At Home in Mossy Creek

by Deborah Smith

  Trouble.

  I stood quickly. So did Philippe, who was seated close, probably too close, beside me. The confident way he brushed against me was such a simple gesture, yet how territorial. Men. It’s a wonder they don’t crane their heads and charge each other like mad bulls.

  “Chief Royden,” I said gracefully. “I’m glad you dropped by. Just checking to see if I’m mistreating our guests? Other than luring them into a poker game, I’d say I’ve kept them all in good stead.”

  Amos studied Philippe and offered a warning. “If you’re going to play games with Ida you’d better know that the mayor likes to bluff.”

  “Only when the stakes are high,” I countered.

  “Aren’t they always?” Philippe countered, smiling.

  Camille continued to gaze at Amos dreamily. “Oh, Monsieur Police Chief, you’re so . . . so suave and enigmatic, yes, just like Rhett Butler. Are you terribly overwhelmed with girlfriends? I suppose so. A pity. I would gladly stay here for your sake.”

  I wouldn’t say Amos was flummoxed but he did open and close his mouth as if uncertain what to say to that declaration. If we’d been on friendlier terms I’m sure he would have looked to me for help, but he’s not stupid. He opened and closed his mouth one more time and was finally saved from having to respond by Philippe’s quick intervention. “My daughter is a fan of Gone With The Wind. She sees romantic ideals everywhere.”

  “I see. Well, I’m honored then,” Amos said to Camille, who blushed deep pink.

  “Good for her,” I added, though my heart was on the floor. Give Camille ten years and she’d be a perfectly mature age to marry Amos on his forty-sixth birthday. I, on the other hand, would be testing my latest bifocals and smearing extra sunscreen on my liver spots. “No harm in romantic ideals. As I always say to cynics: Fiddle dee dee.”

  Camille gaped at me then applauded. “Scarlett O’Hara! You are Scarlett!”

  Oh, no. I’d been sucked into her fantasy world and paired with Amos in literary romance. Quick. Bluff.

  “Hardly. But thank you.” I smiled as I strode to Amos, hooking one hand around his elbow like a steel claw. “Chief, I appreciate you checking in on us, but I’m sure you have lots of other folks to visit. So let me fix you some coffee and a bag of homemade cheese straws. To go.”

  Amos gave me a slit-eyed smile, didn’t budge an inch, then looked at Philippe. “One more thing. The mayor’s left eyebrow twitches when she gets a good hand.”

  “I noticed,” Philippe replied.

  Amos kept smiling. Except for his eyes. The man was no longer pleased. Time to go. I hauled on his arm to get him moving.

  “He noticed? He already noticed? As if he needs no advice about you? As if he has everything under control?” Amos whispered as I tugged him down a back hall into the kitchen. “Pepe Le Pew is making himself right at home.”

  I hissed. “That’s low, Amos. A French cartoon skunk? You’re better than that.”

  “I’m out of dignified approaches where you’re concerned. Besides he’s a juggler for God’s sake. How dignified is that?”

  As we stepped into the kitchen his gaze fell to my hand. I was massaging his arm through his jacket, soothing him. I let go quickly. “If you’re making insinuations, take a ticket and get in line. Del’s already dropped a couple of insulting comments about Philippe.”

  “Good for Del. For once, we agree.”

  “I won’t have a guest in my home treated rudely.”

  “Except for me apparently. I doubt Philippe Chu cares what Del and I think about him. He’s too busy softening you up.”

  “I’ve already got two bull-headed men causing me grief. Why would I add a third?”

  “Good point. Don’t forget it.”

  “Just for the record, Philippe Chu’s almost a grandfather. His daughter-in-law, Lien, just found out she’s pregnant. Believe it or not, he’s sixty-one years old.”

  “You say that as if it means something. You label yourself by age, you label him, you label me. As if age defines us. You know what I see? I see you with a man his age and I think: That’s my competition. That’s the kind of man Ida thinks she should be with.”

  “I’m practical. And realistic.”

  “You’re blind. Chu could put you in his juggling act and you wouldn’t even need a rehearsal. “He nodded to himself. “Yep, you could give him lessons in juggling. You’ve been doing that for so long I’m not sure you know how to stop and hold on to anything.”

  I grabbed a bowl of cheese straws and fiercely shoved handfuls into a paper lunch bag. “Time for you to go, Chief. You’re on duty. Here.” I tucked the bag in his jacket’s deep side pocket because he made no move to take them from me and I couldn’t win a staring contest with him. Not at the moment. So I made the moment about the cheese straws. That seemed safe.

  “Yes, I know. It’s not ethical for you to take even the smallest, most innocent gifts from your Creekite citizenry; your father carried off a few too many homemade cakes from attentive local women and so you automatically want to turn down even a bag of well-intentioned cheese straws. But you’re not Battle and I’m not trying to get you to fix a traffic ticket for me. So take the damned cheese straws and go. Have a nice day.”

  He didn’t.

  “Ida, it’s nice to see you value me so highly. I get cheese straws and a cold shoulder to leave. Cheese straws wouldn’t have bought you squat with Battle. What’d he get to put you in the Mayor’s chair?”

  “Nothing.” This time I stared him down for all I was worth. “Your father made his own decision to support my first run for mayor at a time when a lot of people said no woman—let alone one as young as I was then—could lead Mossy Creek. After I won that first election he stood up at my swearing-in ceremony and told everyone he was proud to be my police chief. I felt like the only cowgirl at the rodeo and here was John Wayne, telling everybody the little lady could punch cows as well as any man. Because of Battle’s endorsement, all the grumbling old-timers gave me a chance. He might not have been perfect, but he was fair and honorable where it counted most.”

  “You didn’t grow up with a mother who cried every time Battle brought home some other woman’s pound cake because sometimes a pound cake wasn’t just a pound cake.”

  “I know he wasn’t a perfect husband or father. But you’re not him, Amos, so you’ve got nothing to prove. Not to me. Why are we having this discussion?”

  “Because you won’t have the one we need to have.”

  “There isn’t anything to discuss. And even if there were, arguing ethics isn’t helping your case. As mayor, I’m your boss. I have my code of ethics, just as you do. I’m thinking of your reputation as well as mine. Why aren’t you concerned about the conflict of interest issue?”

  “Because I’ll always do my job by the book, no matter what our relationship is. People know they can count on me. I’ve arrested you enough times to prove myself to them. Are you worried I’ll sue you for sexual harassment?” He leaned forward as if he had a secret, never took his gaze from mine. He lowered his voice. “Tell you what. I’ll make the first move. Then you’re safe. You can’t harass a man who’s ready . . . willing . . . and able.” He slid a hand to the nape of my neck. “Come on, Ida. Go for it.”

  The universe swallowed every sound in that moment. Every sound except the loud click of a French clock on the wall. It was time passing, passing me by, reminding me that this was such a bad idea. All of that and more in every tick. The deep breath I took almost hurt because it was like breathing in the earth when Amos was this close. So solid. So real. So risky. “Please, Amos. Just go.”

  He started to say something else, frowned deeply, then shook his head and walked out. After I heard the heavy click of my double front doors shut behind him, I followed wearily up the front hall. Oh, Amos. You always leave me feeling weak-kn
eed and deprived. I want to be with you so much.

  Just as I expected, I found the bag of cheese straws on a small marble table in the foyer, where he’d left them.

  Peggy

  MARCEL AND I SPENT Saturday ambling around town. He bought me lunch at Mama’s, we browsed the bookstore, then spent the afternoon sipping lattes at The Naked Bean. He flirted innocently with Bean owner Jayne Reynolds, who was close to his age. Jayne is a solemn, pretty young widow with a small child to raise, but Marcel had her blushing and tossing her hair wantonly. Word spread by osmosis, and soon at least half the women in Mossy Creek found some excuse to drop by the coffee shop.

  By the time Marcel and I strolled back to my house I was exhausted just from watching other women fall all over themselves. “You’re a wonder,” I told him.

  He smiled. “I like women. I respect them. I adore them. They respond.” He grabbed my hand and tugged me into the back yard. “Plenty of time to swing before dark!”

  Having a professional circus performer put up a swing is rather like having I.M. Pei design and build a tree house. Marcel leapt atop the swing, spreading his feet wide and gracefully rocking in a high arc. I felt certain the sturdily orchestrated project qualified for an F. H. A. loan. I was also certain it would not break or splinter the limb and dump Josie on her head. As a matter of fact, it would probably not dump Hulk Hogan on his head should he swing in it.

  “So, Madame.” Marcel bounded to earth then graciously pointed toward the seat of the swing. “Your turn.”

  “No way. You do it some more.”

  So he did.

  All the remembered joy of childhood came back to me as I watched him haul back on the chains—neatly covered by non-slip rubber, by the way, to avoid burning Josie‘s tender hands or breaking her grip. He pumped higher and higher, flying way over my head. If he were to fall from that height, he’d break his neck.

  Finally, he reached the apex of the swing. For a nano-second the chains lifted past taut so that he soared free before the arc caught him again and he swung back to earth.

  “Marcel, please be careful!”

  He grinned over his shoulder on the way by.

  “Marcel, let the cat die!”

  “What?”

  “Let the cat die, dammit!”

  “Why do you wish to kill a cat?” he asked as he caught his feet on the ground and stopped.

  “Haven’t you ever heard that? It means let the swing slow down and stop. I didn’t know I even remembered that.”

  “I am happy that you intend no harm to your cats. Now, please, you try.”

  I sat gingerly down on the wooden seat. It was broad enough to support a four-year-old’s rump, but barely broad enough for mine.

  I began to swing carefully, holding on for dear life. How long since I had done this? When Marilee was a baby, probably. When I was still young enough not to worry so much about danger or breaking things or making a fool of myself.

  “It’s lovely,” I said after a few tentative passes.

  Louise

  SATURDAY AFTERNOON, Lisa joined Charlie and me in a tonic water when he came home from a chilly game of golf. The man will play in a blizzard. Our cool, clear winter day didn’t give him the slightest pause. I offered Lisa some gin in her drink but she politely refused. She and a few of her fellow performers would be demonstrating their talents in the brand-new gym at Mossy Creek High School that evening.

  Governor Ham Bigelow, who is Mayor Ida’s nephew, had finally come through with the funds for the school, thanks to some creative arm-twisting and even, it was rumored, outright blackmail. The gym was a jewel, but somehow there wasn’t enough money in Ham’s budget to restore the football field, a legendary relic from the old high school, which burned down decades ago. A lot of Creekites, including yours truly, suspect the governor’s stalling on the football field funds because his hometown team, in Bigelow, doesn’t want to lose several powerhouse players who live in Mossy Creek. But that’s another story.

  At any rate, after a long procrastination on the part of Governor Bigelow, the school was scheduled to open in the fall. The gym hadn’t yet been painted inside, and its parking lot was a pot-holed construction site, but nothing could keep eager Creekites away. A recently formed booster club was already raising money for clubs and sports teams. The owner of Cirque d’Europa, Mr. Polaski, had volunteered the demonstration and was also making a donation to the school.

  “Fine people, you theatrical folks,” Charlie said, beaming at Lisa. Charlie was enchanted. Smitten. She was charming to him, but I could see that yesterday’s talk about his dependence on me had colored her view. She kept assessing him even while she was listening raptly to a play-by-play of his last nine holes.

  “Would you like to watch us perform tonight?” she asked Charlie. “We won’t have costumes, but have a CD with our music.”

  “Of course!” I said. I didn’t even give Charlie a chance to respond. I didn’t have to. He was already grabbing his coat and car keys.

  Hannah

  SATURDAY AFTERNOON, which happened to be my day off, Dave Crogan dangled something in front of me that smelled like anchovies and had spookily staring eyes. “Trust me,” he said with a smirk.

  We were sitting on a blanket at the town park, with his camera tripod anchoring one end and a picnic basket anchoring the other. He’d spent half the morning shooting while we’d all watched, but Rachel and Monique had disappeared through the woods in search of the fish pond, so it was just he and I right now.

  Despite a sweater and a heavy wool coat, I was freezing my behind off on this admittedly sunny February day, but Scotsman that Dave was, he didn’t seem to notice the cold. He’d even removed his leather jacket, leaving him in a heather-gray sweater that made his eyes sparkle like sleet on slate.

  He waved the kipper at me again, and I winced.

  “Chickening out already?” he quipped.

  Oh, he had no idea. Last night at my house, we’d spent hours talking, but the more fun he and I had together, the more worried I got. This was happening sort of fast. After the steady, safe life I’d grown used to, I felt like sharp objects were flying past me right and left, and one false move would get me skewered. Especially since Dave was probably leaving town in a few weeks or even days. He’d spent only a month in Provence, after all.

  “Come on,” he coaxed, “just a bite.”

  “Where did you get that thing anyway?” I asked, stalling for time as I looked the kipper over, suddenly queasy.

  “Your mayor was kind enough to stock some at the Hamilton Inn.” He grinned. “She said she wanted to make me feel at home.”

  “You knew that when you laid down this challenge, didn’t you?”

  “Of course.” He waved the fish under my nose again. “Remember, I did eat your pizza.”

  “Hey, you said you liked my pizza!”

  “I did. Smoked turkey breast, Vidalia onion, and asiago cheese—how could I not? And you’ll like this, too, I swear. They taste much like sardines, and as I recall, you said that you liked sardines.”

  “I do, but they don’t have eyes when I eat them.”

  He laughed. “Americans are such hypocrites. You eat steak and chicken, but God forbid you should be reminded that they come from living creatures. At least we Scots aren’t afraid to stare a fish in the eye as we devour him.”

  He had a point. “You still haven’t tried the peanut butter and ketchup,” I said peevishly, picking up one of the wrapped sandwiches Rachel had insisted on including in our picnic basket.

  “All right, we’ll do it together. I’ll even hide the kipper eyes if you like.” Separating a piece of kipper from the head, he held the portion up to my mouth as I broke off a quarter of a sandwich. “On the count of three,” he said. “One, two . . .”

  He put the kipper
in my mouth, and I put the sandwich in his. We chewed. For several seconds.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Tastes like chicken,” I joked, though he was right—it was much like sardines. “What do you think of the pb and k?”

  “Not bad.” When I started to smile, he said, “Not great, but it’s more edible than I expected.”

  “I like the kippers,” I broke down and admitted. “They’re salty, and I’m a sucker for salty.”

  I licked my lips, and his eyes followed the motion like a compass needle swinging north. Suddenly it wasn’t about the food anymore. He’d scooted closer to feed me the kipper, and now his crossed legs pressed against mine, reminding me that we were alone. That we were touching. That this was a date. Sort of.

  Apparently he realized all of that, too, because he reached up to brush a fleck of kipper from my chin before letting his fingers stray along my jaw. “More?” he rasped.

  “More what?” I managed to choke out.

  “Kippers.”

  Did I imagine it or was his breath coming faster? Lord knows I was having plenty of trouble breathing myself. “No.”

  “Something else, then,” he murmured, before sliding his hand to the back of my neck. “Something like this.”

  Then he kissed me. Right there in the park under the trees in the middle of town.

  Like any good first kiss, it started small and soft and warm. But it rapidly turned bigger and harder and way hotter, until it made me remember exactly why I’d avoided dating. Because being this intimate with a man again was almost too much to stand. Especially when I didn’t know where it was going, and how long it would last.

  Neither did he, apparently, judging from how he jerked back, then cast me a remorseful glance, his eyes the smoky gray of ashes. “Hannah, there’s something I should tell you before this goes any further.”

  “You’re married.”

  He looked startled. “No, of course not.”

  “Of course not?” Then I groaned. “Ohhh, you mean you’re too young to be married.”