Kissing Books Read online

  “Hey, Stone.” She moved to the pile I’d dumped into a bushel basket by my feet. “Mom asked me to grab half a dozen ears for tonight’s dinner. Can I take them from here?”

  “You sure can. Grab away.”

  Shalene’s dad and mine were brothers. She was a good kid. A dozen years younger than me. But like all of the Morgan family, she’d put in her time at the farm, both in the fields and in the store, just like I had.

  Though her daily work had been cut way back when she started college at one of the state schools a few hours away last year, she still came back on weekends to help during the busy season. And she’d been around all summer to help too. But, like it or not, summer was coming to an end.

  “When are you leaving for school again?” I asked.

  “Probably tomorrow now that Agnes’s niece is here to take care of the house.”

  My hand stopped as I reached for another ear. “Yeah? So, uh, what’s she like?”

  I still wasn’t certain the feisty city girl from last week was Agnes’s niece, but I had my suspicions. All evidence pointed in that direction.

  Of course, Agnes was so ancient the niece taking over the house could just as easily be the older of the two women. The one who’d questioned the freshness of my fresh picked corn and then complained about the cost.

  That would be just my luck.

  “She’s nice. But I think she was a little thrown by Petunia.” Shalene laughed. “You should have seen her face when I opened the carriage house door and she got her first look.”

  “I can imagine.” I laughed just picturing it. But I still didn’t have my answer. “So, Agnes’s niece, huh? Since Agnes has to be in her late seventies, her niece must be like in her fifties?”

  “Oh, no. This woman was younger than that. Like maybe your age. Maybe she’s a great niece?” Shalene asked, the ears of corn cradled in her arms.

  Bingo! I had my answer. The new transplant in town, however temporary, was at least the young hot one.

  It would be fun watching her try to acclimate to life around here. Particularly life at quirky old Agnes’s place.

  Nobody else on Main Street in Mudville had the menagerie that old bird did. It was going to be quite entertaining to watch city girl navigate her new surroundings.

  In fact, I knew what I’d be doing Friday night.

  There was no doubt in my mind I’d be camped out along Main Street to watch Petunia’s weekly pilgrimage to the school as city girl held the leash of the two hundred pound pig.

  Oh man. This might be the most amusing thing to happen in Mudville since Old Lady Trout’s corn maze incident last fall.

  I was more than ready for some amusement. That it came at a cocky city girl’s expense was just a bonus. And if—or rather when—Petunia got away from her, I’d be there to help.

  I wasn’t a sadist. I loved that damn mascot as much as the next Mudville High alum. And having city girl be indebted to me as I saved the town’s star pig would be icing on the cake.

  Oh, yeah. I couldn’t wait.

  “All right. Better get these back to Mom and then start packing for my semester at school.”

  I moved toward my cousin and pulled her into a one armed hug. She was like a little sister to me. Hell, we even looked a little alike.

  Pressing a kiss to the top of her head, I said, “I’m gonna miss you.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’ll be home for Fall Fest. I wouldn’t leave you guys alone for that.”

  Yup. Good kid, she was.

  “All right. Then I won’t miss you.” I grinned, teasing.

  She shook her head. “Brat.”

  I laughed at that, but as she turned to go, I said, “Shay.”

  “Yeah?” she asked.

  “What’s Agnes’s niece’s name?” I realized I had no reason for wanting to know that, besides the fact I’d been thinking about this woman far too much for someone I’d only met once for less than five minutes. “I, uh, just might bring her over some corn, is all. As a welcome.”

  “No need. I already did. Left a bunch in the fridge for her with some cream line milk and a steak—Shh. Don’t tell Papa.”

  I let out a snort of commiseration. We could give away all the corn we wanted, but steaks were another thing.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

  “Thanks. And her name’s Harper. So you’ll know in case you run into her in town.”

  “All right. Good to know. In case I run into her,” I repeated.

  Harper. As Shalene took her corn and left me alone to close up the farm stand, I rolled city girl’s name around in my mind.

  Having a name helped round out my rapidly forming opinion of her. I might not have known her for long, but I’d gleaned quite a bit.

  She was easily rattled and just as easily riled. I could tell she was clever and confident. Cool . . . until she wasn’t. And she rose nicely to confrontation.

  That was good. Harper was going to need every one of those traits to survive in Mudville.

  Shalene said that one look at Petunia had thrown her.

  Ha! Wait until the town gossip Mary Brimley got a hold of her. Or know-it-all Alice Mudd. Then little Miss Harper had better hang on to her saddle.

  She hadn’t seen anything yet.

  From the Journal of Rose Van de Berg

  MUDVILLE INQUISITOR

  1925

  Dr. G.W. Augustin, speaking to the Mudville Rotary Club, says that another great war is certain within a generation unless there is a radical spiritual change in the world.

  SEVEN

  Harper

  Stained glass windows. Beautiful woodwork. Six fireplaces, even in the bedrooms. A big center hall with a wide sweeping staircase. Elaborate brass antique light fixtures. Ten foot high ceilings.

  Great Aunt Agnes’s one hundred and twenty year old Victorian house was charming.

  The charm of all that wore off quickly. Pretty much the moment I turned off the light and darkness descended upon me inside the bedroom I’d chosen to use.

  I was used to a certain amount of noise at night in my apartment. I lived on a main road in the suburbs. I heard the neighbors in my building coming and going. There was the traffic out in the street. The occasional siren or fire whistle.

  None of that was anything like the kind of noises a big, spooky old house made in the middle of the night. Creaks. Cracks. And the scariest and most concerning, that one big slam.

  I was tempted to stay in bed and hide under the covers. After all, I was alone. What could I do if there was an intruder—or a ghost? I wasn’t sure which of those options frightened me more.

  The damn barn cats hadn’t even come inside to keep me company. It was still warm enough outside at night I guess they didn’t want to come in.

  I finally managed to convince myself to get out of bed and investigate at least the main parts of the house. Not the back hallway with the small servants’ bedroom and narrow back staircase that led up to the attic. And I sure as hell wasn’t going near the basement.

  My bravado had limits and apparently old embalming rooms were the hard line for me. I’d seen way too many horror movies to go down there at night.

  But I had to at least look for an explanation for that bang.

  Armed with my cell phone as a flashlight I stood and stared at the well-stocked glass front gun cabinet in the master bedroom. It was locked. Tomorrow I’d look for a key.

  For now I grabbed a fireplace poker from the bedroom hearth.

  I crept out the door and into the hall. There I was faced with a closed door to the guest bedroom. A door that I was sure had been open when I’d retired for the night. Now, it was closed.

  I stood staring at that paneled door until my bare feet on the wood floor started to hurt from standing for so long.

  It was ridiculous. I sure as hell wasn’t going to be able to sleep until I went inside that room. But the terror of what I’d find there was paralyzing.

  Shaking, I keyed 9-1-1 into my cell phone
and held my finger just over the button to connect the call as I reached for the knob with the hand clutching the poker.

  I managed to swing the door open and leapt into the guest room with the poker offensively poised like a fencing foil and my cell phone lighting the room. The empty room.

  My heart thundered as I flashed the light around and there it was—one of the interior window shutters had blown closed over the open window. There must have been a gust of wind strong enough to blow both the shutter and the room’s door shut.

  That was my theory and I was sticking to it.

  I could not—would not—let myself believe the house I’d agreed to live in for the next month or more was haunted. Any more than I could accept there was an intruder creeping around in here while I slept. Or rather, didn’t sleep.

  I heard the train whistle and the rattling from the nearby tracks. It was becoming an increasingly familiar sound.

  It had been charming the first time I heard it at about eight as I settled into my bed with my eReader. It just added to the quaint atmosphere of the small town.

  Now, at one in the morning as the train rattled by for the third time that night, I realized I might never sleep again. At least not for the next month.

  Maybe I should get out my computer. Trying to write would probably be a waste of time. I was exhausted, but at the same time wide awake thanks to this big noisy house.

  Lying in bed awake and annoyed certainly wasn’t doing me any good. I might as well try to get something accomplished. At least clean out my email inbox, if nothing else.

  Resigned, I walked back to the bed I’d claimed as my own for the duration of my stay. The fireplace poker leaned next to me against the nightstand just in case.

  With the bedside light on, I grabbed my computer from where I had it plugged in and charging on the dresser and crawled back into Great Aunt Agnes’s big four-poster bed.

  I’d been on the road for three hours this afternoon and then had spent the rest of the day getting used to the house, and the animals, and cooking myself dinner.

  During that time I’d been away from my computer, a hundred emails had accumulated in my inbox. I considered that proof of one thing. I got too much email.

  Time to start unsubscribing from some of these mailing lists. Feeling productive, gung ho to purge my life of some of this junk, I began the process.

  The next thing I knew the early morning sun was streaming in through the stained glass transom above my shuttered bedroom window. And my laptop was open next to me on the bed.

  A glance at the glowing red numbers on the digital bedside clock told me it was just past six.

  I pressed my head back against the pillow, torn by my emotions. Happy I’d actually gotten five hours sleep. Annoyed that it had been trying to work that had finally put me out.

  If my job put me to sleep, it didn’t bode well for me being able to accomplish what I needed to. And I really did need to accomplish something today . . . first and foremost on my list being starting my damn book.

  Nothing was going to happen before coffee. I knew that from experience. I grabbed the laptop and climbed out of bed.

  In the kitchen, as my liquid courage brewed, I opened the door of Agnes’s ancient looking fridge and stared, amazed all over again, just like I’d been yesterday.

  Inside sat a bowl of fresh eggs, all different sizes and colors. And next to it was a glass bottle of cream line milk, which I’d discovered yesterday meant it actually had cream floating on top.

  This—the things you couldn’t easily find where I lived—had to be why Agnes had loved living here for over seventy years.

  The creepy creaking of this house aside, this—the fresh eggs and milk and the small town friendliness of people like Shalene who had placed them in here for me—made me suspect that I would grow to love it here too.

  After my first sip of coffee I was just beginning to feel human, if not looking it yet, when I heard the doorbell ring.

  Eyes wide I froze, torn. Should I answer the door looking like I did, or hide?

  I glanced down. I was in a tank top, sweatshirt and pajama bottoms. Decent enough I supposed.

  My hair probably looked like a rat’s nest but—look at that—I had a hairband on my wrist. Excellent.

  On the way past the big floor to ceiling mirror in the dining room I pulled my hair into a ponytail, decided that was as good as it was going to get, and then crept into the hall.

  The big double doors had big windows so it was hard to hide, but I at least wanted to see who I was going to be facing before they saw me.

  I spied strawberry blonde hair cropped in a short, sassy style and a cheery freckled face and breathed in relief.

  At least my unexpected visitor was a woman. She’d understand this morning’s less than stellar look better than a male visitor would.

  After a night alone in this creepy house, another human for company was more than welcome, so I decided I could deal with the unexpected visitor.

  Dealing with the locks was another issue. They were proving impossible. I fought with them for a good ten seconds before I yelled through the glass. “Sorry. I’m just having trouble with the lock.”

  She let out a genuine hearty laugh. “I’ll walk around to the kitchen door. That one’s a little easier to open.”

  “Okay. Thanks,” I called back.

  I made it to the kitchen before she did and was relieved to get the door open before my visitor walked around the side of the house and up the stairs.

  “Hi. Welcome to the neighborhood. I’m sorry to drop by so early but I wanted to say hello before I open my shop for the day. I figured you might like some breakfast.”

  She thrust a plate covered with four large sticky-looking confections at me.

  My eyes widened as I took the plate and placed it on the counter. “Wow, those look amazing. Did you make them?”

  “Oh, no. I don’t bake. But my good friend Bethany owns the bakery in town.”

  If I had a good friend who baked stuff like that I’d be a blimp. But somehow my guest seemed to keep her figure even while eating tempting stuff like what was on the plate.

  “Would you like some coffee?” I asked.

  “Oh my God, yes. Please.”

  I laughed at her enthusiasm. “Come on and sit down. I just made a fresh pot.”

  I pulled out another mug and set a spoon next to the sugar bowl. Then I took the cream line milk that I had been rapidly falling in love with during my first cup of coffee that morning out of the fridge.

  While I poured her a cup I glanced at my guest and cringed. “I’m sorry. I think Agnes only has real sugar. I haven’t seen any artificial sweetener in the cabinet.”

  Maybe she kept her figure by balancing sticky buns with artificial sweetener in her coffee.

  “Oh no. Don’t worry. Real sugar it is for me. And that's probably where my last ten pounds came from.” She laughed and it was infectious.

  I chuckled along with her and said, “If you gained weight I don’t see it. But I hear you about the coffee. I've been on an IV drip of coffee with cream and sugar myself lately. I'm Harper by the way.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh, my God. I’m sorry. I show up at your door and don’t even introduce myself. I’m so scatterbrained. There's a million things going on in my head . . . Anyway, I’m Red.

  “Very nice to meet you, Red.” Unlike some of the times I said that to strangers, I really meant it this time.

  Red felt like a kindred spirit, which was the last thing I’d expected to find here in Mudville.

  “So you said you have a shop?” I asked.

  “I do.” She nodded as she stirred cream and sugar into her mug. “In fact, it's just a couple of houses down the block on the other side of the street. You can see it from your front porch. Red’s Resale. We carry everything from chainsaws to Chanel. The best redneck consignment store in the area.”

  I laughed. “That’s great. Is that really your tagline?”

  “Y
up.” She grinned. “I use the everything from chainsaws to Chanel line in my advertising, but not the redneck part. Not everybody around here has a sense of humor.”

  “I can imagine,” I said, remembering my less than warm reception from the corn hunk.

  “But seriously. If you need a chainsaw, I’ve got a nice Stihl over there. Looks barely used. And the Chanel ballet flats that just came in are to die for. They’re black with the little white logo on the toe. Size eight and a half, in case you’re interested.”

  My mouth dropped open, but I recovered quickly because this woman was not joking. She really did carry everything. “This shop of yours is something I’m going to have to see for myself.”

  “Please do come over. I'll give you the employee discount as a welcome to town bonus.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that.” I smiled, looking forward to some redneck resale shopping.

  “So what do you do?” she asked.

  I drew in a breath, knowing this question was coming and dreading it every time.

  “I’m a writer,” I said.

  As if the script had been written in the heavens to be repeated throughout the millennia she, as expected, said, “Oh? What kind of stuff do you write?”

  I braced myself and answered, “Romance.”

  Instead of judgmental amusement or the look of disgust that I usually encountered, her eyes went wide.

  “Oh my God. For real? Have I read anything you’ve written?”

  The usual follow-up question got my usual follow-up answer as I said, “I doubt it.”

  “What name do you write under?” she asked, as expected.

  “Harper Lowry,” I said, not getting my hopes up that she’d ever heard of me.

  I firmly believed the only people who looked at the USA Today Bestselling Books list, which I’d been on nine times now, were authors seeing who made it on that week. Readers couldn’t care less.

  “Oh my God. I have one of your books on my shelves. I loved it. I've been meaning to find more of your stuff and buy it, but . . .” She hesitated and sighed.