by Anna Gerard
I reached the town square a few minutes later. As was typical in the South, it consisted of a small, parklike block with an old-style bandstand in its center. That white-painted wooden structure was large enough to hold the entire high school orchestra, and was still draped with red, white, and blue bunting left over from Memorial Day. Concrete walks stretched from the bandstand to each corner of the square, forming an X if you looked at it from a drone’s point of view. A boiled-peanut cart parked on one corner of the square sold that popular regional treat. I gave the burly young man who owned the cart a smile as I walked past.
The remaining space was meticulously maintained grass, along with a few shrub arrangements and benches, plus a couple of mature live oak trees for additional shade. The streets surrounding the square were all one way, with angled-in parking along both the square itself and the four facing streets with their lines of shops. Here, amid a series of red-bricked, two-story buildings with neat white trim, the astute tourist found most of the town’s Shakespeare-inspired business names … Sweets to the Sweet (a bakery), Perchance to Dream (a linens store), First Folio (a bookstore), and several more.
But most important to me, as a taxpayer, there wasn’t an empty storefront to be seen in the Cymbeline town square.
As I’d hoped, morning rush was over at Peaches and Java. The lunch customers would not be out in full force for another half hour. That meant the owners, Gemma and Daniel Tanaka, would likely have a few minutes to chat while preparing for the noon shift. (As a side note, I’d previously asked Gemma, who was born and bred in Cymbeline, why their shop didn’t have a Shakespearean-themed name. She’d pointed out that coffee wasn’t common in England until after the playwright’s death. Duh!)
On the walk over, I’d called Gemma to warn her that I needed to discuss my predecessor’s family, so she was prepared. Barely had I taken a seat inside the coffee shop than she slid her slim, five-foot form into the chair across from me. I stared at her in mock dismay.
“How do you do it? If I were around this much good food every day, I’d be big as a house.”
“Honey, I’d be that big, too, except that I run my butt off all morning long baking and setting up for two sittings.”
Gemma wore her chin-length graying hair in twisted locks, which she now gave a rueful shake. Then, with a glance at her husband, who was behind the counter mixing up a multihued pasta salad, she added, “You can see who doesn’t do all the heavy lifting around here.”
Daniel, who was perhaps two inches taller than me and close to two hundred pounds heavier, merely shot his wife a placid grin.
“Love you, too, honey.” To me, he said, “There’s some of my artisan peach cobbler left over from breakfast, Nina. You want a serving?”
My mouth began to water, picturing the dessert for which Daniel was famous … hence, the Peaches and Java name. Not only did he use locally grown fruit, but he piled the sliced peaches and spices into individual ramekins held down by a fancy lacework of buttery pastry that put the traditional lattice crust to shame. The sweet concoction was topped with a chilly dollop of amaretto-flavored whipped cream that beat the heck out of vanilla ice cream any day.
He didn’t wait for my eager nod but strolled around the counter with a miniature porcelain baking dish overflowing with fruit and pastry and cream.
“On the house,” he said. “It’s the last one and won’t keep until tomorrow.”
I considered passing on the extra calories, but decided not to let it go to waste.
“So, what did you want to know about Mrs. Lathrop?” Gemma asked once Daniel had returned to his pasta and I was making swift work of the cobbler.
“It’s not Mrs. Lathrop, it’s some guy who claims to be her great-nephew and heir.”
“You mean Harry Westcott? But how in the world did you run into him? I thought he was living out on the West Coast.”
I gave her a rundown of what had happened that morning with him and the penguin suit and the letter and his great-aunt’s promises—and, of course, his threats to see me in court.
“I just wanted to be sure he is who he claims to be,” I finished. “He didn’t show me any ID or anything, and with that whole penguin routine …”
Gemma chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’ve known Harry since he was a little boy. I used to babysit him while I was in nursing school. He spent most of his free time dressed up like it was Halloween, said he was going to be a movie star someday. With his looks, I can’t believe he hasn’t hit the big time yet.”
Then her smile faded.
“Don’t get me wrong, Nina. I’m on your side. You legitimately bought the house, and that’s that. But I get where Harry is coming from, too. He was the only one of Mrs. Lathrop’s family that kept in contact with her once the rest moved out of town. Even after he was all grown up, he still sent her letters and came by to visit a couple of times a year. I’m not surprised she planned to give him her house when she was gone.”
Before I could digest that last unsettling bit of information, Daniel spoke up again.
“Harry’s back in town? I haven’t seen him around since last Thanksgiving. He landed a gig playing a zombie in that cable show they film up near Atlanta. He texted me a picture of him in makeup. Pretty cool!”
I nodded. Right now, however, my concern was learning as much as I could about the guy in case the whole lawsuit thing did have legs.
“I guess if you text him, you must know him pretty well. What do you think of Harry?”
Daniel had finished with the pasta and was now working on an exotic version of tuna salad. He did some Food Channel–worthy flipping about of a pepper shaker before setting it down and shaking his head.
“Sorry, Nina, I don’t know him that well. I mean, when he comes by the shop, we chat about the weather. You know, small talk. The picture was actually for Jasmine. He figured she’d get a kick out of it.”
Jasmine being Daniel and Gemma’s teenage daughter, whom I’d met a couple of times.
Daniel continued, “He’s an okay guy for an actor. He knows his way around food and wine, not so much around sports. He won’t drink coffee, though, only tea.”
“That’s it?” I asked, disappointed. I wasn’t really looking for a rundown on his diet.
Daniel grinned. “Well, okay, since you ask. The ladies all seemed to like him … some of the guys, too,” he added, his short black brows lifting meaningfully. “Come to think of it, I never did figure out which way he swings, not that it matt—”
He broke off midword to dodge the packet of raw sugar his wife had just lobbed at him.
“What? What did I say?” he cheerfully demanded, his round face a careful study in innocence as he met Gemma’s disapproving gaze.
She snorted and pointedly turned her back on him. “You can ignore the politically incorrect barbarian behind the counter, Nina.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter to me, either way,” I informed her. “With any luck, today was our first and last meeting.”
Not that I truly believed that. Harry had been serious about his lawsuit. One way or another, I was going to hear from him again.
I was saved from further comment, however, when a jingle of small bells signaled that the restaurant door had popped opened. A trio of shopping-bag-laden women in their sixties dressed in the requisite jewel-toned tracksuits came bustling in.
Gemma jumped up from her chair, all business now.
“Sorry, Nina, gotta go. Looks like the lunch rush is starting.”
I finished my cobbler; then, fortified for the walk back, I made my goodbyes and headed out again. Despite the glass of ice water I’d drunk to wash down the cobbler, sweat was pouring off me by the time I reached my house. To make things worse, a full-sized SUV with dark-tinted windows and a glossy gray paint job was parked at my gate, engine running. Since I’d already had one unwelcome visitor this morning, I approached it with more than usual caution.
The driver’s side door opened, and a familiar if not exactly welc
ome figure climbed out.
“Well, hi there, Nee-nah,” the middle-aged woman with frosted blonde hair cut in a severe pixie style exclaimed. Smoothing the skirt of her bright-yellow summer suit, she went on, “How are you this morning?”
“It’s Nine-ah,” I blandly corrected her. “I’m just fine, Melissa Jane. What can I do for you?”
Melissa Jane Green had been Cymbeline’s mayor for going on two decades now. She, along with the remainder of what I’d dubbed the town’s Holy Trinity—Bob Short (banking) and Wally McFadden (insurance)—had joined forces and bought up the greater part of Cymbeline’s historic town square a few years back. That speculative bit of real estate tucked beneath their collective belt, they had sat down with the other local business owners. When all was said and done, they’d created almost from scratch a booming arts and antiques district that had been attracting tourists to Cymbeline for the past dozen years. Thus, the lack of open retail space on the square.
I couldn’t argue with the good they’d done for the town, reviving what had been a dying local economy. As a businesswoman, Melissa Jane impressed the heck out of me. But I’d already had an unfortunate run-in with Madame Mayor, and so I was predisposed not to trust her toothy smile.
She walked around to the passenger side of her behemoth of a vehicle and leaned a skinny hip against the fender.
“It’s not what you can do for me, Nina,” she replied, getting the name right this time, her accent dripping with thick Georgia honey. “It’s what we can do for each other. Remember when you asked about that commercial zoning change so that you could operate a bed-and-breakfast, and I told you that wasn’t possible? Well, I think I’ve found a way to make it happen, after all.”
I shot her a slanted look. Soon after moving in, I’d checked into changing the zoning for my property from residential to commercial. Not that I was hurting for cash. It simply had occurred to me that, sometime down the road, I might get bored playing lady of the manor and want a job of sorts again. And turning the house into a B&B had seemed an ideal solution.
Unfortunately for my grand plan, Melissa Jane had informed me that the town had plenty of bed-and-breakfasts already, and my request was denied. But now she had changed her mind?
“What do you need from me to get that done?” I asked with an equally toothy smile. “Sell you my soul? Sign over my firstborn? Buy all the tickets to the upcoming Shakespeare festival?”
She gave a dismissive wave of scarlet-tipped fingers.
“Really, Nina, don’t be silly. I have a true business proposition for you. I’ll fast-track the zoning change and get you set up with the Chamber of Commerce. Wally McFadden will take care of the insurance details for you. The only catch is that we need you to open up your B&B first thing tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
I stared at her in disbelief. Harry wasn’t the only person a few breads short of a loaf. Obviously, the summer heat was making the whole town go crazy.
“You’re crazy,” I told her. “Even if I could possibly open for business in one day—which I can’t—it’s not like I have any guests to stay here. What’s the big rush?”
“Now, honey, would I make you this deal if I hadn’t thought of all the details? Why, I have your first guests for you right here.”
She waved the scarlet-manicured nails again, this time in the direction of her SUV. On cue, all three passenger doors opened.
I felt my mouth drop open, too. Crazy? This wasn’t crazy. This was downright lunacy. I blinked, and started counting. One, two, three, four, five … no, six. Six!
A moment later, they had all assembled in a neat line on the sidewalk in front of me. By design or happenstance, they were arranged in order of height—the tallest a good five inches taller than me, and the shortest somewhere in the four-foot-nothing range. Despite the heat, they were dressed identically in black, relieved only by a touch of white around their faces.
I clamped my jaws back together and turned to Melissa Jane.
“Nuns?” I squeaked in a voice high enough to make Mattie howl. “You want me to open a bed-and-breakfast for nuns?”
“These are not just any nuns. They are the Sisters of Perpetual Poverty. Reverend Mother, this is Ms. Nina Fleet. Nina, this is the order’s Mother Superior, Mother Mary Francis.
She indicated the nun in the middle, who gave me a crisp nod. I guessed her to be in her seventies, with a ruddy complexion and a pair of oversized black-framed glasses straight out of the 1990s.
“Reverend Mother,” I managed with a limp wave back, following Melissa Jane’s lead in addressing the older woman.
“And the rest of the sisters. Sister Mary George … Sister Mary Julian … Sister Mary Thomas … Sister Mary Christopher … Sister Mary Paul,” the mayor went on, starting with the tallest of the nuns and pointing down the line in turn. “Sisters, this is Nina Fleet, owner of this lovely home.”
Then, while I still struggled for a reply, she went on, “Their convent is right outside of town—that big Tudor Revival building in the middle of a field. You’ve probably seen their signs for artisan goat cheese.”
I gave a faint nod, remember a cute billboard with a pair of gamboling white goats and the slogan THE HEAVENLIEST CHEESE IN GEORGIA. Not knowing that the fromagerie—the cheese-making business—in question was connected to a convent, I hadn’t gotten the joke.
“I fear the good sisters have run into a small issue regarding their convent,” Melissa Jane continued, assuming a somber expression. “You see, they don’t actually own the buildings and surrounding land. It all belongs to a real estate developer—a Mr. Bainbridge—who has been leasing it to their order for the past twenty years. Unfortunately, their current lease is up, and he refuses to renew it. The property has increased significantly in value, and he wants to develop it instead.”
“But couldn’t the Church just buy the property from this Bainbridge guy?” I wanted to know. “Maybe they could sell off one of those undiscovered da Vinci portraits they’ve got hidden in the Vatican basement, or something.”
Mother Superior gave me a look through those oversized glasses. But all she said was, “Let me explain, Ms. Fleet. While I’m not privy to all the details, my understanding is that negotiations between the developer and the archdiocese broke down before they even came close to talking real numbers. And so I fear there are no legal challenges we can bring to halt the eviction.”
Melissa Jane nodded. “The convent’s cheese operation has already been shut down, and the goats have been moved to a nearby farm. As for the good sisters, they’re waiting for word from the archbishop as to relocation.”
At that last, an audible sniff came from one of the nuns. Expression sympathetic, the mayor continued, “Obviously, the town council encourages residential development, but the optics on this one aren’t pretty. We’re attempting to convince Mr. Bainbridge to reconsider his decision, but for now the nuns need a place to stay. And since all the other B&Bs in town are booked up, well, I thought of you and your lovely home.”
She paused, and her grave expression promptly morphed into the familiar gleaming smile. “So, shall I bring the sisters back here with their luggage first thing tomorrow?”
She waited for my response, looking positively beatific now. I glanced from her back to the lineup of nuns. Their expressions were placid, accepting of whatever might happen to them. God’s will, and all that.
Except for the tallest nun—Sister Mary George, if I’d gotten the names right.
She appeared to be a good three decades younger than the rest of the sisters, putting her somewhere around my age. She was African American, tall and slender with caramel-colored skin and features that, even without makeup, seemed more at home on the cover of a fashion magazine than a convent. As I caught her wide brown gaze, she softly mouthed the word please. Not for herself, I knew, but for the row of elderly women alongside her.
And how does a decent human being say no to that?
“No,” I exclaimed, a bit
more loudly than I intended.
Then, when all seven women stared at me in shock, I hurriedly clarified, “I mean, yes, I’ll do it, but no, I need an extra day to get the house ready for guests. Can the sisters wait until Monday morning?”
Melissa Jane’s smile returned. “I think we can persuade the sheriff to hold off one more day before starting the eviction process. See you on Monday.”
Turning on her stiletto heel, she gestured the nuns back to the SUV. Last into the vehicle was Sister Mary George, who paused for a look back at me.
Thank you, she mouthed back.
I watched the SUV pull out from the curb, not quite believing what had just happened. First, I get accosted in my own home by a failing actor dressed like a sports team mascot. Then, I get blackmailed by the mayor into hosting six nuns. All I needed was to discover that the house was built on an ancient Indian burial ground for my day to be complete.
As I headed back inside, it occurred to me that Melissa Jane hadn’t indicated who was going to be paying the B&B bill. That probably meant it was gratis, my hospitality in exchange for the zoning change. Which, if the hosting gig didn’t drag on too long, was not all that bad of a deal. Maybe the sisters could teach me how to make cheese.
If nothing else, I’d enlist their prayers in making sure that the penguin who had started it all didn’t prevail against me in court.
Chapter Four
Somewhat to my surprise, it actually did take the rest of the weekend to get the place ready for my B&B-ers. I’d yet to have any overnight guests since moving into the house, so I hadn’t gotten around to changing the linens in all the bedrooms. That meant spending Saturday afternoon schlepping loads of sheets and towels and comforters downstairs to the laundry room and back up again. In between schleps, I signed for a courier package from Melissa Jane that contained my new business license issued by the Town of Cymbeline, along with miscellaneous other paperwork that included the promised rezoning notice.
