A Man Of Influence. Melinda Curtis
but didn’t warm him.
She’d seen his columns. People usually responded in one of two ways to his travel reviews in the Lampoon—love ’em or hate ’em. Put Tracy in the hate column.
Chad’s instinct was to laugh Tracy off, or to tell her to mind her own business, but something about her scar, the way she spoke and perhaps even the way she defended the elderly made him take a different approach. “I don’t attack anyone personally. I write things the way I see them using the irony of truth.”
“They won’t understand.” There was an entreaty in her voice, if not in her eyes, which still promised retribution if he hurt the people in town.
Chad didn’t care if the locals understood or not. Having been raised by parents the age of his peers’ grandparents, he was tired of making concessions for the elderly. This was his time. He’d live life and write columns his way and enjoy doing it. And yet, he didn’t snap at Tracy. “You don’t sugarcoat anything, do you?”
“I can’t.” She opened her door with jerky movements. “Not anymore.” She popped the trunk for him, peering inside at his laptop bag, his travel bag and the box from the office, flaps folded and sealed.
Taking his suitcase and his laptop bag, Chad followed Tracy up the grand walk. Huge trees, lush shrubbery and not a weed in sight. The windows gleamed and reflected the late morning sun.
The front door was open, but the proprietor seemed as closed off as the pilot’s lounge at an airport. Salt and pepper beehive hair. A blue dress that hung awkwardly off her bony frame. And an air about her that said, “Thou shalt not hug. Ever.”
Chad couldn’t blame the others at the bakery for not wanting to come here. The place and the proprietor were intimidating. Why on earth was this woman running a bed & breakfast?
The proprietress opened the door wider to let him in. The hinges didn’t creak, didn’t groan, didn’t even whisper. It just seemed as if they should have. “Welcome to Harmony Valley. I’m Leona Lambridge.”
Queen of all she surveyed.
She surveyed Chad and, with a turn of her nose, found him wanting. “And welcome to the Lambridge Bed & Breakfast. I’ll show you to your room.” She held a stop-sign hand toward Tracy. “You may wait outside.”
Chad wondered if Tracy’s request to go easy on folks in town extended to Queen Leona.
He doubted it.
“I’ll walk back.” Tracy handed Chad his car keys and then shoved her hands in her tan jacket pockets and headed to the street. The town’s young protector may look waifish on the outside, but Chad suspected she had a core of steel. That scar...
“Mr. Healy.” A royal summons.
Chad turned, and crossed the threshold. The bed & breakfast had been decorated in period style. Antiques. Gilded mirrors. Ceiling medallions. It was spectacular. It smelled cleaner than a hospital room.
“I’m trying a new check-in procedure.” For a moment, the ice queen’s demeanor cracked. “I must find you tolerable and you must agree to pay me with cash or check at the end of your stay.” She gave him a nightly rate he deemed acceptable.
“I’ve got cash.”
“You’ll do.” Her expression turned icily regal once more. She led him to the grand staircase, her back as rigid as a British royal guard.
The floors creaked, but everything was clean. The stairs groaned, but the wood was so shiny Chad could almost see himself in the reflection. When they reached the second-floor landing, the house rattled as softly as a whisper and settled with a sigh, as if it’d been empty too long. It was the most welcome Chad had felt since arriving.
Leona made a noise that seemed disapproving and opened the first door. “This is your bathroom.”
The horror. Chad had to share a bathroom with other guests. The normal traveler would view this as a mark against the place. Chad looked forward to the stories sharing a bathroom with fellow guests would bring. Of course, the stories would have been better if the bathroom wasn’t first-rate. White on white, from the claw-foot tub to the pedestal sink to the penny floor tile and grout. Not a crack or a chip or a stain anywhere.
Leona walked farther down the hall, opening the second door. “And this is your room.”
Chad set his suitcase in the corner. He could tango in that room, even with a king-size four-poster bed and a simple cherry desk and matching chair. The southern-facing window let in generous amounts of sunlight. “This is nice.”
“Nice?” Leona drew back as if she’d smelled the Poop Monster. “Two presidential candidates have slept in this room.” Said with pride and a bit of prickle, as in, “And you, young man, are no presidential candidate.”
As hotel proprietors went, Leona was among the most unwelcome. But that didn’t mean the experience of staying here wouldn’t be first-rate. There was that decadent hotel in Cancun run by a guy who didn’t like anyone. And that luxury hotel in the Rockies. The manager there had carried a shotgun everywhere, safety off. A little bristle in hotel staff added character. Maybe Harmony Valley was worth the trip after all.
“Do I need a password for the internet?” Assuming there was internet.
“The entire town has the interweb. No password required.” Leona may have been shorter than he was, but she still managed to look down her nose at him. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to post something on the Facebook.”
Her comment explained why there was no website for the bed & breakfast. Chad kept his expression carefully neutral. “I suppose.”
“Breakfast is between eight and eight-thirty.” Leona walked toward the door, her steps as crisp and sharp as her words. “Eight and eight-thirty only.”
So rigid. He’d rather eat breakfast at Martin’s Bakery. “I’ll need a key.”
“To your room?” She paused in the open doorway, not even bothering to turn around.
“Yes. And the front door.”
“No.” She closed him in. Her heels echoed in the hallway.
“Not to either?” he called after her, receiving no answer. That’s when he noticed there wasn’t a lock on his door handle.
Chad smiled, got out his tablet and began making notes.
“WHAT ARE YOU doing here, Sunshine?” Standing in the barn doorway, Tracy’s dad tugged off his work gloves.
“I need to paint.” Every nerve ending in Tracy’s body crackled with tension. Above her, farm tools hung—shovels, hoes, scythes, pitchforks. She indulged a quick fantasy where she chased handsome, villainous Chad out of town with a pitchfork. But fantasies couldn’t calm the need to do something, to change something, to make her mark.
She dug through some cans from the stack that was butted up against the wood wall, trying to decide what colors to use. Since the accident, Tracy painted when she was frustrated. She’d painted the small bedroom she’d grown up in—black walls and ceiling were a backdrop to a colorful, fanciful garden. She’d painted the outside walls of the barn—tomato red with rows of crops along the bottom. Who knew what she’d paint today. Or where.
“Everything okay?” As he came closer, the worry in her father’s voice was palpable. It echoed in the large wooden barn and plucked the guilt chord inside Tracy.
She hated that she made him worry. “I need to paint.” She faced her father, holding her hand out in the same way Leona had to her earlier. Her frustrations rattled unspoken words in her head—helpless, powerless, weak. But she didn’t try to give them voice, because to try to get the words out would just make her feel more incompetent.
If