A Man Of Influence. Melinda Curtis

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ A perfect 180—not—that got her out of the way of the next elderly resident.

      The morning rush was in full swing.

      While Tracy made Mildred’s latte, she took Agnes Villanova’s order—hot green tea and a vanilla scone. Accepted Agnes’ exact payment. Plated the scones. Served them. Took Rose Cascia’s order—chai latte with soy milk, no scone. Admired the former ballerina and Broadway chorus girl’s kick-ball change. Made change. Wondered what was keeping bakery owner Jessica in the kitchen—she could use her help.

      Greeted Mayor Larry in his neon green and yellow tie-dyed T-shirt—coffee, two packets of sweetener, no cream. Smiled patiently while Old Man Takata debated whether to order the bran muffin or the chocolate croissant. There was no debate. He always went with the croissant. But his indecision gave Tracy time to make another pot of coffee.

      Tracy didn’t need to say much as a baker’s assistant. She just had to move quickly. She was the only thing moving fast in this remote corner of Sonoma County. In a town where the average age of the one-hundred-plus residents was in the seventies, most things went at walker speed. Case in point: the game of checkers being played in the corner between Felix, the retired fire chief, and Phil, the should-be-retired barber.

      The town council sat at a table in the middle of the bakery. Mayor Larry espoused the merits of controlled growth, while Rose, the no-growth advocate, tried to talk over him with her high-pitched outside voice. Eunice Fletcher sat quilting in the window seat, occasionally glancing down at Jessica’s baby in a small playpen. She was about due for a coffee refill.

      It was just another Friday morning in Harmony Valley. Tracy felt no stress at all.

      And then he walked in.

      Morning sunlight glinted off the blond highlights in his brown hair and outlined his broad shoulders. His eyes were the dark brown of coffee, no cream. Those eyes catalogued everything in the bakery, as if he thought there’d be a test later.

      The conversation in the room dwindled and died. Chairs scraped. All eyes turned toward the newcomer, because Harmony Valley wasn’t a pass-through town. It was practically the end of the road.

      “Don’t. Scare. Him.” Dang it. Stress jabbed repeatedly at her stilted speech button like a child playing ding-dong ditch. Tracy swallowed her sudden discomfort and waved the man to the counter.

      “Who came in?” Mildred asked, voice on the max volume setting. Apparently, she hadn’t put in her hearing aids this morning, and couldn’t see through her ice cube lenses.

      Mr. Golden Glow chuckled as he approached the counter. He moved out of the sunlight and became...no more normal. Still gorgeous. He walked as if he owned the room, exuding a vibe Tracy had always admired—power, prestige, a winner of corporate boardroom games. Didn’t matter that he wore jeans and a polo shirt. That walk said suit and tie. His confident air said, “I know people who can get you a job.”

      Tracy’s mouth went dry, because she needed a better job. Unfortunately, she could practically feel the full extent of her vocabulary knot at the back of her tongue, clogging her throat.

      She tried to remember her latest speech therapist’s advice. Breathe. Relax. Turn your back on the person you’re talking to.

      Okay, that last one was Tracy’s antidote. But it worked. Not that there were many opportunities to turn her back mid-conversation or in an argument without looking like a total jerk.

      And how could she forget the advice of her speech teacher in college? Breathe. Relax. Imagine your audience is naked.

      “What’s good here?” Mr. Tall, Perfect and Speech-Robbing stepped in front of her.

      Tracy’s gaze dropped from his steel gray polo to the counter. Oh, for the days she dared imagine the opposite sex naked. “Coffee.” That was good. Normal sounding. If you didn’t count the frog-like timbre of her tone. She cleared her throat. “Scones.” She waved a hand over one of the pastry cases that her boss, Jessica, worked so hard to fill.

      “Why do you suppose he’s here?” Rose, never shy, asked the room, shuffling her feet beneath the table. That woman never sat still.

      “Maybe he’s lost,” Eunice piped up from the window seat.

      “Not lost,” the stranger said cheerfully, smiling at Tracy as if they shared a private joke.

      The joke was on him. This was Harmony Valley, where people had no respect for personal boundaries and could have taught the FBI a thing or two about interrogation.

      “Visiting relatives?” Mildred squinted his way.

      “Strike two.”

      Tracy had never been a believer in eyes twinkling. But there you go. His did. Despite that power-player vibe. Or maybe because of it. Her body felt a jolt of electricity, as if it ran on twinkles, not caffeine.

      Old Man Takata held up a chunk of chocolate croissant. “Health inspector?”

      “Thank you all for playing.” The newcomer grinned, scanning the menu board above Tracy’s head while the room erupted with speculative conversation.

      Tracy felt the urge to apologize for her hometown homies. “We don’t get many...” She searched for the word amidst the nerve-strumming intensity of his very brown eyes. “...strangers here.”

      “No worries. I’m a travel writer.” His voice. So silky smooth. Like the ribbon of chocolate Jess put on the croissants. “I’m here for the Harvest Festival.”

      If he thought that would bring the room back to normal, he was wrong. The bakery customers exchanged dumbfounded glances. This was what Harmony Valley had been waiting for—exposure. No one really believed it would ever come, because the town had been off the radar for a long time. More than a decade.

      When Tracy was a teenager, the grain mill had exploded. To this day, Tracy couldn’t think about her mother and her mother’s co-workers being burned alive without a sickening churn in her stomach. Back then, Tracy had been devastated, too young to understand the ramifications beyond the heart-wrenching grief over losing Mom. Without jobs, the majority of the population had moved away. Those who’d remained were mostly retired. But now there was a new employer in town. A winery, started by Tracy’s brother and his friends. People were returning. New businesses were opening. What they needed were tourists and the dollars they’d bring. What they needed was this man and his readership—whatever that might be.

      “Thought I’d come up early,” the travel writer added. “Find a room, and do a story on the town and its winery.”

      Mildred gaped. Rose gasped. Phil covered a snort with a cough and received several dirty glances.

      Tracy sighed. Yes, there was a story here. Probably too many. There just wasn’t a hotel within a thirty mile radius. Rumor had it the Lambridge twins were going to open a bed and breakfast—next spring. Mr. Travel Writer wouldn’t find a room this week unless he wanted to bunk with Mildred.

      “A travel writer.” Mayor Larry stood in all his tie-dyed dignity, tossing his gray ponytail over his shoulder and approaching the counter. “Welcome, welcome. I’m the mayor.” Larry gave the town council the high sign—a repeated head tilt toward the door, as in: emergency meeting needed to find the travel writer a place to stay.

      But СКАЧАТЬ