A Man of Influence

by Melinda Curtis

  Leona wore a broad-rimmed straw hat and had changed from her dress into shapeless blue jeans and a long-sleeve blue chambray shirt. She looked healthy. She hadn’t lost any of her mobility, or—it seemed—her intellect. His mother had been like this when he was in college—stubborn, independent, set in her routine.

  Chad hated routine.

  “You’ve got quite the green thumb.” Chad sat on a wood bench in the shade of a towering pine tree near the back fence. The wind rustled through the needles above him. He snapped a picture of the house with his phone.

  Leona didn’t acknowledge him in the slightest. Hale and hearty, she dug her trowel in the rich brown soil and popped out a weed, root and all. Her garden was ripe for the harvest—red tomatoes, green bell peppers, green onions and several white gourds.

  He decided to test how long and sharp her thorns were. “I hope tomorrow’s breakfast includes a vegetable omelet.”

  “You’ll get a meal between eight and eight-thirty, Mr. Healy.” She was as brambly as the blackberry vine in the corner. She continued weeding.

  Chad tried again. “There’s no television in my room.”

  She dug at a clump of crab grass. “There’s no television in the house.”

  Leona was a gift from heaven. His readers were going to love her. Already, Chad could see guys booking the Lambridge B&B months in advance. They’d line up to spar with Leona.

  “Do you need something, Mr. Healy?” Down on all fours, Leona glanced at him with a balance of cool rejection and regal regard.

  That look said it all. He took a picture of her.

  Leona got to her feet quicker than a fighter after an unexpected knock-down. “Did you just take my picture?”

  “Yes, I—”

  “Perverts and pornographers are not tolerated in this establishment.” She gathered her garden tools with jerky movements. “I’ll expect you off the premises immediately.”

  “But...I...” He wasn’t sure how he’d offended her with a photo. Was Leona in the witness protection program? Did she believe pictures captured her soul? “I’m a travel writer. I include pictures of hotel clerks and bed & breakfast owners in my columns.”

  She waved aside his statement. “Your profession guarantees me nothing. You can’t snap a picture of me bent over...” Her face reddened. “I will not have my...my...derriere—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down.” He brought Leona’s image to his screen and hurried to her side. “Look. I took a picture of your face.” The queen from another century looking down her nose on her progressive subjects.

  She scrutinized the photo and then said somewhat meekly—because she could never truly be meek. “Oh.”

  “I would never disrespect you in such a way.” And then he added, hiding a grin, “Ma’am.”

  She sniffed. “Best you remember that or you’ll find yourself out on the street.”

  Harmony Valley was turning out to be gold. Chad couldn’t wait to uncover more gems. He left Leona and headed toward the town square to do some treasure hunting.

  * * *

  THERE WAS LITTLE more demoralizing than applying for a job you had little chance of getting.

  Tracy had a job search app on her phone. She used it to find two new postings for advertising copywriters in Northern California. A few clicks later and her résumé was submitted.

  “Two,” she called to her father, who was tinkering under the hood of his old white farm truck.

  He wiped oil from a wrench with a blue cloth. “Are you happy? I won’t be happy until you’re happy.”

  “I’d rather be painting,” she grumbled, heading up the drive.

  Dad slammed the hood shut. “You know I love you just the way you are.”

  Of course he did. But lately, he was like her brother, Will—pushing, trying to set goals for Tracy, wanting her to reach higher. Her family didn’t want her to settle for silence.

  Truth be told, Tracy didn’t either. If only getting back on track wasn’t so hard.

  She reached the end of the driveway and turned toward the Harmony River bridge and town, pausing to pluck a dandelion from the side of the road. She’d been making wishes on dandelions since she was a girl.

  A few minutes later, Tracy leaned on the railing of the bridge and watched the water drift past. That shallow river was like her life. At an all time low and moving slow.

  How was she supposed to get a job when she couldn’t string a fluent sentence together out loud?

  A faded green Buick pulled up next to her. Mildred rolled down the passenger window in front, her thick glasses nearly resting on her plump pink cheeks. Rose slid across the seat in back and cranked down the other window. Her snow white ballerina chignon had not one hair out of place.

  “We’re off to the doctor’s office,” Mildred announced. “Agnes wants to know if you need anything in town.”

  Agnes leaned over the center console and waved. “Isn’t Chad wonderful?”

  “And he’s not wearing a ring,” Rose sing-songed.

  They were trying to fix her up with the wolf in sheep’s clothing? “Not interested. Have you read...his column?”

  It was their turn to lack interest.

  “A hardworking, good-looking man,” Agnes said. “Who needs to read his column?”

  “Don’t set the bar too high,” Mildred advised with a kindly squint in Tracy’s direction. “We don’t get many bachelors your age up here.”

  “Better snatch him up quickly.” Rose nodded sagely. “You don’t want to be an old maid.”

  “I’m twenty-six.” Hardly over the hill. And certainly not stupid enough to fall for a man who made his living writing a bachelor column.

  “We could give you dating pointers.” Agnes chuckled, perhaps realizing how ridiculous Tracy might find that statement. Perhaps not.

  The three town council ladies drove away.

  If Tracy controlled her aphasia, she’d clue everyone in to Chad’s intentions. If Tracy controlled her aphasia, she’d get out of town. And she needed to get out of town or she’d be an old maid. So she needed to control her aphasia.

  She’d been twirling the dandelion. She blew its seeds into the wind and began singing softly. And then louder, forcing the words out, which only made her stumble more.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SOMEONE WAS SINGING the alphabet song. Someone who wasn’t five. Someone who hesitated over the letters.

  Recognizing that voice, Chad smiled, quickening his pace as he approached a curve in the road.

  She’s not the story.

  He ignored the voice that usually guided him to the good stuff.

  “Now I know my...ABCs.” There was a pause and then a strangled, “Next time. Won’t you. Sing with me.” Tracy made a frustrated sound and shouted, “Nuts!”

  Chad rounded the bend. Tracy was leaning over a rail on a bridge. She had her back to him and gripped the railing as if considering launching herself over it.

  “Don’t jump,” he shouted, grinning because he didn’t believe she planned to leap to her doom.

  “There is no place...” she hung her head “...private in this town.”

  “You could try working on your speech therapy at home.”

  “I live above the bakery.” Her cheeks bloomed with color and she shuffled her sneakered feet. She looked as if she wanted to teleport to another dimension. “The walls have ears.”

  The bridge was a narrow two-laner with a silver metal railing. It spanned forty feet. Both banks were thick with foliage and trees that created a shady oasis. But in the center of the bridge it was sunny and Tracy’s hair was almost as yellow as the T-shirt beneath her tan jacket.

  Again, he recognized this wasn’t the story he needed. Again, he walked toward Tracy, stepping onto the bridge.
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  She eyed him expectantly, waiting for him to say something.

  “You have a nice singing voice.” He should have kept silent. Silence had served him well at the Lampoon. Silence created spaces others rushed to fill. But silence lacked the smiles and laughter and jokes he’d missed. “It’s the truth.” May as well fill the hole he was digging with her with something.

  “Truth?” Tracy fixed him with a look that said she recognized what he was filling that hole with. “You introduced yourself as Chad Healy. Not Chad Healy Bostwick.”

  “Healy is my legal name. My mom was angry with my dad the day I was born. She left his name off the birth certificate.” And she’d been angry with Dad the day she’d died, furious that he’d never given up cigars and had developed cancer. After reading his father’s last wishes concerning the Lampoon, Chad could understand how she felt.

  With a wave of her hand, Tracy let the issue of his name drop. “What are you doing out here? Did Leona kick you out?” She didn’t mince words, but she also didn’t seem to realize her speech had smoothed since her acapella performance.

  “No.” He leaned on the railing next to her. “I’m searching for the angle I want to take on my story.” Were there more crotchety people like Leona in town? Did it have more to offer than good coffee and reputedly good wine?

  “You? Searching?” So much passion. It radiated from the disbelief in her blue eyes to her expressive hands. He never would’ve guessed all that emotion had been hiding behind the black bakery apron. “Your columns slant one way—one way!” She jabbed her finger at him, stopping just short of poking his shoulder. “You put people down. Is that why you were fired?”

  The F-word hit him below the belt and shook his ego at knee level. Nowhere had it been reported he’d been let go. The terms of his leaving were part of his termination contract. Sure, some in the press had speculated he needed time to grieve. But no one had guessed the truth until Tracy. “I still own nearly half the company.” He couldn’t keep the anger from his voice.

  His anger didn’t stop her from punching back, saying baldly, “Ownership didn’t stop them from firing you.”

  There was a truth for him. “Apparently, my dad wanted to take the Lampoon in a different direction. My services no longer fit what they were looking for.” He hadn’t said it out loud before. The words—though spoken quietly—seemed to ricochet between them like a flat rock bouncing across a smooth river.

  “Ahh.” Tracy glanced downstream. “You were phased out.”

  “I’m guessing from your tone you’ve experienced this.”

  Her sharp nod confirmed it.

  “But I bet you weren’t downsized by your father from the grave.” If he’d known what Dad had up his hospital gown, he would’ve walked away six months ago when the old man had gone completely on life support.

  No. The thought sickened him. That was hurt talking. Chad had loved his father.

  Despite that love being wasted on a man with no heart, he wouldn’t have changed anything he’d done for him in the last year. But he would’ve been better prepared for betrayal. “It’s why I’m starting my own magazine. And Harmony Valley is the perfect launch vehicle.” He hoped.

  She’d retreated metaphorically when he’d told her about dear old dad phasing him out, but at the mention of the town she bounced back for another round. “Harmony Valley isn’t what you write about. No nightclub. No spa. No chichi hangouts.”

  “So far, I love that it’s different.” Charm, checkers, a cast of personalities. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced there was more than enough to work with here. He might write more than one column.

  Tracy frowned at him and half glanced over her shoulder toward downtown, as if thinking about making a break for it.

  He didn’t want her to go. “You want to protect the town from me? Convince me it doesn’t deserve a send-up.”

  She frowned the way she did everything else—wholeheartedly. Her shoulders rolled toward him, her hands fluttered, her eyes narrowed. He realized why he liked watching her. Every expression was a full-body experience, as if to make up for her brevity of speech.

  “I’m not helping you. Ask Mayor Larry or Agnes.”

  He shook his head, not calling her out on what he suspected was the real reason she didn’t want to convince him—she’d have to talk—because that was his ace in the hole. With her speech challenges, she’d never win a verbal argument with him. And if that line of thinking wasn’t worthy of an entrepreneur trying to claw his way to the top, Chad didn’t know what was. “The mayor wants to give me the dog and pony show.”

  “What makes you think...” Her gaze collided with his, simultaneously suspicious and self-conscious. “I won’t?”

  Earlier in their conversation, she’d been more focused on the battle and less on her vocabulary. Now she was very much aware of this war of words and she was back to stumbling.

  “Tracy.” He captured one of her hands the way his father used to capture his mother’s hand when he wanted her complete attention. “You’re the only one in town who read my columns. You and I are from the same generation.” And he’d much rather be with her than the mayor. “We’re in the same place in our lives. You know what singles want.”

  “We’re not the same.” She tugged her hand free. “You’re having a midlife crisis.”

  “We can debate that while you give me a tour.” He grinned. Sparring with Tracy and Leona made him happier than he’d been in a long time. At the Lampoon and at home, arguments had been more heated and with higher stakes.

  Tracy wasn’t giving in that easily. She put the back of her hand on her forehead. “So young. It’s tragic. Early midlife crisis. It skews your perspective.”

  His perspective was fine. But his job would be easier with an inside track. And she was perfect. There was one angle he hadn’t tried with her yet. “The more I know this place—more than a dog and pony show can tell me—the better chance I have of bringing people to visit your brother’s winery. You want to protect his interests, don’t you?”

  Her blue eyes widened. “Dirty pool.” She shook the rail, gripping it with fingers that might have wanted to grip his neck. It didn’t take her long to make a decision. “Okay, I’ll sell my soul to the devil and show you around. But only if I can read your column before you publish it.”

  He’d bet she didn’t realize her speech had smoothed out again. Regardless, advanced reads weren’t on the negotiating table. She was just like some of Bostwick Lampoon’s sponsors. At least the advertisers he’d lined up for The Happy Bachelor Takes a Different Path weren’t that controlling. For the first time in over a decade, he had creative freedom. He shook his head.

  “Then the deal’s off.” Tracy crossed her arms and settled her hip against the rail for a third round of drawing lines in the sand.

  She made him smile and that wasn’t inconsequential in these negotiations. He gave her a once over. Everything about her looked soft—faded blue jeans, yellow cotton T-shirt, a tan jacket with a suede collar. But she wasn’t soft or pliant. She was strong and gutsy. “What are you doing working in a bakery?” She was parked in the middle of a retirement town miles from anywhere.

  She bumped her hip against the rail repeatedly as if she was hitting her head against a wall. “Not many ad agencies...hire the speech impaired.”

  “Oh, woe is you. That’s no excuse.” He looked her up and down once more. “You’re not disabled. It’d be unfair to pit you against someone with a real speech impediment.”

  Her arms waved about. Her feet shifted. Her mouth opened and closed and opened again, but nothing came out.

  “Maybe you haven’t noticed,” Chad said evenly. “You’ve been talking to me on this bridge more fluently than I heard you speak this morning.” He reached over and tapped her temple near her hidden scar. “You think too much
and about the wrong things, except when you don’t think and then the words tumble out.”

  She tried to walk past him toward downtown.

  “Hold on. We’re still negotiating.”

  She stopped.

  And then he realized why. He’d caught her arm and pulled her close.

  * * *

  CHAD HAD INCREDIBLY expressive brown eyes.

  In them, Tracy noted a surprised earnestness.

  He stared at his hand on her arm as if he couldn’t quite believe he’d taken hold of it.

  She couldn’t quite believe it either. Or the earnestness. He didn’t care about Tracy or Harmony Valley. And he was wrong about her not being disabled, wrong about her speaking easier with him. She’d been struggling the entire time he stood nearby. And now they stood face-to-face, inches away from being kissably close.

  Tracy licked her lips and inadvertently stared at his, over-thinking, just as he’d accused her.

  Luckily, her cell phone rang and Chad released her. She drew a deep breath, filling her lungs with much needed air.

  “Ms. Jackson, this is Sue Gaines from Three Filmers Productions.” The woman spoke with a smoothly modulated voice Tracy envied. “You sent in an application a few weeks ago for a producer job?”

  “Yes.” Tracy braced herself for the worst. It was rare for her to get good news about a job application.

  “Congratulations. You’ve made the short list of candidates we’re considering for the position.”

  “What?” Tracy reached for the railing to steady herself. “No.”

  Chad didn’t pretend to hide his curiosity. He tilted his head and contemplated her expression with all the seriousness of a doctor she’d once met at a speech research facility.

  “Yes.” Sue chuckled. “For this next round, we’re asking all applicants to create a three minute video segment that tells us who you are. You may feature people and things that are important to you or that shaped who you are. But you must be on screen for at least two of the three minutes.”