Critters of Mossy Creek

by Deborah Smith

“Soccer?”

  “Talking to yourself.”

  “I didn’t know. How do you?” I shot back. I knew from a catering job I’d done for them last year that the former mayor’s wife’s brain was still as sharp as my best knife.

  She knew I was teasing her. “Because my seventy-five-year-old husband does it all the time.”

  I chuckled. It had been twenty years since Zeke Abercrombie had handed his mayor’s crown to Ida Hamilton Walker, but he’d relinquished it because of a heart condition. There was nothing wrong with his mind. “Then I’d say it’s a sign of intelligence, not senility.”

  She waved a dismissive hand at my compliment. “Oh, go on with you.”

  We chatted for a moment longer about the subject on everyone’s mind—the hiring of the new Mossy Creek Rams football coach—then my gaze lingered after them as they moved on. The town had helped them celebrate their golden wedding anniversary last fall, and they were still as close as any couple I’d ever known. Gently teasing, best friends, lovers.

  It was probably too late for me to have a fifty-year relationship, but it was possible . . . but not if I couldn’t screw up my courage.

  I zeroed my gaze back to The Naked Bean across the square. I served good coffee at my own diner, so the only time I went in was when Amos dragged me in for his afternoon fix. I liked Jayne’s quaint little business. We weren’t competitors, so there was absolutely no reason I shouldn’t go in and several reasons I should.

  My interest had latched on to Jayne Reynolds when I first came to town. When I heard about the gumption she showed naming her coffee house The Naked Bean and facing down the prudes in the town who wanted her to change it, I’d definitely been interested.

  But she’d been a new widow expecting a baby, and I’d put my attraction on a back burner. I’d moved it off the stove entirely when I heard rumors about her and Amos.

  Since he’d cleared the way, making it plain that his only interests in Jayne were friendship and coffee, my attraction to her had resurfaced. As a matter of fact, to my surprise, I thought of little else all weekend.

  Like a lovesick teenager.

  I cussed under my breath and crossed the town square.

  It wasn’t as if I didn’t know women. I’d dated plenty in the forty years I’d had on this Earth. I’d even—as weird as it sounds—had groupies when I had my cable TV cooking show. Women would show up at the door to the studio and ask me out. One of them told me that there was something very sexy about a man who cooks. During the first year or two it’d been rather heady, having women chase me instead of the other way around, and I took advantage. Toward the end there, it was just tiresome.

  There’d been women.

  So where were these nerves coming from?

  As I opened the door to The Naked Bean and saw Jayne talking to Josie Rutherford, I suddenly knew that the reason I was nervous was because this was important. I wanted Jayne to be just as interested in me as I was in her.

  That threw me for minute. Even the word “important” threw me. I liked women, sure. Enjoyed them immensely, in fact. But I’d lived forty years blissfully single. No woman had ever been more important than another.

  I wasn’t sure I liked the fact that Jayne had suddenly become important, and I nearly turned around and walked out the door.

  However, the bell attached to her door had captured her attention and her hazel gaze caught mine. The sight of me in her shop was so rare, she blinked in surprise. “Win! Oh. How nice to see you.”

  I could practically feel fate slapping me up the side of my head, and I moved on into the shop. “Thanks.”

  “Great game Saturday,” Josie said.

  “Yes, indeed it was,” Jayne echoed. “Exciting. Matt has been asking when he can play soccer.”

  She indicated her young son, who played in a corner of the shop Jayne had set up for children. He was intent on some sort of structure made with primary-colored Legos.

  “Matt’s three?” I asked.

  “He will be in a few months.”

  “He’s got a few years left. I think the summer teams start at five.”

  Jayne chuckled. “Yes, I’ve already had to check into it, to shut him up.”

  “How’d the fund-raising go?” I asked.

  “Great. The crowd cleaned us out of both cookies and coffee. We didn’t break the bank, but I think we raised enough for a row of bleachers,” she said.

  “Stadiums are built row by row,” Josie said. “Now if we could just get a decent coach . . .”

  “The rumor is that Dwight’s trying to sabotage the selection process,” Jayne said directly to me. “Is that true? Have you heard anything?”

  “Afraid that’s true,” I told them. “Hank said that at the last town council meeting, Dwight ordered the selection committee to only consider the candidates who are willing to work for the lower end of the salary range.”

  “Dwight,” Josie snorted. “How short-sighted can he be? Oh, Harry’s going to hit the roof when I tell him this.”

  “Something should be done,” Jayne said. “Why doesn’t someone run against Dwight?” She brightened. “Why don’t you run against him, Win?”

  I was stunned—not only that she thought of the same thing Rob and Amos had said to me, but that she thought enough of me to suggest it. It made me feel . . .

  Good grief. Was I about to say ‘warm and fuzzy?’

  “You’d be perfect!” Josie said. “You’ve been here long enough for everyone to know you. You’re a respected businessman. You’ve got clout at the state level since you’re a celebrity—”

  “Hardly a celebrity,” I quickly corrected.

  “Maybe not nationally, but you’re well-known as a chef.”

  “Oh, Win, please consider running,” Jayne said. “You’d be great. And the council definitely needs some new blood.”

  “Well, to tell you the truth . . .” I stopped to clear my throat. “I’ve been thinking about it.”

  There. I’d put it out there to someone besides my closest friends. Soon the whole town would know. I guess that meant I’d made a firm decision.

  “That’s wonderful!” Jayne said.

  Josie was just as excited. “I can’t wait to tell Harry. He’ll be behind you one hundred percent, Win. It takes something to earn Harry Rutherford’s respect, but you’ve done it.”

  That meant a lot. I didn’t know him or Josie all that well, but I knew that Dr. Harry Rutherford was a respected scientist and ecologist. “Thanks.”

  “In fact, I’m going to go call him right now. I need to run, anyway. I’ve got an appointment at Goldlilock’s. Rainey’s hired a new manicurist and I just have to try her out.”

  “I heard she doesn’t speak a word of English,” Jayne said.

  “Well, I’m about to find out for certain! We’ll talk later about the new arrangement of your café tables, but for now, move that table over there away from the door. It’s blocking the positive chi. I’ll be by tomorrow. We’ll discuss what you’re going to wear Wednesday night. I have a little skirt that Dan will love.”

  “Dan?” I asked because I couldn’t help myself. “You’re going out with Dan McNeil?”

  Jayne’s smile was rueful. “Yes, he asked me to dinner. My first date since . . . well, you know.”

  Since her husband died. And it was with Dan. I didn’t like that one little bit. Was I too late?

  She moved toward the offending table, but I beat her to it. “Where do you want it?”

  She pointed to the opposite wall. “There for now, I guess. Until Josie tells me that’s the wrong spot, too.”

  When the table was moved, she smiled at me. “Thank you. Can I get you anything, Future Councilman Allen?”

  “Don’t jinx it. But yes, I’d like a mocha latte, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  Her laugh was like a Chopin sonata. “If it were, I’d be out of business before you could say ‘espresso.’ ”

  She moved behind the counter and got to work.

/>   “Your place looks great,” I said, pointing to the new doorway leading into Beechum’s Bakery. Now that place I’d visited. I’d been trying to figure out Ingrid’s coconut icing recipe ever since I’d moved to town. Her coconut cake was the best I’d ever tasted. Hands down.

  “Thanks. We’re not done yet. Still a little more painting to do, and Josie’s not done decorating yet, obviously, but we’ll get there. Grand opening’s in a couple of weeks. I will—” Suddenly she bit off a tiny shriek and jumped back.

  Alarmed, I started around the counter. “What is it?”

  “It’s okay. It’s okay,” she said, stopping me. She shuddered slightly, as if trying not to, then scooted my coffee across the counter.

  “What happened?” I pressed.

  Her expression was forlorn. “I can’t tell you. I’m horribly embarrassed, plus it’s a major health code violation.”

  “What is?”

  She bit her lip, then leaned halfway across the counter to whisper, “I have . . . mice.”

  She said it in a squeak reminiscent of Minnie Mouse.

  As an owner of a restaurant, I could feel her horror. “Oh. Can’t you get rid of them?”

  “It’s not that easy,” she said. “Ever since they opened the wall, we’ve seen at least ten a day. Not just here, but upstairs in my apartment, too. Mainly there, now that I’ve completed construction down here. It’s as if the little critters are taking revenge on me for disturbing them.”

  “Old buildings are notorious for that. I had a little trouble myself, when I renovated my diner. I had a good mouser, though, who took care of the problem. Isn’t your cat helping?”

  “For all the good she does. Emma turns up her nose at them.”

  “That’s the trouble with cats, you don’t know if they’re finicky until the situation arises.”

  Jayne reached across the counter and placed her hand over mine. “Please don’t tell anyone, Win. I’ll get rid of them by the grand opening if I have to close down the shop and get the entire two buildings fumigated.”

  I assured her that her secret was safe, though I knew no secret was safe for long in this town.

  Then customers arrived from the busload of tourists parked across the square. They were the first I’d seen this year, there to enjoy the rhododendrons that were just barely starting to bloom. The full panoply wouldn’t burst forth for a few more weeks, but some folks liked to get a jump on things.

  Jayne turned away to help them, and I meandered over to the children’s play area. Matt hadn’t even raised his head from his project. I’d never seen such a young child so focused.

  “Hi there.” I turned a chair around at the table close by and sat. “I’m Win.”

  “I know,” he said without looking up.

  “What are you building?”

  “I build house,” he said proudly.

  “That’s cool. I—”

  “Lookee! Mou—”

  I saw it at the same time he did and cleared my throat loudly to cover the word. “Shhhh. Your Mom doesn’t want people to know. Okay?”

  He placed a hand over his mostly contrite grin. “Oh yeah. I forgets.”

  I changed the subject. “I hear you like dogs.”

  “Yeah!” He practically beamed. “Do you?”

  “I sure do. I’ve got one at home.”

  “A Bob dog?”

  “A Chihuahua?” I frowned that he would even think I’d own such a yapper. I shared most men’s aversion to dogs who couldn’t bark without bouncing. “No. I have a real dog, an Irish setter. I named her Cherry because she’s red. Would you like to come and see her some time?”

  “OhBoyOhBoyOhBoy! Yeah!”

  I couldn’t help but laugh at his enthusiasm. “Well, we’ll just have to talk your mom into it, won’t we?”

  “Yeah. Oh, look! Anudder mou—” He clamped his hand over his mouth before he could say it, then grinned at me.

  I grinned back.

  Amos was right. Dogs seemed a surefire way to Matt’s heart.

  I glanced back at Jayne, who was about halfway through her customers.

  “Need any help?” I called.

  She didn’t even glance my way. “Thanks, but I’ve got it under control.”

  And a de-micer might just be the way to Jayne’s.

  Seems as if I’d heard somewhere along the line that some of the smaller dogs were bred to hunt rodents. A way to kill all the mice with one dog, as it were.

  I’d say that called for a conversation with Hank Blackshear.

  “If a dog jumps in your lap, it is because he is fond of you;

  but if a cat does the same thing, it is because your lap is warmer.”

  —Alfred North Whitehead

  Tale of Two Kitties

  Nancy

  It was the best of cats, it was the worst of cats. It was the age of Whisker Lickin’s, it was the age of feathered toys. My apologies to Mr. Dickens, but the man knew how to sum up a situation. Of course, my youngest son’s sacrifice was much less daunting than facing the guillotine.

  Charles Finch, whose first word was “doggie” and who asked for one as soon as he could put a sentence together, was now six and hadn’t yet received the pet of his dreams. Before you label me as cruel, let me list the reasons why my husband Will and I haven’t added a dog to our family.

  One, Charles wouldn’t be the one taking care of it. Even now, my first grader had to be reminded about his own grooming. If he had the choice, and he doesn’t, he probably wouldn’t bathe. Reason number two, I have three children ranging from high school to elementary age. I didn’t have a fourth child because I’d reached my sanity limit at three. Nobody can say Nancy Abercrombie Finch is a sucker for punishment. A dog would be like a fourth child. Then there’s our old tabby, Biscuit, who’s been with me longer than my husband. A less frazzling choice than adding a dog to the mix would be to adopt a second cat. Or so I thought.

  “Mo-om,” Charles crooned as he entered in the back door and left it open to the unseasonably chilly, spring evening air. “I saw Mrs. Blackshear at soccer practice.”

  “That’s nice, dear.” I gestured to the door, meaning for him to push it closer to the jamb. He didn’t get it, so I added, “Don’t heat the entire garage.”

  He slammed the door on his sister, whose muffled, outraged, “Hey!” followed the slam. “You’re such a brat,” Mary Alice growled, re-opening the heavy wooden door. Will followed behind her, carrying the duffel bag Mary Alice had left in the car.

  Mitts in place, I removed a steaming broccoli-and-chicken casserole from the oven and placed it on a trivet on the table. “Wash your hands and tell Randy to come down for dinner.”

  “Ran-dy!” she screamed.

  Not exactly what I had in mind.

  Will and I exchanged a glance of commiseration, then he took hold of Mary Alice’s shoulders and re-directed her toward the stairs. “When your mother said ‘tell Randy,’ she meant to go tell him. He can’t hear you.”

  “I can yell louder,” she offered, as Charles tugged on my pants leg.

  “Let’s not,” I said. “Scoot.”

  My fifth-grader rolled her eyes (yes, we’re at that lovely stage of adolescence) and did as she was asked.

  Charles tugged harder. “Mo-om.”

  “What?” Not completely successful at keeping the irritation out of my voice, I filled the children’s glasses with milk.

  “Mrs. Blackshear said someone left a box of puppies at Dr. Blackshear’s clinic. Beagle puppies. She said Melvin said they were prolly Bigelowans. The people who left ’em, he means.”

  “It’s probably, not prolly. Did you wash your hands?”

  “No, but I was thinking it sure’d be nice to give one of those—”

  “We’re not getting a dog,” Will said. After issuing his ultimatum, Will sat in his spot at the head of the table.

  I heard the water running upstairs, so Mary Alice must have made her brother hear her without yelling, or she decided to wa
sh her hands first. Either way, I knew that was progress.

  Charles pouted, slid into his chair next to his father, and sighed. “It’s not a dog, it’s a puppy.”

  “Same difference,” I pointed out. “I didn’t see you wash your hands.”

  “I used the sanitizer, like Dad.” He raised his palms in the air so I could inspect them for dirt. “It’s not fair, Mom. Everyone else has a dog.”

  “No everyone else does not,” I reminded him. “Mrs. Clifton told me that the family who moved in across the street, what’s the little girl’s name, Melanie? She has a cat like us.”

  “But she’s dumb.”

  It was a toss-up as to whether he was referring to Melanie or our elderly cat. Both were female, and Charles didn’t like either of them. I had an inkling he was referring to the little girl across the street, though, since his complaints about her had grown exponentially since the beginning of the school year. He didn’t like Melanie much in August. Now that they’d moved in across the street, he liked her far, far less.

  Darn it, I realized with a pang. They’d moved in at least a month ago. Had I invited them to dinner or at least welcomed them with a loaf of banana bread? No, but I’d . . . waved.

  Muttering something under his breath, Charles focused on his empty plate.

  Things had a way of coming to a head with this boy. I’d find out probably more than I wanted to know about why he thought Melanie was “dumb,” soon enough. Pick your arguments, my mother told me, because otherwise, interacting with Charles would be one long fight until the day he went off to college, if he went, which since I wanted him to, he probably wouldn’t.

  He looked up at me, blue eyes round with false innocence. “Oh, and I guess I shoulda told you Smelanie’s mom called.”

  “We do not call our neighbor ‘Smelanie.’ ”

  Eyes downcast, he tried to smother his budding smirk.

  “I’m serious, young man. Why did Melanie’s mother call?”

  He trotted out the fake innocent look again and shrugged.

  Lips whitening in exasperation, Will leaned toward our youngest and, yes, most mischievous child. “Punishment’s going to be worse, the longer you drag this out.”