“That big...big...hairball,” Rose said indignantly. “I see Felix inside. I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.”
“Please don’t. I’ll be mortified.”
“We’ll stay silent,” Agnes promised, glancing back at Rose with what Mildred could only hope was a threat in her eyes. “But we won’t forget.”
Mildred was no longer going to seize the day. She was going to walk into Martin’s and survive the day. Because that was what one did after embarrassment in a small town. You held your head up and carried on.
Mildred repeated the words as she pushed her walker inside a few minutes later: Survive the Day. Didn’t matter that she’d had her romantic hopes raised by Felix only to have them crushed. Didn’t matter that Phil had run away from her a few days ago. Didn’t matter if she looked their way now or not. She couldn’t see if they were uncomfortable by her presence. She couldn’t tell if they pitied her.
“Mildred,” Tracy said. “You...look like you could use a pumpkin spice latte today and biscotti for dipping.”
“I could,” Mildred said, hopes lightening as she reached for her purse.
“Considering...what happened the other day,” Tracy said in a hushed voice. “Today’s order is on me.”
“You don’t need to do that. She’s old,” Rose said right behind her. “She doesn’t remember what happened yesterday, much less two days ago.”
“So true,” Mildred murmured. Her memory wasn’t what it used to be. She hoped in time this episode would fade from the annals of her mind.
“I’ll bring your order out,” Tracy said.
“Has your talking improved?” Mildred asked. It seemed as if it had.
Tracy might have blushed. “My...confidence has improved.”
Mildred wished she could say the same. She had to sit in the same seat she always took—directly across from Phil at his checkerboard. She sighed and walked with her head held high.
“Big storm last night.” Hiro Takata sat one table over. He used to be the town undertaker. His deep, even voice had been a comfort to many a grieving family. It was a comfort to Mildred now.
“Yes.” She and her cat had slept through most of the wind storm.
“A couple of fence boards blew down at my place.” Hiro cleared his throat. “How about at yours?”
“Not that I noticed.” Not that she could see. She had a relationship with a cat instead of a relationship with a man with two good eyes who could see if her fence blew down or her rain gutters needed cleaning. “I’ll check when I get home.” She pulled out her chair and leaned on the table as she made the balance transfer from walker to seat.
“I could come by later and look.” Hiro cleared his throat again. “I mean, if you don’t mind Becca driving me over.”
Mildred looked up in the vicinity of Hiro’s face. “Why would I mind?”
“Just like love-struck teenagers,” Mayor Larry mumbled.
Was Hiro...? No.
Hiro couldn’t be flirting with her. They’d known each other for decades. He’d been widowed for more than ten years and never said anything to her that even remotely hinted at him wanting something more. He was just being nice. Wasn’t he?
She only knew one thing for certain. He didn’t rescue cats.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
RUTGAR LIVED ON top of Parish Hill. It was about a forty-five minute walk to the top from the bakery. The alternative to walking was driving, but the safe, boxy sedan Will had bought Tracy was at the farm. And if she went to the farm, she’d want to paint something, because Chad’s rejection stung.
So Tracy set out on foot. She hadn’t even reached the town square when Chad came roaring up in his red convertible, like a handsome prince on his mighty steed, smiling as if he’d just slain a dragon. The image was marred by the bruise on his forehead and the reason behind his smile. It was Tuesday.
“You wrote your column,” Tracy surmised.
His grin widened. “Sent it off this morning.”
“Pardon me...if I don’t share in your joy.”
“You should. Harmony Valley will draw lots of tourists. All I need to do now is finish the piece after the festival on Saturday.”
Tracy’s heart shrank back, struggling for each beat. She’d known he’d write the column. It was just that on some level, she’d hoped it’d be bad and he’d realize it. She should have known the Happy Bachelor would persevere.
“Can I give you a lift?” He leaned across the center console and opened the passenger door.
“Are you kidding me?” Her heart came roaring back to life with a vendetta. “You kissed me, walked away and wrote a cutting article about my hometown.” She slammed the door shut. “And now you expect me to hop in the pick-up mobile?”
“Yes.” But his smile vacillated from cocky to confused to...was that hurt?
“Oh, don’t play the hurt card.” She drew a deep breath, prepared to breathe fire. “You kissed me. And left me. Because...I’m not worthy of the mighty Chad Healy Bostwick!”
“You think I’m that shallow?”
“Yes, Mr. Midlife.” Tracy crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t trust Chad Healy Bostwick. I thought I trusted Chad Healy, but—”
“I’m just Chad to you.” He ran a hand through his hair as if he was frustrated. “When I’m Chad and you’re Tracy, everything is fine.”
How she wanted to believe that he could separate himself from his public persona. How she wanted to trust the tenderness she’d felt toward him yesterday wasn’t a complete misread on her part. Because Chad was like the bakery. He didn’t care if she lost a word or a job. He just cared that she tried.
“The trouble is...” Chad began, staring at his palms. “I like you. And I like this town. But the Happy Bachelor makes a living pointing out the ironies in destinations.” He turned his head and looked up at her with eyes that shone with vulnerability. “I like it when it’s just Chad and Tracy. I’d like to be Chad and Tracy for a few more days. But I’m leaving come Sunday. And when I leave, I’ll be Chad Healy Bostwick, the Happy Bachelor.”
He was offering to ease a little of her loneliness, and allow her to ease a little of his. Temporarily. The Tracy who’d struggled nearly two years to fit in was tempted. But the Tracy who was fitting the pieces of herself back together knew it was too late. Too late for kisses or the shelter of his arms.
And yet...
Chad had a soft spot for the elderly. And chickens. He helped others when he didn’t have to. She’d never heard him complain about getting banged up while volunteering. And he’d been nice to her from the start, despite her speech challenges.
“I’ll spend time with Chad.” Tracy opened the passenger door. “But no kisses. No hugs. No hand holding. As long as you’re Chad...we can hang out.”
His expression turned mischievous. He revved the engine and smiled that no-worries smile of his. “Where to?”
Tracy didn’t move. She didn’t get in the car. She felt the same way when she’d been called about the second interview, as if she stood on a high ledge and was suddenly struck by vertigo. A fall here would be disastrous. He hadn’t agreed to her stipulations. “If...you don’t like my terms, move on.”
“Let’s negotiate.” His eyes twinkled and tempted. “One kiss a day. It’d be like an apple. Keeping things healthy between us.”
“If you don’t like my terms—”
“Okay, okay. Where to?” The twinkle was gone, but he was still smiling.
“To talk to Rutgar. About veterans hall.” It was a long walk up a steep hill and she was woefully out of shape. And that was the poorest excuse ever given for getting into a man’s car. She hesitated.
“Rutgar? The guy from Parish Hill?” Chad gripped the steering wheel and immediately released it, as if burned. “I thought I’d
drive up there this morning and see if the boogeyman myth is true.”
“It is. He’s as territorial as a junkyard dog unless he likes you.” She got in the car so Chad wouldn’t go up there alone. “Go slow. And...if you make me nervous. You have to stop.”
He waited for her to buckle in and then drove slowly down the block in first gear, which meant every time he slowed down the car tried to lurch to a complete stop.
“Please shift. Before you give me...whiplash.”
“Work on pausing in the beginning,” he reminded her before shifting into second. He drove carefully down the next block, but second gear wasn’t for cruising either. “Is this better?”
“You’re killing me.” Tracy risked looking at him.
“I can go whatever speed you want me to.” He spared her a glance, one that said he meant both the speed of the car and their short-term relationship.
Despite their different backgrounds and beliefs, they shared a bond. It stretched between them like a tangible thing. Empathy for others. A creative bent. He had hang-ups. She had hang-ups. But in the end, there was something real, something she’d threatened to break by overstepping the boundaries of friendship.
Instead of asking him to stop and let her out, she asked him to shift into a higher gear. Soon they were going forty. The wind whipped her hair and tugged at her jacket, but she didn’t care. She trusted him to pull over if she needed him to. She trusted him to respect her wishes...when he was Chad.
He slowed to make the turn toward Parish Hill as if he were a driver of eighty-five, not thirty-five. The car could handle speed and corners. It was ten switchbacks to the top. They slowly climbed up the first one.
Tracy didn’t feel as if the world was ending. She loosened her grip on the door handle. “Thank you for going slow. Half the fun of driving this road is going fast.”
“I’m not here to have fun. I’m here to take you safely to the top.” True to his word, they drove conservatively on every switchback. At her direction, he turned down a driveway with a sign that said, “Trespassers will be shot.”
“That’s a joke, right?” Chad asked.
“In theory.” Tracy drew a deep breath. “Don’t show any fear. When you see his shotgun.”
They drove farther down the drive and the house came into view. It was a log cabin. It had been built on stilts and was painted a dull brown. The porch stretched from one corner to the other.
“Why did I ever think this was a sleepy old town?” He parked the car behind a beat up green truck.
Before they even got out of the car, Rutgar appeared on the porch with his shotgun. He looked like a Viking had dropped into the Wild West—tall, muscular, with long gray-blond hair and a full beard.
“State your business.” Rutgar cocked his gun, but didn’t point it at them.
Chad reached for the key in the ignition, intending to start the car again.
“Wait.” Tracy snatched the keys away before he could do so and got out of the car. “Hey, old man. It’s Tracy Jackson. Last time...you threatened to shoot me...I was in high school.” She and Emma had left a party and come here trick-or-treating on a dare.
No birds sang. No squirrels chirped and scolded. There was only the rising wind rustling the towering pines and the pounding of Tracy’s pulse.
“Tracy,” Chad said in a low voice, hurrying around to her side of the car and stepping in front of her. “Get back in the car.”
Rutgar walked to the edge of the porch, his booted feet pounding on wood. “State your business.”
“The veterans hall.” Tracy peeked around Chad’s shoulder. “Jessica sent me. We tried calling. But no one answered.”
“That’s the same baloney the sheriff said yesterday.” He narrowed his eyes. “What do you want with the hall?”
“Jessica...wants to see if Christine can hold her wedding reception there. Do you have the keys?” Tracy should have just broken into the hall. Chances were even she could kick the door down after all this time.
Rutgar pointed his gun at the ground. “Why didn’t you say that when you first got here?” He stomped into the house.
Tracy made to follow, but Chad held her back. “I didn’t hear him put the safety on the gun.”
“Would you...know what that sounds like if he did?”
“No.” Chad frowned. “Would you?”
“No. But he’s never shot anyone.” Even Eunice and her mama, who had trespassed and stolen horseradish, although Rutgar had probably only been a teenager then.
“Yet,” Chad emphasized. “He hasn’t shot anyone yet.”
The big man returned and lumbered down the steps, the gun nowhere in sight. He shook a ring of keys.
“You found them.” Tracy hurried to meet him halfway, Chad at her heels.
Rutgar held them to his chest. “I want them back as soon as you measure or whatever it is you need to see. We take pride in that place.”
Tracy hoped there was something left to take pride in. She’d seen enough of the neglected insides of buildings in Harmony Valley to know that time wasn’t always kind. But she promised and took possession of the keys.
“Do you want us to check your phone?” Chad asked, making Tracy do a double take. “So we can call ahead before we bring the keys back?”
“What happened to your face?” Rutgar stared at the bump on Chad’s forehead. “Looks like someone took a hammer to your skull.”
“Naw. Nothing that easy.” Chad pointed at Tracy with his thumb. “She hit me with the kitchen sink.”
Tracy resisted rolling her eyes.
“I like you.” A beefy hand landed on Chad’s shoulder. “Don’t make me regret letting you in my house.”
“What are you doing?” Tracy asked quietly, hanging back at the steps when Rutgar went inside.
“His shirt is buttoned wrong. His boot laces are frayed. And his fly is down.” There were worry lines on Chad’s face where she hadn’t seen any before. “He needs help, Tracy. He’s isolated out here and probably too proud to ask anyone to help him.”
“Okay,” Tracy whispered back. “But...you have to tell him his barn door is open.” She wasn’t going to point out the old man hadn’t zipped his pants. And her smile wasn’t for Rutgar’s fashion faux pas. It was because this was the Chad she adored.
“Wait here.” Chad went in first, murmured something she couldn’t make out, and moments later called Tracy inside.
“Phone’s dead.” Rutgar’s stormy bluster had reduced to a mild squall.
The house had the feel of a hunting lodge. Exposed wood. The heads of elk, moose, deer and bear hung from the walls. There were cobwebs across antlers and thick layers of dust on the coffee tables and television screen.
Chad was fiddling with the phone.
Tracy sniffed. “What’s that smell?”
“Seed medley.” Rutgar’s eyebrows shot up and he hurried down the hall. “I didn’t hear the timer go off.”
He was cooking? Curious, Tracy followed him into the kitchen. It was a galley kitchen that opened to a small breakfast nook. “It smells delicious.”
He removed two baking sheets covered in sizzling seeds from the oven.
“What are those?”
Rutgar smoothed the beard around the corners of his smile. “Pumpkin and winter squash seeds. I seasoned these with garlic.” He loosened them from the sheets with a spatula. “I’ll send some home with you if you like.”
“I’d like.” Jessica would like, too.
“Do you have any six-volt batteries?” Chad appeared in the doorway holding a small oblong battery. “Looks like your plug isn’t getting power and the battery backup is dead. I’m going to use the outlet farther down the wall.”
“That bum plug is where a tree fell on the house last winter.” Rutgar made a h
uffing noise and rummaged in a drawer. “Didn’t think to test it.” He handed Chad a battery.
“Your hall light is out, too.” Chad backed into the hallway and pointed up. “I’ll change it if you have a light bulb.” He returned to the living room.
“I like him.” Rutgar rummaged in a cabinet for a bulb and set it on the round oak kitchen table.
“So you’ve said.”
“He seems reliable.”
“Only on the outside.” He’d walk at the first sign of trouble, just as he’d done when they’d kissed. There were several jars of seeds on the counter. Tracy picked one up. “Are all these the same seasoning?”
“No.” He separated the jars. “This one is nutmeg and cinnamon. These are Worcestershire chili lime. And the ones with the darker seasoning are chocolate powder, powdered sugar and sea salt.” He tugged at his beard. “I plan to make some with horseradish tomorrow.” He grinned. “You should have been here last week. I made squirrel jerky bites. Froze some for winter and ate the rest.”
“Sorry I missed that.” Not. “Where...did you learn to make these seeds?” She hoped there was a story behind them.
“My father was an outdoor enthusiast and he wanted foods that didn’t spoil.”
A hollowed out pumpkin and a winter squash gourd sat on the counter. “Are you...going to do something else with these?”
“I am.” He smiled wide enough to flash his teeth past all that beard. “I’m going to put a little milk, spices and honey inside, then triple wrap them in foil and put them in the fire pit out back for a few hours. Comes out tasting just like pie. Do you want to come by for some tomorrow?” He looked as eager as a child waiting for a piece of birthday cake.
“It...would have to wait until I finished work.” Tracy would prefer his pie to squirrel jerky. “Did...your dad come up with that recipe, too?”
“Oh, no.” He reached for a picture on a shelf in the china cabinet. Based on the grainy quality and yellowed paper, it appeared to have been taken around the same time as some of the old photos hanging at the bakery. “That was my great-grandmother. She was an American Indian. The only thing I remember about her was her cooking on the fire pit in back. We’ve had a fire pit long before they were ever considered trendy by you young folk.”
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