Trouble's Brewing

by Linda Evans Shepherd; Eva Marie Everson

  Clay shook his head. “Those ladies are old enough to be my mother.”

  “Not Deputy Donna.”

  Clay turned his attention to the door, looking to make a quick exit. “No, no, no. She’s like a sister. Uh, I really do have to get on that deadline. And I’m looking forward to getting your first column.”

  I smiled. “And my deadline is?”

  “How about tonight by 5:00.” Clay fished in his pocket for his business card and handed it to me. “You can email it to me. Say, about five hundred words?”

  “And my cost?”

  “The first one’s free. Let’s take this one step at a time.”

  I shook his hand. “Deal.”

  As I watched Clay pull into traffic, my phone rang again. “Lisa Leann’s Weddings.”

  It was Donna. “You say that like you have a rotating marriage policy and several ex-husbands.”

  I had to laugh. “Good point. I’m still trying to find the perfect name, but that obviously isn’t it. What’s up?”

  “I’m down the street in my Bronco, just finishing up this ticket, and I saw Clay drive off. What does he know?”

  “Only that you and Goldie are about to leave for L.A. to see David Harris.”

  “Goldie?”

  “That was his conclusion. I just didn’t correct it.” She sighed. “For Pete’s sake.”

  “Okay, Donna, I did my part, now spill the beans. What’s going on with Vonnie? I thought she and Fred had worked through all the theatrics of this delicate discovery.”

  “Well, they had …”

  “What happened?”

  I could hear the hesitation in Donna’s voice. “Don’t say anything to the girls, but Fred found one of Joseph Jewel’s old love letters.”

  “Okay, I can see why that would present a problem. But why is Vonnie heading for L.A.?”

  “It’s her former mother-in-law. She’s on her deathbed, and no one has told her that her grandson is alive. Vonnie and I are going to give her the news and introduce her to David. We’ll give a full report at our December meeting, I’m sure. But you’re one of the sisters now, so I’m trusting you not to talk.”

  “Honey, they couldn’t pry that bit out of me, even if wild Texas horses were tied to my tongue.”

  “Can’t say that’s a comforting thought,” Donna said. “Just keep this quiet.”

  “I’m giving you my Potluck Club word of honor,” I said. “And don’t worry. I, Lisa Leann, will fix Clay’s wagon but good.”

  After we hung up, I had a great idea. I walked over to my computer and turned it on and opened a Word document. I stared at the screen. Perhaps what I needed was a pseudonym for my new column. Let’s say I call it “Aunt Ellen Explains Everything”?

  Hey, I like that. My clandestine column could run with a nearby ad for the shop. My strategy would be to give my advice, anonymously, and hope that it would lead my readers to the altar, and thus, my wedding services. I typed:

  AUNT ELLEN EXPLAINS EVERYTHING

  Dear Aunt Ellen,

  Recently when my husband was cleaning out the garage, he came across a shoe box filled with some old college love letters from my dearly departed boyfriend, who was killed in a motorcycle accident a couple of decades ago. I’d never told “Alex” about “Peter.”

  Now, my husband is hurt, and our marriage is crumbling.

  What should I do? How can I get my marriage back together?

  Signed,

  Grave Letters

  Now, that was a letter I knew at least two people would read with great interest. I had changed the details enough so that they would never suspect my reply was so personally directed at them. Yet this letter would pique not only their interest but the interest of the whole town.

  Dear Grave Letters,

  You are a woman with many secrets, which have been kept far too long. It may not seem like it, but it’s good to get these things out in the open.

  Remind Alex that Peter is not only dead and buried but that Peter predates your meeting and dating him.

  Still, I’m guessing your old love’s handwritten words are now seared into your husband’s brain. There’s only one way to undo the damage. Invite your husband to a letter-burning event. Hand off each of Peter’s old love letters to your husband, then let your husband burn them (without reading them) to demonstrate that the past is history.

  Then, it would be nice if the two of you thought about renewing your own wedding vows. Your local wedding consultant could lend a hand.

  Sincerely,

  Aunt Ellen

  I reread my words and grinned. There, I was off to a good start. Now I had to come up with one more letter. This one I was secretly dedicating to Clay and Donna. I only hoped Clay would see himself without recognizing my intentions.

  Dear Aunt Ellen,

  I’ve secretly been in love with a woman I’ll call “Mona,” though I’ve never been able to tell her so. Any ideas on how I can let the cat out of the bag? I mean, what if I tell her I think she’s the cat’s meow, but she tells me to scram? Just because I think she’s purr-fect for me doesn’t mean she’ll think I’m purr-fect for her.

  What should I do?

  Signed,

  Fraidy Cat

  Dear Fraidy Cat,

  If you are going to let fear block you from finding out if the girl of your dreams could be attracted to you, you have rejected her before you even gave her a chance to embrace you. Yes, that’s playing it safe, but it’s lonely play. So, be a man. Take a chance. Ask “Mona” out for a date. If she says no because she’s not interested, then that will be your signal to move on. Heal, then find somebody else who will love and cherish you.

  Otherwise, I’m afraid you will never know the joy of walking the love of your life down the aisle of matrimony. You will live a lonely life, thinking of the possibilities instead of enjoying a wife.

  Aunt Ellen

  Girl, you have outdone yourself.

  lisa leann I pulled out Clay’s business card and logged on to AOL, glad my hubby had already set up my computer in the back room, which was soon to be my dating agency.

  I typed Clay a quick e-note.

  Dear Clay,

  Hope you like my Aunt Ellen pseudonym. It’s probably the best way to address the real lonely heart issues of Summit View. This and a lovely print ad should suffice at this stage of my marketing plan. We’ll talk soon.

  Sincerely,

  Lisa Leann

  After I attached my document and hit send, I pulled out my list of things to do. I had more boxes to unpack, more orders to make, and I probably should wave a few more locals over to try out my chocolate meringue kisses. I pulled out the pen I had tucked behind my ear and tapped my desk. And tomorrow’s treat would be, let’s see. How about my grandmother’s pecan pie cookies? With the holiday season starting next week, that recipe would be the perfect delight.

  11

  Can He Get a Witness?

  Clay practically danced to his jeep, and he would have too, if he hadn’t thought he’d look so ridiculous. As soon as his plump fanny slid across the faded leather upholstery of the driver’s seat, he flipped open his pad and in bold letters wrote: Goldie Dippel—Harris’s mother.

  He traced the letters several times, trying to imagine the scenario. Harris was half Mexican. Mexican field hands, he’d once read somewhere or another, were quite common in Georgia, where Goldie hailed from.

  Maybe she’d gotten involved with one of her father’s field hands … if her father even had any field hands. Maybe she’d married Coach just to get away from the scandal. The possibilities were endless.

  He flipped open his cell phone and dialed his editor. As soon as his editor answered, Clay said, “I’ve got an idea for an article about migrant workers being used and abused in the South. If you need me, I’ll be at the library doing some research.”

  With his thumb he pressed “end,” then revved up the old engine of the jeep. A quick glance out the dustand dirt-caked windshield before
he pulled out in traffic revealed that the Who-What-When-Where-and-How of his existence was stepping back into her Bronco.

  He didn’t have time for that right now, though. He had bigger fish to fry. But, despite himself, he smiled. Wouldn’t Donna get a kick out of knowing he’d cracked the case? She’d be mad enough to rant and rave a good ten minutes, flailing her arms about like a girl gone mad.

  He couldn’t wait, he just couldn’t wait.

  12

  Sweet and Sour Romance

  I made a quick phone call to my friend Lizzie, who’d been having a tough time of late, while I thumbed through my mother’s recipe book for what felt like the millionth time in three days. As soon as Lizzie answered, I leaned my narrow hip against the kitchen countertop and jumped right in to a conversation that had nothing to do with anything. The important thing for me to do was to help Lizzie take her mind off her troubles.

  “Lizzie? Evie, here. Can you believe it? The week before Thanksgiving, and they’re playing Christmas music in the stores and on the radio and … do you know what I saw on television the other evening?”

  “Hello, Evie,” Lizzie said with what sounded to me like a hint of humor in her voice. Lizzie is one strong lady in any storm, and this tsunami apparently was no exception.

  “Hello, my friend.” I stopped thumbing through Mama’s recipe box.

  “What did you see on television the other night?”

  “Do you remember that Folgers commercial? The one they only play during the Christmas holidays?”

  “Remind me.”

  “You know. The one where Peter comes home from wherever he’s been, and the cute little girl with the blond braids is coming down the stairs—”

  “Oh, yeah. That one always makes me a little weepy.”

  I took a deep breath, then exhaled. That was my cue. “How’s Tim, Lizzie?”

  “Tim is Tim. Michelle took him to work with her the other day, and he landed a job.”

  “At the resort?”

  “Mmm.”

  “What’s he doing there?”

  “He’ll be in their financial department, of course.” Lizzie paused, and I stayed quiet. “He starts after Thanksgiving. I was … I was hoping that he wouldn’t be here that long, that he would … you know … work things out with Samantha. But …”

  “But?”

  “They’ve only spoken once or twice, and both times it ended badly.” She paused again. “Both times.”

  “Oh, Lizzie. I’m so sorry. Seems like it’s always something, doesn’t it?”

  I heard a sniffle, then another sigh. So much for my “strong in any storm” theory. “What’s new with you, Evie? Have you talked with Leigh?”

  “I talk with Leigh every single night.” Leigh, my beloved niece, had lived with me until just a few weeks ago. She’d come cross-country from her home in West Virginia for refuge and a little Aunt Evie TLC, I suppose. She’d been seven months pregnant at the time. Unmarried. And completely confused.

  When she left, she was the mother of our precious Baby Faith … and the wife of Faith’s daddy, Gary, who flew into town just in time to witness the birth and to propose marriage.

  This time it was I who sighed. “No one seems to be doing things like they used to,” I remarked. “But at least they’re married, and she sure sounds happy.”

  “She’s doing well then.”

  “Wonderful. In fact, I’m calling her right after I get off the phone with you.”

  “So, what are you doing for Thanksgiving? Do you want to come over here? We’ll have plenty to eat. The entire clan will be here, with the exception of Samantha and the kids, of course. We’ll have a houseful if you think you can stand it, and I know I couldn’t enjoy myself if I thought you were alone.”

  I smiled so wide I’m surprised my cheeks didn’t split open. “No, but thank you for the kind offer. I have plans.”

  “Oh?”

  I blushed appropriately, in spite of the fact that not a soul was in the room—or the entire house—with me. “Vernon and I will spend the holiday together.”

  “Oooooh.”

  “Oh, stop.”

  “You love it, and you know you do.”

  I looked around my kitchen as though I were some character in a Broadway play, stalling for the sake of delivering the perfect line. “Yes. Yes, I most assuredly do.” I giggled, which is just absurd. A woman my age, giggling over the attentions of a man.

  But not just any man. Vernon Vesey. The love of my life. The man I’d been waiting for since I was twelve years old and he’d kissed me full on the lips at Ruth Ann McDonald’s birthday party. Everything from then on would have been so perfect too, had Doreen Roberts not come along and thrown herself at him like some seventh grade floozy.

  Years later Vernon and Doreen married, had Donna, and then Doreen ran off with the choir director at Grace Church, the church I’ve been attending since the day I was born.

  For a long time, I figured Vernon deserved what he got when he married Doreen, and goodness knows Donna and I have merely tolerated each other, but the truth of the matter is, I’ve loved Vernon since we were pups, and Donna … well, I could love Donna like my own, if she’d just let me.

  “Has he said the L word yet?” Lizzie asked.

  “Oh, sure. We don’t say it a lot … it’s all so new, and our relationship is still a bit fragile, what with Donna not exactly approving and all …”

  “She’ll come around, Evie.”

  “We’ll see, won’t we?” I said. “I’d better hang up, Lizzie. I promised Vernon I’d make him one of Mama’s German chocolate cakes.”

  “Is he coming over tonight? Taking you out?”

  “No. He says it’s dangerous to see each other every night … whatever that means.”

  I heard Lizzie giggle again. “You two are just too cute. Think you’ll get a ring for Christmas?”

  A blush began at my toes and ran up the entire length of my body before settling in my cheeks. “Lizzie,” I whispered. “Wouldn’t that just be something? At my age?” The following morning, cake on a flat cake plate and cake plate in hand, I braved the freezing weather and made my way to the sheriff ’s office downtown, where I hoped I’d see Vernon. Of course, he could be out on one of his many important calls, and if Donna wasn’t there, that pretty much meant the place would be empty except for one of the dispatchers. My shoulders slumped as I set the cake plate on the floorboard of my car’s front passenger side. The dispatchers there still looked at me funny, in spite of the fact that Vernon and I had been seeing each other for the past few weeks.

  I straightened. Had it been only a few weeks? In my heart it felt as though we’d been together forever.

  I drove my car down my driveway and then eased the wheels toward town. The scenery around my beloved Summit View, where my daddy had been mayor before the tragic accident that claimed his and Mama’s lives, was certainly changing quickly. The snows had already started, and before long we’d be seeing nothing but a blanket of white lying over our little corner of the world. Personally, I couldn’t wait. It was my favorite time of year.

  Minutes later I was pulling into an empty space in front of Vernon’s office. As I cut the car off, I looked around to see if his car was anywhere in sight, but I didn’t see it. I frowned but got out of evangeline the car anyway, walked around to the passenger’s side, retrieved the cake, and headed toward the front door, aware only of the crunching of snow and ice below my feet.

  “Well, Evie! What do you have there?”

  I spun around so quickly I almost lost my footing on the ice. The cake wobbled on the plate, and I stared in horror as it began to slip forward. I was then aware of two hands—two very masculine hands—reaching for the plate, righting it, and then holding it steady.

  When I looked up, Bob Burnett was standing before me, grinning like a cat.

  “Hello, Bob Burnett,” I said. “Thank you for your help. I most certainly would have dropped the cake.”

  Bob pa
tted my arm. “Well, now. Had it not been for me calling out to you like I did, you wouldn’t have teetered there.”

  I could smell Bob’s aftershave. It was a bit too strong, but I have to admit, it wasn’t altogether offensive. Bob smiled at me again, and I noted a little twinkle in his eye.

  My eyes narrowed, and I cocked a brow. Was this man coming on to me? “Well, don’t worry about it.”

  I heard the approach of tires on the street, then a loud honking followed by a shrill, “Evie! You need to call me, girl. We need to talk!”

  I turned in horror. There went Lisa Leann in her Lincoln Town Car, driver’s window down and her leaning out of it, red hair blowing and her arm waving about like a porpoise in water. “Oh, good heavens,” I muttered.

  Beside me, Bob chuckled.

  “It’s not funny,” I said, staring after her. “That woman may as well have been raised in a barn, the way she acts sometimes. You’d think this was a parade, and she was the grande dame.”

  Bob chuckled again. I suppose I should be glad to know he hasn’t lost his sense of humor over the years. I turned back to him. “So, what brings you out on a Friday morning?”

  “Banking day.”

  I nodded, waiting for him to say something else, anything else. But Bob Burnett is a man of few words—a lot like Vernon, I suppose. “I see,” I said finally.

  “Speaking of banking,” he said, “you know, without a wife or kids to drain my account dry, I’ve done pretty well for myself.”

  “Come again?” What was this? First Lisa Leann hanging out a window, and now Bob Burnett telling me his financial accomplishments? Had the entire world gone nuts while I was sleeping last night? I got the sinking feeling that Bob Burnett was about to ask me out on a date. Call it woman’s intuition, if you will, but it was pretty strong.