Love in a Small Town Read online

  LOVE IN A SMALL TOWN

  by

  Betty Jo Schuler

  ISBN: 978-1-927111-08-6

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Books We Love

  192 Lakeside Greens Drive

  Chestermere, Alberta, T1X 1C2

  Canada

  Copyright 2011 by Betty Jo Schuler

  Cover Art Copyright 2011 by Michelle Lee

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Chapter One

  Browning, city limits. "Yes." Sam Champion tapped a fist against the steering wheel. All he saw was a string of farmhouses, but the sign reassured him; his mother's birthplace was still on the map and two long days of driving would come to a close.

  Rotating his shoulders against the back of the seat, he looked at the clock on the van's dashboard for the hundredth time since he left an Iowa motel that morning. He was due at Joe Bottomley's office at eleven o'clock, and thanks to getting stuck behind farm machinery on a dusty two-lane country road, it was ten minutes past noon. There should be a law against detours.

  The road curved suddenly and a billboard loomed ahead. Grow Browning. Sunlight bounced off ears of brilliant yellow corn and iridescent green leaves. Cornstalks formed the letters, and the roots were made up of…people. Men, women, and children branched out below the stalks, anchoring them in the ground. At the bottom of the billboard were changeable numbers like those on a baseball scoreboard. Population: 3653.

  The numbers were a novel touch. Would the population automatically change to 3654 when he passed by, or did he have to move into the old Thornbury place? His mother talked fondly of her hometown. "Everybody goes back, at least once."

  Maybe that was why, to see if the number changed. Sam chuckled for the first time since he left Phoenix two days ago. Slaphappy from staring into clouds of dust, he'd realized Indiana must be suffering a drought.

  The state road passed through town, and at one time, probably brought in a lot of commerce. Now, most people took the interstate, an option offered a dozen miles back. Many small towns suffered the same plight, but someone must be trying to save this burg. Sam had only lived in a small town once, an experience he barely remembered. But he liked city life. Starbucks. Cyber cafes. Theaters. Concerts. Small town life was for homebodies. Maybe if he were married, he'd feel differently, but he doubted it. Whenever Mom talked about Browning, Dad's standard retort was, "You'd have to be crazy to return once and damned bored to go back at all." Sam never intended to come back, but it seemed his mother had other plans for him.

  The farmhouses gave way to homes set close together, and just ahead, he saw the downtown district. Joe Bottomley said his law office was in the first block. "Can't miss it," he said.

  "Want to bet?" He just did. You could miss the whole town if you blinked twice. He circled a block and went back to park on the right side of the street in front of the attorney's office. Finally. Grumbling, he got out on the driver's side and walked around.

  Sam stopped dead. There was a sign in the window. "Closed. Come back again."

  He strode to the door of the law office, hoping someone might still be inside. Sunlight reflected off the glass, so he was six inches away before he spotted a note taped inside, facing out. "S.C., pick up your key next door. Had to go out. J.B."

  He stalked to the next building where the glass door bore the word Mayor in gold letters. "CLOSED," a sign flipped over in the glass window, announced boldly. Another sign gave the hours, and the mayor's office, open five days a week, closed at noon. Talk about a one-horse town. It was so quiet in Browning, you could hear the corn growing if it wasn't dying from the drought. His green van was so thickly coated with dust a passerby—if there was one—wouldn't recognize the color.

  Sam was about to turn around when a wisp of breeze fluttered a pink notepaper taped to the mailbox labeled, "Mayor." Under that, there was another box with "Municipal Service" painted on it in…coral nail polish?

  What person with good sense would tape a note where it could blow away or someone take it? Not that there was much likelihood of either in this lifeless town. He pulled the paper loose to read a scrawling note penned in purple ink. "You're late. Pick up your key at Inner Radiance across the street."

  "Radiance?" His word echoed in the silence.

  Sam, crossing the street, felt like he'd entered a strange Alice-in-Wonderland-type world with no one there but him, and no sound, only handwritten messages.

  * * *

  Sam Whozit was slower than molasses in January.

  Lily Madison, standing at the plate glass window of her shop, Inner Radiance, looked up and down the main street. It wasn't every day Browning got a new resident and the grand old Thornbury house had stood empty since before she moved in next door. Of course, she was curious. Who wouldn't be?

  Tapping a fingernail against her teeth, she glanced at her Cinderella watch and returned to peering. The sun shone brightly on Indiana this early June day, but no one was in sight.

  Lily snatched a feather duster from under a counter and waved it over a eucalyptus wreath in the display window, stirring up a soothing aroma. Leaning forward, she inhaled deeply. Sam…she didn't know his last name…was late. Closing her eyes, she tried to picture what a "Sam" would look like, but all she could envision was the noontime crowd, minus one, at Jodie's Chrome Grill.

  She loved the friendly chatter and laughter, with the soft clink of coffee cups and the enticing voice of Elvis spilling forth from the jukebox in the background. Today, she'd eaten stale peanut butter crackers at a black enameled table in the back room of Radiance, alone.

  Jodie's, the town's only restaurant was the heart of Browning. The love life of Jodie Davis, proprietor, was a real life soap opera, and Lily suspected many of the regulars came for the next episode as much as they did for her home cooking.

  Teeny Williams, owner of the local bed and breakfast, and Miss Rosalind China, long-retired schoolmarm, blushed to the roots of their white hair at some of Jodie's accounts. But let someone drop a coin in the jukebox making those ladies miss a word, and rumor had it Miss China would rap her spoon against her plate.

  Striding to the back room, Lily chuckled as she filled an enameled watering can. The hanging ferns needed watered and she might as well put her time to good use. If Sam were married with kids, it would be nice to hear children's laughter ringing out. Residents on Vine Street were mostly older folks, like the owner of Lily's house, Jenny Oates.

  Lily had nothing against elderly people, and she visited Jenny regularly since she'd gone into a nursing home with a broken hip, but it was so quiet in the neighborhood, she could almost feel herself growing old, alone.

  She mounted a stepstool, watering can in hand. If Sam was a handsome, eligible bachelor who was instantly attracted to her, life would be perfect. Like that was going to happen. Ha. The townspeople's sons, and daughters, moved away after high school, and most never returned except to visit. She'd left too but she'd come back, and the only time she'd questioned her decision was now, when twenty years after receiving a "Dear Lily letter" from Nick Noland, it looked as if she'd be attending their twentieth class reunion, single and alone.

  * * *

  Heat stuck Sam's white polo shirt to his back, and perspiration wet the waistband of his khaki pants. The van's air-conditioning and tinted windows made his cross-country drive bearable, but once he stepped out on the sidewalks of Browning, humidity wilted
his clothes and spirit.

  Standing before the glass door of Inner Radiance, Sam pulled himself up to his full height of six feet. This didn't look like a man's store. Running a hand across his new short haircut, he stepped inside the cool interior where a mélange of scents and an array of glass bottles shining under bright lights dazzled him. The door's closing fanned wisps of colored silk and tinkled wind chimes hung from the ceiling. The flow of air fluttered green fronds across the back of the shop, drawing his gaze. But it was a pair of legs that caught his eye, propelling him across plush blue carpeting.

  Shapely tanned legs went up and up, from yellow-sandaled feet atop a waist-high stool to a brief yellow skirt. Sam's eyes skimmed over a white blouse and finally reached a flow of dark red hair. "Ahem."

  The woman gasped and dropped her watering can. She teetered on the step stool. "Careful." He rushed forward.

  She grasped one of the hanging ferns to steady herself, and it fell. She flailed the air. He rounded the counter, arms extended, ready to catch her. She clutched at a shelf. A bottle teetered, fell, and hit him in the head. He staggered backward, eyes and teeth clenched in pain.

  "I'm so sorry."

  He shook his head, trying to clear his vision. It didn't work. He could hear her scrambling down, feel her pushing him into a sitting position on the stool where she'd stood, smell a mixture of…lavender…and…citrus? "Are you okay?" she asked.

  Sam touched his head cautiously, hoping not to find blood. Her breath was warm on his forehead. He opened his eyes and gasped. Clear green eyes locked into his, just inches away. Luscious lips puckered into a frown. She pushed back his hair, tunneling through it with gentle hands. Had he died and gone to heaven? Or was she an apparition brought about by the blow?

  The red-haired beauty leaned closer to examine his head more closely. "Speak to me." Grasping a handful of hair, she tipped his head back and he saw worry in her emerald eyes, but she must have seen lust in his because she let go abruptly.

  His head bobbed. He groaned. Water trickled across the floor toward the fallen fern, and he watched it, still stunned."I'm glad you didn't come unpotted," she said.

  Sam thought she was talking to him and wondered what the expression meant, until he saw her patting moist black dirt into place. Realizing her concern was for the plant and not him, he used all the air left in his lungs to clear his throat.

  "I know you're here, and don't start that again. Your ahem started this whole disaster." She stood in front of him and folded her arms. "Lucky for you, it was a plastic lotion bottle."

  "A full one," he reminded her, standing gingerly while still nursing his head. "As jumpy as you are, you should have a chime put on your front door."

  "You should see the bottles in the front display case, if you think that one was heavy." Her eyes twinkled, hinting at a sense of humor, if somewhat perverted.

  "It isn't funny to drop bottles on your customers."

  "I'm truly sorry." She touched his head.

  An occasional silver strand had begun to appear, standing out sharply among the black, so he'd had his hair cut short. Thirty-eight was young, he'd thought, but the gray appeared seemingly overnight, reminding him life was fleeting. Was Nurse Nightingale, who was tentatively probing his hair and scalp, near his age or younger? She acted too flaky to be over twenty, but faint lines fanning out from her made him think she was past thirty. Laugh lines, he realized, seeing that twinkle again, but her touch was so soothing, he didn't care how old she was or if she was amused. "Keep doing that and I'll believe you."

  She stepped back. "I have insurance if you'd like to see a doctor."

  Sam sighed. One thing he didn't need was another delay. He'd forgotten his mission, and it came back to him now that he needed his key. "I'd rather see an attorney or the mayor."

  "You're going to sue?" Her luscious mouth dropped open.

  "Not unless I discover I've been permanently brain-damaged, but I've been getting the run-around ever since I hit town. My attorney left a key at the mayor's office. He left me a note to come here. And you bopped me."

  "Welcome to Browning." The woman's eyes danced. Sam bit back a sharp retort. She cocked her head and studied him. "So you're the one who's supposed to pick up the key?"

  "You have it then?" He couldn't hide his relief. All he wanted was to find his house and sit down to a decent meal. Wine would be nice with dinner, and coffee afterward was a must. He'd eaten fast food in the van all the way, hoping the grease odor wouldn't permeate the seats.

  The shop owner walked away, through a door to a room in the back, and Sam watched those long lovely legs in motion until they disappeared from view. He wished they'd met under pleasanter circumstances.

  He leaned against the counter and took a long look around Inner Radiance. Candles—short, tall, fat, slim, and every color—adorned the front counter. He picked up a squat, unlit candle set between a fragrant rose in a bud vase and a glass of fake lemonade with a lemon slice on the edge. He turned the candle over and saw it was labeled "rose and lemon." Made sense, but why would anyone combine those scents? Sam held it close to his nose and inhaled. Not bad.

  Candles arranged on a glass mirror were burning. He didn't recognize their scent, but a lime and a stick of incense were placed next to them as some kind of clue.

  Brightly printed silk scarves adorned a lattice on one wall. Silk flowers bloomed everywhere. CD's offered "calming sounds." Three stands held ladies' wigs, one each in red, blonde, and brunette. A feathered dream catcher caught his eye, and on a pedestal below it, he spotted a silver tray of highly polished stones. He picked one up and rubbed its smooth surface.

  "Worry stones. Do you find that soothing?"

  He put it back quickly, and she smiled, showing perfect white teeth. She pointed to the candle he'd looked at first. "That one's called Romance." She batted her eyelashes.

  He pointed to the burning candles. "What are these?"

  "Smoke and lime; they're called Ritual. It's all part of the healing science, aromatherapy."

  Sam doubted aromatherapy was any kind of science.

  "The bottle that fell on you was Tradition."

  "Does that mean you always bop your customers?"

  "Funny." Unsmiling, she tapped the glass-topped counter, and then opened the back to take out a bottle of oil with sprigs of something grassy in it. Net and ribbon encircled its long neck, and a handmade label said Lily's Own. "These are the bottles I said you wouldn't want to fall on you."

  "You're right. I'd hate to leave town so soon, feet first." He took the heavy bottle from her hand. "Are you Lily, and do you make this stuff?"

  "A friend makes it for me. They're scented oils. This one is Serenity, and it's made of lavender, chamomile, and bergamot oils, with sprigs of dried lavender." She took the bottle back and their fingers touched. A warm shock ran through his hand and he looked down to see long fingers with oval nails painted coral. He looked up and their gazes met.

  "I usually manage to make people feel better." She smiled.

  She certainly was a happy person. No wonder she had those tiny crinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth. He felt his head again, to check for blood or a bump.

  "Here." She extracted a worry stone from the tray and pressed it into his hand. "Rub this repeatedly, and if you don't feel better in the morning, come back for a bottle of this."

  Sam chuckled. As she bent to put the bottle away, he noticed she held a sealed envelope in her other hand. It must contain his key, but he wasn't as eager to leave as he had been.

  "Laughter is good for your health. I'm glad you haven't forgotten how," she said, leaning her elbows on the counter.

  She was an unusual woman. He put the polished stone in his pants pocket. "Serenity and a worry stone. What makes you think I need either?"

  She extended a finger and rubbed his forehead, between his eyes. "You have a frown line here. You're tense."

  Her touch made him tenser. Trying not to frown, he motioned toward the b
ottles in the case. "You didn't say. Are you Lily?"

  "Lily Madison." Nodding, she walked around the counter and extended a hand.

  He grasped it, experiencing that same warm shock. She didn't pull away, even though he held it a moment too long. Her green eyes shone as clear as a lily pond and her lush red hair invited his touch. He wished she'd fallen into his arms. My lord. The candle scent must be getting to him. "I'm Sam Ch—"

  A chime sounded, she jumped, and the envelope bounced off his foot. They both scrambled to pick it up; their noses touched, and Lily Madison chuckled.

  She had a chime on her door.

  Sam left Inner Radiance, red-faced and disgruntled. He'd been so taken back by the sight of a pair of gorgeous legs, he hadn't heard it and she'd been laughing up her sleeve the whole time. Aromatherapy must be akin to voodoo. Otherwise, why after five minutes in a town no bigger than the college campus where he taught, he would make a fool of himself?

  He could clear out the house he'd inherited in a week, tops. Then he'd put it in the hands of a realtor and vamoose.

  A slightly stooped man, wearing a buttoned-up cardigan sweater and a straw hat with a red, white, and blue band, came out of a building with a blinking sign that said Jodie's Chrome Grill. He raised his hand in greeting.

  Sam nodded. Quaint little town. Some people probably liked it here. The old guy had probably spent his life here. Had Lily Madison always lived here too? She was a beauty, but with luck, he'd never have to face her again. He still couldn't believe he hadn't heard the chime. His senses were always keen.

  Shrugging, he jammed his hands in his pockets. He hadn't gotten his last name out of his mouth, and his name and address weren't on the envelope, so she didn't know who he was or where he lived. And it was a good thing, since she probably stuck pins in dolls and held séances in the back room.

  * * *

  Lily climbed into her convertible and donned a Grow Browning baseball cap and the sunglasses she kept on the dash. She liked walking to work, but on days when she visited her friend Jenny Oates, she drove and parked behind her shop. Her Chevy—big, yellow, and battered—was easily recognizable, and she enjoyed the friendly waves it brought from locals, but today she took a circuitous route through the country so she could think.