. Selling food? Make them feel hungry. If people believed the products would in some way make them feel happier, healthier, freer, richer, safer, or more loved, they’d plunk down cash. It all came down to that.
Feelings.
Emotions.
Of course a good advertising copywriter knew how to take advantage of those needs. It was manipulative, no doubt. But it did put you in a position to consider what other people wanted.
What did Luke want? What made Luke feel better? How could she meet his needs, meet her own needs, and still meet the needs of her family and community?
Ha. Like that was even possible.
But the brisk activity on the Web site told her she was on to something.
That something was confirmed when she took her Corvette in to Pat to have the oil changed and Pat told her that she’d just fixed a tire for a tourist who came through wanting to know if this was where Juliet was from. Melody couldn’t deny that the story was piquing interest. It might not amount to anything in the end, but she’d been right using the letter as a sales tool to bring more tourism into Cupid. Too bad she’d had to go about it in an underhanded manner.
She wondered how Luke would feel if he found out.
Guilt ate at her. She should tell him that she was the one writing the letters. He’d be mad at her, yes, but it wasn’t right, keeping it from him. He was affected by the feud, same as she was.
These thoughts were dancing around in her head when she saw Luke pull into Pat’s garage and get out of his pickup.
“What can I do you for, Mayor?” Pat asked, tucking a wrench into the back pocket of her coveralls and wiping her hands on a red grease rag.
“I’m here to talk to Melody,” he said.
“Go to it.” Pat waved at Melody, who was sitting in the waiting area surrounded by cracked vinyl chairs and a dusty table laden with outdated copies of Popular Mechanics. “I’ll have your oil changed in a jiff,” she hollered at Melody and popped her head back underneath the hood of the Corvette.
Luke came inside the small room.
Her heart rate spiked.
“Can I have a word?”
She stood up. “Sure,” she said calmly in spite of the blood pounding loudly in her ears. “What’s up?”
He took off his Stetson, turned the brim in his hands. “You’ve got to stop posting those Juliet letters on the blog.”
“Why’s that?”
“They’re causing a ruckus.”
She jutted out her chin. “In what way?”
“You received over a thousand comments on that story.”
“Which is a good thing. It proves I’m right. Calling attention to the family feud is the way to go.”
“It’s a way to disrupt our community. I’ve been getting complaints.”
“From whom?”
“Fants. Nielsons. Greenwoods.”
“What do they have their noses out of joint over?”
“They say your Web site casts Cupid in a negative light.”
“Their stupid grudge is what’s casting Cupid in a negative light, not those letters.”
“People are concerned.”
“What about?”
“Juliet. They’re worried she’ll get hurt.”
“She might. But publishing her letter isn’t what’s going to harm her. It’s the reaction of the feuding families.”
“You cherry-picked this letter. Feature some other letter to Cupid on the Web site.”
“Mayoral edict?”
“Yeah. Mayoral edict.”
She sank her hands on her hips. “May I ask y
ou a question?”
“Go ahead.”
“How do you expect me to do my job when you keep shooting down every viable option I come up with for increasing tourism?”
“I haven’t shot down every option. We had Sand Fest—”
“Which lost money.”
“We’ve got the masquerade stargazing party at the observatory. Your efforts would be better served making sure that event is a moneymaker.”
That pissed her off. “Are you suggesting it’s my fault that we lost money on Sand Fest?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
“Look,” he said. “I didn’t come here to start an argument.”
“Didn’t you?”
“No. I’m just asking you to stop printing the letters. Can you promise me that?”
“Fine. If that’s what you want.”
“It is.”
They stood looking at each other. She could tell he wanted to say something more. Probably something about the text she’d sent him backing out of resuming their affair, but instead of speaking what was on his mind, he settled the Stetson on his head, pulled sunglasses from his front pocket, stuck them on his face, and walked away.
TO KEEP THE man from driving her around the bend, Melody threw herself heart and soul into preparations for the stargazing party, pinching pennies wherever she could while still keeping things elegant for the VIPs. She was determined to make a profit on this event. She involved as many of the local businesses as she could—the florists, the restaurants, the air charter service to shuttle dignitaries in and out. She stuffed gift bags with coupons from places like Pat’s garage and Junie Mae’s hair salon and spa and Natalie’s B&B.
But her enemy was against her. On Saturday, the day of the stargazing party, a hot, relentless wind blew into town. The temperature climbed to a hundred and two, an extremely rare occurrence in the Davis Mountains.
Melody got on the phone, had swamp coolers trucked in and set up outside to cool off the area. Hopefully, by the time the party started an hour before dusk, the wind would settle down and the temperatures would slip back to their normal May range of the low eighties. It was the best she could do. The rest was in the hands of fate.