AN ELDERLY WOMAN with short, wiry blue hair in stained blue coveralls and driving around with a truckload of chickens.
This would be fun.
Chad’s inner voice had him veering away from Tracy and the disappointment he felt over her fear of a challenge. He didn’t want to think about Tracy or why he cared what happened to her. He called out a greeting to the old woman, ignoring Tracy’s parting shot of, “Be nice!” and introducing himself.
“I’m Roxie.” The old woman adjusted the hang of her coveralls, wheezing as if she’d just run a race. “You must be that reporter people are talking about.” She tightened a strap that held her cages down with hands that seemed plumper than fit her thin, petite frame.
Interest in a story was elbowed aside by the alarm flashing in his head, the one experienced during years spent raised by elderly parents. Roxie’s shortness of breath. Her poor circulation. Was her skin pale because she didn’t get outdoors? That was the argument his mother had made when Chad had asked her to see a doctor. Too late, it turned out.
“You don’t talk much.” Roxie hit him with a sideways glance. “Are you a friend of Tracy’s? From one of those clinics she goes to?”
“No.” Chad drew back. She thought he had speech difficulties? “I was distracted by all your chickens.” He hoped to be distracted by whatever reason she had a truckload of fowl, distracted enough to ignore what he saw as warning signs in her health.
“I’m taking them to the farmers market. Getting dotty in my old age.” She gasped for breath. “Let too many roosters in the hen house and ended up with too many chickens. Or so my daughter says. She made me promise—” Wheeze. “—to get rid of them all last time she visited.” Panting, Roxie climbed unsteadily onto the rear bumper and untied a small cage with a small blue-gray speckled hen. “The load unbalanced when I came around the corner. I’ve just got one cage too many. Poor Henrietta.” She slumped over the tailgate, balancing the cage on the fender. “Whew. You’d think we were at a high elevation. I can’t seem to catch my breath.”
“Let me help.” He placed a steadying touch at the small of her back. “Give me Henrietta.” Once the hen was on the ground, Chad took Roxie’s hand and helped her down.
Roxie’s was cold. Her grip weak. Up close, her skin had an unhealthy tinge to it.
Mom, you don’t look so well. Let’s go to the doctor.
Tension pinched between his shoulder blades. “You shouldn’t be doing this trip alone.” Roxie shouldn’t be doing it at all. She should be seeking medical attention.
It’s none of your business. That’s what his mother had said. I may be slowing down, but everyone slows down at my age.
He was looking at Roxie, but that didn’t stop an image of his mother’s face from coming to mind and replacing hers.
I could be wrong. I’m not a doctor.
It didn’t feel wrong. And he would have appreciated anyone who could’ve made his mother see a doctor. Maybe then she’d still be alive. Maybe then he wouldn’t be alone and empty.
“I’m glad you offered to come.” Roxie smiled up at him mid-wheeze. “Won’t take more than an hour. My friend Marty says he’ll sell them for me, so it’s just a drop-off.”
“But...”
“Get a move on.” Roxie pressed her keys into his hands, picked up Henrietta’s cage and walked around the truck to the passenger side, huffing and puffing like a six-pack-a-day smoker.
Chad was dumbfounded. This was just like earlier when Eunice and Tracy left him—a stranger—with a baby. What was it about Harmony Valley that inspired such trust in their fellow man? Didn’t they realize the world was a dangerous place?
And yet... His reporter instincts stood on end—this is the story. Chad stood still, rejecting the idea. He didn’t write smarmy, feel-good pieces. He didn’t do good deeds, like pointing out to someone they might be sick. Or driving them to the doctor. There must be someone in town who’d drive Roxie.
Although no one in the bakery had been willing to drive him a few blocks. The only volunteer driver, the petite woman—Aggie/Agnes—was probably still busy taking Mildred to her doctor’s appointment.
Roxie got in with a mighty door slam and a raspy gasp.
The chickens in the back startled, clucked and stared at Chad as if to say, “Get a move on!”
The surreal moment continued to fuzz Chad’s brain and make him slow to react.
Roxie’s plump fingers flapped toward the open driver’s window. “Daylight’s burning.”
Chad climbed in the front seat and inserted the key in the ignition. And then he hesitated, the good Samaritan debating with the good reporter on a deadline. “Before we go, I have a few questions.”
“Shoot.” Roxie rested her arms across Henrietta’s cage and looked at him with faded gray eyes that matched her wiry gray hair and nearly matched the gray tint to her skin.
Her gray skin looked so much like his mother’s the last time he’d seen her alive, Chad felt pressure in his chest, pressure that forced words out in a rush. “Do you live alone, Roxie?”
“Are you asking me for a date?” She snorted and then gasped for breath, pressing a swollen hand over her sternum.
Biting back a few curses, Chad started the engine. It gave a mighty cough that sounded like a shotgun blast, one that shot down the cold-hearted bachelor columnist who wanted to leave Roxie to her fate. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“I’m divorced.” She frowned. “My daughter lives in Cloverdale where the farmers market is.”
“Can you call her?”
Roxie’s eyes narrowed and her pale lips pinched. “If you’re thinking of kidnapping me.” Gasp and wheeze. “You may as well take my chickens. My family has nothing of value to ransom me with.”
Leave it, the reporter in him said.
He couldn’t. Each belabored breath Roxie took seemed as if it would be her last. “I think you need to see a doctor. Shortness of breath, swollen extremities.” He handed her his cell phone, trying to appear confident and commanding, because that was when his elderly parents had been least likely to challenge his decisions. “I’m going to take you to the emergency room. Call your daughter and have her meet us there.”
Roxie gripped his phone. “Is this a joke?”
“No, ma’am.” He turned the truck around, being careful of the chickens in the back. “I wish it was. You share some of the symptoms my mom had.” He spared her a glance. “Before she died.”
“I have indigestion, that’s all.” Roxie moved sausage-like fingers to cover her mouth.
She knew nothing of the warning signs of heart disease. “Maybe. The doctor will know for sure.”
“Has anyone ever told you...you’re the strangest man?”
“I’ve been called worse.” Tracy came to mind—her stubborn chin and disagree-with-you gaze.
“But...I can’t go to the hospital. My chickens...” And there it was. The denial of the need for a doctor. She was just like his parents. She’d probably put off seeing a doctor until her heart felt like it was stopping.
Well, he wasn’t letting another person die on his watch. He’d risk being called wrong and foolish and a meddler. Worst case? He’d pay for her emergency room visit. “I’ll drop off your chickens,” Chad said through gritted teeth. “Call your daughter.”
Surprisingly, Roxie did as instructed. And then she called Agnes to spread the word about the nice young reporter.
Chad may not like small towns much, but he knew how they worked. It wouldn’t take long for this to get around.
Leona wouldn’t bat an eye. Eunice would reassess her opinion of him once more. And Tracy?
Tracy wouldn’t believe it.
That was the only thing that lifted Chad’s spirits through the next few hours.
* * *
TRACY SLIPPED IN the back door to the bakery’s kitchen.
Maybe slunk was a better way to describe her entrance. That’s what deadbeats did, right? They slunk around, avoided notice and didn’t live up to their potential.
Tracy’s potential had been totaled along with Emma’s car in that accident.
She wanted the production job, but she didn’t want to appear on film.
She wanted to prove to Chad she was brave, but she didn’t want to appear on film.
She wanted to feel good about herself, but...shoot and darn. She wanted to veer right, up the L-shaped staircase to her mid-century modern studio apartment, which was way cooler than saying she had simple kitchen cabinetry from the 1950s, pink stucco walls and a pink toilet and tub, accented with pink subway tile. But there was Eunice and her purple curls in the alcove to her left, rocking Gregory between the crib and the shelves with baby toys, books and diaper supplies. And there was Jessica in the large kitchen with its four wall ovens, butcher block counters and a huge island in the middle. The paneling was dark, but windows above the staircase flooded the room with light, leaving Tracy no shadow to slink into.
Eunice and Jess looked at her expectantly.
Tracy paused near the stairs, feeling clammy from her confrontation with Chad and cowardice.
I’d rather be a coward than have no dignity.
Except Tracy suspected her fears made her dishonorable. And she’d never been a dishonorable deadbeat in her life.
“Hi.” Tracy shrugged out of her jacket, acknowledging a quick escape was impossible. She flung the jacket over the dark wood banister.
“You look like someone lost your letter to Santa,” Eunice whispered without missing a rock in her rhythm.
“Twice.” Jess nodded, brushing her hand across her forehead. She went back to transferring mini chocolate Bundt cakes for El Rosal to cooling racks. The Mexican restaurant had a standard dessert order to be delivered every other day and Jess changed up what she baked each time.
The baby turned sleepy eyes Jessica’s way. He was adorable, especially when he was sleeping.
Don’t grow up, kid. Being an adult is more complicated than making sure you’ve got a clean diaper at the ready.
“I...” Tracy struggled with how much to tell them. But heck, why not give up the details and embrace her impending cold feet? “I have a job interview.”
Jess set the Bundt pan aside. “I should be looking like I lost something. You’re going to leave me and boy, will I be in trouble.”
Stack guilt onto the demoralizing decisions weighing Tracy down. Jess needed her. “Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.” Tracy explained about the video.
“Don’t back out. You’ll do fine,” Jess said kindly, because she could see a silver lining in the darkest of rainclouds. “It’s the right job for you. I can feel it.”
Tracy couldn’t feel anything but failure, like a gaping chasm at her frozen feet. If she moved toward this job, she’d almost certainly go down, down, down. And splat.
“My father used to make family movies back in the fifties.” Eunice made it sound as if her father was a well-renowned director. “Would you like to see some? I bet you could learn something.”
If Eunice’s father had made artistic films back in the 1950s when Tracy couldn’t bring herself to make a home video, she might have to give up looking for a new career permanently. Better not risk it. “Thanks, but no thanks.” Tracy eyed the cooling oatmeal raisin cookies on the center island. Sugar always made her feel better, but sugar solved nothing. “I don’t see the point...in me making the video. They want someone who can talk.”
Eunice tsked. “You talk just fine.”
“Not as much as before.”
“You have no problem communicating with me or our customers.” Jess wiped her hands on a white tea towel with apples embroidered on it, unaware that her words and Eunice’s made Tracy feel better. “Nobody’s perfect. My teeth are prone to cavities. Eunice needs reading glasses.”
Eunice bristled. “I do not need reading glasses to read.”
“Look at the time.” Jess smiled mischievously at Tracy. “Can you drizzle icing on these Bundts while I make Duffy lunch? He’ll be here soon.” Duffy being Jessica’s husband and the winery’s field manager.
“I glob,” Tracy warned, passing the cookies on her way to the sink.
“Squeeze slow, move fast.” Jess wasn’t taking no for an answer. She removed a tray of sourdough rolls from the oven and set them on the counter. The rolls were destined for Giordanos Café across the street for their lunch crowd.
“Duffy likes my peanut butter and jelly,” Tracy said as she washed her hands.
“Not as much as he likes cream of broccoli soup in a bread bowl.” Jess opened a plastic bag full of pumpernickel rounds. And then she stopped, fixing Tracy with a serious look. “You have to try. Promise me you’ll try and make a video. Your brother showed me some of the commercials you worked on in the past. You were good, really good. You can still be good, just in a different way. It’s like...me trying a new recipe.”
“Like Horseradish-Doodles,” Eunice whispered. “Something new, but still by you.”
With her back to Eunice, Jess exchanged a private smile with Tracy. “Yes, it’s just like that.”
Under the influence of their positive words, Tracy felt some of the weight fall from her shoulders. “All right, all right. I’ll do it.” Tracy picked up the icing bag and assumed the ready position, hand over the first mini Bundt. And then she hesitated, picturing globs instead of smooth thin lines of frosting.
“Don’t over-think,” Eunice said.
Easy for Eunice to say. She was better with the baby than with Bundt cakes.
Jess glanced up from carving a bowl in the pumpernickel loaf. She made a swift back and forth gesture with one hand. “Squeeze slow, move fast.”
Tracy did as instructed, completing the task with a minimum of globs. “I can make the deliveries.” The Bundt cakes and rolls.
“Okay.” Jess gave Tracy a stare she probably thought was stern, but Jess wasn’t the stern stare sort. “But then you work on your video. No excuses.”
“No excuses,” Tracy agreed, trying not to think about all the ways she could humiliate herself during this interview process, on screen and off.
* * *
“WHAT DO YOU think of Chad?” Agnes asked during their car ride back from Mildred’s doctor appointment and a pleasant lunch in Cloverdale. “I’m impressed that he took Roxie to the hospital.”
“Me, too.” Mildred turned her face to catch the dappled sunlight through the passenger window. It was a little thing, but it made her feel alive to have the sun on her skin.
“Most men wouldn’t have noticed Roxie was ill,” Rose said from the back seat. Her hiking boots scuffed against the plastic floor mats, as if she was tap dancing while sitting, which she probably was.
“We didn’t notice she was ill,” Mildred pointed out, still smarting over the doctor telling her she needed to get out and walk more. Walk more? She was nearly blind and in a walker. For her, exercise was an accident in the making.
“We haven’t seen Roxie in a week or two,” Agnes allowed. “It makes me wonder who else we haven’t seen recently.”
Such were the concerns in a town with so many old people. But if they, the town council, didn’t worry, who would?
“Frankly, I wouldn’t have noticed anything.” Much as it pained Mildred to admit. “I’m no good at spotting physical deterioration.” Or sidewalk hazards. Darn doctor.
“I think Chad should stay.” Rose’s feet kicked the back of Mildred’s seat. “Maybe he and Tracy will hit it off.”
“She doesn’t seem to like him much.” Agnes sounded distracted.
Mildred was distracted, too. By thoughts of romance and Phil. If only he wouldn’t waste his time on Leona. If only she was brave enough to do something about her attraction. “What do you think of Phil?”
“I don’t think of Phil at all.” Rose was painfully honest, even when her friends didn’t want her to be.
“In what context have you been thinking about Phil?” Agnes should have been a private investigator. She always knew just what thread to unravel.
“It was a general question.” Mildred’s cheeks felt hot. She shouldn’t have said anything. She lifted the binoculars she kept in Agnes’ car and looked at the road ahead. Mildred was so sight-challenged, she couldn’t tell how far they were from home. This stretch of road looked the same for miles. Eucalyptus trees lined the two-lane highway flanked by vineyards. The asphalt hummed steadily beneath the tires. She put the binoculars down. “Where are we?”
“A mile from the turn-off into town.” Rose tapped the back of Mildred’s seat. “I’m with Agnes. Why are you thinking about Phil?”
“He’s a very nice man,” Agnes said kindly. Agnes was no dummy. She probably knew now that Mildred had feelings for Phil.
“He’s not always nice.” Mildred wrapped the binocular strap around her hand. “But I think that might be because he’s still brokenhearted over Leona.” Which made Mildred as brokenhearted as a school girl over her first unrequited crush. What was wrong with her?
“Regardless.” Rose sniffed dramatically, because she did so love to over-dramatize. “Men don’t know how to meddle properly. Phil certainly doesn’t.”
“Are you sure you should be thinking about Phil?” Agnes asked, slowing to make the turn. “You just admitted he’s still in love with Leona.”
“There is that.” Mildred sighed. “I probably need a change.”
“I thought you already went through the change.” Rose might remember every verse from West Side Story, but sometimes she was slow on the uptake.
“I’m done with menopause, Rose. I’m talking about being in a rut. I’m... I don’t know. Bored?”
“Well, you’ve got no husband and you can’t read a book or watch television.” Rose called it like she saw it—with that painful clarity. “But you do have us.”
Mildred was glad she was in the front seat and could hide her pain at being alone by looking out the window. Not that she could see much of anything.
“I can’t remember the last time your daughter came to visit. And you don’t even have a dog.” Rose was on a roll, flattening Mildred further in her rut.
“I am forsaken,” Mildred murmured. Her daughter was too busy living a full life and who was Mildred to complain about that? She’d left home at eighteen and hadn’t looked back. Ever.
Agnes turned left toward Harmony Valley. As usual, she hit the pothole with the edge of her right front tire. “Let’s not get maudlin.”
At their ages, no one wanted to be maudlin. But at their ages, sometimes you couldn’t help it.
“I was thinking I’d like to start dating.” Mildred might just as well admit it.
“Don’t tell me you want to date Phil?” Rose sounded horrified.
“He’s a good-looking man,” Mildred said stubbornly. Or at least he had been twenty years ago when she could see him.
Agnes patted Mildred’s shoulder. “But Phil’s emotionally unavailable.”
“Leona has the house. He has no one.” Mildred squared her shoulders. These were her friends. They were supposed to accept her fragile feelings and insecurities, not bash them. “Maybe if he had someone, he’d get over Leona once and for all.”
“You’re breaking up the band.” Rose sighed heavily. “We’re a threesome.”
“I just want to feel alive again.” Before she fell while following the doctor’s orders, broke a hip, and died. That was how Kiley Anderson kicked the bucket. Six months from fall to death. “Is that so bad?”
“No,” Agnes said, slowing some more as they passed the stark white building that was Snarky Sam’s.
“Well, if we’re being honest here...” There was a breathy quality to Rose’s voice, as if the forthcoming admission was as much a cherished secret as Mildred’s fascination with Phil. “I’ve often wondered what it would be like to kiss Rutgar.” The blond, bearded, large-as-a-mountain mountain man who lived atop Parish Hill.
“You probably couldn’t find his lips beneath all that beard,” Agnes pointed out.
They all laughed like the band of silly schoolgirls they’d once been.