Boo

  A huge bouquet of flowers filled the doorway, and all Missy Peeple could see were two strong hands holding them in front of her. A head peeked around the side to reveal a young, handsome delivery boy. “Are you Miss Missy Peeple?”

  “These are for me?”

  “If you’re Missy Peeple.”

  “I am.”

  “Then they’re for you.”

  “Oh.” Missy took the bouquet, and its vastness almost knocked her over. “How much do I owe you?”

  The boy looked at her curiously. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re deaf, are you? How much do I owe you?”

  “Uh … nothing. They were … uh … sent to you.” He smiled sheepishly. “But you could give me a tip as a gesture of—”

  She shut the door and stared at the flowers in her hands. She’d never been sent flowers in her whole life. What did it mean? She crossed to her small dining room table, where she carefully set the flowers.

  There were at least a dozen roses, all red, and all alive and vibrant. She swallowed back an emotion … what emotion was that? It seemed vaguely familiar but she just couldn’t put her finger on it. She’d been out of the hospital for a few days now and had received a couple of cards and a phone call or two, but nothing like this. No flowers. She gasped at the idea that they might be from the mayor. The mayor had sent her flowers!!

  “You scoundrel,” she mumbled, fingering her way through the bouquet to the card, “after all these years, you wait until I’m practically on my deathbed to come to terms with your feelings for me!”

  Her hands shook as she grasped the card and pulled it out of its leafy surroundings. It took her several moments to get into the tiny, tightly sealed envelope. She pulled out the card, then went to find her reading glasses.

  They were sitting by her chair on the table, on top of Wolfe Boone’s book. She’d only read thirty pages so far, all of it disgustingly dark and gruesome, in hopes of finding something she could use to knock some sense into the boy. She had been on quite a roll when she’d passed out at his house. The timing was so unfortunate. But she sensed her opportunity was slipping away. He’d asked intelligent questions, and his eyes … they had that strange peace in them.

  She placed her reading glasses on her nose, hardly able to contain the anticipation of reading Mayor Wullisworth’s affections.

  Dear Miss Peeple,

  Was sorry to hear about your accident. Hope you are feeling better, because we need to talk. Soon.

  Regards, Alfred Tennison

  Below his name was a phone number, and Missy Peeple had to sit down and process what she’d just read. A wide smile of satisfaction slipped onto her lips, and suddenly she was feeling better. Much better.

  Dustin was just about to discover whether the vampire was going to get the unsuspecting chef when a strange noise in the bookstore interrupted his reading. He looked up to find a group of people huddled before him, all staring at him as if he were the vampire. He scratched his head, realized his boss wouldn’t be back from lunch for another thirty minutes, and decided to ask, “May I help you?”

  It was apparently the wrong question.

  “Is it true?”

  “We heard he was quitting!”

  “Is this his last book?”

  “What happened?”

  “He lost his mind, didn’t he?”

  “He’s gone crazy!”

  The questions and comments came at him like machine-gun fire, and Dustin just stood there and listened. He wasn’t sure what to say or how to say it because he didn’t know what they were talking about, until someone from the back shouted, “Hey kid! Is Boo going to write another book or not?”

  Dustin looked at the crowd, trying to pick out a pair of eyes that didn’t seem threatening or angry. He didn’t find one. He shut his book and said, “I … uh … don’t know.”

  “We heard through the grapevine that he’s hanging up his horror hat and turning to religion. That’s not true, is it?”

  Dustin scratched his head again. Was this what this chaos was about? He hadn’t heard a thing, but then again he wasn’t really up on the religious news of the day. He could tell you what city Anne Rice was signing in next weekend but had no idea what time the church down the street started.

  All he could think to say was, “Well, I’m sure it’s just a publicity stunt. Sometimes they release rumors to get buzz going, especially when a new book comes out.”

  The chill of the crowd seemed to thaw slightly, and Dustin realized he needed to take a breath as well. He smiled at the crowd and said, “Now, who would like a copy of Black Cats before we’re sold out?”

  In the solitude of his private study at the church, which measured six-by-eight feet and barely held a desk (which could only be assembled once all the pieces had been brought into the room), Reverend Peck bowed his head solemnly and prayed to God.

  He couldn’t use words. He was beyond words at this point. But he knew the Good Lord heard his heart, which held great sorrow for his community and its people. Yet Reverend Peck did not know what to do about it. He was completely at the mercy of God. He’d spent several sleepless nights going over all the possible ways that God might intervene in the crisis of this little town’s soul. But the reverend knew that what he needed was a full-blown miracle.

  After forty-five minutes of prayer, he felt only mildly better and still had not a single answer to his dilemma.

  Missy brought Alfred a cup of tea, glancing at the flowers he’d sent as she passed the dining room table. So this was how “business” was done in New York, eh? She’d never wanted to leave Skary before, but things like this might make her give the city a try.

  “What a nice thought, Mr. Tennison, to send me flowers.”

  “How are you feeling?” He took the tea.

  “Do you really care?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so. But I respect your honesty. Now, let’s get to the bottom of why you are here.”

  “I think we both know why.”

  “You need my help.”

  “As far as this book idea of yours goes, it doesn’t seem to be accomplishing a purpose, other than the fact that I’ve got some pretty good scoop on the residents here.”

  “You of all people should know how important information can be. And I doubt you got to be where you are in this business by being an impatient man.” She actually suspected the opposite, but stroking a man’s ego was never a tactic she underestimated.

  “Miss Peeple, you understand how detrimental Mr. Boone’s sudden decision to leave the writing world is. Not only to me but to the publishing house and fans worldwide. And of course your town has quite a stake in all of this.”

  “What is it that you want, Mr. Tennison? I’m old, and quite frankly I don’t take my tomorrows for granted. Let’s just get to the point.”

  “I don’t have to tell you that this conversation never took place.” He paused and then said, “I need you to do whatever it takes to get Wolfe Boone writing his novels again. And soon. It’s of the utmost importance. He won’t even return my phone calls anymore. I am relying on you.”

  Miss Peeple smiled. She was way ahead of him. Before visiting Boo on Sunday, she’d craftily decided that the whole town needed to be informed of what was going on, so she left a few messages scribbled on bathroom walls, dropped a few hints at the local beauty shop, and even appeared at the local bar to get some talk going around a pool table. She wondered if any of the rumors had taken root yet.

  “Well, Mr. Tennison, it’s going to take a lot more than flowers, but you’ve come to the right person.”

  “Oh? And what will it take?”

  Missy Peeple could not help but smile. “Well, sir, love is in the air.”

  CHAPTER 22

  AINSLEY PARKED HER car in front of the market and got out, pausing briefly to smell the early morning air. There was no doubt it was Thanksgiving. Out of every home that had a chimney, misty, swimming streams of smoke floated to the
sky like featherweight ribbons. And the aroma in the air was sweet and warm, as if every oven in town was baking something special.

  Ainsley made sure she had her list and went into the store. She grabbed a basket, not a cart, because she didn’t have a long list: a few things she preferred to buy fresh Thanksgiving Day, and a couple items she’d forgotten on previous trips. She strolled the aisles as if in a department store looking for a gown to wear to a ball. Every spice, every cut of meat, every fresh-picked vegetable—they all interested her.

  After crossing off everything on her list, she decided to pick up one more fresh bouquet of flowers. She was pretty sure there could never be enough flowers around. The more orange, red, and yellow she had around the house, the more festive it was sure to become. A nice fall arrangement sitting on the florist’s counter caught her eye, and with a little maneuvering she managed to lift it and her basket and take it all to the front register.

  Kay McCauley, the granddaughter of John C. McCauley, who had opened the store sixty years ago, was twice divorced, once a Jameson, and more recently a Cowen. Now she was back to McCauley, a very rich McCauley who got the house and his two sports cars. She stood behind the register, busy making a list of her own. Kay was now in her sixties, though she looked more like forty. She had youthful eyes and a pleasant smile that Ainsley was always glad to see. Although the McCauleys had had to hire outside the family over the years, they always made sure a family member worked the important holidays. Thanksgiving was no exception. They opened at 5:00 A.M. and closed at noon.

  “Ainsley,” Ms. McCauley said, setting down her pen, “happy Thanksgiving to you!”

  “Thank you! To you, too.”

  “Picking up some last minute items? I love that bouquet! You know, Renata worked on that for hours yesterday. I’m glad someone bought it.”

  Ainsley studied the piece carefully. “It’s gorgeous. I think it will be the perfect centerpiece for the dinner table.”

  Ms. McCauley began ringing up Ainsley’s groceries. Gobblin’s had never installed a scanner and still priced each item individually. Things like this made Ainsley feel her small town was still special. A new Wal-Mart had gone in twenty minutes away, but Ainsley refused to visit it. She liked the fact that someone knew her name at the store.

  She noticed that Ms. McCauley was studying her. The kind woman finally said, “You have quite a special day planned, don’t you?”

  “Well, yes. Dad and I always do like to have a good group over, as you know. When did you come? Four or five years ago?”

  “Yes, it was splendid. The best turkey I’ve ever had! I don’t know how you do it without drying that bird out. It melted in my mouth! I still think you should start a catering business, Ainsley. You know how much this town loves your cooking.”

  Ainsley grinned. “Maybe someday.”

  Ms. McCauley was now bagging the groceries. “But this is an extra special Thanksgiving, isn’t it?”

  Ainsley cocked her head to the side. “Well, um …”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m being nosy.” She stopped bagging groceries and lowered her voice, though there were only a few other people in the store this early. “I just heard that you and, um, Boo …”

  Ainsley felt her whole face burn, and she had to look away. People knew. That was okay, right? But it was quite something to hear people speak of it. She wasn’t ashamed, just still getting used to the reality of it. “It’s true. Wolfe’s a wonderful human being. We’re having a lot of fun together. And he’s coming over today.”

  “Oh, now that’s quite a big step. Inviting him over to meet the family, eh?” She winked and finished bagging the groceries. “Well, I’m happy for you, Ainsley. I really am.”

  Ainsley grinned. Yes, she was happy too. Happy for herself. She held her head high with that idea.

  “Twenty-three dollars and five cents,” Ms. McCauley said. Ainsley handed her the money, and as soon as the register popped open, so did Ms. McCauley’s mouth: “But is it true he’s not going to be writing those books anymore?”

  It occurred to Ainsley that Ms. McCauley looked more worried than pleasant now. Ainsley scratched her head, unable to decide what to say. Didn’t anyone care that this man’s whole life had changed? Who cared about those stupid books anymore? They were just trash! Didn’t they see that?

  Ms. McCauley leaned forward on the counter. “Then it is true.”

  Ainsley met her eyes. “Why does it matter? He’s changed. He’s devoted his life to God. Doesn’t that mean something?”

  “It’s just … just … astonishing, that’s all,” Ms. McCauley said, avoiding Ainsley’s eyes. “Our little town depends on him, you know. Ainsley, since Boo moved here, my little grocery store makes nearly three thousand dollars the week of Halloween on candy sales alone. That doubles our sales for October nearly every year. I’ve been able to do things I’d never dreamed of. Last year I took my first cruise. And next summer I’d like to go to Europe.”

  Ainsley sighed, sure Ms. McCauley’s new lifestyle was due in part to Mr. Cowen’s decision to ditch her for a twenty-five-year-old, but she kept her mouth quiet and took the sack of groceries. She tried to smile. “Have a nice Thanksgiving, Ms. McCauley.”

  “Thank you. You too.”

  Ainsley carefully put her groceries in her car, and then sat in the driver’s seat while the heater warmed up. The disappointment she was feeling about Ms. McCauley’s remarks faded as she thought more about her day. Who cared what people thought Wolfe should do? He’d made his decision. He’d left that world. And today was Thanksgiving. She had a lot to smile about.

  By the time she arrived home, she was looking forward to getting things under way. It was almost seven and she had a lot to do before the crowd arrived.

  She put her groceries away and checked the turkey cooking slowly in the oven.

  “Smells wonderful, honey,” Sheriff Parker said, squeezing Ainsley by the shoulders from behind. Ainsley turned and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Good morning. You’re up early.”

  Her dad opened the door of the second oven and inhaled deeply. “Pumpkin. My favorite.”

  “Mine too,” Ainsley said. “And it was Mom’s.” She watched her dad smile at the thought, then gently close the oven door.

  “Are you wearing perfume?”

  Ainsley caught her breath as she answered. “As a matter of fact, I am. Smells good, doesn’t it?” Ainsley concentrated her attention on rinsing her mixing spoons. “I think I’ve outdone myself this year. But I think I say that every year. It’s going to be a great day.”

  “What time are our guests scheduled to arrive?” His voice was cheery again.

  “Any time after eleven. We’ll eat at two.”

  Sheriff Parker rubbed his hands together. “Good. I can at least watch some football in peace for a little while.”

  Ainsley laughed as she pulled banana-nut bread batter out of the refrigerator and poured it into her bread pans. “I’m so glad this day is here. The weather seems perfect. Cold enough to start a fire, but no snow.”

  “Forecast says there’s a chance.”

  “Oh, what do they know?” Ainsley pushed the bread into the oven as she thought of snuggling with Wolfe on the couch in front of the fireplace. This was going to be a good day. Maybe this would be the day they would finally kiss. “I wonder what everyone’s doing this morning?”

  Her father sipped his coffee. “Well, probably thinking about how good they’re going to eat today!”

  And with that, Thief appeared at his empty food bowl, a pathetic meow reminding his owner that his feast should begin now.

  “You are going to make me lose my appetite!”

  “Well, stop being so pushy. It wouldn’t be so hard to fall in love with you if you weren’t so horribly unlikable!”

  “I’m trying to help you! I’m trying to make you see the importance of all this. Have you always been such a slow learner?”

  “With that kind of charm
, how could I possibly not melt at your feet?”

  “May I remind you that we’re not really in love?”

  “No reminder needed.”

  Garth groaned as he sat next to Melb on the couch. “I’m not trying to charm you. I’m trying to teach you how to be madly in love. We’re supposed to be over there in three hours, and I can barely get you to look lovingly into my eyes.”

  “There’s a reason for that,” Melb quipped.

  “Look,” Garth said, “if you could just focus on the end result, everything would be fine.”

  “Everything is not fine!” Melb said. “First of all, I don’t see how all this is going to work. If they’re in love, why do they care if we’re in love? And if we’re in love, why would they want to break us up?”

  “It’s simple,” Garth said, reclining against the back of the couch. “Wolfe and Ainsley aren’t in love. They’re in love with the idea of being in love.” Garth reached across Melb and grabbed her book that was sitting on his coffee table. He turned the cover toward Melb. “This is what people think being in love is. A woman draped across the body of a man, looking faint and weak, while the man, with rock-hard muscles and a golden tan, holds her as if she were a feather, looking off into the distance as if there’s something more important than what seems to be dying in his arms.”

  Melb blinked. “So?”

  “So that is not love, Melb. Just once I’d like to see a man and a woman on the cover showing what real love is like.”

  “And you’re experienced in this?”

  “Sure. It’s not hard to figure out. True love is a man and woman hooking up, saying the vows, being fruitful and multiplying, if you know what I mean, and then being pillars in the community.”

  “How utterly romantic.”

  “This is not romantic!” Garth pointed his long finger right in Bridgette’s face. “Have you ever tried to hold another human being up like this? When their arms are dangling, they’re dead weight! There’s nothing romantic about it.”