Past the shop’s glass door, Dr. Patrick Middleton, president of the Notchey Creek Historical Society, walked along the sidewalk, heading in Harley’s direction. He wore a navy argyle sweater and khaki corduroys, his wire-rimmed glasses pushing back waves of salt-and-pepper hair. Presumably, he had been coming from the hospital and was now heading back to his mansion in Briarwood. As he ambled down the street, Harley thought he looked more tired than usual, his handsome face appearing a bit drawn.
She had always admired Patrick Middleton. Folks had been a bit suspicious of the handsome Yankee history professor when he first moved to Notchey Creek more than thirty years ago. But Patrick had taken an immediate and sincere interest in the area, and one could often find him on Main Street, engaging with locals from all walks of life, touched by the beauty of a people so devoted to their land, to their history, to the hard work of their hands. “And what beautiful things those hands can make,” Patrick said each time he bought a hand-woven basket, a piece of earthenware pottery, a homemade quilt, or a hand-crafted rocking chair, all of which he placed in his home or gave as gifts to northern relatives.
It wasn’t long after Patrick Middleton had settled in his old estate in Briarwood and had restored it to its original integrity that the townspeople began to see the qualities Harley had recognized in Patrick when she was a child. And then the town warmed to their newest resident, finally adopting him into their hearts, their community, their shared way of life. And once someone was in, they were family. They were loved forever.
Patrick continued down the sidewalk, passing the shop, a troubled expression on his ordinarily pleasant face. Just then, a hunter-green Range Rover slowed to the curb alongside him, and Arthur Johnson, a prominent contractor in town, lowered the driver’s side window.
“So it’s true then, is it?” Arthur said, a scowl on his face.
“Pardon?”
“The land. You’ve decided not to sell.”
Patrick narrowed his eyes, then dropped his gaze to the sidewalk. “Now’s not the time, Arthur.”
“You didn’t even have the decency to tell me?” Arthur’s hands gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. “But you promised that land to me.”
“And I’ve changed my mind.”
“Just like that, huh? Over thirty years of friendship and this is how you repay me? By turning the most lucrative construction project this town’s seen in years into a history museum!”
“I have to get going, Arthur, I’m sorry.”
Arthur idled the Range Rover alongside Patrick. “Listen, I don’t think you understand. I want that land. Desperately.”
When Patrick did not respond, Arthur punched the gas pedal, and the Range Rover revved forward, the tires shrieking as it reentered traffic on Main Street. The vehicle sped past Patrick, who peered down at the sidewalk as he walked, his mind lost in troubled thought.
Snort.
Snort. Snort.
To Harley’s left, past the hay bales, pumpkins, and buckets of chrysanthemums, lay Matilda, her leash tied to the leg of a patio table, her body splayed across a bed of dirt and shredded flowers.
With a groan, Harley knelt beside the pig and pulled a note from beneath her collar. In hurried handwriting, Aunt Wilma had written: Hair emergency. Pig sick. Take to vet.
But Matilda didn’t appear to be sick, and she had felt well enough to destroy Mayor Montgomery’s prized flowers.
Hoping she might clean up the mess and replace the flowers before anyone noticed, Harley reached for her broom and commanded Matilda to rise. It was then she heard Mayor Ruby Montgomery and the Chamber of Commerce president, Alveda Hamilton, chattering down the sidewalk, heading in her direction.
Mayor Ruby Montgomery, the widow of coal magnate Walter Montgomery always wore wool pantsuits worthy of a Communist dictator. She was a powerful woman to behold, her statuesque figure still athletic and slim from riding her bicycle into town each day. To finish off her look, the town’s best stylist coiffed her brown hair in a pageboy and painted her nails in a perfect French manicure.
Petite and emaciated, Alveda Hamilton’s matching sweater sets and loafers dwarfed her tiny figure. In the face, she was bird-like, with squinty eyes and a long, pointy nose, a pair of glasses resting on her beak.
From what Harley could hear, it sounded like Alveda was in the middle of sharing a piece of gossip. “Well, I heard she’s been seeing him in secret. Having little engagements at his house late at night.”
Ruby, who seemed to be half-listening, continued her patrol down Main Street, surveying the decor.
Alveda continued. “And I don’t doubt it one bit, Ruby. That girl’s always had a thing for him. Even when she was a little girl, she mooned over him. And him old enough to be her daddy.” She shook her head. “She’s always been too beautiful for her own good, Savannah has. I’ve always said that. And Patrick Middleton? Well, I suppose every woman in town has been after him at one time or another. He is handsome, I do have to admit. And he has all of that money he inherited. Of course, Michael Sutcliffe has money too, and he’s twenty-five years younger.”
“Now Michael I do feel sorry for,” Ruby said at last. “Losing his parents so young and now this. Why he ever became engaged to someone like Savannah Swanson I’ll never know.”
The chatter stopped. Both women froze on the sidewalk. Harley looked up to find Alveda and Ruby with their hands over their mouths, staring at Matilda.
“My flowers!” Alveda’s voice jumped to falsetto. “Harley Henrickson! You awful girl. It’s that pig again! It’s that old rotten pig of yours!”
Harley swallowed a lump in her throat and jerked Matilda to her side.
“Do you know how much time it takes the Chamber of Commerce to plant these flowers? How much love and devotion goes into each and every bloom? It’s all volunteer work, you know. Our volunteer work.”
Alveda scowled, the grooves in her face becoming more pronounced as she took in Harley’s appearance and demeanor.
“But you wouldn’t know about that, would you, Miss Lonely Hearts? It’s no wonder you can’t get any dates. With a crazy pig like that and looking like you do all the time. This is not Green Acres. We don’t have pigs congregating on Main Street.” She shook her head. “You’ve always been a strange bird. Always had your own ways. You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to call Jed Turner. Yes, that’s what I’m going to do. He can deal with you. I’m sick of trying. Besides, he needs to know what goes on down here when he’s not around. I—”
Just when Harley thought all was lost, Alveda clamped her mouth shut and stared over her shoulder at someone approaching from behind.