by Rae Davies
Horns sounded outside. Loud horns and lots of them. A frown formed between Tiffany’s perfectly waxed brows, and annoyance flickered through her big brown eyes. She recovered quickly though. She held out the pâté-covered bread. “The trouble with being the boss. There is no time to enjoy the moment. Excuse me...” Her gaze dropped to the bread, which I had yet to touch.
Peter cleared his throat. Enough vocalization to tell me some movement on my part was expected. With a grimace that I hoped passed as a smile, I opened my hand and accepted the chef’s offering.
She hesitated another moment, as if waiting for me to take a bite. Stubbornly, I smiled in return.
More horns sounded outside. And then yells. “Have a heart, forget the liver.” “Pâté kills!” “Honk if you stand with geese!”
Tiffany’s smile wavered; she muttered an apology and spun toward the entrance.
A few seconds later, the front doors flew open, and my brother and two other protesters, all waving signs and blowing duck calls, strode through. A fourth protester was tucked under my brother’s arm, honking louder than the cars outside.
I dropped the pâté-smeared bread and looked for an exit. Unfortunately, the guests at the surrounding tables all stood for a better look at the chaos, blocking my view of any potential exit except the front door.
Faced with the reality that I was stuck, I chose the next best option for maintaining some level of family understanding. I picked up the plate of pâté and flung it Frisbee-style onto a table behind us.
The governor’s table, of course. Because that is how my life went. Happy I hadn’t made it to his group with my stack of cards I grimaced, mouthed “sorry,” and turned back to the front.
Peter stood frozen, his hat in his hand, ready to put back on his head, staring at me. I turned my attention to my cloth napkin, shaking it out and then carefully folding it before placing it back onto the table.
Peter’s lips brushed against my ear. “I’m sure there’s a story. A logical story. But for now, it will have to wait.”
Hat on his head, he strode toward the honking protesters and the now squawking chef.
Peter being Peter, he got things under control pretty quickly. Looking cool and sexy in his man-in-charge way, he separated protesters from chef long enough for other officers to arrive and take brother, goose, and friends back outside.
After that, he stood quietly while Tiffany ranted and yelled orders that all four protesters be immediately charged with everything from trespassing to terrorism.
While she screamed inside the restaurant, I could tell things weren’t going a lot better on the outside—or at least none of the protesters seemed to have gone home, if the volume of chanting and honking could be used as a guide. If anything, their brief trip inside seemed to have ignited the group to a new level of enthusiasm.
Service had come to a complete halt, and guests were starting to look around, obviously wondering if they should leave. Hoping in the confusion my own actions would go unobserved, I slipped my purse under my arm and sidled in the general direction of the bathroom. A last minute detour took me to a front window, conveniently hidden from the street by velvet curtains and from the interior by a seven-foot red sculpture that had roughly the same shape as a copy editor’s delete sign. Thinking the symbol was ironically appropriate, since there were definitely a few things I wanted to delete at the moment, I squeezed behind it and pulled back a section of curtain to peer outside.
The group of human protesters had grown from three to four. The fourth, happily blowing on a duck call of her own, had butt-length red hair and was waving a sign that said “Peace not Pâté.”
I groaned. Was there nothing Rhonda wouldn’t do for a date? Normally, I overlooked her male-obsessed ways, but since this particular fixation was my one blood relative within 1,500 miles, I felt I was allowed a little input.
And even if I wasn’t, I was going to give it.
“Thinking of making a break for it?”
Carl Mack, nattily dressed in a top hat and tails, pulled back another section of curtain and peered out alongside me. “At least she got the draperies right,” he muttered, fingering the cloth. “Not...” He looked back at me. “…that the original Antlers had front windows. I should have realized when I saw they were added that this...” He waved his free hand above his head. “…was not going to be done well. But the material and color are spot-on for the period.” He sniffed.
I wasn’t sure if the head of the historic association had a cold coming on, was showing his disdain, or was close to breaking into tears. It could have been any of the three.
“Which period?” I asked. Honestly, once past the front door I couldn’t see anything in Tiffany’s that said historical to me.
“1914, the year the Antlers opened.” He heaved out a sigh and placed his hand on the red copy editor mark beside us.
“So you...” The look of pure pain on Carl’s face made me hesitate. I loved getting the inside scoop on a story as much as any ex-reporter, but I avoided poking at open wounds.
He pulled his hand from the mark as if it had suddenly turned scalding hot. His gaze met mine. “Hate it? Of course I hate it! What sane person wouldn’t?” He waved his arms in the air coming perilously close to knocking the delete sign from its stand. “I should have fought harder. I should have stopped some rich outsider from buying. I should have—” He stopped, pressing his lips together as if whatever else he had to say might burst out against his will.
Anger seemed to have tamped down his pain, making poking completely acceptable. “Should have what?”
His lips pursed and sensing a savory tidbit, I leaned forward.
“Worked harder to earn more money.”
“Oh.” Not what I’d been expecting and not, I guessed, the full answer.
Date, brother, and ugly sculptures forgotten, I tilted my head and prepared to pry.
In waddled Pauline. She seemed to have taken fashion advice from Betty tonight, sporting a flapper type dress on her round body and a matching beanie on her head. The color, red, matched Tiffany’s decor a little too well, and her gait was a little too confident. As if the goose thought the “joint,” as Betty would have termed it, belonged to her.
“Are you kidding? Is no one doing their job? That’s that goose!”
The shriek came from the corner where Peter had herded Tiffany.
The chef placed both hands on Peter’s chest and shoved him out of her way. Then, oblivious to the fact that treating a police detective in that manner might not be the best way to sway the authorities over to her side, she picked up a large round serving tray and stomped toward the goose.
Her arm swung back, and her intention to slam Pauline back onto the street from whence she’d come, was clear in her eyes.
For a moment I froze, then my upbringing kicked in. God, Freedom and Country, might be a rally call to most, but in my house family trumped all. And, God help me, Pauline was family.
I dove between Carl and the editor’s mark and into the path of the oncoming tray just as Tiffany swung the thing forward.
The tray bonged against my head, causing my ears to ring and the world to go shaky. I lay on the floor staring at the tin ceiling and wondering if Carl had noticed that at least one thing was still original.
To my right Pauline honked, then hissed, and then, wings flapping, she charged across my prone form and attacked Tiffany.
Crap! I flipped over as quickly as I could and grabbed for the outraged goose who, in her fury, had managed to take flight at least high enough to slap at Tiffany’s head with her wings and jab at the chef’s hair with her beak. From my place on the floor, my efforts were worthless, but I took comfort in the fact that Tiffany’s attempts to dislodge and most likely harm the goose were even less impressive.
Tiffany’s arms waved and she cursed, but she never seemed to make contact with the whirling dervish that was Pauline. I collapsed back on the floor to watch the show just as my brother and Peter prac
tically collided in their efforts to reach the goose, chef, and maybe even me.
I couldn’t swear to the last since both seemed more concerned with separating goose and chef than checking on my wellbeing. Peter pulled Tiffany back while Ben scooped a still honking and hissing Pauline off the floor.
Only when both were calm and at what Peter must have thought was a relatively safe distance from the other, did he squat next to my side. “Are you okay?” he murmured.
A bit put out that I came third after I had obviously sacrificed myself, I considered lying still and pretending real harm, but as I watched his eyes worry their way down my body, my resolve weakened and, with a sigh, I lifted my head.
“I’ve been better,” I grumbled. There was no reason to let him completely off the hook.
“Maybe next time you will change your shoes.”
My shoes? He was blaming my shoes? He thought I’d fallen? He’d completely missed my selfless act?
I forgot my little drama and sat up, but he’d already returned to being Detective Efficient and was busy pointing around the room, directing other officers to do whatever police officers did in instances of goose vigilantism.
Ben’s hand appeared in front of my face, and with the other man in my life being too busy protecting the public welfare and all that, I took it.
On my feet, I muttered and jerked my skirt down to a semi-respectable place. “What were you doing?” I had lost one shoe in my dive. I jerked off the remaining one and glanced around for its mate.
“What were you doing?” he asked, hurt and disappointment showing in his eyes. “Did you know this restaurant serves goose pâté? Do you know how they make goose pâté?” He stopped at that, falling silent and staring at me in a way that made me want to drop my head and scuff my bare toes in shame.
“Lucy.” Peter didn’t ask what I was doing out loud like my brother had, but the question was clear in his eyes.
Ben petted his goose, studied my date, and waited, judging.
Caught in the crossfire of silence, I considered turning on my bare heel and storming out of the building, but I knew I wouldn’t get far. One of them would follow and, if not, Rhonda was still out there somewhere. If I didn’t spill the beans as to who Ben was, she would.
“Peter, this is my brother... Ben. And his goose, Pauline.” I muttered the last. I mean, seriously, his goose. This introduction was more embarrassing than my uncle singing the theme song to the Brady Bunch every time he met my high school boyfriend, whose name was, you guessed it, Brady.
And Peter didn’t even know yet that Ben also owned the Lemon/Egg.
Peter cocked his head. “Did we see you earlier? Going into Moose Creek Campground?”
I admired the tin ceiling some more.
The question seemed to relax Ben, like the sighting qualified Peter and him as buds. “Was that you? Thanks for waiting on me. The Lemon doesn’t go like she should sometimes.”
Silence from Peter, which forced me to look. Damn. He was watching me, and I knew the look. We would talk... later.
What else was new?
Then back to police mode he went. “I assume the officers outside explained to you that this is private property? If you want to protest, you have to stay 100 feet from the entrance, and you can’t block traffic of any type.”
I waited for my brother to object or go into a lecture on the evils of pâté, but, back to his laid-back self, he simply held up Pauline. “Just retrieving my goose.”
“Yes, that’s—”
Peter’s reply was cut off by Tiffany, who screamed, “That’s a lie. He sent that animal in here. It’s been stalking me! The health department could shut me down.”
My boyfriend, true to form, barely turned his head.
“Understandable,” he continued. “But it is your responsibility to keep your animal under control.” He paused, and the tiniest hint of a smile appeared. “Lucy can tell you about that.”
I stiffened. Why did everything come back to me?
“For now, you can go. If anything else comes up, I assume your sister will know how to get in touch with you?”
Me. I was the sister, but I had no clue how to reach my brother aside from tracking him down in his Egg. Still, I smiled and nodded confidently. “Of course.” He was my brother. I couldn’t very well admit how little effort I’d made to keep in touch.
“Okay then.” Peter gave me one last telling look and then strolled to where Tiffany and two other officers waited.
“Thank you.”
Ben’s thanks startled me into turning my attention to him.
“I saw what you did, saving Pauline.” With solemn eyes, he slid his hand over the goose’s head and neck. “I knew you liked her.”
I grimaced. Like was a strong word. I mean, I didn’t hate her, but... “I couldn’t let her get hit,” I replied, mumbling.
“I know.” He didn’t exactly beam, but I could tell he thought he had something on me, some secret insight into my personality that had been hidden until now.
“Don’t get any ideas,” I said.
“I won’t.” He smiled again. Damn him.
An officer walked up and pointed to the door. Apparently happy with whatever he thought he’d discovered about me, my brother rubbed his goose under her neck and strolled out the front. A few seconds later, he was back in place, this time across the street with his sign in his hand and Pauline sitting on his head.
I closed my eyes and prayed for a spaceship to beam me out of my reality.
Scotty didn’t come to my rescue, but Carl Mack did. “I think the evening is over.”
He did not sound disappointed by the fact. I glanced around, and he seemed right. People were paying their bills, gathering their things and heading for the door. My gaze slid to Peter who was standing by as Tiffany ranted to a uniformed officer.
“Do you need a ride?” Carl asked.
It was very generous of him, especially considering that I lived eight miles out of town down a dirt road. Of course, Carl probably didn’t know that. His offer might have disappeared if he found out.
I didn’t test him. I just shook my head and waved toward the street. “Rhonda’s out there. I can get a ride. Thanks, though.”
He glanced around the room one last time, shivered, and headed into the night.
I looked back at my date. His focus was still on Tiffany. I could have interrupted him, but he was working, and I didn’t really want to explain my brother’s penchant for protesting, geese, or neon-yellow vans.
So I walked outside carrying my one pump to find Rhonda.
Unfortunately, by the time I got out there, the protesters were gone, my brother and Rhonda included. It was also starting to rain.
I held my purse over my head and sighed. I was wet, bedraggled, and missing a shoe. My dream evening had gone down the tubes and been flushed out to sea.
It was also turning cold. I just wanted to get home, snuggle under the covers, and lick my wounds.
Wanting wasn’t getting though. So I hobbled back to the restaurant to stand under the Tiffany’s canopy and dig for my phone.
I had it in my hand when Peter walked out holding my other shoe.
“You forgot something,” he murmured.
“Oh, yeah, thanks.” My evening had drained all fight and enthusiasm out of me. “I was just calling Rhonda.”
“Why?”
I realized then that along with my shoe, he’d retrieved his hat.
“You were busy...”
“Really?” He stepped closer.
His body was warm, and I could smell the cinnamon toothpicks he liked to chew when he was working. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and breath in, but I had the whole “I didn’t tell you that was my brother because” conversation hanging over my head.
“Family can be tough.”
I looked up. A strand of hair fell into my eye, and I could feel mascara congealing under my eye. “What?”
He ran his finger under my lashes, wipi
ng away the offending makeup. “Your brother seems like an interesting guy.”
He was that.
“Special,” he added.
Uh huh. He was special all right.
He ran his arm behind my back and pulled me tight against him. “Just like his sister.”
I wasn’t sure I approved of the just like part, but I definitely approved of the tight against part.
He leaned down and kissed me. His lips were as warm as the rest of him and strong and gentle and exactly what I needed right then.
A sound close to a purr rumbled from my throat.
Or maybe it was my stomach.
Peter chuckled. “Hungry?”
Embarrassed, I bit my lip.
“I did promise you dinner, but it looks like Tiffany’s is closed for the night.”
The lights clicked off in the restaurant, leaving us in the dark except for the street lights.
“What would you like?”
“A burger?” My let down over Tiffany’s had drilled home how much I was not meant for a fine dining experience.
“Burger it is.” He squeezed my waist and stared down into my face. “And how about we go somewhere that you won’t need these?” He held up my pump. “In fact, let’s go somewhere you don’t need shoes at all.”
Before I could grasp what was happening, he scooped me up and carried me to his truck.
Chapter 4
The next morning, I woke up alone in my own bed, but refreshed and feeling generous to brother and goose alike.
Peter was right. Ben was a good guy.
Okay, he had said interesting, but Ben was good too. And it was time I let him know I appreciated him.
I packed up Kiska and the closest thing to healthy food that I had – three somewhat shriveled oranges and a bag of carrots – and headed to the campground.
Of the nine spots in the campground, only two were occupied. One by a tent and the other by the Egg.
The Lemon, however, was missing.
I checked my watch. It was eight a.m. Kind of early for a protest, but maybe Ben had gone into town for breakfast.