The Sweet Life

by Sharon Struth

  She turned toward the entrance and slammed into a stiff body, making her stumble back a step.

  “’Scuz me.” Otis Tate dipped his bushy eyebrows in annoyance, his Adam’s apple jutting out just beneath the scruffy edge of his white beard. As usual, his younger brother, Elmer, lagged several steps behind, shoulders stooped and taking away the extra few inches of height he held over the senior of the two septuagenarians.

  “Sorry. I didn’t see you.” A cold breeze sent a chill through Sophie’s wool skirt and tights, numbing her immediate reaction to scream “traitor.” The mere sight of them made her blood boil. After they’d accepted Resort Group International’s offer, they didn’t even have the decency to give her a phone call. Bernadette had learned about the deal at her law office and called Sophie, adding to her humiliation. They probably hadn’t given any consideration to the deep ties she held to the land. With no wives or children, their only goal was to sell to the highest bidder and retire near some friends in Florida, a consideration no self-respecting New Englander would utter aloud.

  Otis cleared his throat. “Listen, we want you to know this isn’t personal.”

  “I’d suggest you look up what personal means.”

  Both his brows arched. “Listen Sophie, we hadn’t signed anything with you yet. Business is business. You’ll find another spot for your winery.” He elbowed Elmer.

  Elmer flinched but didn’t respond. Instead, he stared at the protestors, his downturned mouth giving away his sadness.

  Otis leaned close enough for her to catch the warmth of his breath. “I heard Cliff gave you this story last minute. I assume you’ll give it fair coverage.”

  The comment struck Sophie as hard as a kidney jab.

  Her tone downshifted to a harsh whisper. “Nana was a friend of your dad’s. She told me his name meant honorable. I wonder what she’d say about his sons.”

  Otis’ face turned beet red and Elmer’s froze like ice, as if her words cast a voodoo hex, Nana-style.

  She raised her voice. “You don’t have to fret over my coverage. I’ll report on this with the unbiased dedication of an attorney defending a murderer.” She turned to walk away then stopped and glared at both men. “Correction. Alleged murderer.”

  Elmer dropped his chin to his chest and it touched the ends of his flannel shirt collar. Sophie didn’t care if she’d shamed the nicer of the two brothers. He, of all people, understood why she didn’t want the land in the hands of strangers.

  Two weeks after her son died, Elmer had paid Sophie a visit. Several people in town wished to set up a memorial garden for Henry, right on the spot where he’d passed away on the Tates’ land. Elmer had requested her permission, admitting he wanted the memorial too. Henry had worked their farm every summer since turning fifteen and had grown close to Elmer, often calling the gentle old man his surrogate granddad. She’d agreed to the garden.

  Now the place was hallowed ground. She visited there every year on the anniversary of Henry’s death, his birthday or any other time she needed a tangible reminder of his life.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I have to get inside.” The thick lump settled in her throat and tears burned in the back of her eyes.

  Once inside the auditorium, she managed to get one of the last seats in the front row. On stage, members of the Northbridge Zoning Board had already taken their places behind a dais of two old rectangular fold-up tables with several microphones spaced along the tops.

  She took a breath to relax. Attitude accounted for ninety-nine percent of any situation and regret over her backlash at the Tate brothers moments ago hit hard and fast. The wall clock showed three minutes before seven, so she used the time to scribble more questions for RGI on her notepad. A minute later, the group of protestors noisily filled the empty row behind her, where they’d left a few belongings to save their seats.

  “How’d we sound out there?” Bernadette craned her neck to examine the crowded auditorium and slipped off her coat to reveal a white tee shirt with green letters spelling out S.O.L.E. printed across the bust line.

  “Menacing. Only a fool would face you guys.”

  Bernadette pointed with her chin to the back of the auditorium. “Speaking of fools, here they are now.”

  A group of five men in suits had entered. Amongst town officials, she recognized the lawyer from Hartford representing RGI, who dressed fancier than the locals in his expensive-looking suit. She studied the two men to the attorney’s side and stifled a gasp. The pitter-patter of her heart picked up speed.

  Bernadette tapped Sophie’s arm. “There’s the head fool himself. Duncan Jamieson, president of RGI.”

  “Which one?”

  “The hot tamale on the end, with wavy hair and wearing a navy suit.”

  “Are you sure?”

  A puzzled expression flitted across Bernadette’s face. “Absolutely. He came into the office two days ago to schmooze with one of the senior partners.”

  Sophie’s mouth went as dry as dust. Bernadette had just identified Duncan Jamieson, head of RGI, as none other than Carter.

  His presence begged for attention and separated him from the other men. Besides the expensive shine to his suit, assuredness permeated from every pore. He surveyed the crowd then leaned close and said something to his attorney, who nodded.

  The group of men walked toward the stage. As he neared Sophie’s section, his gaze met hers then dropped to the press badge dangling from her neck. He looked at her again and blinked. She held her breath, as much afraid he’d remember her as he’d forgotten her. After a negligible pause, his lip curled into a smile of clear delight. Before she could react, he winked and sealed the acknowledgement.

  Sophie’s pulse pounded in her ears as she neared code red. His cozy wink not only told others they’d met but dredged forth the lusty awareness of him which had consumed her body earlier. A sharp poke jabbed her back.

  “What the hell was that?” Bernadette whispered. “Do you know him?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” She refused to turn around.

  Carter, a.k.a. Duncan Jamieson, took the steps up to the stage and sat behind the long table with the other men. That guy had played Sophie more smoothly than a winning hand of poker, but she wasn’t about to take his lies in silence.

  Meet the Author

  Sharon Struth is an award-winning author who believes it’s never too late for a second chance in love or life. When she’s not writing, she and her husband happily sip their way through the scenic towns of the Connecticut Wine Trail and enjoy travel, both in the U.S. and abroad. Sharon writes from the small town of Bethel, Connecticut, the friendliest place she’s ever lived. For more information, including where to find her other novels and published essays, please visit her at sharonstruth.com, find her on Twitter @sharonstruth, Facebook, or stop by her blogs at Musings from the Middle Ages & More (sharonstruth.wordpress.com).