A Man Of Influence

The choices he faced...

He could freelance or write for someone else. He could work in editorial for another publication. Or he could start his own travel magazine—one tailored to other happy bachelors. Take his relearned smile and remembered laugh and be so successful Barney and the Lampoon and the father he’d buried would regret letting him go.

And didn’t that bring a smile to his face?

According to his research, Harmony Valley had nearly been a ghost town until a winery begun by dot-com millionaires had breathed life into it. A winery founded by wealthy bachelors in the middle of nowhere? Now, there was a story. The “why” behind it intrigued Chad. What did this small town have which made it special to three single men? The buzz was the town may be barely breathing, but it abounded with quirky traditions it was loath to give up.

So here he was in Harmony Valley for the Harvest Festival, hoping he wasn’t too late and could beat the Lampoon to the story. He’d landed on a new name for his column and had the Happy Bachelor Takes a Different Path website all set up with content loaded from his experiences in Portland and Seattle. All he needed to do was press publish. But first, he needed a strong lead article. Something that set this phase of his travel life apart from the previous thirteen years.

Yep, here he was in Harmony Valley, the smallest small town he’d ever seen, looking for a unique experience for bachelors. Only problem was: he didn’t write about small towns. He wrote about hip and happening urban locations that hip and happening urban bachelors wanted to visit.

This was...

Shades of his elderly parents.

Harmony Valley might just as well have been a retirement community. He’d seen a few people walking around—all white-haired, wrinkled or balding. He’d driven a circuit of the downtown blocks a time or two—there were only a few each way. There were more empty buildings than businesses. And this was the only bakery.

He glanced around. Where was the local sheriff? Where were the local trades? Where were the moms coming in to get a morning dose of caffeine after dropping off their kids at school? Where were the singles setting up shop for an hour or two to get work done and perhaps meet someone?

They were all conspicuously absent.

Still, Chad soaked in the ambience that was Martin’s Bakery. In a way, it had the hidden-treasure vibe his Lampoon readers appreciated. A window seat with a deep cushion and pillows, a collection of tables and mis-matched wooden chairs that looked as if they’d been here for a century. The yellowed photos of bakery workers hanging on the wall seemed to prove that point. Dark brown beadboard trim was capped with a chair railing on the side wall. Three bakery cases made an L shape in the space. A large chalkboard hung on the wall behind the register. The daily special: pumpkin scones. And the coffee... Chad breathed in deeply. The coffee smelled rich and fresh, as if it had just been ground for him.

So maybe the people weren’t hip. Gray and white hair, walkers and canes, polyester pants and orthopedic sneakers. At least they looked healthy. And maybe they weren’t happening in the where-it’s-at sense. The two old men reset their checkerboard instead of an online game. But they had a certain spunk. He just wasn’t sure what Harmony Valley offered made for a good first column to launch his online travel magazine.

Chad claimed a table next to the old woman quilting in the window seat. There was a crib beside her with a cooing baby. She had the air of a talker, and Chad needed details to decide if this story was worthwhile. There was still time to drive to San Francisco for the Union Street Wine Walk or Monterey for a celebrity golf event.

The old woman’s hair was an unusual color, a purplish-gray more suited to the alternative scene in Soho than a remote corner of Sonoma County. She wore bright pastels—pink, yellow, lime green. The kind of colors he associated with spring. Her complexion was free of age spots and had a healthy pink glow.

She glanced at him over the edge of her black-rimmed readers, much like a chaperone making sure he behaved at a middle school dance. “We don’t get too many drop-ins this far out from the highway, especially not writers.”

“I’m looking for undiscovered gems.” Rare, those gems. And the places that weren’t jewels? The dud locations he’d written about in the past were among his most popular columns at Bostwick Lampoon. Currently, the town was more dud than diamond, which cheered him up.

“We’ve always been a gem.” The old woman stared at him, as if they were playing a game of who would blink first. “The winery is changing things here.”

“For the better?” A sly opening in case she didn’t want Harmony Valley to change.

“Yes.” She gazed down at the baby, who gripped his toes and crooned softly. “Before the winery came to town, I’d never seen a baby born. And I’d never imagined such a beautiful creature would be the result of the horrors of childbirth.”

Chad opened his mouth to reply, but said nothing. Was the baby hers? She had to be staring down eighty. His parents had had Chad in their fifties—late, but not this late. The old woman should have thought this through. Parents needed to be young enough to keep up with their kids.

She didn’t notice his doubt. “I mean giving birth... The pain and the bl—”

“Eunice.” Tracy delivered Chad’s order with a warning for his talkative neighbor. Her shoulder-length blond hair was just-out-of-bed tousled. Her bright blue eyes reflected both intelligence and vulnerability. “We agreed. Childbirth details. Are not. Bakery. Appropriate.” Tracy blew out a breath and turned to Chad, avoiding eye contact by looking at his shoulder. “Anything else?”

He brushed at the cap of his sleeve and whatever it was Tracy saw there. “No, thanks.” He was grateful she’d saved him from the details of childbirth no bachelor wanted to hear. “Is the baby yours?” Because despite it being medically possible for it to be Eunice’s, he sincerely hoped—for the child’s sake—it wasn’t.

“The Poop Monster?” Hands up, Tracy backed away. “No.”

“Gregory is Jessica’s. She’s the owner here. I’m his godmother.” The pride in the old woman’s voice was unmistakable. “Isn’t he the most perfect baby you’ve ever seen?”

Chad leaned in for a closer look. Gregory paused in playing with his feet to stare back. He must have decided Chad passed muster, because he gave him a drooly smile that plumped up his already chubby cheeks. As babies went, the Poop Monster was cute and practically the only town citizen not to run at the sight of him.

Gregory kicked his feet and made a sound like a small motorboat.

“He likes you.” Eunice’s gaze turned to Chad and speculation. “Do you like babies? Are you married?”

“Eunice!” Tracy froze mid-turn. She had tentative curves, as if she’d recently gained or lost weight and couldn’t decide if she was going to gain or lose more.

“I don’t mind questions.” Questions led to conversation. Chad liked to get the measure of a town. But he couldn’t seem to get a bead on Harmony Valley. Or Tracy.

“Good.” Eunice removed her glasses and deposited them on her head, fluffing her purplish curls into place around them. “Men always ask about jobs. We women need more important information. Where are you from?”

“San Francisco.” Who knew for how long. The penthouse he’d shared with his dad, once filled with hospital equipment and round-the-clock nurses, seemed more like a mausoleum than a home.

“Welcome to Harmony Valley.” Eunice leaned forward, opening her eyes wide and blinking slowly in a way that was oddly hypnotic. “Are you or have you ever been married?”

“No.” Wait a minute. Chad sat back in his chair. He was always looking for an angle on a story, asking personal questions in a way that didn’t intimidate, not the other way around. “How’d you do that?”

“It’s my eyes.” Eunice blinked them in rapid succession. “They’re violet, just like Elizabeth Taylor’s. I’ve been told they have special powers.”

Shades of retired superheroes. Chad almost laughed. Almost, because her stare had worked on him.

“It’s the shock.” Tracy picked up a rag and spray cleaner, along with a gray tub for dirty dishes. “Of all that purple.”

Eunice harrumphed, as if used to Tracy’s teasing, and then fluffed her hair again. “Where is Jessica? She promised to try one of my mother’s recipes. I don’t see Horseradish-Doodles in the case.” She stood, smoothing her pink polyester pants and setting the orange and navy quilt pieces aside, and then she marched toward the kitchen with a sly half glance at Chad. “Watch Gregory for me, will you?”

“Let’s pray...” Tracy’s back was to Chad as she cleared a table in the corner. “That we never sell Horseradish-Doodles.”

“Horseradish-Doodles.” Chad had traveled all over the world. To the dirtiest dives and the most luxurious five-star establishments. He’d never heard of Horseradish-Doodles. “Is that a salty snack or a cookie?”

“Who knows?” Tracy shuddered.

Chad made a mental note to include Eunice and her Horseradish-Doodles in his piece.

In the playpen, the baby’s kicks became more violent. He gave a little shout.

“Gregory wants you to pick him up.” Tracy didn’t turn around.

“I’m not sure that’s wise.” Chad didn’t do babies. He’d heard there was a trick to it—picking them up, holding them, changing their diapers.

The old men playing checkers chuckled.

“Ah.” Tracy turned and stared at Chad’s shoulder once more. “You’re one of those bachelors.”

Intrigued as to how she’d lump him, Chad pretended ignorance by taking a sip of his latte.

“You’re afraid babies are contagious.” Tracy’s smile. It was honest and mischievous. It hit Chad in the gut, warming him quicker than his latte.