Chapter 2

IBN, EVENING NEWS AT 6:30 P.M.—Marsha Phillips

Good evening, this is the news for May twenty-third. I'm Marsha Phillips, and this is Brian Thorn, filling in for Pete Cooper, who is away on assignment. And now for the top stories tonight...

"I'm not so sure about this."

Twirling her hat on the edge of her index finger, Brooke scowled over at Pete where he sprawled in the beanbag chair that had been too small for him by the time he was fifteen. Pete's shoes were off and his tie was draped around his neck like a scarf. There was a fat tabby cat curled up on his stomach and another dozing between his feet. "Don't be silly," Brooke said. "It's a great idea. Mamie would definitely approve."

He gave his head a slow nod. "Oh, she'd approve all right. It's Parischell I'm not so sure about. I'm supposed to be back at my desk tomorrow night smiling out on the masses."

"Oh, your boss will understand, won't he?" she asked. "After all, you just buried the woman who raised you."

Pete's expression didn't improve any. "That bastard? He wouldn't let me take off if I'd just buried me. All he cares about is audience share and Q rating, and my being out of town during sweeps is not going to make me any friends."

"But you've been out of town," she countered. "In a city I can't even pronounce."

He raised a finger in exception. "Ah, but one that had a satellite feed. I don't think you can say the same for Rupert Springs."

"We're not staying here. I mean, when was the last time a New Orleans jazz band strolled down Main Street?"

She spun her hat a little wide and it sailed like a saucer right over to land on Pete's lap. The cat never moved. Picking up the offending millinery, Pete spun it right back at her.

"Besides," she added, flinging the hat right back again, "I thought you doted on the linoleum that Parischell walks on. He's the inspiration behind the network, the spiritual leader of all that media trendsetting, isn't he?"

"He's the man who signs my paychecks." Pete gave up tossing the hat and just settled it onto his own head like a bright blue sombrero and nestled his head back against the vinyl. "I'd call him Mother Teresa as long as he leaves me alone."

Brooke shook her head in mock sympathy. "Tsk, tsk. The great Pete Cooper having work troubles just like every other slob in the universe. Imagine that."

Pete's answer was nonverbal and succinct enough to make Brooke laugh. "It's good to have you home, Coop."

With one finger, he tipped her hat up like a cowboy checking out the competition. It wasn't steely eyes Brooke saw beneath the brim, but gentle eyes. Familiar eyes, comfortable eyes that still, even after all these years, had the power to take the stuffing out of her knees. "It's good to be here, Stump. I missed you."

Brooke flashed him her own retort and the two of them settled back into their state of semisomnolence.

"Besides," Pete continued into her hat. "Who's going to watch the house? You know damn well that the minute I turn my back Letitia and Emily are going to come right in and snatch every license plate on the kitchen wall."

"Well, what were you planning to do with the house when you went back?"

"Have you live here."

Brooke came to a kind of attention. "Oh, Coop, I couldn't..."

He didn't even bother to lift the hat again. "All those trees in the back are yours anyway. Not to mention the car in the garage."

"But what about all her good things? The furniture, the

crystal, the family things."

He shrugged. "Wouldn't fit in my apartment right now anyway. I thought maybe you'd watch over it until I got a real vacation and we could sort through it all together."

"But I'm living in my house."

"Which you've wanted to put up for sale ever since your mom died. There's plenty of room in here for your good things, and nobody'd take better care of Mamie's treasures than you."

"Coop..."

He lifted a hand. "I'm fading fast here, Stump. Let's argue later."

"When are you going to call your boss?"

"I can't leave this house open for the vultures."

"You're not," she assured him. "We have reinforcements."

He wasn't moving at all now. Brooke watched him, splayed over that chair, all arms and legs, and thought of the evenings they'd sat in this living room watching Hawaii Five-O with Mamie. Popcorn fights and endless teasing and the first, shy realizations of puppy love on her part. Coop and Chick and Stump, two friends and a tagalong who had, in the end, become closer to her brother's friend than her brother. David was in Greece now with the consulate there, a family man, an upright citizen. Brooke's sisters had moved, too, one with a husband, another with a job, leaving her alone in the town where they'd been raised.

And the funny thing was, even though she was close with them all, visiting holidays and exchanging letters about children and old hometown gossip, Brooke still felt closest to Pete. Pete had been the one who'd known what it meant to feel different. He'd faced that small-town narrow-mindedness before her and cleared a kind of path. And then he'd gone off to the world like everyone else and left her behind.

Funny how just the sight of too-long arms and legs and shoeless feet could put a knot in a person's throat.

"Good Lord, I'm too late. Emily shot him and then tried to dress him like Letitia."

Startled, Brooke looked up to see the uniformed officer on the other side of the screen door.

"That's it, Sergeant," she said with a grin. "It was all over the salt-and-pepper shakers."

"I heard about that." Her friend giggled as she pulled open the door and stepped inside. "The entire town is abuzz. Congratulations. I hear you cheated Lyman out of his rightful T-Bird."

"Nothing wrong with the news-gathering capabilities in this town," Pete muttered, still not moving. "That's not Allie Simpson on the other side of this fashionable hat, is it?"

"This guy must be a journalist," Allie retorted dryly, pulling off her police ball cap and running a quick hand over her jet black braid.

Coop finally lifted his hat and then dropped it completely. "Good grief. What are you doing in that outfit?"

Allie looked down to where her generous curves gave new dimension to the navy blue uniform she wore. "Keeping the peace in these parts, boy. The Fillihue ladies asked me to check on a potential disturbance over here. They're planning one. From what I hear, you two are invited."

Pete actually made it to his feet, displacing the two cats and towering over the town's law enforcement. "Come on," he retorted, hands on hips. "That's not really your uniform. You're too short to be a sergeant."

Allie's scowl was impressive for someone who hadn't grown since sixth grade. "You sure got a lot of nerve saying that to a woman who's licensed to use a gun."

Pete's grin was purely salacious. "Tough women turn me on, baby. Can I play with your nightstick?"

Allie chuckled. "I was about to ask you the same thing. Welcome home, Coop. You look like you've just gone a round with your aunts."

"Two rounds," Brooke said, climbing to her own feet and thinking better of it when her feet protested still being in heels. The offending attire ended up in a tumble alongside Pete's as she wiggled her stockinged feet against the cool hardwood of Mamie's floor. "Do you have time for refreshments, Sergeant?"

"As long as Bill Thompson thinks I'm down at the Donut Drop, sure. What kind of sedition are we planning? I have my overnight case in the cruiser."

Pete turned to Brooke with a bemused expression. "She's your protection?" he demanded.

"I wouldn't sound quite so outraged if I were you," Brooke suggested as she led the three of them out to Mamie's sparkling white kitchen that had been decorated with hanging flower baskets in the windows and rectangular representations of every state in the union and quite a few countries covering the walls. The room looked like a cross between an upscale restaurant and a body shop. The refrigerator was still stocked with plenty of beer and lemonade, and the cupboard hid away a few of Mamie's more exotic cold remedies.

"Well, why aren't you staying here, Pete?" Allie asked, accepting a glass of lemonade as she dropped her cap onto the table and slid her nightstick from her belt so she could sit at the lace-and-clear-plastic-covered table.

"Because we're off to give Mamie a funeral," Brooke informed her, pulling over the maps she'd dug out when she'd first returned to the little clapboard house. Out the window the dogwood leaves looked as lacy against the light as the good tablecloth Mamie had tatted.

Allie momentarily forgot her lemonade. "Wasn't she there today?" she asked Pete with a motion to Brooke.

He nodded, rubbing at his eyes with a weary hand. "She's decided that it wasn't enough."

"Even with the accordion?"

"You ever heard Lyman play that thing?"

Allie winced. "I live two houses down. That's why I agreed so quickly to stay here for you."

"And I appreciate it," Brooke conceded, pulling open the Arkansas map and spreading it out between them. "All you have to do is keep the Fillihues out and the animals in."

Pete finally gave up and joined them, his own glass of lemonade rapidly disappearing. "What do you have in mind?" he asked.

Brooke shot him a bright smile, the exhilaration beginning to bubble again. She'd just give him the basics. He was looking much too strung out for details. Besides, details only got in the way, anyway. At least, that's what Mamie always said.

"Well, what do we have to find?" she asked.

Pete shrugged and rubbed at his face again. "I don't know. Limericks, jazz bands, Elvis..."

"He's in Minnesota," Allie informed them all. "Working in a fast-food joint with Princess Grace. I saw it in the Daily World at Hanson's store when I picked up coffee."

"Someplace we can find costumes to dress up as our favorite characters in Gone with the Wind," Brooke added, "and a place to pay tribute to the Fillihue ancestors."

"Don't forget about the Hell's Angels," Allie said. "And somebody to sing 'Streets of Laredo' and 'Joy to the World.'"

Brooke snorted. "You should have heard the arguments about that one. Letitia couldn't imagine why Mamie wanted Christmas songs at her funeral. She never did figure out what the bullfrog had to do with it."

"So, where are we going?" Pete asked.

Brooke stared at him, much the way Harlan had stared at her. "Come on. You're the famous journalist, here. You should know where to find this stuff."

"I'm a journalist, not a booking agent for sideshows. I mean, we have to find an Elvis impersonator."

"Well, how many can there be out there?"

"There were two hundred at the reopening of the Statue of Liberty."

Brooke shot him a sharp grin. "Got lost in the crowd, huh?"

Pete had the good grace to chuckle back. "My jumpsuit was at the cleaners that weekend."

"So, where do you have to go?" Allie demanded.

Brooke took a moment to think about it. "Well, where would be the first place you'd look for Elvis?"

"I told you. Minnesota."

"When he's not with Princess Grace."

"Oh. Well, Graceland, I guess."

"Exactly. Are you keeping up with this, Pete?"

He nodded, his chin in his hands, his eyes half-closed. "Anybody know what time it is in Belgrade?"

"This will only take a minute more, and then I'll even take your socks off myself so you can go to sleep."

"Are you going to call my boss and tell him why I'm not going to be in for a while?"

"Sure. Would you like an indictment or a disease?"

His scowl was pure Coop and made both women laugh.

"The question is," Brooke said, "do we go to New Orleans by way of Memphis, or Atlanta by way of Shiloh?"

All Pete could offer was a groan.

"I'll take that as a yes." She challenged him, eye-to-eye, knowing damn well that he'd never forgive her if she let him back out now. Pete Cooper had been seen at every society function Atlanta had put on in the past four years. He'd been dressed up and buttoned down and as respectable as Sunday service. And in all that time, he hadn't had a decent vacation, or just kicked back and done something silly or given in to whim. Brooke knew, not only from his letters to Mamie, in which he never really admitted his growing frustration, but in his calls to her. He was aching for this trip, and he didn't even know it.

Well, it was up to her to make sure he didn't get back on that plane in Little Rock without a bit of insanity. If she had to use Allie's gun to achieve it, then that's just what she'd do.

"Okay," she finally acquiesced with a huge smile, never taking her gaze from Pete's as she got back to her feet. "You win. Straight down to New Orleans first. Now all we have to do is figure how we're going to pack everything into that little car."

* * *

Outside, the sunlight flickered through the young trees and baked the dark police cruiser in the driveway. Brooke had forgotten how bad the humidity was. It hit her like a wet rag the minute she stepped outside to walk Allie to her car.

"Thanks again for offering to stay," she said, picking at her dress.

Allie waved her off as she replaced her nightstick and pulled out her keys. "I told you. It's my pleasure. I haven't seen Letitia that color since they found out Eila Sue was pregnant without benefit of a wedding band. Just let me know when you're ready to go." She shook her head with a wondering little grin. "I still can't believe you're doing it."

"Why not?" Brooke asked, staying to the grass to protect her feet. The dogwoods weren't much shade. "Can you think of anything better for Mamie?"

"No," Allie admitted, coming to a stop by the car. "But even for hanging around with her all these years, this is still a little abrupt. What about your job?"

"Oh, I'm due for a vacation. Besides, I have a feeling that if I don't do this now, I'll never take the time to later."

Allie just nodded, then grinned. "Out on the road alone with Pete Cooper. My, my."

"My, my, what?"

Allie's black eyes sparkled with mischief. "What would the Daily World say?"

"Nothing. They're all up in Minnesota buying burgers anyway."

"Somebody's going to find out."

Brooke shrugged. "It's just Coop, Allie. He needs to get away."

Allie took a moment to look in toward the house. "Yeah," she admitted. "He does. I didn't realize it until now. It's sure good to see him."

Brooke followed her gaze, as if she, too, could conjure sight of Pete beyond those clematis-covered walls. "Yeah, it is. Too bad it was to bury Mamie."

"I'm gonna miss her."

Brooke nodded, Mamie's loss still too big for words. "Me, too."

For a little bit longer, the two women simply stood where they were, enjoying their own memories. Then Allie straightened and opened the car door. She was about to climb in when she suddenly stopped.

"Oh, darn, I almost forgot. Harlan asked me to pass this on to you." Reaching into her shirt pocket, she pulled out a small envelope and handed it over. "In all the excitement yesterday, he forgot to give it to you. It's a personal note to you from Mamie." Brooke had her hand out for it, but Allie held back for a moment, a cautionary smile lighting her eyes. "To be opened in exactly ten days."

Brooke let her eyebrows rise. "Ten days?" What in heaven's name would Mamie want to say to her in ten days? And how in heaven's name was she going to wait to find out?

Allie waved the intriguing little envelope at her. "Promise?"

Brooke made a snatch at it. "Yeah, yeah."

"You're making that promise to an officer of the law, now."

Brooke fingered the envelope, the sight of Mamie's spidery handwriting igniting a bittersweet ache in her chest. "Thanks."

Her mission accomplished, Allie slid into her car and started the engine. "Well, give me enough notice to give you two an official bon voyage."

"Thanks again, Allie."

As she slid into her seat, Allie dispatched one last smile. "Just remember where I am if you need to talk."

Brooke lifted a quizzical eyebrow.

Allie smiled. "You look really great in that color. See you later."

And with no more than that, Brooke's best friend since sophomore year of high school slammed the door shut and departed. Brooke just shook her head as she tiptoed through the stubbly grass and back across the cool smoothness of the front porch.

Good old Allie, as comfortable as old shoes, as tied to this town as a homing pigeon. Allie, who had never sought to reach beyond her arm's length, who never needed to wander farther than the horizon. Allie had been Brooke's benchmark for reality, but Pete had taught her to dream.

Speaking of dreaming, that was just what he was doing when she walked back inside. Head in arms, gently snoring, facedown at the table. He'd mumbled something about a shower when Brooke had gotten up to show Allie out. Brooke had a feeling that idea was a nonstarter.

She grinned down at the tousled head, the broad, strong back, the lanky frame she would have recognized anywhere in the world.

"Come on, big boy," she coaxed, slipping the envelope into her own pocket before settling her hands to his shoulders. "It's time for bed."

"Not tonight, honey," he muttered into his shirtsleeves. "I have a headache."

Brooke chuckled, her hands comfortable where they were. "I prefer my partners to participate, thanks. Come on, let's get you into bed. We have a big day tomorrow."

She got him to his feet, where he swayed like a young tree in the wind, his eyes bleary, his smile crooked. "Happens like this," he admitted. "I can go so far, and then I drop like a rock."

Brooke slipped her arm around his waist and turned him toward his old room, where the Cardinals posters still vied for space with NASA charts and a very nice shot of Cheryl Tiegs. "Then it's a good thing you're doing it around a girl big enough to keep us both from ending up on the floor."

Coop answered by sliding his own arm around Brooke's waist. It was a position they'd perfected over the years, close, comfortable, so at ease with each other that Pete didn't think twice about letting his head fall onto Brooke's shoulder as he stumbled back to the bedroom, the cats following with two smaller, black-and-white friends.

Brooke did take his socks off. She threw a cover over him, closed the curtains in his room and hung his jacket in the closet. By the time she turned to leave, the cats were curling up atop the spread, purring like car engines on the highway. Flung out on the bed, Pete was snoring softly, his hair tumbling over his forehead, his face still strained. Brooke allowed herself a real smile. It was good to have him home. She hadn't realized how much she'd missed him until she'd seen him again.

Closing the door gently behind her, she headed for home and those chocolates he'd brought.

* * *

"My God, Coop. What happened to you?"

Pete stretched out the kinks left from his sixteen-hour sleep and gave way to a window-rattling sneeze.

"Cats," he snarled, his voice barely a rasp. "I forgot."

Beyond the film that blurred his vision and the itching, burning irritation in his nasal passages, Pete could see the real concern in Brooke's eyes give way to a certain amusement.

"Perfect," she crowed, clapping her hands together.

Pete rubbed again at his eyes with no noticeable results and gave in to a very miserable-sounding sniffle. "Perfect for what?" he demanded.

She just shook her head. "Listen to you," she marveled, stalking to the phone. "You sound like hell."

"It's only fair," he retorted with another sneeze that made her flinch. "I feel like it. I'm going to take a shower. Then I'm calling Doc Levin."

She spun on him. "No. Not yet."

Pete saw now that she had a phone receiver in her hand. Even as she grinned at his distress, she punched buttons.

"Why?"

She waved him off. "This is the Rupert Springs General Hospital calling Mr. Evan Parischell," she intoned with nasal precision into the receiver.

"Brooke!" Pete protested without any success. With what was left of his voice after sucking in cat hair over sixteen hours, he didn't sound impressive.

She waved him off again, her smile growing into a huge grin. "It's about Mr. Cooper," she told the person on the other end of the line. "Wait? I think not. I have other patients to attend to."

Pete couldn't do much more than roll his eyes and sneeze again. Just what he needed, an accomplice. Well, since there seemed to be nothing for it, he headed on past Brooke to pull a can of soda out of the fridge. All that mourning and sneezing had stirred an appetite. Now, if he could only taste his food...

"Ah, Mr. Parischell," Brooke all but sang into the phone. "This is Dr., um, Patterson. I'm an ear, nose and throat specialist here in town, and I need your help."

Pete pulled out a kitchen chair and sank into it, eyes again rolling at Brooke's impersonation. Someday Parischell would make a pilgrimage to Rupert Springs and find out that the town wasn't big enough to sport a doctor who specialized in one organ, much less three. Then Pete would be in for it.

"Well, yes, he is sick," she informed the executive. "Very sick. I'm not sure what the man was doing before he came home for his dear aunt's funeral, but he has absolutely no voice left. He keeps insisting that he has to get back to work. Doesn't want to let you down, you know..." Pete gave her another grimace, which she blandly ignored. "Well, now that's precisely the point. If he tries to use that voice right now, he might lose it entirely. And you wouldn't want a news anchor who sounds like Louis Armstrong, would you?"

"He'll know," Pete muttered. "I'll get my voice back tomorrow as soon as the cats go."

"Would you speak to him?" Brooke asked the man. "He simply won't listen to me."

Pete tried shaking his head. He wasn't even in the mood to put up with Brooke right now, much less Parischell. It didn't do any good. Brooke simply walked the phone over to him and substituted it for the soda he'd been about to taste.

"Two weeks, Mr. Cooper," she informed him with stern voice and outrageously laughing eyes. "You can't go back any sooner. Now, after you've talked to Mr. Parischell, not another word."

"Pete? Pete?" Parischell's voice floated free of the mouthpiece, the tone bordering on incipient panic. "Are you there?"

Pete did his best to stifle the next set of sneezes as he turned to answer. "Yeah, I'm here."

There was a pause, and then a stricken gasp. "Oh, my God, man. What happened? You sounded perfectly all right yesterday."

Pete heaved a sigh of capitulation. "I don't know, Evan. I woke up like this."

"Don't say another word! I want you right back in Atlanta where there are specialists who can look at you."

Pete almost smiled. Instead he reached over with his free hand and retrieved his soda. "It's just old-fashioned laryngitis, Evan—" The sneeze that punctuated that statement could have been heard in New Orleans. "And a cold, I guess. I'll be fine."

"Two weeks, that doctor said, huh?" Evan's voice kept rising, like a small child seeing his best bike being backed over by the family station wagon. "You couldn't have done this in January or March, could you?"

"Sorry."

The magnate sighed, a huge, frustrated noise that displaced almost as much air as Pete's sneezes. "All right. Get some rest. Lots of fluid, that kind of thing. Brian will have to cover for you."

"He won't mind."

"Shut up! Not another word! Just take care of that voice."

By the time Pete handed the phone back to Brooke, he almost believed he really was sick.

"And how are we going to explain the jaunt to New Orleans?" he demanded.

Brooke grinned like a pirate. "Just because you can't talk doesn't mean you can't travel."

He ran his hand through his hair, trying to pull some kind of order together. "What time is it?"

"About eleven in the morning. Boy, kid, you should see your eyes. They really look terrible."

Pete snorted. "Thanks, they look bad enough from this side. You haven't been here all night, have you?"

"Don't be silly. I ran over when the Fillihue early-warning system went off. Allie will be here in twenty minutes, my bags are in the living room and the car is gassed and ready to go."

Pete made it a point to look around him. "Now?"

Brooke just smiled. "As soon as you get a shower and I get some antihistamines from Doc Levin. Otherwise we're in for round three with Letitia. She's coming to complain about the will."

Pete stood stock-still for a minute, in the shirt and slacks he'd worn to the funeral, facing down a terminally bright Brooke in her blue chambray shirt and tan cotton twill slacks, her hair pulled up in a knot that spilled copper curls down the back of her neck. Her eyes glittered like sunlight on water, equal parts glee and anticipation, and Pete suddenly realized that he couldn't resist them. He couldn't resist her. As miserable as he felt, he found himself actually looking forward to two weeks in a convertible alongside her with nothing more to do than look for Elvis.

"I'd appreciate it if you'd get the cats out back in the barn while I shower," he conceded.

Brooke's smile exploded into laughter. "We should probably hang on to one. Just in case Mr. Parischell shows up."

* * *

Not only did Brooke take care of the cats while Pete was doing his best to beat some life into his flagging body, she took care of the medicine. Antihistamines, eye drops, nose drops and about a case of tissue all waited on the kitchen table when he walked back out of the bathroom. Brooke was sitting in the living room, sharing sodas with Allie.

"He looks terrible," Allie was saying, her feet up on the table, her sunglasses on, her attention on Pete.

"He looks better," Brooke answered, in similar position, her feet up on a suitcase.

Pete scowled at them both. "He appreciates the sincere concern. Is that your luggage, or are you setting up a refugee camp?"

Brooke didn't seem particularly offended. "I'm waiting for you to bring yours out so we can get the car packed."

Pete just lifted the beaten, dusty duffel already in his hand.

That brought Allie's glasses up and Brooke's feet down. "Coop," she admonished, standing up. "This isn't a quick jaunt to a war zone."

He motioned to the matching softsider luggage clogging up most of the floor space. "It's not the grand tour, either. What the hell do you have in those things?"

Brooke looked down at the various bags and scowled. "Accessories. You men are so damned spoiled. What do you need for a trip? One suit, three ties and a razor. Try scooting through Europe with four pairs of shoes, makeup, jewelry, panty hose, and enough hair equipment to start a salon."

Pete made it a point to look over at Allie. "Has she been this way long?"

Allie grinned. "Since she started traveling on business."

He returned his attention to Brooke. "This is Aunt Mamie we're remembering, Brooke. Not Coco Chanel."

Brooke huffed at him and bent to pick up the bigger bag. "You remember her your way and I'll remember her mine."

Allie never moved from where she was slouched on the couch, her drink balanced on her flat belly. "Well, this is sure shaping up to be the trip of the century. I'm just sorry I have to stay behind and guard the fort."

"No, you're not," Pete and Brooke answered simultaneously.

Allie's grin was delighted. "No, I'm not."

By the time the sleek little aqua Thunderbird backed out of Mamie Fillihue's garage, Brooke had left two of her bags behind and Pete forgot the nose drops. They had maps, though, and a vague idea of where south was. The day was going to be cool, with high puffy clouds chasing the sun and just enough of a breeze to demand the customized top be put down. A good start for a quest. A good day to begin a vacation. Even though Brooke resented having to leave behind her best dress and Pete was still sneezing and wheezing, they were looking forward to the next few days.

Standing out in Mamie's front yard, Allie just waved, laughed and shook her head. And then she went back to prepare for the disasters she knew were coming.