your name, sonny?” the one called Elvira asked. “Sally told me, but my memory’s not what it used to be.”
“Jack Gold. I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m awfully late…”
She drew a sharp breath. “Gold. What an interesting name. We’ve got a cousin, Goldfisher Elmont Jackson, but everyone calls him Goldy. That’s what’s we’ll call you. Won’t we, Elsa.”
“Oh yes, indeed. Goldy. Yes indeed.”
“Ah, actually, I prefer Jack. And I really do have to move along.”
“We’re the Jackson sisters,” Elvira said without missing a beat. “Our granddaddy, Elmont Jackson, founded this town. Didn’t he, Elsa?” Her grip on Jack’s arm tightened.
“Oh yes, he did, Elvira. He certainly did.”
“You’re here to get the big scoop, aren’t you?” Elvira looked at Elsa for confirmation of her comic genius, and together they cackled like two tipsy hens at a barnyard bash.
Jack’s arm went numb. “Yes ma’am, I am.”
“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
