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Chapter One
SWEET POTATO PUDDING
(from page 14 of The Way to a Man’s Heart by Beatrice Beaujold)
Want him to think you’re sweet enough to marry? This one’ll do the trick!
4 cups milk
3 cups grated sweet potato
4 eggs, lightly beaten
1 cup sugar
½ cup flour
2 teaspoons cinnamon
¼ teaspoon nutmeg
¼ cup butter
1 teaspoon salt
Combine everything in a large mixing bowl, then pour it into a casserole dish.
Bake at 350°F for 2 hours, serve, and watch your dreams come true!
Late Thursday afternoon, Josie Ross stood in the lobby of the Silver Moon Inn, cell phone and briefcase in one hand, suitcase in the other, and laptop computer slung over her shoulder, wondering if this was really where she was supposed to be or if someone at Page-turner Promotions had made a mistake.
She sincerely hoped it wasn’t the latter. If someone at the PR firm had made a mistake, it was bound to be herself since, at just a couple of months on the job, she was the newest member of the team. Somehow she’d lucked into promoting and assisting Beatrice Beaujold, one of Page-turner’s biggest clients and a major cookbook author, this weekend at the Rocky Top Chili Cook-off, so it was absolutely imperative that she make no mistakes.
This job was too important to her to risk losing it because she didn’t do right by one of their most important clients.
So she’d done her homework, learning all about the history of the contest, the town and, particularly, the author. She’d asked Beatrice’s editor for her impressions of the author, along with any special information Josie might need to know. The editor had complied, and that letter had arrived that morning as Josie was leaving. Now it, along with all of her notes and the generous appearance-fee check the brewery had cut for Beatrice, was tucked safely away in her locked briefcase in a large manila envelope marked Beatrice Beaujold.
Josie was prepared. It felt good.
With her confidence refreshed, Josie walked through the dark-wood lobby, looking for some sign of either the front desk or Beatrice Beaujold herself.
“Hey, baby,” said a dark, bearded man with foam encircling his mouth and a crocheted beer-can hat on his head. He raised a beer mug and sloshed some of the foamy head onto the floor. “Is it hot in here or is it just you?” He gave a lascivious grin and winked.
Josie just kept walking, marveling at how certain types of people—and specifically, the worst types of men—could be found anywhere and everywhere. She had a feeling that she would see more of them this weekend than usual.
What would Lyle think if he could see her now? Lyle Bancroft had been Josie’s fiancé for nearly five years. He’d left her at the altar the night of their wedding rehearsal. His reasoning, when he could finally be found to give it, was that Josie was too middle-class. Too practical. She wasn’t a Bancroft sort of woman. It all added up to the same thing: she wasn’t a debutante.
And if Lyle could see her now, in a somewhat shabby inn, surrounded by drunks and the smell of browning onions and chili spice, he would probably feel completely justified in his assessment of her. And, she knew now, he would probably be right.
Josie wandered around for a couple of minutes, unable to find anything that made this look like an inn rather than a frat house. Finally, she stopped a sharp-featured woman with bleached-blond hair and roots as black and gray as half-burned coals. “Excuse me,” she said. “Would you happen to know where the check-in desk is?”
“Chicken disk?” the woman repeated with a thick Southern accent. Her teeth were just a little larger than they should have been.
Josie hesitated. “I’m looking for the check-in desk.” She said it loud and clear, the way one might when speaking to someone whose first language wasn’t English. “You know, for my key.” She made a key-turning motion in the air.
The woman stared at Josie’s hand for a minute, then said in rapid-fire tones, “Yikin gitcher kay oust round there chicken disk, or yonder bind hatthere doorway.”
Josie listened with a complete lack of comprehension, leaning forward and straining to pick out even one or two words that she recognized. “Sorry,” she said, with an appreciative smile, when the woman ceased making noise. “I didn’t quite catch that.”
The woman looked exasperated. “I sayed, yikin gitcher kay oust round there chicken disk, or yonder bind hatthere doorway.” She gestured into the other room as if Josie were an idiot. “Thar.”
“Ah.” Josie nodded as if it had meant something.
“I see. Thank you very much.” She walked in the direction the woman had indicated, and found herself in a darkened hallway. With a doubtful glance backward, she kept walking and followed the hall around until it dead-ended in a foyer. From there she followed the sound of voices until she found herself right back in the room where she’d started, and right smack in front of the surprised face of the woman who’d directed her.
Josie gave a quick, polite smile and continued to follow the crowd to a doorway that had, moments earlier, been closed, but which was now open to reveal a large and obvious check-in area.
There was also a large display of Beatrice Beaujold’s book, The Way to a Man’s Heart: 100 Spicy Man-Luring Recipes.
Good. This was the right place.
After making a few minor aesthetic adjustments to the display, she moved to the end of the check-in line and took out her PalmPilot to review the weekend’s agenda. Thursday night: Beatrice signs books, talks with fans. Friday morning: book signing preliminary round, Beatrice judges. Friday night: free. Saturday: Beatrice—
“Can I help you, miss?”
Josie jerked her attention back to see a pale wisp of a brunette behind the desk. She had a faintly frightened look, like a small animal in the shadow of a large one. “Yes.” Josie snapped her PalmPilot shut and slipped it in her pocket. “Can you tell me if Beatrice Beaujold has checked in yet?”
“I don’t know,” the girl answered vaguely.
Her accent was light and Josie could understand her without any trouble, but when she didn’t say anything further, Josie wondered if the girl had trouble understanding her.
“It’s Beaujold,” she said. “B-E-A-U-J-O-L-D.” Silence. “Could you check, please?”
“Why, yes, yes, I could.”
Josie waited again while the girl did nothing.
“Would you?” she asked finally, realizing that this game was all about picking the right words.
“Certainly,” the girl responded, and looked at the computer screen before her. “No, she hasn’t arrived yet.” She nodded very seriously. “That’s what I thought.”
“Thanks for looking,” Josie said with some irritation. She set her bags down and took her wallet out of her purse. “I guess I’ll just go ahead and check in myself.”
Blank stare.
“My name’s Josephine Ross.” She gestured toward the computer. “I think you’ll find I’m in the room adjoining Ms. Beaujold’s suite. In fact, since I reserved both rooms, I may as well do the check-in for both now. I’ll give Ms. Beaujold her key when she comes in.” It was one small thing she could do to make things a little easier for Beatrice when she arrived. Josie took her brand-new company credit card out, set it on the counter and stepped back to wait. The smell of beer hung in the air like mist.
The girl took the card, ran it through the slider, then tapped at the computer with one finger. It took her about ten minutes, but she finally looked up and announced, “This card’s been declined.”
“What?” Josie’s jaw dropped.
“It was declined.” The girl started to take a pair of scissors out of the drawer.
“Whoa, wait a minute!” Josie snatched the card from the girl. “There must be some kind of mistake. I’ll call the company. Meanwhile, just use this one.” She foraged in her purse for her personal credit card and prayed there was enough room on it to cover expenses. Her savings had dipped very, very low while she was looking for a job. Page-turner had hired her just in the nick of time.
She waited uncomfortably for about five minutes until the girl handed the card back to her, along with a carbon slip for her signature. “I’ve signed you in. I’ll just get your keys.” Remarkably, she turned to do so without being specifically asked.
When she got the large brass keys, Josie thanked the girl, picked up her case and stepped away from the counter so the next poor guest could try their luck with her. Slipping the keys into her pocket, she took the company credit card back out of her purse and opened her cell phone so she could find out what the problem was.
Unfortunately, the phone registered that it couldn’t find a signal. She moved around the room, then out onto the deck, hauling her luggage along with her and watching the face of the phone for some sign of life.
“It’s no use, there’s no cell tower around here,” a kind-faced woman with bright blue eyes and apple cheeks said to Josie.
Josie felt like a foreigner abroad upon spotting an American compatriot. “You already tried?”
The woman smiled and took a similar phone out of her purse. “I’ve been trying since ten miles outside of Charlotte.”
“Well.” Josie put the phone away. “I guess I can do without it for a few days. Somehow.” She’d just use her card and fill out an expense report when she got back. She set her heavy bags down and held out her hand. “Josie Ross.”
The woman took it and smiled. “Dolores Singer. But you can call me Buffy.” She must have taken a lot of flack for her nickname in the past because before Josie could respond, she held up a hand and said, “Yes, seriously. To my great misfortune, I was a fan of Family Affair as a child and my father started calling me Buffy. Before I knew what hit me, it stuck. He meant well.”
“I loved that show.” Josie laughed, remembering that she even had a Mrs. Beasley doll once. “So, I’m guessing from your accent that you’re not from these parts.”
“Nope. Cleveland. How about you?”
“Manhattan. It feels like another planet.”
“I know what you mean,” Buffy agreed. “I like it. It’s so laid-back here. Very relaxing.”
Josie thought that forced relaxation was anything but relaxing, but she didn’t say it. “So, are you here for the chili cook-off? Representing Ohio with some Cincinnati-style chili, perhaps?”
Buffy shook her head. “Actually, I came to meet Beatrice Beaujold. She’s the one who wrote the manluring cookbook. I owe her a huge debt of gratitude.”
“You do? Why?”
“It’s thanks to her that I’m engaged to be married.”
“Really?” Josie asked, ever a sucker for romance, as long as it wasn’t close enough to break her heart.
“Because of her recipes?”
“I think so.” Buffy blushed. “He actually fell to his knees two bites into her sweet potato pudding at a Memorial Day picnic.” She shrugged. “All I can think is that it had something to do with the recipe because I sure didn’t see it coming.”
Josie was extremely skeptical, but she knew it was her job to foster this idea, not to discourage it. Rather than lie, she just remained silent.
“I know it sounds crazy, but I guess crazier things have happened.”
Josie smiled. “Congratulations. I hope you’ll be very happy.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s been nice chatting with you, but I need to go to my room to use the phone.”
“The rooms here don’t have phones.”
“What?”
“No phones in the rooms.”
Josie closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “So I’m guessing fax machines are out of the question.”
“Afraid so.” Buffy gave an understanding smile.
“It’s a little bit of a time warp, but I think it adds to the peaceful atmosphere.”
Josie sighed. This was not making her feel peaceful.
“Try the little hall just inside the front door,” Buffy suggested. “I think I saw a pay phone there.”
Josie thanked her and carried her things back into the hallway Buffy had described and set her heavy suitcase down. Sure enough, there was a pay phone, but it was about a hundred years old and the reception crackled like lightning before she even pressed zero for the operator. She fidgeted with the wire, trying to find a position in which the line was quiet enough to make a call, but it didn’t work.
Exasperated, she muttered an oath about tiny backward towns and put the phone down. God willing, there would be a working phone in her room. She’d go on up and make her call quickly so she didn’t miss Beatrice’s arrival. Satisfied with her plan, she went to pick up her suitcase.
It was gone.
How on earth had someone taken her suitcase? She had not been more than three feet away from it, and there was no one else around. How could someone have slipped in, taken the case and run off with it without her hearing a thing, all in the span of about a minute and a half?
She looked around, thinking someone must have moved it for some reason. It was no place obvious. She ran upstairs to check Beatrice’s room and her own, where she left the rest of her things. When she came back downstairs, she asked the girl at the check-in desk if someone who worked there had taken it to a back room, but she was only met with a blank stare and a contention that “We don’t have a back room for suitcases.”
“Is there a manager on duty?” Josie asked the girl, trying valiantly to keep her voice courteous even though she wanted to scream at the girl to wake up.
“There’s the owner. I guess you’d call her a manager.”
“Good,” Josie said, trying to take control of the situation. She thought of the check for Beatrice. The letter from her editor. “Would you please ask her to come speak with me?” she asked, her voice rising.
“Maybe she can help me get this sorted out.”
“Okay.” Smile. Nod.
Every muscle in Josie’s body tensed. “Could you do it now?”
“Oh. Okay.” She disappeared into a room behind the desk, and Josie took another look around the lobby. She covered the whole thing, everywhere she’d been. It was nowhere. She was about to go outside and check the wide wraparound front porch, when she was interrupted by a gentle Southern voice, like that of a character in Gone With the Wind.
“Excuse me, Ms. Ross?”
She turned to see a woman standing at the counter who looked like she was playing a Southern dame in a movie, her fingertips touching the forearm of one of the most shockingly handsome men Josie had ever seen.
“Ms. Ross, I’m Myrtle Fairfield and this is Dan Duvall,” the woman said, in that quiet, sweet voice steel magnolias tended to have. “He’s with the police. I understand you’ve had a little problem with your suitcase. Mr. Duvall is here to help.”
She wouldn’t have pegged him as a policeman. He looked more like a movie star. He was tall, with wavy dark hair and clear eyes the blue of a summer sky. Faint lines fanned out from the corners, giving him the pleasant expression of a man who smiled a lot.
“Thanks for your concern, Officer,” Josie said, all too aware that she hadn’t had the chance to go to her room and freshen up since the two-hour flight and three-hour drive here this morning. Alarm bells went off in her head, giving her the foolish impulse to primp and make herself more presentable for this Adonis, even as she realized that she shouldn’t care what he thought of her personally. She wasn’t only irritated by her reaction to him, she was surprised by it. It had been ages since she’d felt that stir in her chest, but this kind of guy—one so gorgeous you just knew he had a stable of women to choose from—was not the kind of guy she wanted to start thinking romantic thoughts about.
