A Man of Influence (22 page)

“What happened to you, man? The slick killer instinct is missing in these pages. It's as if you just wanted to kill the town, nothing slick about it.”

Marty had to have misread the column. Chad stood and headed for the B&B at a good clip. “Give me another shot at it.” He could edit it into something better.

“I'm sorry, Chad. We're going to have to back out.”

“There's a cancellation clause, Marty.” Chad's words snapped with anger. If he lost Marty, the rest of his sponsors would almost certainly bail. “It's gonna cost you.” Twenty percent.

“You know how this works.” Marty's uneven rumble smoothed. “You invoke that penalty and I won't work with you again.”

Chad didn't need the advertising money as much as he needed Marty's goodwill. Still, he was mad enough not to bow down. “I'll let you know what I decide on Monday.”

News of No Wrinkles backing out would travel fast. Media-buying execs were networked tighter than the small town gossip chain.

Chad returned to the B&B to wait out the avalanche of cancellations he was sure would come. And come, they did.

The
Lampoon
had won this round. If he launched his website on Sunday without sponsors, it'd be like saying,
“I'm nobody.”
It'd be like saying,
“Dad won.”

Or it could be an entirely different statement.
“Take that, world, the Happy Bachelor doesn't need anybody.”

* * *

T
HE
PEBBLES
HIT
Tracy's window just as she was thinking of turning off her laptop and starting dinner.

She opened the front window, sticking her head out into the chilly night air. “I should give you my cell phone number before you break a window.”

Chad stood below her, more serious than she'd ever seen him. “Have you eaten?”

“No.”

“Come with me to El Rosal. The early-bird-special diners have left. My treat.”

Tracy hesitated. The man standing below her wasn't just plain Chad. “I'm sorry, but—”

“I still owe you something romantic.” Was that desperation in his voice?

Tracy felt her resolve weakening and shored it up. “El Rosal isn't romantic.” No matter how much she liked the food.

“Don't let Mayra hear you say that.” Chad pulled a small tablet from his inner jacket pocket. “I brought my column.”

So much for romance.

A few minutes later, they were seated at a roomy booth and receiving excellent service in the near empty restaurant. If the veterans hall became popular, El Rosal's business would increase. If the winery succeeded, the town's population would increase. If Chad wrote a good column, it could be like a perfect storm of fairy dust and rainbows over Harmony Valley.

Tracy took off her rose-colored glasses. “Let's get this over with.” She raised her voice to be heard above the salsa music and reached across the table. “Were you kind? Or did you unleash your inner beast?”

“I wrote it for my audience.” There was a defensiveness about him that clung like the smell in the veterans hall had clung to her boots.

His audience? “At the
Lampoon
?”

“I've been hoping to draw those readers over to my site, so yes.
Lampoon
readers.” He drummed his fingers over the tablet case nervously. “My advertising sponsor didn't like it. In fact, I lost all my advertisers today.” He handed her the tablet.

She hesitated reading it. Sponsors bailing was bad news. Really bad news. Chad looked more beat up than he had after Lilac tried to run him over. But she wasn't here to give him sympathy.

Tracy read the column quickly, with a sinking heart. While he talked with Enzo about which wine to choose, with the press of a few buttons she emailed the file to herself. “This...reminds me of the cat lady piece. You...make us sound like a town lost in time, one that should stay lost.”

“I praised the winery, the bakery, El Rosal and Giordanos.” He frowned. “Maybe it wasn't my best piece. But it was interesting?”

Tracy hesitated, realizing he was asking her a question rather than defending his work. He'd never
not
defended his work before. “I'm sorry. I don't recognize your voice in this. It's not clever. It's cruel, which makes it hard to read. You liken Leona...to a prudish horror-movie villainess. You posted a picture of Snarky Sam...next to one of a twenty-year-old drug addict mid-gurn. And you wrote naked yoga isn't as pleasurable...with an old naked man as with starlets in Hollywood.”

“I admit...it's not my best.” He turned his fork over and back, and over and back again. “When you summarize it like that, it sounds bad.”

“It is bad.” She returned the tablet to him. “That piece...won't help you relaunch the Happy Bachelor. That'll kill the column.” If that was what she wanted, why did she long to reach across the table and cover his hand with hers? “Change of topic. I finished my video.”

“Really?” He forced cheer into his tone. “What is it that makes Tracy Jackson unique?”

“The usual, boring things—dreck—that make it worth getting up every morning.” It was her turn to fiddle with the silverware, to admit something personal. “This town. My family and friends. My scar. My
unique
speech. The knowledge that life can change.” She snapped. “In an instant. So why let dreams pass you by?”

“That's awesome. Look how you didn't give up on your dreams and things turned around. Have you sent it in?”

“No,” she said flatly. “I'm going to stay here. I'm going to freelance in town. As it grows—”

“You have a college degree and you're going to waste it here?” His disapproval stabbed at her confidence, threatening to puncture it.

She held on to that hard-won confidence. “I've...been looking for a challenge. And I found many. Right here.” She tapped the table with her forefinger. “I'm changing my dream. I want to live here. And do work that is fun. And challenging.”

“That's quitting.” His lip curled. The man she'd known these past few days was gone. She wasn't sure she recognized the man sitting before her. “Reach higher, Tracy.”

“I did reach high.” She struggled to keep her voice down. “I succeeded in advertising. I can move on to creating a life that's important to me. I can ask what if. Maybe you should think about moving on, too.”

He wouldn't look at her. The happy, smiling man she found so captivating was nowhere to be found. “You're moving backward. I'm moving on.”

“You're not.” She did raise her voice then, raised it higher than the pulsing salsa music, high enough Mayra could probably hear her in the kitchen. “You're...trying to write the same column you've written for years. You're scared of spreading your wings. Scared of seeing what else is out there. You're hoping this little website of yours will get your job back. But what happens if it does? You're going to be just as unhappy as you were before.” She slid out of the booth. “I'm not hungry anymore.”

Tracy had known this was what he'd write. She might have hoped it'd be more skillfully written, but she never should have hoped for anything different. And tomorrow at the Harvest Festival, she wasn't going to be silenced. She was going to let the town know exactly what Chad thought of them.

For his own good.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

C
HAD
ENTERED
THE
town square on the morning of the
Harvest Festival with a heavy heart.

In his own way, he'd come to love the small town and care for
its residents. So his attempt to write a column about them had been a disaster?
He'd move on. He'd rebuild. And every so often, he'd think about the handyman
gang, Eunice, or Tracy. Especially Tracy. And when he thought of her, his heart
would give a painful squeeze and his lungs would feel leaden and he'd wonder
what might have been if he'd been smarter or braver or a better writer.

The parking spaces on Main Street were full and there were
several generations of people congregating around the town square. The relatives
had arrived.

There was Nina Valpizzi with her grandkids. Did they notice her
attention tended to wander and she was forgetting things? There was the mayor
with a woman who might have been his daughter. They shared the same aquiline
nose. Had she noticed the spot on Larry's face that needed checking for cancer?
There was Takata with his walker and...Mildred?

Chad couldn't resist walking over. “Hey, you two.”

“Don't even say it,” Mildred said. “We're just friends.”

Takata chuckled. “I'm going to enter the nail-driving
competition and she's going to bowl with pumpkins. Wish us luck.”

“And good luck to you, Chad.” Mildred clasped her hand over his
with that unconditional warmth and trust everyone in town had offered him. “We
expect great things from you and your column.”

Chad didn't tell them there'd be no column He just moved
on.

There was plenty of food to be sampled. Martin's Bakery had set
up a booth and packaged up cookies, brownies and Bundt cakes for sale. Not to be
outdone, El Rosal had a grill going behind their patio. It smelled heavenly.

“Chad.” Rutgar slapped him on the back hard enough to dislodge
a peanut stuck in his throat. If a peanut had been stuck in his throat. “If you
ever want to write an article about living off the land, you know where to find
me.”

The mayor pumped his hand. “You let me know anything you need
to make your column about us shine. We've enjoyed having you here.”

After a string of other goodbyes—all expecting great things and
delivered with nice words—Chad was saved by Flynn, who handed him a beer and led
him over by the grill. “The key to these things,” Flynn said. “Is to stay on the
sidelines. The older generation really gets into the traditions.”

“What does the younger generation usually do?” Try as he might,
he couldn't catch sight of Tracy.

“Try not to get involved.”

But Flynn's philosophy was hard to live by when Agnes asked
Flynn to judge the gurning contest.

Chad laughed.

“You, too,” Agnes said sternly to Chad. “Your face is too
beautiful for the gurn, but we need judges.”

As judges, Flynn, Chad and Duffy had to sit on the stage and
try to take the contestants seriously. They failed miserably.

And then Chad caught sight of one of the
Bostwick Lampoon
's writers in the crowd. Mark Nesbit laughed harder
and louder than anyone.

After the competition, which Sam won, Chad worked his way down
to his former employee's side. He shook Mark's hand like any civilized man would
do, but inside his territorial instincts were snarling. “What are you doing
here, Mark?”

“I'm writing the
Lampoon
's travel
column now. We're retitling it The Sophisticated Bachelor.” Mark got a good look
at Chad's banged up face. “What happened to you, man? Brawl over a woman? Spent
the night in the drunk tank?”

“I got run over by a Cadillac.”

“There's a story for you.” Mark surveyed the crowd with an
ear-splitting grin. “I can't believe you were judging that last event. Are you
related to someone here? That was one of the tackiest competitions I've ever
seen.” Considering Mark was in his twenties and hadn't seen a lot of the world,
his observation meant little to Chad. But readers of the
Lampoon
might believe him.

Chad felt the first wave of anger wash over him. “Gurning isn't
tacky. It's included to give older people something to participate in.” His
explanation fell on deaf ears.

Mark had the attention span of a gnat. “Did I hear there's
going to be pumpkin bowling?”

“Yes.”

Mildred was waiting to take her turn. The lane had been marked
with chalk powder in the grass. The pins were two-liter soda bottles filled with
water and then frozen.

“Smashing pumpkins. Best played drunk, I bet.” Mark nodded
toward the beer in Chad's hand. There was nothing sophisticated about the little
man. He wore a wrinkled beer brand T-shirt, a pair of off-brand blue jeans and
sneakers with holes near one toe.

“Actually, it's more a game of skill.” The pumpkin stood little
chance of surviving against ten frozen pins. The winner was the one who knocked
down the most pins without destroying their pumpkin.

“That's a hoot.” Mark leaned back and howled at the blue sky,
drawing several frowns from the crowd. “This is better than the retirement party
they threw for my grandfather at the pork factory.” Mark got out his cell phone.
“I've got to take video of this. That old biddy is setting aside her walker. I
bet she falls.”

In that moment, Chad realized several demoralizing things. He
didn't like his former employees at the
Lampoon
. And
he was afraid Tracy was right. He'd been cruel and callous and without scruples,
like Mark. And yes, he was scared to death to spread his wings and try something
different, something that didn't rise to the top by putting others at the
bottom. He'd been too stubborn to see it, too stupid to get out of his own
way.

Of more immediate concern was the possibility that Mildred
would fall and Mark would capture it on video.

Chad made a quick decision. He bumped into Mark hard enough to
send them both to the ground and dumped his beer on his former star employee.
Mark's cell phone clattered to the pavement a few feet away. Chad helped Mark to
his feet at the same time he ground his heel on Mark's cell phone. “Sorry, dude.
Someone knocked me over.”

“Or maybe you've been drinking too much. Now I smell like a
brewery.” Mark spotted his cell phone. “Oh, man. My screen shattered.” He slid
his fingers across the screen. It remained blank. “It's broken. How am I
supposed to report this now?”

“You're not supposed to, Mark. This story is not for you. Go
back to reporting about politicians who cheat on their taxes. And tell the new
editor-in-chief that Harmony Valley is off-limits to the
Lampoon
.”

“Seriously? You can't do that.” But Mark's laugh was
nervous.

“Mark, look at my face—” his beat up face. “—and then tell me
I'm not serious. Because otherwise we can head over to that alley and we'll see
how you look when we're done.”

Mark hurried away.

Chad looked for Tracy. Tracy was fearless. She'd stood up to
him from day one. She fought constantly to improve herself and to fly in new
directions. She'd be proud of what he just did.

And then he saw her standing in front of the microphone with a
look his way that said she was anything but proud of him.

* * *

“I
HAVE
AN
announcement to make.” The last time Tracy took the microphone on this stage,
she'd been the Grand Marshall of the Spring Festival. That was nearly a year and
a half ago. She'd been just as scared to speak in front of the crowd as she was
now.

Deep down, she knew Chad wasn't a tear down or a throw away.
This was her way of helping him. But in doing so, he'd never speak to her
again.

Chad came up to the edge of the stage. She could feel his
attention on her. She didn't want to watch the impact her words had on him.

“I have an announcement,” she said again, much louder this
time. “Chad...used to be the editor of the
Bostwick
Lampoon
. Do you know what that is?” She glanced around, carefully
avoiding making eye contact with Chad. “It's a magazine that makes fun.
Sometimes cruelly so. Of pretty much everything.” If she'd been expecting Chad
to defend himself, she'd been wrong. He was almost docile at her feet.
“Chad...didn't come here to write a kind column. He came to make fun. Here's
part...of what he plans to publish about us.” Tracy looked at her cell phone
screen so she wouldn't lose her nerve. “Harmony Valley...is the kind of place
you retire to when you want to be forgotten.”

Chad seemed to shrink. She had the audience's full attention
now.

She scrolled to another line. “You'll find...great amusement in
throwback favorites, like Horseradish-Doodles and squirrel jerky. But...I don't
recommend trying them unless you're closer to a hospital.”

“Oh, Chad.” Eunice pouted. “I had such high hopes for you.”

Tracy scrolled further. “And...since it's a town for old
people. They...need activities old people can participate in. Gurning. Pumpkin
bowling. Even naked yoga.”

People began to turn and scowl at Chad. Voices were raised.
Insults were thrown.

Tracy had to shout above the crowd noise. “The...only nice
things he said were about the winery, the bakery, El Rosal and Giordanos.” Tracy
lowered her phone. “He...never told us he came to write a glowing article.
We...were the ones who assumed too much and trusted him with our...” She almost
said hearts. Hers had certainly been too trusting where plain Chad was
concerned.

The crowd seemed to hold their collective breath.

“Anyway... He...wasn't the only one who held back the truth.
Chad...” Tracy finally met Chad's steady gaze, surprised by the acceptance there
when she'd expected bitterness. “There is no Lambridge Bed & Breakfast. You
came to town. And we needed a place for you to stay.”

“Why did you have to tell him that?” Rose tossed up her
hands.

Tracy lifted her chin. “Because we shouldn't have lied.”

“Especially when he had to stay with Leona,” Mildred said,
causing the crowd to chuckle.

But the laughter was short-lived. Residents converged upon Chad
and everyone wanted to tell him what they thought of him.

Tracy returned the microphone to its stand and slipped
away.

* * *

C
HAD
STEPPED
INSIDE
the Lambridge Bed & Breakfast,
which wasn't really a bed & breakfast after all. Stopping in the foyer, he
thought about how his column had hurt people's feelings and wounded their pride.
Even the house seemed angry with him. It was as cold as his column.

He'd never been somewhere where they'd seen his column before
he left town. He'd never regretted writing a column before. He'd let every
resident have their say, because he deserved every harsh word. Flynn and Slade
had returned from the storage locker in time to hear Tracy's speech. They'd
turned their backs on him. That hurt almost as much as Tracy's disappointment in
him.

Leona crossed the threshold carrying a vase of fresh flowers.
She set them down on a table nearby. “What's wrong, Mr. Healy?”

“I'm a hated man.”

“By...”

“Pretty much everyone in town.”

She scoffed. “They've hated me here for decades. I wouldn't
concern yourself, especially since you're leaving tomorrow.”

“They don't like you because you divorced Phil.” Although Chad
couldn't understand why they'd been married in the first place.

“Not true. They don't like me because I don't participate in
all the tomfoolery that goes on. They've practically adopted every tradition
from every country around the world. It keeps them busy and gives them a sense
of purpose. And I won't be a part of it. I don't need to be a part of it.”

Chad didn't need to either, and yet belonging had made him feel
good. But Leona wasn't as heartless or uninvolved as she wanted to appear. “You
donated vegetables to raise money for the Harvest Festival.”

“I don't know what you mean.” Her nose went into the air. She'd
never admit to caring.

Which was why her part in the town's deception made no sense.
“Why did you agree to this bed & breakfast charade? You hate anyone in your
home.”

Leona fiddled with the flower stalks and accidentally broke a
stem. “I... I...” She was so like his mother, it hurt him. She'd been an enigma,
too. “Do you have family, Mr. Healy?”

“Not anymore.” Not so much as a distant cousin.

“I don't either, besides my son and granddaughters.”

“And Phil.”

She waved a hand as if her ex-husband didn't count. “They say
you can't choose the family you're born into, but you can choose the family you
make. If that's true, the people in Harmony Valley are my family.” She added in
a mumble, “Annoying though they may be.”

“They might like you better if you told them that.”

“I don't care if they like me.” She plucked the ruined white
carnation from the vase, snapped off the broken stem and handed it to him. “I'm
comfortable with my life. But you, Mr. Healy, you aren't.”

“Oh, this will be good.” And a great way to forget the pain in
Tracy's eyes when she'd read his column.

“You smile and try to charm everyone, but you don't let
yourself care. It makes it easier when you move on. You've buried your heart
deeper than I have. I almost pity you.”