That reminds me. I’m meeting Karen there for lunch—” Leah glanced at her watch “—in ten minutes!”
“Better get a move on.” The principal stepped back to survey the room. “Those other cities do look beautiful, but remember, there’s no place like home.”
“I plan to come back for visits.” Leah would never give up her friends, or her aunt and cousin, who lived in town. Still, she had no siblings and her mother had died of cancer eight years earlier. Her father, who had remarried, lived in Denver.
“It won’t be the same. But I’m an old married lady with two kids. You couldn’t pry me loose from my roots for all the excitement in the world,” Olivia said. “Now you’d better ske-daddle or you might have trouble finding a table. The place will be crowded.”
“I don’t want to keep Karen waiting,” Leah agreed.
“Have fun!”
After collecting her purse, she hurried out, barely noticing the familiar August heat and humidity. The K-8 elementary school stood on a street with the funny name of Grandpa Johnson Way, after the town’s founder. Turning left, she passed the Snip ’N’ Curl salon, owned and operated by her aunt, Rosie O’Bannon. The windows featured blown-up photographs of town residents in stylish hairdos, which Leah preferred to the usual images of models.
On her right lay the old Johnson House, presently occupied by quarrelsome Beau Johnson, a member of the city council and the owner of the Tulip Tree Market. He’d never married, and had practically disowned his only relative in town, Yvonne Johnson, a nurse at the clinic who’d had a baby out of wedlock.
Farther down the street, Leah passed the weekly Gazette—edited and published by Karen’s brother, Barry—and the Café Montreal. She cut diagonally across The Green, a square park where the café’s owner, Gwen Martin, sponsored a monthly farmers’ market and craft fair.
On Tulip Tree Avenue, the town’s main thoroughfare, she blinked at the unusual sight of half a dozen people standing in line in front of Pepe’s Diner. That never happened.
“Is this because of the murals?” she asked her cousin Mark, a police lieutenant, who was waiting with Captain Ben Follows. Ben moonlighted as pastor of the Downhome Community Church.
Mark nodded. “Pepe won’t let anyone in to see the paintings unless they order lunch.”
“We’re in line for takeout,” Ben added. “I think Karen’s got a table for you.”
“Oh, good. Thanks!” It was a hot day to stand outside. Besides, Leah’s stomach had been bothering her all morning.
Slipping through the door, she found the interior cooled by ceiling fans, although noisier than usual from the capacity crowd. Scents of garlic and olive oil swirled around her, along with the unwelcome smell of fresh paint. The odors made Leah so dizzy she had to catch the back of a chair for balance.
As she adjusted, she scanned the murals that had replaced faded images of grapes and wine jugs. The artist, a talented young man named Arturo Mendez, had covered one wall with vibrantly colored images of proprietor Pepe Otero and his three grown children wearing baggy peasant-style clothes and picking grapes. On the opposite wall, the family was making wine in a vat while Pepe’s ex-wife, Connie, peered in through a painted window, her face a study in envy.
Pepe bustled over. “Karen is in the back,” he informed her with a trace of an accent from his native Argentina. “So, how do you like my pictures?”
“I love them,” Leah said. “You’re the talk of the town.”
“Not for long.” The compactly built, dark-haired man went on to explain. “Gwen is having the artist paint the walls of her café. The project is under wraps, just like mine was—you know Arturo’s artistic temperament.”
“I hope you’re not mad at her for stealing your thunder.” Pepe’s and Gwen’s establishments maintained a friendly rivalry.
“No, actually, we’re…going out.” He gave her a contented smile.
“Oh.” Leah hadn’t paid attention to town gossip this summer. Although pleased for the two restaurateurs, she felt sorry for her aunt Rosie, who had a longtime crush on Pepe. “Good for you.”
“Excuse me.” He hurried off to assist a waitress with an overburdened tray.
Leah’s stomach was nagging again, probably from hunger, so she was relieved to see breadsticks on Karen’s table in a back corner. “I hope I’m not late.” In addition to the bread, small bottles of vinegar and oil topped the red-and-white tablecloth, Leah noticed as she sat down.
Her friend regarded her over her menu. “I got here early.” Karen, who managed the Tulip Tree Nursing Home, had a passion for punctuality. Two years younger than Leah, she had a forthright manner and strong opinions.
“Can you believe this crowd?”
“It may get worse. Barry’s running shots of the murals in today’s Gazette, so if anybody didn’t know about the unveiling, they soon will.” The newspaper came out on Tuesdays.
“I’ll stay away for a few days till things quiet down.” Leah studied her menu. “What are you having?”
“I’m strongly tempted by the scampi. What do you think?” A reddish-brown curl fell across Karen’s cheek. She pushed it behind her ear.
Usually, Leah relished scampi, but today the prospect of garlic butter put her off. “I’m more in the mood for spaghetti Bolognese.”
“I thought you didn’t like that much meat.” In Pepe’s sauce, the ground beef nearly overwhelmed the tomato base.
“Can’t a girl change her mind?” A waitress brought ice water, which Leah sipped gratefully, then Karen and Leah both ordered.
She didn’t mention her indigestion to Karen. Leah had a natural reticence about discussing intimate matters, even with someone she’d been close to since grade school. She’d kept quiet about her plans to leave Downhome until shortly before her trip, and she hadn’t mentioned her insane one-night stand to anyone. Nor did she plan to.
Besides, they had other things to talk about, including Jenni and Ethan’s wedding in two weeks. After they’d exchanged a few tidbits about that, Karen gave an update on the physician-search committee.
They’d chosen an obstetrician from Texas named Dr. Rankin, who was due to arrive later this week. Leah recalled that he was the one who’d recommended the Wayward Drummer when Karen had asked on her behalf.
She hoped the subject never came up, because she found her memories both painful and confusing. What she needed to do was chalk the experience up to a life lesson and move on.
She returned her attention to her companion. Karen was describing a pediatrician who’d applied for the second opening at the clinic.
“Beryl’s from St. Louis, a single mom. She has a thirteen-year-old son that she wants to remove from bad influences.” Karen selected a breadstick from the basket. “I am so glad she applied.”
The previous candidates all fell short. A pediatrician from Wichita had
