The Virgin Mistress. Linda Turner

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      Marina shrugged. “Well, there probably is, but this is the most interesting thing happening in Montana at the moment. I don’t suppose you’d like to round out my interview by telling me what you think of Jester and how you think it’ll be affected by twelve millionaires?”

      “I think Jester’s a wonderful place to live,” Shelly replied, backing away. “And I think once all of you leave, it’ll just be the same old Jester, and we’ll be the same old people.”

      Marina looked her in the eye. “Now, you don’t really believe that. You look different already.”

      Surprised, Shelly stopped where she stood. “But…we haven’t met.”

      Marina nodded. “Yes, we have. I was here when that windstorm two years ago ripped the roof off your place and the movie theater and we could see right inside from our helicopter.”

      Shelly frowned. “I don’t remember talking to you.” Though she remembered that her photo had appeared in the paper. A friend in Great Falls had sent it to her.

      “Well, you didn’t. I got the story from the barber. You were busy trying to get tarps pulled over everything to protect it until the roofer could come from Billings. It was a tough time for you, I know. And you didn’t look defeated, but you looked resigned, as if your life would never be any different and you knew it.” Marina shrugged her shoulders and smiled. “But, you don’t look that way today. You look…eager. Like maybe you could handle some things changing.”

      “Some things,” she agreed. “Just not everything.”

      “The right things.”

      “Yes.”

      Marina laughed with a journalist’s cynicism. “When you figure out a way to guarantee that, let me know.”

      Marina’s photographer pointed out Dean Kenning, closing up the barbershop, and they both hurried to waylay him.

      Shelly went back to The Brimming Cup. She pushed her way inside and caught a whiff of the beef barley soup she’d made after the lunch rush was over and left on to simmer. It smelled wonderful. She’d read somewhere that many people associated the days of the week with a color—Monday was red, tough and trying. Tuesday was yellow, quieter but still a challenge. And so on.

      But to her the days of the week were an aroma. Monday, garden vegetable; Tuesday, chicken noodle; Wednesday, beef barley; Thursday, ham and split pea; Friday, clam chowder.

      She’d wiped off tables before she left, and apparently they hadn’t been disturbed since. The chrome and blue vinyl of the tables and chairs in the middle of the room sparkled in the glaring winter sunlight. The blue vinyl booths up against the large plate-glass window with its blue-and-white-check valance were a slightly richer shade than the blue of the chairs. She’d been able to move the tables and chairs out of harm’s way during the storm, but had had to replace the upholstery on the booths after tree branches and other debris ripped holes in the vinyl when the roof blew off.

      She’d changed so few things in the shop since her parents had died that she sometimes walked in expecting to hear her father in the kitchen or her mother behind the counter, filling napkin holders or setting up. She looked around now, sensing something different, some disturbance of the familiar space.

      She could hear Dan on the other side of the shelves that separated the counter from the kitchen. He’d put a Garth Brooks song on the jukebox as he always did when the place emptied and she walked toward the counter, humming.

      That was when she caught sight of the baby carrier on the corner of the counter. It had been behind her line of vision when she walked in the door.

      Something else for the lost-and-found closet, she thought, wondering how someone could have walked out without their carrier and not noticed.

      “Dan!” she shouted, as she walked toward it. “Who left the baby carrier?”

      There was a moment’s silence, then his gruff voice came from the kitchen. “What carrier?” He came through the break in the shelving between the pie case and the coffee setup. He was tall and rough looking with a beaky nose and an attitude to match. He wore a paper hat, an apron over his kitchen whites and a scowl. He was a grump, but, like the Brower brothers, he was pure gold wrapped in a deceptive package. His wife had died ten years before, he’d raised a boy and a girl by himself, and now that they were in college in Texas, he worked as many hours as Shelly did. “There hasn’t been a soul in here since you left.”

      “Maybe someone came in,” she speculated, “took the baby out of the carrier, and when no one appeared to wait on them…”

      Dan had turned toward the counter and interrupted her with a gasping, “Oh, God!”

      “What?” she demanded, hurrying toward the carrier. She suspected what his widened eyes and horrified expression might mean but couldn’t believe it.

      “Maybe someone came in,” he said, stopping in front of the carrier and staring, “and maybe they left when I didn’t come out, but…but…”

      “But, what?” Shelly leaned an elbow on the counter and looked into the front of the carrier. A fat-cheeked baby with bright blue eyes smiled gummily at her.

      “But they didn’t take the baby out,” Dan said unnecessarily.

      Chapter Two

      “Oh, Dan!” Shelly exclaimed in a whisper. “Forgetting your baby carrier seems strange enough, but forgetting your baby?”

      At her expression of indignation, the baby’s smile crumpled and he began to cry. Both little arms went up in agitation and Dan reached for a piece of paper tied to the blue-and-white crocheted blanket with a diaper pin.

      “Oh, no. No, baby. Don’t cry.” Shelly took a tiny hand in hers and shook it playfully as Dan opened the note. “It’s okay. Don’t get upset. I’m sure your mom will be right back.”

      Dan shifted his weight as he read. “Well, you’re wrong about that,” he said with a sigh. “Somebody left you this baby.”

      “What?”

      The baby shrieked at her loud exclamation and Shelly pulled him out of the carrier, blanket and all, and held him to her chest where he screamed in her ear.

      “‘Please take care of Max,’” Dan read loudly over the baby’s screams. “‘I know you can give him all the love and money any little boy could need. Tell him I love him and I’m sorry.’”

      “Sorry?” Shelly said in agitation. “Sorry? She leaves a helpless little baby in an empty coffee shop and she’s sorry? You poor baby!” She held the screeching baby tightly to her and paced back and forth behind the counter, Dan staring at her in concern.

      “Call the sheriff,” he said. “He’ll get a caseworker from Pine Run to come get him.”

      Shelly paced and shushed and talked nonsense, something she was surprised she knew how to do. Working with her parents in the coffee shop had left little time for the baby-sitting experience most other girls had acquired. But she found herself pressing her cheek СКАЧАТЬ