Candy Apple Dead (2 page)

Thanks to Aunt Grace’s dramatic sense of style, Divinity occupies a graceful old building that dates back to the earliest days of Paradise’s history. Originally the territorial jail, the building is filled with enough cubbyholes, nooks, and crannies to stir anyone’s imagination. The store and kitchen take up the entire first floor. Storage rooms and a large, airy meeting room—a courtroom during much of the nineteenth century—occupy the second level, and my apartment is on the third floor. I’d offered that second-floor meeting room for tonight’s meeting, and I still wasn’t ready for the crowd I was sure we’d have.

If we were lucky, we’d sway enough of the Alliance to make a difference at the next city council meeting. I had another reason for wanting the meeting here. In a couple of weeks, the council would be voting on whether to renew the long-standing contract between Divinity and the city that allowed me to provide gift baskets for visiting dignitaries.

The contract had been nothing special when I was a kid, but Paradise was garnering a fair share of overspill traffic from Vail and Aspen these days, and we needed the exposure. If Aunt Grace were still alive, contract renewal wouldn’t even be a question. But she was gone, and I’d been out of the candy business too long. People considered me an unknown quantity. I guess I was.

Business had dropped off sharply right after Aunt Grace’s heart attack, and I was desperate to build our clientele up again. Maybe people were skeptical about me. Maybe they thought I needed time to mourn—which I did—but I also needed an income.

In response to my question, Brandon shrugged. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

Considering how much he had at stake, his answer seemed oddly indifferent. “Yeah?” I replied. “Well, I’m not. I haven’t had time to set up the chairs for the meeting. Even if I was ready to run away with you, I couldn’t do it.”

Brandon’s scowl faded and a teasing light danced in eyes the color of Aunt Grace’s blue Depression-glass candy dish. “Come on, Abby. Screw the city council. Divinity has always made VIP gift baskets, and anybody with a head knows that. Those shortsighted jerks have no business making you beg for the job.”

I tossed him a modest smile and arranged a few toffee squares in a box. “First of all,” I said, just to set the record straight, “I’m not begging. And
Aunt Grace
always made the gift baskets, but I’ve never done it before. If the council members want to make sure the quality of our candy hasn’t slipped since I took over, I really can’t object.”

Brandon growled in protest. “Most of the city council members are idiots, and the ones who aren’t stupid are dangerous.” I would have argued with him, but he held up a hand to stop me. “Admit it. Kasie McGuire doesn’t like anything, and Sherm Hitchcock won’t breathe unless she tells him to.”

I certainly couldn’t argue with that. I couldn’t figure out how Kasie, who probably wouldn’t recognize the truth if she fell over it, had ended up in a position of authority. And Squirrelly Sherm? I was surprised the guy had guts enough to run for office.

“Yeah,” I said grudgingly, “but they’re not the only two who’ll be voting.”

“Don’t tell
them
that. Kasie’s convinced she’s the queen of Paradise. If you don’t believe me, just look into her eyes some time when you’re talking to her.”

I couldn’t argue with that, either. “It’s not Kasie I’m worried about,” I told him. “It’s Laura Applewood. She can be pretty persuasive when she puts her mind to it.”

“Putting her mind to anything doesn’t happen very often.” Brandon rested both arms on the chair’s back and tilted it onto two legs. “You’ll keep the gift-basket contract, so try not to worry so much. The Arts Festival . . . ? That one I don’t know about.”

“Some of the council members think expanding the festival is a good idea,” I said, trying to sound encouraging. “And half the Downtown Alliance agrees.”

“That’s because some of you have brains. I don’t know what the rest of them think with, but I could take a guess. Old-fashioned thinking is going to kill this town, Abby. You know that as well as I do.”

I happened to agree with him, but plenty of people didn’t. My brother Wyatt is a prime example. If you ask Wyatt, expansion is going to kill the town. He avoids new, trendy restaurants and refuses to shop in any of the specialty stores that have sprung up in the past few years. He still gets his coffee at Sid’s out on Highway 91, and he grumbles almost constantly about having newcomers underfoot.

Wyatt and Brandon have tussled a couple of times over their differences at town meetings, but I think Wyatt objects to Brandon more than he does his ideas. I’m not sure why he dislikes Brandon, and I haven’t asked. Some subjects are better left alone.

“If the council members hear you talking about them like that,” I said, turning away and pulling another stack of gift boxes from the cupboard, “you’ll lose votes for sure.”

Instead of looking worried, Brandon pitched another of his traffic-stopping grins. “What are you saying, Abby? You think I need to change my approach?”

That smile made me wonder—briefly—if I was really so smart for keeping him at arm’s length. But flattering as the attention was, I wasn’t stupid. My reign at the top of his list wouldn’t last. I couldn’t afford to forget that. “I don’t think that changing your approach would hurt anything.”

“You want me to play nice, is that it?”

“I just think that if expanding the festival is as important as you say, it’s not exactly smart to antagonize the people who’ll make the decision.”

“So you want me to kiss ass.”

“Actually, I was thinking of something sort of in between kissing up and in-your-face.”

With a laugh, Brandon let the chair fall down on all four legs again. “Not in this lifetime, darlin’. In-your-face is the only thing some of the people in this town will listen to.”

He was probably right. Paradise is an odd combination of old and new, and nobody ever seems to agree on exactly what we are or what we want to be. Half the folks in town share Wyatt’s opinion about the changes taking place, even though most of those changes have been good for the town and the people in it.

We’re an old mining community, but that industry died out a long time ago. New businesses springing up all over have helped stabilize our tax base, but unlike some of the more popular neighboring towns, we haven’t reached the level where longtime residents can’t afford to keep their homes.

In his own way, Brandon is a lot like Paradise. He’s a successful businessman—at least by Paradise standards—and he usually dresses as if he’s ready to hobnob with the rich and famous. On the other hand, he talks as if he has to scrape manure from the soles of his designer boots. Adding to his image is Max, the Doberman pinscher that’s Brandon’s best friend and the inventory retrieval specialist for the men’s clothing store Brandon owns. Brandon likes to brag that he’ll never need an expensive security system at Man About Town with Max around, and he’s probably right.

At that moment, Max was laying on the sidewalk outside the front door of my shop, enjoying the late-September sunshine. Ever alert, he kept his head up, and his ears twitched as shoppers and local business people passed him by. Most of the locals were used to Max, but occasionally someone would cross the road to avoid him, and Brandon never ceased to find that amusing.

I slipped a small piece of almond toffee onto a scrap of tissue paper, nudged it in Brandon’s direction, and began moving the remaining squares onto trays for that night’s meeting. “If you play your cards right, everything will be decided tonight.”

Grinning a thank-you, Brandon shifted the candy to his table. “Everything will be decided whether I play my cards right or not. People have been dragging their feet long enough. The festival is just six months away. If we’re going to change, we need to decide
now
.”

“For the record, I agree with you. I just think you’d be smart to back off a little. Don’t hit people over the head with it all the time.
Inspire
them to see things your way. And maybe stop calling them idiots in public.” I closed a box and slapped a gold-edged Divinity label on it as a seal. “You
might
even consider acting as if you’re taking their opinions seriously.”

The bell over the door tinkled, and the Gilbert sisters, two elderly ladies with nearly identical heads of silver hair came into the store, catching Brandon’s attention momentarily. When he looked back at me, his face was expressionless. “You know what they say about opinions,” he said. “They’re like—”

The sisters are devout Christians who carry their Bibles everywhere they go. I was pretty sure they wouldn’t appreciate the end of that thought, so I interrupted quickly. “I know what they’re like. Everybody has one. All I’m saying is you’d probably have fewer problems if you exercised a little more tact.”

Grinning as if the Arts Festival and its detractors didn’t matter, Brandon stood and leaned across the counter, close enough that I could smell the faint hint of toothpaste and chocolate on his breath. Close enough to send a faint shiver of something I hadn’t felt more than a handful of times in the past few years running up my spine.

“I’m not worried about it, darlin’,” he whispered. “Nobody ever takes me seriously.”

There was a hint of something I couldn’t read in his eyes, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to delve that deeply into his psyche. I might get caught there. “I hope not,” I whispered back, “for your sake.”

He pulled away and looked down at me from nearly a foot above. If I hadn’t grown up with a brother, I might have felt a little intimidated. “My head’s on straight, Abby. Don’t you worry about that. I know what I want, and I know how to get it.” He raked a long, slow gaze across my face and his expression grew serious. “Speaking of what I want, how ’bout you and me spend a little time together after the meeting?”

The invitation surprised me, but I can’t say it didn’t please me. I’m five-five and packing more on my hips and thighs than I’d like. Half the time my cocoa-brown hair looks like somebody ran over it with a lawnmower, and my wardrobe doesn’t qualify as any kind of chic—but in that moment, I felt beautiful.

To give my heart a chance to slide back out of my throat, I swiped at the counter and tossed the cloth into the sink behind me. “Why Brandon Mills,” I said when I trusted myself to speak, “if I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were asking me on a date.”

The grin on his face was deliciously wicked. “Yes, ma’am. I was thinking about dinner at Romano’s. How does that sound to you?”

Was he kidding? Romano’s is one of the best restaurants in town, and by far one of the most expensive. I could exist happily for weeks on their penne pasta with sun-dried tomatoes and pine nuts. Every excuse for keeping the relationship platonic flew right out of my head. I grinned right back while mentally diving through my closet for something to wear. “I think I could handle that.”

“Then I’ll see you at six-forty-five.” He chucked me under the chin on his way out the door, and I stood there wearing a goofy grin until one of the silver-haired sisters drifted toward me with a question.

I’d had a couple of unsatisfactory relationships before my marriage, and a pretty rotten relationship
during
my marriage. I know from experience that a good chin-chuck delivered with meaning has it all over a dozen roses delivered out of resentment or duty.

When I realized that Miss Lily was looking at me strangely, I pulled my attention away from the fine sight of Brandon Mills leaving my store and struggled to remember everything Aunt Grace had taught me about fruit jellies.

I had three hours to wait until closing, four until the meeting, and one of the longest afternoons of my life stretching out in front of me. I just wish I’d known what was to come. If I had, maybe I’d have spent another thirty seconds of it watching Brandon and Max walk away.

I raced downstairs at quarter to seven, all dressed up and ready for a night out, and Brandon didn’t even bother to show up. Didn’t call, either. One by one, members of the Alliance drifted out of their stores and into mine, chattering about this and that—the kind of day they had, the Arts Festival, rude customers, plans for that evening . . .

I got caught up in the chatter, so it took a little while to process what was happening. By the time I did, the scents of caramelized sugar and cinnamon oil made the late lunch I’d wolfed down turn over in my stomach. Thirty-nine years old, and I felt like a sixteen-year-old waiting for her date to the prom. Instead of Prince Charming, I’d somehow managed to pick a frog.

Again.

Being stood up isn’t a new experience for me, but that’s not something I’m proud of. Not that it happens with regularity, mind you. But it has happened before. Shane Clements stood me up for Homecoming during my sophomore year of high school. Kelley Jackson left me waiting with a steaming pan of lasagna and five pounds of chips and dip one Super Bowl Sunday during college. And Roger, the ex-husband I try not to think about, had forgotten plans we made more times than I can count. But for some reason, I hadn’t expected Brandon to be that kind of guy. I guess I’m just naïve.