Strange Encounters

by Jean Pamplin

  “Maybe God’s allowing an asteroid to stop the dark madness in people...make us think, and pray.”

  “I know there is a God. I know you think you believe. But if you were in the future, you would really believe, because He is our only hope!” A.G. looked over. “You got any more questions?”

  “I don’t know what to ask.”

  “Okay then. I’m outta here.”

  ***

  Seconds turned into minutes. Dumfounded, Sally couldn’t believe that A.G. Agee was gone—disappeared. She felt the strain on her wide-open eyes. Bud’s not going to believe this, and he missed it on account of potholes.

  “What are you doing out here by yourself?”

  Sally’s shoulders scrunched together, tiny neck hairs prickled. Her brain recognized the voice, but her body wanted to run. She just didn’t know where, until she turned and with relief, fell into Bud’s arms. “Bud! You do care. You came to find me.”

  A muffled chuckle sounded into her hair. “Of course I did. Potholes are nothing compared to you—besides the meeting got over early.”

  Sally jumped back. “Oh, you.”

  Bud smoothed her hair and drew her back into a tight embrace. “I don’t know why you’re so excited to see me, but I like it.”

  It took awhile for them to peel themselves free of each other, and when they did, Sally’s words describing her meeting with A.G. Agee spilled out like a fast-moving rainstorm.

  Bud’s only reaction was to “V” his eyebrows in obvious concentration.

  “...And, just like that he was gone—back to the future.” Sally paused for breath. “You believe me, don’t you?”

  “I believe you, Sally. I just don’t know how to put into words what I’m thinking. You are talking about a near-future event. The thought of an asteroid hitting earth scares me. Do I believe A.G. can actually change an asteroid’s path? I don’t know.”

  “Nobody is assured of tomorrow. That’s why God gave us abundant life for today.”

  “I’m thinking that praying our socks off is not a bad idea.”

  Sally flashed a pearly white smile in agreement. “God can lift us up, if we’re on our knees.”

  After shutting the barn lights off, the two braved the shadows on the walk back to the cars. Bud was tight against her the whole way. The bumper on his car was just as tight against her car’s fender. There was no way she was leaving without him.

  Sally directed Bud’s attention back toward the faint outline of the old house, then stepped in front of him and gave an exaggerated bow. “Let’s buy this place, Bud.” Her words softened. “Would you marry me and be my farmer husband?”

  Bud’s face paled. He fell to his knees before her. “I will.” He gave a crooked, little kid smile. “Will you promise to go barefoot, wear an apron, and blossom with motherhood?”

  “Are we up to a mid-life crisis like parenthood?”

  “I’ll let you know when we get there.” He sought her hand. “I don’t have a ring.”

  “That’s all right. I can help you pick it out.”

  Bud rubbed his eye. “I love you, Dr. Sally Strange.”

  “I love you, Bud Hubble.” She looked into his misty eyes. “Do you think we’re crazy?”

  “I think the whole world might be crazy, but I know whatever time we have on this planet, I want to share it with you.”

  “Oh, Bud.” This time Sally’s eyes watered and actually dripped toward her happy smile. “Wait until I tell Eloise we’re buying the farm. Brother Joseph can marry us at the Speakeasy.”

  Bud patted her hair, a crazy crooked smile on his face from ear to ear.

  “I already figured out Mazie Grace’s wedding map clues. They’re getting married at the Arboretum. And Misty Dawn will say yes if Brother Joseph ever gets brave enough to propose. BrookLynn and Nelson are gonna make a fortune taking photos.”

  Sally was babbling and couldn’t seem to stop. “I want a naked wedding cake from Sugar High. Who needs frosting when we have each other?”

  Bud’s soft laugh echoed, and the night’s twinkling angel stars joined in the couple’s timeless embrace.

  Enjoy this

  Sneak Peek

  into

  THE ROYAL GLITCH

  (Speakeasy, Collection 1: Book 1)

  Chapter 1

  “LOOK, ANGIE. FACE THE MACHINE head-on. Forget typing. Doesn’t this little beast look like a busty lady dressed in black?” Kelly paused for effect. “I bet my friend Lisa could make this Royal into a Steampunk robot of sorts.” Kelly’s fingers strained to tap the typewriter’s stiff keys hard enough to make an imprint.

  Several steps behind her boss, Angie looked full on. “Well, maybe. She’s a little thick at the waist, but the return lever could be a loose bra strap.” Stashing plus-two reading glasses in an apron pocket, she focused again. “Yeah, maybe,” she agreed before moving to refill a coffee mug.

  “Just remember the boss is always right.” Kelly laughed and continued to punch out words. The blurred letters would make the new coffee tags look antique and legit. The ink might need to be darker though.

  “Hey, Bud,” she hollered at the news editor coming through the door. “Do you think I could ever find a new ribbon for this typewriter?”

  “Fix me a Greta Garbo, heavy on the honey.” Bud called out his order to Angie before strolling toward Kelly. “That’s a cool blast from the past.” He caressed the top of the classy black typewriter.

  “I told Angie this baby was a sweet lady.” Kelly laughed when Bud scowled and pulled his hand back.

  “No, I don’t know anybody who sells new ribbon for something this ancient—female or no. It’s against my better judgment to encourage you in your quest, but Elliott might be able to do something with the ribbon you have. He’s working on a new ink formula to fingerprint more clearly.”

  “Elliott? The guy who helps that squirrely lawyer across town?”

  “That squirrel of a lawyer may gather a few nuts, but I think it’s mostly a ploy to get witnesses to let down their guard. And Elliott’s creative inventions and careful research have contributed to a number of their trial wins.”

  Kelly made a face she hoped was appropriately contrite. “Why doesn’t Elliott use the normal fingerprint ink?”

  “Because he wants indisputable evidence. The microscope contraption he came up with to look at the prints is the best in the county. He’s pretty high tech. Fixed my laptop when nobody else could.”

  “Impressive.” Kelly nodded. “I’ll check with him.” The shabby chic table creaked along with her elbow movement. Lighter shades of paint and spots rubbed raw by overuse added to the antique charm of the surface.

  A dream in action, the Speakeasy’s decor mated eclectic and new alongside comfy old. The typewriter she’d bought at an auction would join other items, maybe upstairs. The Bed and Breakfast rooms being considered would need charming furniture and accessories.

  Kelly surveyed the shop. She’d spent four years on her knees before feeling God’s approval on the investment, and more time than that making the old building useable. Any business was a risk but making a few cents on a cappuccino didn’t allow for much profit. Quitman was a small town, to boot.

  Concrete blocks sealed off what used to be an entrance into the building on the north, once the women’s side of a clothing store that filled two connected buildings. The Speakeasy Coffeehouse occupied what had been the men’s haberdashery. If customer memories were correct, it seemed every East Texas farmer bought his crisp dark or striped denim overalls from a rack near the present counter.

  Thanks to the rich aroma of quality coffee, customers relaxed in front of the exposed brick walls and stayed long enough to bite into a muffin and drink more of the dark brew. The atmosphere encouraged prosperity.

  “What are you doing with that old piece of office equipment anyway?” Bud asked. “Hardly seems worthwhile when our new computers are so efficient.”

  “Oh, sure, I could use the newspaper font, but
there is something about the real thing.” A sheet of white paper wrapped the platen roller and gave a load whir when Kelly pulled. She slid a finger over the blurry type—random nonsense she’d just pecked out. “This lettering is going to make my business cards look more Speakeasy-ish—that’s not a real word, but you get the idea.” She paused. “I love this thing, the sound of it is soothing.”

  “Well, good luck. I’m headed over to the Senior Citizen digs. Bingo today, and I’m in charge. Also have a mind to interview some of the old folks for a human interest piece. The newspaper needs a little more than police reports.”

  “Yes, it does. I’ll bring my ad copy over later. Thanks, Bud.” Kelly pulled her fingers off the keys and flexed them. “Man, this is hard work.”

  Angie picked up the napkin the newspaper editor had set down. “It’s kind of quiet today. Do you think I could leave early? My mom would welcome a few extra minutes free from babysitting the kids.”

  Kelly lifted her nose to get a better whiff of roasting coffee beans and then nodded. “Finish shaking the beans in the oven every minute until they’re toasty brown, then shut down the kitchen. I’ll package the beans before I leave.”

  “Thanks, I really appreciate it. I already put almonds in this batch. They can be ground with the coffee beans. I love that soft almond flavor you came up with.”

  Kelly nodded and went back to her makeshift office. Plans at various times included restoring Quitman’s only Prohibition Era speakeasy. The original establishment claimed to sell soft drinks, but illegal alcohol was available to the customers seeking it. An old stairwell still pushed its way into the coffeehouse space, including another closed doorway that exited on the street side.

  Kelly had prayed any bad spirits off the premises so the building’s shady past wouldn’t cause trouble if and when she finally got around to rehabilitating the second floor.

  A half hour after Angie left, Kelly topped off the last customer’s coffee. Finally, locked and closed for the day, the slight smell of almond and roasted coffee pulled her toward the kitchen. Nose to the tray, she yelped when her fingers touched the edge.

  The pan was still hot, and it flew from her reactive touch. The precious bean cargo slid across the counter. A crash startled her, but it wasn’t the coffee. Thank you, Jesus, not the beans falling to the floor. She cocked her ear…sounded more like it came from the main area.

  “I thought I’d locked up,” she muttered and peeked from the kitchen door. No customers. Maybe a rat. She turned back to the task at hand, only to be halted by a second noise. This time she felt sure it came from the old stairwell. Nobody was supposed to be in there. Like a sneaky thief, Kelly tiptoed through the shadows and pressed her ear against the closed door. The definite sound of arguing prompted a surprised gasp.

  “I told you this old stairway wasn’t safe, Mitzey. Now I’m sitting on my laurels and you’re whining ‘cause your ankle hurts.”

  “It does hurt. And, may I remind you, Maeve, that this is your birthday and you were the one who wanted to come to the Speakeasy, even though you know it’s a questionable place.”

  “Hush. Stanley said we’d better come now ‘cause his dad’s selling the place to some woman. She wants it turned into a high-styling lounge, says the days of the Speakeasy are over. Alcohol is going to be made legal again.”

  “Legal or not, liquor always brings trouble. You’ve gotten us in a jam this time, sweet friend.”

  “Oh, Mitzey, you’re right. Curiosity killed the cat. I just thought if I’m old enough to have a job, I’m old enough to come here.”

  “I knew I should have just gone out with Henry.”

  “You know he’s a dud—and admit it, you wanted some action in your life, too.”

  “We should have come up the back steps. The alley is well lit.”

  “I was trying to be inconspicuous.”

  “Well, now you may have to find the doctor. I can’t even stand without pain.”

  “Mitzey, get up. We can’t go find anyone. Listen to me. You need to get up.”

  “Ouch. Ouch! Don’t jerk my scarf, it’s new. I bought it because I loved the colors.”

  “Fine. I’m going to leave you in this dark hole and go get help.”

  “No! Don’t leave me here!” From outside the door, Kelly heard the panic in—was it Mitzey’s voice? “There are spiders and creepy things.”

  “Fine, let me help you.”

  The thud of something heavy pressed against the wall. Kelly moved back just in time. The stairwell door burst open, spilling two young women and cries of pain into the room.

  Kelly gaped in surprise, but only for a moment.

  “Girls, what are you doing in here?” she demanded. “The Speakeasy is closed.” Confusion and anger edged her voice. “Your costumes are great. Once we’ve discussed your breaking and entering, maybe I’ll let you dress up to advertise the party I’m planning—but really...if you wanted to rob the place, I can assure you, a small-town coffee shop doesn’t make enough money to worry about.”

  “Are you the new woman owner? You don’t look fancy enough, and...pants! You’re wearing pants?”

  Kelly hardly felt obligated to answer the rumpled female but found herself answering anyway. “I am the owner. Who are you?”

  “My name is Maeve. She’s Mitzey.”

  “Oh, my ankle,” the thinner one moaned. “Someone needs to call the doctor.”

  “I think I’ll just call the sheriff.” Kelly’s wrinkled frown spoke volumes.

  Maeve lifted her ample derriere and pushed to her feet. “You can’t throw us out. Stanley told me we could get in without being seen if we used the old stairway, and that’s all we were doing. Stanley’s probably wondering where we’re at. Go check with him.”

  She looked accusingly at Mitzey. “You shouldn’t have worn those new swing shoes.”

  “The heel caught on my scarf. I was trying to pull loose when you bumped into me from behind.”

  Maeve stamped her foot in aggravation. “I did not.”

  “Smashed taters,” Mitzey cried. “You stomped my good foot, Maeve.”

  “I did not.” Maeve moved her foot back.

  “Ladies, please.” Kelly suppressed a panicked giggle. The whole affair felt like a comedy of errors. “Let me help you, Mitzey. Sit here.”

  “Well, at least somebody cares that I’m hurt.” Mitzey gave her friend a condescending look.

  Maeve rolled her eyes.

  “Here, Mabel. Is that your name?” Kelly slid another chair forward.

  “No, I am not a Mabel, I am a Maeve. It rhymes with brave. Mabel wouldn’t be brave enough to sneak into the Speakeasy.”

  “It sounds as if she has good sense. Tell me Stanley’s last name?”

  “Everybody knows Stanley. His daddy owns this place. We heard he was going to sell to some woman, guess that’s you.”

  Irritated, Kelly braced a hand on her hip. “This place was on the demolish list when I bought it, and I put in a lot of time with God before I made that decision. I’ve worked very hard to start this business. I don’t know what you have to gain from this crazy talk, but whatever costume party you were going to, I can assure you, it is not here.”

  “Are you calling my new outfit a costume?” Mitzey’s voice cracked. She adjusted her bright scarf to better show the pink silk beneath. “This outfit cost me a week’s wages.” She flipped the ribbon that accented the lowered waist and flared skirt hem.

  Kelly pressed a shaky hand against her head.

  Maeve patted her dress and sat carefully. She straightened the line on the back of her hose. A sigh of relief followed the inspection. No runs. The silk stockings glistened like new. “Prohibition is ending. The Speakeasy was our last-ditch effort for a Jean Harlow vamp experience.”

  The air conditioner kicked on.

  “What’s that noise?” Mitzey asked, her eyes wide.

  “It’s the cooler, Mitzey. Stanley said they were going to get one. His dad wanted everyone
comfortable while they drank and spent money.”

  Kelly pointed at her chest and accentuated every syllable. “My place...not Stanley’s, nor his dad’s.”

  Mitzey leaned toward Maeve and lowered her voice. “Stanley probably told you whatever it would take to get you here. I’d watch that guy, Maeve. I listen to all the gossip, and he’s not to be trusted. But wait till I tell the girls a woman purchased the Speakeasy, and that she wears pants to boot.”

  Maeve’s eyes widened. “Stanley is just a friend.”

  Mitzey gave a knowing look.

  Kelly ran her fingers through her hair. How can I reach my phone? I need to call the sheriff before these women escape. She evened out her voice. “Everybody’s welcome at the Speakeasy. We even let kids in, and we have a Pilates exercise class for women on Thursdays.”

  “For women? That World War I guy named Pilate meant for his exercise to be used to rehabilitate wounded soldiers.”

  Mitzey’s hair bobbed with an exaggerated head nod. “Mrs. Jones would faint, then tar and feather her husband, the mayor, for allowing such a thing in town. It’s not Christian, you know, for women to bend and move in all those crazy positions.”

  Both girls eyed Kelly with distrust.

  “What are you guys talking about?”

  “You guys?” Maeve asked.

  Mitzey cleared her throat and looked cross-eyed at Maeve. “I think everybody can tell you’re not a guy.”

  “Mitzey, please.” Maeve’s hands automatically covered her ample bosom.

  “Just sayin’.” Mitzey giggled again. “I bet Stanley noticed.”

  Maeve groaned and turned to Kelly. “You said you own the place. We’re paying customers, so where do we go? Apparently the stairwell won’t work for us. But we’re inside now, so take us to the party.”