“Too late. He saw me.”
“In that case, how about a cup of coffee?”
I hesitate, though I’m not sure why. Maybe because I’m attracted to the guy but it can’t possibly go anywhere. Not with him living half the country away. I’m not a long-distance romance kind of person. I don’t have that kind of patience. If I order flea shampoo online for Hook and Mr. Smee, I expedite shipping.
Then again, this could be good practice for me. After all, Ed remarried years ago. Matthew’ll be going off to college in a couple of years. I hadn’t really thought about dating, but neither do I want to spend the rest of my life alone. I’ve got to dive back in sometime.
“Sounds great,” I say.
I direct him to the Queen of Tarts. As usual, Esme has the door to her bakery propped open. It’s her favorite marketing ploy. The first thing that hits us as we walk near the shop is the scent of baking bread. Instant mood booster. According to Esme, studies have shown—well, Esme doesn’t know how official the studies are, but she read on the internet—that the scent of baking bread actually makes people kinder. More considerate.
It goes like this: a stranger drops a personal item in front of a clothing store, and about half the time another stranger will call it to his attention. But put those same strangers in front of a bakery, throw the doors open so the scent of baking bread wafts in the air, and a whopping three-quarters of them will go out of their way to help each other. Bottom line, Esme figured she wasn’t just running a business. The Queen of Tarts was providing the town of Eaton a genuine community service.
I’m inclined to agree with her. Especially today. The bakery isn’t just sending out the crispy, yeasty, heavenly-sent aroma of freshly baked bread. Layered on top of that is the rich cinnamon of her famous sticky buns, the spicy sweetness of cranberry orange muffins, yummy chocolate chip cookies, and the enticing aroma of gourmet coffee. This means, if that study was to be believed, the townspeople of Eaton should be so giddy with stranger-loving delight they’d be positively lit up with kindness and consideration.
The reporters who’ve gathered inside certainly look happy. I’ve never seen the shop so busy. Esme’s behind the counter with Jeffrey, a local college kid who helps her out on weekends. Her girls, Lorna and Liandra, look adorable in matching aprons as they scurry around the front busing tables.
Esme passes us our orders—giving me a covert smirk that screams I want to know everything—while Mike digs in his wallet to pay. We turn down her offer of a treat to go with the coffee, even though Esme’s got a whole case of goodies labeled ‘Slym Jym’s favorites’. Those appear to consist of low-fat muffins, high fiber rolls, and naturally sweetened cookies.
We head outside, leaving the tables for customers who are spending more, and head back outside. We stroll in no particular direction. Our conversation is aimless, too. We discuss the weather, how the challenge is going, how I like being mayor.
After a few minutes, I ask, “So what do you do, Mike?”
“A surprisingly difficult question to answer at the moment. I’m sort of in flux right now. Between careers.”
“Oh? How so?”
“Well, I write, or rather, I wrote for the Washington Record.”
“Wow. Big paper. What do you cover?”
“I was a political reporter.”
“Now you’re talking my game. I probably read your stuff. If I go online, would I find your byline?”
“You would. But I don’t do it anymore. I couldn’t stand it.”
“Why?”
“I guess because my story is the same as a lot of green reporters. I started out young, hungry, eager to make a name for myself. Make a difference. But in the end, after a decade and a half, it became impossible not to get disillusioned. It seemed every story had the same ending.”
“What does that mean?”
“Listen, I have nothing against politicians. Some are good people, some are bad people. It was the political games I got sick of. The backstabbing and the lies and the constant trail of broken promises. I couldn’t find a single politician who was capable of keeping his or her word.”
I take a sip of my coffee and nod. “That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“The flinch.”
“The flinch?”
“You remember. Slym Jym’s contest money going to the school. When I said we didn’t need a formal document. That you could take my word if we shook on it.”
“I flinched?”
“Big time. Now I know why. I’m one of those horrible politicians you can’t stand.”
“No, you’re not. You’re nothing like them.”
“Because I’m a small-town mayor and not some hotshot senator?”
“No. Because—”
Mike stops walking, turns half a step ahead so we’re face to face. Our light conversation suddenly feels serious. I’m as puzzled as he looks. Neither of us can understand why or where this came from, but damned if we’re not Having a Moment. It doesn’t make sense. I don’t know his middle name, what kind of car he drives, or whether he prefers boxers or briefs. I’ve got coffee breath and a down coat thrown over sweaty workout clothes. I don’t even want to think what my hair and make-up look like.
None of that matters. That zap of fate, that electrical charge that’s suddenly buzzing through the air, tells me the gods of romance just kicked me in the butt and are laughing their heads off about it. Because after a decade of being romantically indifferent to men, I’m falling for a guy who’s just passing through town and—get this—hates politicians!
Go me.
“Rachel, how’d you like to have dinner Friday night?”
“Dinner. Oh. You mean, this Friday?”
The bell in the church steeple clangs the quarter-hour. Mike looks at it, then double-checks his watch.
“Damn. I’m sorry, I have to go.”
I blink in surprise, then pull myself together. Good idea. I could use a break. Get my head together. Obviously whatever this fledgling is thing that exists between us, it won’t work on any level.
“Sure,” I say. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“My pleasure,” he turns away, takes two steps, then pivots back. “Wait. What are you doing right now?”
“Right now?”
He shakes his head, clearly rushed and irritated with himself. “Sorry. It’s just—I didn’t finish. And I have to go. But the thing is, I got out of writing about politics and started writing about things that I love. Mostly science. And a publisher was brave enough to sign me on and publish my work.” He gives a smile that looks almost apologetic. “So I guess I’m sort of… an author now. Not a real author. Just someone who’s published a few books.”
“How many?”
“Eight.”
“Eight. That sounds like a real author to me.”
“The thing is, I’m supposed to give a reading of my work today. It’s all set up and ready to go.” He points to the town library, glances at his watch again. “In thirteen minutes.”
“A reading? Really?”
“Not a big deal. The librarian heard I was in town and apparently I’ve got a pretty decent fan base here. She scheduled me to be her Saturday afternoon speaker.”
“A fan base? Wow. Now I’m really impressed.”
“Don’t be. Seriously. Don’t be.”
“I’d like to come.”
“Nah. You wouldn’t. Look, nevermind. I don’t know why I mentioned it. Anyway, good to see you, Rachel.”
I watch him hustle toward the library and disappear inside. I stand there for a second, silently debating. I’m certainly not dressed for something as formal as an author reading. And science has never been my thing. If Matthew struggles in chemistry, he can trace that genetic flaw straight back to me. So it sounds like a dull afternoon. But in the end, curiosity gets the better of me.
I text Matthew where he can find me when his shift’s up. Then I head over to the library and step inside. An event sign,
made up with Mike’s name and photo, directs me to the lower level event room. As I make my way downstairs, a pair of giggling girls race past me.
“Say ‘excuse me!’” their mother shouts after them. She sends me an apologetic grimace. “Sorry, they’re just really excited.” With that, they all shoot off toward the event room.
I pause for a moment, wondering if I misread the sign and am headed toward the wrong space. But I know this library as well as any building in Eaton. This is the only event space. So I pull open the door to step inside.
I expect to be greeted by a dull, scientific oratory. Mike behind a lectern, pontificating in scientific terms that’ll leave me glazed over in five minutes flat and wondering how I can sneak out without being spotted.
Instead I find a packed audience of elementary-aged boys and girls who are laughing so hard they’re bouncing up and down in their seats. Mike’s standing in the front of the room, dressed in a traditional white lab coat, but he’s paired it with absurd polka dot rubber boots, enormous yellow gloves, and goofy goggles. Scientific instruments bubble and whirl on tables all around him. Behind him are blown up copies of his book covers, which are obviously geared to kids.
I slip into a seat and spend the next forty-five minutes laughing along with the rest of the audience, thoroughly entertained. But I’m also learning. Mike sneaks that in so cleverly I hardly notice. He does a great job involving the audience, selecting volunteers to come to the front of the room to help demonstrate a particular scientific principle. (He also surprises the rest of us by having taped supplies to the bottom of our chairs, so for one particular experiment, we all make it into the act.)
At the end of his presentation he opens up the floor to questions, tackling everything from a sincere Why is the sky blue? to a slightly obnoxious Why does my body make farts? with equal finesse. The bottom line, he says, is that everything that happens in the universe operates on scientific principles that can be explained and understood. Whether we’re talking about nature, or outer space, or our own bodies, the answer lies within the fascinating world of science.
The last question goes to a young girl who’s maybe five years old. She asks, “If Santa’s reindeer don’t have wings, how do they fly?”
The room goes temporarily still. All around me, I hear parents catching their breath. Mike, who’s written eight books and spent the last hour demonstrating that there’s a simple scientific explanation for everything, hesitates. He thinks it over and finally says:
“Magic.”
Damn. I could fall hard for this guy.
I hang around for a bit when it’s over, chatting with Mike while kids queue up to have their books signed. He introduces me to his boys, Ethan and Dylan, whose job it is to set up everything for him. They’re sixteen and seventeen, respectively. Tall and broad-shouldered, strawberry blond hair. The X-men. Yeah, they’ve got that athletic swagger Matthew warned me about, but overall they seem like nice kids.
Speaking of Matthew, he joins us there when his shift ends, bringing Hannah along with him. He looks alarmed to find me hanging out with Dylan and Ethan Capella. I don’t know what the social structure is at school, but clearly I’ve violated some basic tenant. (Although I have to say Hannah doesn’t seem quite so devastated. If anything, she looks delighted to find the Capella boys there. Which only makes Matthew more strained and uptight.)
Although Mike and I try our best, our conversation is stilted. Maybe now we’re guilty of trying too hard, but we can’t find a rhythm for this group. Everything falls flat. At some point, Matthew is suddenly conscious that he’s still wearing his elf hat. He reaches up and furiously swipes it off his head.
“I can’t believe you’d ambush me like that,” he hisses as we leave. “The X-men? Really?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Of course it’s a problem.”
“Why?”
“It just is, okay?”
“Huh. In that case, this probably isn’t the best time to tell you I just accepted a date with their father.”
ELEVEN
Audrey has the coffee going when I walk into my office Monday morning. I pour myself a cup, then pause at her desk. “Good weekend?” I ask.
“Peachy.”
She doesn’t bother to glance up, but goes right on typing away at her keyboard.
“Something wrong?” I ask.
In answer, she leans across her desk and presses the ‘play’ button on the mayor’s office answering machine. A woman’s voice spews out a vicious message about ugly lard asses like us being an embarrassment to the entire state. How we ought to buy a mirror and paste it to our refrigerators and—
“Good lord.” I reach over and hit ‘delete.’
“Your fault,” Audrey says.
“My fault?! That woman is unhinged. Why is that my fault?”
Audrey swivels around in her chair to glare up at me. “Are you kidding? You mean really don’t know about vampires?”
“Vampires? What the hell do they have to do with anything?”
“Rule number one when you’re dealing with vampires: you don’t invite them into your house. If you do, whatever havoc they wreak once they’re inside is entirely on you. The same applies to abusive boyfriends, backstabbing friends, and deadbeat relatives. If you invite them into your life, you can’t entirely blame them for what happens next.” He finger slices the air between me and the answering machine. “You invited that vampire into this house.”
“Oh, my god. That’s ridiculous.”
“No, it’s not. And you know what’s really weird? What drives me absolutely crazy? I played that message at least five times.”
“What? Why?”
“Something about her tone. I thought I recognized the voice. I narrowed it down to either that woman who works on aisle three at the grocery store—she always gives me the evil eye whenever I buy butter rather than low-fat margarine—or Mrs. Bree, my fourth grade teacher, who—”
“Mrs. Bree?” Matthew had Mrs. Bree. “Why would it be Mrs. Bree?”
“Secret fat-kid hater. On Halloween and Valentine’s Day, she always singled me out to ask what I was going to do with my candy. Because I couldn’t possibly want to eat it, like every other candy-obsessed kid in my class, right?”
I feel a glistening nugget of resentment lodge in my chest toward Mrs. Bree. I had thought Mrs. Bree was lovely, but Matthew (who’s not exactly a fan of mine right now) had never been wild about her. In fact, Matthew had a particularly difficult time in fourth grade. At the time, I attributed it to Ed getting remarried, but now I wonder...
“Wait a minute,” I say, shaking my head. “We can’t do this. We can’t start looking at everybody sideways. Whoever that whack job is, she’s not your dentist, or your manicurist, or your mother, all right? More than likely, she’s some random nut who lives five states away, but didn’t want to miss an opportunity to get a free ride on the hate bandwagon.”
“Actually, my manicurist thinks I’m pretty awesome.”
“So do I, so knock it off.”
“I still can’t believe that you’re doing this.”
“Audrey—” I say, then stop myself.
I can’t stand the conciliatory tone in my voice, the Do we really have to go round the same ground again? inflection in my words. It’s like Audrey and I have become living echoes of one single argument. She intensely dislikes Slym Jym and everything he stands for, resents the fact that he publicly goaded her into participating, hates that the media spotlight has fallen on this town because of this whole diet schtick. While I, as mayor, am doing my best to spin the debacle into a positive. And after seeing our downtown shopping district finally show signs of life, I’m convinced this silly weight loss challenge is doing us more good than harm.
I won’t budge from my position and she won’t budge from hers, so we silently agree to disagree and move on.
Audrey pulls a message slip from a stack on her desk. “Nothing else happening around here except your
meeting with Guy French. His assistant called earlier and left a message.”
My breath catches. “He didn’t cancel the meeting did he?”
“Nope. Just bumped it up an hour. Apparently he’s got a flight to catch or something. I went ahead and changed the conference room reservation. All taken care of.”
“Thanks,” I say, and I mean it. Slym Jym madness aside, Audrey and I make a formidable team. I don’t know where I’d be without her.
Here’s the Canine Cuisine status: after repeated attempts to reach Guy French, I finally pinned him down. He agreed to come in and meet with me to discuss the lease terms for the warehouse facility we toured. This came after Nelson Davis told me that Canine Cuisine’s corporate engineers and architects called him to ask for the building plans and engineering specs of the property. All excellent signs, according to Nelson. The more money a client spends on a site, including paying people to review blueprints, the more committed they are.
Hopefully French’s architects and engineers are charging him a fortune. I need this deal. Eaton needs this deal. All I want for Christmas is Guy French’s signature on a lease contract.
The morning crawls by and I’m a jittery, nervous wreck. It doesn’t help that all I’ve consumed since rolling out of bed that morning are three cups of coffee, a tart apple, and something called a Slym Jym Power-Up Bar. (A tasteless brick concoction of carob, pea protein, and what I suspect are fibrous wood chips that he had the audacity to label Cocolicious!)
Finally noon rolls around and we fill the conference room. Guy French is accompanied by his personal assistant and a pair of attorneys. I’ve got Audrey on one side of me, Nelson Davis and Dan Walker, the town attorney, on the other. We all make friendly noises but sit on opposite sides of the table, positioned like dueling plaintiffs in a bitter divorce case.
The proceedings begin with a flat-out rejection of our lease terms. Canine Cuisine won’t even consider them. French’s attorney says we’re simply too far apart financially. He says the facilities need too much work. Says the location is all wrong.
Ha. We have a computer in the room that’s hooked up to a video screen. If I had just a teensy bit more nerve, I’d reach over and search Google until I found an image of the biggest pile of steaming cow pucks ever photographed and project it onto the screen.
The Thousand Pound Christmas Page 9
