Thank God he’d never slept with her in high school. At least he’d had the sense that if he really didn’t love her, he shouldn’t have sex with her, a rare moment of clarity for an eighteen-year-old.
He reached for the binoculars on his file cabinet and focused on Paradise High School. It still gave him a great feeling. He’d spent the best years of his life so far in that building.
There was a big banner across the front of the building that read: HOMECOMING OCTOBER 4, 2003.
Lynnette should get a clue. Tom Blackwell would marry her in a heartbeat. He’d been in love with her since their junior year. As it was, if Sam so much as raised an eyebrow in her direction, she’d be cooking him dinner every night and darning his socks. Scary.
So he would keep his eyebrows very still around her.
Seemed like everyone in Paradise knew he wanted to get married, and they’d made it their business to get involved. It was a hobby for the whole damn town.
He moved his view to Main Street. There was Mrs. Williamson headed into Esther’s Fabrics. She had her own key just in case she needed quilting supplies on a Sunday. That was trust for you. You’d never see that in a big city.
She’d set him up with her niece, Ada. One-eyebrow Ada. Not that her appearance would bother him if they’d had any sort of spark of commonality.
But Ada was focused on becoming a country music star and told him up front she was headed for Nashville, if he’d like to come along.
There was Mr. Miller sweeping up in front of his hardware store, even on a Sunday afternoon when he was closed. Red Miller was going to wear out the sidewalk someday, Sam swore. Red had submitted his wife’s cousin Charlene for blind date number ten. Charlene was four years Sam’s senior. Charlene wanted a rancher and was quite dismayed to learn Sam had no plans to take up cattle.
Paradise seemed to be short on age-appropriate women—at least any that he felt drawn to. Most of the girls he’d gone to high school with had either left or gotten married. Except for Lynnette, and he’d nipped that one in the bud.
Sam adjusted his binoculars and caught sight of Myrtle Crabtree as she jumped out of the cab of a semi. What the heck was that crazy old broad up to now? Her suitcase was handed out. She must have gone to one of her conventions.
He had to look twice to believe his eyes as a pair of incredibly shapely legs stuck themselves out of the truck door with no shoes on them, followed by an extremely short black skirt.
Sam leaned against the window and refocused. What was that? Some sort of vine or snake design started at the ankle and went up…up.
The rest of the emerging woman was just as well proportioned, in a tight black sweater and cropped black leather jacket. The whole package was topped off with a shock of spiked black hair and…a nose ring. Damn.
Sam took a long, hard look. Heat rushed around his body. He felt beads of sweat on his forehead.
The semi drove off with a honk. Myrtle waved. Nose Ring parked herself on the sidewalk and slipped into a pair of long black boots that zipped up the side and laced up the front. It took her quite a while. His binoculars steamed up. Damn!
He moved away from the window, set down the binoculars, and sat with a thud at his desk. Sam put both hands on the sides of his head and encouraged the blood to seek his brain again instead of his other parts.
Why did he go for the ones with trouble written all over them? It must be the same thing as being a lifeguard. He must be compelled to save people.
Not this time. When Myrtle called, as she undoubtedly would, he’d just tell her thanks, but no thanks, and to let the rest of the good folks of Paradise know all blind dates were off. Sam was going to do this wife-hunt on his own.
He shook himself like a dog to snap out of whatever had possessed him.
Sam took up his black fountain pen again. He’d come downstairs from his apartment to his office for a reason on this Sunday afternoon. He wrote, no tattoos, no pierced anything, on his ad draft.
The afternoon sun was making Kelly sweat in her black leather jacket and warm sweater. They’d walked quite a few blocks to get here. She peeled off her coat as they stood on the steps waiting for Myrtle to unlock the Hen House door. The shades of the shop were drawn and a CLOSED sign hung inside the door.
“We’re always closed Sunday and Monday,” Myrtle said as she whipped out her many keys and opened the glass-paneled door. Inside, it was dark and stuffy. She flipped on a few lights and a ceiling fan. The air started clearing right away. They dragged their suitcases in the door.
The Hen House had an extraordinary amount of Halloween decorations up, Kelly thought. She jumped, startled at a witch dummy with its black and gray hair in curlers, sitting under a dryer.
A stuffed black cat with glowing orange glass eyes perched menacingly on the counter. Kelly touched it and let out a gasp. It was real. Well, formerly.
“Mavis Peterson’s cat. She had it stuffed. She lets me borrow it every year. Name’s Fluffy. Scariest damn cat I’d ever seen in real life. I figure it’s his destiny to be a Halloween icon.”
“You take this Halloween thing pretty seriously, Myrtle. It’s only the first week in October,” Kelly said. “Are you a witch?”
“Depends on who you talk to. Some people said I put a spell on Fred Hansen to make him fall in love with me. But on a general day-to-day basis I’m just a wise-ass old woman.” Myrtle ripped open a plastic bag and refilled a bowl of Halloween candy corn and little candy pumpkins. She offered one to Kelly, who waved a no-thanks, then popped one in her own mouth.
“Okay, sweet cakes, your new digs are right through that door over there.” Myrtle talked with a candy pumpkin in her mouth, then gave up and pointed. She led the way through the door into her adjoining house. Her multiple keys tinkled as she walked. Kelly noticed a Power Puff Girl swinging from the key ring.
Myrtle’s kitchen was pink and black. The tile work checkerboarded around the countertops and complemented the yard flamingos standing among the potted ferns in the corner. She had a black and white vinyl and chrome luncheonette diner ensemble straight from the Happy Days set.
“Park it there at the table, Kelly. I’ll make us some lunch. I had one of my girls pick up some eats. I’m always hungry when I get back from conventions.”
“Wow, this is great stuff.”
“Had it since 1955. I was about your age, as I recall. My first husband, Eddie Crabtree, and I bought it together.”
“You kept his name?”
“He was my favorite husband. After the third one died, I went back to Eddie’s name.”
“You outlived three husbands?”
“Men are fragile creatures. Also they smoked cigarettes and ate bacon back in those days.” Myrtle opened the door of the rounded white Frigidaire and rummaged, then reappeared with her arms full.
“You said on the bus you had no children, right?”
“Female problems. In my day there weren’t no cure for those things. Thought about adopting with Eddie, but he died pretty early on.” Myrtle plopped some containers on the counter.
“Oh, Myrtle, I’m sorry.”
“I’ll see him again. He’ll pick me up in his red and white ’57 Chevy at the Pearly Gates. He loved that car.”
Kelly saw that Myrtle got a far-off look in her eyes, then turned back to fix lunch.
Suddenly Kelly’s current problems felt insignificant in the face of a woman widowed three times.
“Here, let me help with that.” Kelly got up and went over to Myrtle’s side.
After ice-cold Nesbitt’s orange soda and macaroni salad Myrtle said came from Cora’s, a local restaurant, Myrtle gave Kelly the tour of Chez Crabtree. The rest of the house was equally eclectic and fifties-driven.
Kelly grabbed her bags and headed upstairs, led by Myrtle, to the guest room. It was done up Hawaiian style. Myrtle flipped on the hula-girl bedside lamp so Kelly could see the tropical palm wallpaper in shades of turquoise and blue. The round bed, as Kelly could have predicted, wa
s covered with a wild floral-patterned bedspread.
Myrtle flopped herself on the bed and patted the mattress. “Damn hard to get these sheets. I have three sets a gal in town handmade for me.” She jumped up and smoothed out the coverlet. “Okay, then, here’s the house rules. If ya got a guy up here, hang yer brassiere on the doorknob. I’ll do the same on my door. That’s a sign for one of us to get to the movies for a few hours. Got it?” Myrtle winked.
“Yes, ma’am. Myrtle, you’re a wild woman.” Kelly swung her suitcase up on the bed and left Raymond’s briefcase on the floor. She’d have to find that case a hiding place. “When are we going to see the town?” Kelly yawned as she spoke.
“Seems to me you missed a whole lot of sleep drivin’ from L.A. How ’bout you have a rest? I’ll wake you up for supper, and we’ll see the whole dang town tomorrow. We’ll have a regular Monday mornin’ outing.”
Kelly’s brain was fuzzing out. She yawned again and stripped off her leather jacket. Myrtle backed out the bedroom door, waving. Kelly gave Raymond’s case a shove with her foot, sliding it under the bed.
She slowly took all her clothes off, pushed her suitcase onto the floor, and fell into the smooth pink sheets of Myrtle’s round bed. As she drifted off, she thought she heard Hawaiian music from somewhere in the distance.
Heaven. She was in…Paradise.
Kelly opened her eyes to morning sun outlining the edges of a pull-down shade like a solar eclipse. Myrtle hadn’t called her for dinner, that was for sure. She surveyed her surroundings slowly. This wasn’t the paradise she’d imagined waking up in this morning. That had more to do with white sand beaches. Of course, she also could have been waking up in a Jamaican jail with her charming husband. She sucked air in through her nose and tried to breathe out the ball of anger in her chest. She was furious with Raymond.
Pitching the covers off, she planted her feet on the furry white carpet. To hell with it. She’d just be angry. Kelly grabbed up her suitcase, smacked it down on the bed, and unzipped it. What angry little thing could she put on?
She’d go for her James Dean look. Black jeans and a white T-shirt plus her black leather cropped jacket. But the boots were out. She dug for a pair of black sandals that were walkable.
There was a beautiful blue-painted dressing table on one side of the room, between the two sun-edged windows. She sat down in front of the mirror and ran her fingers through the shock of black hair on her head. That just made the spikes stand up in a more vertical direction.
Kelly clutched her folded clothes in front of her naked body and gazed into the mirror. Where had all the hard edges come from? She was thin. Maybe too thin. Her bones seemed more angular than she remembered.
“Honey, are you awake? I heard creaking floorboards,” Myrtle’s voice came softly from the other side of the door.
“I’m awake, but I’m naked as a jaybird,” Kelly answered. She didn’t move from her perch on the vanity’s upholstered bench seat. Funny how she felt so much trust toward a woman she’d only met yesterday.
Myrtle snickered. “There’s clean towels for ya in the upstairs bath. Oh, and a robe on the hook in the closet in there. You get scrubbed up, I’ll make us some breakfast.”
Kelly heard Myrtle clomp down the stairs.
She took one more look into the mirror and got up to grab the robe. A shower would help. Even the thought of it gave her a more orderly feeling.
She took a moment and pulled up the covers on the round bed, smoothed it flat, and plumped the pillows around. In the small closet she found a Hawaiian cotton robe on a hook. Pulling it around her, she headed for the bathroom, grabbing up her clothes as she went out the door.
She hadn’t noticed some of the more quirky details of the bathroom yesterday during the tour. The walls were papered in a photo enlargement of a beautiful Hawaiian beach. The claw-footed tub had a bright blue and green shower enclosure with 3-D fish swimming all over it. The soaps were all shaped like seashells, and the bathroom mirror was framed in pretty pink and white shells. There was a mermaid on the hand towel.
It all made her smile. She was forgetting to be angry. She’d have to work into it again.
Kelly took a long, hot shower. The power of hot water and soap to set you right was awesome. She washed her hair in Myrtle’s Green Apple shampoo. When she was all rinsed off, she toweled dry and dressed in her James Dean clothes.
The thick, white, sleeveless T-shirt felt comforting for some reason. Clothes were like that for her. Probably because there’d been little else to comfort her most of her life. Better a cotton shirt than drugs, anyhow.
Bacon. She smelled bacon. Wow.
Downstairs Myrtle had scrambled eggs, toast, orange juice, and real—not from a turkey—bacon all ready for her.
“Mmmm, I love you, Myrtle. Will you marry me?” Kelly pulled up a chair and pulled the aroma of her breakfast up into her head. She was starved.
“Nope, my marrying days are over. I’m retired.”
“Then let’s just shack up.”
“You got that right. Two wild women. We’ll just rename the place ‘Love Shack.’” Myrtle served her own plate up, turned off the stove, and sat across from Kelly. “Ready for the grand tour of Paradise?”
“Just let me get some bacon under my belt, and I’ll be ready for anything,” Kelly answered. She dove into her breakfast with gusto. Man, this was a huge improvement over the standard coffee and donut she’d been doing forever. Her body probably didn’t know what to do with actual protein.
Chapter 3
The ten o’clock air was October clear, like amber. Kelly and Myrtle walked down Jewel Street, two rows of older houses with green patch lawns.
Kelly took inventory of lawn ornaments. There were five gnomes of various extraction, one spinning daisy, and two pink flamingos. The flowerbeds were filled with petunias and snapdragons in the last blooms of fall. Chrysanthemums yellowed up most of the garden borders. The neighborhood must have all gone to the same sale on that one.
People waved from their porches as Kelly and Myrtle walked by. Kelly took care to check out the little houses close to town. There were several for sale. She hummed as they turned toward Main Street.
Paradise was in a time warp. They were in a 1950s Brigadoon. A town that undoubtedly only appeared every fifty years because of a curse put on it during a drag race by the loser’s girlfriend. Peggy Sue got even.
“Purt’near the same as it was in 1952. Eerie, isn’t it?” Myrtle pointed down the row of businesses.
“You ain’t just kiddin’, there, Myrtle,” Kelly answered.
Crossing the street, they passed Robert’s Jewelers, Esther’s Fabrics, and approached Miller’s Hardware. Huge flowering baskets resplendent with fall color hung from the streetlamps.
A big man with gray hair, wearing overalls and a plaid flannel shirt, was out in front of Miller’s sweeping the sidewalk. He smiled as they came near, handing out g’mornin’s as he kept up the rhythm of his broom.
“Hey, Red. How’s Betty?”
“She’s up to her elbows in the church social, Myrtle. Thank the Lord it’s this weekend. Then maybe I’ll get a proper dinner again.”
“Red, honey, a little Lean Cuisine never killed anyone. I bet you’re a whiz at the microwave.” Myrtle waved ’bye to Red as they passed.
Did they really have microwaves here? Kelly stopped and stared in the hardware store window. They had the coolest stuff she’d seen in years: Martha’s green dishes at totally unhip low prices, a wood-sided Radio Flyer wagon full of gardening supplies, and pumpkins—lots of pumpkins. There was even a real eggbeater—a hand-crank spinner—sitting in a thick white crockery bowl.
She was going to stick out in this hick town like an alien from Mars. “Who am I, Myrtle? What’s my cover?”
“Hmm. That’s a good one. I s’pose there is a chance that dumb-ass husband of yours might be on the search. How about you be some distant relative of mine? My brother-in-law’s daughter was a wild hair.
You could be her kid. Kelly Crabtree.”
“Wouldn’t she have married and have some other name?”
“Naa, she’s a free spirit, like me. But that’s too easy, and too traceable. Let’s just say you’re my long-lost second cousin.” Myrtle caught her arm. “C’mon, cousin.”
There she was again. In jeans. In person. Live. Going into Cora’s. Where he was going. Steady, man, you’re getting java and a muffin just like every day.
Oh, damn. She was extremely sexy. Wild black hair, tight jeans, black leather jacket. Her toenails were painted bright orange, and a silver toe ring glinted back at him.
“Hi, Sam. How are you this beautiful fall morning?” The face of Lynnette Stivers blotted out his view. She was her perfectly perky blonde self. Except that she was talking to him through gritted teeth.
“Just fine, Lynnette. Just catching a coffee break.” Translation: Please move your perky ass and let me get my caffeine. It occurred to Sam that since he came here almost every day at this time, it wasn’t an accident bumping into Lynnette.
“Are you going to the church social Saturday? I’m baking up a dozen peach pies. You know, the ones with the pecans that you just love so much?”
“I’ve been commandeered by Dottie Williamson to transport potato salad. I’m sure I’ll see you there,” Sam said as flatly as possible, keeping all hint of invitation or any ol’ hint out of his voice. From the look on her face it didn’t quite work as well as he’d wished.
“That’ll be just fine, Sam. I’ll save a space on my dance card for you.” Lynnette did smooth talk so well.
Translation: I’m gonna get you hog-tied, Sam Grayson, one way or another. Sam shuddered.
“I’ve got to get back to work. I’m sure we’ll run into each other.” Sam wove and dodged and managed to get by her; red plaid pleated skirt, white blouse, and all.
Talk of the Town Page 3
