“Anybody here?” he called out. When silence answered, he ventured a few steps down the hall and peered into a huge country kitchen. Someone had to be home. There was an array of chopped fruit on top of the room’s long worktable, along with an open carton of cream. He called out again. Still no response. As he was turning to leave, a big, brassy redhead burst through a door to his right. Seeing Jack, she let out a scream.
“Gracious living, boy!” Eyes bulging, she covered her heart with one plump, bejeweled hand and gulped for air. “You scared the daylights outta poor old Martha!”
Jack apologized for snooping. “I’m looking for a room for the night.”
“Well, I don’t know. I’ll have to see about that.”
While he wondered what exactly there was to see about—this was an inn, wasn’t it?—she twisted her generous mouth into a grimace and ruminated.
“It’s just for one night,” he assured her.
“Percy!” she hollered in the general direction of the backyard. “Get your butt in here. We got a guest, maybe.”
A tall, stooped man in cut-off denim shorts and work boots but no shirt came in through the back door. He paused at the sink to wipe the sweat from his brow, then loped across the big room. Giving Jack a friendly once-over, his eyes lit up like a jukebox. “Well, whaddaya know? Look, Martha, it’s Goldy!”
“Goldy” forced a smile. Obviously news traveled fast around here. “If you don’t mind, I prefer Jack.”
“You’re that hotshot reporter from Vancouver,” Martha said.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m Jack Gold from the Satellite.”
“Didn’t you win a—what did Elvira call it, Percy? A gandby, or something?”
“It was the Gobey Award, ma’am.” Something told Jack that Elvira Jackson and Martha were the means by which news traveled fast around here.
“Of course it was. She told us all about you, and you know our little Sally Sunshine hasn’t talked about anything else for days.”
Our little Sally Sunshine? Jack couldn’t help it. He smiled.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Percy said. “We’re the Pittles.”
No sooner had they shaken hands all around than Percy treated Jack to a resounding slap on the back, nearly propelling him headlong into Martha’s ample bosom. “You’re here to get the big scoop, aren’t you, Goldy?” They both chuckled merrily.
“Yes, sir. I am.”
Percy cleared his throat and turned serious. “Well, see son, the thing is, we’d love to have ya, but we’re all tied up here gettin’ ready for the annual peach-off. Whole town’ll be here for it tomorrow afternoon. Then, first thing Monday morning, Martha and I are headin’ to Grand Forks to visit the grandkids and, uh…”
“Now, Percy, don’t you be givin’ secrets away,” Martha admonished him with a stern warning look.
“Oh, right,” Percy said as Jack wondered what “secrets” a town like Grand Forks could harbor. “Well anyway, son, we’re closed for a week.”
Weary to the soles of his feet, thirsty, hungry, sweaty and only mildly curious as to what a peach-off might be, Jack asked if there wasn’t some way he could impose for just one night. The prospect of negotiating the valley’s dusty roads in search of a bed and bath was unbearable. He’d sooner crawl into the Mustang and die.
“Well…” Martha squinted at her husband. “There is the honeymoon suite. Bed’s made, at least.”
As Jack grew resigned to his impending suicide, the Pittles launched into a lengthy discussion of just whether or not they should be taking on a guest, what with all that was going on and…
“Squawwwwwwwwk.”
The screech coming from the far corner of the room gave Jack a jolt. He’d spotted the parrot in the gilded cage soon after entering the room, but had taken it for a stuffed ornament.
“Squawwwwwwwwk. Polly wants a martini.”
In a stern voice, Percy told the bird it was “too early” for cocktails, then turned to Jack. “Tell you what, Goldy. Martha and I have to run into town and pick up a few things for the party. If you’ll keep an eye on this place, we’ll give you that suite for the night.”
Jack said he couldn’t thank them enough, then followed Martha down a long hall and into a bed-sitting room fresh off a Norman Rockwell canvas. Big and bright, it had a quilted sleigh bed, a tea table, a hand-hewn rocking chair and a mess of needlepoint cushions only his mother could love. Actually the room was beautiful—if you liked little pink and green hearts.
Martha told him to help himself to whatever he wanted from the kitchen, then looked him over sadly. “Goldy, did you pack a bag? You’re lookin’ a little mangy ’round the edges.”
The Satellite occasionally sent him on overnight assignments, so Jack kept a shaving kit in the trunk of the Mustang, but he hadn’t brought a change of clothes along on this trip. “No, ma’am, I’m afraid I didn’t.”
“Tell you what. There’s a robe in your bathroom there. You leave your grubbies outside the door and I’ll put ’em in the washer. You’ll have to put ’em in the dryer, though. Can you manage that?”
Jack said he could. A cool shower, clean clothes, a snack, dinner with a pretty milkmaid and a comfortable bed. Things were looking up. As soon as Martha left the room, he gave up his clothes and went into the bathroom, only to discover that the “robe” in question was a woman’s pink paisley housecoat with a lace collar and satin piping. Nice. His beer buddies would howl.
After the Pittles left, he took a long, cool shower, donned the ridiculous robe and ambled into the kitchen. An apple and a hunk of cheese later, he called Marty McNab at the Satellite. “Hey, boss.”
“Hey, Jack. How’s it going? Did you get the big scoop?” There was the sound of a hand covering a receiver, some muffled chat and a chorus of howls. Obviously Marty had a room full of reporters covering the weekend beat.
“No, I didn’t, Marty.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I haven’t done the interview yet.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Well, it’s sort of complicated.”
Polly let out another squawk. “Polly wants a gin and tonic!”
“Who was that?” Marty asked. “Are you at a party?”
“No. Just so you know, I’m staying here tonight.”
“You’re kidding. Why?”
“Because I’m going to need more time than I thought, that’s why.”
From the tsk, tsk sound he made, you’d think Marty was trying to reason with an idiot. “Jack, Jack, Jack. There’s no story there, and you know it.”
“Really, boss? Then why did you send me here?”
Marty chuckled low in his throat.
“Anyway, there is a story here. At least I think there is.”
“Oh yeah? What’s the angle?”
“I’m not sure yet,” Jack said honestly. “Woman saves a dying town with ice cream—something like that.” He recalled the flush in Sally’s cheeks, the fire in her eyes, the passion in her pitch.
“For crying out loud, Jack. It was a joke.