“I’m seeing a music festival,” Sylvie said. “No! Wait, a fan festival.”
“How could you possibly know about that?” I asked. “Did Henry call you?”
“Stop interrupting Sylvie’s vibe,” Frannie said. “Go on, girl. Share with us your bounty of intuitive knowledge not gained at all by shady means and possible listening devices we know nothing about.”
Sylvie’s eyes fluttered, and she waved her trim arms, painting the air with her palms. “I see our future. I see a beautiful, crazy, dark-headed woman who has come to town. She’s super talented and has legions of fans.”
Gag. “Can you wrap this vision up?”
Sylvie hummed and swayed, sending her blonde bob to bouncing. “Though she’s a mean, vindictive ogre on the inside, she has deep pockets and brings fans with money to spend.”
Frannie clasped her hands. “Do they like cupcakes?”
“They love them,” Sylvie said. “Can’t get enough. They shop at our stores, eat at our restaurants, and stay in our vacation rentals.”
Frannie lifted hands to heaven. “Saints. All of them.”
“I hear the sound of music and cash registers.”
“And the door closing on your way out.” I stood. “Goodbye, ladies. I’ve got work to do.”
My grandmother dropped the soothsayer routine. “Hon, I know you’re still full of wrath and fury over Jaz’s betrayal.”
“That’s quite dramatic.”
“But don’t let your dislike of Jaz get in the way of what could be your most lucrative business deal yet,” Sylvie said. “Not to mention, you’d be saving many Sugar Creek folks who’re going to be out a lot of money. So do your dear sweet grandmother a favor and consider it?”
Sylvie only pulled out the title of grandmother when she was desperate. And in this case, she was desperate for some excitement.
“In these times,” she said, “who can afford such a loss?”
“Not me.” Frannie inspected her fall-inspired manicure, complete with glittery leaves. She had a whole closet full of season-themed shirts to match. “If I don’t sell all my cupcakes next week, I’ll have to cancel my expensive waxing appointment.” She wiggled a finger beneath her upper lip. “Nobody wants to see that.”
“Not pleasant,” Sylvie agreed. “Not pleasant at all. So what do you say?”
“I say I’ll pay for Frannie’s salon appointment. Now, scoot along please.” I waved my hand. “One of us has work to do.”
Aunt Frannie looked at my grandma. “I thought we raised her better than this.”
“We did drop her on her head a few times.”
I kissed each lady on the cheek before giving them a gentle nudge to the door. “Go get yourselves some shakes at the Dixie Dairy. Tell Fred to put it on my tab.”
Slightly mollified, the two left, and I returned to my laptop, sitting a little heavier with the weight of guilt.
I didn’t want anyone in the town to suffer. But the very idea of catering to Jaz’s wish to host a festival and on such short notice? It defied reality and possibility. So why should I feel guilty? None of this was my fault, right? And yes, we needed money desperately. But we didn’t have to sell our soul to the devil to get it. I could still win the lottery or offer myself up as a mail-order bride. You know, things that would be much easier than hosting Jaz and her disciples for more than a week of torture.
Ten minutes later, I was interrupted one more time.
“Do you have a sec?” Margaret Haddish, the owner of the Sugar Creek Steak House, stepped inside my office.
I minimized the screen on my laptop. “I’m pretty busy feeling sorry for myself and listing my kidneys on eBay.”
“Cool. Here’s the deal.” She helped herself to a seat, her ever-present long skirt floating toward the floor. “I heard a certain celebrity wants to have a fan fest next week.”
“Who told you that?” Enchanted Events had a snitch among us.
“Doesn’t matter. I have 500 pounds of prime rib in my freezer. Who’s gonna eat that?”
“Well, my grandmother would definitely want first dibs.”
“I got enough au jus to flood the creek and fill Beaver Lake.”
“I’ll loan you some Tupperware.” Margaret wasn’t going to talk me into changing my mind. I had integrity. I had principles. I had a line I refused to cross. “I’m not doing the fan fest.”
She touched the gray bun at the back of her head. “Paisley, help me out here. I stand to lose a ton of money if that meat’s not used soon. You have the means to turn this bad situation around and make it even better.”
“Knock! Knock! Are we intruding?” In walked Mick and Nick Chang, the husband-husband team who owned the Sugar Creek Inn. They were big supporters of the community theater and any other source of drama they could find.
“My dear,” Nick said, a vision in pink trousers that provided a sharp contrast to Mick’s camo cargo shorts. “A little birdie told us you’ve saved the day!”
“Nice try,” I said. “But no. I don’t know who you heard your intel from, but I’m not caving on the Jaz Fan Fest.”
Mick pushed up the sleeves of his U of A sweatshirt and righted his ball cap. “Now that those Martian hunters have stiffed us, we’ll have thirty rooms completely empty.”
“Our sweet Rusty was all set to go to his European boarding school next Monday, and now?” Nick dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief. “Now he won’t be able to go.”
“You have a son?” I asked.
“He’s our schnauzer,” Mick said. “The point is, we stand to lose a lot of money with this cancellation.”
“Because you insisted on that twenty-four hour cancellation refund instead of seven days.” Nick side-eyed his honey, who was as barrel-bodied as Nick was lean. “I said no more than a week for refunds, but did you listen to me? Noooo. Because you never do. You completely run the show and don’t respect any of my ideas.”
“We’re not having a sushi breakfast buffet, Nick, and that’s final.”
“Paisley! Just the woman I wanted to see.” Pastor Randall Smith, his face ever radiant with a smile, floated inside and joined the growing committee.
“Let me guess. You’re here to talk to me about Jaz’s fan fest.”
“Actually, I’m here to tell you your grandmother is taking more than her share of wine at communion, but as long as we’re chatting, I would like to offer my Jaz input.”
I should’ve gone home early.
“Next Friday night is our annual Bingo and Pasta night we co-host with the Catholic church,” Pastor Randall said. “Bingo cards are ten dollars a pop with all the money going toward a community basketball court. We’ve allotted for four hundred more attendees.”
Mick frowned. “You think Jaz’s fans are going to stop their festivities for a bingo game?”
“Have you ever had Sister Mary McGinnis’s pasta?” The preacher kissed his fingertips. “It almost makes me want to convert.” His focus went right back to me. “Paisley, a basketball court. Think of the children. And all the souls we could invite to church.” He grabbed my hands. “Maybe you could get Jaz to sing for our special?”
“Oh, Micky.” Nick reached for his husband. “Remember when we saw Jaz in concert?”
“I do, muffin. It was our third date. Jaz wore a hot pink halter top, and so did you.”
“I fell in love with you during intermission when Jaz double-dutched two boa constrictors.”
“Listen, everyone.” I stood up, hands held in surrender. “I appreciate you stopping by. I’m sorry the extraterrestrial convention fell through. It is the nature of the hospitality business, though, right? You win some, you lose some?”
“I don’t want to be a loser,” Nick said. “Fix this, Paisley.”
“You could put Sugar Creek on the map,” Pastor Randall said. “We could all benefit so greatly.” He bowed his head, and his voice softened. “My dear child, don’t let your pride stand in the way of helping others. What would the Lord do?”
“Move.”
“What else?”
Pastor Randall really knew how to pile on the guilt. I figured he’d taken a class on it at seminary. “I need to think.” I shooed them toward the door. “I’ll weigh the options then let you know.”
“I’ll be praying for you,” Pastor Randall said as he departed.
“We’re sinking on the Titanic.” Margaret Haddish shook her head gravely. “And we all want to float on your door.”
“That’s just creepy, Margs.” I gave her a gentle push out of my office.
Nick hugged me against his turquoise silk shirt. “I know you’ll do the right thing for our town. You’re our short little superhero.”
Mick held out his beefy knuckles for me to bump, and I awaited more effusive praise. “I got a cousin in the mob,” he said. “Don’t make me call him.”
Duly noted.
I shut the door harder than necessary and leaned my weary back against it. How was it only ten a.m.? I felt like I’d lived years since I’d arrived at work.
The faces of my newly departed guests rotated like a slideshow in my mind. Adding to it was Mrs. Lawson, owner of Sugar Creek Florals, who’d ordered all the centerpieces for the event. And Wayne Biggins, who operated a bed and breakfast while taking care of his invalid wife. Then there was Harvey Mendoza, who’d gotten the janitorial contract, his first big job since opening his own business.
And finally, there was me.
A woman over thirty thousand dollars in debt.
With only two solutions to her problem.
Since the two-dozen scratch-off tickets in my desk drawer were duds, that really left only one.
Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the crumpled piece of paper. And punched in the numbers.
“Jaz?” I closed my eyes and forced out the words. “We’ll take the job.”
Chapter Four
August bowed in acquiescence to the arrival of September five days later. The heat still lingered in the daytime, but mornings and evenings became cooler, whispering hints of cardigans, football, and fluffy blankets on the porch. This morning I wore a fitted denim button-down I’d picked up on clearance at Gap, pairing it with the zebra-striped pants from the Electric Femmes’s first Asian tour. A velvet headband held back my misbehaving red curls, and bangles decorated both wrists. My glittery black heels thunked on the front porch as I stepped outside, holding my coffee in one hand, my laptop bag dangling from my shoulder.
Just as I took a sip, a familiar red truck pulled into the driveway. My heart gave a little kick as seconds later Beau Hudson stepped out of the vehicle, wearing faded jeans, a Fox Falls t-shirt, and a smile that could melt the butter on a biscuit. I wondered if this is what old-time prairie women felt like when their men appeared on the horizon, riding their trusty steads and aimed towards home. I admired the way the sun peeked over the trees behind him as if that golden orb needed a moment alone to admire the beauty that was Beau Hudson.
He walked toward me with his faint limp and set down a carry-on suitcase. “Good morning. I—oomph.”
Throwing myself in his arms, I smashed my lips to his. It felt like years since I’d tasted his kiss instead of only seven days. My romantic gesture was graceless and inept, but I didn’t care. “I’ve missed you.”
His chest rumbled as he laughed. “I can tell.”
I silenced any more of that ridiculous talking business and kissed him again, my lips on his like a heat-seeking missile. I’d missed him more than I thought I would, something that had come as an uncomfortable revelation. Not only had I missed Beau the boyfriend, but I’d missed Beau the friend. We’d talked nightly on the phone, having long conversations in which I’d dangled over the proverbial ledge about Jaz, debt, and work chaos. He’d talked me down every evening, his deep voice a balm to my stressed-out soul.
Beau and I had known each other all our lives. He was the first boy I’d kissed at twelve, my childhood friend’s big brother, and someone who’d been a thorn in my side.
Until he wasn’t.
When I came back to Sugar Creek a few months ago, we discovered we were neighbors in the old gray Victorian house that is my grandmother’s duplex, each sharing a side and a few impromptu kisses here and there. I hadn’t expected to fall for him, but here we were. Beau and I had circled each other for months, and not too long ago, after a little tiny murder, we’d decided to cautiously give our relationship a go. Clearly, dead people inspired us.
Beau stepped back, his hands on my shoulders. “Maybe I should go away on business more often.”
“Don’t get arrogant about it.” I studied the lid of my coffee cup. “I’m not myself lately. I tend to make out a lot when fueled by excessive caffeine and anxiety.”
“I just happened to be in your line of fire this morning?”
“If I’d left the house five minutes earlier, it would’ve been the poor paperboy.”
“Willy Spinks would’ve thrown the daily news with a renewed fire.” Beau hooked an arm around my neck and walked me to the porch. “Sit down and talk to me.”
Thanks to Jaz, I was working on a Sunday. I figured I could be a little late due to the sacrifice of my favorite day. “You weren’t due home ’til tonight.” Lacing my fingers through Beau’s, I joined him on the old glider. “Did the conference wrap up early?”
“Nah. But I’d been cooped up in a hotel as long as I could stand.” Beau inhaled deep. “I needed to get back home, get outdoors, breathe some fresh air. So I left.”
He’d been in Dallas, which was about a six-hour drive. “You left after one a.m.?”
Beau pulled my head to his chest and set the glider into motion. “The bar was closed, and there was nothing on TV.”
He was a teetotaler and couldn’t sit still long enough to even get through a commercial on television. “These seem like flimsy excuses, Beauregard.”
I heard the smile in his voice. “I’d been gone long enough.”
“So you drove all night. You must be exhausted.”
“I was, but I’m feeling better.” He pressed a kiss to my cheek. “Probably just relief that the paperboy didn’t get the Paisley Special.” Stealing the coffee cup from my hand, Beau took a sip, and his eyes closed in appreciation. “Big day at work today, huh?”
“Yep.” Last night I’d lain in bed, counting Jaz nightmares instead of sheep. “I thought I’d stop and get a bagel on my way so I’d have something to swallow with my pride for breakfast.”
Beau’s hand played with the ends of my long hair. “It’s J Day.”
The day I’d meet Jaz and get started on this ridiculous event. “A day that will live in infamy.”
His fingers stilled. “You okay?”
“I guess.” What choice did I have? “I’ve been running on Rocky Road and bitterness for days. Her house concert is tonight, the rest of her fans show up tomorrow, and we still have work to do to get ready. I haven’t slept in a week, and I’m about to spend eight days watching people worship Jaz. Other than that and a little bloat, I’m completely fabulous.”
“She’s just a person like you and me. Puts her zebra pants on one leg at a time.”
“Actually, she has a team of underlings to help her dress, and at one point, she ruined my life.”
“Ruined your life or set you on a new path?”
“Wow. You’re really taking notes in these therapy sessions you’re going to.” Beau had been honorably discharged from Special Forces in the Army a few years ago. After an ambush left him with a bum leg, he came home scarred inside and out. He had just started dealing with some of the heavy things, and I couldn’t be more proud. Not that I wanted him to play psychologist on me. I’d rather wallow in my hang-ups and grudges for a bit longer, thank you very much.
Beau returned to caressing my hair. “Are things so terrible here?”
My cheek rested right over his heart. “Things seem pretty steady from this spot.” A few weeks ago, after we’d attended a divorce party, Beau and I h
ad a long talk on the way home and decided it was best if we pull back and take things slowly. Between the two of us, we had enough baggage to fill an aisle at Walmart. I’d been jilted at the altar in a dramatic, tabloid-stirring fashion, and he’d returned from the Army weary, heartbroken, and seeking a new life of calm. I knew it was the right thing to do, but I still found myself really having to work to keep my heart in check.
The glider swayed, an easy swish-swish, back and forth. “Do you regret leaving the music business?” Beau asked.
What a loaded question. Or maybe, just a loaded answer. I wanted to say no. But it wasn’t that simple. It would always be the dream that serendipitously came true at the young age of sixteen, only to be violently pulled out from under me five years later when I wasn’t ready to let it go. During my sophomore year at Sugar Creek High School, a talent scout had randomly judged my state choir competition, caught my solo, and offered me a gig as the final piece to a girl band a producer was assembling in L.A. Six months later the Electric Femmes were on the radio, and I traded my childhood for stardom.
“I don’t regret my life now,” I said. “But I’ll always wonder what if. . .” I closed my eyes and let myself breathe in the familiar scent of Beau as the rocking lulled me into a momentary peace. “Seeing Jaz just brings up a lot of memories and hard feelings. She makes me feel”—the words were easier to admit when I didn’t have to look Beau in the eye—“inferior.”
“Hey, you’re not inferior.”
“She’s a living, breathing reminder of what could’ve been, but wasn’t.”
He tipped up my chin until I opened my eyes. His finger trailed down my nose and over my lips. “I like what is. I like it a lot.” Beau’s head dipped, and his mouth sealed over mine. I wondered when the electric charges would wear off, when his touch wouldn’t send shockwaves through every nerve, cell, and hormone I had. So far, the kilowatts had yet to dim.
Fanatically in Trouble Page 3
