Her Perfect Proposal

by Lynne Marshall

  He drove back to the station in time to check out, change clothes and grab a bite at his favorite diner, the Hartalanda Café—he hadn’t lied to Ms. Matsuda about that—before he hit city hall for another hush-hush Thursday-night meeting of the minds. It had been an honor to be asked, and joining this committee was the first step on a journey he hoped one day to take all the way to the mayor’s office.

  Sleepy little Heartlandia’s history lessons had recently taken a most interesting plot twist, and he was only one of eight who knew what was going on. The new information could change the face of his hometown forever, and he didn’t want to see that happen. Not on his watch.

  *

  Gunnar held the door to the conference room for Mayor Gerda Rask. She was the next-door neighbor of his best friend, Kent Larson, and a town matriarch figure who’d agreed to step in temporarily when their prior mayor, Lars Larsson, had a massive heart attack. She’d also been the town piano teacher for as far back as Gunnar could remember, until recently when her granddaughter, Desi, came to town and took over her students.

  The city council had assured Mayor Rask she’d just be a figurehead. Poor thing hadn’t known what she was stepping into until after she’d agreed. And for that, Mayor Rask had Gunnar’s deepest sympathy, support and respect. When he became mayor, he’d take over the helm and transform the current weak-mayor concept, where the city council really ran things, to a strong-mayor practice where he’d have total administrative authority. At least that’s how he imagined it. Any man worth his salt needed a dream, and that was his.

  The older woman nodded her appreciation, then took her seat at the head of the long dark wooden boardroom table. Next to her was Jarl Madsen, the proprietor at the Maritime Museum. Next to him sat Adamine Olsen, a local businesswoman and president of the Heartlandia Small Business Association, and next to her Leif Andersen, the contractor who’d first discovered the trunk that could change the town’s reputation from ideal to tawdry.

  Leif had found the ancient chest while his company was building the city college. Though he was the richest man in town, he chose to be a hands-on guy when it came to construction, continuing to run his company rather than rest on his laurels as the best builder in this part of the state of Oregon. He hadn’t turned in the chest right away—instead he’d sat on the discovery for months. Once curiosity had gotten the best of him and he’d opened it, saw the contents, he knew he had to bring it to the mayor’s attention. After that, Mayor Larsson had his heart attack, Gerda stepped up and this handpicked committee was formed.

  Gunnar nodded to his sister, who’d beat him to the meeting. She smiled. “Gun,” she said.

  “Elke, what’s shakin’?”

  She lifted her brows and sighed, cluing him that what was shaking wasn’t all good. He’d signed on to this panel, like he had to his job, to protect and serve his community. Since his family tree extended back to the very beginning of Heartlandia, and his father had slandered the Norling name, doing his part to preserve the city as it should be was Gunnar’s duty.

  So far the buried-chest findings had rocked the committee’s sleepy little world. He’d heard how some places rewrote history, but never expected to participate in the process. He lifted his brows and gazed back at his kid sister.

  As the resident historical maven and respected professor at the new city college, Elke’s services had been requested. Her job was to help them decipher the journal notations from the ones dug up in the trunk during construction. Apparently, the journals belonged to a captain, a certain Nathaniel Prince, who was also known as The Prince of Doom and who might have been a pirate. Well, probably was a pirate. The notations in the ship captain’s journal held hints at Heartlandia’s real history, but they looked like cat scratches as far as Gunnar was concerned. Good thing Elke knew her stuff when it came to restoring historical documents and deciphering Old English.

  Across from Elke sat the quiet Ben Cobawa, respected for his level head and logical thinking, not to mention for being a damn great fireman. The native-born Chinook descendent balanced out the committee which otherwise consisted entirely of Scandinavians. But what could you expect from a town originally settled by Scandinavian fishermen and their families? Or so he’d always been led to believe.

  Cobowa’s Native American perspective would be greatly needed on the committee. They’d be dealing with potential changes to town history, and since his people had played such an important role in the creation of this little piece of heaven originally called Hartalanda back in the early 1700s, they wanted his input.

  “Shall we call this meeting to order?” Mayor Rask said.

  Gunnar took a slow draw on the provided water. Judging by the concerned expression on his younger sister’s face he knew he should be prepared for a long night.

  *

  Lilly sidled up to the bar at Lincoln’s Place. A strapping young towhead bartender took her order. But weren’t most of the men in Heartlandia strapping and fair?

  “I’ll have an appletini.” She almost jokingly added “Sven” but worried she might be right.

  The pale-eyed, square-jawed man smiled and nodded. “Coming right up.”

  She wasn’t above snooping to get her stories, and she wanted to start off with a bang when she handed in her debut news story, like her father would expect. She’d been casing city hall earlier, had hidden behind the nearby bushes, and lo and behold, there was Sergeant Gunnar Norling slipping out the back door. She’d watched him exit the building along with half a dozen other people including this new Mayor Rask.

  She’d combed through old council reports on the town website and noticed a tasty morsel—“A new committee has been formed to study recently discovered historical data.” What was that data, and where had it been found?

  The website report went on to mention the list of names. The one thing they all had in common with the exception of one Native American, if her research had served her well, were Scandinavian names that went back all the way to the beginning of Heartlandia, back when it was founded and called Hartalanda. Of course, the Native Americans had been there long before them. Yup, her type A reporter persona had even dug into genealogy archive links proudly posted at the same website.

  These people weren’t the city council, but they had been handpicked, each person representing a specific slice of Heartlandia life.

  She’d met the handsome and dashing Gunnar Norling today, and the idea of “getting to the bottom” of her story through him had definite appeal. Her parents had trained her well: set a goal and go after it. Don’t let anything come between you and success. Growing up an only child in their multimillion-dollar Victorian home in Pacific Heights, Lilly’s parents had proved through hard work and good luck in business their technique worked. As far as her father was concerned, it was bad enough she’d been born a girl, but for the past five years, since she’d left graduate journalism school, they’d looked to her to stake her claim to fame. So far she hadn’t come close to making them proud, but this new venture might just be the ticket to their respect.

  A half hour later, nursing her one and only cocktail, she was deep into conversation with the owner of Lincoln’s Place, a middle-aged African-American man named Cliff. It seemed there was more to Heartlandia than met the eye once you scratched the Scandinavian surface.

  “Looks like you get a lot of tourist trade around here,” she said, having studied the bar crowd.

  “Thank heaven for the cruise ship business,” Cliff said, with a wide and charming smile. “If it wasn’t for them, I’d never have discovered Heartlandia.”

  “Are you saying you cruised here or worked on a cruise ship?”

  “Worked on one. Thirteen years.”

  “Interesting.” Normally, she’d ask more about that assuming there might be a story buried in the statement, but today she had one goal in mind. She took a sip of her drink to wait the right amount of time before changing the topic. “So where do the locals go? You know, say, like the regular guys,
firemen and police officers, for example.” She went for coy, yeah, coy like a snake eyeing a mouse, looking straight forward, glancing to the side. “Where do they hang out after hours?”

  He lifted a long, dark brow, rather than answering.

  “I’ll level with you, Cliff, I’m the new reporter for the Heartlandia Herald. I’d like to bring the focus of the newspaper back to the people. I’ve got a few different angles I’d like to flesh out, and I thought I’d start with talking to the local working Joes.” Funny how she’d chosen “flesh out,” a phrase that had certain appeal where that Gunnar guy was concerned.

  He nodded, obviously still considering her story. And it was a tall tale…mostly. She did have big plans to bring the human interest side back to the paper, but first off, she wanted a knock-your-socks-off debut. Introducing big-city journalist Lilly Matsuda, ta-da!

  “There’s a microbrewery down by the river and the railroad tracks. To the best of my knowledge, that’s where the manly types go when they want to let off steam.” He tapped a finger on the bar, smiled. “Here’s a tidbit for you. Rumor has it that in the old days, down by the docks in the seedy side of town, right where that bar is today, an occasional sailor got shanghaied.”

  “Really.” The tasty morsel sent a chill up her spine. She had a nose for news, and that bit about shanghaied sailors had definitely grabbed her interest. Though it was an underhanded and vile business, many captains had employed the nasty trick. The practice had been an old technique by nefarious sea captains. First they’d get a man sloppy drunk. Then, once he’d passed out, his men would kidnap the sailor onto the ship and the unsuspecting drunk would be far out at sea when he came to and sobered up. Voilá! They had an extra pair of hands on deck with no ticket home, and they didn’t even have to pay him. With Heartlandia being on the banks of the gorgeous Columbia River, a major water route to the Pacific Ocean, the story could definitely be true.

  Wait a second, old Cliffy here was probably just playing her, telling her one of the yarns they told tourists to give them some stories to swap when they got back on ship.

  “Yes indeed,” Cliff said, touching the tips of his fingers together and tapping. “Of course, a lot of the stories we share with our tourists have—” he pressed his lips together “—for lack of a better word, let’s say been embellished a bit. No city wants to come off as boring when you’re courting the tourist trade, right? So we throw in those old sailor stories to spice things up.”

  She appreciated his coming clean about pirates shanghaiing locals. “I hear you. So you’re saying the shanghaied stuff may or may not be true?”

  He tilted his head to the side, not a yes or no. She’d let it lie, take that as a yes and try a different angle.

  “Hey, have you noticed any after-hour meetings going on at city hall? Or am I imagining things?”

  He cast a you-sure-are-a-nosey-one glance. “Could be. Maybe they’re planning some big tercentennial event. I think the town was established around 1715.”

  “Tercentennial?”

  “Three hundredth birthday.”

  “Ah, makes sense. But why would they keep something like that a big secret?”

  “Don’t have a clue, Ms….” He had the look of a man who’d had enough of her nonstop questions—a look she’d often seen on her father’s face when she was a child. Cliff suddenly had other patrons to tend to. Yeah, she knew she occasionally pushed too far. Thanks, Mom and Dad.

  “Matsuda. I’m Lilly Matsuda.”

  He shook her hand. “Well, it was a pleasure meeting you. I hope to see you around my establishment often, and I think you’ve got what it takes to make a good reporter. Good luck.”

  “Thanks. Nice to meet you, too.”

  After Cliff moseyed off, attending to a large table obviously filled with cruise-ship guests on the prowl, she scribbled down: “Microbrewery down by the river near railroad.” She’d look it up later.

  She’d been a reporter for eight years, since she was twenty-two and fresh out of college, and had continued part-time while attending grad school. Had worked her way up to her own weekly local scene column in the San Francisco Gazette, but could never make it past the velvet ceiling. She wanted to be the old-school-style reporter following leads, fingers on the pulse of the city, always seeking the unusual stories, and realized she’d never achieve her goal back home, much to her parents’ chagrin.

  When the chance to work in Oregon came up, after doing her research and seeing a potential buyout opportunity, she’d grabbed it. Statistics showed that something happened to women around the ages of twenty-eight to thirty. They often reevaluated their lives and made major changes. Some decided to get married, others to have a baby, neither of which appealed to her, and right now, since she was all about change, moving to a small town and buying her own paper had definite appeal.

  Lilly finished her drink and prepared for the short walk—no jaywalking, thank you very much, Sergeant Norling—back to her hotel.

  Once she bought out Bjork, she could finally develop a reputation as the kind of reporter she’d always dreamed of becoming—the kind that sniffed out stories and made breaking headlines. If all went the way she planned, maybe her dad would smile for once when he told people she was a journalist and not a famous thoracic surgeon like he’d always wanted her to become.

  Her gut told her to stick with those discreet meetings going on at city hall, and to seek out a certain fine-looking police officer partaking in them. He may have almost written her a citation, but he might also be her ticket to journalistic stardom.

  Tomorrow was Friday night, and she planned to be dressed down and ready for action at that microbrewery. If she got lucky and played things right, she might get the decidedly zip-lipped Gunnar Norling, with those amazingly cut arms and tight buns, to spill the proverbial beans to the town’s newest reporter.

  Chapter Two

  After a long week of rowdy tourists, teens in need of mentoring, plus last night’s special council meeting, Gunnar needed to blow off some steam. He got off work on Friday, went home and changed into jeans and a T-shirt then headed out for the night. After downing a burger at Olaf’s Microbrewery and Gastro Pub, he ordered a beer, and while he waited he thought about last night’s meeting. Again.

  Elke had uncovered a portion of the journals suggesting there might be buried treasure somewhere in the vicinity of Heartlandia, and until she could get through all of the entries, while carrying a full teaching load at the college, they wouldn’t know where to look.

  First pirates. Now buried treasure. What next? Was this for real or had they been set up for some kind of reality gotcha show?

  “Thanks,” he said to the short and wide Olaf, turning in his empty burger plate in exchange for that brew. The historic old warehouse by the docks had been transformed into a down-to-earth bar, no frills, just a wide-open place guys like Gunnar could go to let off steam, have a decent meal and be themselves. A workingman’s bar, it had mismatched tables and chairs, open rafters with silver air-vent tubing, good speakers that played solid rock music, an assortment of flashing neon signs, posters of beer and burgers, and a few sassy photos of women. Nothing lewd, Olaf’s wife wouldn’t allow that, but definitely provocative shots of ladies, that and work-boot ads galore.

  Olaf kept a huge chalkboard he’d snagged from a school auction and filled it with all of his latest microbrews. Tonight Gunnar was sticking with dark beer, the darker, toastier and mellower the malt, the better. He glanced around at the pool tables, card tables and dartboards there for everyone’s entertainment, when they weren’t drinking and talking sports or cars, that is. Very few women ventured into the place. The ones who did usually had one thing on their minds. Most times Gunnar avoided them and other times, well, he didn’t.

  Not anymore, though. That was all behind him since he planned to change his bachelor reputation.

  He picked up the Dark Roast Special, first on the list on Olaf’s blackboard, and headed back to the dart game where h
e was currently ruling the day. But not before hearing a lady’s voice carry over the loud music and louder guy conversations in the bar. Somehow that high-toned voice managed to transcend all of the noise and stand out.

  “Word has it there’re some secret meetings going on at city hall,” she said. “You know anything about that?”

  “Do I look like a politician?” Jarl Madsen, Clayton County’s Maritime Museum manager and fellow member on the hush-hush committee, said to the woman, doing a great job of playing dumb.

  Gunnar cocked his head and took a peek to see who was being so nosey. Well, what do you know, if it wasn’t Lilly the jaywalker with the sexy shoes, elbows up to the bar chatting up Jarl. He looked her over. She knew how to dress down, too, wearing tight black, low cut jeans and a black patterned girly top with sparkles and blingy doodads embedded in the material. In that getup she blended right in.

  Right.

  At least she’d traded her sexy heels for ankle boots, killer boots, too, he had to admit, and from this angle her backside fit the bar stool to perfection. Yeah, he knew it wasn’t polite to stare, so after a few moments, and he’d memorized the view, he looked away. He glanced around the room. Only a handful of other ladies in pairs were in attendance, and this one appeared to be flying solo.

  Gutsy.

  Or dumb.

  But dumb didn’t come to mind when he thought about Lilly Matsuda. She seemed sharp and intelligent, and if he trusted his gut, her being here meant she was on task, not here for a simple night out. The task seemed to be related to the committee meetings.

  If he were a nosey guy himself, it would be really easy to wander over to Jarl and insinuate himself into the conversation. But that could be considered horning in on another guy’s territory, even though in his opinion Jarl and Lilly were completely mismatched. His honorable side won out over the curious cop dude within, mainly because he was off duty and loving it. So back to darts he went, ready to win the high score of the night, trying to forget about outlander Lilly at the bar.