A Man of Influence (9 page)

“That's...probably because they fear you.”

“That's probably because their reservations and revenue increased significantly after my articles. I'm a man of influence.”

If that was true, she didn't like his source of power.

They stopped just inside. Snarky Sam's smelled like Tracy's dad's closet—in need of an air freshener. The merchandise was dated and dusty. The display by the door held electronics—toasters, food processors, a VCR.

“Stuffed animals.” Chad stared at a squirrel dressed like Sherlock Holmes and chuckled. A blackbird beside it was costumed like Dracula. Its wings spread beneath a cape as if it was about to take flight. “You meant taxidermy.”

She ground her teeth again.

“No soliciting.” Sam sat behind a display case filled with jewelry. He rested an open comic book on the glass. He was a gnarled, wisp of an old man, wearing a faded brown flannel shirt and an impatient attitude.

Used to his attitude, Tracy took a breath and said, “We're...here to see your Gurning Trophy.”

Sam tapped the comic book in front of him. “I don't have time for idle conversation. You get me?”

Chad walked over to a shelving unit. “Bowling balls?”

“Are you the travel writer?” Sam peered at Chad. “You can help me. I have quite a selection of wineglasses. You know,” he told Tracy as an aside. “Wine and medicine don't mix so well as you get older.” He pinched his face in Chad's direction. “I could use a mention in your column about the wineglasses. And the bowling balls, too. I'm overstocked.”

“How did you get overstocked on bowling balls?” Chad looked perplexed. “Is there a bowling alley in town?”

“It's Harmony Valley's official sport,” Sam said with pride.

“Get outta here.” Chad grinned.

Sam and Tracy nodded. Bowling had been an elective in PE at Harmony Valley High School.

“We have three teams in leagues in Cloverdale,” Sam said. “It's about a thirty minute drive south.”

Tracy pointed to a trophy behind the front counter sitting next to a photo of Sam. In it, he wore green face paint and had contorted and twisted and scrunched his face into something unrecognizable as the pawn shop owner. “That's...uhm...”
Word-word-word.

“Gurning,” Chad supplied, moving closer.

“Won it all last year.” Sam's thin chest puffed out. “Ed Schollenburg died a month before. He was a six-time champion of the Gurn.” Sam glanced over his shoulder at his photo. “He was a real inspiration to me.”

“Don't try this at home,” Tracy deadpanned.

“It's a grand English tradition,” Sam explained. “A sport only the elderly can dominate. It's why we love it here. You get me?”

“I gotcha.” Chad snapped a picture.

They bid Sam farewell and headed back toward the bakery.

“See?” Tracy said as they neared the vacant grocery store. “Gurning. Isn't that unique? And...nothing your bachelor hipsters could relate to.”

Chad's grin said he'd found the gurning contest just as unique and special as Tracy did. It was why his next words surprised her. “I hesitate to point out that gurning is also a side-effect of taking drugs like ecstasy or speed.”

“What?”
Even in college, Tracy had stayed far away from the serious partying crowds and had never heard of the term when it wasn't associated with the Harvest Festival. She stopped in front of the grocery store. Her gaze drifted to their reflections in the glass. “That was the first thing...you thought of? When I told you about...gurning?” They'd stood in this same spot. She'd felt a connection and he'd been laughing inside. Her insides weren't laughing. They were burning with anger.

“Yep.” Chad rubbed his hands together like the plotting villain he was. “You're right. Harmony Valley is priceless. My readers are going to love it.”

Tracy made a frustrated noise, checked for speeding Cadillacs and left him on the curb.

CHAPTER NINE

T
RACY
ENTERED
THE
bakery and stopped just inside the front door, unable to take off her jacket fast enough.

She felt peculiar. Her chest was too tight and her legs too loose. She liked Chad. She hated him. She wanted his life. She wanted to submarine his column. Gurning? Grrr!

What was happening here? She felt as if she'd stepped onto a battlefield without a gun.

She drew a deep breath and tried to forget Chad's skill in turning something innocent into the hugest irony.

And then she noticed all was quiet. “Why...are you all looking at me?”

“Tracy.” Felix brushed cat hair from his black polo shirt and stood. “Do you remember the time you helped me collect money for the Fireman's Fund?”

Tracy nodded. “Every...sixth grader had to volunteer.”

The retired fire chief waved that observation aside. “But you never complained. It showed your character.”

“Thank you?” Tracy crossed the room self-consciously and put her apron back on. There was definitely something weird going on.

Phil shifted his chair to face Tracy. “You used to sit in one of my chairs while I cut your dad's hair. Once, I helped you with your spelling words.”

“I remember that,” Tracy said kindly. Phil had always given her a sucker and sent her spinning in the barber chair.

The town council had come in while Tracy was gone. They sat at their regular table with the mayor. They shifted anxiously in their seats.

“Tracy.” Rose smoothed her white chignon. “I taught you how to jitterbug on my front porch. Dancing teaches you confidence.”

Jess entered the dining room, Gregory on her hip. She took one look around and said, “Okay, stop.” She dragged Tracy into the kitchen. “They're auditioning for your video.”

“It's...supposed to be about me.” But they'd all been mentioning something from her past. Tracy poked her head back into the dining room. “No. You...cannot be in my video.” She let the swinging door swing closed.

Conversations in the dining room resumed, along with Tracy's stress level about the job opportunity. She was no closer to determining what her three minutes would be about than she'd been yesterday.

Jess deposited Gregory in Eunice's lap. He grabbed a rainbow-colored teething ring Eunice held and began to gnaw on it. There were pans and mixing bowls in the sink. The center island was dusted with flour where Jess usually stood. Everything here looked normal. Everything inside Tracy felt out of sorts.

“I saw that devil put his arm around you.” Eunice sighed from her seat in the rocker. Her glasses were askew on top of her head and her eyelids sagged, as if she could use a nap as soon as she put Gregory to sleep. “Devilish men are the best kind.”

A few years ago, Tracy might have agreed with Eunice. But this devilish man made her feel inadequate. Except when he was helping her talk without breaks or grinning at her or...

“Men confuse me.” At least, one man. Tracy leaned on the island counter near Jess. “Who...ordered these chocolate chip muffins?”

“Christine.” Jess picked up a purple sheet of paper. “Can you drop them off at the winery later?”

“Sure.” Maybe on the walk over Tracy would be struck by inspiration for her video. “What are you reading?”

“Eunice has another recipe she wants me to try.” There was hesitation in Jessica's statement. She handed the wrinkled purple notebook page to Tracy.

“Jessica never made my Horseradish-Doodles,” Eunice said. “This recipe is for—”

“Sweet and Sour Cookies?” Tracy scanned the ingredients: pine needles, wild onions, garlic chili powder, sugar, butter, eggs.

“Don't they sound delicious?” Eunice asked. “Mama was a whiz with a budget. She found a use for everything in our yard in the most creative ways.”

“Eunice, I like the bakery to smell of sweet goodness.” Jess took the recipe back. “And this...”

“Is not sweet goodness.” Tracy couldn't wrap her head around how the cookies might smell or taste. “How...did this recipe come about?”

“I told you.” Eunice made it sound as if she'd explained herself a few too many times.

“Mama was a whiz with the budget,” Jess parroted. She cast Tracy a wry glance that said Mama-isms explained it all.

“But...why create a recipe...like
this
?” Tracy began filling the sink with hot water and soap.

“It all started when Daddy trimmed the pine tree in back and refused to burn the needles inside the fireplace. He said they'd smoke up the house—he was right, by the way.” Eunice blew a raspberry on the back of Gregory's neck, giving him the giggles. “Anyway, Mama hated anything going to waste. She tried putting the needles in potpourri. She tried sticking them under our mattresses. But there were so many leftover. Finally, she ground them up and put them in things.”

Tracy almost hated to ask, “In what?”

“Baked chicken. Pot roast. Shortbread cookies.”

Jessica was just as speechless as Tracy. She looked at the recipe and then back at Eunice. “Where did the sour come in?”

“Oh, that.” Eunice chuckled. “It's not very nice and I don't tell a lot of people this, but Mama didn't like Aunt Arlene very much.” She paused as if Jessica and Tracy should understand this reference. And then she blinked. “You didn't know Aunt Arlene, but Mama said she'd gone sour the moment Granddad wrote her out of the will. But Mama was nice, you see. She didn't argue with anyone. So when Aunt Arlene came to visit, she made these cookies and served them with tea.”

“I would've liked to meet your Mama,” Jessica said, sounding as if she meant it.

Tracy agreed. Sure, Mama sounded a bit passive aggressive, but in all the stories Eunice had told about her mother, she hadn't been overtly cruel.

Tracy loved listening to the stories the elderly residents told. They were full of human truths and politically incorrect opinions. “Jess...you should put Eunice's story on your blog.” Tracy marveled at the nearly effortless sentence. Chad may be a scoundrel, but his advice helped. “With the recipe. Maybe more people would read it.” More than the ten to twenty people in Harmony Valley who gave Jess recipes for posting and also knew how to work a computer.

“I don't know.” Jess took in the bakery with a harried glance. “I'm so busy and not much of a writer. Christine asked me to work with Claudia to cater and help organize her wedding, plus I've been getting a lot of wedding cake orders lately.”

“I could do the blog,” Tracy offered, feeling a spark of interest. “What if...all your recipes had stories?”

Just last week, she'd overheard Rose telling Jessica about the origins of her circus casserole. Before Rose made it to Broadway and later the ballet, she'd worked in the circus and had been given the recipe by the Bearded Lady.

The population in Harmony Valley was diverse for a reason. Fifty years or so ago, Flynn's grandfather had spearheaded a letter-writing campaign to attract new residents. He'd written more letters before he died, but the only one to answer was the sheriff.

“You think more people would read the blog if recipes had a history?” Jess trailed her fingers over Eunice's recipe indecisively.

“Yes.” Tracy glanced at the cooling rack. Cookies were her weakness, but apparently, weren't enough to distract her into talking smoothly. Leave that to the dastardly Chad.

“I can't pay you.” Jess had a soft look in her eyes, the one that said she understood Tracy was getting little more than minimum wage when she'd been used to getting a lot more.

“I don't mind updating the blog for free.” Tracy didn't feel Jess was taking advantage. Besides, there was a cookie that hadn't come out flat. Scrunched cookies couldn't be sold and shouldn't have to wait until after lunch to be eaten. Tracy claimed it. “I love writing.” She'd written advertising copy and news segment scripts. She preferred writing to making coffee and selling scones.

“Maybe I'll pay you in cookies,” Jess said with a small smile.

Tracy grinned. “That works, too.”

* * *

“H
EY
! T
RAVEL
WRITER
!”
A tall man with black hair waved to Chad from the patio of El Rosal. “Come on over. I'll buy you coffee.”

An invitation from someone under the age of forty? Chad hurried across the street to the tables outside the Mexican restaurant. Salsa music, black wrought-iron tables and chairs, and tall heaters made the patio inviting and eased the bad feeling Tracy's reaction to his interpretation of gurning had given him. How could she make him want to smile and he make her so annoyed?

“I'm Slade Jennings, part owner in Harmony Valley Vineyards.” Slade had a strong grip and the detached air of a seasoned businessman, despite his attire—a black polo and khakis.

Under Chad's scrutiny, Slade rubbed a hand across his jaw, drawing Chad's eye to a thin, curved scar at the base of his neck. There were several reasons for a scar like that, none of them pretty. Chad quickly averted his gaze.

Slade's smile faltered, but then he exchanged a glance with the other man at the table and his smile returned full force. “And I think you met Flynn earlier at the bakery.”

“We did.” Flynn had a more casual grip and a more casual approach to life. His T-shirt was dirtier than it'd been this morning and sported a beer logo. His black baseball cap proclaimed him a San Francisco Giants fan. “When the mayor sent you on your tour, we cleaned rain gutters at Eunice's house. Luckily, it's a small house.” He brushed some dirt off his T-shirt. “Doing some more work around town this afternoon.”

Chad sat next to Slade. “I thought you guys were dot-com millionaires.”

“Sadly,” Slade motioned for the waiter to bring more coffee. “We're also the handful of able-bodied men in a town filled with old people living in homes that have seen better days.”

Chad's story antennae pinged with excitement. He immediately downgraded the feeling. His story instincts needed fine-tuning. They'd been on the fritz since he'd gotten here. “What's the nightlife like around here?” As bachelors, they should know.

Slade and Flynn exchanged grins.

“We wouldn't know.” Flynn flashed a wedding ring.

Slade held up his hands. “I'm engaged.”

“But before...” Chad tried to keep his voice casually indifferent. “I heard you were single.”

“Oh, things were exciting here,” Slade said with a healthy dose of sarcasm. “We sat on Flynn's back patio, drank beer and watched the river drift past.”

“Don't forget,” Flynn added wryly. “We also had our handyman chores.”

“If you're both volunteer laborers, why aren't you dirty?” Chad asked Slade, curious despite himself. The man looked rather pristine.

“The Prince of Wall Street held the ladder for me.” Flynn spoke in the good-natured tone of a friend.

“Be leery of this man.” Slade pointed to Flynn. “The next question he'll ask will be about your free time and skill with a hammer.”

“So, Chad.” Flynn didn't miss his cue. “Travel writing can't be a full-time occupation. How are your skills with a hammer and what does your day look like?”

“Choose your words carefully,” Slade cautioned.

“I'm under deadline. I need to be writing.” The gurning bit was priceless and once he sat down at the computer inspiration was sure to strike. Harmony Valley might be a dud, but it'd make for an entertaining column. “And no. I don't own tools other than the basics needed to put together a desk from Ikea.” A hammer, a wrench and both types of screwdrivers, all of which were rarely used. He lived in a penthouse suite with a maintenance contract. His dad had been a metrosexual before metrosexual was cool. He'd raised Chad the same way—style before sweat. “I'm game for whatever you're asking.” Because being game led to good stories and he couldn't totally ignore his instincts.

“Great. We're patching roof shingles later.” Flynn exchanged another one of those private glances with Slade.

A roof? Chad really should collect all the details before accepting man-challenges. “I don't suppose I could hold the ladder.”

“Nope. The new guy always has to go up on the roof,” Slade said.

“Lucky you.” Flynn lifted his water glass in a toast. “It's only a chicken coop.”

“I'll help,” Chad said. “But only if I can bring my chicken.”