His Handsomeness continued to grin.
Time seemed to slow. Leaves blew down the street, tumbling like small, gently bouncing playground balls. The wind tousled his short brown hair. Her toes—which had felt cold earlier—felt as warm as the rest of her.
She drew a deep breath and said, “That was...cool.” She frowned, having expected her speech to miraculously be smoother. Should she put his arm on her shoulders again? Like she did with her dad?
Heck, no. His embrace wasn’t safe. She was just a chess piece in a game he was playing. She refused to be played. She had the town to think of. A job opportunity to think of. Her heart to think of.
“Practice. It’ll take practice,” he said. “The energy you’re devoting to self-loathing is better spent outwitting your challenges. Now, let’s eat and then get a move on.” He may have torn his cinnamon roll into bits, but they were bite-size and he ate every one. When he finished his latte and she her cookies, he stood. “Which way is our tour?”
Tour? She’d forgotten all about it. “This way. But...no lying. And no pact.” She stood and marched down the street. “Why...did you offer one anyway? You...don’t seem like someone who’d cave to others.” Not by the reputation of his column. That man was a slick, lone wolf. But his smile said something different. It said, “I’m a team player. Let’s play!”
“I’ve had a lot of experience working with stubborn old people.” Chad fell into step beside her. “And I like the idea of helping you.”
Not helping people. Helping her. Don’t get carried away, girl.
“My...” she paused to gather herself “...aphasia annoys me.”
“You need to think of it the same way you think of that scar of yours. It’s never going away, but over time, it’ll be better.”
This Chad had nothing in common with the Chad who’d written the columns for the Lampoon. He was kind and giving and sensitive. But because he was Chad Healy Bostwick, the Happy Bachelor, he was untrustworthy.
He paused on the corner. “Which way?”
“Over there.” She pointed to Snarky Sam’s, which was across the street and down the block at the entrance to Main Street. Could she believe in him? Could she get over her self-consciousness and speak without a hitch? All the failures she’d made in front of people replayed in her head like a high speed slideshow. Painful, those memories. She stepped off the curb only to have Chad yank her back.
A blue bubble-fendered Cadillac sped around the corner just a yard away from Tracy’s feet. She’d been so deep in her own head, she hadn’t heard the Caddy coming.
Lilac Miller waved. The ends of the brown paisley scarf she had tied around her short white hair fluttered behind her.
“Slow down, Lilac!” Anger and fear made her legs as weak as melted chocolate. “I thought she stopped driving.” And then Tracy shouted, despite Lilac having already disappeared around the corner toward the bridge. “I thought you stopped driving!”
“She should.” Chad took Tracy by the shoulders, peering into her eyes. “You okay?”
“Yes.” And no, she didn’t want to acknowledge how comforting his strong hold on her shoulders was. She, who resented her family’s overprotectiveness, didn’t want to explore why she liked it from Chad.
He smiled as he released her. His smile could make a woman forget he was untrustworthy. “Did you notice how well you yelled at Lilac?”
“No. Thank you for saving my toes.”
“And your knees and your hips and—”
“I get the idea.” She drew a deep breath, tried to relax and remember to pause after every first word. It was easier when she wasn’t looking at him. “What...was it you were saying about my scar?”
“Did I say yesterday there was no traffic in town?” He double-checked the street before taking her arm and crossing. “I was saying that your scar will always be with you, the same as your aphasia.”
“Was that supposed to cheer me up?” She extricated her arm.
“Shift your thinking.” He paused to peer into the deserted grocery store window. “It’s just like going to the gym to stay healthy and keep the weight off.”
“You and your midlife crisis.” It was her turn to grin. “Are you drinking light beer, too?”
He smiled back, meeting her reflection’s gaze in the store window. “Why are we going to Snarky’s?”
They made an attractive couple in the glass. But it was only an illusion. “Snarky... Sam is last year’s gurning champion.”
Chad turned and began walking toward Sam’s. “Gurning?”
“Making an ugly face.” Tracy hurried after him, collecting herself for a long speech. “It’s a fall tradition. The...gurning winner at the Harvest Festival is the town’s Green Pumpkin for Halloween.” Woo-hoo! That was nice. Could she do it again? Don’t think. Pause and go. “The...Green Pumpkin used to take candy kids didn’t want. And give them pencils or books.” She spoke! She spoke and spoke and spoke! Tracy barely contained herself from dancing down the street.
“That’s cool.” Chad didn’t acknowledge her success. He just kept on walking ahead of her. “Why don’t you do it anymore?”
“There...are only two kids in town since Flynn’s nephew moved away. Gregory and Eveline. Both babies.” Tracy was happy with her speech. “We...have unusual traditions. No more...unusual than your Bay to Breakers run.” Hello, naked runners and runners in costume.
“So...gurning.” She didn’t have to see his face to know he was smiling. It was there in his voice. “Are you competing this year?”
“No. I...don’t have enough wrinkles.” He’d have to see pictures to understand.
They’d reached Snarky Sam’s. The sidewalk in front of the small, bright white building looked more like a junk shop than an antique store with a side business as a pawn shop—or maybe it was a pawn shop with an antique store on the side. Outside there was an old bicycle, a washboard, a wrought-iron gate and a collection of garden gnomes.
Chad reached for the door. Tracy pressed her palm against his chest, pushing him back. “Don’t...” Oh, wow. He had a firm chest beneath that polo shirt. She drew her hand back. “Don’t...make fun of his...” She’d lost her train of thought. She knew the word. She knew the word. He was waiting for her to say it. “...Stuffed animals.” She clenched her teeth. That wasn’t right.
Chad smiled. “I’m not despicable.”
All evidence from his literary past to the contrary. “What about the Lampoon?” she asked, because she couldn’t let him get away with thinking he was nice. Or let herself think it, for that matter.
“I wrote what the readers wanted. That’s it. It doesn’t mean it’s who I am.” There was a slight crease to his brow. “If you read comments on the column, you’d know. No one featured in my write-ups complains.” He opened the door and indicated she should enter first.
“That’s...probably because they fear you.”
“That’s probably because their reservations and revenue increased significantly after my articles. I’m a man of influence.”
If that was true, she didn’t like his source of power.
They stopped just inside. Snarky Sam’s smelled like Tracy’s dad’s closet—in need of an air freshener. The merchandise was dated and dusty. The display by the door held electronics—toasters, food processors, a VCR.
“Stuffed animals.” Chad stared at a squirrel dressed like Sherlock Holmes and chuckled. A blackbird beside it was costumed like Dracula. Its wings spread beneath a cape as if it was about to take flight. “You meant taxidermy.”
She ground her teeth again.
“No soliciting.” Sam sat behind a display case filled with jewelry. He rested an open comic book on the glass. He was a gnarled, wisp of an old man, wearing a faded brown flannel shirt and an impatient attitude.
Used to his attitu
de, Tracy took a breath and said, “We’re...here to see your Gurning Trophy.”
Sam tapped the comic book in front of him. “I don’t have time for idle conversation. You get me?”
Chad walked over to a shelving unit. “Bowling balls?”
“Are you the travel writer?” Sam peered at Chad. “You can help me. I have quite a selection of wineglasses. You know,” he told Tracy as an aside. “Wine and medicine don’t mix so well as you get older.” He pinched his face in Chad’s direction. “I could use a mention in your column about the wineglasses. And the bowling balls, too. I’m overstocked.”
“How did you get overstocked on bowling balls?” Chad looked perplexed. “Is there a bowling alley in town?”
“It’s Harmony Valley’s official sport,” Sam said with pride.
“Get outta here.” Chad grinned.
Sam and Tracy nodded. Bowling had been an elective in PE at Harmony Valley High School.
“We have three teams in leagues in Cloverdale,” Sam said. “It’s about a thirty minute drive south.”
Tracy pointed to a trophy behind the front counter sitting next to a photo of Sam. In it, he wore green face paint and had contorted and twisted and scrunched his face into something unrecognizable as the pawn shop owner. “That’s...uhm...” Word-word-word.
“Gurning,” Chad supplied, moving closer.
“Won it all last year.” Sam’s thin chest puffed out. “Ed Schollenburg died a month before. He was a six-time champion of the Gurn.” Sam glanced over his shoulder at his photo. “He was a real inspiration to me.”
“Don’t try this at home,” Tracy deadpanned.
“It’s a grand English tradition,” Sam explained. “A sport only the elderly can dominate. It’s why we love it here. You get me?”
“I gotcha.” Chad snapped a picture.
They bid Sam farewell and headed back toward the bakery.
“See?” Tracy said as they neared the vacant grocery store. “Gurning. Isn’t that unique? And...nothing your bachelor hipsters could relate to.”
Chad’s grin said he’d found the gurning contest just as unique and special as Tracy did. It was why his next words surprised her. “I hesitate to point out that gurning is also a side-effect of taking drugs like ecstasy or speed.”
“What?” Even in college, Tracy had stayed far away from the serious partying crowds and had never heard of the term when it wasn’t associated with the Harvest Festival. She stopped in front of the grocery store. Her gaze drifted to their reflections in the glass. “That was the first thing...you thought of? When I told you about...gurning?” They’d stood in this same spot. She’d felt a connection and he’d been laughing inside. Her insides weren’t laughing. They were burning with anger.
“Yep.” Chad rubbed his hands together like the plotting villain he was. “You’re right. Harmony Valley is priceless. My readers are going to love it.”
Tracy made a frustrated noise, checked for speeding Cadillacs and left him on the curb.
CHAPTER NINE
TRACY ENTERED THE bakery and stopped just inside the front door, unable to take off her jacket fast enough.
She felt peculiar. Her chest was too tight and her legs too loose. She liked Chad. She hated him. She wanted his life. She wanted to submarine his column. Gurning? Grrr!
What was happening here? She felt as if she’d stepped onto a battlefield without a gun.
She drew a deep breath and tried to forget Chad’s skill in turning something innocent into the hugest irony.
And then she noticed all was quiet. “Why...are you all looking at me?”
“Tracy.” Felix brushed cat hair from his black polo shirt and stood. “Do you remember the time you helped me collect money for the Fireman’s Fund?”
Tracy nodded. “Every...sixth grader had to volunteer.”
The retired fire chief waved that observation aside. “But you never complained. It showed your character.”
“Thank you?” Tracy crossed the room self-consciously and put her apron back on. There was definitely something weird going on.
Phil shifted his chair to face Tracy. “You used to sit in one of my chairs while I cut your dad’s hair. Once, I helped you with your spelling words.”
“I remember that,” Tracy said kindly. Phil had always given her a sucker and sent her spinning in the barber chair.
The town council had come in while Tracy was gone. They sat at their regular table with the mayor. They shifted anxiously in their seats.
“Tracy.” Rose smoothed her white chignon. “I taught you how to jitterbug on my front porch. Dancing teaches you confidence.”
Jess entered the dining room, Gregory on her hip. She took one look around and said, “Okay, stop.” She dragged Tracy into the kitchen. “They’re auditioning for your video.”
“It’s...supposed to be about me.” But they’d all been mentioning something from her past. Tracy poked her head back into the dining room. “No. You...cannot be in my video.” She let the swinging door swing closed.
Conversations in the dining room resumed, along with Tracy’s stress level about the job opportunity. She was no closer to determining what her three minutes would be about than she’d been yesterday.
Jess deposited Gregory in Eunice’s lap. He grabbed a rainbow-colored teething ring Eunice held and began to gnaw on it. There were pans and mixing bowls in the sink. The center island was dusted with flour where Jess usually stood. Everything here looked normal. Everything inside Tracy felt out of sorts.
“I saw that devil put his arm around you.” Eunice sighed from her seat in the rocker. Her glasses were askew on top of her head and her eyelids sagged, as if she could use a nap as soon as she put Gregory to sleep. “Devilish men are the best kind.”
A few years ago, Tracy might have agreed with Eunice. But this devilish man made her feel inadequate. Except when he was helping her talk without breaks or grinning at her or...
“Men confuse me.” At least, one man. Tracy leaned on the island counter near Jess. “Who...ordered these chocolate chip muffins?”
“Christine.” Jess picked up a purple sheet of paper. “Can you drop them off at the winery later?”
“Sure.” Maybe on the walk over Tracy would be struck by inspiration for her video. “What are you reading?”
“Eunice has another recipe she wants me to try.” There was hesitation in Jessica’s statement. She handed the wrinkled purple notebook page to Tracy.
“Jessica never made my Horseradish-Doodles,” Eunice said. “This recipe is for—”
“Sweet and Sour Cookies?” Tracy scanned the ingredients: pine needles, wild onions, garlic chili powder, sugar, butter, eggs.
“Don’t they sound delicious?” Eunice asked. “Mama was a whiz with a budget. She found a use for everything in our yard in the most creative ways.”
“Eunice, I like the bakery to smell of sweet goodness.” Jess took the recipe back. “And this...”
“Is not sweet goodness.” Tracy couldn’t wrap her head around how the cookies might smell or taste. “How...did this recipe come about?”
“I told you.” Eunice made it sound as if she’d explained herself a few too many times.
“Mama was a whiz with the budget,” Jess parroted. She cast Tracy a wry glance that said Mama-isms explained it all.
“But...why create a recipe...like this?” Tracy began filling the sink with hot water and soap.
“It all started when Daddy trimmed the pine tree in back and refused to burn the needles inside the fireplace. He said they’d smoke up the house—he was right, by the way.” Eunice blew a raspberry on the back of Gregory’s neck, giving him the giggles. “Anyway, Mama hated anything going to waste. She tried putting the needles in potpourri. She tried sticking them under our mattresse
s. But there were so many leftover. Finally, she ground them up and put them in things.”
Tracy almost hated to ask, “In what?”
“Baked chicken. Pot roast. Shortbread cookies.”
Jessica was just as speechless as Tracy. She looked at the recipe and then back at Eunice. “Where did the sour come in?”
“Oh, that.” Eunice chuckled. “It’s not very nice and I don’t tell a lot of people this, but Mama didn’t like Aunt Arlene very much.” She paused as if Jessica and Tracy should understand this reference. And then she blinked. “You didn’t know Aunt Arlene, but Mama said she’d gone sour the moment Granddad wrote her out of the will. But Mama was nice, you see. She didn’t argue with anyone. So when Aunt Arlene came to visit, she made these cookies and served them with tea.”
“I would’ve liked to meet your Mama,” Jessica said, sounding as if she meant it.
Tracy agreed. Sure, Mama sounded a bit passive aggressive, but in all the stories Eunice had told about her mother, she hadn’t been overtly cruel.
Tracy loved listening to the stories the elderly residents told. They were full of human truths and politically incorrect opinions. “Jess...you should put Eunice’s story on your blog.” Tracy marveled at the nearly effortless sentence. Chad may be a scoundrel, but his advice helped. “With the recipe. Maybe more people would read it.” More than the ten to twenty people in Harmony Valley who gave Jess recipes for posting and also knew how to work a computer.
“I don’t know.” Jess took in the bakery with a harried glance. “I’m so busy and not much of a writer. Christine asked me to work with Claudia to cater and help organize her wedding, plus I’ve been getting a lot of wedding cake orders lately.”
“I could do the blog,” Tracy offered, feeling a spark of interest. “What if...all your recipes had stories?”
Just last week, she’d overheard Rose telling Jessica about the origins of her circus casserole. Before Rose made it to Broadway and later the ballet, she’d worked in the circus and had been given the recipe by the Bearded Lady.
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