The Husband Project. Kristine Rolofson
publicity for Willing by attracting reality television to the town. More drama and excitement were coming. The last thing he needed were distractions, especially now that the bachelors were ready for dating and, he’d just learned yesterday in Los Angeles that Sweetheart Productions was primed for making a TV show.
He had to park in the street. It was dark, close to midnight and really, really cold. Bone-chilling and windy. The snow had stopped falling, but what looked like two feet of it lay piled up in front of his house, a huge Victorian that faced the small public park and boasted the only stained-glass windows in town. Built by a prospector who’d left South Dakota a rich man, the house had been intended for a fiancée who’d died of influenza before arriving in Willing for the wedding. Jerry bought it from its fourth owners, a gay couple from Oregon who loved the house but not the winters. Jerry loved everything about the beautifully restored home except that he lived there by himself.
He grabbed his suitcase and his laptop case, trudged across the lawn, up three wide steps and stopped in front of his door. A few minutes later he was inside, his boots kicked off onto a thick mat, his coat hung on one of the hooks placed near the door. He switched on a light, boosted the thermostat and welcomed himself home with two sips of single malt Scotch and a peanut butter sandwich.
Tomorrow he’d have to come up with some way to introduce his renter to the general population, which meant a breakfast at Meg’s. Sam Hove was a bit of a mystery. He’d said he was a writer who required a quiet place to work. He’d listed his occupation as a producer and director of travel films. How the heck could that be remotely suspicious? Jerry was looking forward to meeting the guy and hearing some interesting stories. Come to think of it, Sam Hove might be an attractive bachelor for the show. He could add a little international class that was missing in Willing.
No, bad idea. He’d likely overshadow the local men, and the show was all about Montana men looking for love. Sam Hove wasn’t looking for anything but big fish to catch and weird animals to film.
Mike could do an interview with him. That was easy enough to arrange. The rumors would stop, the holidays would keep everyone occupied, and then Jerry could go back to the really important matter of saving the town.
* * *
SAM DIDN’T HAVE the slightest idea where he was. He thought about opening his eyes, but even that small movement seemed like too much work. He thought he’d simply lie there in the queen-size bed and enjoy the warm blankets weighing him down. He was warm and out of the weather, two very good things.
Sam knew enough not to move. The ache banding his chest was a constant reminder to be careful. His head throbbed and his nose was cold.
Nose cold? Ah. Montana. The old lady’s house with the woodstove.
The wild kids. The barking dog.
The annoyingly beautiful neighbor.
Lasagna.
It was all coming back to him. The food was the only positive memory, though. Little Mrs. Swallow made a lasagna to remember. She’d also built a fire to heat his house, which he realized he should now do something about. He opened his eyes and, looking at the watch he’d worn to bed, saw that it was a few minutes after nine. In the morning.
Twenty minutes later he’d managed to add some logs, coax the fire into a roar and start a pot of coffee. There was, as Lucia Swallow had said, coffee in the freezer. He wrapped a lavender blanket around him and gazed out the kitchen window while he waited for the coffee to be ready. He’d never seen snow like this. He’d grown up in Florida, lived in England for a while, spent most of his time in South America. He knew monsoons, but blizzards? Not so much. He wanted to buy snowshoes and explore, but he’d have to heal first.
He was supposed to stay inside and work. Let his ribs knit. Plan the next project. Sam looked at the snow piled high in the backyard and realized someone had shoveled a path to the woodshed. But it wasn’t his woodshed and it wasn’t his wood.
Somehow the knock on the front door didn’t surprise him. Neither did the man standing on the porch. He was of medium height, tanned and wore a big smile, as if he and Sam were old friends.
“Jerry Thompson?” Sam guessed, opening the door to let him in.
“Yeah. Good morning.” He shook Sam’s hand and grinned. “Welcome to Willing. It’s great to finally meet you in person.”
He stopped on the plastic mat just inside the door after closing it.
Sam took a step back. “Come on in.”
“I won’t stay long.” He glanced down at his snow-packed boots. “Don’t want to track all over the carpet.”
“I just made coffee,” Sam said. “And I haven’t had any yet.”
“I don’t want to intrude.” But he was already bending over to remove his boots, so Sam assumed the guy was staying. “I just wanted to see if you needed anything, had any questions, any problems with the house.”
“I’m going to need firewood, according to the woman next door. I don’t think she wants me to keep using hers.” He opened two cabinets before finding coffee mugs. He’d expected floral tea cups, but he found serviceable white mugs instead.
“Lucia? She won’t mind till you get your own.” Jerry followed him into the kitchen. “I heard you met.”
“Yesterday.” He didn’t elaborate. He poured two cups of coffee and handed one to Jerry. “I hope you like your coffee black. I don’t have any food yet.”
“No problem. You saw the note I left? You can call Hip for wood. He’s also our resident artist and EMT.”
“Theo’s cousin?”
“Yep.”
“I’ll phone him this morning. You want to take your coat off?”
“Well, sure,” Jerry said, turning back to the living room. “I stopped by to see if you wanted to have breakfast. If not this morning, then any morning when you’re up to it. You could meet some of the folks here in town.”
“I’m not really here to—”
“People in Willing always like to welcome someone new,” he said. “Most of the time.”
Sam eyed the old couch and decided not to chance it, but Jerry set his coffee on the glass table, tossed his thick blue parka on the couch and made himself comfortable amid the fringed pillows. Sam eased himself into the recliner and hoped he’d be able to get out of it without screaming in pain.
“How do you like the place?”
An interesting question. “It’s, uh, fine. Did Mrs. Kelly have any family?”
“No, not a soul. I bought the house from the estate. She left everything to the Methodist Church and they sold it to me. Lock, stock and barrel.” He looked around the living room with some satisfaction. “Totally furnished, which is what you requested. I had Shelly—she lives in one of the cabins at the café, you’ll see them when you eat there—clean out the clothes and personal items, but we left the rest to keep it homey. The church took the canned goods for the food bank.” He glanced at his mug. “Except the coffee, I guess. It lasts forever in the freezer. You can hire Shelly to clean and do errands, if you want. She’s reasonable and can use the money.”
Sam liked the sound of that. “Can I hire her to get some food for me?”
“Probably not. She broke her arm a few weeks back and I don’t know if she’s driving. I’ll give you her number. There’s a little market, more of a convenience store— Thompson’s, no relation—on Main Street across from the library. They do real estate, too, if you decide you want to buy something. Anyway, the market doesn’t deliver, but you can walk there. How are you doing? I thought you had a broken arm.”
“Cracked ribs,” Sam said, figuring his injuries would get him out of interacting with people. He wanted to do nothing more than write the damn book and feel