Small-Town Secrets. Pamela Tracy

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СКАЧАТЬ look before dropping her lipstick-tipped cigarette into the coffee cup as if it were a gold-plated ashtray meant just for her. “It would have to be now, though.”

      “That won’t be necessary,” Yolanda said. Only one trunk of books remained to be unpacked from her Gramma Rosi’s attic, where the remnants of Yolanda’s ancestors were stored, gathered by her family for the last hundred years and maybe even earlier. Yolanda wasn’t sure. The books in the final trunk appeared to be as old as the house and just as precious.

      Used books were the lifeblood of Yolanda’s new business. That the first ones shelved had been from her attic made the venture all the more special. Besides yard sales, friends simply giving her their already read offerings, and buying the surplus from a used bookstore in Phoenix, Yolanda had also snagged more than five hundred books from the town of Gesippi, just an hour to the north. Its library had closed just two weeks ago, and Yolanda had purchased a good deal of their inventory, but she hadn’t had time to go through all her purchases. They were in the carriage house.

      For a moment she thought the woman would argue, so Yolanda continued. “We’re right on schedule for the opening, and I have plenty of volunteers. Come back on Friday.”

      The woman gave the shelves one last perusal. “Did you put any books on reserve?”

      “We’re a used bookstore, not a library.” Yolanda’d been patient long enough. “Who are you?”

      “I’m staying with relatives right now,” the woman said. “Maybe you’ve heard of Chester Ventimiglia.”

      Yolanda didn’t know a Chester, but she did recognize the Ventimiglia name. Richard Ventimiglia and another man named John Moore had been the town’s founding fathers. There were still a few Moores in Scorpion Ridge, but the Ventimiglias had long since left or died out.

      “I do know the name, but...” Yolanda’s words tapered off as somewhere in the old Victorian something clattered to the floor, the sound as effective as a fire alarm. Yolanda stepped from the room, listening. Maybe the old woman wasn’t the only one snooping in the used bookstore before the grand opening. In the silence she moved closer to one of the vents where now she could clearly hear talking—singing?—and relaxed when she recognized Adam’s voice. He’d said he’d be by later, something about replacing the hinge on one of the saloon doors he was hanging for her.

      “This isn’t really yours,” came a throaty whisper.

      When Yolanda turned back, the woman was gone.

      * * *

      FOR SUCH A little thing, Yolanda Sanchez sure made a lot of noise. So much so that Adam Snapp stopped his singing. Last time he’d honored the Beatles with his limited musical talent, she had poked fun of his voice. Poking fun at him was something she’d done since fifth grade, when she’d noted that he’d worn two different colored socks to school by accident. Used to be, he’d tease her back, saying something like, “Across America, socks are standing up and shouting, ‘We don’t have to all be the same.”’ He’d said it loudly and made sure there was an audience. Yolanda hadn’t seemed fazed.

      Today he wanted to quip, “Better to sing off-key than not to sing at all.”

      For the last few months, though, his ability to joke his way through life had taken a severe hit. Which was why when his father got sick and the family business went from profitable to precarious, it had been a simple decision to come home and help. He’d not told anyone the mess he’d made of his once-in-a-lifetime opportunities.

      Straightening the toolbox he’d accidentally stumbled over, Adam listened to Yolanda’s stomping and huffing. Occasionally, she’d call out, “Ma’am?” Something or someone had her riled; he was glad it wasn’t him.

      Picking up a Phillips screwdriver, he held the door level while screwing the pivot hinge into the doorjamb. The blank surface beckoned him but only for a moment. Personally, he didn’t think saloon doors belonged in this late-nineteenth-century Queen Anne. And they were a ridiculous choice to separate a private office from a place of business. She’d get no privacy.

      She, however, thought they were pretty.

      He reminded himself that he’d signed on to help her complete general handyman duties and to follow her directions about decorative shingles and dormers and enclosed breezeways. His job was not to tell her how she could make the two-story Victorian even more authentic and artistically pleasing.

      The house was her canvas, not his.

      She came up with ideas; he obliged to the best of his ability. Like these pressboard saloon doors that she wanted him to paint brilliant orange.

      The old Adam Snapp would have painted books on one side; after all, this was to be a used bookstore. Then he would have added real covers and used shellacked fanned-out pages for a 3D effect. He’d also have painted a caricature of Yolanda, her nose in a book, as it always was, on the other panel. He’d have glued a pair of glasses above that perfect little nose. She, all female with slim lines and slight curves, was a painter’s dream. She often displayed a Mona Lisa smile. Her hair, black and straight, would look simple on anyone else: normal, everyday. On her it accentuated big, smiling black eyes filled with determination.

      Her lips had always been a challenge for him to capture. For some reason, whenever he’d painted her—and he had many times back when they’d both been teenagers working for the local animal habitat, BAA—her lips had come out bigger than they really were and always seemed pursed. She’d gotten mad at him on a few occasions, accusing him of making it look as if she’d just swallowed a pickle.

      Yes, he could picture exactly how he wanted the saloon door to look. He clenched his fingers. Desire rose, fell, disappeared. It didn’t matter what his heart told him to do. Right now, when his fingers grasped the pencil so he could start to seriously sketch, nothing happened.

      Nothing.

      So it was best to just tighten the screws, adjust the hinges, check to make sure the doors were level, paint the stupid panels Kool-Aid orange and be done with it.

      “Ahem.”

      Adam looked down. She hadn’t used to be able to sneak up on him. He was really off his game. But then, in the weeks he’d been working for her, she’d been too involved with the plumbers and electricians to pay much attention to him. Almost gave him a complex.

      “What was that noise? And did anyone come past you?” Yolanda demanded, all righteous indignation. When he didn’t answer fast enough, she added, “There was an elderly woman over in history and nonfiction. I turned around, and she was gone. I’ve searched the nooks and crannies of the first floor book areas. I even went upstairs to my private suite.”

      Adam hadn’t been up there yet. Yolanda’s priority was the bookstore. As a result, he had a to-do list in his back pocket that would keep him busy for a year. He’d make, he figured, not even half of what he’d made the last five years painting murals, and he’d work harder. It would take longer to get it done.

      Up until a couple of months ago, his life had been about creating art, murals specifically. Most of his creations had been done outdoors. Now he was indoors, hemmed in, without space to call his own. To Yolanda, creativity, when it came to her old house, was categorized as either “That’s not practical” or “Not in the budget.”

      Not that Adam had much creativity himself these days. He wasn’t sure where his muse had gone off СКАЧАТЬ