“MR. HEALY, YOU cannot bring that chicken into my house.” Queen Leona sure knew how to put on a hero’s welcome.
“Leona, it’s been a long day.” Chad set Henrietta’s cage on the porch in the fading afternoon sunlight. “Roxie gave me this hen as a thank you gift.” And then he raised his voice, when he hadn’t done so all day. “For saving her life!”
It scared him that he’d been right. Roxie needed three stents for three blocked arteries. She’d cried. Her daughter had cried. Chad had left them at the hospital to drop off her chickens. Before he’d left, Roxie had insisted he take Henrietta as a thank-you gift. And yes, her daughter had looked at him sympathetically, shaking her head as if giving him permission to refuse. But what could he do? It might be Roxie’s last wish.
Leona opened her mouth to say more, but Chad cut her off.
“What I need is a warm, safe place to keep Henrietta.” At least until he could figure out who to give her to or how to convince Roxie to take her back. “Maybe that shed of yours in back has room.”
The bed & breakfast owner shook her head from side to side as if the swivel point was the pearl choker about her neck. “Unless you want chicken for breakfast, you’ll store that thing at Roxie’s.”
He was tired, emotionally wrung out, and the drive-thru burger he’d eaten on the way back wasn’t sitting well. It wasn’t worth arguing with Leona. “Where does Roxie live?”
“Three blocks up Madison. You can’t miss the house. She hung fishnets on the fence.” Leona shut the door.
The wind rustled through the trees, sending leaves fluttering like golden snowflakes to the ground.
Grumbling about queens and their royal subjects, Chad picked up Henrietta’s cage and returned to Roxie’s truck. When he turned the key, the truck shuddered, coughed and died as surely as he’d expected Roxie to earlier. Several unproductive key turns later and Chad stood next to his little red sports car. The one with narrow front seats and no room for a walker, a wheelchair or a chicken cage.
Henrietta strutted back and forth in her metal crate, making worried noises.
“I guess we’re walking, Henrietta.” Thankfully, his readers couldn’t see him now.
He picked up the three by two cage and started walking. The hen nestled into the corner near his hand. Her blue-gray feathers were soft against his fingers. Henrietta had the personality of a hesitant kitten. She deserved a nice home. Chad envisioned her living in a coop on his penthouse’s back patio.
What is wrong with me?
He was thinking about adopting a chicken. Where was his big city indifference? The Happy Bachelor didn’t do pets. He didn’t drive old ladies to the hospital. And he certainly didn’t let a hotel proprietor get the best of him.
A block later, he spotted Tracy sitting on a curb, scribbling in a notebook. He didn’t like to acknowledge how relieved the sight of her made him feel.
“If you’re counting cars driving by,” he said. “I’m betting you haven’t counted one.” There was no traffic in Harmony Valley.
Loyal bird that she was, Henrietta clucked as if laughing at his bad joke.
Tracy didn’t chuckle. She barely looked up, perhaps hoping he’d walk on by. She wasn’t getting that lucky.
“Hey, I recognize that expression of yours.” He set the cage on the sidewalk and sat next to Tracy. The cement was cold, but not as cold as a hospital chair. “That’s your over-thinking face.” He’d never run into anyone who was as set on defeating herself before the game ever started. “What are you doing?”
“I’m scripting my video.” Her chin jutted out and her eyes burned hot blue. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
He hadn’t really wanted anything. She was a stranger, same as Roxie. And as soon as he left town, she’d be a memory, same as Henrietta. That didn’t stop him from glancing across the street, curious as to why Tracy would choose to sit here.
And then it was his turn to chuckle. They sat across from an elementary school. “Don’t tell me you’re starting at the beginning of what made you who you are today? First grade teacher, perhaps?”
From the wash of color on her face, he must have been close.
“Don’t be a cliché,” he said. That was a fate worse than death for a writer. Most likely for videographers, too. He held out a hand for her notebook. “Let me see your other ideas.” If she was like other writers he knew, she’d have a list somewhere on those pages.
She clutched the book to her chest and glowered at him.
He worked hard to keep from smiling. She’d never be good at glowering, not with those petite features and big blue eyes. “If you won’t show me, cough up the next idea on your list.”
“No.”
Henrietta settled deeper into her corner and made soft noises like a toy train on a circular track. He hoped she was hunkering down from the increasing intensity of the wind and not laying an egg, which would only fall to the pavement.
“If I had to guess,” Chad said, returning his attention to Tracy. “It’d be something by the river.” There weren’t many things around town that might have shaped who Tracy was.
The glower disappeared. Tracy’s shoulders drooped around the notebook.
Chad sighed. “I can only hope you’ll work through the predictable dreck before you film.”
“Sometimes...often...it takes writing dreck to be inspired.” The droop undercut the confidence in her words. She wasn’t convincing anyone, least of all, herself. “I’m not worried about what my topic will be...so much as how I’ll deliver it.”
There it was. A long sentence. And if her droop was any indication, she didn’t recognize it.
Tracy laid her temple on her knee, facing away from him. “I was going to do a test drive tomorrow morning at the park by the river. I’ll take a break from the bakery at eight and the light will be fabulous coming off the water.”
Henrietta made a derisive noise before Chad could. Tracy had no inspiration, no plan and at this rate, no chance at grabbing that brass ring.
Like me.
The burger flipped in his stomach and he shook his head, trying to shake off the doubt.
Not like me.
Chad had inspiration—Harmony Valley. A plan—a website and advertisers. And a very good chance at grabbing that brass ring.
Tracy turned back to him and said begrudgingly, “What you did for Roxie was nice.”
He smiled. “I bet you hate to admit that.”
That won a grin out of her. “Harmony Valley brings out the best in even the worst of people. And now you’ve found your story.”
She didn’t understand him or the Happy Bachelor at all.
Chad stood and collected Henrietta. “I haven’t found my story. There’s no reason why people should visit this town. In Napa, the accommodations are more luxurious, the winery choices more numerous, and the nightlife...well, it exists.”
* * *
“YOU’RE A HYPOCRITE.” Tracy got to her feet, stiff from having sat so long on the cold curb. “You want everyone to think you’re this insensitive. Witty. Self-centered bachelor. And yet...you took an old woman—a stranger—to the ER.” And he’d encouraged a coffee barista—in a haughty, superior way—to reach for the stars with more than a clichéd, halfhearted effort. “And then there’s this chicken...” Tracy faltered. One, because she didn’t know why he had a chicken. And two, because she’d spit out a really long speech, without stumbling too much over her words.
Not that Chad seemed to notice. He was walking away from her, broad shoulders tall beneath that black leather jacket. “Henrietta is a thank-you gift from Roxie. It would break my code to trash a gift.” His back was rigid. His tone was frosty. But the indignation in his next words were fluid and hot. “And Leona refused to allow Henrietta on her property. What harm could a small chicken in a cage do to the B&B?”
“They can dig up a yard worse than a dog after a gopher,” Tracy said, marveling at his big-city ignorance. But it was the indignation over the chicken that got to her. She wouldn’t have expected the Happy Bachelor to care what happened to a stranger, much less a hen. It made her trail after him as if she was one of his flock. Besides, he was from the city and there was livestock at stake. “You don’t know anything about chickens, do you?”
“They get up early and they lay eggs.”
The farm girl in her rolled her eyes. “And the care and feeding...?”
Chad’s steps slowed to a stop. He turned to look at her, a complete contradiction—a stylish city slicker carrying a chicken. “Roxie isn’t coming home for at least two weeks. What will I...” He glanced down at the small bird, concern etching faint lines from the corners of his eyes. “I can’t even keep a houseplant alive.”
“I can help you get her settled. About her long-term future? Lots of people have chickens,” Tracy said reassuringly, stopping a few feet from him. Her father had gotten rid of his hens when Tracy went off to college, claiming there’d been too many eggs for one man to eat. But there were others in town with coops. She’d even heard the winery had gotten some recently. “For now, she’s safest at Roxie’s.” The sun was setting. For certain, there was still a chicken coop and some grain at Roxie’s.
“Thank you,” Humble Chad said.
Humble Chad. His eyes didn’t twinkle and his cocky boardroom demeanor was conspicuously absent, but Tracy found this side of him just as appealing. If only he wasn’t the Happy Bachelor.
An orange tabby ran across the street, darting beneath the bushes bordering an abandoned house. There were more empty houses and empty lots about than elsewhere in Harmony Valley.
Tracy glanced around. She seldom came to this part of town. And now, with grief thickening in her lungs, she remembered why. A road to the right led to what was left of the grain mill. The silo’s skeleton rose like an empty castle turret above the swaying trees. A romantic image for such a horrible end.
Chad followed the direction of her gaze.
“That’s where my mom was killed.” A chill reached deeper into her bones than the brisk autumn wind. “They say the explosion happened so fast...” As fast as Tracy’s car accident. “They couldn’t have done anything.” So many dead.
Chad nodded as if he understood. And then he said the nicest thing. “She’d be proud of you.”
The cold, thick feeling in her lungs spread into her throat. “For some things,” she choked out. Her academic achievements. Her rise in the advertising world. Perhaps not the temptation to settle nowadays. “She’d have liked you prodding me...to do my best. But not—”
“Let’s just leave it at that, shall we?” He started walking.
Tracy didn’t look at the mill again, but she felt her mother’s presence—or rather the lack of it.
They walked in silence to Roxie’s house. Henrietta was happy to be in her large coop. Tracy showed Chad where the grain bin was and told him how much food to give the hen. They latched the gate and went their separate ways. The Happy Bachelor walked off, shoulders hunched in his jacket.
Only then did Tracy remember she’d told him she was filming in the morning and begin to feel guilty.
Because she’d lied.
* * *
CHAD WAS DOWNSTAIRS in the Lambridge B&B’s dining room at 8:01 on Saturday morning, feeling like a bear awakened too early from hibernation.
The formal dining room was as stuffy and stately as the rest of the house—a cherry dining set that could seat twelve, dark wainscoting, forest green striped wallpaper and a large brass chandelier. How different it might feel with other guests at the table.
He’d slept restlessly on the lumpy, squeaky mattress that probably hadn’t been replaced since the last presidential candidate had come to town fifty years ago. Yeah, he’d looked it up.
And during his sleepless night, he’d read about the care and feeding of chickens, had a circular debate with Tracy—in his head—about the Happy Bachelor’s code of ethics in columns, and researched ways to conquer expressive aphasia.
He’d also sat at the keyboard for hours trying to start a column on Harmony Valley. His attempts had failed. He might even say they’d failed miserably. Every time he felt he was on to something, Tracy’s disapproving glower popped into his head. Not that he was panicking. It was a week until the Harvest Festival and eight days until his web page went live. But he was beginning to feel stressed.
“I like a man who’s prompt.” Leona wore a brown sheath dress and low black heels. Her hair was pulled back so tightly from her face, it seemed to lift the wrinkles above her brows. She retreated through a swinging door, returning almost immediately with a small white plate—almost a teacup saucer—and a mug of black coffee.
Chad stared at the one mini quiche, the one mini bran muffin and the cluster of five green grapes. “This is it?”
Leona had turned to leave him. She spun back, resting a hand on one hip. “This is a bed & breakfast, Mr. Healy, not a Las Vegas buffet.”
“This won’t hold me.” He’d gotten up early and went for a jog. He’d fed Henrietta. He was ready for eggs and sausage, biscuits and gravy, coffee and creamer.
“I never said I’d hold you.” Leona left him, unaware of the double entendre of her words.
The quiche was gone in one bite. The muffin in two. The coffee smelled bitter and the grapes were sour. This would’ve been a sorry state of affairs if Martin’s Bakery wasn’t within walking distance. Besides, he needed to find a repair shop for Roxie’s truck.
But first—since he was out—he might just as well go by the park next to the river and see what Tracy was up to. He was learning his way around town. He took the alley behind Main Street to reach the park. It was empty, but Tracy had mentioned the light on the water.
Chad veered onto the path across the sparse grass, drawn to the birds singing by the river. He passed a rusty swingset, an equally rusty pushable merry-go-round, a couple wooden picnic tables carved with initials, and lots of trees—poplar, oak, eucalyptus. Finally, he reached the bluff overlooking the water and nearly fell over the edge.
Tracy wasn’t there, but immediately below him, on a narrow strip of dirt beach, a naked man was doing yoga. He was old, fit and had a long gray ponytail.
“Good morning, Chad,” the mayor said, as if he did naked yoga with an audience every day.
“Good morning,” Chad blurted, backing away from the view. “Sorry to interrupt.”
“Want to join me?” Larry called after him.
Naked yoga with another dude? “Nope.” That was a definite man-code breaker. Chad’s pace picked up, not because he was embarrassed—although there was that—but because he’d been set up.
By Tracy.
* * *
CHAD ENTERED MARTIN’S and drew a deep breath. Ah, coffee. The morning’s lifeblood. A glance around the bakery revealed many of the patrons from the day before. The checkers match was on between Felix and Phil. Eunice sat in the window seat wearing Easter Egg colors that complimented her purple hair. Two men stood drinking coffee and talking near Eunice. The taller, more solid-looking of the pair held Gregory with the ease of parenthood.
There was a line to place an order, and Chad got in it, smiling. He’d left the Lampoon offices wanting to smile and laugh and joke more. With the exception of Roxie, Harmony Valley was giving him that. And now, he had to decide what kind of payback to give Tracy, the prankster.
He moved forward and the first pastry case came into unobstructed view. Forget another breakfast quiche. The pastries in the case looked decadently large. They’d hold him. He gauged the distance between he and Tracy. Her arms were slender, but they could hold him, as well.
Whoa. Where had that thought come from?
Granted, Tracy was attractive and engaging, with a good sense of humor. And granted, he enjoyed her company when they weren’t arguing about him being an evil overlord. But she wasn’t his type. She wasn’t a polished, driven go-getter. And yet, in that instant, Chad’s perspective changed. She was...datable.
When it was finally Chad’s turn, guilt was written all over Tracy’s face as she stared at his shoulder. “The usual? Latte and pumpkin spice scone?”
“Latte and a cinnamon roll, please.” The cinnamon roll was the largest item in the bakery case and smelled heavenly when compared to the mini bran muffin. “So... I didn’t see you filming yoga down by the river this morning.”
She had her back to him while she steamed his milk. She spared him a glance, biting her lip. And then she smiled, not in the least apologetically. “I’m sorry?”
Chad felt that smile deep in his chest. “You’re not.”
Her smile widened. “I’m not.” She returned her attention to his latte. “I read more of your columns.” If that was her opening salvo of the day, she’d have to add context and criticism.
“My readership might be interested in a place where they can do naked yoga.”
“You wouldn’t.” She turned. Her eyes were wider than those in the smiley face she’d made with milk on top of his wide-mug latte.
A fully dressed mayor appeared next to Chad. “I was serious about my earlier offer. Yoga is invigorating down by the river. I’d wear clothes for you, Chad.”
“He doesn’t make that offer...to just anyone,” Tracy ribbed, not that the mayor paid her any notice.
But Chad did. Her banter, her ability to pull a prank. They combined to fill his chest with warmth.
“Let me know if you change your mind.” Larry set two dollars on the counter. “Do you think your article on us will be picked up by any of those national papers?”
Stress pinched more than his shoulder blades. It wrapped around Chad and squeezed.
“I couldn’t say,” he wheezed, worse than Roxie had yesterday. Chad swallowed and tried again. “I need to learn about the town’s character, the festival, the winery—”
“Flynn.” The mayor waved over one of the men standing near Eunice, the one with reddish-brown hair and no baby in his arms. He introduced him as one of the winery owners. “He’d like a tour of the winery, Flynn. He’s comfortable with Tracy if you can’t spare the time.”
“I’ll ask Christine when he and Tracy can taste.” Flynn didn’t question Tracy’s inclusion, despite her propping her fists on her hips and huffing at the mayor after she’d given him his coffee and sugar packets.
“Excellent.” Larry pumped Flynn’s hand. “Text Tracy a time to take him over.”
“Before we roll out the red carpet...” Tracy held up several sheets of paper. “I printed some of Chad’s columns.” She offered them to the mayor and Flynn.
Chad leaned forward to murmur, “I hope you picked some that make me look good.”
“You wish,” she murmured back.
Whatever columns she’d chosen, whatever the mayor’s reaction, it wouldn’t change what Chad wrote.
“I don’t need to read those, Tracy.” The mayor was in pompous mode and discounted Tracy too easily. “And neither does Flynn. Chad’s written for important newspapers.” The mayor drew Flynn away to talk with the man holding the Poop Monster.
Tracy dropped the papers into the trash with a defeated sigh.
Chad’s cell phone rang. It was one of his sponsors. A sponsor call on a weekend wasn’t a good thing. “Marty, what’s up?”
Marty McPhearson was the media buyer for an online travel clothing company—No Wrinkles. He’d once been a drill sergeant and his voice rasped with rough peaks and deep valleys. “My boss is giving me grief about our spend with you.”
Chad gripped the counter and looked up. His gaze met that of a man in a sepia-tinted photo with his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows and the heels of his hands deep in dough.
Chad hadn’t expected the Lampoon to lose an advertiser without a fight. The advertising business was a personal one. Chad had a friendly business relationship with Marty. Another editor at the Lampoon had a friendly business relationship with Marty’s boss. But he’d thought the window to backing out had closed.
“I defended my spend with you, Chad. But without subscription and readership numbers, I’m not in a good position.” Marty cleared his throat, but it didn’t seem to make any difference in his gruff voice. “You know I hate to ask this, but I could do with some stellar advance content to prove I’m spending the company’s money wisely.”
Chad opened his mouth to say no, but Marty beat him to the punch.
“Without it, I may have to back out.”
Chad’s grip on the counter tightened. If No Wrinkles backed out, others might, as well.
“I need your best stuff, Chad. And I need it yesterday.”
Nothing he’d written in the past month was good enough. Chad had a sinking feeling his best stuff had yet to be written and it’d be written about Harmony Valley. “Tuesday,” he choked out. “I can get you something by Tuesday.” He disconnected and scowled at the phone.
“Tuesday deadline?” Tracy placed an oatmeal raisin cookie on the plate next to his cinnamon roll. “I thought you worked for yourself.”
“Advertising supports blogs. One of my sponsors wants a taste of my magazine before I go live.”
“Did you find your story?” There was too much superiority in those blue eyes.
“Did you find what makes you...you?” he countered.
“You found your story yesterday. With Henrietta.” That superiority spread to her smile. “You’re just too stubborn to admit it.”
“That strong backbone of yours has been strengthened by accidents. First your mother’s. Then yours.” It was a guess, but the words felt right. A woman as soft-looking as Tracy didn’t develop a foundation of steel by facing sunshine and rainbows every day.
“You need help.” Her smile hardened. “I could help you write your column.”
“And I could help you write your video script.”
The mayor clapped a hand on Chad’s shoulder. “I’m glad you two are offering to help each other.” His smile was oil-spill slick. “Tracy can show you around town, tell you about the festival and take you wine tasting. And you can help her with that interview video she’s stressing about.”
“How did you...” Tracy’s gaze cut to the window seat. “Eunice.”
“You may be talented,” Eunice said sweetly. “But Chad’s been in the paper. Popular ones.”
The room erupted with agreement that boxed up his and Tracy’s objections before they’d ever been spoken.
“You can start now. I’ll man the counter.” Eunice scurried over, immediately brightening the space with all her spring color.
Not two minutes later, Chad and Tracy stood outside the bakery zipping up their coats.
Tracy glowered at Chad. Her expression wasn’t so cute anymore. Not when his breakfast and latte weren’t outside with them.
She took one look at his face and rolled her eyes. “Like this was my fault, Mr. Hotshot Newspaperman.”