by Cindy Myers
Chapter Three
“Nick, I am not going to argue with you about this. I need a set designer, a landscaper, a makeup artist, and a secretary on the next plane to Colorado.” Faye Anne counted off the four steps between the dresser and the nightstand in her room at the Eureka Motel, turned and walked back.
The phone crackled, making her producer, Nick Raven, sound as if he were talking through a cellophane wrapper. “You don’t have the budget for any of those things, Faye Anne,” he said.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” The knot in her stomach tightened painfully. If she had bothered to eat lunch, she’d have probably thrown up. “You can’t expect me to put out a quality product with no help.”
“You’ve got Jack. And you were the one who said you could do your own hair and makeup if we’d give you a bigger salary.”
She swallowed the lump in her throat that was equal parts rage and despair—and maybe some other emotions she didn’t want to examine too closely. That bigger salary was all gone, eaten up by house payments and credit card bills, her ex’s crazy investments, and the Caribbean vacation that had been a last-ditch effort to salvage a marriage beyond saving. “I need an assistant besides Jack. I’ve got people to interview and a script to write—and you won’t believe this place. It’s going to need a lot of work to make it camera ready.”
“I thought the mountains were supposed to be beautiful. ‘The viewers will love the spectacular scenery,’ you told me.”
“Oh, it is beautiful.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to ward off the headache forming behind her eyes. “Spectacular. It just needs a little—sprucing up. You know, to capture it at its best.”
“Your job is to figure out how to capture it,” he said. “And you’d better make it extra special. At the schedule meeting yesterday, the network was talking up a new show that features gourmet dinners made entirely of roadkill and things the chef picks out of the woods.”
“I hope you pointed out the liability in airing a show like that,” she said. “Think of the diseases.”
“All I told them was that I was certain you’d come up with something better than roadkill, but they said they didn’t want better. They just want a show that viewers will talk about and remember. So you’d better make this good. No pressure, though.”
“I hate you, Nick,” she said, without heat.
“Tell me something I don’t know. By the way, someone from the IRS called this morning.”
Blood pounded in her temples and she gripped the phone so tightly her fingers ached. “Do not tell them where I am. And do not give them this number.”
“I knew you’d say that. But I doubt even federal agents would make the trip to East Podunk, Colorado, to try to get blood from a turnip. Have a good time, Faye Anne. Bring me back a killer show. One that will put us all back in the big bucks.”
He hung up and Faye Anne resumed her pacing. Maybe she should call the IRS and try to negotiate a settlement. They could have the house, but she’d get to keep the Mustang, her clothes and jewelry, her wigs, and a small savings account. That wasn’t too much to ask, was it? If they wanted more, they could go after her ex-husband. After all, if she hadn’t been trying to shore up his bad investment schemes, she’d have had the money to pay her taxes.
She’d even give the feds Drake’s new address in West Hollywood with whatever that actress’s name was. The Dallas house they’d shared was supposed to have been their dream home. The one where they were going to raise their children. Drake would run his investment business from the downstairs office, and Faye Anne would eventually move production of her show to a new studio they’d build in the vacant space behind the pool house. The kids—she’d hoped for at least three—would have a nanny when they were little, and when they were older they’d host pool parties and sleepovers in the big den that opened onto the pool deck.
She’d had her life planned out perfectly. But then Faye Anne hadn’t been able to conceive right away and her producer had balked at her idea to move the show to Dallas. Drake’s investments had lost money faster than she could shovel funds his way and instead of decorating a nursery and interviewing nannies, she’d found herself dealing with creditors and talking with divorce lawyers.
She sniffed and swallowed tears. That was all water under the bridge. She couldn’t do anything about the past, but she was in control of her future. Things were going to work out for her; she’d make sure of that.
A knock on the door halted her in mid-pace. “Who is it?”
“It’s me, Jack.”
She opened the door to her cameraman. He’d added a UNIQUELY EUREKA ball cap to his outfit. “Where did you get the hat?” she asked, as she held the door open for him to enter.
“It was in the goodie bag in my room. Didn’t you get one?”
She glanced toward the pink gift bag on top of the room’s small microwave. “I haven’t had a chance to look.”
“There’s some awesome fudge in there,” he said. “And a drink koozie from some place called the Dirty Sally.”
“What is that? A strip club?” Eureka didn’t strike her as the type of place for naked dancing, but what did she know?
“It’s a local bar, I think. I’ll have to check it out.”
“You won’t have time for checking out bars. I need you to help me with some things.”
“What kind of things?” He eyed her warily.
“We’ve got to do something to make this place look more like spring. Get rid of the snow. Bring in some flowers. And we’ve got to interview the locals and find the right mix of people for the dinner party.”
“I’m a cameraman. I don’t shovel snow or plant flowers. And talking to the locals is your job, not mine. I just follow along with the camera.”
“But I can’t do everything by myself,” she wailed.
“You’re the one who wanted to come here.” He began rifling through her gift bag. “I don’t know why we can’t just film it the way it is. Apparently, snow is usual for April in the mountains.”
“But snow in April isn’t romantic or exciting,” she said. “It’s just gray and dirty. This show is supposed to be about spring and flowers and new beginnings.” It was supposed to be a new beginning for her. A chance to recover from her losses and regain her position as the best of the cooking show queens. Dreary scenery—even with mountains in the background—was not going to do the job.
“Maybe you’ll feel different after you talk to some of the locals,” he said. “They seem like really nice people.”
Janelle and Danielle seemed nice enough, though the only other person she’d actually spoken with, the librarian, was a little on the scary side. Still, a lot of folks had turned out to see her when she’d come down the mountain. It just proved she had fans everywhere. People still loved her.
And people who loved her would do things for her. The rush that always filled her whenever she came up with a great idea almost drove out her headache. “That’s a terrific idea, Jack,” she said.
He looked up from unwrapping a piece of fudge. “What idea was that?”
“I’ll recruit some of the locals to help me. My fans love me. They’ll be delighted to help.”
“She’s just not what I expected, that’s all,” Danielle said. She added another packet of sugar to her coffee and stirred idly. She and Janelle sat at a back table in the restaurant with some of the Last Dollar regulars. After her dramatic arrival in the convertible towed down the mountain and a few minutes spent waving to her fans, Faye Anne had disappeared to “make a few calls.” She’d scarcely glanced around the interior of the Last Dollar, and hadn’t touched the food Danielle and Janelle had laid out for her to sample.
“She’s too skinny for someone who hosts a cooking show,” Janelle said. Without having to be asked, she slid the cream toward Danielle. “She wouldn’t even touch the feast we prepared for her. I’m not sure she even likes food.”
“She must not be human if she doesn’t like this food.” Bar
b Stanowski, Maggie’s socialite friend from Houston, reached for another sausage and cheese pinwheel.
“More for us.” Jameso Clark popped a mini quiche into his mouth. Maggie nudged him and he passed a quiche to her.
“I was surprised she didn’t bring more people with her,” Maggie said. “I was expecting an entourage—hair and makeup people, lighting and set workers. Instead, it’s just her and a cameraman.”
“They probably do everything else back in Hollywood,” Jameso said. “With computers and stuff. Saves money not paying for all those people to travel.”
“I guess so,” Danielle said. “I just thought the whole thing would be a little more glamorous. She told us the food wasn’t even important. That people didn’t even care about the food that much.”
“Again, she obviously hasn’t eaten your food.” Barb selected a brownie bite and moaned a little as it melted in her mouth. “And I’ve known a few of these Hollywood types,” she said. “They always travel in packs. Are you sure she’s even who she says she is?”
“She’s definitely Faye Anne Reynolds,” Danielle said. “I’ve watched the show for years.”
“I wonder if that accent is fake,” Janelle said. “Do people in the South really talk that way?” She pointed at Barb. “You don’t talk that way.”
“I’m from Texas. We have an accent all our own.” Barb smiled. “She dresses like a Southerner. All that blond, big hair. I’d bet money it’s a wig—but a very good one. If I see her, maybe I’ll ask.”
“I’m so glad you could be here while they’re filming,” Danielle said. “Maybe you can persuade Faye Anne to invite you to the dinner that’s always the finale of every episode. I’d think the two of you would have a lot in common.”
“I read she was a former beauty queen,” Barb said. “We could compare tiaras.” She brushed crumbs from her well-manicured hands. “The real reason I’m here is to look for a place I can convert into a bed-and-breakfast inn. Eureka is a wonderful town, but it could use some more upscale lodging.”
“Too bad your place isn’t already open.” Danielle picked at brownie crumbs on her plate. “I’m sure Faye Anne would like it better than the motel.”
“What’s wrong with the Eureka Motel?” Jameso looked offended. “I helped remodel the bathrooms a few years ago.”
“How many years ago?” Maggie asked.
He furrowed his brow. “I don’t know—maybe ten.”
Maggie shook her head. “I was in the place once. Maple furniture fifty years out of date. Moth-eaten deer heads and old Remington calendars on the walls. Definitely not a female-friendly place, and definitely not what a woman like Faye Anne is used to.”
“Maybe she’ll come back next summer, after my B and B is open,” Barb said. “Provided I find a house that’s big enough, centrally located, and worth remodeling.”
“Eureka is full of big old homes,” Maggie said. “You’ll find something. Maybe Jameso and I could have our wedding there.”
“Except I’d really like to have the wedding before the baby is born,” Jameso said.
“When are you due?” Janelle asked.
“June ninth,” Maggie said. “But you know they can’t really be exact about these things.”
“May is a lovely month for a wedding,” Danielle said. “You could get married on my birthday—May sixteenth.”
Maggie shook her head. “That was my mother’s birthday, too. I’m always sad then, remembering her.”
“What about the week before?” Jameso asked. “Then we’d be on our honeymoon and you couldn’t be sad.”
“I think you overestimate your charms,” Maggie said, but her tone was teasing. “The week before is Jake’s birthday.”
“How could we have forgotten?” Danielle asked. Maggie’s father, Jake Murphy, had been a larger-than life character who’d played a big role in local lore. An imposing man who lived in a cabin way up on Mount Garnet, Jake had shunned convention and thumbed his nose at authority, yet he’d been famously loyal to his friends, a prankster whose escapades were the stuff of legends and a troubled man whose secrets had come out only after his death.
Maggie being secret number one. Jake had abandoned her and her mother when Maggie was only three days old, but in his will he’d left her everything he owned, including the house on Mount Garnet and the French Mistress gold mine. Maggie had come to town to claim her inheritance and ended up staying, as much a part of the community as if she’d lived here all her life.
“Okay, so we can’t get married on Jake’s birthday,” Jameso said. “Though he’d probably think it was a great idea. Pick another date that works for you. I’m beginning to think you don’t want to marry me.”
She leaned against him and kissed his cheek. “You know that isn’t true. I just want our special day to be truly special.”
“I’ll work on her, Jameso.” Barb patted Maggie’s arm. “I’ll make her pick a date and plan a wedding.”
“Oh, you will?” Maggie raised her eyebrows at her friend.
“You know you can’t say no to me.” Barb turned to Janelle and Danielle. “Meanwhile, what can I do to help with this TV show?”
“Make sure Faye Anne invites you to dinner,” Janelle said. “But first, come over tomorrow evening. We’re doing a trial run of the food, to make sure everything comes out all right.”
“I wouldn’t think you two would need to practice,” Maggie said.
“It’s a little nerve-wracking, knowing someone who has eaten all over the world will be judging your food,” Danielle said.
“Except she doesn’t really eat food.” Janelle rolled her eyes. “She only tastes.”
“Still, I want the meal to be perfect,” Danielle said. “And I want Faye Anne and her viewers to love us.”
“Nothing is ever perfect.” Janelle patted her hand. “And trying to control what other people think and feel is impossible. Better to focus on making a great meal for our friends, letting her film it, and hoping for the best.”
“You’re right.” Danielle squeezed her hand. “And it’s why I love you.” She turned to the others. “Now eat up. I don’t want to have to find room in the refrigerator for all these leftovers.”
After the excitement of seeing a celebrity arrive in town, her job at the Eureka Library seemed impossibly dull to Gloria. Cassie was in more of a state than usual, alternately fuming about what she saw as Janelle’s disdain for local history, and scheming to find ways to persuade Faye Anne Reynolds to feature Cassie on the show. “I ought to at least warn her that those girls are not serving up original recipes at their restaurant,” Cassie said the morning after Faye Anne’s arrival in town. “She wouldn’t want to mislead her viewers.”
“What do you mean, their recipes aren’t original?” Gloria asked.
“For one thing, their linzer torte is an exact copy of the one my grandmother used to make.”
“You aren’t suggesting Janelle and Danielle stole your grandmother’s linzer torte recipe,” Gloria said. “They didn’t even know your grandmother.”
“I just find it suspicious that they are using her exact recipe.”
“There are probably only so many ways to make a dish,” Gloria said. “So there’s probably no such thing as a completely original recipe.”
“We shall see,” Cassie said, like the villainess in a melodrama. She’d probably been practicing her “stage presence” in preparation for her imminent stardom on What’s Cookin’? USA.
“I hope you brought your lunch today,” Cassie said, standing. “I need you to watch the library while I’m out.”
As if Gloria could afford to eat out on her salary. She brought her lunch every day: a peanut-butter and strawberry jam or sliced chicken sandwich, a piece of fruit, and, on Fridays, a cookie she purchased at the coffee shop on her way to work.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To look for Faye Anne Reynolds. I promised to tell her about the town’s history.”
Good l
uck with that, Gloria thought, as the door slammed in Cassie’s wake.
Silence descended on the library. She waited on the few patrons who entered, re-shelved books that had been returned, and debated reorganizing the DVD shelf. Normally, she treasured her time at the library alone, but today restlessness pinched at her like ill-fitting clothes.
The door opened and heavy footsteps sounded on the worn wooden floors of the old building. Jack Than Ngu stopped in the middle of the front room and looked around. When his gaze reached Gloria, who was seated behind the circulation desk, a wide grin spread across his face. “I was hoping I’d find you here,” he said.
“You were?” She half-rose from her chair, then sat again, uncertain her shaky legs would support her. She felt like some silly schoolgirl, but she couldn’t help herself. “What can I do for you, Mr. Ngu?”
“Call me Jack. Is it okay if I call you Gloria?”
“Please do.” He had a deep voice, with just the faintest hint of an accent that made the name she’d always thought of as plain and old-fashioned sound exotic.
“Well, Gloria.” He propped his forearms on the raised portion of the desk and leaned toward her. “I figured if anybody knows about life in this town, it must be the town librarian. I mean, not only do you live here, but pretty much everyone who lives here must come through here at one time or another. You must get to know all their secrets.”
“I could definitely tell you stories,” she agreed. “Of course, I never would.”
“Of course not.” He grinned. “Is that why you became a librarian—for the fun of knowing and keeping secrets?”
She had never looked at her job as particularly fun, and certainly not as exciting as he made it sound. “After two years at the community college, this was the only job I was offered,” she said truthfully.
“So, is it a good job? Do you enjoy it?”
“I like books and I like to read. The pay is lousy, but I have good benefits. The hours aren’t terrible.” She shrugged. “You can’t ask for much more than that in a small town.”
