by Shirley Jump
Joe let out a snort. “In other words, no sex. I’m not reading it.”
“I’m not asking you to. All I want is the assignment.”
“You think you can get this Hemingway chick in here to spill her guts, go for it. It’ll make a great exclusive. You know how I love to scoop the Globe.”
“If I get this, can I be done with pumps and plumping lipsticks? Forever?”
Joe twiddled with a pen and gave her a long, hard stare. His gray eyes were as hard as ice, the kind that took no excuses, short of death or dismemberment, for missing a deadline. “Sure. I’ll put Dean in charge of the fashion pages.”
“Dean? But he’s a guy. What does he know about mascara and panty hose?”
“More than Paris Hilton.” Joe’s face pinched up. He shifted in his chair. “Trust me. Sometimes I see more than I want to in the men’s room. That’s what I get for working late.”
Alex shuddered. “That’s okay. Way more than I wanted to know.”
“Yeah, me, too.” Joe cleared his throat. “All right, this is yours. Run with it, but bring me something quick. Fall fashions are right around the corner. I hear plaid’s coming back, too.”
Alex arched a brow in question.
“Hey, I hear Dean blathering all the time.” He fluttered fingers in the direction of the door, his gaze back on his work. “Now get the hell out of here.”
Alex had her chance. All she had to do was pray she wouldn’t blow it.
The incense alone would have killed a cow.
The entrance to Theodora’s Tearoom had that suffocating feeling that came from too many flowers and too much kitsch. A cacophony of ceramic figurines posed on every available space, little glassy-eyed faces turned to greet visitors, like a Made in China Noah’s Ark. Cats, dogs, elephants, cows, piglets and what looked like a rhino. Silk and dried flowers in unnaturally vibrant oranges, purples and maroons burst from vases tucked around and behind the animals. In the corner by the door, an electric water fountain ran a steady stream of water down a series of fake stones—gurgle, gurgle, gurgle, so fast, Alex had a sudden urge to dash to the restroom. Thin tendrils of scented smoke wended their way above it all, wrapping the space in the spicy scents of patchouli, cinnamon, vanilla.
“I’ll be right with you!” a friendly female voice called from the back.
Alex shifted from foot to foot. Tried not to look head-on at any single member of the menagerie of petrified animals. En masse, they gave off a major factor of creepy. “I can wait.”
“Goodness, what a day!” The woman who came bustling around the corner was as thin as a birch tree, with thick black hair that hung down to her waist. One streak of white ran down her center part and curled behind her ear, disappearing into the rest of her ebony locks. She wore a V-necked T-shirt that sported baby chickens wearing crowns and said CHICKS RULE, a denim skirt that ended midthigh and black leather boots that nearly met the skirt. “Karma and me had a bit of a disagreement today. Seems she thought I should have paid attention to where my moons were and not been playing the stock market before I came to work. So now, what’s Karma go and do?”
Alex didn’t respond. She wasn’t sure it was a question.
“She not only makes the toilet overflow but breaks the plunger. And on top of that, the Dow is down.” The woman shook her head. “That’s the last time I try to buy Google before it splits.” She thrust out a hand. “I’m Willow Clark, owner of Theodora’s Tearoom. And, yes, I realize my name isn’t Theodora, but that’s a long story. There’s a long story behind most things in my life.”
She paused for a breath. Alex took that as a signal to introduce herself. “Alex Kenner.”
“I know.” She grinned. “I mean, I didn’t know your name, exactly, but I knew someone with a first name that began with A was going to shop here today.”
Alex stared at Willow. All her life, she’d imagined what Willow Clark would be like. She’d pictured a bookish, reclusive woman scribbling away on legal pads. Sort of a female John Boy. But this slightly kooky, outrageous woman existed light-years from Walton Mountain.
“So, what can I do for you?” Willow asked.
Alex slid a business card out of her pocket and handed it to the woman. “I’m with the City Times—”
“Don’t need a subscription. I don’t read the paper. Too much bad news in there.”
“I’m not selling subscriptions. I’d like to interview you.”
The woman’s face flipped from sunflower happy to parched-grass droopy. “Oh, you’re one of them.” She turned away, waving a dismissive hand. “Like I told the last four, I’m not talking.”
Okay. So much for this going according to plan. Thus far, not one bit of what Alex had envisioned on her drive over here had happened. Apparently, Lois Lane she was not. “Don’t you think the world ought to know, though?”
“Know what? I’m a one-hit wonder. What’s so interesting about that?” The woman headed down the hall, disappearing into the bowels of the shop.
Alex followed, ducking amongst fake plants, shelves of décor. Theodora’s Tearoom overflowed with lamps, miniature tables, candelabras, every kind and sort of home decoration, as if it were the dumping ground for every cleaning and organizing team on the HGTV and DIY networks. The cacophony of items nearly assaulted Alex with color and architectural styles, a one-store war of screaming shabby chic and art deco. “I’m interested in what you have to say.”
The woman snorted. “As a reporter. For the byline.”
“I read The Season of Light.”
Willow paused midstep, then kept walking. “Lots of people did. That’s what made it a best seller.”
“I read it eight times. Had to buy a second copy because my first one fell apart.”
Willow turned around. “Eight, huh?” She took three steps back, her gaze narrowing. “What is the color of Jensine’s notebook?”
It was one of those tiny details, buried in the story. Something a cursory read, even a second read, would have missed. Alex smiled. “Green, bright green. And she sits in the second desk, third row. There’s a thumbtack shoved into the bottom of the desk, left there by the boy who sat there the year before. It catches on Jensine’s tights the first day of school and tears a hole in them. She covers the hole with the notebook when she’s standing in the lunch line so no one knows because she’s embarrassed and doesn’t want to stick out ‘like a bedraggled doll in a sea of perfectly dressed toy soldiers.’”
Willow’s mouth curved up into a smile. “You have read the book.”
“I wouldn’t lie about that.”
“I thought you might. You are a reporter, you know.”
“Anything for the story and all that, huh?”
Willow raised one shoulder, let it drop.
“So, will you let me interview you?”
“No.”
Alex’s spirits fell.
“But I will invite you for tea. And show you some great décor for that house you’re renovating.”
“How do you know about that?”
Willow’s smile widened. “I have more talents than writing. And maybe, my first-letter-A visitor, that’s where your story really lies.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Are you completely insane?” Tony stared at Mack and shook his head. “Why not flowers?”
Mack scowled. “Don’t even get me started on flowers and Alex.”
Tony laughed. He was sober, and Mack intended to keep him that way, which was why he’d shown up at Wendell and Son’s Concrete and Paving at quitting time and dragged Tony out shopping. Tony had grumbled but gone along. In fact, he’d seemed almost glad for something to fill his afternoon.
“Since when do you want to make nice with Alex? She’s, like, one of the guys. She’s been hanging out with us forever. Listening to your dating horror stories. Hearing you belch and…” Tony grinned. “Worse.”
“This is different.” Mack looked at one box, decided against it and put the item back on the shelf. He’d
come into the store with a clear idea of what he wanted—or thought he had. Now that he was here, his mind had gone blank and he’d become as indecisive as an eight-year-old with a full bucket of Halloween candy and no parental supervision.
He knew Alex. Knew what she liked.
Right?
Damn. Maybe he should get flowers.
The image of Alex with Steve’s white roses in her hand popped into his head and he nearly punched the wall. No. No flowers.
“Whoa. Don’t tell me you like her now.” Tony leaned in, studied Mack’s face, then let out a snort. “Man, you do like her. Boyfriend like.”
Mack got busy studying the shelves. “No, I don’t.”
“Mack, this isn’t seventh grade. Man up, dude, and tell me the truth.”
What was the sense in hiding the truth? Tony would only ferret out the words. The man had an uncanny ability for reading Mack’s mind. That’s what happened when he knew a man forever.
“All right, yeah, I like her. A lot.” He pulled another box off the shelf and turned it around in his hands, reading each of the sides and avoiding Tony’s inquisitive gaze. Would Alex like this one better? Or maybe the other one better? He shifted from foot to foot, unable to decide.
When had it gotten this hard? Anything to do with Alex used to be easy. Overnight, things between them seemed to have become as complicated as the New York Times crossword puzzle.
That’s what happens when you kiss your best friend and take her shirt off, Douglas. Did you think everything would be exactly the same after you threw that into the mix?
“Mack, you can’t be serious.” Tony strolled down the aisle and shook his head. He shoved his hands into his jeans’ back pockets, causing his Red Sox jacket to bunch around his waist. “Don’t burst my bubble. Don’t tell me you’re actually thinking about something serious. Again. Didn’t you learn your lesson the first time?”
Tony had a point. That particular thorn still pricked in Mack’s side. “Maybe not. But there’s always a chance—”
Tony whirled around. “Are you insane? Have you looked at my life? Marriage sucks, Mack. You know that.”
“You’ve had your happy moments.”
Tony let out a breath. “Yeah. Like, one.”
When had that jaded, defeatist tone crept into Tony’s voice? Out of all of them, Tony had been the only one who could put a happy face on marriage, at least every once in a while. Granted, he still hung out like he was one of the guys, but at the end of the night, he’d always made it clear he was going home to a wife. And, truth be told, most nights, Mack had envied Tony that warm body and warm heart.
Mack put back the box, walked down the aisle and joined Tony. “You want to talk about what’s going on with you and Renee?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
Mack considered Tony, thought about pushing the issue, then read his friend’s face, the shadows dusting the skin under his brown eyes. Tony was in no mood to discuss his life. “All right. Then help me choose.” Mack held up two boxes. “Which one of these is more Alex?”
Tony shook his head and vaguely pointed to the box on the right. “That one, I guess. You do realize you’re trying to make up to Alex for breaking her heart with another woman, by offering her a ceiling fan?”
Mack grinned. “The best way to a girl’s heart is through home improvements, don’t you know that?”
“So, are you advising ghosts to wear Egyptian cotton this season? Or are you writing up a piece on stylish capes for vampires?”
Alex grinned and turned to face Renee, glad for the interruption from the study of clairvoyance and the supernatural. “Neither. I just landed my first feature assignment, and it’s a little unusual.”
“You did? Oh, wow! Congratulations!”
“Don’t congratulate me yet.” Alex ran a hand through her hair. “It might turn out to be Mission Impossible. And Joe, of course, wants it yesterday.”
Renee rolled her eyes. “Joe’s a sadist.”
“That’s why he’s the managing editor.”
Renee laughed. She pulled up an empty swivel chair and sat down beside Alex. “So, is it a juicy case? Some unsolved murder? One of those sex-for-hire crimes?”
“Nope. Willow Clark.”
A blank look filled Renee’s features for a second. “Wait. Isn’t that the author who has never given anyone an interview?”
Alex nodded. “You know I like a challenge.”
“I take it back. Joe’s not the sadist, you are. How on earth are you going to get her to talk?”
“Maybe I’ll read her mind.” Alex turned back to her computer and pointed at the small news article she’d unearthed after an exhaustive search. One of these days, the letters would be erased from the keyboard, the way she was going at it for this story. But she’d be damned if she’d let anything keep her stuck in the hell of hemlines. “Apparently, she dabbles in ESP.”
“As in Sixth Sense, ‘I see dead people’ ESP?”
“I think it’s more the reading-of-minds kind. I came across this tiny piece in the back of one of those magazines dedicated to all things supernatural.” Alex held up a printout of the two paragraphs. “You know, the kind that have a circulation of, like, ten? After that, I ran down to the library and took out a bunch of books on that stuff.” Alex pointed to the stack littering her desk, covering the piles of makeup and shampoo samples. “I’ve been scanning them for something, anything, that would make sense or give me an edge in the interview, but, frankly, it all sounds crazy.”
“Maybe she’s crazy. All the fame could have driven her over the edge. People do a lot of insane things when they’re stressed.” Renee reached for a pen and started toying with the clicker. Click in, click out, click in, click out. She shifted in the chair, as if she was nervous, one toe tapping against the carpet, the pen keeping up its continuous clicking song.
Renee fidgeting? Unusual. Alex shrugged off the whole thing. Everyone knew the City Times had been under increasing pressure to up revenue lately, and Renee, as head of the accounting department, was probably stressing over the bottom line.
“What if Willow Clark is completely loony tunes?” Alex asked. “I can’t go back to Joe and admit failure on my very first assignment.”
Nor did she want to write a story that painted her all-time favorite author as a few dots short of a full domino.
Renee didn’t respond. Alex cast a glance at her. Distant and distracted didn’t even begin to describe the way her friend was acting today. “You okay?”
“Huh? Me? Fine. A little overwhelmed with work. You know, the job, the kids, the laundry. I won’t bore you with the list.” Renee let out a laugh, but the sound shook like a broken bell. “All that soccer mom crap.”
Alex bit her lip and considered again whether to push Renee. Then she thought of the busy pit, the congested knot of reporters and editors hustling back and forth in the City Times’s offices, and decided this wasn’t the time and here wasn’t the place. “I have to get started on this story right away. But I should be back by two. Do you want to grab a late lunch? We’ve barely had any time to talk lately.”
“I, uh, have plans.”
Alex smiled. “With Tony?”
Renee tossed the pen onto Alex’s desk and rose. She smoothed her skirt, avoiding eye contact. “No. With another friend. A friend I haven’t seen in a while. That’s all. Nothing more.”
A friend she wouldn’t name? That was unlike Renee, as was the extra protesting. Alex had known Renee for almost a dozen years. Something was up. Foreboding tugged at Alex, persistent and strong, but she pushed it away. What did she have as proof? Renee fidgeting? Meeting a friend for lunch?
Both about as out-of-the-ordinary as a duck in a pond. Alex got to her feet, loading the pile of books into her arms. She added the few articles on Willow Clark, then grabbed her purse. “Okay, well, I’m tackling the impossible first. I’m heading over to where Willow works this morning and I’m
going to try to talk to her in person, or via Ouija board, if need be.” Alex grinned. “Wish me luck.”
Renee gave her a quick hug. “Luck. Not that you need it. You’re a great reporter.”
“I’m not one yet.”
“You will be. When you put your mind to something, you accomplish it. Like you have been with that house, one room at a time.” Renee fell into step beside Alex, the two of them heading out of the reporter’s pit, around the corner and over to the bank of elevators. Renee pushed the arrow for UP, toward the accounting offices, while Alex pushed the button for DOWN, toward the train station.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something.” Alex swallowed hard. Should she even broach this subject? What did she have, really, except a nagging suspicion and a couple of odd sightings?
“This elevator is slower than a snail.” Renee tapped her toe against the carpet. “I’ve got a meeting in five minutes.”
“What’s up with you and Bill Rhinehart?” The words blurted out of Alex’s mouth before she could stop them. Had she really said that? God. Where was her tact?
Renee stilled beside Alex, her spine as rigid as a cement pillar. “Damn. Do you think the elevator’s broken? Maybe we should call maintenance.”
Dean poked his head around the corner. “Hey, Alex, do you mind if I write up a piece on scarves as accessories? We have six inches to fill on page thirty.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Alex waved him off and turned back to Renee. “You’ve been having lunch with him every day.”
Renee flicked out her wrist and studied her Timex. Her hand trembled. “If I’m late for that meeting, Gerry will kill me. It’s our quarterly budget…thing.”
“Renee.”
Renee didn’t move.
“Renee,” Alex repeated.
Renee pivoted, eyes filling with unshed tears. “I can’t talk about it.”
Worry weighed on Alex’s chest, and she knew what was coming, but still prayed she’d hear Renee say something, anything else. “Why? Renee, tell me.”
