Kneading to Die (2 page)

Stan accepted the generous basket, which looked like it had enough gourmet coffee and goodies to tide her over for the rest of the year. How exciting, to have the owner of the sweetshop on her porch! She'd driven by the shop twice now, but she hadn't yet made it inside. Simply seeing it had been a relief. She'd never tell Richard, but she had been worried about the seeming lack of good coffee in the area. Izzy's shop would take care of that.

“Izzy Sweet's Sweets! I'm dying to get there. And these dogs are treasures. Can they have a treat?” She crouched down to pet them. The boxer nudged his face into Stan's hand. The poodle hung back.

“You can give it a whirl,” Izzy said. “Elvira is very choosy.” She nodded to the poodle. “But Baxter will eat anything.” The boxer waved his tail in agreement.

“Hang on,” Stan said. She went into the kitchen, deposited her basket on the table and took two treats out of Nutty's fish-shaped treat jar. She saw him watching her from around the corner. Was it her imagination, or was he chastising her with those brilliant green eyes?

“Come on, Nutty. We have to be nice to the neighbors,” she said. “Don't want to get off on the wrong foot. I'm baking more soon. Okay?”

Nutty turned and stalked away, his fluffy tail standing tall like a proud plume. Or like his own version of a middle finger. Stan went back to the crowd on her porch. Richard wasn't entertaining. He stood there like he'd landed on another planet and didn't anticipate knowing the language. Stan crouched again in front of the dogs and held the treats. Baxter wolfed his down. Elvira came forward and sniffed delicately.

“I'm sorry,” Izzy began; then her eyes widened in amazement as the dog plucked the treat daintily from Stan's hand and devoured it. “Well, that's a switch,” she said. “What kind of treat was that?”

“Homemade,” Stan said proudly. “I bake them for my cat. They're peanut butter and bran.”

“Really!” Izzy reached down and scratched Elvira's ears. “I may have to hire you to bake some for me. She's a hard dog to feed sometimes.”

“I'd be happy to,” Stan said. “I have a bunch of recipes just begging to be made. As soon as I put the house in order, that is. For now, I'll be making the basics. Cheddar cheese treats are on the list next, once I get unpacked. If you want to stop by in a day or two, I'll save you some.”

“We just might,” Izzy said. Elvira woofed her agreement.

“Well, we'll leave you to it,” Ray said, his grip firmly on Char's arm as she edged closer to the door to take another look inside. “Call us if you need anything. I'm the handyman around town, too. I can fix anything. And help you move things.”

“Yes, honey, that's right. My Ray can do anything. And I can bring over a bottle of wine and we can have a few sips and watch him work.” She winked at Stan and tugged Ray's hand. “We'll leave you to get unpacked. Come over soon and meet the alpacas!”

Stan grinned. She already liked her new neighbors. “Thank you all. I'll see you soon!”

“Come down to the shop when you're settled,” Izzy said. “We'll have coffee and I'll tell you all the gossip. Let's go, dogs.” She tugged at the leashes. Baxter trotted after her. Elvira continued to stare at Stan. Waiting for another treat, apparently.

“Wait.” Stan ran back inside, dumped the remainder of the treats into a bag and prayed Nutty would still speak to her. She returned to the door and brandished the bag. “Take these for her.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. Nutty eats too much, anyway.”

“Say thanks, baby doll,” Izzy urged Elvira. Stan fed the dog one more treat, then handed the bag over. Elvira trotted away, only after she saw the goods change hands.

Stan watched them walk down the driveway, then closed her front door. “Well, wasn't that sweet,” she said.

“They seemed a little . . . odd.”

“Odd, how? They were nice. And did you see that basket? I need to find my coffeemaker. Did you see what box it ended up in?”

Richard followed her back to the kitchen. “You don't think this scene will wear on your last nerve?”

“Any more than you are right now?” She smiled sweetly to take the sting out of her words. “I don't. I think it will be fun. I never had my neighbors as friends before.”

“They'll be all up in your business in no time. You'll hate it. And then you'll beg me to let you move into my place. And, of course, I'll let you.” He grinned.

“Gee, thanks. So, do you want to go to the co-op? I'm dying to check it out. I'll get some fresh veggies and make us a late lunch. Or do you want to hang more pictures?”

Richard hesitated. “I should probably get going. I told Carl I'd meet him around five, and I need to shower.” He glanced down at his spotless khakis and golf shirt.

Stan pasted an agreeable smile on her face. “Sure. Can you at least leave your level so I can hang some things?”

“I can come back and do it, babe. I'm only in Chicago until Wednesday.”

“Oh, that's right. You're leaving tomorrow.” For the big sales conference she, too, had attended every year that she worked at Warner.

“I am.” He watched her, his face a mixture of pity and smugness that said,
I told you so.
“See, you will miss it. Do you want me to call Mick?”

“No,” she snapped. “Enjoy your trip. Leave the tools. I'm perfectly capable of hanging pictures.” Theme song: Sinatra. “
My Way.”
Or maybe Billy Joel's “
My Life”
? Maybe she'd get crazy and not even use the level.

He held up his hands in surrender. “Okay. I'm sorry. I hate leaving right now.”

Sure you do.
“Thanks for helping. And it's fine. It'll give me a chance to put the house in order.” She thought of Ray's offer. “Maybe I can get some of my new neighbors to help.”

 

 

The quiet could either kill her or save her. Stan wasn't sure which. Not that she could admit that to Richard.

After he left, she'd gone to the town co-op and selected her favorite organic vegetables—mushrooms, zucchini, red peppers, onions, carrots and tomatoes—and made roasted veggies and goat cheese for dinner. Then she opened the bottle of wine she'd picked up so she and Richard could celebrate her new home, poured a glass and decided to take advantage of her new back deck. She opened the French doors to the sunroom, which overlooked her fenced-in backyard, surrounded by full, lush trees and the faint outline of hills in the distance. She stood at the screen door and breathed it all in.

How could Richard not see the beauty of this place? The view was amazing. The air smelled cleaner than any air she'd smelled in a long time. Well, aside from the manure. And the sense of town camaraderie was apparent in just one afternoon.

Not to mention her new house. What a treasure! It made her smile from the outside in. The happy mint green color brightened up the whole street, which alternated between farmhouses, historical buildings, town offices and some older, gently worn homes. It even outshone the new construction, in her opinion. The dusty rose trim, the inviting front porch accented with latticework, the dollhouse feel. The pointed roof on the south side. The two-car garage set off the driveway, which she had big plans for. She wasn't sure yet what the plans would be, but she'd figure it out.

The house had been a chance finding while accompanying her best friend on a rescue dog delivery. Nikki ran a transport group called Pets' Last Chance, saving dogs from high-kill shelters down south and placing them with families all over the East Coast.

On that particular day Nikki had dragged her along for the ride after swearing she wouldn't let Stan sit around moping about her job for one more day. As Stan stared morosely out the van window, thinking about all the ways her life had turned to crap, the house suddenly appeared, bold and bright and happy. Fate. Once the dog, a beagle named Seamus, had been delivered to his new home, the Realtor had taken them through. Peering around every corner into a new room had given her that delicious feeling of anticipation she hadn't experienced in a long time.

And the rest of the house hadn't disappointed, from the ceiling-to-floor bookshelves in the study to the narrow hallways and shining woodwork, to the large sunroom that begged for a person to curl up with a cup of coffee and a good book. Or the rounded cubby with a window seat on the top floor looking out to the east, over the rolling farmlands. Stan fell in love and knew that minute she had to move here, even though she'd never heard of Frog Ledge before that day.

“Impulsive,” her mother had always called her. Richard did, too. She agreed with them, to a point. Some things took her forever to decide on, like the perfect color to paint a room. Others, like buying this house, were intuitive.

Even the name was charming. The Realtor told her this area was highly committed to frogs because of their role in the Revolutionary War, and that she'd have to go read about it sometime at the historical society.

She would, once she unpacked. On her first night, though, the quiet seemed almost ominous. No traffic. No loud music. Somewhere around her the faint sound of children, but brief. She shrugged it off. She was letting Richard's scorn for small towns influence her. Quiet was good. She'd have plenty of time to think.

Her iPhone buzzed from her back pocket. She pulled it out. Nikki Manning, the screen announced. Of course it was. She and her best friend of twenty-plus years practically shared a brain.

“How'd the move go? All unpacked?” Nikki sounded like she was standing in a wind tunnel. Probably in the middle of some Southern town, with twenty dogs in her van.

“It went fine. Only two things broken so far. Although one of them was a mirror, so I'm worried. And no, not unpacked yet.”

“I'm really sorry I couldn't help. If I didn't pick up the dogs today, they weren't getting another twenty-four hours.”

“Don't be silly. Saving puppies is way more important.”

“Is Richard there?”

“No, he left a while ago,” she said, anticipating Nikki's reaction. Nikki and Richard's love-hate relationship began when Stan started dating him four years ago, and the feelings were still going strong. Nikki didn't hate him, exactly. She just had strong opinions on whether or not he was good enough for Stan. “He had to get ready for Chicago. The sales conference.”

“Ah. You'll miss going this year.”

Stan shrugged, although Nikki couldn't see her. She moved over to the reclining lounger, her one new piece of furniture so far, and sank onto it. So comfy. Perfect for this room, and it reminded her of the one her grandmother had on their porch when Stan was a kid. “I guess.”

“I know you will. You've been going every year and now it feels like it's going on without you. I get it.”

“It is going on without me.” Stan sighed. It did feel, well, bad. “But you know what? There's nothing I can do. It's fine, Nik.”

“It is fine,” Nikki agreed. “You always told me the food wasn't that great, anyway.”

“True.” Stan could hear dogs barking in the background. “Where are you?”

“Still in South Carolina. My pickups got pushed back. I should've been home hours ago, but I'm going to be delayed until Monday.”

“Why did they get pushed back?”

“Same old. They closed the facility to rescues because someone had a fight with someone, and the animals ended up paying for it. I just told them I would park myself outside until they opened the doors, because I had people waiting for these dogs.”

“And it worked?”

Stan could hear her friend grin over the phone. “Guess they were sick of seeing my face. That, and the call I threatened to put in to the local news about how they stonewall rescues. So they're opening tomorrow.”

“Always making friends, aren't you?”

“Someone's gotta do it. Pets' Last Chance doesn't mess around.” The rescue had been Nikki's dream since college. Today her operation saved about five thousand dogs each year. “I'll be over to help you as soon as I'm home. Stopping at the vet on the way, but I'll call you.”

“Thanks, Nik. Hey, I met some of my neighbors.”

“Oh yeah? How are they?”

Stan thought of Richard's reaction and chuckled. “They seem cool. Quirky, but I wouldn't expect anything less. Oh, and the woman who runs the sweetshop came. They brought me a basket of goodies. Definitely relationships I want to cultivate.”

“Amen, sistah.” The chorus of barking rose in volume and Nikki sighed. “Okay, I'm gonna sign off. These guys are too loud for me to hear myself think. Enjoy your first night in the new house!”

Stan promised she would and ended the call. Then she listened to the silence around her, broken only by crickets chirping outside her door. She locked up and headed back to the kitchen. At least if she busied herself baking Nutty's treats, she'd feel more at home.

Somewhere nearby, a rooster
cock-a-doodle-dooed
. Groggy, Stan forced herself out of the dream. The sound continued. After a moment of utter confusion, she realized it wasn't a dream. She lived in Frog Ledge now, and roosters lived in her neighborhood. How funny was that!

If she didn't let it be funny, it would scare the heck out of her.

Her next thought: She'd survived her first night. That, in itself, was cause for celebration.

“We did it, Nutty,” she told the cat, who sat on alert in the window. He was looking for roosters or watching a squirrel. And planning his escape so he could chase either of them. She joined him.

The Frog Ledge town green stretched across the lazy summer morning. Its grass was lush and dewy and inviting; its gravel path cut through the sheer greenness. Stan opened her window wider and leaned forward, trying to catch that heady summer scent before the heat of the day baked it away.

Before she could stop herself, she was humming the melody to “
What a Wonderful World.
” Tacky, but so what?

“I guess that's the theme song for the day,” she said. Nutty seemed unimpressed. He liked contemporary music much better.

“You'll have to pick your own, then. I've gotta go with the first one that pops into my head.” When her former coworker had educated her on theme songs, that was her main advice: Let it pick you. You'll know what you need to get through the day. And that's how it was in corporate America—a whole lot of getting through the day. Maybe here she could find better uses for her theme songs.

Still humming, she dressed in her new Under Armour running gear before she even went downstairs for coffee. Over the last year her work schedule had been so demanding she had slacked off on working out. Now she was going to run. And ride the bike she'd bought last year and never used. Maybe she'd even train for a triathlon, or one of those crazy races where the participants crawled through the mud under barbed wire. Something to add to her bucket list. The one she'd never had time to create.

In her new master bathroom she washed her face and twisted her long blond hair into a ponytail. Laced up her pink Pumas and jogged downstairs. She threw veggies, fruit, juice, protein powder and ice into the Vitamix and made her morning smoothie, chugging it down as fast as she could without suffering brain freeze. Deciding to wait on her coffee until she came back, she grabbed her water bottle and iPod and went out the front door.

Frog Ledge got moving early, even on a Sunday. Walkers and runners had already hit the trail, and a maintenance worker rode an enormous lawn mower around the gazebo. His blades cleared the view for the cluster of signs announcing a special town referendum meeting, a spaghetti dinner, story time at the library and a “Meet Our Town” evening with local vendors.

Stan crossed the street and began to jog, fitting her earbuds into her ears. She cranked up the volume on her favorite running playlist and focused on breathing so she didn't get a cramp. It had been ages since she'd allowed time for a morning run. It felt awesome.

The path was wide enough for two people to pass comfortably. She exchanged waves with other runners. Everyone was so friendly. Completely different than running in her old neighborhood. Between avoiding traffic, construction spilling over onto the sidewalks and snobby shoppers crowding downtown, she'd stopped bothering.

A Rollerblader whizzed by, artfully dodging walkers and runners. A double stroller followed, a tiny woman jogging behind it. The contraption was so wide that Stan had to dodge into the grass to avoid her as she passed.

“Sorry!” the woman called, waving apologetically.

Stan waved back in a gesture that meant
It's fine.
In the process she almost tripped over another woman, meditating on a blanket. The woman's eyes flew open at the disturbance. Stan slowed and yanked her right earbud out.

“I'm so sorry. I almost got run over, too.”

The meditator waved her off. “It's no problem. All these exercisers are very serious out here. A good thing, I guess.”

“It is a good thing. I'm Stan. I just moved in . . . there.” She pointed at her adorable little house.

“Oh! We're neighbors. I live there.” The woman fluttered her hand at the house right next to Stan's.

Stan realized it was the woman next door, the one with the golden retriever. She had been having the screaming match with the white-haired lady yesterday.

“I'm Amara Leonard.” Amara rose gracefully to her feet, reminding Stan of a dancer. Short, though. Her shiny brown hair, cut in a chin-length bob, swung around her face. She wore funky pink glasses that made her eyes look cat-shaped. “I'm the one everyone thinks is crazy. I'm sure you'll hear about it, if you haven't already.”

Stan laughed. “Crazy? I hadn't heard. I'm Stan Connor. And are you crazy?”

“A little,” Amara admitted. “But not for the reasons everyone thinks. I practice Reiki and homeopathy. Some people around here think it's just a fancy way to say I'm a voodoo princess who's plotting the demise of the town. Especially when I come out here to meditate.”

“You'd have to have something better than that for me to think you're crazy,” Stan said. “I could use a good Reiki session. And my cat and I could both use a new homeopath.”

“Really? I do animal homeopathy only, and I would love to help your cat. Is he ill?”

“He's got some irritable bowel issues. I got him as a stray. He wandered into my condo complex a few years ago, after he'd been hurt. I took him to the vet, and he ended up staying.” Stan smiled. “He didn't really want to, at first. I had to bribe him with homemade treats. That was the first night he didn't scream at the door.”

Amara laughed. “Cats are so ungrateful sometimes, aren't they? So how do you treat his IBS?”

“I make all his food. My grandmother taught me as a kid how to bake for animals, and I've expanded into cooking him actual meals. It's helped.”

“That's phenomenal,” Amara said, clapping her hands. “Oh, I would love to work with you. I don't want to interrupt your run. Please call me for an appointment.” She reached for her pockets, then seemed to realized she had none in her yoga pants. “Shoot. No cards on me. Just come by. You know where to find me.”

“I will,” Stan said. “Great to meet you.”

“You too! So exciting. I love people who get it.” Amara clapped her hands again, then plopped back down on her blanket, crossed her legs and began her Zen thing again.

That was luck. Stan wasn't sure what she “got,” but a homeopath next door was a good thing. Could she really meditate out here? Probably, Stan figured. She seemed way more enlightened. Amara was likely one of those spiritual-but-not-religious types who volunteered at soup kitchens and children's cancer wards, played chants while she read self-help books and went to other countries to find herself or engage in some martyr-type activity to find a purpose. She also had a temper, which was obvious from her shouting match the day before. But everyone had a dark side.

Stan jumped back on the path and picked up her jog. She noticed a woman on a bench watching her. She lifted her hand in a wave, then realized it was the white-haired woman. The other screamer. She looked straight at Stan, but she didn't wave back. Shrugging it off, Stan turned her attention back in front of her a second too late. An enormous Weimaraner bounded into her path. She halted, feinting to the right to avoid being knocked over.

If her reflexes had been slower, she would've ended up sprawled in the grass, or worse. She yanked her earbuds out, automatically reaching up to pat the overly friendly dog who was now standing on his hind legs trying to lick her to death.

“Duncan! For Christ's sake.” A man jogged across the grass. He wore a Yankees baseball cap backward, over longish, dirty blond hair, and a tank top, which definitely proved he had muscles. Tan, unshaven, dark glasses. From what she could see, he was very cute. Although she didn't like people who couldn't control their dogs. And she wasn't wild about Yankees fans.

He reached her, panting slightly, and tugged the dog's collar to make him sit. “Bad dog, Duncan. You don't run off like that. I'm very sorry,” he said, casting an appraising glance over her. Stan suddenly felt very self-conscious. And sweaty. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” she said, reaching up to adjust her ponytail. “No problem. He's very sweet, aren't you, Duncan?”

Duncan immediately pounced on her again, and this time she did lose her balance. His owner grabbed her arm to steady her. The dog seemed to weigh twice what she did.

“Duncan! I said, ‘Sit,'” he commanded. When the dog obliged, tongue lolling, he rolled his eyes. “Sorry again. I'm Jake McGee.” He still held her arm.

“Stan Connor,” she said, with a pointed look at his hand. He grinned and let her go, lifting his sunglasses up to rest on the brim of his cap. He had cool eyes, too. Catlike, with brown and gold and green all vying for dominance. Stan uncapped her water bottle and took a swig. She ordered herself to stop admiring. Not appropriate.

“Stan, huh?” he said. “You don't look like a Stan. The last Stan I knew was fifty-eight, bald and fat.”

She almost spit her water trying not to laugh. “Well, maybe this will change your mental image of all future Stans. It was nice meeting you.” With one last pet for Duncan, Stan turned and started to jog again.

A minute later, Jake McGee fell into step beside her; Duncan obediently ran after them both. “Do you live around here, Stan?” he asked, drawing her name out on his tongue.

Stan glanced at him and kept the slow jog pace. “I just moved in yesterday,” she said.

“Ah. The green house.” Jake snapped his fingers. “I saw you with the moving truck, but you look different.”

“You mean sweaty.”

Jake laughed. “I didn't mean that. I think it's the hair. It was down and now it's in a ponytail.”

“Easier to run with,” she said. Why was he noticing her hair?

“Are you gonna keep this pace up?” Jake asked.

“I hope not. I am out for a run, after all.”

“I thought so,” he said, sighing. “I'm going to have to leave you to it. It was nice meeting you, Stan.”

Something about the way he said her name gave her a warm feeling in her belly. She kicked up her speed. “You both, too.” She plugged her music back into her ears. After she'd gotten halfway around the circle, she turned back once. Jake and Duncan were no longer in sight.

 

 

It took her a half hour to do a three-mile run. Not a bad pace, considering she couldn't remember when she'd actually run last. She showered and was on her way to the back porch with an iced coffee, preparing to plot out the rest of her day, when her doorbell rang.

She reversed direction and headed to the front door. Maybe it was someone with more sweets.

It wasn't. The woman with the long white hair stood on her porch, a straw hat like Ray Mackey's perched on top of her head. Still not smiling. Piercing gray eyes studied Stan and the space behind her. Intense eyes. She reminded Stan of the depictions of Salem witches painted in honor of Halloween every year; the same white hair loose under a hat, only their hats were black and pointy. And they had warts on their noses. Her visitor had no warts, and she wore scrubs with smiling Scooby-Doo images plastered all over them. A happy scene in direct contrast with her aura. She had good shoes, though. Fun Merrell clogs that Stan had admired but never bought because they weren't corporate America shoes. She pasted a polite smile on her face.

“Yes?”

“Hello. I'm Carole Morganwick,” the woman said. “I'm the vet in town.”

“Hi there. Stan Connor. It's very nice to meet you.” Stan extended her hand.

Carole observed it like one would a dirty child reaching for a hug. Instead of shaking, she handed her a thin newspaper. “Your paper was on your lawn. Welcome to town,” she added. Her skin was cancer-tan, and hundreds of tiny wrinkles clustered around the corners of her eyes. From the expression Carole wore now, Stan guessed they were not laugh lines.

“Thanks.” Stan took the paper and unfolded it. “Although I haven't subscribed to a newspaper.” The
Frog Ledge Holler.
Thin. If there were more than four pages to it, she'd be surprised.

Carole waved her off. “It's free. Cyril drives everyone crazy with it.”

Cyril? Stan had no idea what person she was talking about. “Oh. Well, would you, uh, like to come in?” Stan glanced behind her and envisioned where the unpacked boxes were stacked. How empty it still looked.

Too late. Carole was already halfway through the door, looking around as if she were at a museum exhibit. “Thank you. I heard you have a cat.”

“I do,” Stan said, closing the door. “A Maine coon. Nutty. Where did you hear that?”

Carole ignored the question. “Who's your vet?”

“Well . . .” Stan thought about the best way to answer that. She hadn't been to Nutty's “traditional” vet in over a year, nor had she seen his homeopath in a while. And she'd just met Amara, so that didn't count.

Carole turned abruptly at her hesitation. Those intense eyes drilled into Stan's. “You need a local vet, my dear, if you love your cat. And I don't mean those funny people who call themselves ‘vets,' but don't do any kind of veterinary work at all. Did I mention I'm the town vet?”

“Of course I love my cat,” Stan said, bristling at both the insult and the thinly veiled dig at homeopathic vets. Carole must have seen her talking to Amara this morning and decided to establish some territory. “I treat Nutty like a king. Especially with his condition. And yes, you mentioned you're the vet.”