Boo

  And then he stopped. He stood up straight. He was no coward. He had not become mayor of Skary by bowing to every bully that came along. In fact, he did have some control over this situation. All he had to do was get Boo back to his old self. Writing those novels again. Knock some sense into the man. Get that pesky editor of his off this tangent. Yes. Easy.

  And, as Missy had suggested, if Wolfe knew how difficult the Christian faith was, perhaps … yes, just perhaps Boo would go back to being who he was supposed to be in the first place. And then things would be quiet again.

  Quiet—oh how he liked quiet. His fingers moved to beneath the toaster, where many crumbs were to be found.

  But how? How would he convince Wolfe Boone of the difficulties of the faith without giving himself away and at the same time sounding like a general twit?

  It would have to be in casual conversation, sound genuine, something you’d talk about on Thanksgiving Day. Maybe they could talk about the Bible. Yes! Perfect! He would simply mention the passages that could make a grown man cry. What could a babe in the faith like Boo know about context?

  Brushing off his hands, the mayor ran to his study, trying to find his Bible. But he couldn’t. It had been years since he’d used it. Rubbing his temples, he tried to think of what to do. If he thought hard enough, perhaps he could remember enough to make him look good. He found a stack of three-by-five cards. As fast as he could, he began writing down everything he could remember. Who knew if he was getting them exactly right? It would be close enough.

  “So? What do you think?”

  Goose and Bunny thumped their tails against the hard wood, their eyes bright with doggy wisdom.

  “Too soon? I’ll look like a moron if I ask Ainsley to marry me today?”

  “Woof!” Bunny said.

  Wolfe stared at the ring in his hand. “But why wait? I love her.”

  “Woof!” Goose replied.

  “You two are a lot of help.” Wolfe sighed and put the ring back in the box. It was nearly noon. He didn’t want to arrive too early but didn’t want to be late either. He stood up from the bed, examining himself in the full-length mirror. He looked all right, he supposed. He turned back to his dogs.

  “Okay, kids. You be good. I promise to bring some turkey back for you.” Then, without further hesitation, he took the ring out of the box and stuffed it in the front pocket of his pants. “If it’s supposed to be, it will happen,” he breathed. It was time to go. But not without a prayer first.

  CHAPTER 24

  GUESTS WERE ARRIVING every two to three minutes, and Ainsley couldn’t have been more pleased. She noticed the way they stopped and looked at the Thanksgiving wreath on the door and the way they raised their noses as they entered the house, each commenting on their favorite smell. The fire crackled in the corner of the living room where most of the guests were gathering, including Wolfe, whom Ainsley found remarkably handsome.

  His tall figure towered above the rest, and every once in a while he’d look away from the conversation and smile at her. She melted every time. She’d decided early in the morning to try not to interfere with the day at hand. So much of her wanted to control every moment, to make sure her father behaved himself around Wolfe, to make sure the guests completely enjoyed themselves, to make sure Wolfe felt secure. But she knew she couldn’t do all those things and would just have to enjoy the day and all that it offered … which was so much.

  The doorbell rang, and Ainsley answered it. Standing there was Missy Peeple, her arm wrapped around a middle-aged man with dark hair and a dark coat to match. Miss Peeple smiled graciously. Her friend—a man she recognized as being at the church meeting—looked very uneasy.

  “Miss Peeple, welcome,” Ainsley said, stepping aside to usher them in. “You brought a guest! How lovely.” She offered her hand. “I’m Ainsley Parker.”

  The man said, “Alfred Tennison.”

  “I hope it won’t be a bother. This was a last-minute decision,” Miss Peeple said.

  “It’s fine,” Ainsley said. “We’ve got more food than we’ll know what to do with.” She mentally juggled the seating arrangements and hoped no one would mind scooting down on one side of the table. “Everyone’s in the living room. We have plenty of hors d’oeuvres and drinks. May I take your coats?”

  Ainsley couldn’t help but notice how uncomfortable the poor fellow was. Maybe it was because Missy Peeple was clutching his arm as if she thought it might fall off. She took their coats, hung them in the closet, and watched the odd pair join the crowd.

  “Alfred?” The question came from Wolfe. Ainsley caught his surprised expression and stepped into the room to join him.

  “Hi, Wolfe,” Alfred extended his hand. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  The chattering crowd hushed to eavesdrop.

  “He’s with me,” Miss Peeple said. “We met when he was in town last, and—well, let’s just say we hit it off.” She looked at Mr. Tennison with adoring eyes. “I can see why you like him so much, Mr. Boone.”

  Wolfe’s eyes went wide. “You two are dating?”

  Missy Peeple was about to say something when Mr. Tennison said, “Well, march us up to the altar already, would you? We’re getting acquainted, let’s just say that.”

  Wolfe looked at Ainsley, who could only shrug with bewilderment. Alfred offered a nervous laugh, which seemed enough to break the tension. Ainsley steered the two over to the drink table. After she got them situated, she found Wolfe, who had abandoned the group for a quiet corner of the kitchen.

  “Alfred’s my overly ambitious editor,” Wolfe explained. “I can’t believe he’s here. I knew he was in town. Did you know he was coming? I thought he was just lingering, trying to get me to talk to him.”

  Ainsley shook her head. “He seems nice enough.”

  Wolfe bit his lip. “I guess so. I can’t believe he and Miss Peeple are an item, or whatever you want to call it. It just seems so weird.”

  “Well, something must be in the water, because the last two people I would’ve hooked up would be Garth Twyne and Melb Cornforth.” The doorbell rang. “Speaking of, maybe that’s them. Excuse me.”

  Ainsley went to the door and opened it. There they stood, Garth’s arms wrapped around Melb’s neck, Melb smiling as though she’d just won a million dollars. “Hi there, you two.”

  “Happy Thanksgiving,” they both said.

  “Come on in. Can I take your coats?”

  Garth slipped his off, but Melb said, “No. Um, no. I’ll keep mine.” She wrapped her arms around herself as though Ainsley might take it anyway.

  “Are you sure? It’s plenty warm in here. I’ve got the fire going.”

  “I’m very cold natured. I wear sweaters in the summer. I sleep with four blankets. I have more wool socks than a sheep. No … um, thanks.”

  “Well, of course I want you to be comfortable. The crowd’s in the living room.”

  She watched the two hug and kiss their way down the hallway and into the living area. She hoped she wasn’t going to have to watch that all afternoon. She went back to find Wolfe, but he was gone. And, she noticed, so was Mr. Tennison.

  “She’s a hundred years old, Alfred!” Wolfe said as they stood in Sheriff Parker’s den. Alfred was swishing the ice in his drink, but Wolfe could only stand there and demand more of an explanation.

  “Look, when have you been concerned about my love life?”

  “I don’t care about your love life. I care about your motives. It’s a little hard for me to believe you came into town, met Missy Peeple, fell in love, and are now spending Thanksgiving with her. I just can’t believe it … and you’re talking to a fiction writer here.”

  Alfred smiled a little, still engaging his drink rather than Wolfe, but then he said, “You haven’t been returning my phone calls.”

  “So that’s what this is about!”

  “No,” Alfred said, finally making eye contact. “But I want to know why.”

>   Wolfe leaned against the wall. “Because I know you, and I know why you’re calling, and you can’t take no for an answer. I’ve already told you that I’m not interested in writing any more horror novels.”

  “You said you were thinking about not writing any more. Your decision is final then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I should tell you, and I almost decided not to, but …” Alfred’s voice drowned in his drink.

  “What?”

  Alfred shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “Al, I’m running out of patience.”

  “You’ve never cared about reviews anyway. As long as I’ve known you, you’ve never read a single review of any of your books.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Black Cats.”

  “What about it?”

  “The reviews are … less than flattering.”

  “What’s new? Ever since I hit the million dollar mark, the reviewers have always been rough on me.”

  “This time it’s … bad.”

  “How bad?”

  “They’re saying you’ve lost your mind … in a literary sort of way.”

  “Lost my mind?”

  “Things like … I’m sorry, this is just hard to say … that you’re a joke of a writer. That Black Cats is one of the worst books of the decade. That you couldn’t scare a reader in a dark room with a knife … that was Marge Pendleton from the Times.”

  “Marge never liked me.”

  “I’m sorry, Wolfe. It pains me to tell you these things. The list goes on. Geoffrey Myans from Newsweek called you a—”

  “Enough.” Wolfe held up his hands. “I don’t need to hear any more. I just don’t care.”

  Laughter erupted from the living room. Then Wolfe said, “This is so strange. It took me a year to write Black Cats, and as you know that’s six months longer than it usually takes me to write a book. The characters were well developed. The plot was unique. And to say the book isn’t scary is just flat-out absurd. Maybe this culture is getting too calloused against such things.”

  “Well, we both know the bump-in-the-night tale can’t even scare a two-year-old anymore. But listen, I’m not buying into the idea that you’re a has-been.”

  “A has-been?”

  “Pat Parker, P.W. Listen, everyone knows you’ve always been a little old-fashioned, and that’s what made you so endearing. You gave off this persona that you’re as creepy as unidentifiable food in the back corner of the refrigerator, yet wholesome as apple pie on the fourth of July.”

  Wolfe glanced up at Alfred. “Where’d you come up with that?”

  He shrugged. “I take some of the blame here, Wolfe. Maybe I should’ve seen this coming. I don’t know.” Alfred paused. “Look, you’ve tended, in the past, to be a little too sentimental for your own good.”

  “Sentimental? If you’re referring to fully developed characters with motive and heart—”

  “You write horror novels, Wolfe. No one cares about a developed character. They just want to pee their pants when the monster jumps out of the closet.” Alfred set his drink on the desk. “That’s where I’ve come in, all these years. I’ve helped direct you in your writing. I’ve shown you what the people want.” Wolfe watched Alfred trace a pattern on the floor with the toe of his shoe. “And that’s what I want to do for you again.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, we can’t just leave your career hanging like this, where the last word out of everybody’s mouth is that you’re a loser!”

  “Loser?”

  “Jim Mackey, the Globe.”

  “I’ve never cared what the critics say. Why start now?”

  “Because you’re ending your career as a horror novelist, so you say. Is this really how you want it all to end? With people disrespecting you as a writer? Do you really want to give them a chance to speculate about you and say more terrible things about you?”

  Wolfe realized he’d been holding his breath. He breathed deeply several times before answering. “If they hate the book, they hate the book.” He noticed Alfred was beginning to wring his hands.

  “But that’s what everyone’s going to remember you by! Not the ten brilliant best-selling books you’ve already written, but the eleventh book that was a bomb.”

  “I just can’t believe it’s getting such bad reviews. I really thought this was my best work to date. You said so yourself.”

  “You can redeem yourself, Wolfe. You can show them. Prove to them.”

  “Show them what? Prove what? They’re going to say what they’re going to say.”

  Alfred put a gentle hand on Wolfe’s shoulder. “Show them what a good writer you are. Prove to them you’re not all washed up … Betty Styler, the Post.”

  “In other words, write another book.”

  Alfred grinned. “Your words, not mine. But a brilliant idea, nevertheless.”

  “I told you I was finished writing horror.”

  Alfred’s stress wrinkles seemed to sink deeper into his face. “Then you’re finished as a respected writer. At least in the eyes of the world.”

  “That’s your opinion.”

  “No, that’s what’s already being printed in millions of newspapers across the United States. Is that what you want?”

  Suddenly Wolfe smiled, and an unfamiliar peace swept over his heart. He looked at Alfred. “No, but if that’s what it takes to get what I want, then it’s worth it.”

  “What do you want?!” Alfred squealed.

  “There you are!”

  Wolfe and Alfred turned to see Missy Peeple wobbling across the floor toward them.

  “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  “Oh, hi, um, Miss … uh, Missy.” He glanced up at Wolfe’s curious stare and then smiled down at the old lady next to him. “Sorry to be hiding from you. We were just talking.”

  “Am I interrupting?”

  “Not at all,” Wolfe said, glancing at Alfred. “I was just needing to go find Ainsley. I’ll leave you two alone.”

  Wolfe walked out of the room, tempted to glance back at the two purported lovers. But the idea that he might see confirmation of a real relationship kept his eyes straight ahead.

  “What are you doing?” Alfred said, pushing himself away from Miss Peeple. “I had him right where I wanted him.”

  Miss Peeple shook her head and adjusted her blouse. “Hardly. I’ve been around the corner listening for ten minutes, and I don’t believe I’d agree with that assessment.”

  “Is that so?”

  “First of all, the reviewers are calling this the best book he’s ever written. What are you going to do when he finds that out?”

  Alfred picked up his drink off the desk as he leaned against the back of the chair behind him. “Believe me, he won’t. He’s never read a review in his life, and I’m always the one that has to call him to tell him he’s number one on the bestseller list. He’s clueless about such things.”

  “Either way, I don’t believe he’s too convinced he should write another book. Are you?”

  Alfred scowled. “What is it that he wants, anyway? He’s willing to throw away his career for something. What is it?”

  Miss Peeple took him by the shoulders and steered him to the doorway. “See that pretty little blond serving pastry bites over there? That’s what he wants.” Then Miss Peeple turned him a little more to the left. “And see the handsome fellow by the fire smoking his pipe? That’s what I want. So what do you say we make an appearance nearby, and you can sing my praises next to him for a while.”

  “Well, I want Wolfe to write another book. Wasn’t that the whole idea of my coming here in the first place?”

  “The day is young, dear Alfred. But I am not. Now let’s get over to the mayor before I keel over in my pumpkin pie.”

  CHAPTER 25

  MELB CORNFORTH HATED being so deceptive, but Wolfe and Ainsley had hardly separated, and soon it would be time to eat. She hadn’t even had a chance to
talk to Wolfe yet! So it bothered her, though only mildly, that she’d approached Ainsley saying, “Hon, I think I smell something burning.” Ainsley was gone in a heartbeat, and now she found herself—finally!—alone with the man of her dreams. She considered taking her coat off—she was sweating up a storm with it on—but standing next to Wolfe made her suddenly aware of exactly how tight her T-shirt was. The thought of prancing around as though she’d dressed in green Saran Wrap made her decide a little sweat might be more enchanting.

  “Well, hello,” she said to Wolfe, careful to regulate her breathing. She’d felt lightheaded only twice so far, but she managed to keep conversations to a minimum in order to save her oxygen supply.

  “Melb,” Wolfe said, looking up from the small plate of food he had on his lap. “Hi there.”

  “Hi,” she said. “Mind if I join you?”

  “Not at all,” he said, moving his cup off the seat next to him. “You look a little warm. Can I take your coat for you?”

  “No … I’m fine, um … it’s hot flashes. It’s not menopause,” Melb added quickly, feeling herself sinking into the hole of humility, “because I’m nowhere near that stage in my life. I get cold, I get hot. You know that hormonal thing. Next thing you know I might burst into tears. But thanks for asking.” Melb realized she’d said too many words in a row, depleting her brain of oxygen and causing the room to spin for a moment.

  “Oh, okay. So is this your first time to come to Thanksgiving at the Parkers’?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a nice time. I can’t wait to try all the food at dinner.”

  “Uh-huh.” More oxygen. Get more oxygen.

  “You and Garth seem very happy together.”

  “We are.”

  Wolfe nodded but then seemed to have nothing more to say. Melb tried to think quickly of what she might ask in order to keep the conversation going without having to do a lot of talking. You come here often? seemed a little generic, plus it would probably instigate talk of Ainsley, which was the last thing she needed. Then she had it! She’d talk about Black Cats! She’d just finished reading it a sixth time, and just this morning she saw a glowing review of it in the newspaper, not to mention it was already number five on the bestseller list! As she was thinking of how to get the conversation started in five words or less, she heard, “Hi, I’m Mayor Wullisworth. I don’t believe we’ve ever met.”