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Chapter 1 - To Get Me To You

THERE WAS NO ESCAPING now.

As the steady click of sensible heels on asphalt grew ever closer, Campbell Crawford shut his eyes and repressed a curse. Where the hell had she come from?

To give himself another few moments to arrange his face into something resembling polite civility, Cam ducked back into his truck. 

“Mr. Crawford, I need a word.” Agnes Crockett used the same stern tone she used to call his name when she’d taught trigonometry back in high school. 

Resisting the urge to hunch his shoulders, Cam tucked a cardboard tube of landscaping blueprints under his arm and turned to face her. “Yes, Mrs. Crockett. What can I do for you?” 

Mrs. Crockett peered up at him from beneath her umbrella, a bright floral affair completely at odds with her no-nonsense demeanor. “I have a matter that needs to be brought up at the next City Council meeting. It’s about that stoplight at Market and Spring Street.”

Not again. If he had a nickel for every time somebody griped about that stoplight, he could buy a round of drinks for everybody waiting inside the Mudcat Tavern.

“The city needs to fix the sensor. Cross traffic from Market Street gets stuck entirely too long, when nobody’s even coming the other direction. Why, I sat there for a full five minutes today without a soul passing by on Spring Street, and I was late to Bitsy Elliott’s daughter’s baby shower. When is that sensor going to get fixed?”

Cam privately thought that, given the state of the city coffers, it would be more likely the stoplight would be entirely decommissioned and they’d go back to the four-way stop, but that wasn’t something he was about to share with this particular constituent. “I certainly understand your concern, Mrs. Crockett. Now we talked about this the last time—”

“You said I had to fill out this form.” She dug around in her purse and came up with a sheet of paper that she thrust at him. “I want that traffic light fixed.”

Cam took the paper. She’d filled in the blanks by hand, her slanted scrawl covering most of the page. He bit back a sigh and refrained from mentioning that it was a web form she was supposed to submit online. “Ah, yes, ma’am. I’ll see that it’s put on the agenda for our next City Council meeting.”

“See that you do. I’ve been put off for the last time, young man.”

Aware that his shoulders had hunched up by his ears, Cam forced them down. “Yes, ma’am. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go meet a client.” He tapped the blueprint tube and softened the diplomatic brushoff with a smile. “You have a good evenin’, now.”

He called the escape good when he made it to the door of the Mudcat without pursuit or an order to detention. 

Somebody had Garth Brooks playing on the jukebox. The hot fiddle licks of “Callin’ Baton Rouge” were punctuated by the crack of billiard balls from the far side of the bar. Christmas lights still twinkled around the perimeter, as they probably would until Valentine’s Day or Easter. Cam felt some of the stress of the day leech out as he crossed to the high-top table in the corner, where his cousin, Miranda, was already taking a pull on a Sam Adams.

“You’re late.” She set down the bottle. “Had a real pisser of a day at the clinic, so I started without you. Two days after Christmas and there’s already an outbreak of flu. And not the strain they were predicting when they formulated the flu shot this year. You have a client meeting?”

Cam laid the blueprint tube in another chair. “No, this was just cover. Got ambushed by Mrs. Crockett in the parking lot.”

“The stoplight again?”

He cocked thumb and forefinger at her. “Got it in one. I’m late because I was working on mixing potting soil today, and I figured you’d appreciate me showering and changing first so as not to smell like manure.”

Miranda leaned over and gave an exaggerated sniff as he shrugged out of his wet coat. “Much obliged then, cuz.” She settled back in her chair. “Did you hear about Travis Hugget?”

“What about him?”

“Remember he’s been dating that girl from college—Gwen something or other—long distance for more than a year, since she took that job in New York? Apparently, right before Christmas, he went up there to her fancy Wall Street office and proposed, right as the entire company was coming out of a staff meeting.”

Poor bastard. He had plenty of reason to know that was a disaster waiting to happen. 

“Not only did Gwen say yes, she quit her job right then and there, and they eloped.”

Cam swiped Miranda’s beer and tipped it back to wash the sour taste of envy from his mouth as he revised his opinion. Lucky bastard. “Good for them.” 

Aware of his cousin’s I shouldn’t have said that expression and sensing an imminent and entirely unnecessary apology, Cam wiped the scowl from his face. Christ, when was his family going to stop pussy footing around it?

Miranda’s phone rang and she glanced at the screen. “It’s Norah. I need to take this. Go get yourself a beer and bring me another since you polished mine off. And put in an order of cheese sticks while you’re up there. I’m starving.”

“Your wish.” He saluted and headed for the bar, sending a silent thank you to Miranda’s old college roommate for the distraction.

Adele Daly, the opinionated owner of the Mudcat, worked the taps as she chatted with Abe Costello about Ole Miss’s chance at making it to the Final Four. 

“I’m tellin’ you, if they can just take out Emory, they’ve got a shot,” Abe insisted.

Adele slid a glass of IPA down the bar into a waiting hand. “My money’s on State. They’ve been burning up the courts this season.”

Easing between two stools, Cam propped himself on an elbow and nodded a hello to Abe. “Adele, would you be so kind as to get me a Killian’s and put in an order for cheese sticks and another Sam Adams for Miranda?”

“You want a bottle or tap? Keg’s fresh.”

“Tap then. And better add some chili cheese fries to that order. Miranda doesn’t strike me as being in a sharing mood tonight.” 

“You got it, sugar pie.”

Cam lounged back against the bar and took note of the glass of scotch Abe was nursing. “Are we celebrating or commiserating?”

“Little bit of both. I got an offer on my land.”

“That acreage over by Hope Springs?” 

“Yep.”

Cam straightened in surprise. Abe was a local man, born and raised in Wishful. That land parcel had been in his family for generations. “You’re selling?”

“Thinkin’ ’bout it. It’s a damned good offer. Well above market value.” He sipped the scotch and grimaced, more a testament to the situation than the drink.

“Who?”

“Nobody local.”

Cam had figured that. Nobody local had that kind of money to throw around. In the wake of the plant closing, a lot of people didn’t have any money at all. Heirloom Home Furnishings had been the primary employer in town. When they’d opted to move their operations to Mexico eight months ago, it had gutted the town’s economy. That was just the latest blow in a long line of economic downturns over the last few decades. Their population was shrinking as more and more good people were forced to go elsewhere to support their families. 

“But you can’t sell. That land’s part of your family history. Part of Wishful’s history.”

“History don’t pay the bills, son.”

It was an unfortunately familiar story. Loss of workforce and population also meant loss of business. Abe’s farm supply company took a hit when Cam bought the nursery five years ago. Cam had a wider variety and better stock, and with local propagation, he was able to offer better prices than the other man. But nursery and garden stock wasn’t Abe’s bread and butter. If the farm supply was suffering, this was the first Cam had heard about it.

Adele set Cam’s beer on the bar. “It’s too bad the city can’t make an offer on that parcel. Be nice to make a formal park out there by the springs. Like that plan you drew up. It’d be a great addition to the town.”

Cam’s mind started to spin. “Who’s brokering the sale?”

“Sally Forester on my side. Other folks got an attorney from out of town.”

“Hold off on making any final decisions, Abe. If anybody’s gonna buy that property, the city ought to have first crack at it.” 

Abe grunted in acknowledgment, but it was a hollow victory. Buying more land was only one of many things the city couldn’t afford to do. The truth was, the town he loved was dying, and Cam didn’t know how much longer they could limp along as they were. What they needed was a miracle, and despite the holiday season, those were in pretty short supply.

* * *

“And how is my sister from another mister?” Miranda’s voice rolled out of the car speakers, a welcome breath of the South that made Norah Burke ache with homesickness. 

“Tired. It’s a long drive back from New York.”

“Why on earth didn’t you fly?”

“Because nobody’s invented a teleporter yet. Flying would take just as long, and I’d be one of a hundred other irritable sardines, who want to be home already. At least on the road it’s quiet.”

“You totally live in the wrong city for quiet. Are you home yet?”

“Got a couple more hours. But I’m about to break it up a bit and make a stop in your honor.”

“Off I-90? Oh my God, are you in Morton? You’re going to Have Your Cake, aren’t you?”

Norah laughed at the mix of accusation and longing in her friend’s tone. “Guilty.”  

The stretch of road immediately off the interstate had mushroomed in the past three years with the usual contingent of fast food restaurants, gas stations, and a couple of chain hotels. Pleased at the evidence of growth, Norah bypassed them all, following the signs for downtown and sending up a silent prayer that Have Your Cake would be open until six. 

“Best road trip discovery ever. I love their caramel cake. The perfect marriage of salty and sweet, with four layers of lovely, moist cake…What made you decide to stop?”  

“I was missing you.” It was the truth, even if it didn’t touch on all the whys. “How is everybody?”

As she navigated through town, Norah listened to her friend’s account of this year’s holiday hijinks. It was almost like listening to the summary of a Hallmark Channel movie, for all she could relate to Miranda’s sprawling family, with aunts, uncles, and cousins galore. They were as close to normal as Norah ever got. 

“—oh, and the boys had a poker tournament to decide who got the last slice of Grammy’s chocolate pie.”

Amusement and envy warred. Grammy’s chocolate pie was a thing of legend. “Who won?”

“Reed, who was totally the dark horse in that race. Everybody assumed Mitch would win because he always does. He said to tell you hello, by the way.”

“Tell him hi back and ask him when he’s coming to Chicago again for another architectural convention.”

“I still can’t believe you went on a date with my brother.”

“It wasn’t a date. It was a pity tour of the city, since you didn’t warn him you wouldn’t actually be able to leave the hospital to see him.”

“That’s why they call it residency. And anyway that’s not the way he tells that story.”

“Then Mitch is a liar liar pants on fire.”

“Why don’t you come down here and tell him that yourself? You keep promising to visit.”

“I know, I know,” Norah groaned. “It’s been way too long. But work’s been crazy. I had a hard enough time getting off to go to New York for the holiday. I can’t possibly ask off again so soon. Maybe closer to summer.”

“Summer? You do remember what Mississippi is like in the summer?”

“Honey, given the winter we’ve been having, I’d relish the chance to wear some short shorts and a tank top instead of a winter coat that makes me look like the Michelin Man.”

“I’ll remind you of that when you come and do your impression of the Wicked Witch of the West. How did Christmas go on your end? Was Rockefeller Center fabulous? I’m getting my vicarious white Christmas fix through you.”

“It was gorgeous. The Plaza was amazing, and midnight mass at Saint Thomas was simply beautiful. Christmas in Manhattan is definitely a unique experience.” And she’d have traded it all for one zany family dinner with the Campbells.

“Did your dad manage to refrain from harping on you about going back to law school?”

“Actually, he’s dating somebody. Some high-powered exec who looks like Hollywood’s idea of Wall Street. They went to Saint Bart’s, so it was just me and Mom. She got called in to emergency surgery, so I spent my holiday blessedly harp-free.” 

Miranda didn’t buy her breezy, no-big-deal tone for a moment. “Wait, so you were alone for Christmas?” 

Sensing the edge of a blistering rant, Norah felt compelled to head Miranda off. “Not all of it. Between surgeries, Mom and I had a blast shopping for Operation Santa Claus, and she got out of surgery in time for a late Christmas dinner.” 

“That’s awful.”

Norah bit back a sigh as she turned onto Main Street. Miranda’s outrage on her behalf was well-intentioned, even if it solved exactly nothing. “Well, it was certainly better than if Dad had tried to include Lillian. We’re a weirdly civilized modern family, but I don’t think we’re that civilized. Besides, it gave me some quiet time to catch up on this radical thing called reading for pleasure.”

“You should’ve come here. You know you’re always welcome.”

Norah knew they’d fold her into the flock. It was part of the Campbells’ charm. But there were a hundred reasons keeping her from following through on the invite Miranda made every year. “And I appreciate the offer. Now I’m going to let you go because I’m pretty sure I drove past Have Your Cake while I was running my mouth.”

“Buy two pieces and have one in my name.”

“And will those calories vicariously travel to your hips?” Norah circled the block for another pass.

“They will in spirit.”

“Give your family my best.”

“Love you.”

“Love you back. Talk soon.” 

Norah didn’t have to hunt for parking. But for a handful of cars, downtown Morton was deserted. She got out and climbed over the mounds of dirty snow to the sidewalk and took a good look around. No sign of Have Your Cake. Thinking she parked on the wrong block, she began to walk.

Maybe they’re still on shortened holiday hours. Not what she’d have recommended to business owners in the wake of the holiday. They should’ve been taking advantage of post-Christmas shoppers with gift certificates and Christmas money.

A shop window across the street had Going Out of Business painted across the glass. The sign above the awning indicated it had been a florist. Even with the poor economy and reduced discretionary income, a florist should have been able to make it through the Christmas season. In another window on her side, she saw a For Rent sign. A lone, headless mannequin stood inside, one arm lifted like it was waving goodbye. One empty retail space she could dismiss, but two? That didn’t fit with her expectations. 

Three years ago, she’d been brought in as the voice of the marketing team that convinced the town of Morton that Hugo’s ValuCenter would be a partner to the community, a harbinger of new economic growth. She’d seen their multi-phase plan for sustainable community development, had been the one to sell city leaders on the concept. So why was everything closed?

The next couple of spaces were occupied by a law office and an accountant. But the space after that had a discreet For Sale sign and the name of a local real estate company. Cold fingers walked down her spine as Norah looked into every window on the entire three block stretch. 

Based on the community development plan, downtown Morton should’ve been a bustling retail corridor, full of local vendors and craftspeople. Exactly what it had been, at the heart, when she and Miranda had discovered the place years ago, but bigger. And yet more than seventy percent of the retail space sat empty. It was such a far cry from the bustling, quirky town she remembered, she half wondered if she’d come to the wrong place.

“What the hell happened here?”

One business still had active clientele at this hour. Crossing the street, Norah stepped inside the Five O’Clock Shadow. The bar was dim and quiet. A few people looked up when she came in, then went back to their drinks. Their low murmurs of conversation barely competed with the classic rock playing over the speakers. She noted a handful of suits and some business casual attire, suggesting that this was probably a hang out for the office workers and city government employees who worked further down the street. 

Loosening her scarf, Norah crossed to the bar, where a mustached man was drying glasses.

“What can I getcha?”

She slid onto a stool. “Directions, I hope. I’m from out of town, and it’s been a few years since I came through here. I was hoping you could tell me where Have Your Cake moved to.”

“Didn’t move. Closed along with just about everything else down here.”

She’d been afraid of that. “What happened?”

“Same as happened lots of other places. We got a Hugo’s ValuCenter.”

Norah swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “I’d heard that they were in to being partners with the community.”

The bartender snorted. “They’re like any other politicians. Telling people exactly what they want to hear to get in, then going back on their word. Within six months of opening for business, they added an in-house florist, a bakery, a butcher, on top of all the other products they already carried. They undercut local prices, all in the name of value.” The word rolled off his tongue like something foul. “Local businesses couldn’t compete. Those of us still standing are the ones who aren’t in direct competition. Everybody else…poof.”

Numb, Norah thanked the bartender for his time and headed back to her car. Her stomach roiled. 

Hugo’s had done exactly what she’d promised the town they wouldn’t do. She’d seen the proposal, seen the plans to integrate, not overtake the community. Was there a statute of limitations clause she’d missed? Had they performed some kind of bait and switch with the final contracts? Had her partner failed to do proper due diligence on the company? She had, in effect, lied to the townspeople. Used all her skill in persuasion to talk them into something that had decimated the character of the town. 

How did this happen? Where did I screw up?

She didn’t know. But as soon as she got to the office in the morning, she was going to find out.