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“Well, you must come to dinner. Mustn’t he, Elsa?”
“Yes, he absolutely must.”
Dinner? Not likely. Jack was getting his car, he was getting what he’d come here to get and he was getting out. “Thank you, ladies, but I’m only in town for a couple of hours.”
Elvira snickered. “A couple of hours. Now isn’t that funny? That was what Charlie said, wasn’t it, Elsa?”
“Oh yes, Elvira. Two hours. Those were his exact words.”
Jack smiled politely. Like everyone else in the Vancouver news world, he knew all about Charlie Sacks. Back in the seventies, the once venerable editor of the Satellite had tried to pass through Peachtown but somehow got stuck here. Before Charlie knew what had hit him, the poor guy was hitched to that year’s Peach Pit Princess and chained to a desk at the Peachtown Post, a cheesy little weekly with a circulation no bigger than his wedding invitation list. Around the Satellite he was known as Sad Sacks, the fool who squandered a promising career for love.
Nothing could persuade Jack to stick around this sleepy little orchard town in the Okanagan Valley—not love or money or, even famished as he was, a good home-cooked meal. In fact, he couldn’t imagine living in any small town. Vancouver was it for him. Or, New York. Maybe even Paris, where his father had once been stationed. The cafés and clubs and shops. The sidewalks that vibrated under your feet. The beautiful women on those sidewalks, looking good just for him.
And the stories—a million of them, all waiting for his magic keyboard.
“I appreciate the invitation,” he told the women honestly. “But I’m afraid I’ll have to take a rain check. I must get back to work.” Real work, that is.
“Is that so?” Elvira sounded just like his mother. “Well, it can wait. Sunday dinner. Tomorrow. Seven sharp. We’ll make all your favorites.”
“I’d love to, ma’am, but…ah, my favorites?”
“Yes, your favorites. Seven sharp. In the meantime, have a flower on us, and have a nice day.” She thrust a long-stemmed pink rose into Jack’s free hand, the one that still had a functioning circulatory system, and released him.
“Listen, I really can’t…”
“Seven sharp,” Elvira snapped over her shoulder as the sisters waltzed away. “Twenty-nine Silver Creek Road. Don’t be late.”
Shaking his head, Jack set off in the opposite direction. He’d forgotten how friendly people were in these little towns. Regardless, he hoped the women wouldn’t be too disappointed when he failed to show. It was nice of them to extend the invitation, especially to a stranger, but tomorrow night he’d be far from here, in every sense.
Still, there was no reason to hurt their feelings…What the hell, he’d look them up later today and at least beg off nicely.
As he strode toward the dairy bar, his eyes recorded every detail of Main Street. The dressmaker’s shop with the vintage Singer sewing machine in the window. The hardware store that, according to its hand-painted marquee, doubled as the town’s pizza delivery outlet. The drugstore, the barbershop, the Peachtown Post.
And, of course, Cora’s Café, scene of the crime.
Glancing through the window, Jack saw that the restaurant was now empty. For that matter the whole town seemed deserted. Curious, that. Next to fruit and wine, tourism was the valley’s biggest industry. On a hot Saturday afternoon in late July, Peachtown should have been jammed with sightseers.
It was a pretty place, he’d give it that. Of course, all these little valley towns were picturesque. On the drive in, he’d been blown away by the expansive beauty of the region. The sprawling farms and orchards, the vineyards nestled into the hillsides rising up from the shores of Lake Okanagan, the big country houses with white clapboard siding and dormer windows. It was nice—in a quaint, countrified sort of way. There were none of the usual strip malls and gourmet coffee shops that marred the landscape between Vancouver and the province’s interior. Time seemed to have stood still here.
Nobody seemed in a hurry—that was for sure. A pickup truck cruising well below the posted speed limit had tested his patience for nearly fifty miles. Then, a herd of cows had held him up for what felt like a year while they clomped across the asphalt at a snail’s pace. A chicken strutting jauntily down the road by itself had given him a good laugh, though.
Somewhere between here and there his own feathers had settled down. He wasn’t bitter about this assignment—not exactly. Humiliated was more like it. Imagine a Gobey winner being assigned to write about a brand of ice cream that people said was the best they’d ever tasted. Imagine any reporter with ten years experience getting stuck with covering the story.
For one thing, it wasn’t news—it was a classic grab for free publicity. Jack’s editor, Marty McNab, had gotten the story lead from a Darville Dairy news release. Little companies like Darville were always trying to get free promotional space in the Satellite. Normally Marty ignored them.
For another thing, even if it were news, it would be regional news. Who among the Satellite’s sophisticated urban readers would give a tinker’s damn about it? Nobody, including Jack himself.
Our subscribers are complaining that all the news we print is bad, Marty had tried to tell him. We need something light, something fun.
Yeah, well, he could call it light. He could call it fun. He could call it whatever he wanted, but Jack knew it by its real name: punishment. He didn’t think he’d acted badly after winning the award. Apparently others disagreed. He cringed, recalling the banter around the Satellite newsroom these past few weeks. Hey, did you hear about the Gobey? They’re renaming it the Goldby. Marty had joked: You must be exhausted from carrying that ego around. Think of this assignment as a vacation.
Oh well, at least it wouldn’t take long to bang the piece off. A quick interview with Sally Darville. Four hours back to the west coast. An hour on the laptop. End of punishment.
The shops along Main Street eventually gave way to little A-framed houses with big side-yards, every one chafing under the brutal midafternoon sun. Jack squinted up the street. Just ahead was the sign announcing the dairy bar. People were lined up three deep for at least a block beyond the small white building. No wonder the town’s other streets were deserted.
Beyond the crowd, something glinted bright red under the sun. The Mustang! Jack took off. Soon the car was in plain sight. Two men were hunched over it, doing God only knew what while a cluster of people watched. Jack’s heart started to pound, and not just from the running.
“Hey you!” he hollered when the men were within earshot. They straightened and casually turned to face him. A few feet shy of the car, Jack ground to a halt. Reeling from shock, he glanced from face to identical face. The little thieves were barely five feet tall and couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds each. Could they be dwarves? Identical, car-napping dwarves?
“How old are you?” he demanded, dripping sweat and gasping for air.
“We’re twelve, but we’ll be thirteen next week,” one of the boys replied with obvious pride.
Flabbergasted, Jack took a moment to absorb that. “Twelve? But…you’re not even old enough to drive!”
“We drive very responsibly, sir,” the other boy assured him.
“He’s right. They do,” a man in the group said. Peach-colored ice cream circled his mouth and dripped off his chin onto a dark blue mechanic’s uniform with the name Ted stitched across one breast pocket.
“Which one are you?” Jack asked the boy who’d just spoken. The twins had matching dark hair, matching Jughead ears, matching everything.
“Terry, sir.”
“I’m Tommy,” the other one said. “Nice to meet you.”
It was then that Jack spotted the yellow chamois resting atop the Mustang’s shiny hood. The boys hadn’t been vandalizing his car—they’d been buffing it to a fine polish. Helpless to do anything else, Jack burst out laughing. While the little thieves exchanged frowns, he tossed his head back and laughed until he couldn’t laugh anymore.
Sobering, he trained a stern eye on them. “Listen, boys, you can’t just go around relocating people’s cars.”
“Why not?” they asked.
“Never mind.” Jack opened the driver’s side door and tossed Elvira Jackson’s tea rose onto the passenger seat. His cellphone was still there, along with his leather satchel and laptop computer. There was cash lying around, too, but the boys hadn’t touched it.
“Hummer car,” the man with the messy face said as the twins stepped away from the Mustang, giving it one last, reverent look. “Is that the original paint job?”
Jack ignored him. “Listen, I don’t suppose either of you know the way to Darville Dairy?” he asked the twins.
“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 porcelain blue, like hers.
She gulped. “I see you had no trouble finding us.”
He smiled, but it was a cold smile that didn’t reach those baby blues. “No trouble at all. Shall we get started?”
“Um, get started?”
“Yes. On the interview. I’m a little pressed for time.”
Pressed for time? On Saturday? “Gee, that’s too bad. I thought you might enjoy a tour of the dairy barn first.”
“The dairy barn?” His expression suggested he couldn’t imagine setting foot in such a place.
“Yes.” Sally indicated behind her, which was dumb, of course. He couldn’t possibly see the dairy operation and her parents’ house through the trees. No matter—he didn’t bother to look anyway.
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary. I just have a few questions for you. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours. Is there someplace we could sit?” His gaze went to the patio table, then back to her.
Sally couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “A couple of hours? But you have to stay longer than that! I’ve planned all sorts of things for us.”
A frown etched the smooth, symmetrical lines of Jack Gold’s face. Sally recognized the look from her three years away at university in Vancouver. It said, I’m an important person. Don’t even dream of wasting my time.
“Really?” His frown deepened. “What sort of things?”
