by Lyn Cote
She’d been lucky to find such a nice apartment in the small community. From this street of vintage Victorian houses, she walked the few blocks to Oakdale School every day. Overhead, the hundred-year-old maples flamed, side-by-side with bronzed oak leaves. But away from the shade of the tall trees, sun still dazzled the eyes and the summer heat lingered.
Patience breathed in deeply and felt the tension of the day begin to disappear from her. She opened the picket gate and started up the walk to the gathering on the porch.
“Patience!” her landlady, Bunny Honeycutt, called out. “You’re late! Long day?”
Patience smiled. She couldn’t be cross with Bunny, a woman reminiscent of Aunt Bea in the vintage Andy Griffith’s Mayberry, with the same silver hair and bun, but who preferred blue jeans and a strict diet to keep herself thin. An Aunt Bea updated for the twenty-first century.
Bunny handed Patience her clutch of mail.
“Tea?” Greta Overwood, a tall woman who wore her steel-gray hair cut in a Dutch boy and who favored wearing her late husband’s clothing, held up an empty pint-glass jar.
“Yes, a glass of iced tea would hit the spot.” Patience sank into a weathered wicker chair with a frayed cushion. The wicker creaked, a pleasant sound. She let the mail drop into her lap. A little dog yipped next door.
“We hear the district attorney was called to your school.” Mrs. Dottie Dukesberry, a well-cushioned woman who always wore bright colors, leaned forward in her chair.
Patience nearly dropped the glass of tea Greta had just handed her. She stared at Dottie, who today sported bright pink slacks and a pink blouse. “The district attorney?”
“Yes, his son is in your class.” Bunny handed Patience a paper napkin. “Little Jackson.”
“Oh.” Patience thought of what to say next while she sipped the icy tea. She hadn’t realized that Gil was the D.A. The local rumor mill must be active if his visit was already on the street. “Yes, he was.”
“What happened?” Dottie asked in a distinctive sweet, breathy voice, edging farther forward on her seat.
Greta shook her head and grumbled something under her breath.
“Now, Dottie,” Bunny said in a placating tone, “the boy is only in first grade. What could he have done that would be so awful?”
“You’re just sweet on his grandfather, the Captain,” Dottie said with a sly look at Bunny.
The Captain? An interesting nickname. Patience let herself relax into the comfortable chair. “It wasn't serious. Just a boy being a boy.” Bunny’s large gold tabby cat, Jonesy, hopped up onto her lap. “A squirrel came in the window and Jackson tried to catch him. Mrs. Canney was just concerned that Jackson didn’t realize that the squirrel might have bitten him.”
She stroked Jonesy’s velvet ears. “Then he might have had to go through those awful rabies shots.”
“What did you think of Gil Montgomery?” Dottie asked, the afternoon sun glinting on her wire-rim glasses.
What had she thought of Gil Montgomery? The image of him, compact and powerful-looking with the same chocolate-brown hair as Jackson, tickled Patience like a warm breath on her nape. She hid a shiver. “We didn’t really have a chance to talk—”
“What did you think of him?” Dottie demanded with a snap in her Southern belle voice. “I wasn’t talking about talking."
Greta snorted and shook her head, her severe Dutch bangs swishing over her grooved forehead.
Patience sipped her sweet tea and stroked Jonesy. She’d heard about small-town gossip and here she sat in the midst of it. Gil Montgomery had made an impression on her with his blue eyes, well-cut suit and shined wingtips. But he was the father of a student. Dottie’s avid tone warned Patience to be cagey. “He seemed very nice.”
“Nice!” Dottie exclaimed. “If I were thirty years younger—”
“Gil Montgomery would be dodging you.” Bunny chortled with an impish light in her eyes. “Just like the Captain does.”
Dottie ignored Bunny. “I know you’re from Chicago, but you would have to go some distance to find a man as eligible as Gil Montgomery.”
“But he’s divorced and has that little boy,” Greta added in her raspy voice. “For a first marriage, a girl’s better off not getting a man with entanglements and a history.”
“It’s not his fault he’s divorced,” Bunny said. “We all know his wife divorced him against his will and for no good reason.”
“They never should have got married in the first place,” Greta huffed. “Different as night and day.”
Patience sipped her iced tea, trying not to let any of this talk sink in. Gossip would be unreliable at best. She’d like to ask someone about Jackson, but not at the price of making Dottie think she had an interest in his handsome father. ln her lap, Jonesy began purring like a small engine. The sound soothed her.
“I bet Gil wasn’t happy having to cut his day short.” Greta crossed her legs, her late husband’s jeans bagging at her knees. “That Putnam trial is coming up fast.”
“Mmm. Now that was a bad business.” Bunny pushed the plate of chocolate chip cookies toward Patience. “I was up at the Rose Care Center this morning to visit Bertha. She still can’t walk or speak a word.”
“It just breaks my heart to see her that way.” Dottie patted her sixties bubble hairstyle. “And to think it might have been her son that did it to her.”
Glad that the Gil “inquisition” had been shelved, Patience put down her tea on the glass-topped wicker table and carefully drew her mail from under Jonesy’s white-furred tummy. The cat blinked up at her. Patience sorted through the letters, mostly credit card applications, and car insurance offers. I don’t want to be in debt and I don't own a car.
“I don’t believe Bertha Perkins was attacked by family,” Bunny snapped. “Dan had his problems but I don’t think he would ever hurt anyone.”
At the bottom of her pile of mail, an official- looking envelope caught Patience’s eye. She ran her finger under the flap of the thick, expensive paper and opened it.
“He tried to hurt himself.” Greta picked up the fly swatter resting on her lap and followed the progress of a large housefly circling over the cookies.
“That’s over thirty years ago.” Bunny’s voice starched up. “We didn’t know as much then as we do now about people with mental illness. Oprah had a show about that.”
“Oh.” The official letter forced the muted exclamation from Patience. She wanted to add “No,” but swallowed it She looked up and all three women stared at her.
“I don’t think you better say any more about that case,” Patience said, an odd constriction making her work to force out the words.
“Why, dear?” Dottie asked, her nose drawing even closer to Patience.
“Because I’ve just been called for jury duty.”
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About the Author
USA Today bestselling author, Lyn Cote has written over 45 books. A Romance Writers of America RITA finalist and an American Christian Fiction Writers Carol Award winner, Lyn writes contemporary romance, romantic suspense and historical novels. No matter which kind of story, her brand “Strong Women, Brave Stories” comes through. Her most recent achievement is being added to Romance Writers of America’s Honor Roll for bestselling authors. Visit her website/blog at http://www.LynCote.com and find her on Facebook, GoodReads and Twitter.
Also by Lyn Cote
Romance and Mystery titles:
“Northern Intrigue” series
Winter Secret Book 1
Autumn’s Shadow Book 2
Summer’s End Book 3
Spring’s Storm Book 4
Two Holiday Novellas
Mistletoe and Sage Book 5
Loving Winter Book 6
Welcome to Steadfast, a small town whose people and mysteries you may never forget~
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