Royally In Trouble

by Jenny B. Jones

  “If he’s a faire organizer, he probably wanted to be closer to the action.”

  “Trace wanted to get to me, that’s what he wanted.”

  It seemed to be working.

  “He’s up to something. And it’s never any good.” Beau tipped back the bottle and took another drink. Apparently arguing with dysfunctional family members was thirsty work.

  “I heard you mention something happening twelve years ago.” Beau wasn’t the only one who could fish. “Maybe refresh my memory?”

  He was not in the mood to revisit history. “Let’s get back to this event planning before I cancel it all.”

  Talking to Beau about his past was kind of like planting flowers in my little yard. I’d aim the shovel into the earth and gain some ground, only to meet with solid rock about two inches down. When Beau didn’t want to talk, there was no moving him.

  Forty-five minutes later, we’d discussed the event inside out, with any lingering details requiring the input of Trace’s partner Nathan Moore.

  “It’s just four weekends,” I said as I gathered my things. “And just think how much it’ll benefit Sugar Creek’s tourism.” Plus, Beau was being paid handsomely for the use of some empty acreage for the setup. He had big plans for improvements to his retreat property, so surely he wouldn’t reject the money and shut the festival down.

  Beau said nothing and walked me to the office door.

  I reached for the handle, but his hand over mine stopped me.

  “I’m sorry for that scene out there.”

  “It’s okay.” I knew how much he detested drama and anything that drew attention. “We all have crazy family members.” Nuts were all that grew from my family tree.

  “You have been avoiding me, you know,” Beau said quietly.

  Was there really any point in denying it? “It’s possible.”

  “And why is that?”

  I stared at the aqua T-shirt that coordinated beautifully with the fact that he was gorgeous.

  “Paisley, I’m talking to you.”

  “I . . .” How did I explain? I had all these thoughts, all these feelings when it came to Beau. I didn’t know how to label any of them, and I’d yet to file them safely away. He’d made it clear he wasn’t looking for a committed relationship, not to mention his near-perfect ex still buzzed around him like he was the clover to her bee. “We’ve both been working long hours. It’s only natural we haven’t had much time to sit on the front porch and catch up.”

  Beau reached out, then seemed to think better of it, instead stuffing his hand in the pocket of his jeans. But his eyes traveled over the contours of my cheeks, the plane of my forehead . . .the curve of my lips. “I’ve missed this face.” He spoke slowly, as if reluctant to release the thought.

  I wondered if being this close to me reminded him of our kiss. I doubted it. He’d probably done who knows what with Haley Jo, and my lips were but a lost memory. “So . . .how long is Haley Jo sticking around?” Ugh, I hadn’t meant to ask! The words just flew out of my mouth, tart and sharp.

  “She’s here to wrap up her dissertation for her PhD. She wanted somewhere quiet to get away.”

  The Holiday Inn and some headphones could’ve served her purpose. “She came all the way from Little Rock during a Renaissance festival to find some solitude?”

  “Are you jealous?”

  “No. Not at all.” His smile fueled my annoyance. “We both know we’re better off friends.”

  “Paisley—”

  “I hope she gets lots of work done. Which is what I need to do right now, as well.”

  Beau opened his mouth to say more, but reversed course. “See you on the front porch sometime?”

  I smiled and tried not to inhale the scent of him as I walked out. “I’ll bring the coffee.”

  2

  “Hear, ye! Hear, ye!” Sylvie cupped her hands around her mouth and hollered. “Mistresses and fair maidens, thy Sexy Book Club will now come to order!”

  I looked around the room at the myriad of ages and faces at my grandmother’s packed book club and wondered, yet again, why I was in attendance.

  “Why are you talking like that?” asked my cousin Emma. One day we’d both have to get therapy for all we’d endured as Sylvie’s granddaughters, but we were banking on a two-for-one special when that time did arrive.

  “I’m practicing my Elizabethan English for the Renaissance faire.” Sylvie Sutton, my beloved but warped grandmother, plopped three cookies on her plate then sat on the couch. “Frannie and I are almost finished with our costumes.”

  Frannie bit down on a ranch-dipped carrot. “I just have to figure out where my gun holster and switchblade can go.”

  Emma leaned toward my ear. “Exactly what Tudor ladies worried about, I’m sure.”

  My grandmother and my aunt-by-way-of-friendship, Frannie, were newly retired CIA operatives. They had yet to adjust to civilian life and were continuously on the lookout for hobbies to fill their days. Since no pastime had yet to hold their flea-sized attention spans, the two usually spent their hours getting into trouble and butting into my life.

  “Okay, let’s talk about our novel.” Sylvie held up a tattered paperback. “At Paisley’s request, this time we read two books—our beloved romance novel and” —her glossed lip curled in distaste—“Paisley’s classical suggestion, A Tale of Two Cities. Thoughts on the classic?”

  “Boring!”

  “Depressing!”

  “It made me want to eat carbs!”

  “Zero hanky-panky.”

  Sylvie regarded me with that I told you so incline of her fashionably styled blonde head. Tonight she displayed a new angled bob, with part of her hair extra short and sassy. “Let it be noted that we will continue to be Sexy Book Club. Not Sexy and Scholarly Book Club.”

  “I just thought we might like some variety,” I said.

  “We do like variety.” Frannie powered up her e-reader. “Last month our hero was an amnesiac duke sweeping the stables, and this month it’s a pirate who sails the seven seas completely shirtless.”

  “Something for everyone,” Sylvie said. “Now, moving on to the book that we all actually read. We shall now discuss . . . She Walked the Plank for His Booty.”

  Good heavens.

  “How this thing hasn’t won a Pulitzer is beyond me,” Frannie said.

  “Agreed.” Sylvie nodded her head. “It’s a perfect treatise on conducting oneself diplomatically when under siege and in wartime conditions. Plus, three cheers for the kissing scene on the poop deck.”

  Frannie lifted her tent-revival hands to heaven. “Amen! Men today should embrace more swashbuckling.”

  The script for our Sexy Book Club meetings always read the same. It was like some sort of Saturday Night Live sketch with all the players pretending to be a book club, trying to talk plot or symbolism, but ending up just waxing poetic about manly parts and swoony love scenes.

  “Emma, sugar, what did you think were the strengths of this book?” Sylvie bit into one of Frannie’s cupcakes and focused her attention on my cousin.

  Emma’s cheeks flushed a splotchy pink. “I . . .I didn’t have time to read either book. I’m sorry.”

  Knowing giggles filled the room.

  “The honeymoon ain’t over yet!” Sylvie gave Emma an air high five, which my cousin did not return, then turned to Melly Pittman, the wide-eyed newcomer, beside her on the couch. “Melly, my Emma got married to Noah, our own Sugar Creek mayor last month. It was a gorgeous wedding.”

  “I heard it was the event of the year.” Melly smiled with approval. “You must be so proud, Sylvie.”

  As Sylvie continued to relive details of Emma’s wedding, my cousin muttered near my ear. “Melly ought to know about weddings of the year. Her daughter’s getting married soon.” Emma’s eyes grew round as cookies. “I hear it’s going to rival Harry and Meghan’s.”

  And Enchanted Events didn’t get the job. We should’ve invited Melly Pittman to book club sooner.r />
  Word of our book club had reached the literary ladies of Sugar Creek, and Sylvie now fielded daily requests to join. Melly held a position on city council, and I wondered if Sylvie was now picking club recruits based on self-serving motives. Last month she’d added Lupita Gomez, owner of a taco truck who promised to bring chips and queso to every event. And two weeks ago I sat by Philomina Cates, a dermatologist who was so happy to participate, she gifted Sylvie with a new e-reader and chemical peel.

  “Emma, would you like to do a little compare and contrast of your love scenes and those in the novel?” Frannie asked.

  “I would not.”

  The next hour unfolded as a strange amalgamation of gossip, testing Emma, and spirited read-alouds from favorite chapters involving kisses and disheveled clothes. Finally, Sylvie announced the next meeting’s book, and dismissed everyone for a second round of snacks. I took my plate and cup into the kitchen, ran the faucet, and stared out the window at the magnolia tree holding its own beneath the light of the moon.

  “You’re moping.”

  I shut off the tap as my grandmother grabbed another plate of cookies. “I am not.”

  “You are. And Beau looks about the same. He dropped off his rent check tonight and looked like he needed a stiff drink.”

  “He’s just stressed over the faire on his property. Oh, and his estranged uncle showed up unexpectedly.”

  “Which one?”

  “Tracy? Trace?”

  “Trace Hudson.” She pursed her lips as if tasting a tart memory. “The baby brother to Beau’s dad. Neither of those boys were worth much consideration. Couldn’t turn your back on them for a second. But last I heard ol’ Trace was doing pretty good for himself in Oklahoma. Has a bunch of successful used car lots.”

  “He’s a co-organizer for the Ren Faire, I guess. Partners with Nathan Moore.”

  Frannie waltzed into the kitchen in her Birkenstocks, her sonar ears on alert. “And Beau didn’t know?”

  “No. We’ve both been dealing with Nathan.” Mr. Moore was the president of Sugar Creek Bank and Trust and a popular face in the community. “I guess Nathan handles the business end of things, and Beau’s uncle is the creative planner.”

  “Poor Beau,” Frannie said. “Maybe you should take this opportunity to offer your comfort. Lend him your shoulder.”

  “Or your bosom,” Sylvie suggested. “Whatever.”

  “My bosom and I are staying out of his way. Beau made it clear he’s not interested in dating me, and I wholeheartedly concurred.”

  “He’ll come to his senses,” Sylvie said.

  “Who says I even want him to?” I asked, only to be answered when Sylvie and Frannie doubled over in laughter.

  “Oh, shug.” Sylvie wiped the tears from her eyes. “That’s a good one. But you can’t just sit around and wait for him to wise up. Not with that Haley Jo Madewell back in town.” Sylvie and Frannie knew every coming and going in this city. And usually got the information by questionable means.

  “I think Beau’s sweet on you,” Sylvie said. “Why not go for it?”

  “Because we’re friends,” I said. “Neighbors. It would just complicate things.”

  “Complication is receiving instructions to defuse a three-wired bomb only to discover it has twelve wires.” Frannie gave a jaunty toss of her shoulder-length wig. “Complication is overpowering a terrorist mid-flight, holding him prisoner with nothing more than your shoe laces and a girdle, and due to accidentally leaking sleeping gas, having to land the aircraft yourself. So, yeah, girl, you go ahead and tell us all about these challenges you might endure.”

  I threw a handful of forks in the sink. “Like . . .” I struggled to come up with anything. “We’re both very busy getting our businesses off the ground. We work a lot of hours. And . . .and I think he believes I’m a wee bit of drama.”

  “So?” Frannie dug in the cabinet for dish soap. “Life’s boring without some drama.”

  I wasn’t sure about that. “Beau’s calm, stable. He’s all Army disciplined and salt of the earth.” I snuck a look at my grandmother and aunt. “And Haley Jo’s working on her PhD.”

  “Yeah, she’s already got her M.A.S.—master of arts and snootiness.” Frannie snickered at her own joke. “You’re letting that girl get in your head.”

  “When’s the last time you had a date?” Sylvie asked.

  My brain cramped with the effort it took to recall. “It’s been a while.”

  “You need to get online,” Frannie said.

  “Yes, the internet super highway.” Sylvie wagged her eyebrows. “The super highway of love.”

  “Girl, that’s where it’s at.” Frannie put on her serious face. “Get you a profile and get out there.”

  “Frannie’s had great success with online dating,” Sylvie said.

  “It’s true.” Frannie puffed up proudly. “I have a date every weekend.” She inspected her stars-and-stripes manicure. “And sometimes they even show up.”

  “No, thank you,” I said. “I’m very busy with Enchanted Events. I don’t have time for one more distraction.”

  Frannie put her hand on my shoulder. “Last month you almost went to prison and nearly lost your life. Doesn’t that make you want to live a little? Make use of the time you have on this sweet earth?”

  “I don’t think I—”

  “Maybe you’re not ready to sign up for the SouthernSingles site,” Frannie said, “but what if it was someone completely vetted?”

  “What did you have in mind?” Sylvie asked, as if my presence was no longer needed in this conversation.

  “I’ve been selling my cupcakes all over town.” Frannie gave a finger snap. “And that is not a metaphor for my loose morals.”

  “She’s really building a business,” Sylvie said. “She can’t keep up with demand.”

  “I take a six pack of red velvet to this guy every Monday morning at the police department. I met him at the diner last month. He’s tall, blond, and looks like he could be the model for our last book. Thirty-years-old, loves his mama, and never been married.”

  Emma appeared, apparently smelling romance. “Do you mean Matt Quincy? He’s a cutie. I saw him at the park with his dog just yesterday.”

  “That’s the one,” Frannie said. “Only been in Sugar Creek a few months, and he probably needs a friend—someone to show him the good restaurants, introduce him to new friends, take him where the fun’s at.”

  “I’m pretty sure they’re talking about your back seat,” Emma whispered.

  “I’m not interested, but thank you, Frannie.”

  She pulled her phone out of her pocket and pushed some buttons. “Just texted you his number. I told him all about you, and he might be expecting your call.”

  “Frannie!” Seriously, these two loved nothing more than to meddle.

  “Now, you know I wouldn’t steer you wrong,” Frannie said.

  “Yes, you would. Do we need to review the time in high school you set me up with your nephew who believed regular bathing was a violation of his personal rights?”

  “He had a good heart.”

  “And then there was the guy who believed he was the reincarnation of Elvis—”

  “That one did have swell dance moves,” Sylvie offered.

  “Call Matt.” Frannie tapped her phone before slipping it back in her pocket. “It’s time to get back to living—and time to show Beau what he’s missing.”

  3

  August was a cruel tormentor to anyone wearing head-to-toe costume. Why schedule an event involving layers and layers of clothing in one of the hottest months in Arkansas? There was no way you’d see me in a wool gown and hoop skirt in this heat. Or really ever.

  I got out of the car at Fox Falls Thursday morning and approached a group of volunteers putting the final touches on a stage set for the children’s area. As I surveyed the acreage, I had to admit Beau’s property really was a perfect spot for the event. The grass beneath our feet was green as any field in I
reland. Trees outlined the perimeter and swayed in the faint breeze, while rolling hills posed resolute in the distance, as if trying to deflect the direct blows of the sun. Not too far away, a little tributary of Sugar Creek trickled and gurgled and pointed back to Lee River. Civil War troops had once tromped over these grounds and stayed many a night, and I wondered what those soldiers would think of Fox Falls today.

  “Good morrow, my lady!” A middle-aged man in skin-tight black pants and a lace-up shirt bowed at the waist and doffed a feathered hat as I approached.

  “Good morning.” Was I supposed to curtsy here? “I’m looking for Nathan Moore.” I’d been to the site of the faire at least twice a day this week, and as the group had decided to kick off with a three-day weekend, it was now two hours away from show time. The place buzzed with people, all in costume, from peasant to royalty, taking care of last minute preparations.

  “I saw him over yonder, my good woman. Take a left at the Rusty Wench’s Tavern, a right at the castle, and he’ll be found near the fortune teller’s booth. If you get to the privy, ye’ve gone too far.”

  “The privy?”

  He cupped his hand over his mouth and lowered his voice. “You know, the john.”

  “Right. Thank you.”

  “I bid thee farewell.”

  I’d been surprised at how many people had been required for the festival. A good number were hired and many were volunteers, a mix of folks from neighboring towns, out of state, and our own Sugar Creek citizens. Some milled about now, while others seemed to already be in character. I passed a man flexing in various poses beneath a sign that advertised the strong man game. A trio of brightly dressed women stood on a small platform and sang in perfect harmony about a life on the sea, while a boy who couldn’t be any more than fifteen juggled apples.

  “Care to have your fortune told, me lady?”

  I paused at a booth that declared I was in the presence of Madam Mystique. “No, thank you,” I said. “I’m on the hunt for Nathan Moore.”

  “Aw, stay awhile. Let me tell ye what your palm has to say about’cha.”

  “I really can’t, but thank you.”