“Give me the keys.” There was a pleading note hidden between the demanding words and the glower.
Chad stared at her, then at the gray-haired audience inside, and finally at his car. “It’s a stick shift.” A lost art form.
“Perfect.” She breezed past him and slid into the tan leather driver’s seat, leaving Chad no choice but to ride shotgun. She held out her hand for the key fob as soon as his butt hit the stiff leather.
He inserted the key in the ignition. “On cold mornings, she’s a bit touchy going into third gear.” He hoped Tracy wouldn’t grind the clutch. He hoped the B&B wasn’t far away. He hoped he wouldn’t regret coming to Harmony Valley.
“I knew it.” She patted the dashboard and grinned. “Midlife crisis.”
“I’m thirty-five. Too young for a midlife crisis,” Chad grumbled.
“Huh. Makes me wonder...” Tracy swallowed, her grin fading as she forced out the words. “What you’ll drive...when the real crisis hits.” She shoved in the clutch and started the engine with a roar. The grin came back. She backed out competently and sent the car forward without so much as a neck jerk or a grinding gear.
Chad’s apprehension eased. “Why do I get the feeling no one wanted to come with me?”
“Leona is... She’s... You’ll see.” Tracy forced the words out like stale dough through a noodle press.
“Are there a lot of young singles in town?” The place didn’t look like it had much nightlife.
She laughed and came to a stop at the intersection of the large, deserted town square. It had a broad expanse of grass and a huge oak tree with a single, wrought-iron bench beneath it. Tracy glanced at him with those clear blue eyes that seemed to see so much. “Agnes is single. Rose is single. Mildred is single. Eunice, too.” She smiled at her listing of old ladies. “Need I go on?”
“Please don’t.” He fought off the thought that he’d slipped back into his parents’ world. No nightlife. No metropolitan eclectic energy. A pace slower than frozen molasses. All these old people. They’d get sick. They’d drift mentally. They’d die. They’d leave behind friends and family with holes in their chests that nothing seemed to fill.
Suddenly, Chad didn’t want to be here. He gripped the seatbelt strap across his chest.
Oblivious to his need to flee, Tracy turned right and continued to drive his car as if it was her own—a bit fast, banking into the turns. It was oddly relaxing—the ride, her youth, the way her hair dipped and tumbled in the breeze. His grip on the strap eased.
“Where’d you learn to drive a stick?” Few people had the skill anymore. His dad had taught him to drive a manual transmission on his 1967 Ford Mustang.
“First, a farm tractor. Then Mildred’s Volkswagen Beetle.” Tracy made another right and slowed down through a residential district.
Single-story ranches and Craftsman-style homes. Dirty windows and peeling paint. Empty driveways and neglected yards. Many seemed abandoned.
The neighborhood was an afterthought relative to the puzzling woman next to him. “Have you always struggled to get the words out?”
Tracy slammed on the brakes, sending the tires squealing, even though they hadn’t been going faster than twenty miles an hour. She gripped the steering wheel and turned to glare at him. “I had an accident.” And then she lifted her gossamer blond hair, revealing a ropey scar on her skull. “I have...expressive aphasia. I’m trying to be normal.”
Chad was beginning to think Tracy wasn’t normal. She was extraordinary.
An aluminum screen door screeched on protesting hinges. An elderly woman stepped out on her front porch in a pink chenille bathrobe and white tennis shoes. Her short gray hair stuck into the air as if she’d rubbed her head against a balloon. “Everything okay, Tracy?”
“Yes, Mrs. Beam.” Tracy glared at Chad, but her voice was sweet as sugar, and didn’t sound forced.
“I could call the sheriff for you,” the old woman said.
“We’re fine, Mrs. Beam.”
“Okay, dearie.” Mrs. Beam went back inside. Her screen door groaned as if it belonged in a haunted house, and then banged shut.
Tracy put Chad’s car in gear and continued slowly down the street.
It was time for a change of subject. “So your brother owns the winery. Do they make good wine?”
“Is your car fast?”
That was a good sign. “Do wine lovers come from miles around to taste their wine?”
“No. They only...soft launched.” She turned to the left and parked in front of a forest green Victorian with white trim and an expansive lawn.
Chad was used to seeing narrow painted ladies in San Francisco’s Cow Hollow district, but this house was easily three times the width of one of those classics. “Impressive.” Why hadn’t the Lambridge Bed & Breakfast turned up on his internet search? It had a great location. It couldn’t have been more than a ten minute walk from downtown. He hoped it was as nice inside as it was out.
Chad made to open his door.
Tracy put her hand on his arm, stopping him. Her touch was soft, personal when Chad had lived an impersonal life for years. “Don’t hurt them.”
“Who?”
“The people here.” She gestured back the way they’d come and then she fixed him with a warning stare. “You’re the Happy Bachelor. Well... Your columns aren’t happy. They’re...they’re...mean.” She made a frustrated noise, slapped her palms against the steering wheel as if unhappy with her words, and then added, “Malicious.”
Chad fell back against the seat. The September sunlight fought its way through the brown and curling elm leaves, but didn’t warm him.
She’d seen his columns. People usually responded in one of two ways to his travel reviews in the Lampoon—love ’em or hate ’em. Put Tracy in the hate column.
Chad’s instinct was to laugh Tracy off, or to tell her to mind her own business, but something about her scar, the way she spoke and perhaps even the way she defended the elderly made him take a different approach. “I don’t attack anyone personally. I write things the way I see them using the irony of truth.”
“They won’t understand.” There was an entreaty in her voice, if not in her eyes, which still promised retribution if he hurt the people in town.
Chad didn’t care if the locals understood or not. Having been raised by parents the age of his peers’ grandparents, he was tired of making concessions for the elderly. This was his time. He’d live life and write columns his way and enjoy doing it. And yet, he didn’t snap at Tracy. “You don’t sugarcoat anything, do you?”
“I can’t.” She opened her door with jerky movements. “Not anymore.” She popped the trunk for him, peering inside at his laptop bag, his travel bag and the box from the office, flaps folded and sealed.
Taking his suitcase and his laptop bag, Chad followed Tracy up the grand walk. Huge trees, lush shrubbery and not a weed in sight. The windows gleamed and reflected the late morning sun.
The front door was open, but the proprietor seemed as closed off as the pilot’s lounge at an airport. Salt and pepper beehive hair. A blue dress that hung awkwardly off her bony frame. And an air about her that said, “Thou shalt not hug. Ever.”
Chad couldn’t blame the others at the bakery for not wanting to come here. The place and the proprietor were intimidating. Why on earth was this woman running a bed & breakfast?
The proprietress opened the door wider to let him in. The hinges didn’t creak, didn’t groan, didn’t even whisper. It just seemed as if they should have. “Welcome to Harmony Valley. I’m Leona Lambridge.”
Queen of all she surveyed.
She surveyed Chad and, with a turn of her nose, found him wanting. “And welcome to the Lambridge Bed & Breakfast. I’ll show you to your room.” She held a stop-sign hand toward Tracy. “You may wait outs
ide.”
Chad wondered if Tracy’s request to go easy on folks in town extended to Queen Leona.
He doubted it.
“I’ll walk back.” Tracy handed Chad his car keys and then shoved her hands in her tan jacket pockets and headed to the street. The town’s young protector may look waifish on the outside, but Chad suspected she had a core of steel. That scar...
“Mr. Healy.” A royal summons.
Chad turned, and crossed the threshold. The bed & breakfast had been decorated in period style. Antiques. Gilded mirrors. Ceiling medallions. It was spectacular. It smelled cleaner than a hospital room.
“I’m trying a new check-in procedure.” For a moment, the ice queen’s demeanor cracked. “I must find you tolerable and you must agree to pay me with cash or check at the end of your stay.” She gave him a nightly rate he deemed acceptable.
“I’ve got cash.”
“You’ll do.” Her expression turned icily regal once more. She led him to the grand staircase, her back as rigid as a British royal guard.
The floors creaked, but everything was clean. The stairs groaned, but the wood was so shiny Chad could almost see himself in the reflection. When they reached the second-floor landing, the house rattled as softly as a whisper and settled with a sigh, as if it’d been empty too long. It was the most welcome Chad had felt since arriving.
Leona made a noise that seemed disapproving and opened the first door. “This is your bathroom.”
The horror. Chad had to share a bathroom with other guests. The normal traveler would view this as a mark against the place. Chad looked forward to the stories sharing a bathroom with fellow guests would bring. Of course, the stories would have been better if the bathroom wasn’t first-rate. White on white, from the claw-foot tub to the pedestal sink to the penny floor tile and grout. Not a crack or a chip or a stain anywhere.
Leona walked farther down the hall, opening the second door. “And this is your room.”
Chad set his suitcase in the corner. He could tango in that room, even with a king-size four-poster bed and a simple cherry desk and matching chair. The southern-facing window let in generous amounts of sunlight. “This is nice.”
“Nice?” Leona drew back as if she’d smelled the Poop Monster. “Two presidential candidates have slept in this room.” Said with pride and a bit of prickle, as in, “And you, young man, are no presidential candidate.”
As hotel proprietors went, Leona was among the most unwelcome. But that didn’t mean the experience of staying here wouldn’t be first-rate. There was that decadent hotel in Cancun run by a guy who didn’t like anyone. And that luxury hotel in the Rockies. The manager there had carried a shotgun everywhere, safety off. A little bristle in hotel staff added character. Maybe Harmony Valley was worth the trip after all.
“Do I need a password for the internet?” Assuming there was internet.
“The entire town has the interweb. No password required.” Leona may have been shorter than he was, but she still managed to look down her nose at him. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to post something on the Facebook.”
Her comment explained why there was no website for the bed & breakfast. Chad kept his expression carefully neutral. “I suppose.”
“Breakfast is between eight and eight-thirty.” Leona walked toward the door, her steps as crisp and sharp as her words. “Eight and eight-thirty only.”
So rigid. He’d rather eat breakfast at Martin’s Bakery. “I’ll need a key.”
“To your room?” She paused in the open doorway, not even bothering to turn around.
“Yes. And the front door.”
“No.” She closed him in. Her heels echoed in the hallway.
“Not to either?” he called after her, receiving no answer. That’s when he noticed there wasn’t a lock on his door handle.
Chad smiled, got out his tablet and began making notes.
CHAPTER FOUR
“WHAT ARE YOU doing here, Sunshine?” Standing in the barn doorway, Tracy’s dad tugged off his work gloves.
“I need to paint.” Every nerve ending in Tracy’s body crackled with tension. Above her, farm tools hung—shovels, hoes, scythes, pitchforks. She indulged a quick fantasy where she chased handsome, villainous Chad out of town with a pitchfork. But fantasies couldn’t calm the need to do something, to change something, to make her mark.
She dug through some cans from the stack that was butted up against the wood wall, trying to decide what colors to use. Since the accident, Tracy painted when she was frustrated. She’d painted the small bedroom she’d grown up in—black walls and ceiling were a backdrop to a colorful, fanciful garden. She’d painted the outside walls of the barn—tomato red with rows of crops along the bottom. Who knew what she’d paint today. Or where.
“Everything okay?” As he came closer, the worry in her father’s voice was palpable. It echoed in the large wooden barn and plucked the guilt chord inside Tracy.
She hated that she made him worry. “I need to paint.” She faced her father, holding her hand out in the same way Leona had to her earlier. Her frustrations rattled unspoken words in her head—helpless, powerless, weak. But she didn’t try to give them voice, because to try to get the words out would just make her feel more incompetent.
If only she could conquer her speech challenges, everything would be all right. The town council wouldn’t dismiss her attempt at saving them. People like Chad wouldn’t ask what was wrong with her. She’d have employers knocking down her door.
“What’s the matter?” Ben Jackson stood as sturdy as ever in a brown corduroy jacket, dirty blue jeans and mud-caked work boots. His blond hair was thinning and faded with gray. Hurt filled his blue eyes. “Do you want to call Will or Emma?”
She shook her head. Her brother, Will, had married her best friend, Emma, last weekend. They were on a three-week honeymoon in Europe. “I. Need. To. Paint.” Oh, the pain of sounding like a slow, broken record. The leaves blowing across the driveway outside moved faster than her sentences.
“Didn’t that last speech therapist say you needed to use your words, not hold them in by painting?” Her father disregarded Tracy’s attempt at boundary setting and drew her into his arms. He smelled of corn husks and dirt. The comforting smells of her childhood.
Tracy squeezed her eyes shut and clung to him, fighting the frustration of Leona’s rejection and the nebulous threat that was Chad. She wanted to be the town motormouth. She wanted to shout streams of words with barely a breath in between.
Dad patted her back. “Let it out, Sunshine.”
In her father’s arms, she was safe. He was her magical rabbit’s foot. The words spilled forth easier than if she stood alone. “I want to be able to argue again.”
“With Will?”
“No.” She rested her cheek on Dad’s shoulder and stared at her great-grandfather’s tractor. Life would be so much easier if she didn’t want anything, if she didn’t long for more. “I want to argue with everyone.”
Her father chuckled. “So like your mother.” He kissed the top of her head. “Impatient. Railing at the world.”
She admired so many things about her dad—his work ethic, his ability to keep Mom relevant, his refusal to hold Tracy during a phone interview she’d had last month. She’d wanted his arms around her so she could talk smoothly. He’d argued, “They have to want you for who you are, warts and all.”
Tracy sighed. “I’d love to rail at the mayor and the town council and Leona and Chad.” Why couldn’t she say a sentence like that when she stood alone?
“Chad who? I don’t know any Chad.” Oh, how overly protective Dad got when it came to Tracy and men.
“A travel writer who came to the bakery today.” She batted his shoulder playfully, willing herself to lighten up, too. “He makes fun of people for a living. N
o one would listen when I tried to warn them.”
“A bully.” Dad’s tone mellowed. “You never had much patience for bullies. And if people don’t listen, it’s their fault.” He put his hands on her shoulders and set her away from him. “You weren’t meant to be a coffee barista, Tracy. You weren’t meant to hold on to your dad to be able to get words out. You need to knuckle down and figure this thing out.”
“Dad.” Were all parents the voice of one’s conscience? Tracy knew he was right. She needed to take charge of her life, but she was tired of failing, tired of the grand series of experiments to help her regain verbal normalcy. So she said sullenly, “The doctor recommended I slow down.” Like it was the doctor’s orders that she return to Harmony Valley and keep her mouth shut? She did a mental eye roll. It wasn’t as if she’d pulled a muscle and it needed rest.
“The last doctor you saw told you to slow down and find a job you love. That was months ago.” Dad checked his watch and glanced outside. The days were getting shorter and he always had a lot to do around the farm. “Don’t use me as a crutch. Use that fancy phone of yours to find work that’ll make you happy.”
She’d be happy to land a job that didn’t require a verbal interview. Was that too much to ask?
* * *
THERE WERE NO other guests at the B&B. No cars in the driveway or out back. The big house was silent. No murmur of voices. No scuffle of feet.
If Chad had been a nervous man—the kind that watched too many horror films—he’d have been...well...nervous. Nice quiet town. Welcoming residents. Prickly bed & breakfast owner. No lock on the door. It was a perfect setup for a clichéd slasher film, right down to the pretty girl leaving him at the front door.
But Chad wasn’t nervous. He was driven to overcome the humiliation and betrayal of his father and the Lampoon’s board.
In order to launch his travel review site successfully, he needed interesting places and interesting characters. And he needed them the day after the Harvest Festival, when the advertisers he’d lined up expected his website to go live. So far, Harmony Valley had interesting characters in spades. Inspired, he went in search of his hostess, poking his head in every sterile room downstairs until he found her in the vegetable garden tucked into a corner of the back yard.
A Man of Influence Page 4
