An Allegheny Homecoming

CHAPTER TWO

“NONFAT VANILLA LATTE. And make it a double.” She deserved it after the morning she’d had. Standing at The Wildflower counter, Wendy swiped her debit card and studied the woman behind the cash register. “Are you still working out? You don’t look like you’ve gained an ounce.”

Holly Hoffman McAndrews grinned as she pushed Wendy’s latte across the counter. The sweet scent of vanilla wafted from the ceramic cup. “I can do limited exercise. And I walk a lot.” She patted the round protrusion underneath the brown apron. “But I gave up riding horses for a while.” Her smile got wider as the bell jingled over the door. “It’s all his fault.”

“What are you blaming me for now?” Mac McAndrews, the chief of police and Holly’s husband, strode across the floor.

Wendy looked from one to the other. She may as well have been invisible.

She’d never spotted the love affair coming, what with Mac having a little girl from his first marriage and Holly thinking she wasn’t the maternal type. But somehow things had worked out for the couple and, two years after they laid eyes on each other, they were a happy family, with Mac’s seven-year-old daughter, Riley, and a baby on the way.

Wendy carried her cup to the low table in front of the picture window and settled into an overstuffed chair. Brown-and-yellow plaid, the colors of the local high school. Rather than go home to an empty house, Wendy had decided to research job opportunities on her laptop in the comfort of the cozy coffee shop. She would do the noon report from the bridge, with a couple shots of a still unfrozen creek, and then go home.

She sipped her latte as she waited for her laptop to connect. Ever since Holly had opened the coffee shop the previous year, Wendy had been a steady customer. She had watched Mac date a series of women, looking for the perfect partner for himself and mother for his daughter. He had even taken Wendy out to dinner, but they both knew before they finished their salads they were going in completely opposite directions.

Wendy watched the two former military members hold hands across the counter. Holly had been a great choice for Mac and vice versa. It just took them a while to figure that out.

Glancing down at the computer screen, she typed television news jobs in the search bar. How long would it take for her to figure things out? She couldn’t stay at WSHF past January. She had to find something else. A year was long enough to wait for an opportunity. She clicked on the first listing. Broadcast Technician, Shipboard, Worldwide. Get ready for an exciting life at sea!

She skimmed the job requirements—which she met—and then the long list of responsibilities. The any other job-related duties assigned moved her finger to the delete button. She pictured herself swabbing the deck with a smelly mop. She was reading about a TV Spot Producer in Burbank when the bell jingled over the door.

“Hello, all, what a nice day out there with the sun shining. And there’s our own weather girl to give me the latest weather report.” Mrs. Hershberger, first-grade teacher to half the town, beamed her a sunny smile as she closed the door.

Wendy bit the inside of her cheek and gave the teacher a tight grin. Two times in one day. First Walt, now the teacher. The funny thing was, she believed they thought they were paying her a compliment. Local girl makes good, and all.

“Hello, John.” The plump, recently retired teacher was one of the few in town, besides his mother and wife, to refer to the chief of police as John. Dropping her big purse onto the floor, she plopped into the chair opposite Wendy. “I’ll try one of your special lattes, Holly. The one with pumpkin.”

With a last glimpse at the Burbank job, Wendy clicked off the screen and shut her laptop. She would get no more work done with Mrs. Hershberger nearby. “Terrible storm coming in later this week, Mrs. Hershberger.”

“Oh, dear, I was hoping the snow would hold off until Christmas.” The sound of the steamer filled the shop.

“Six weeks?” Wendy glanced at the coffeepot clock over the counter. If she wanted to get the remote to Walt by noon, she had better get moving. “No such luck.” Her phone dinged with a message. A picture popped up on the screen. Central Park. View from Katie’s window! Having a great time! The message was from her father. The photo was taken from high above the park. Obviously, her sister had an expensive apartment. She had made the big time at twenty-five, as her father never ceased to remind her.

“Wendy?”

She looked up to find the teacher staring at her expectantly. “Did you say something?”

The woman’s gaze dropped briefly to the phone in Wendy’s hand.

Wendy slipped the phone into her briefcase. She would save her father’s exclamations of joy at being with his older daughter for later, when she had a full glass of red wine in one hand and a slice of pizza with everything but the kitchen sink on it in the other. Her mouth watered at the thought.

“I asked if Mark Murphy had done the long-range winter forecast yet.”

She shook her head, partly in answer and partly to dispel the pizza image. “He’s skiing in Vermont this week. The winter forecast is scheduled for next Monday’s six o’clock report.” Guilt over ignoring the older woman prompted her to stick with the conversation. “Are you enjoying retirement, Mrs. Hershberger?”

“I suppose.” The wide smile faded. She twisted a band around her left ring finger. A single diamond winked on each rotation. “I miss the kids, and my retirement check doesn’t seem to go as far as I thought it would, so I substitute when they need someone. That’s why I was hoping the bad weather would hold off. My little car doesn’t get around in the snow very well.”

Holly chose that moment to deliver the latte. “One pumpkin spice latte. Maybe you should go to Florida, Mrs. Hershberger. My mom and dad talk about it every year but never seem to make it there.”

The smile returned when Holly sank into the chair between them. “Winters in Pennsylvania usually aren’t too bad. This is my second winter being retired, and I’m just not accustomed to having so much free time.”

Finishing her latte, Wendy slipped her laptop into her briefcase. She remembered the school had honored the older woman for forty-five years of teaching. Mrs. H had to be in her late sixties. Why had she worked so long? Everyone Wendy came across always talked about retiring as soon as possible. Didn’t Mrs. H have family? Grandchildren? She thought everybody around here had grandchildren.

Mrs. Hershberger focused on Holly. “I read in the paper you and the other merchants are planning a holiday party and I want to hear all about it, but first...how is Riley adapting to the idea of having a baby brother or sister?”

Holly let out a burst of laughter, her green eyes dancing. She launched into a story about Riley insisting on decorating the nursery in a superhero theme.

Shaking her head, Wendy drummed her fingers on the arm of the heavily cushioned chair. At one time, Holly, world traveler, barrel racer, independent woman, had been a resource for discussing issues facing trailblazing women in the workplace, but now she was firmly entrenched in motherhood. Holly had gone over to the dark side.

* * *

JOSH DIDN’T HIT snow until Pennsylvania. Almost a week had gone by since he’d received the letter. He wanted to finish things on the ranch before taking off, and to thank Matt’s aunt and uncle for everything and to let them know he’d be back soon. Driving for twenty hours straight out Interstate 80 from Montana, he’d stopped only for coffee, snacks and gas. And once for ice cream. Water he carried in a gallon jug behind the seat. He planned to continue on with no breaks, but by the time he reached Chicago his eyes were drifting closed. He pulled off at a roadside rest stop, unwrapped his sleeping bag and pillow, and crashed for a couple hours in the cramped backseat of his truck cab.

He reached Bear Meadows late Friday. Dusk had fallen. High winds heralded the approaching storm front. The streets were dark, indicating power was out for most of the town. He considered going home, seeing his father, but concern for his mother kept him going through town to the east side, where the bakeshop listed in the newspaper article anchored one end of a five-store strip mall. He hadn’t even known his mother had gone through with her plans to open a bakery and thought belatedly he should’ve called home more often. Once he made sure she was okay, he would stay at the family’s cabin a few miles away. Facing his father would be easier after a night’s sleep.

Both sides of Main Street were dark, although emergency lights in the hardware store and the bank lit the interiors. The hardware store held happy memories. Every April he and his father descended on the place, list in hand for supplies for the first day of trout season. They’d gather up their equipment, and then, with bologna sandwiches made with his mother’s homemade bread and her perfectly round sugar cookies for dessert, he and his father would be on the stream at the crack of dawn. He angled his truck into the space in front of the bakery and glanced at the window in the second floor. Dark. Maybe she hadn’t moved out of their home. Maybe she was using her maiden name for business purposes.

The last time he had been home his mother had mentioned taking an early retirement from the university and opening a bakery. Whenever she had brought up the subject, his father had laughed and told her to keep her day job. Obviously his mother had gone forward with her plans. Had his father’s opposition forced a separation? How did the sudden weight loss enter into the equation?

For the umpteenth time, Josh weighed the possibility that his mother was sick. He would find out soon enough.

As he got out of his truck, the door was almost pulled from his hand by the gusting wind. Slamming the door, he stared at the hanging sign. The Cookie Jar. Black letters on a white background. Black and white—that was his mother. A no-nonsense kind of person.

He stomped up the snow-covered steps to the wooden porch stretching the length of the strip mall, his footprints the only disturbance in the pristine snow. He knocked lightly on the pane of glass and then turned the door handle. It was unlocked. His soldier’s internal alarm sounded as he opened the door into a quiet store. The faint scent of just-baked bread filled the room. He pulled his cell phone from his inside coat pocket and turned on the flashlight app. A long pink counter filled the half of the store to his right. To his left, racks filled with loaves of bread and boxes of baked goods filled the shelves. “Mom?”

No answer. Something brushed his leg and he jerked away. A brown tail disappeared around the counter. “Another cat. At least you’re small enough to handle.” He followed the tail through the door into the kitchen. The old Formica table from their house occupied the center of the room. Counters covered two walls. A computer filled most of a small table in the corner near the back door. He ran a hand over the bulky monitor. “How can you keep track of a business on this antiquated thing?”

Peering into the darkness, heading for the staircase, he slowed his breathing, the better to hear if someone was in the building. Ice crystals pinged on the windows. “Mom, are you upstairs?”

No response. As he mounted the wooden steps, he stomped his boots in case she was asleep. “I’m coming up.”

At the top of the staircase, he aimed the beam of light in a slow arc around the small area. A simple cot. Folded clothes in cardboard boxes on the floor. A table with a jewelry box and an alarm clock. He looked out the window at the desolate street. A basket of dried petals sat on the windowsill. He picked it up and sniffed. Rose petals. His mother had always been crazy about roses. Was she living here full-time?

He checked under the bed. No sign of the cat. Josh would have to warn his mother, a woman who had refused to allow a dog or a cat in the house, that an animal was loose in her place of business.

But he would have to find her first.

* * *

THE LONG WEEK was almost over.

Mark had returned just ahead of the big storm and, in an unexpected moment of civility, had taken the early morning show. Wendy wasn’t needed at the station until the last broadcast at 11:00 p.m.

Grabbing a yogurt container from the refrigerator and a spoon from the silverware drawer, she walked out onto the enclosed back porch. The storm she had warned Mrs. Hershberger about on Monday had indeed finally arrived. Though only late afternoon, the sky was already getting dark. Fat, fluffy flakes danced in the gathering wind. The still-green grass was almost completely covered. A blue jay chirped from the bare maple tree. She settled into the rocking chair to watch as he hopped onto a higher branch.

If her mother were home, she would be stalking the bird with a telephoto lens. But her parents had gone to New York City almost a week ago, leaving Wendy alone in the sprawling ranch house tucked back on ten acres of wooded property.

She shivered. She had dressed in comfortable sweats when she got up that morning, but maybe she needed something warmer. She settled into the chair, the only sound the scraping of the rocker on the porch floor and the still-squawking blue jay.

She was used to her parents going off on some adventure or other, but she found herself missing her mother’s Yorkshire terrier, despite the insistent barking when he wanted to be picked up. Since her mother spoiled the bright-eyed ball of fluff, Oliver was usually held immediately.

Not even a pet. Meaning, no dog. Ms. King, the headhunter who’d found her the Atlanta anchor job that had unfortunately not happened, the woman who was still out there searching for Wendy’s big chance, had left Wendy with a mantra. The words echoed in her head. Oliver had filled the need for a pet, but now he was gone, leaving her with the blue jays and cardinals in the backyard.

She stared at the overcast sky. Mrs. Hershberger had referred to Wendy as “our weather girl,” but the truth was, the Valentine family had been part of the Bear Meadows population for less than ten years. Before that, her father’s computer security business had kept them in Philadelphia, but after selling and settling into an early, comfortable retirement, her parents had decided to move to central Pennsylvania. Wendy had been at Penn State by then and one of the few people in town the first-grade teacher hadn’t taught.

Unlike her father, who had retired in his mid fifties, Mrs. Hershberger had continued to teach into her late sixties. The warm, friendly teacher would have made a great mom, possibly better than her own mother, who’d found herself pregnant at forty and not that interested in motherhood. Wendy sometimes felt her parents had been a couple so long that they forgot they had a child.

The blue jay hopped farther up the tree.

“If you had a story to tell, I’d interview you, but I think you’re safe, Mr. Jay.” Wendy laughed as the blue-and-white-striped bird with the crested head chirped in reply.

She had to think of something to draw the attention of the big affiliates. Would Walt ever allow her time to interview someone? And if he did, who would she interview? Her parents? Her parents may like living in the rural countryside of central Pennsylvania, but they craved the excitement of exotic places. Maybe a series on unusual travel destinations? Atlanta had been tantalizingly close. Katherine King had been as disappointed as she when the offer didn’t materialize. “Keep doing what you’re doing, Wendy. Try to break out from weather. It’s only a matter of time.”

She had tried. Last fall she had covered every game of the Bear Meadows football team. Her one attempt to dig deeper into a story had almost cost her a friendship. She had been interviewing the chief of police after some teenagers were caught stealing from stores in the strip mall. Something had prompted her to ask him about his dismissal from the Raleigh police force, which she had only come upon after looking the new police chief up on the internet. His normally pleasant demeanor had turned to stone.

Only later did she find out he had blamed himself for the death of his wife. Rather than going for milk himself, his wife had driven, unaccustomed to snow-covered roads, and crashed the car. He began drinking, and was asked to leave the police force. That was all behind him now, but no, she would not be interviewing Chief McAndrews.

She could interview the Smith brothers. Their farm was just a few miles from her parents’ property. The seventy-year-old twin brothers had never married and lived on the family homestead all their lives. Two years ago they had begun selling handmade turkey calls and become an internet sensation. Skinny would be the easier of the two to interview. Hawkeye rarely said a word. Hawkeye remained a mystery. What was his story?

Her thoughts of potential interviewees was interrupted by the ringing of her phone from inside the house. When she jumped out of the rocker, the blue jay flew off, squawking in alarm. The phone lay on the edge of the kitchen’s island countertop. “Hello?” she answered.

“I need you to do the six o’clock.” No greeting, just Walt’s gravelly voice.

“Where’s Mark?” Glancing out the window, she noted the fluffy flakes of a few minutes earlier had increased in size and intensity. She could no longer see the garden shed from the kitchen window.

“You can do a remote.”

Apparently Mark’s whereabouts were none of her business. “Did you have something in mind?”

“The power’s out in Bear Meadows. They’re opening the church basement for people. Go there, report the weather and how people are coping. Don’t try to get fancy.”

“I don’t have—”

“Phil will meet you. He’ll do the camera work. I want him to get some shots of the roads, maybe go up to the interstate and see how traffic is moving. Then he can bring everything back for the late report.”

Wendy breathed a sigh of relief. Sending the cameraman would make the assignment much easier. “Sure thing, Walt. Thanks.”

“You got it, kid. Be careful driving.” And without another word he was gone.

Wendy clicked off. She glanced at the cuckoo clock over the sink, a souvenir her parents had brought back after a trip to Bavaria two years earlier. She had just enough time to change, so without a moment to spare she dashed upstairs. She stared into her closet and debated the best look for outdoor reporting in a blizzard. Or should she report from inside the church? Figuring she wouldn’t be outside long, she pulled on skinny jeans and a royal blue sweater. Her tall black boots and the station’s monogrammed quilted jacket should get her from her car to the church basement.

Given the front-wheel drive, her car did fairly well in the snow. But who knew how quickly the roads would be plowed? The latest forecast indicated a crazy storm was on its way. And who knew that better than she?

* * *

HE TRIED EACH of the other four shops next to the bakery. A computer shop, a consignment shop, the coffee shop and finally his friend Megan’s hair salon. He peered into the window and could barely make out the two chairs and mirrors. He strolled along the boardwalk, his attention now on the other side of the street. The bank and the hardware store were, of course, closed. Despite the covering of snow, he could tell the vacant lot had been renovated. Three benches were scattered among the new landscaping. This end of town had certainly improved since his last trip home.

He retraced his steps to his truck and brushed off the snow that had already accumulated on his windshield. Bank, hardware store, new park, library. Leaning on his truck bed, he studied the facade of the former carriage house that had been the home of the library for all the years he was a student. As he looked closer at the window, he could make out the design of a large cup with a thin handle. Crossing the slippery street, he glanced to his right. At the end of the street, the stoplight swung wildly in the blustery wind.

Someone had converted the old library into a tea shop. Tea for You. He wondered if he should try the door and then knew he would question himself if he didn’t. Grasping the doorknob, he turned the handle and pushed. The door swung open. Snow blew past him and landed on the runner leading from the door to a counter. He quickly shut the door behind him. “Hello?”

At least in his mother’s place of business his presence had been justified. Here, he felt like an interloper. He came farther into the room. The checkout counter had been refinished. A stained-glass lamp graced the top. Round tables and chairs were scattered through the space. Continuing through the shop, he passed a wall of loose teas in glass jars. He entered a kitchen area. The interior back door was wide open.

Josh stepped onto the back porch. Through the massive oak grove on the far side of the parking lot, the outline of the old mansion was barely visible. Dr. Reed’s home.

One car remained in the parking lot, covered with at least six inches of snow. He remembered his father telling him the building had been a carriage house, with horses and carriages on the ground floor, while the upper floor had been living quarters for the grooms. When they created the parking lot, they had to provide a basement entrance to the original ground floor. Josh walked to the edge of the porch.

A large silver maple grew at the edge of the parking lot. One of its branches had fallen from the weight of the snow and lay squarely across the cellar doors leading to the ground floor. If anyone had been in the basement when the limb broke off, he or she was trapped. He listened. Nothing, just the skitter of snow. He could barely make out anything in the darkness until a flicker of light caught his eye. Grabbing the railing, he eased down the steps. Looking under the porch, he noticed a bit of light coming through a small cellar window. Maybe the proprietor of the tea shop had been trapped below. And maybe he or she would know where his mother had gone.