“I do,” Tommy answered. “Just take highway seven to…”
“No way!” Terry cut in. “It’s a lot faster if you follow Main Street to county road nineteen…”
2
“SO MS. DARVILLE, what gave you the idea for Peach Paradise?”
Sally leaned across the patio table and spoke into the banana Trish held out to her. “Well, actually, Ms. Thomas—um, that is your name, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Trish huffed. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”
“Ten more times. There are so many lawyers impersonating reporters around here, it’s hard to keep your names straight. Anyway, I got the idea from a peach.”
“Fruit talks to you?” Trish started to twitter.
“Yes. Just this morning, this very banana said to me, ‘Help! I think someone is going to eat me.”’ Sally grabbed the fruit from Trish’s hand, peeled it and devoured a third in one fatal bite. Trish bowed her head for a moment of silence and they both collapsed in giggles.
Sally couldn’t help herself. She just had to say it again. “Aren’t I clever, Trish? Didn’t I pull it off beautifully?”
Trish rolled her eyes. “Yes, Sal. For the last time, you are very, very clever. And yes, you did manage to get the attention of the Vancouver Satellite. I don’t know how you got it, but you did. Still I have doubts about this whole thing.”
“Really?” Sally batted her blond eyelashes furiously. “I’m shocked. You never have doubts.”
“Ha ha. The thing is, I’m surprised the Satellite picked up your news release. This isn’t their turf and, frankly, Sal, they usually go after bigger stories than this one.”
“Is that so?” Sally returned with faint sarcasm. “Obviously they do think it’s a big story.”
“Obviously. The question is—why?”
“Because it is, of course. And if you must know, I don’t care one bit why they’re interested. The Satellite has half a million readers. Do you know what that kind of exposure will do for Peachtown? For the entire valley?”
“I know what it will do,” Trish replied cautiously. “I’m just concerned that you’re being overly optimistic. Let’s face it, you don’t know what the guy is going to write.”
“Yes, I do. He’s going to write what I want him to write.”
“Really? How do you figure that?”
Sally blinked. “Because it’s my story, silly.” Honestly, for someone so smart, Trish just didn’t get it sometimes.
“Sally, why do I think you’re going to steamroll over this poor guy like you steamrolled over the revitalization committee last year?”
“I did not steamroll over those people.”
“Oh yeah? Then why do most of them have unpublished home phone numbers now?”
Sally sniffed and looked away. As a town councillor, it was her job to question the decisions made by council’s various subcommittees. It wasn’t her fault if they couldn’t handle constructive criticism.
Trish lifted her auburn curls and fanned her glistening neck with that week’s edition of the Post. “Anyway, I’ve had lots of experience with reporters. I just don’t want you to be disappointed when your big story ends up being ten lines at the bottom of page twenty.”
Sally dismissed that possibility with a shrug, but she understood what Trish was saying. If she asked nicely enough, Charlie Sacks would publish her grocery list. But the Peachtown Post wasn’t the Vancouver Satellite. Not by a long shot.
Weary of the argument, Sally rose and took yet another look down the narrow driveway zigzagging from her hillside cottage through a stand of crab apple trees, down to county road nineteen. It, in turn, forked left to Peachtown and right to the city of Kelowna. Depending on what map he’d used, Jack Gold could be coming from either direction.
“I thought you weren’t anxious,” Trish teased her.
“I’m not.” From old habit Sally reached up and smoothed back her dark blond hair, already pulled so tightly into a ponytail it couldn’t have come loose in a hurricane.
Trish joined her at the rail surrounding the old stone patio, and together they gazed out over the sun-baked vista to Lake Okanagan, glistening clear blue in the distance. Electricity crackled in the overhead power lines and the bone-dry air resonated with the click-click of a million grasshoppers.
Three consecutive years of drought, Sally thought sadly. Three years and not one drop of moisture to quench the valley’s usually rich, fertile earth. The region’s farmers and fruit growers were hurting. The small businesses that depended on tourism were all but bankrupt. One more summer of this appalling heat, Cora Brown had told her just yesterday, and she would have to close the café.
Sally knew she’d been a bit zealous lately, but so what? The Darvilles were among the oldest families in the valley. Peachtown was her birthplace, her home. If it wasn’t up to her to realize its full potential, then whose job was it?
The thing was, if Peachtown had once been famous for fruit and wine, why couldn’t it become famous for something else? Thanks to last month’s front-page article in the Post, folks from all over the valley were talking about Peach Paradise ice cream. With a little help from Jack Gold, the word would soon be out across the province.
In one swift motion Trish nabbed her briefcase and looked at her watch. “Well, Sal, I’ve enjoyed this little interlude, but I have to run. I’m meeting with Jed Miltown and Evan Pratford in Kelowna.”
“On Saturday? Why?”
“In May, Jed lobbed a bucket of golf balls at Evan’s barn. Unfortunately, his prized cow ate them and died. There was a hearing, but the judge couldn’t decide if bovine-death-by-golf-ball was murder or suicide, so he dismissed the charge. Now it looks like there’ll be a civil suit.”
Sally frowned. For twenty-five years, the neighboring farmers had been feuding over one thing or another. Trish, she knew, wasn’t crazy about representing either of them, but Peachtown didn’t have many lawyers. In fact, it had only Trish.
Between the trees a bright red car lurched into sight. Sally gasped. “He’s here!”
“And I’m out of here.”
“Not so fast.” Sally reached out and seized Trish by the wrist. “Stick around a minute. I lied. I’m very nervous.”
“You’ll do just fine,” Trish said. Even so she lingered, her hazel eyes getting bigger and bigger as the vehicle neared. “Oh my, get a load of the car.” She whistled softly.
Oh my, Sally thought as Jack Gold climbed out of the flashy convertible and looked straight at her. Get a load of the man. Tall. Tawny hair. Tight jeans. White T-shirt. Black shades. Black jacket. Black boots. For some reason she’d pictured someone rumpled and tweedy, like Charlie. Suddenly her mouth was as dry as the valley air.
“Sally Darville?” Jack Gold was coming her way. Saliva. She needed saliva. Hand signals wouldn’t suffice for the interview. He stopped just short of where she and Trish were standing and glanced between them. Up close he was drop-dead intimidating.
When Sally’s tongue refused to work, Trish cast her a what’s-your-problem? look and shook the man’s hand. “How do you do? I’m Trish Thomas.”
“Jack Gold. Pleasure. I guess that would make you Sally.” He thrust his hand toward her, at the same time whipping off the shades and dropping them into his jacket pocket. His eyes were