MONDAY MORNING, LEONA set Chad’s breakfast in front of him at 8:05. “You aren’t taking care of yourself, Mr. Healy. I can see that by the look on your face.”
Chad blamed the mattress. He scowled at the small plate and the trio of small powdered donuts—the kind that came from a box. He tilted his head, but the donuts were still as small as silver dollars. Maybe he’d hit his noggin too hard yesterday. That would explain his inability to write last night. He had one more day to send Marty something that would knock his socks off. “What is this?”
“Martin’s is closed today.” Leona stood with her hands clasped piously. Too bad her expression was that of a serial killer gazing down on her naïve and unsuspecting prey. “I thought you had a sweet tooth.”
He wasn’t naïve or unsuspecting. He was angry. “Bacon, Leona. I like bacon.” He pushed the plate away.
“That’s bad for your heart.” She whisked his plate away, along with the mug of coffee. “El Rosal serves breakfast with bacon.”
He stood so fast his head spun. “This isn’t a bed & breakfast.” He clung to the table for balance. “This is a bed, no breakfast.”
He headed for El Rosal, muttering the entire way about sadistic bed & breakfast owners.
Once more, the restaurant was packed, and not just with overwhelming color.
“Does everyone have a ride who needs a ride?” Mayor Larry was saying as Chad came in. He glanced Chad’s way, and then did a horrified double take, pointing to Chad’s forehead.
Chad waved his concern off. The large purple lump on his forehead made it look as if he had a third eye, but he wasn’t dead.
Felix, the big, burly man who always seemed to have cat hair on his shirt, nodded a greeting to Chad, unable to pull his gaze from Chad’s third eye. “You here for the cemetery run?”
It wasn’t a polite query. It was a question of disbelief.
“No. I’m here for the bacon.” He could smell it and all its greasy goodness.
The Asian man they called Takata sat in his walker seat and rolled his dark eyes. “It’s not a race. We’re doing a remembrance in the cemetery today.” He gave Chad a piercing look that never strayed from his two actual eyes. “Are you afraid of ghosts?”
“No.” He was afraid anyone who stayed at the Lambridge B&B would starve.
Tracy walked by on her way out with her dad.
Chad caught her arm. “Nobody told me about this...event.”
“You didn’t tell him?” The mayor moved closer.
Tracy slipped from Chad’s hold, only to take his face in her hands, turning it back and forth. “What happened to you?”
“I introduced myself to Nina Valpizzi’s sink.” He hadn’t gone out to dinner last night because of the way he looked. This morning he didn’t appear much better, but he was starving.
Behind Tracy, her father chuckled.
“The cemetery run?” Chad said through gritted teeth. “Is it something my readers would enjoy?”
“No. It’s private.” Tracy hesitated and then said, “We go to remember our loved ones.”
“To the cemetery? The entire town?” Chad took in the standing room only crowd.
“Anyone who’s got someone buried there.” Tracy’s voice was softer than silk, reminding Chad that her mother had died when she was just a kid. At least he’d had his mother most of his adult life.
“We need to go,” her father said gruffly. “We’re holding up the rest.”
With one last glance at Chad’s headlight bump, Tracy left.
Ben gave Chad one of those intimidating stares he seemed so fond of. “I should thank you for helping Tracy speak easier.” Ben tapped his own forehead and grinned. “But I won’t...old man.”
Chad was beginning to think he’d been sent to Harmony Valley by a higher power to be taken down a peg or two.
More people funneled past Chad with walkers, canes and boxes of tissue.
Chad couldn’t deny he was curious, but he was fairly certain a visit to the cemetery wouldn’t be any fun. Besides, with everyone gone, he’d have all that bacon to himself.
“Did Tracy leave you?” the mayor asked. Without waiting for an answer, he shooed Chad out the door. “You can ride with me.”
Chad got into the passenger seat of Mayor Larry’s Volkswagen bus. It was vintage mint green with a white top and an engine that went put-put.
“I thought you didn’t drive. Something about your back...” Chad hid a smile. If the mayor took his yoga seriously, that wiry body was strong and flexible.
“I only drive on special occasions.” He sent the bus lurching forward, lacking the seamless shifting skills Tracy had.
The line of cars headed to the cemetery moved as slowly as a funeral procession.
“I’ll drop you at the front of the cemetery so you can experience the entire process.” Larry made a left turn beneath the arching cemetery gates. “It’s hard to bury someone. Harder still to visit them regularly. Once a year, we lend each other support and listen to each others’ remembrances.”
Chad hadn’t been to his father’s grave since his death. Hadn’t checked to make sure the headstone was engraved and installed properly. Hadn’t been able to face the symbol of the man who’d cast him aside.
“My wife is all the way in the back.” Larry pulled to the curb. “You can catch up to Tracy and Ben over there.”
Ben and Tracy stood near a cluster of headstones. Ben’s arm was across Tracy’s shoulders.
Chad couldn’t remember his parents keeping him that close as an adult. What little physical affection his parents had given him as a child had disappeared when he reached puberty. Watching the Jacksons now, Chad felt the hollowness he’d managed to lose since the day he’d been fired.
Cars were parking along every curb. Larry pulled away with his put-put engine and the smell of burnt oil. Tracy glanced up and frowned. Ben didn’t look up at all. He walked with heavy steps to a nearby bench and sat down.
Chad felt like an intruder. He’d much rather be eating bacon. But he was here and there was a story. Besides, Tracy looked in need of a strong shoulder to lean on.
Tracy had a tissue clutched in one hand. When he reached her, she gestured toward a headstone. “This is my mom. She never took a handout. Never took no for an answer. And she gave the best hugs.” She rolled the tissue around her finger. “And...these are my grandparents—the Jacksons. They were farmers here, like my dad. Grandma was a great card player. Grandpa...knew he always had to lose to her. That way...she’d believe she was the best card player in town.”
“Smart man.” Chad resisted the urge to put an arm around her in front of Ben. The last thing a cemetery needed was an argument. “I hope Grandma passed along some recipes for your blog.”
“Angel food cake with pistachio icing.” There was something touching about Tracy retelling her memories.
Chad felt bereft of love and memories. He knew he’d had good times with his mother over the years, and the rarer moments of connection with his father. But he had no time to dwell on them as Ben began speaking.
“These are my grandparents.” Ben’s voice sounded like a preacher reciting an oft-read eulogy, recycled for the next comer. His words were rote, meant to keep the emotion at bay. “When I was a boy, we farmed with a team of horses and a plow.” He stood and held a hand out to Tracy.
“It’s tradition to walk to the next visitor and listen to their stories,” Tracy said softly.
Chad should have excused himself. He understood why no one in town had told him about this. These losses, these stories—they were intimate. Instead of leaving, he followed the Jacksons to the next group.
Ben put a hand on a headstone, leaning heavily on it as he nodded to Nina Valpizzi. “Your mother made me a green bean casserole for Thanksgiving a few months after my wife died. She h
elped me keep up the pretense that everything was normal.”
“Oh, Ben.” Nina’s smile for help with her sink hadn’t been as thankful as it was today. “Your sweet wife made me a pine wreath to hang on the door when my son was born. She decorated it with plastic blue baby buggies. I still have it in a box in the attic.”
Ben smiled softly. Tracy sniffed, and Chad took her hand.
Nina came to Chad, reached for his face, drew it down and kissed a spot to the side of his bruise. “You were kind to a panicked old woman and you were hurt.” She patted his cheek. “My mother would have said you were a keeper.” She glanced down at Chad’s hand clasped around Tracy’s and nodded.
Ben’s blustery protectiveness had been left outside the cemetery gates. He said nothing. And they all moved to the next group.
And so it went. Small favors were mentioned. Tiny acts of kindness, generosity and honorable acts. The crowd built as they walked to the rear of the cemetery. Chad wondered if his father was buried here if anyone would say anything nice about him. He’d been a tough boss and a tougher parent.
Finally, the session ended with lengthy remembrances of Flynn’s grandfather, who had been instrumental in starting the tradition. There were more tears. More hugs. And surprisingly, more laughter as cars were brought around.
“I’m going to walk back, Dad.” Tracy gave Ben the truck keys.
“I’ll drive the travel writer to town.” Ben had probably given kinder looks to crows who snacked on his crop of corn.
“I’ll walk.” Chad gave him the smile he used for writers who were late with their columns. “With Tracy.”
Ben flashed a glance Tracy’s way.
“He’s harmless,” she said. “He hammers his fingers and bangs his head on sinks.”
“True.” But Ben glared at Chad one more time before he walked away.
Chad wasn’t harmless. But he was feeling like a shallow man who didn’t honor his parents like these people did. He wanted to crack a joke to lighten the mood—a priest, a rabbi and a travel writer walk into a cemetery... He wanted to write a satirical piece on the reverse correlation between headstone size and the number of graveside visitors. But mostly, he wanted someone to talk about his father as kindly as others had talked about Harmony Valley residents. And he wondered...would someone talk about him with fondness when he passed away? Maybe only his father’s assistant, Doreen.
Cars slowly filled with people and drove away. Chad and Tracy walked through the empty graveyard in the chill autumn sunlight in silence for several minutes.
“I...don’t remember much about my mother’s funeral.” Her voice was a fragile thread. Her grip on his hand strong. “I...know people spoke, but...it’s what they tell me here that I remember.”
“My dad didn’t want a funeral or memorial service.” At the time, Chad had been grateful. His mother’s service had been difficult, filled with speakers who were younger work colleagues rather than friends or family—most of her friends had already passed on or were too frail to travel.
Tracy draped his arm over her shoulders. At first, he thought it was because she wanted to be close to him. And then he realized she wanted to talk.
“According to Agnes,” Tracy began. “Funerals are for those left behind. But they happen too soon.” She spoke in nearly a whisper as if they were in a crowd and she only wanted Chad to hear. “I couldn’t have stood up and talked about Mom then. I couldn’t have told my dad and brother how much she meant to me.” She gripped his hand at her shoulder as if she needed to keep from slipping too deeply into memory. “There was this one time she took me grocery shopping. I must have been five or six. She wanted me to get in the car, but I wouldn’t. I’d stolen a sucker and I suddenly knew I couldn’t leave without returning it, but I didn’t know how.” She swallowed, but she couldn’t swallow back the raw emotion, the grief and regret. “I started crying. Mom could have spanked me and put me in the car, but she knew there was something wrong. She knew...” Tracy pressed her lips together and blinked rapidly. “She hugged me. I gave her the sucker and confessed. She told me she admired my honesty. She told me I had to be brave and honest with the store clerk. She hugged me and told me good people make mistakes.” Tracy looked at him with tear-filled eyes. “All I want is to feel her hug me again.”
Chad drew her closer.
“This is a difficult day in so many ways.” She put a few inches between them as if suddenly aware they were too close.
He felt as if she was pulling away from who he was on the internet: Chad Healy Bostwick. When she should have been trusting of Chad Healy’s embrace, of his ability to give and take in conversation like friends often did. He gathered her close once more and did something he rarely did. He spoke about his father. “My dad was...firm.”
“Did he ground you for breaking curfew? Or using the credit card he gave you only for emergencies?” She smiled up at him, clearly pleased that he was sharing as so many people had shared today.
“Not anything that simple.” Chad should have gone into town with Ben. It would have been easier than this. But he didn’t regret staying. Tracy needed company. “Dad cancelled Christmas once.” And that was all he planned to say.
“That’s extreme.” The smile and teasing note in her voice disappeared. She slipped her arm around his waist, almost as if she was...worried about him.
It had been so long since he’d had anyone worried about him, that he took a moment to let the warmth of it sink into his chest. That warmth loosened the hold he had on the past.
“It was after my mother divorced him the second time.” Yes, he’d had an unorthodox upbringing on many levels. “I went to spend the holiday with Dad. Mom had given me my presents beforehand and I happened to gripe about getting up early for church service on Christmas Day. I’d planned on playing my video games all night long.” That rebellious statement hadn’t sat well. “Dad took everything away—the video game, the flip phone she’d bought me. And the funny thing was, neither one of us went to the service.”
“I can see reading that in a column in the Bostwick Lampoon.”
“His life was full of hypocrisies. It’s probably why the Lampoon was so successful. Dad recognized irony when he saw it.” Chad saw no irony today.
“I haven’t read any of his columns. What section did he write for?”
“The news of the day.” Front and center. His dad’s columns took on issues with meaning. “He wrote about a third-world dictator who touted a simple life but owned a fleet of luxury cars.” That had won Dad many awards. “He wrote about a dog breeder who cropped tails and stitched ears, like a canine plastic surgeon in search of physical perfection.”
“You loved him.” She patted his chest over his heart. “I can hear it in your voice.”
“He was my father,” he said simply. His dad had made his life difficult—demanding perfection even when perfection wasn’t possible. “He taught me about business and writing.” And that postmortem... It’d taught him to pick himself up after a setback.
She allowed his words to settle and him to breathe. She was a caring, compassionate woman. He felt caring and compassionate just holding her.
“What would he have written about in Harmony Valley?” she asked.
That was easy. “Dad would have liked what happened today. But he would have returned next year to see if the recollections of people had changed and were still sincere.”
“He wasn’t very trusting of his fellow man.”
“He trusted them to stretch the truth and lie, even to themselves.”
“A glass-half-empty approach.” They’d reached the cemetery gate. She turned to face him. “And your glass?”
“I’m trying for half full.” He was surprised to realize he meant it. He touched his forehead. “It hasn’t been working out so well for me.”
“It will.
” She kissed him.
* * *
KISSING CHAD WAS NICE. Safe.
Nothing like his smile promised—light-hearted and teasing—and nothing like his articles promised—a complex activity with depths that might make a woman nervous.
It was just... There was no zing.
So disappointing.
Tracy began to pull back, forming an apology in her head. She hadn’t been thinking when she’d wrapped her arms around him, at least not thinking any more than that she wanted to embrace half-full-of-optimism Chad. The lips part? Well, that just kind of happened.
But then Chad moved. Suddenly closer.
His arms. Tight around her.
His breath. Mingled with hers.
Tracy’s heart pounded out signals as foreign to her as Morse code. Her legs were threatening to melt like butter. And her brain seemed to have forgotten why kissing Chad was wrong.
Just as suddenly as things got interesting, they ended.
There was sun shining on her closed lids. There was a soft wind lifting the ends of her hair over her scar. And there were strong hands on her elbows, holding her steady.
Tracy needed those hands to keep from falling—either to the ground in shock or back into his arms.
She kept her eyes closed, afraid of what she’d see. “Suddenly, I feel like it’s me that’s having a midlife crisis.”
“Let’s hope not.” He tilted her face up with a finger beneath her chin, and then kissed her nose. “Regrets?”
“Yes.” Lots.
He sighed. “Do you think El Rosal is still open for breakfast?”
She opened her eyes. “You’re thinking about breakfast?” After they’d kissed?
“There’s not much to the Lambridge Bed & Breakfast’s breakfast.” He rubbed his stomach and turned toward the road. His expensive loafers began the trek back to town as if their bodies hadn’t come together, as if their lips hadn’t touched, as if they hadn’t exchanged the same air.
He was walking away?
He’d been the one to deepen the kiss, turning something that was a whim and vanilla into something that was tempting and to be taken as seriously as the quality of chocolate in Jessica’s Death by Chocolate cake.
A Man of Influence Page 14
