Hometown Healing. Jennifer Slattery
house and sauntered up the walk.
Inside, he hung his Stetson on a peg near the door. The aroma of baked goods—peach pie and chocolate chip cookies, if he were to guess—wafted toward him, causing his stomach to growl. His grandmother’s high-pitched voice emanated from the kitchen. She was singing a country song he didn’t recognize.
Smiling, he shucked off his boots and proceeded past the formal sitting room, which was decorated with family pictures, and headed down the hall. In the kitchen, he found her at the sink with her back to him, and her hips and head swaying in opposite directions.
“Hey, Grandma.”
She squealed and whirled around. “Oh, Jed! You scared me, boy.” She wiped her hands on a towel, then deposited it on the counter.
He surveyed the slew of sweets occupying nearly every surface. “What’s with all this? Trinity Faith throwing a charity bake sale I wasn’t aware of?”
She nodded. “To help with the library’s new book campaign.” She grated orange peels over a cream pie. “So, what’d you find out about my grass?”
“You’re overwatering, for one. The backyard was swampy wet, especially by the fence. You might have a mess of take-all patch.”
“Take what?”
He chuckled. “That’s the name of the fungus.”
“Makes no difference what it’s called. Question is, can you get rid of it?”
“I’ll grab some fungicide next time I stop at the hardware store. I’ll give it a good spray when I come back to mow on Saturday.”
“I hate to put you out. I know you’re busy with the theater and all.”
“Nah, it’s fine. I could use the exercise.”
“How do things look for this weekend?”
His heart ached to see the worry in her eyes. She loved that dinner theater and all of the memories it represented. Seemed weird that they’d been talking about changing the name, but Murder, Mystery and Mayhem wouldn’t fit their new branding. They were taking a risk, but they needed to do something.
Jed’s grandfather had purchased the business some twenty years ago, and for a while it’d been thriving. The place had drawn folks all the way from Austin. But when Grandpa had gotten sick, the business had taken a hit. After he had died a few years ago, she’d fought hard to keep it, and had even refinanced her home to pay off the mounting debts. It hadn’t been enough.
That was when Jed had stepped in and purchased half of the business, using the equity he’d built into his place.
“We’ve got quite a few empty seats left.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “But I’ve placed a couple ads. I’m sure things will pick up soon.”
“What do you think the problem is?”
“Not sure.” He suspected the place had developed a bad reputation, thanks to a string of cheesy productions put on by the former manager. Bad scripts could drive a dinner theater into the ground. Plus they’d cut corners on the menu, when she had lacked the funds to buy quality ingredients.
“We just need to figure out a way to turn things around,” he said. According to Dad, a smart man would’ve followed his advice and finished his law degree. Joined the firm, like Jed had been groomed to do. But Grandma had needed him. Still did.
“You think your Western idea will help?”
“Hope so.” It’d either save the place or shut it down for good. “You saw the estimates I forwarded you?”
“I did. That’s some chunk of change.”
The last thing he wanted to do was sink more money into that place, but what choice did they have?
She opened the oven, and the scent of chocolate wafted toward him.
“No hard feelings intended—” he sat at the breakfast bar “—but I don’t feel our production’s unique enough to draw folks in.” The truth was that their show was cliché. A fancy inn with a butler, maid, waitstaff and guests.
“I get that.”
“By turning our place into something rustic, uniquely Texas, we can separate ourselves from the pack. And hit the tourist market.” If he could tap into some of the area’s Texas pride, the business might just take off. Assuming he could transform the place on their tight budget.
She gave a brisk nod, keeping her mouth firm. “It’s time we make a change, because we for sure know what we’re doing now isn’t working.”
“We’ll have to shut the theater down during the remodel.”
“When does Drake think he can start?”
“Hopefully within the next few days.”
“Good.” She angled her head and drummed her fingers on the counter. “Wild West Murder Mystery. This just might work.”
“You don’t know any scriptwriters, do you?”
“You can’t find one online like we always have?”
“Haven’t found any that fit my idea yet, at least none that are any good.” And they were short on time.
“Hmm...” She tapped a finger against her chin, then smiled. “Matter of fact, bet you Marilyn’s daughter could help us out. I told you she and her little one were coming for a visit, right?”
“Nope.”
The twinkle in her eye said she’d withheld that tidbit intentionally. Why? Was she worried he’d try to avoid her if he knew? Or that he’d chase after her and maybe hurt her more than she already was?
His grandma had said Paige’s divorce had hit her pretty hard.
He grabbed a candy from a dish on the counter. “But I figured that out quick enough when I saw her sitting in her car in her mama’s driveway.”
“She’s here already? Oh, how wonderful.” Grandma scurried to the pantry and brought out flour and sugar. “You remember she’s a writer?”
He nodded. She’d always said she wanted to be a journalist someday. Had even submitted a few things to the school paper. But there was a big difference between news stories and script writing. Not to mention, she’d seemed to cart quite the grudge back into town. He wasn’t so sure she’d lift a finger—or pen—to help him.
Though, she just might help Grandma...
He popped another candy into his mouth. “Doubt she’d be interested. We can’t pay much. Plus we need something pretty quick.”
Grandma pulled what appeared to be her last baking dish out of the cupboard. “Well, at least talk to Paige. It never hurts to ask.”
“I guess.” She was as apt to take the job as a heifer was to eat moldy grain.
“And bring her a nice fresh plate of cookies while you’re at it. To welcome her home. Matter of fact, I’ll come with you. Soon as I’m done baking these snickerdoodles. Those always were her favorite, you know.”
He did. He knew almost everything about her. At least, he had, back in high school. But it’d been fourteen years. She’d probably changed a lot since then.
He had half a notion to find out just how much.
Paige deposited her suitcase on the entryway floor, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting in her mother’s home. The place smelled like eucalyptus and peppermint.
“I’m so glad you’re here.” Mom rose to meet them and instantly took