A Man Of Influence

“Ms. Jackson, this is Sue Gaines from Three Filmers Productions.” The woman spoke with a smoothly modulated voice Tracy envied. “You sent in an application a few weeks ago for a producer job?”

“Yes.” Tracy braced herself for the worst. It was rare for her to get good news about a job application.

“Congratulations. You’ve made the short list of candidates we’re considering for the position.”

“What?” Tracy reached for the railing to steady herself. “No.”

Chad didn’t pretend to hide his curiosity. He tilted his head and contemplated her expression with all the seriousness of a doctor she’d once met at a speech research facility.

“Yes.” Sue chuckled. “For this next round, we’re asking all applicants to create a three minute video segment that tells us who you are. You may feature people and things that are important to you or that shaped who you are. But you must be on screen for at least two of the three minutes.”

On screen? Tracy did a quick visual inventory of her body parts and surroundings, because she felt as cold as if she’d fallen in the river. This was an exercise she couldn’t do. She’d have to turn them down. Responses formed in her head—so grateful, have to decline, chickening out.

Meanwhile, Sue was barreling on quite happily. “You’ll present your video in two weeks to the interview panel in our offices. I’ll send everything you need to know in a confirmation email. Good luck!”

“What’s wrong?” Chad asked when Tracy disconnected the call. “You look like you lost everything in the stock market.”

Tracy shook her head, still feeling cold. “I got a call-back interview. At a film production company.”

“Don’t you want the job?”

“Yes.” Tracy longed for the mental challenge and sense of purpose the job offered. “But...” Be on screen? “They want me to...make a video. About what makes me...me.” That was going to be one quiet film.

Chad shrugged off her fears. “Everybody makes video résumés nowadays. Besides, didn’t you say you used to work at an ad agency? This should be right up your alley.”

“They want me. To be in the film.” Tracy tilted her head back and stared at the sky. It was a clear blue, happy sky. A sky that promised smooth sailing. Not trusting it, Tracy dropped her gaze to her sneakers. “Me. In the film. Talking.” A sense of foreboding crept up her calves like delicate, determined spider legs, threatening her equilibrium. “I’m going to decline.” As soon as Sue sent the confirmation email. Because Tracy had been unable to spit out the words on the phone.

Words spit about her head now: Coward. Fraidy-cat. Spineless jellyfish. Loser.

She hated those descriptors.

Chad bent his knees to peer into her eyes. “You’re quitting?”

Quitter. Yep, that was appropriate, too.

Tracy clenched her fists, hating that label, as well. “At least, I’ll have my dignity...if I bail on the interview. You, Chad the Blackmailer, don’t...have dignity or respect. Certainly not mine.” She dodged around him and his penetrating gaze, heading toward the bakery as she tossed over her shoulder, “Besides...technically, I can’t quit if I’m not hired.” That smoothly uttered sentence was a fluke, just like that job offer. She’d learned not to get her hopes up over flukes. There’d been the copywriting job last month the recruiter said she was perfect for. Tracy had sat across from her prospective boss unable to do more than nod her head and offer monosyllabic answers.

“And here I thought you were brave.” Chad matched her escape pace perfectly, his tone just as hard on Tracy as she was on herself.

“And I thought you were honorable,” Tracy flung back at him. It was easier to argue with him than to deal with the doubts churning in her stomach.

“I have a code. I’ll take that over honor any day.” He hurried ahead, as if he couldn’t wait to get back to the town proper and find that story. “There’s nothing wrong with it, but do you really want to make coffee the rest of your life?”

She didn’t, of course. And that was what was killing her inside.

And then she saw what had him walking so fast. Roxie Knight had parked her old red truck on the corner. The truck bed was filled with small cages. Each one had a chicken in it.

Tracy told herself not to worry. Chickens might be trendy and Chad might be sneaky, but chickens didn’t fly with the bachelor crowd.

CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_a5a930b7-6df5-5e6b-8474-a9ede8ecff0f)

AN ELDERLY WOMAN with short, wiry blue hair in stained blue coveralls and driving around with a truckload of chickens.

This would be fun.

Chad’s inner voice had him veering away from Tracy and the disappointment he felt over her fear of a challenge. He didn’t want to think about Tracy or why he cared what happened to her. He called out a greeting to the old woman, ignoring Tracy’s parting shot of, “Be nice!” and introducing himself.

“I’m Roxie.” The old woman adjusted the hang of her coveralls, wheezing as if she’d just run a race. “You must be that reporter people are talking about.” She tightened a strap that held her cages down with hands that seemed plumper than fit her thin, petite frame.

Interest in a story was elbowed aside by the alarm flashing in his head, the one experienced during years spent raised by elderly parents. Roxie’s shortness of breath. Her poor circulation. Was her skin pale because she didn’t get outdoors? That was the argument his mother had made when Chad had asked her to see a doctor. Too late, it turned out.

“You don’t talk much.” Roxie hit him with a sideways glance. “Are you a friend of Tracy’s? From one of those clinics she goes to?”

“No.” Chad drew back. She thought he had speech difficulties? “I was distracted by all your chickens.” He hoped to be distracted by whatever reason she had a truckload of fowl, distracted enough to ignore what he saw as warning signs in her health.

“I’m taking them to the farmers market. Getting dotty in my old age.” She gasped for breath. “Let too many roosters in the hen house and ended up with too many chickens. Or so my daughter says. She made me promise—” Wheeze. “—to get rid of them all last time she visited.” Panting, Roxie climbed unsteadily onto the rear bumper and untied a small cage with a small blue-gray speckled hen. “The load unbalanced when I came around the corner. I’ve just got one cage too many. Poor Henrietta.” She slumped over the tailgate, balancing the cage on the fender. “Whew. You’d think we were at a high elevation. I can’t seem to catch my breath.”

“Let me help.” He placed a steadying touch at the small of her back. “Give me Henrietta.” Once the hen was on the ground, Chad took Roxie’s hand and helped her down.

Roxie’s was cold. Her grip weak. Up close, her skin had an unhealthy tinge to it.

Mom, you don’t look so well. Let’s go to the doctor.

Tension pinched between his shoulder blades. “You shouldn’t be doing this trip alone.” Roxie shouldn’t be doing it at all. She should be seeking medical attention.

It’s none of your business. That’s what his mother had said. I may be slowing down, but everyone slows down at my age.

He was looking at Roxie, but that didn’t stop an image of his mother’s face from coming to mind and replacing hers.

I could be wrong. I’m not a doctor.

It didn’t feel wrong. And he would have appreciated anyone who could’ve made his mother see a doctor. Maybe then she’d still be alive. Maybe then he wouldn’t be alone and empty.

“I’m glad you offered to come.” Roxie smiled up at him mid-wheeze. “Won’t take more than an hour. My friend Marty says he’ll sell them for me, so it’s just a drop-off.”

“But...”

“Get a move on.” Roxie pressed her keys into his hands, picked up Henrietta’s cage and walked around the truck to the passenger side, huffing and puffing like a six-pack-a-day smoker.

Chad was dumbfounded. This was just like earlier when Eunice and Tracy left him—a stranger—with a baby. What was it about Harmony Valley that inspired such trust in their fellow man? Didn’t they realize the world was a dangerous place?

And yet... His reporter instincts stood on end—this is the story. Chad stood still, rejecting the idea. He didn’t write smarmy, feel-good pieces. He didn’t do good deeds, like pointing out to someone they might be sick. Or driving them to the doctor. There must be someone in town who’d drive Roxie.

Although no one in the bakery had been willing to drive him a few blocks. The only volunteer driver, the petite woman—Aggie/Agnes—was probably still busy taking Mildred to her doctor’s appointment.

Roxie got in with a mighty door slam and a raspy gasp.

The chickens in the back startled, clucked and stared at Chad as if to say, “Get a move on!”