Picket Fence Promises. Kathryn Springer
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without Him all my life? With all the times over the past few months that I’d clung to Him like a baby opossum, I wondered if He was getting a little tired of it. Annie would probably say no. Well, that was good, because if He was going to continue to tip my life upside down, He had to know that I was going to hang on to Him for dear life, right?
“I told you, I’m on vacation. Where did you find these hair dryers? They look like they belong in Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory.” He poured himself a cup of coffee. “Is this decaf?”
“No, it’s regular,” I said through gritted teeth as he shrugged and drank it anyway.
“I haven’t eaten since five o’clock this morning.”
“Really.”
“I saw a café down the street.”
“Absolutely not.” He couldn’t go to Sally’s. I’d seen what the town did to Elise when she was a contestant for the pageant. Parades. Billboards. What on earth would they do with someone like Alex? They’d probably empty the town bank account and bronze the entire sidewalk where he’d walked.
“I’ll be back.”
Wait, wasn’t that Schwarzenegger’s line? Stick to your own movies, buddy.
I hurried to catch up with him as he headed out the door and almost tripped over the suitcases still on the sidewalk. “You can’t leave these here.”
“They’ll be fine. This looks like a town filled with honest people.”
Honest, yes. Desperate in their need for something that would lift them out of obscurity, absolutely. I couldn’t guarantee that Alex’s possessions wouldn’t end up on eBay by the end of the day. Just to generate some attention.
Like a beagle on the trail of a bunny, Alex lifted his nose and started down the street. Every Tuesday morning, Sally makes homemade cinnamon rolls and sells them for fifty cents apiece. It sounds reasonable, but she also raises the price of coffee seventy-five cents. The whole town smells like a bakery and we respond like Pavlov’s dogs and eagerly pay the difference. Donald Trump could learn a few things from Sally Rapinski.
I pushed the luggage out of the way with my foot as I jogged to keep up with him. Just the sight of that luggage—and not one overnight bag but a whole matched set—added another reason why Alex Scott could not vacation in Prichett.
“There isn’t a motel in town. Where are you planning to stay on this alleged vacation?” I panted. My lungs were reminding me that they weren’t used to this. Exercise always ranks either one or two on my list of New Year’s resolutions every year, sliding dismally to the bottom by mid-February, only to disappear completely by Easter. Too many chocolate bunnies and marshmallow chicks to compete with. Why even try?
He didn’t break stride. “No motel? Really?”
He chuckled and my palms started to sweat again.
I had a sudden epiphany. “There is a bed-and-breakfast. Not four-star or anything like you’re used to, though.” Desperate times called for desperate measures so I squashed a twinge of guilt for mentioning the only place open for guests in Prichett during the off-season.
Everyone in town referred to it as the Lightning Strike Inn. Charity O’Malley owned it and she had to be as old as the Victorian itself. Prichett’s houses were mostly modest one-and two-story structures but the Lightning Strike was on the historical register because it was a true painted lady from eons ago. The first banker had built it for his new bride, when everyone thought that Prichett would someday be the capital of Wisconsin. Delusion rears its ugly head!
Charity’s husband had passed away before I moved to town but from what I’ve been told, instead of selling the house and buying a condo in Florida, she had the upstairs remodeled with two guest rooms and a bathroom, hammered a sign next to the mailbox by the road and started advertising it as a bed-and-breakfast in the Prichett Press. The Weeping Willow Inn was what she’d named it, although there was no weeping willow in sight. There was a twisted-looking crab apple by the front steps.
The bed-and-breakfast may have been a good idea except for two things. The first thing was a rumor that Charity had adopted a noisy bird that allowed the guests to get as much sleep as Ebenezer Scrooge on Christmas Eve. The second thing was that the house kept getting struck by lightning. So far, it had happened three years in a row. The farmers that lined the counter at Sally’s Café tried to guess which storm was going to produce the next strike that would singe Charity’s steepled roof.
“Bed-and-breakfast?” Alex’s hand reached toward the door to Sally’s. “Sounds good to me.”
I summoned the adrenaline that I knew was lounging around somewhere inside me and pushed in front of him. “Are you sure you want to do this? It isn’t a vacation if you have hundreds of people clamoring for your autograph or picture, is it? I have half a tuna sandwich in my shop. I’ll share.”
“Hundreds of people? In a café the size of my living room?” Alex’s eyebrow lifted. “Right. And you should have offered the tuna fish ten minutes ago. I would have taken you up on it.”
We took our first step together and got wedged in the doorway. I rotated one hip and let him through, sure that my face was as red as my jacket.
Sally was standing behind the counter with a pot of coffee in hand. Lined up in front of her like canned goods in a pantry were the retired farmers that made the café their second home. She didn’t even glance our way.
Neither did the farmers.
Neither did the other people sitting in the café, absorbed in their newspapers and cinnamon rolls.
“I hope I have enough ink in my pen,” Alex whispered.
There was something wrong with this picture. Sally should already have Alex’s picture on the Prichett’s Pride and Joy Wall by the coffeepot, ready and waiting for his autograph. Mayor Candy should be standing nearby, ready to greet us with a bag of sunflower seeds tucked under her arm. Maybe they were planning an ambush. As we were sitting down, someone was probably organizing a parade and an ice cream social….
“What can I getcha, Bernice?”
Sally was like me, a control freak who not only owned her own business but made sure she was there from the time it opened until the last customer left in the evening. She grudgingly employed waitresses only because arthritis was slowing her down and she couldn’t move as fast as she used to. There was a time when she’d operated the café completely on her own, just as I did the salon.
“I’ll have a BLT and a chocolate shake.”
“Sounds great. Make mine on wheat, please.” Alex smiled and Sally finally looked at him. Like he was a bug who’d turned up in the oatmeal.
“Wheat.” She repeated the word.
“Or whole grain.”
Alex, Alex, Alex. Why don’t you just ask for a veggie burger and a smoothie made with organic bananas and tofu?
He had no way of knowing that Sally still put a pat of real butter on every hamburger that landed on the griddle in the kitchen. This is the dairy state, after all. Judging from the expression on Sally’s face, I knew he was going to get a BLT on white. And he was going to like it.
What was going on? My town wasn’t acting like my town. Sally’s life centered around the café but I know she went to an occasional movie. She had to recognize Alex. She pivoted sharply and did her own interpretation of stomping back to the kitchen. And I was officially in an alternate reality.
“Friendly little town,” Alex murmured.
I saw the sparkle in his eyes but refused to get caught up in a humor-fest with him. That’s exactly what had launched our relationship the first time and now I could recognize the signs. Honestly, Alex Scott should have a Surgeon General’s warning tattooed on his arm.
This man may be dangerous. Any contact with him could