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She shrugged. “Payment’s in full. Up front. Cash preferred.”
Naomi had warned him of Lynette’s affection for cash. No plastic card was accepted, but as he pulled out his wallet, he noted the rest of the office asserted a predilection for plastic. On the counter, plastic—not silk—daffodils leaned out of a hot pink plastic vase with seashells glued on it. The bead curtain was plastic. Plastic covered the lampshade by the cash register. He shifted his feet, heard a crackle. Plastic runner.
After opening his wallet and removing the cash, he glanced down at the registration card she slid in front of him.
“Fill it out completely—including home address. I’ll need your license plate number, too, in case you go sneaking off with my towels.” She looked out the side window. “Where’s your car?” Her eyes narrowed again.
“It’ll be towed in.” He focused on the card. Home address. There it was again. Home. By habit, he put down the address of the pyrotechnic corporation with whom he contracted. He was rarely at the condo he rented with a pilot.
She took the completed card Sparks offered her. “Doug?”
“I go by Sparks.”
A twinkle at last thawed the frosty, faded eyes.
“Bet there’s a story there.” Her tone returned to business. “The town’s got us a drought going on, so we change the towels and sheets twice a week ’stead of every day.”
He nodded. A quick survey out the window showed no on-site restaurant. “No restaurant?”
Turning away from him with the card in her hand, Lynette slid it into a pocket of a numbered canvas wall hanging. “No need for me to monopolize making money. Dew Drop Inn Café’s over there. Place for those of us over thirty and tourists who want local color.” She gestured behind him; Sparks followed. Across the street sat a cinder block building with wide glass windows and a prominent sign announcing a “Squat and Gobble Special” of eggs, biscuits, cream sausage gravy and hash browns. No lights on and a closed sign on the front door. His stomach rumbled.
Lynette peered at him. “Nothing’s open this late... Tomorrow, start of Memorial Day weekend, you can also go to the Dairy Delite at the other edge of town or Angel Wings BBQ here on Main.” She leaned her forearms on the counter. With money in hand, her tone of voice became positively chatty. “So you’re here to bail out Naomi?”
“You must be thinking of somebody else.” He dredged up a smile, wincing at the sting. Everything he owned ached. Longing for bed, he added quickly, “I’m only here to design the Fourth of July Jamboree fireworks. Technicians come from Evanston to set up the actual display. Pretty much, I’m on vacation.” Before he opened the door to leave, he remembered. “I’ll need directions to her office, though.”
“Won’t do you any good. Naomi’s had another stroke.” Lynette’s watery gray eyes scanned him. “We’re waiting for poor little Emma to save us.”
He nodded, and moments later, as he stood in the doorway of room number twenty-seven, Lynette’s departing statement lingered. Poor little Emma must be Naomi’s hapless assistant. Did this mean working for Naomi would be...difficult?
Holding the handles of his two suitcases, he surveyed the room with no relief found from a gathering sense of gloom or his aching muscles. The two full-size beds in front of him, one with a distinct hollow in the middle and both draped with red and saffron zigzag bedspreads, shouted 1970s, as did the crimson velvet paisleys raised on the gold wallpaper. He spied a rotary desk phone on the nightstand. At least there was a phone.
Walking over faded yellow shag carpet, he picked up the receiver to call the rental company. No dial tone. So that hazel-eyed angel girl had already known the secret. Hence her smile, the smile he wanted to remember and see again.
Reminiscing about the four-star hotels he’d enjoyed in Chicago, DC, Paris and Tokyo, he rotated his shoulders. Hadn’t he wanted a break from the globetrotting for a touch of hometown America?
He chose the least concave bed and plopped his suitcases on the other. The bed dropped a couple inches lower. He shrugged. “Best to look on the bright side.” Mother Egan, a fond memory from growing up at the orphanage, had had a million such sayings; every now and then one popped out of his mouth.
Sleep was his next order of business. Once he’d slept, his head would stop banging and his bones would settle back into place. After he met this unfortunate Emma, he’d explore his summer hometown.
Forty-six glorious days of vacation.
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_74df6dc0-c052-52b5-9164-46a9a296a785)
EMMA PEERED INTO her grandmother’s hospital room where monitors glowed and beeped. Chet sat next to the narrow bed, his arms folded on the railing, head pillowed on them. Sweet Chet. The only person in Heaven who wasn’t afraid of her grandmother, other than Emma’s childhood friend Zoo. Emma stepped forward.
Nomi looked old. Her face, usually bright with vigor or pique, hung sallow. So many machines connected, like when Grumpa was here. So still. Had she—? Nomi moved her right leg slightly under the sheet and blanket.
Letting out the breath Emma didn’t know she’d been holding, she moved over to Chet and touched him on the arm. He jerked, then straightened.
“E?” Worry creased his wrinkles into gullies while his remaining white hair stuck up at every angle. She managed to lift her lips into a semblance of a smile as he gripped her hand. “Thank the good Lord you’re finally here.” No judgment sharpened his words, merely relief. If Nomi had said the same thing, it would have been clear that Emma had taken too long and someone else had had to shoulder her share of the burden.
Nodding toward her grandmother, Emma returned Chet’s squeeze. “How is she?”
“I’m scared, E.” He related the few details he knew: she fell, someone—nobody knew who—called the paramedics, and they brought her to Regional. She was stable. “I’ll leave you alone with her and wait outside.”
Her grandmother stirred. Picking up Nomi’s hand, Emma held it as Nomi lay unresponsive. “Tomorrow. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she whispered.
Nomi’s lids rose slowly. “Trr-ouble,” she whispered through dry lips. Emma reached for a plastic glass with a flexible straw. Her grandmother sipped with shallow swallows.
“Yes,” Emma whispered back, a tear sneaking out of her eye. “It’s trouble, but you’ll be fine. You always are.”
“Sparks. Sparks.” Naomi’s head jerked against the pillow.
Had there been a fire the night of the stroke? Emma’s eyebrows slammed together.
“Take care of...trouble...” Her grandmother’s attempt at speaking alarmed the monitors. Emma stroked Nomi’s arm. Her grandmother would survive trouble. A plan of action for every crisis.
At Emma’s touch, she quieted and appeared to fall asleep.
After watching her grandmother to make sure her sleep was peaceful, Emma joined Chet in the hall. They walked silently through the hospital out toward the parking lot.
As long as there were memories, Nomi and Grumpa were in them. When a fireman came to school in second grade, some kid had asked her if her smoke jumper daddy had been a hero. She wasn’t sure, so she asked her grandmother. Nomi had hesitated, her hands stilling on the fridge door. She’d just returned from her office where she served as mayor and was pulling leftovers out for dinner.
“He did what he felt he had to do,” she’d answered, then she’d told Emma to go set the table. Heroes did what they had to do. Emma had decided if you couldn’t have a father, at least you could have a hero father in heaven. The other heaven.
Emma rubbed the vertical line between her brows that matched her grandmother’s. She knew little of her father, other than he’d left to go smoke jumping and had died.
As a child, she’d been told her mother—whoever she was—had had to go away, asking Nomi and Grumpa to take care of her. Grumpa had said that, so it must be true.
Emma had learned a little more as an early teen. Evidently, her mother had been too much of a teenager herself to handle a baby. Despite the fierce love of her grandmother and the gentle care of her Grumpa, a certain emptiness in Emma had never filled, the being left part. Being left had rendered her unable to call the town home. It set a pattern in motion. Temporary relationships only.
After hugging Chet in the hospital’s parking lot, she slid into the Omni and drove to the house where she’d grown up. She pulled the car onto the double-cemented lines of the driveway. Tomorrow she’d find out her grandmother’s details—or rather, checking her watch, later today—and head back to Salt Lake.
Straightening up, with her stomach continuing to grumble as it had in the hospital, Emma resolved to explore her grandmother’s fridge.
Movement next door at Feral Beryl’s drew her glance. Naomi’s archenemy had peeked out the kitchen window above the Berlin Wall, a tall wooden fence between the two properties. More than a property divider, it divided the have-not Beryl Winsome from the have-it-all Chambers. Beryl was a singularly unpleasant woman.
Emma pulled out her suitcases and approached the bungalow. Fatigue dripped down her neck like perspiration, and her suitcases, rolling behind her, weighed a ton. Lilac bushes that were as high as her waist as a child now towered over her five foot something. They glowed in the dark, lighting both sides of the flagstones to the house. Although chokecherry bushes almost past blooming partially blocked her view, the porch swing peeked through.
Back in the day, when Grumpa could get Nomi to “stop doing and come out and just be,” the three of them would sit in silence on the porch. Grumpa and Emma would be on the swing, Nomi sitting on the floor with her head against Grumpa’s knees. Nomi would jump up for something; Grumpa would say in the voice Nomi called his “bank president” tone, “Leave it, Naomi. The child’s more important.” And Nomi would sit down again.
Her grandmother, never quiet for long, would commence talking about how important it was that Emma make good choices. Clearing his throat, Grumpa would interrupt with another story about the fierce Lady Emma, a young girl extraordinaire who fought dragons and won. When his deep voice finished the story, silence would surround them like an old afghan. Until Nomi would make a surprised sound and exclaim, “Raymond, Emma is beyond bedtime!”
“Come along, Miss Beyond Bedtime,” he would say, and carry her off to bed. They would pray, her last sight Grumpa’s silhouette in the doorway. “Remember, I love you a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck, Lady Emma.”
Smiling now, Emma walked through the open side gate, around the corner of the house and up the back steps. Sure enough, the door was unlocked, as were most houses in Heaven. She was in before she heard a new sound: a low growl and light panting.
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_431c7b6e-50d5-59c8-acec-56df5f4a6c3d)
THE HEADACHE HAD disappeared by the time Sparks awoke later that morning. While orienting himself to yet another new ceiling, he rubbed his neck reflexively. Traveling often left him muddled about which state, which city, even which country he’d landed in. Then, as he stretched his arms over his head, his muscles rushed to remind him, prompting him to recall as well the woman who’d rescued him.
First, there was the immediate intimacy of the little car and how careful she was to keep to her side. Second, her genuine concern for his head, those watchful side glances from the hazel eyes. Where had she been going with such intensity? He groaned again and rolled out of bed.
After a quick shower and shave, he dressed and left his room for the Dew Drop. He needed to get the scoop on Naomi, Emma and the Jamboree deal, and a local diner always had folks in the know. As he stepped off the curb, he winced. Better keep moving today or those muscles would stiffen up.
The pungent mixture of strong coffee and grease filled his nose not unpleasantly as he opened the diner’s glass door and stepped inside. Although Sparks had eaten some great food in great places across the planet, he still preferred American cardiac-zone cooking.
Most of the booths were full, and the counter didn’t have an empty swivel stool. The clatter of plates, silverware and voices rang against the red-wallpapered walls and aluminum wainscoting. A Coca-Cola clock from years past hung over the half circle of counter space.
“Coffee?” A middle-aged woman waved a coffeepot at him as she caught his glance. He shook his head no, Coke being his caffeine of choice, and continued to look around. When he spotted three men in work clothes crammed in a red Naugahyde booth, he turned toward them. They broke off their conversation, which seemed to center around farm equipment. “I’m here for the summer—fireworks guy for the Jamboree.” He gestured to the space next to the one man sitting alone. “Mind if I join you?”
After staring at him as if he’d spoken in a foreign language, the three men nodded, and the one slid over. The server approached. Sparks opened the menu and ordered a Coke and chicken fried steak with mashed and vegetable medley. At eleven o’clock, it was only a bit early for lunch. He’d really slept in.
“You the guy who crashed that rental in the canyon?” A man with a John Deere cap enquired, thick fingers wrapped around a white stoneware mug.
Sparks nodded sheepishly.
“I’m Willard,” said a big bald man who looked as if he was meeting a celebrity. Having a license to blow things up had that effect on some people.
The man extended his hand. Sparks nodded, shaking the proffered paw, then swallowed some of the Coke that had quickly appeared.
“We’ve never had bigger fireworks than what the fire department put on. The rest are illegal...until you cross into Wyoming,” Willard explained, rubbing his head.
“Special license for entertainment purposes. I get them all the time,” Sparks said.
“That’s Mayor Naomi looking out for us—bringing in something that makes more money, knowing what trouble we’re in.” This was the guy with the John Deere cap. Even with his muttered voice, Sparks had caught that his name was Duff and he owned the Feed-N-Seed in town.
“Lynette mentioned an Emma,” Sparks said, leaving out the part about Emma saving the town. “Who’s she?”
Ray, rail thin and appearing older than the other two, leaned back against the booth, lifted his IFA cap and scratched his scalp. Replacing the cap, he pierced Sparks with a look.
“Closest shot we have to pulling our butts out of the fire. She’s Raymond and Naomi’s granddaughter.”
“I don’t know ’bout whether she’d come back,” Willard said. “You know how she and Naomi left things...” he trailed off, looking like a basset that had had his ears stepped on.
“Oh? So why are your butts in the fire?” Sparks asked.
“Money,” the three men chorused.
“She’ll come back.” That was Ray. He spoke with finality, but Sparks noted the look he tossed Duff.
Sparks jiggled the ice in his empty glass, watching for the server, both for a refill and his breakfast. “Town doesn’t look as if there’s a money problem...everything here looks freshly painted, well maintained.” Sparks tapped his fingers—as was his habit—on the table. He wanted to hear the Jamboree was right on track, meaning his money was right on track, meaning his vacation was right on track.
Duff piped up around the hot beef sandwich he was shoveling in his mouth. “We work hard to make the town look good. Too many dried up little Western towns.” He swallowed his mouthful. “Trouble is, we’ve had some winters that ate up funds with snow removal. All that snow still didn’t kill the drought.” A deep drink of coffee followed.
“My money’s on Emma not coming back,” Willard stated flatly. “She’s not been back since—”
“She’ll be back. Emma’s local,” Ray interrupted.
Listening, but not really, Sparks smiled at the server who set down a full plate, plunking another Coke in front of him, as well. Sparks breathed in the aroma of creamy sausage gravy over crispy fried cube steak, lumpy mashed potatoes and a watery pile of vegetables. He picked up his knife and fork. Ignoring the conversation flowing around him, he sliced a piece of meat, ran it through the gravy and slid it into the pile of mashed potatoes. He sighed, the focus on his aches and pains shifted to this gastronomical delight.
Moments later, as he tuned back into the conversation, the three men were now discussing the Jamboree and the cancelled one-and-only volunteer organizational meeting. Naomi’s skills must be better than his to run a Jamboree off one meeting. Then again, most people’s skills in that area were better than his, and now even his dependability had been called into question by his boss. This job had to go well.
“Can’t Naomi’s husband plan the Jamboree?” Sparks asked.
The three men looked at him as though he’d thrown a pitchfork of manure into the conversation instead of a question. Then they chuckled.
“Be hard for him,” Ray said. “He’s been dead for almost two years.”
Duff jumped in. “By the way—” he gestured to Sparks’s plate “—you don’t want to eat that medley.”
“Right.” Sparks restrained the overcooked vegetables from contaminating the rest of the meal. He didn’t see the problem with who ran the event—it was a small-town Jamboree after all. The problem he saw was his summer slipping down the drain if someone didn’t step up. He put another bite of meat and potato into his mouth. He hoped this Emma would show up, and soon.
Willard seemed determined to drive home his morose observations. “I’m telling you, Emma is gone. I was at the funeral that day.” All eyes were on him. “Emma and Naomi might have been in the kitchen but most of the US of A heard them, even if everyone pretends they didn’t to Naomi’s face.” He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “It was a knock-down, drag-out fight, likely to raise Raymond from the dead.”
“Emma’s usually so quiet.” Ray didn’t sound convinced. “I wasn’t able to pay my respects till later. Naomi seemed fine then, like always.”
“Quiet around her grandmother, maybe,” Duff interjected. “She didn’t used to be that way. Older she got, less you heard from her.” He swirled his coffee.
Sparks squirmed. Add a hair dryer or two and this could be the Hattie’s Dyed and Gone hair place he’d noticed down the street. Emma, trained by Naomi, would be a clone of the fire-breathing Naomi. He tried to imagine a younger Naomi. No nonsense. Barking orders and expecting obedience every step of the way.
“Why don’t one of you plan it if Emma doesn’t show?” he asked.
Ray choked on his last forkful of pie. Willard looked as though Sparks had suggested he strip naked and run down Main Street, and Duff started laughing until tears ran down his face.
“Nobody but Naomi has done the Jamboree since Moses was in preschool,” Willard replied.
Looking down at his plate, Sparks leaned back. “Well, bigger fireworks will bring in more people who will then spend money.” Although the budget she had faxed fell miles below his usual, he knew the results would still knock the socks off anyone attending this small-town celebration.
Willard opened his mouth, but after catching the expressions on his friends’ faces, he reddened, snapped his lips shut and stared at the table. Sparks frowned. What didn’t Willard’s friends want him to say? Sparks watched the faces close up, wondering if everyone in town knew everyone’s business or if they saved energy and focused on The First Family, the Chamberses.
Not having a family, and with traveling so much, people only knew what Sparks told them; nothing more, nothing less. Some things people didn’t need to know. Some secrets needed to stay buried.
Looking at his watch, Duff sighed and slid out of the booth, turning a weary face to the remaining men. “Gotta get back to the store. Missus was holding down the fort for me while I went for coffee break.” He checked the watch again and headed to the cash register, bill in hand.
Ray inclined his head toward Sparks. “Room okay?”
With a contented expulsion of breath after finishing his meal, Sparks sipped his third Coke. “Yeah, other than the phone doesn’t work and it’s decorated like a time warp, everything’s good with me.”
Willard snorted as he held his stomach while Ray slapped his hand on the table and hee-hawed.
“Phones over at the Safari don’t ever work.” Ray wiped his eyes, then brought the mug to his lips.
Sparks raised his eyebrows. “The sign out front says phones in every room.”
Ray explained that there were phones in every room; they just didn’t work. When Lynette had bought the place back in the early seventies, they didn’t work. She’d just left them there so she wouldn’t have to redo the neon sign.
Ray punched Willard on the shoulder. “Move. I gotta get.”
