The population in Harmony Valley was diverse for a reason. Fifty years or so ago, Flynn’s grandfather had spearheaded a letter-writing campaign to attract new residents. He’d written more letters before he died, but the only one to answer was the sheriff.
“You think more people would read the blog if recipes had a history?” Jess trailed her fingers over Eunice’s recipe indecisively.
“Yes.” Tracy glanced at the cooling rack. Cookies were her weakness, but apparently, weren’t enough to distract her into talking smoothly. Leave that to the dastardly Chad.
“I can’t pay you.” Jess had a soft look in her eyes, the one that said she understood Tracy was getting little more than minimum wage when she’d been used to getting a lot more.
“I don’t mind updating the blog for free.” Tracy didn’t feel Jess was taking advantage. Besides, there was a cookie that hadn’t come out flat. Scrunched cookies couldn’t be sold and shouldn’t have to wait until after lunch to be eaten. Tracy claimed it. “I love writing.” She’d written advertising copy and news segment scripts. She preferred writing to making coffee and selling scones.
“Maybe I’ll pay you in cookies,” Jess said with a small smile.
Tracy grinned. “That works, too.”
* * *
“HEY! TRAVEL WRITER!” A tall man with black hair waved to Chad from the patio of El Rosal. “Come on over. I’ll buy you coffee.”
An invitation from someone under the age of forty? Chad hurried across the street to the tables outside the Mexican restaurant. Salsa music, black wrought-iron tables and chairs, and tall heaters made the patio inviting and eased the bad feeling Tracy’s reaction to his interpretation of gurning had given him. How could she make him want to smile and he make her so annoyed?
“I’m Slade Jennings, part owner in Harmony Valley Vineyards.” Slade had a strong grip and the detached air of a seasoned businessman, despite his attire—a black polo and khakis.
Under Chad’s scrutiny, Slade rubbed a hand across his jaw, drawing Chad’s eye to a thin, curved scar at the base of his neck. There were several reasons for a scar like that, none of them pretty. Chad quickly averted his gaze.
Slade’s smile faltered, but then he exchanged a glance with the other man at the table and his smile returned full force. “And I think you met Flynn earlier at the bakery.”
“We did.” Flynn had a more casual grip and a more casual approach to life. His T-shirt was dirtier than it’d been this morning and sported a beer logo. His black baseball cap proclaimed him a San Francisco Giants fan. “When the mayor sent you on your tour, we cleaned rain gutters at Eunice’s house. Luckily, it’s a small house.” He brushed some dirt off his T-shirt. “Doing some more work around town this afternoon.”
Chad sat next to Slade. “I thought you guys were dot-com millionaires.”
“Sadly,” Slade motioned for the waiter to bring more coffee. “We’re also the handful of able-bodied men in a town filled with old people living in homes that have seen better days.”
Chad’s story antennae pinged with excitement. He immediately downgraded the feeling. His story instincts needed fine-tuning. They’d been on the fritz since he’d gotten here. “What’s the nightlife like around here?” As bachelors, they should know.
Slade and Flynn exchanged grins.
“We wouldn’t know.” Flynn flashed a wedding ring.
Slade held up his hands. “I’m engaged.”
“But before...” Chad tried to keep his voice casually indifferent. “I heard you were single.”
“Oh, things were exciting here,” Slade said with a healthy dose of sarcasm. “We sat on Flynn’s back patio, drank beer and watched the river drift past.”
“Don’t forget,” Flynn added wryly. “We also had our handyman chores.”
“If you’re both volunteer laborers, why aren’t you dirty?” Chad asked Slade, curious despite himself. The man looked rather pristine.
“The Prince of Wall Street held the ladder for me.” Flynn spoke in the good-natured tone of a friend.
“Be leery of this man.” Slade pointed to Flynn. “The next question he’ll ask will be about your free time and skill with a hammer.”
“So, Chad.” Flynn didn’t miss his cue. “Travel writing can’t be a full-time occupation. How are your skills with a hammer and what does your day look like?”
“Choose your words carefully,” Slade cautioned.
“I’m under deadline. I need to be writing.” The gurning bit was priceless and once he sat down at the computer inspiration was sure to strike. Harmony Valley might be a dud, but it’d make for an entertaining column. “And no. I don’t own tools other than the basics needed to put together a desk from Ikea.” A hammer, a wrench and both types of screwdrivers, all of which were rarely used. He lived in a penthouse suite with a maintenance contract. His dad had been a metrosexual before metrosexual was cool. He’d raised Chad the same way—style before sweat. “I’m game for whatever you’re asking.” Because being game led to good stories and he couldn’t totally ignore his instincts.
“Great. We’re patching roof shingles later.” Flynn exchanged another one of those private glances with Slade.
A roof? Chad really should collect all the details before accepting man-challenges. “I don’t suppose I could hold the ladder.”
“Nope. The new guy always has to go up on the roof,” Slade said.
“Lucky you.” Flynn lifted his water glass in a toast. “It’s only a chicken coop.”
“I’ll help,” Chad said. “But only if I can bring my chicken.”
CHAPTER TEN
“LADIES, WELCOME TO Harmony Valley Vineyards’ chicken high-rise,” Slade said.
The winery owner had a dry sense of humor and Chad had been smiling a lot as he helped the two men, despite being on the roof and bending more than his share of nails. He didn’t turn to see who the ladies were. Odds being the women were elderly.
“I had Jess bake some chocolate chip muffins for all your chicken coop troubles.” There was warmth and laughter in the woman’s voice.
“Two stories is impressive,” Tracy said. “Hey, is that Henrietta?”
The hammer Chad wielded missed the nail and struck his finger. The nails he’d been holding in his mouth clattered to the shingles and off the edge. Later, Chad wouldn’t admit he’d howled, but he wouldn’t say he didn’t either. His forefinger felt flattened and stung like the dickens.
“Good thing we didn’t use the nail gun,” Flynn said. “We’d be headed to the hospital about now.”
“I knew I should have had Chad sign an accident waiver,” Slade said, only half-jokingly. “Come on down. Happy hour is early today.”
“Christine, where’s your first aid kit?” Tracy was already backpedaling toward the main winery building.
“First aid under the sink. Ice packs in the freezer.” The cool blonde juggled a pastry box so she could kiss Slade on the lips. “I should have brought beer to make up for the mishaps.”
“You can make it up to me by spending five minutes alone.” Slade sounded like a man in love as he took the blonde and the muffins over to a patio with tables and chairs.
Flynn held the ladder while Chad climbed down. “I’d introduce you to Christine, our winemaker, but she needs five minutes alone with her fiancé.”
By the time Chad got his feet on solid ground, Tracy was back and breathless. She carried a first aid kit and an ice pack. “I...wasn’t sure if there’d be blood.”
“No blood.” Chad glanced at his finger, which still hurt like heck, was deep red and looked as if it was going to turn a magnificent shade of purple.
“No blood, no foul.” Flynn scampered up the ladder like a sure-footed monkey. “No foul, no lawsuit.” He surveyed Chad’s handiwork.
Mea
nwhile, Tracy had moved closer to Chad. She slid her palm beneath his and laid the ice pack on top of his finger. At his questioning look, she shrugged. “I’m a farm girl. We take care of our tools, including our appendages.”
“Thanks. I need my finger to type.” He wasn’t—and would never be—a handyman.
She removed her hand and the ice pack. “You can suffer.”
She wasn’t seriously spiteful. She allowed him to swipe the ice pack from her without a fight.
“I’ll...add handyman to your list of weaknesses.” Tracy smirked.
“You have a list?”
She nodded. “Sadly. It’s a short list.”
Chad’s smile felt too big given he’d nearly taken a digit off his hand.
And then he spotted Henrietta lying on her side. “Is she breathing? Is she dead?” He rushed over and picked the blue-gray hen up, only to have her flap and squawk and fly out of his arms.
Tracy laughed. “Chickens sunbathe sometimes. She was enjoying the warmth.”
Chad reclaimed the ice pack, wiping off the dirt to cover his relief. He’d rushed to the rescue of a fowl. Dad would have laughed for hours.
“Nicely done up here, Chad.” Flynn stood on the ladder overlooking Chad’s work. “Just a few more nails and Henrietta has a new home. Bandage him up, Tracy. He needs to finish.”
“Nope.” Tracy gave Chad a critical once over. “He’s done swinging a hammer for the day.”
Again, Chad was struck by the way Harmony Valley residents absorbed visitors into their routines and made them feel as if they belonged. Tracy and Flynn hadn’t asked him his preference about continuing work, although he agreed with Tracy about calling it a day. But there was a silver lining. “I never counted on learning a new skill when I came to town.”
“Life is full of turns, Mr. Midlife.” Tracy shooed him away from the ladder. “And before you go claiming a skill, you need to be able to participate without hurting yourself.”
* * *
CHAD KNEW THE moment he stepped into El Rosal for dinner that night he was in trouble. He thought he’d come in early—just after five—and would beat the Saturday crowd. The place was packed. No tables were free. No bar stool was empty. And there was a thirty minute wait for a table. The early-bird specials were apparently quite popular.
He’d only sat outside earlier. He hadn’t experienced the full effect of color that was inside the dining room. Red, yellow, blue, green. The primary colors were everywhere—tables, chairs, walls. There was a small convenience store in the lobby selling ice cream, bread, milk and bananas. The place felt cheap.
“Chad! Chad!” The mayor waved him over to a small table near the kitchen door. Wearing a blue-and-yellow tie-dyed T-shirt, he’d almost blended into the color scheme like an aged and wrinkled chameleon.
Chad had to inch his way past wheelchairs, walkers and one high chair. Past exposed liver spots, swollen digits and ankles, and deep coughs. Should these people be out on such a nippy night? Many of them seemed so frail. He nodded to the young couple with the baby as he passed, and waved to a table with the bakery’s checkers players. Tracy was nowhere in sight.
The mayor invited Chad to sit across from him and his empty plate. “You hit the Saturday night rush.”
“It’s only five-fifteen.” Chad squeezed against the wall.
“And by six-fifteen this place will practically be a ghost town.” Larry chortled. His face was the wrinkled tan of too much sun and too little sunscreen. In fact, there was a spot near his ear that looked troublesome.
Chad opened his mouth to mention it, but the mayor beat him to the punch.
“I officially roll up the sidewalk at seven-thirty.”
“Really? Is there a curfew or something?”
“No.” Larry gave him a look that said Chad might be a disappointment. “That was a joke, son.”
Hard to tell when things were so very different in Harmony Valley.
A middle-aged woman with a frizzy black bun and a stained apron opened the kitchen door so wide it almost hit Chad. She surveyed the room with the sharp eye of management. And then she glanced over her shoulder into the kitchen. “Luis, tables need more chips and more water.” She caught sight of Chad and said in a neutral voice that could have indicated welcome or intimidation if she’d been smiling or frowning, “Who are you?”
“He’s the travel writer, Mayra,” the mayor said. “I told Enzo about him earlier.”
She smiled a welcome. “Ah, we’ll fix you up. On the house.” She whisked Larry’s plate from the table and disappeared behind the swinging door. But that didn’t stop Chad from hearing her yell. “Enzo! Claudia! There is a travel writer at table one. Work your magic.”
“Oh, boy.” The mayor leaned forward and said conspiratorially, “You’re in for a treat. I hope you don’t mind sharing a bite or two. I ordered the early-bird special—enchiladas—which are good, but when Chef Enzo and Chef Claudia get to work, oh, boy.”
“Chefs?” The table tops were covered in low end, colorful square tiles. Everything about El Rosal said cheap but filling Mexican food. “This place has chefs?”
“Yep. Enzo and Claudia got married last spring. They run the Italian-Mexican café next to Mae’s Pretty Things during lunch. And they cook dinner here.”
“Impressive.” Although Chad didn’t have high hopes of being impressed.
“I wish I’d known you were coming. I’d have brought you a T-shirt.” Larry tugged at the tie-dyed cotton of his shirt. “I’m in the business. T-shirts, scarves, towels. You name it, I give it a kaleidoscope of color and a lot of good karma.”
Chad loaded a chip with salsa and took a bite, saving himself from commenting. Tie-dye was so 1970.
“Have you fallen in love yet?” Larry asked.
Chad nearly choked on his chip. “With who?”
“With the town. Who did you think I meant? Tracy?” The mayor shook his head. “You’re a man of the world. And Tracy... Tracy doesn’t know it yet, but she’s never leaving. Not that that’s a bad thing.”
Chad sure thought so.
“At one point in our past, we were a refuge for misfits,” the mayor went on.
Chad looked around the room. The residents didn’t seem like misfits. They just looked old. Arthritic fingers that held forks awkwardly. Sallow complexions that indicated disease. Coughs that could be traced to pneumonia or cancer. Weak legs that needed help standing. Poor eyesight, balding pates, cancerous skin growths. Chad felt their fragility press in on him the same way it had when he’d watched his parents fade into their twilight years.
What was he doing here? Eight more days? There were a handful of people in this room who could kick the bucket by morning.
Chad started to sweat. He tore off his jacket.
A glass of red wine appeared before him and he took a generous gulp, gripping the glass too tight with his injured finger, making it throb in protest.
“Excuse me, Chad.” Larry stood. “I see a constituent who needs my help.” He hurried across the room to help someone into a wheelchair. And then he wheeled them out the door.
A plate of bruschetta appeared before him. Instead of parmesan cheese it was sprinkled with finely shredded colby-jack. The tomatoes had been coated in a light green sauce.
Chad took a bite. Bread, cheese, tomatoes and pesto with a hint of jalapeño. It was delicious. It went with the red wine. The blending of tastes rivaled five-star restaurants in San Francisco.
But the culinary excellence couldn’t distract him completely from his surroundings. From the gawdy colors and mortality. His heart beat like a snare drum in his chest and he had the distinct urge to flee. Chad stared at the royal blue wall, trying not to see the end facing some of the restaurant patrons.
His mother used to say he’d been a sensitive child. Not
exactly the way a man of thirty-five liked to think of himself. But yeah, he could remember battling an opponent for a soccer ball on the elementary playground. His strike at the ball swept the boy’s feet out from under him. Instead of taking the ball, Chad had helped the boy up. And then when he was ten, he’d spent Sunday afternoons playing card games with retirement center residents while his mother visited her friends. He’d felt as if he belonged. Until Chad’s favorite card player had died. Beau hadn’t looked much older than Chad’s father. Chad couldn’t bring himself to go back.
Once he left Harmony Valley, he didn’t think he’d return here either.
Tracy sat down across from him, panting. “Mayor Larry...said you needed help. Right away.”
Chad came back to the present and grimaced.
“He called me.” Tracy looked at him more closely. “Are you okay?”
“Compliments of the mayor.” Mayra set a glass of red wine in front of Tracy.
Chad’s mental notebook, the one that never shut down, made note of Harmony Valley’s matchmaking tendencies. Quaint, but unappreciated.
“What’s wrong?” Tracy lowered her voice. “You look as if someone just died.”
“I...uh...” Chad made a weak gesture that encompassed the dining room. “My parents had me at a very advanced age.”
“What are we talking?” She hung her jacket on her chair. “Thirties? Forties?”
“Fifty.”
“That’s not...much younger than my dad is today.” Comprehension dawned. “That...would make your dad eighty-five when he died?”
Chad nodded. “My mother passed a few years before Dad of heart disease.” His eyes found the one person in the room who had gaunt features and a sallow complexion. How long did that man have? “When I was a kid, maybe the third grade. I noticed kids assumed my parents were my grandparents. And when I was in middle school, my friends’ grandparents started dying.”
Tracy made sympathetic noises.
He concentrated on steadying his breathing, on the sky blue of Tracy’s eyes. “I was afraid every time I said goodbye would be the last.”
A Man of Influence Page 10
