Love Finds You in Camelot, Tennessee (21 page)

“Sure thing. Since you’re the mayor and all, would you like to give me a quote for the article?”

“Be glad to. Just let me think about what I want to say, okay?”

“You’ve got it.” Mr. James lifted the camera and squinted through the lens. Turning toward the mule, he snapped a couple of photos and then chuckled. “I’ve seen a lot of plays over the years, but I don’t recall one starring a mule.”

“Still trying to figure that one out myself,” Steve said, before laughing. “I’ll let you know when I’ve got the full story on that one.”

He didn’t have time to think about it right now, however. As Amy and Woody introduced themselves to the reporter, the parking lot began filling with vehicles, including Pete’s van. Poor Bugsy still clung to the top, tattered and torn. Steve could practically see right through him. Still, the forlorn plastic bug hung on for dear life.

Just then, Steve heard dogs yapping. He turned to see that Gwen had arrived. She approached the group, looking frazzled and smelling like dog shampoo. Of course, the doggy smell might be coming from the trio of large hairy monsters attached to the leashes she held in her hand. They pulled her halfway across the parking lot before she got control of them.

“Sorry, Woody.” Gwen fought to maintain her hold on the leashes. “I know how you feel about having animals at the rehearsals, but I didn’t have any choice. These boys need a walk before they get picked up. But don’t worry, I’ll put them back in the grooming truck until their owners arrive. Anyway, I wanted to come over and let you know I’m here. Didn’t want you to start without me.”

The largest of the dogs, a golden retriever, drew near B-52, sniffing his ankles. Another one of the dogs—was that a Rottweiler?—headed straight for the mare with a menacing look on his face. What really took the cake, though, was the boxer. He went crazy, diving under everyone’s legs and nearly flipping poor Lucy Cramden upside down in the process.

“I don’t understand this.” Gwen did her best to hang onto the leashes but ended up with a couple of them wrapped around her ankles. “Boxers are usually such a docile breed. I have no idea what came over him. Come here, Buddy. Be a good boy.”

The dog refused to obey. Instead, he focused on the large hatbox in Lucy Cramden’s hands, nudging it and yelping nonstop. Gwen continued to struggle with the leashes, finally freeing her ankles so she could walk properly.

“Call off your beast, Gwen,” Lucy said. “Get him away from me, you hear?”

“Honestly, I have no idea…”

At that moment, the overly excited dog leaped in the air and knocked the box out of Lucy’s hands—and Fiona came flying out.

What happened next left Steve in a state of confusion. Gwen lost her grip on the leashes and all three dogs took off after Fiona like hounds on a hunt. B-52 went into panic mode and began to squeal. Katie Sue—God bless the old, dear mare—began to take quick steps toward Pete, which startled him and caused him to drop the sandwich he’d been holding. As soon as Fiona smelled the food, she changed directions, heading straight for Pete. Unfortunately, the three dogs followed, scaring the wits out of Pete, who took off running. At this point, the dogs went crazy. So did Fiona, who apparently had a penchant for bologna and cheese on wheat. The reporter came alive as the parking lot vibrated with activity. He began to snap photographs nonstop.
Wonderful
.

In the middle of the chaos, Blossom walked up, still wearing her apron from the salon and looking pretty winded. She’d switched her hair color again, this time settling on jet black. Interesting. And a little creepy. “Sorry I’m late, y’all,” she said with a sigh. “I…” Her words drifted off as she took in the chaotic scene before her. She snapped to attention. “Would’ve been here soon, but I had a hair emergency.”

“Hair emergency?”
Your own, perhaps?
Steve gave her a curious look, still more than a little distracted by the canines now running in circles and chasing the ferret with the bologna sandwich in her mouth.

“Yeah.” She pulled off her apron and sighed. “A perm gone wrong. Please don’t ask for details. Just trust me when I say that I had a bona fide reason for being late.” She looked around. “Looks like I’m just in time for the action.”

“You can say that again.” Steve had barely gotten the words out when Woody reached down and snatched up Fiona, who lost her hold on the bologna sandwich. She began to cry out in that high-pitched shriek of hers, but the real action took place on the ground at Woody’s feet, where the three dogs lapped up the remains of her precious meal.

“Oh, my poor baby!” Lucy raced to Woody’s side and gathered up Fiona. “What have they done to you?” She glared at Gwen. “If they’ve hurt her, I could sue.”

An ugly argument ensued between the two women, which got the reporter more excited than ever. He reached for his notepad, leaned against one of the nearby cars, and began to write at a steady pace. Amy looked on, her face pale. Steve could only imagine what she might be thinking.

In the midst of this chaos, Eula Mae showed up. She took one look at the dogs and let out a whistle, and they all fell into line. Thank goodness. They knew an authority figure when they saw one.

“Come get your beasts, Gwen,” Eula Mae called out, her voice ringing with confidence.

Gwen pulled herself from the argument with Lucy and grabbed the pups by their leashes, pulling them toward her van. Hopefully she would come back without them. In the meantime, they had a lot of work to do.

Eula Mae approached Steve, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Hey, boss…”

“Yes?”

She lowered her voice and pointed to Mickey James. “Who is that fellow?”

“Just a guy who works for the paper in Knoxville. He wants to do a story on us.”

“Paparazzi, huh?” She began to fuss with her hair. Seconds later, a look of concern settled onto her face. “Wait a minute. How do you know he’s really with the paper? He could be anyone.”

“He showed me his media badge.”

“Anyone can get one of those. I could get one if I wanted to.” She stared the fellow down. “You know what I think?” she whispered.

I’m sure you’re going to tell me.

“I think he works for the county.” Her brow wrinkled and her voice lowered further. “Or maybe even the state. Yep. That guy’s a spy, sent here to check us out. Could be he works for the feds. He looks like the type to spy on innocent citizens.”

“A spy?” Steve laughed aloud. “You’ve got a great imagination, Eula Mae.”

She tugged at his arm. “Not so loud, boss. He’s going to hear you. He’s probably got one of those high-powered microphones on him, attached to a miniature tape recorder. I saw one in a movie once.”

“Let him record us,” Steve said. “This is Camelot, a place where we wear our flaws and imperfections on our sleeves. We’ve got nothing to hide.”

“Can I quote you on that?” Mickey asked, joining them. He reached for his camera.

“Sure. Why not?” Steve posed for a shot with Eula Mae, who ducked under his arm and took off sprinting.

“I don’t need my face plastered on the front page of the newspaper,” she called out. “So you go on and write that story, mister. I won’t be a part of your little scam. No sir.”

Steve looked at the reporter and shrugged. “Guess she’s a little camera-shy.”

“No problem. I see people like her every day. Sort of a crazy old broad, isn’t she?”

Steve chuckled. “Guess you could say that. But she’s our crazy old broad and we love her.” He bit his tongue the minute the words escaped.
Oops.
Would
that
make the headlines?

Woody approached with his script in his hand. “What in the name of all that’s holy are we going to do with that mule? And Sarge’s old mare isn’t fit for a jousting scene. She’s not fit for anything except being put out to pasture. Don’t know what the nutty old guy was thinking.”

“So…” Mickey began to scribble. “You think the Sarge has a few screws loose?”

“A few?” Woody laughed. “That’s the understatement of the century. We could fill the hardware store with that many loose screws!” He laughed all the way into the building.

Sarge came walking by, pulling B-52 on a rope. “C’mon, old fella. Hope you’ve got enough life left in you to take down Lancelot. That’s the plan, anyway.”

“He’s going to take down Lancelot?” Mickey asked, eyes growing wide. “Seems a little extreme.”

“Yeah, that’s us. Extreme.” Steve chuckled and patted Mickey on the back. “Before you make any rash judgments, though, come inside and watch us rehearse. Chances are pretty good we’ll give you all the story you’ll ever need.”

“I’m counting on it,” Mickey said, tightening his grip on his camera. Mumbling something about tomorrow’s headline, he followed Steve into the Civic Center.

Acting isn’t really a creative profession. It’s an interpretative one.

P
AUL
N
EWMAN

Amy tried to collect her thoughts as she followed Steve and the reporter into the building. Somehow the idea of having someone from the media here felt a little unsettling. Still, she couldn’t blame anyone but herself. Calling her little troupe of actors the Camelot Players had been rash, at best. And now that they had both a mare
and
a donkey tied up to the flagpole out front, things had gotten even more complicated. What was Sarge thinking? Seriously. A donkey? For the jousting scene?

“Hey, Amy. Do you have a minute to talk?” Jackson smiled as he stepped into place beside her.

“Sure. What’s up?” She slowed her pace, allowing the others to pass them.

“Just wanted to update you on the plumbing issues,” he said. “The RV park situation isn’t as bad as you thought. The pipes were in pretty good shape. We’re talking minimal work to get water flowing out there. I thought you’d want to know.”

“Jackson, how can I ever thank you?” She put her hand on his arm and gazed into his eyes. “Seriously, you’ve made all of this so much easier on me. You’ve been such a…” Really, only one word made sense. “A godsend.”

“Thank you.” He offered a shy smile. “But I’m the one with the advantage here. I’ve made so many new friends….” His words drifted off as he gazed into her eyes. “Anyway, I’ve had a wonderful time getting to know all of you. And I want to get to know you more.”

“O–oh?” Her comfort level suddenly took a plunge.

“I mean, the whole town. I’m thinking about staying permanently.”

“No way.” Her heart flip-flopped.

A dazzling smile followed, garnering her full attention. “Well, sure. Who knows how long the show will run. Maybe we’ll be playing these roles for years to come. But, regardless, my grandfather needs me, and I need to settle down for a while. Stay put in one place.”

“And Camelot is the town for you?” She tried not to focus on his gorgeous green eyes, but what could a girl do? She couldn’t exactly look off in the distance with someone standing directly in front of her, could she? Besides, they drew her in, casting some sort of spell.

He nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. “Camelot is definitely the place for me.”

Is that some sort of subliminal message, or am I reading too much into this?

“I’m—I’m so glad,” she managed. “It might not be quite as exciting as the real Camelot, but we have our share of characters, for sure.”

“Including Gramps.” He chuckled. “I’m so sorry about the misunderstanding with the animals. I should have known better than to bring that donkey. I’ll be happy to take them back to his place before we get started, if you think we’d be better off.”

Amy paused to think before answering. She didn’t want to hurt Sarge’s feelings, after all. “Nah. It’s okay. As long as they don’t eat the daisies in the flower bed, we’ll be fine. Besides, it’s great fodder for the journalist. Heaven only knows what he might make of it.”

“That’s what worries me, actually.” Jackson laughed. “But if you’re okay with it, I’ll relax.”

“What can we do at this point but forge ahead?” Amy said. She entered the building and found Grady, Chuck, and Pete hovering over the set pieces they’d been working on. Jackson shared with a great degree of excitement about the progress they’d made.

“Wow.” She let out a whistle and walked around the medieval castlelike structure. “Guys, you’re the best. How did you ever get this much done so quickly?”

Grady turned twelve shades of red and Chuck’s gaze shifted.

“Shoot, twern’t nuthin’ to it,” Grady said. “Just slapped t’gether a buncha stuff from my hardware store. Boards ‘n’ paint, that’s all yer lookin’ at.”

“Yes, but what you’ve done with it is magnificent.” She turned to give him an admiring look. “Who did the painting?”

Chuck looked up with a smile. “Never knew I had an artistic side till now,” he said. “But I’ve enjoyed it. Painting is a little like butchering a hog.” He went on to explain, in detail, the similarities. Amy cringed more with each word. “It’s all art,” he said. “Set design and slaughtering—same thing.”

Hardly. But Amy wouldn’t fault him for the comparison. No, not when she happened to be staring at the beginning of what could be a lovely set. If Chuck was capable of this kind of work, he could compare butchering to painting all he liked.