by Cat Johnson
My determination dulled the pain as I painted my message to the town on the little library that for two years I’d generously kept stocked with books for all to read.
For the Private Use by Friends of Harper Lowry Only!
The stupid archaic law said there could be no public structures on the property. Fine. I’d make my library private.
That would teach them to mess with me. I could twist words and play semantics with the best of them.
“Um, good morning.”
I spun from admiring my handiwork to see Red standing with a to-go cup of coffee in her hand.
“Good morning,” I said.
“So. What are we doing out here . . . in our PJs . . . with a gallon of paint?” Red’s gaze moved from the rubber boots, to my chicken print pajama bottoms, to the gallon pail held in my now paint-covered stiff, cold fingers.
“I’m saying screw you to the zoning board. They put another notice on Aunt Agnes’s door.”
Red shook her head. “They obviously have nothing else to do with their time.”
“Well they’d better find something else to do. Because I’m sick of this and I’m not going to take it anymore.”
There was more than principal at stake. I was good and pissed, but I was also worried. Worried that one morning I’d look outside and the library would be gone, having been taken down and confiscated—or worse—by the evil authorities in this town.
Stone had built the library for me before we’d even started dating. It was special to me.
And I also didn’t want Agnes to get a ticket or a fine or whatever on account of me.
“You think that will help?” Red asked, reading the message I’d painted.
“I don’t know. I hope so.”
“After the election, hopefully you won’t have a problem anymore,” Red said.
“But what if Stone doesn’t win?” I asked.
I was a realist. I knew winning with a write-in campaign was a long shot, even with my marketing expertise behind him.
“I had to do something, Red. And even if he does win, he’s only one man. The meanies in this town could block my appeal that my little book box isn’t a public structure. It’s not a damn whore house or tavern. Although I have to say, this whole thing kind of makes me wanna open a whore house here just to spite them.”
Red’s eyes grew wide. “Sometimes you scare me. At the same time, I have to say, I’d love to see the faces on the members of the zoning board if you did it.”
As annoyed as I was, I couldn’t help smiling. “Actually, Aunt Agnes might be on board with the cat house idea. She’s had enough of this town’s backward ordinances too.”
Red chuckled. “There’s no doubt you two come from the same blood line. She’s always been a bit of a rebel.”
I knew that was true. The fact Petunia the pig lived in her carriage house in the center of a village where no farm animals were allowed, was proof.
Agnes was a tough old gal and I could only hope I was just like her in forty years when I was her age.
That thought had me considering something I hadn’t before.
Maybe the battle in town was less of a fight between the older and the younger generations and more of a fight between those with closed minds versus those with open minds.
The people who wanted things to never change against those who wanted progress.
Mudville was full of odd folks. Some of their reasoning I’d never understand.
Speaking of people doing odd things . . . I turned to Red. “So, do you want to explain why I’m suddenly getting questions on the forum, asked by people with accounts that were just created yesterday?”
“Um.” Red cringed and let out a breath. “I’m sorry.”
“So it was you. I had a feeling. Bethany too?” I asked.
“Yes. But we only did it because we care about you. And we thought maybe if other people saw someone asking questions and you answering them, they’d ask some too. Are you mad at us?” Red looked pained at the thought I might be angry.
“No. I understand why you did it. It’s just a shame I’m so pitiful you needed to.” I scowled.
“You are not pitiful. I just think that maybe a lot of the users on the Mudville forum aren’t your demographic. I mean, seriously, Harper. You saw that yourself. Like the guy selling the body bags. I don’t think he’s looking for love advice from Ms. Naughty.”
“You’re probably right.” I let out a short though sad laugh. “So what do I do? Give it up?”
I’d begun the column to spite the old biddies for calling me Ms. Naughty.
As it turned out, I might have been upset over nothing. It seemed they didn’t hate me after all. At least they didn’t seem to at Agnes’s party, so maybe the nickname wasn’t meant as an insult, even though I’d taken it as one.
But just giving up and quitting the forum felt wrong.
I was far from perfect. I procrastinated, a lot, but I wasn’t a quitter. I always finished what I started . . . eventually.
It didn’t feel right to walk away from the Ms. Naughty account just because it was slow getting off the ground.
Besides, if damned Anonymous could get hundreds of comments, why couldn’t I? The answer to that question was I could. And I would.
Somehow. I just had to figure out how.
FIFTEEN
Stone
“Thank you for calling,” Marge Brown, features editor of the Mudville Inquisitor, said after I’d identified myself on the phone as Anonymous.
“Well, after the tenth private message I figured I’d save us both a lot of time in the future and call to tell you whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.”
“Mister . . . um, what should I call you?” she asked.
Shit. It wasn’t like I could give her even just my first name. Thanks to Mom, I didn’t have a normal name like John or Jim or Steve. None of us boys did.
Even if by some miracle the woman on the other end of this call hadn’t heard of Stone Morgan before this month, she definitely would have heard of me now that I was running for mayor.
Dammit. I knew I shouldn’t have replied to that last private message from the paper. And I really shouldn’t have agreed to call them after refusing to meet in person.
“Uh, Anonymous is fine,” I finally answered, deciding to stand my ground—that ground being firmly hidden behind the pseudonym I continued to cling to. At least for this phone call. Probably beyond it too.
“Okay, Anonymous. Although, I hope that soon I’ll be calling you Mister Naughty.”
I drew back at that, my mind going off in all directions.
Did she know who I was and that I dated Harper and that Harper was using Ms. Naughty as her profile name on the forum? How could she know?
But if she’d been following the account on the forum, she’d have seen some people calling me Mister Naughty. That was probably it.
Less panicked I still wasn’t sure what to say.
“Uh . . . um,” I stuttered but couldn’t come up with anything else.
The woman laughed. “I’m sorry. I’ve taken you by surprise. I’ve been following your posts on the Mudville forum. More importantly, I’ve been watching the interaction between you and Ms. Naughty and the reactions of the other commenters. Your engagement is on fire.”
I had to agree. That whole forum, or at least my part of it, had become a complete dumpster fire. It was one of, but not the main reason, why I was seriously considering walking away from the account.
That damn forum took up too much of my time anyway. Time I should be devoting to getting everything ready on the farm for the Christmas season—and Boone’s wedding.
Time I should be spending with my girlfriend before she found out it was me behind Anonymous and dumped me.
“The public loves you,” Marge continued.
I snorted out a laugh. “Not all of them, according to some of the comments.”
In fact, I’d say I was running about forty-sixty lately�
��those who were haters versus those who were fans of my advice.
What I’d learned was that most people who asked for advice don’t actually want it. What they wanted was someone to tell them they’re right. I wasn’t that person.
I’d learned the hard way some people didn’t like being told the truth. It didn’t matter if I was talking about farming or women.
“That’s a good thing,” Marge said. “You inspire strong responses, both good and bad. That’s what we’re looking for in this new column.”
“New column?” What was she talking about?
“That’s why I wanted to meet with you. We want to launch a weekly advice column feature in the Inquisitor and we want you to write it.”
“Me? I’m not a writer.”
“You could have fooled me. You sure do a good job of it on the forum.”
“Uh, thanks, but—”
“You’d be able to write it on your own schedule. Whenever you had time. We’d email the questions we receive to you. You’d email the responses back to us. We’d print them.”
I let out a laugh. Me. Writing an advice column in the local paper. It was ridiculous. “Ms. Brown, that all sounds well and good but—”
“There’d be monetary compensation, of course. And please, call me Marge.”
She kept dangling what she thought would be temptations, but she needn’t have bothered. I wanted nothing to do with digging this hole I was in any deeper. This secret was already getting in the way of my relationship with Harper.
“Marge, thank you for the offer. But I’m going to have to say no. I’m not even sure I’ll continue as Anonymous on the forum.”
“Can I ask you to at least think about it? Take a few days. Let the idea settle in. It might grow on you.”
“I don’t think it will, but okay, I’ll think about it.” I’d think about what a colossally bad idea it was.
“That’s all I ask. Thank you. I look forward to hearing from you soon.”
“All right. Bye.” I disconnected the call and blew out a breath.
“So who’s Marge and what’s she offering?”
I spun to see Boone behind me, arms folded as he leaned against the wall of the coop. I was obviously going to have to find a new hideout. But for now, I had to get rid of my nosy brother.
“How the hell did you get in here without me hearing you?”
“You were occupied.” Boone’s gaze dropped to the cell still in my hand. “Although I have to say now that I know, I’m not all that surprised you’re Anonymous on the forum. It makes sense. In fact I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out myself. All that know-it-all advice . . .”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you?” Boone laughed. I didn’t.
Then things went from bad to worse as Cash walked in.
Three grown men in a building made for chickens was a tight squeeze. The fact I’d prefer to be anywhere else rather than with these two made it feel even more crowded.
I moved toward the door, intent on getting the hell out of there.
“Hey, Cash. Did you know that our own Stone is the brilliance behind Anonymous on the Mudville forum?” Boone’s voice behind me had me stopping with my hand on the door.
I dropped my chin to my chest and blew out a cuss.
“No, Boone. I didn’t know, but actually it makes sense,” Cash said.
“Doesn’t it though?” Boone agreed.
"I thought you didn't go on the forum," I said to Cash.
"I didn't until Harper made you run for mayor. Then I decided to join and watch you go down in flames on there." Cash grinned.
Biting out another curse that would have cost me a pretty penny if the cuss jar was still in effect, I turned to face them. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m shutting down the profile.”
If I hadn’t made my decision before, these two figuring it out clinched it.
“What happened? Is Harper making you shut it down?” Cash asked. He turned toward Boone. “Red told me Harper is out of her mind pissed over the Anonymous account. Harper is Ms. Naughty on the forum. The one who’s always disagreeing with Anonymous in the comments.”
Boone burst out with a laugh. “Man, oh, man. This just keeps getting better.”
“Harper doesn’t know,” I mumbled.
That silenced both of my brothers, but not for long.
“She seriously doesn’t know?” Cash’s eyes widened.
“So you’ve been lying to her?” Boone looked equally shocked.
“No. I never lied. I just didn’t tell her. But to be fair, she never asked me if I was Anonymous so . . .”
Boone cocked up a brow. “That sounds like something one of your stupid followers on the forum would say.”
“Mmm, hmm.” Cash nodded. “And what advice would you give that person? Hmm, Stone?”
I sighed, knowing exactly what advice I’d give in that case. “I’d probably tell him what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her. To delete the account and move on.”
Cash opened his mouth and then closed it again before saying, “Actually, that’s probably the smartest thing to do.”
Only I didn’t want to do that. I wanted to be honest with the woman I loved, even if it did upset her. Harper was right. Anonymous gave crap advice.
Boone frowned. “I’d tell Sarah if it were me. You shouldn’t keep things from Harper.”
“Oh, look who’s an expert on women now.” Cash tipped up a chin toward Boone.
“Who’s the only one of us three getting married? Huh?” Boone countered.
These two fighting was the last thing I needed today. “Can we all just chill about this, please. I’m shutting down that account. Anonymous is dead as of today.”
“And Harper? You telling her or not?” Boone asked.
“I don’t know. I’ll decide later.” I raised my gaze to my brothers.
Could I trust them not to say anything about this?
That answer was a big no.
I didn’t think they’d go behind my back and tell Harper. But I also knew Cash had a big mouth. Especially when it came to oversharing with his girl.
There was a good chance he’d tell Red. Then Red, who was Harper’s best friend, would run right to her.
“Here’s what I don’t understand. Who was that woman you were talking to on the phone?” Boone asked.
Cash looked from Boone to me, suddenly very interested again.
I sighed. Might as well spill it all. “The editor from the Mudville Inquisitor.”
People always said the three of us all looked alike. I couldn’t argue that now as I watched the twin expressions of shock settle on my two brother’s faces.
“What did she want?” Cash asked.
“They want me to write an advice column for the paper.”
Cash went from surprise to hysterical laughter. “Oh man. That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in a long time.”
Boone’s lips twitched. “It is pretty funny.”
“It’s really not,” I said, getting annoyed. Make that more annoyed.
I knew Harper. She already hated Anonymous. If she knew he—I—had gotten offered a column, she wouldn’t be happy.
Scratch that, she’d be flipping pissed.
Then, when she found out he was me—I didn’t even dare imagine what would happen. All I knew was it wouldn’t be good.
Which left me with more questions than answers about what I was going to do. And not a whole lot of time to figure it out with the two ticking time bombs that were my brothers.
Ironically, what I needed was some advice.
SIXTEEN
Harper
The day of the Mudville village election dawned cold but sunny. And even though the only position up for grabs on the ballot was for mayor, with the incumbent Fox Pickett technically running unopposed, I’d never felt more excited or nervous about an election in my life.
“It’s good that the weather i
s nice, don’t you think?” I turned to ask Red.
“Sure.” She nodded.
“I mean rain might have kept voters home, right?” I continued.
“Definitely,” she agreed. But that was the problem with friends sometimes. They agreed even when they didn’t.
I sighed and glanced at the parking lot of the community house. It had barely a handful of cars parked there.
Of course, Red and I had walked, so maybe other voters had too.
Or, just as likely, was that with the current mayor running unopposed for years, and this year without an opponent officially listed on the ballot, no one bothered to come out to vote anymore.
It was a sad state of affairs, but hopefully, this election would remedy that.
“Ready to go in?” Red asked.
I dragged my gaze away from the parked cars and back to Red, poised on the first step of the building’s wide staircase.
“Yes. Absolutely. Never been more ready,” I said as I joined her on the bottom step. “Let’s go.”
I’d done the paperwork to prove I was indeed now residing in Mudville and that was enough to make me eligible to vote in the local election.
Just in case, I had my temporary documents from the Department of Motor Vehicles as proof. And I'd printed out a bill from the internet company showing my name and Agnes’s Main Street address as the service location.
She fought me monthly when I gave her money for the internet but she’d finally given in about letting me transfer the account to my name after I explained I wanted a bill as extra proof I lived here so I could vote.
So, armed with all my proof, I marched into the community house and right up to the table manned by two volunteers.
“Betty,” Red greeted the one poll worker with more vitriol than I’d ever heard in her voice.
“Red,” the woman returned.
I pawed through my mind and came up empty until I noticed the chicken sleeping in a carrier at Betty’s feet.
Ding, ding, ding.
Memories came flooding back. Betty Frank. Owner of an emotional support chicken. The woman who’d been inexplicably horrible to Red after she rescued the calf from the stock auction last year.
