The Battered Body

FOUR

“I’ve never been thin, Dr. Ruth,” James admitted as he stared at the kind face of Ruth Wilkins, Bennett’s nutritionist. “And I don’t need to look like Brad Pitt. I just want to feel comfortable in the tuxedo I’m wearing to my father’s wedding-in all my clothes, actually. I’d like to be healthy, but not in exchange for eating a bunch of tasteless food for the rest of my life.”

The nutritionist nodded and uncapped her pen, keeping it poised above a yellow legal pad. “You can just call me Ruth, Mr. Henry. ‘Dr. Ruth’ always makes people think of the famous sex therapist, and that’s not quite my area of expertise.” She shrugged self-effacingly, laced her fingers together, and smiled encouragingly. “Why don’t you start off by telling me what kinds of foods you like? And you can be honest with me. I’m not going to pass judgment on what you enjoy eating. I’m not here to ask you to change your tastes in food, but to help you achieve your goals.”

James released the tight grip he’d been applying to his leather armchair, which faced Dr. Ruth’s desk and was adjacent to a coffee table filled with synthetic food. Bennett had called the nutritionist “doctor,” so James had also come to think of her as Dr. Ruth. He picked up a piece of fake food from the table next to him-a plastic chicken drumstick-and examined it curiously.

“I like meat and potatoes,” he answered as he replaced the chicken leg and scooped up a pile of peas, which had the consistency of hardened Play-Doh. “I’m not a big seafood fan, but I do like a lot of green vegetables as well as all kinds of fruit.” He paused. “I love salty stuff like cheese puffs, peanuts, buttered popcorn, and Doritos. And I’ve got a sweet tooth as well. I feel like my meal isn’t really done until I’ve had something sugary, especially after supper.”

“That’s not uncommon. Many people need dessert to provide a sense of closure to their meal.” Dr. Ruth took a few notes. “It sounds like you eat a nice variety of healthy foods. That makes my job easier.” She gave him an approving smile. “It’s also encouraging that you have a specific aim, such as wanting to fit more comfortably into your clothes. When is your father’s wedding?”

“In less than two weeks. On Christmas Eve,” James said.

Dr. Ruth tapped her pen thoughtfully against her notepad. “Healthy weight loss is gradual, Mr. Henry. You might lose four or five pounds by the wedding, but not fifteen or twenty. I don’t want you to go into this with unrealistic expectations.”

James nodded. “Oh, I know. The wedding just gave me the motivation I needed to make an appointment with you. I probably won’t lose any weight now that my father’s future wife’s sister is in town. She’s a famous baker, and she’s going to be making the wedding cake. Somehow or other, I promised to taste a sample of all of her favorite recipes and pronounce which cake I think should be served at the wedding.”

“That’s quite an honor,” Dr. Ruth said with an amused grin. “And actually, you could still lose weight while being the official cake taster. Two or three bites are not going to make a difference as long as you’re not combining those high-calorie samples with other unhealthy treats in the course of one day.” She turned to a wooden letter tray near her right elbow and pulled out a sheet of computer paper. Sliding on a pair of reading glasses, she looked up at James over the lenses and asked, “The baker’s name wouldn’t happen to be Paulette Martine, would it?”

“That’s her. The Diva of Dough,” James replied, unable to keep a hint of bitterness from his tone.

“I’m doing a television show with her this Thursday. The crew from the CBS affiliate in Charlottesville is driving up here to interview us about how we approach holiday feasts. I’m supposed to talk about practicing moderation in order to avoid weight gain, and Paulette is going to illustrate examples of decadent foods that are worth blowing a diet for. Of course, I don’t support diets, but a change of lifestyle. Still, it should be an interesting show.” She picked up a framed photograph on her desk and showed it to James. “Channel 19 plans to run clips from the show on their evening news program as well. I’m hoping to gain a few more clients from the deal so that I can keep up with the cost of tuition.”

As James examined the photograph of Dr. Ruth’s three sons, who all resembled NFL linebackers, he wondered whether he should warn Dr. Ruth about Paulette’s waspish manner. The nutritionist, a petite brunette with lovely skin and glistening blue-green eyes, was markedly gentle and soft-spoken in comparison to Paulette Martine. James hated the idea that Paulette might browbeat Dr. Ruth in front of thousands of television viewers. “Well, I’ll definitely tune in,” he said. “But look out for Paulette. She’s got a rather venomous tongue.”

Dr. Ruth returned her family photo to the corner of her desk and nodded. “I’ve watched Madame Martine’s Diva of Dough show several times. I’ll be focusing on the nutritional content of her beautiful cakes, but like I told you, I don’t recommend depriving oneself of desserts or food treats, so Paulette and I shouldn’t find ourselves at odds. After all, life isn’t about eating broccoli. Healthy eating entails choosing a wide variety of foods, including an occasional Twinkie or a bag of salt and vinegar chips.”

Confident that Dr. Ruth could hold her own against Paulette, James asked, “So what do I do now?”

“I’d like you to start a food log. You should write down everything you eat over the course of the day and the calorie amount in each food. Then, write a total for all the calories at the bottom of each day. I’ve written down a couple websites to help you find out how many calories are in the most common foods.” She handed him a piece of paper showing a sample food log and a listing of three website URLs. “I’d also like you to add any exercise you’ve done per day, including walking, weight training, or other cardiac activities. You can deduct those calories from your food total.”

“What about drinks?” James inquired as he glanced at the paper. “I have a bunch of coffee every day.”

“Do you add cream or sugar?”

James nodded. “Yes. Both.”

“Then you need to add that on, because there are calories in your coffee.” Dr. Ruth touched James’s hand. “This is just for me to see what your eating preferences are. Just be as thorough and honest as you can. Remember, I’m not here to judge you.”

“Can I try to lose some weight while I’m working on this log?”

“That would be great!” Dr. Ruth declared. “If you’d like to try to restrict your daily caloric intake to around twenty-two to twenty-five hundred calories, then go for it!”

“Maybe Bennett and I can hype each other up,” James murmured as he wondered how much he could eat on a two-thousand-calorie-a-day plan. “It’ll be nice to talk this over with him. And if I get stressed about the wedding or he gets stressed about his upcoming taping for Jeopardy! then we’ve got one another for support.”

“Having a friend with similar goals is certainly a plus,” Dr. Ruth said as she glanced at her watch. “Unfortunately, our time is up. Let’s make an appointment for next week. We’ll start our session by getting your weight and see what your body fat number is, and then we’ll look over your food log and see where to go from there. Sound good?” She smiled warmly.

In spite of the mention of the words “body fat,” James felt a tingle of excitement. He felt absolutely sure that he could work with this woman to improve his eating habits. Dr. Ruth wasn’t going to lecture him or guilt him into changing his eating habits. Instead, she would act as a guide on his journey to a healthier future. The nutritionist seemed so sincerely optimistic and encouraging that James found himself wanting to please her.

“Thank you.” He stood and shook her outstretched hand. “I’m really glad I came today,” James said as he moved toward the door. “I really didn’t want to, to tell you the truth, but I feel like this is exactly what I need.”

“I’ve heard that a time or two.” Dr. Ruth laughed. “But you did walk through that door and now you’ve got a plan in addition to a refreshingly positive attitude. I think you’re going to be one of my success stories, Mr. Henry.”

James whistled as he walked down the hallway of the medical office building housing Dr. Ruth and a dozen other professionals. As he passed a vending machine stuffed with Fritos, Hostess Cup Cakes, and candy bars illuminated by soft lights and humming enticingly, his stomach issued a loud rumble. “It’s almost suppertime,” he said to himself. “I’d better have a big one too, since this is the last meal I’ll be eating that Dr. Ruth doesn’t need to know about.”

“Something smells delicious,” James remarked as he entered his house through the back door leading into the kitchen. He stopped short when he saw Paulette bent over the kitchen counter, working a rolling pin over a layer of dough dusted with flour. Jackson sat silently at the kitchen table, studying Paulette’s every move.

James looked around in confusion. “Where’s Milla, Pop?”

“She drove to Harrisonburg to get us a hunk of meat, but she should be walkin’ through that door any second now,” Jackson answered. “Paulette here is gonna fix us a dinner that’ll make our bellies stick out for miles.”

“I think I’ve got that down pat.” James turned to Paulette. “What are you treating us to, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“A divine beef Wellington, made with succulent filet mignon, liver pâté, portobello mushrooms, and my homemade puff pastry.”

James was impressed. “Wow. Here I thought your specialty was cakes.”

“It is,” Paulette replied. “But I’m quite adept in all areas of the culinary arts.” She paused in her work and turned to Jackson. “Can you see me well enough?”

“Sure can. I’m sketchin’ in my mind.” Jackson tapped a gnarled finger against his wrinkled temple. “Don’t need no paper. By the end of the evenin’, I’ll know your hands as well as you do.”

Paulette looked quite pleased by this declaration. She gave Jackson an indulgent smile and then gestured at the plastic tumbler sitting next to a frying pan filled with sautéed onions and mushrooms. “I’m ready for a refill, brother-in-law.”

“Yes ma’am! Three fingers comin’ right up.” Jackson jumped out of his chair and poured some of his favorite Cutty Sark into her glass. “I didn’t reckon you for a gal who could knock back the sauce. Figured you’d be one of those fruity rum and umbrella kind of drinkers.”

“I’m tougher than I look,” Paulette replied with a sly grin. “Besides, Milla and I grew up in Mississippi, remember? We practically bleed scotch whiskey. And I was quite relieved to discover that you’re not a beer drinker. Such a crude beverage.” She gave a little sniff to underscore her disapproval.

James couldn’t believe his ears. Paulette and his father were actually getting along. Not only that, but they were apparently intent on getting drunk together. As he headed upstairs to change clothes, he heard the sound of Milla’s van crunching up the gravel driveway.

Thank goodness-another sane person has arrived. I wonder if Milla and her sister have patched things up since Saturday, James thought, recalling Paulette’s scurrilous behavior at Gillian’s. When he reentered the kitchen a few minutes later, the room was filled with Milla’s tinkling laughter and the bass rumble of Jackson’s more reserved chuckle. Paulette placed each portion of the pastry-wrapped meat into a casserole dish while doing a perfect imitation of Martha Stewart.

“ Everyone thinks I’m jealous of her because she’s got her own exclusive cookware and bedding line with Macy’s, but please .” She rubbed her hands vigorously with a red and green plaid dishtowel. “Macy’s is so colloquial. I’ve been approached by Nordstrom’s to come up with the desserts for their café menu. Clearly they recognize real talent, wouldn’t you agree?”

Milla slid the baking dish into the oven. “How lovely, dear. And Willow tells me that you’re going to be on one of our local shows on Thursday. That’s very exciting.”

Paulette took a slug of her drink and shrugged. “It’s only a Virginia morning show with a few thousand viewers, but I’ve got a new cake recipe I’d like to try out before I film it for my show. I was going to make it anyway for you and Jackson to sample, so why not prepare it on air?”

“Yummy.” Milla poured herself a glass of merlot and then filled a second glass and handed it to James. “You’re still going to help us taste all the wedding cake candidates, aren’t you, dear?” She clinked the rim of her glass against his and sighed contentedly. “I’m so glad to have y’all gathered here together. My old family and my new family. Perfect.”

Settling regally into one of the kitchen chairs, Paulette picked up the knife and fork laid out on the table and began cleaning spots from their surfaces with a paper napkin covered with rotund snowmen. “You were always disgustingly sentimental, Milla. I’m surprised you managed to muster up enough gumption to run your own business.”

“You’re not the only one who knows their way ’round pots and pans,” Milla retorted sharply. “And my classes have been quite successful, thank you kindly.” She sat down opposite her sister, but her posture was much less rigid than Paulette’s stiff-backed carriage. “I gotta say, though, I’m getting a bit tired of teaching all those classes up in New Market and then driving down here to be with my future spouse. Jackson and I have decided to live in this house after we’re married. My place is too small for the both of us, and I know Sir Charles will be tickled to death to run footloose and free around this yard.”

“I still cannot believe you named a dog after that two-timing future king of England.” Paulette eyed her sister curiously. “So what are you going to do? Please tell me that you’re not going to revert to being a cloistered housewife.” Paulette cast a judgmental stare at Jackson.

“Don’t give me the hairy eyeball, woman,” Jackson grumbled at Paulette. “Milla’s the boss of her own mind.”

Milla reached over and covered her fiancé’s weathered hand with her own. “Jackson is always supportive of everything I do, and I’ve decided to open a gourmet gift shop right here in Quincy’s Gap. We get a lot of tourists passing through, and the local folks are always complaining about having to drive to the big malls to buy anything unique, so I figure I’ll get plenty of business.”

James leaned over Milla’s shoulder and refilled her wine glass. “That sounds great. What kind of things will you carry?”

“ Quincy’s Whimsies will be filled with all kinds of gourmet food. I plan to make things that neither the bakery nor our grocery stores carry.” Milla pointed at Paulette. “And I’ll stock all of your cookbooks, of course. Plus, I thought I’d feature products by some of our area craftsmen and women. I’ve already talked to a woman who makes the most gorgeous pottery, a gentleman who can fix me up with beeswax candles and fresh jars of honey, and a young man who makes goat’s milk soaps and lotions. I took a goat’s milk bubble bath the other night, and my skin felt just like a twenty-year-old’s! Lord, the stuff is pure magic, I tell you!”

Paulette perked up fractionally at this pronouncement. “Really? I’d like to sample some of this person’s products.”

“We can visit his farm tomorrow. I’m thinking of using this young man’s products for wedding favors.” Milla got up, reduced the temperature of the oven, and turned on the front stove burner. She poured beef stock and some red wine into the meat drippings collected in a frying pan and began to stir the concoction.

“I doubt I have the appropriate attire for mucking through fields of goat droppings.” Paulette’s expression quickly turned sour.

“Relax, sister.” Milla giggled. “You won’t be forced to rough it too much. The boy’s got a shed next to the house where he sells his wares.”

“Just don’t go displayin’ that fur coat of yours ’round this town anymore,” Jackson ordered. “If James’s redhead friend doesn’t spray it with red paint, then you might just get attacked by a huntin’ dog.”

Paulette paled. “Oh, my. I guess I’ll have to settle for my cashmere overcoat. Your hunting dogs won’t go after that, will they? I could spray it with my Chanel Number Five. My parfum costs two hundred and sixty dollars an ounce, but I brought two bottles along, as I fully expected to encounter foul odors here in the country .”

“The dogs’ll only jump up on you if you’ve got dead animals draped across your collar or raw liver stuffed in your pockets. No need to go wastin’ your fancy scent on our local mongrels,” Jackson answered with a twinkle in his eye.

James couldn’t help but smile over how much Jackson seemed to be enjoying Paulette’s company. It was as if having someone around with a similar acerbic personality influenced the old man to adopt an attitude of playfulness and good humor. “Just keep things simple while you’re here, Diva. It’ll ease your way. Folks are friendly as church mice ’til you get their backs up. Then they’re slow to forgive,” he added, gesturing at James. “There’s no call for you to be pickin’ fights with my boy’s friends. They’re good people. All of ’em. Ya hear?” He turned to Milla and winked. “I’m done speech-makin’. We ’bout ready to eat?”

“Yes, dear heart. I just had to reduce this sauce until it was ready to pour over the beef. And now it is. Voilà!” Milla set a plate filled with a serving of Paulette’s beef Wellington in front of Jackson. “See? I know French too.”

James eyed the golden-brown pastry and inhaled the scents of wine, meat, mushrooms, onion, and cooked butter. He spread his snowman napkin onto his lap in anticipation. “This entrée isn’t low-calorie is it?” he asked Milla as she handed him his plate.

“Not even the teeniest bit,” she answered happily, placing a dish of steamed asparagus in the center of the table.

“ None of the world’s finest prepared foods are completely low-calorie,” Paulette added, and she opened her napkin with a flourish as she stared at James’s paunch. “Are you concerned about the caloric content for a specific reason?”

Nodding, James speared a piece of succulent meat with his fork and admired its pink center as he swirled it around in the fragrant drippings coating the bottom of his plate. “Starting tomorrow, I’m going to be keeping track of everything I eat, so tonight, I feel a bit like a man going to the gallows. This is the last meal I can eat without paying attention to the food’s nutritional content.” He put the meat in his mouth, reveling in its flavor.

“Well, if this is your final supper,” Milla paused to pour James more wine, “then it’s mighty lucky my sister’s made the dessert.”

The next morning, James turned on the shower and, while waiting the three full minutes it took for the water to turn from piercingly cold to marginally hot, he reluctantly took off his flannel pajamas, tube socks, and leather slippers and prepared to weigh himself. Shivering, he paused for a second to consider how much he had eaten the night before.

Three glasses of wine, a serving of beef Wellington, steamed asparagus, and two pieces of Paulette’s Ten-Layer Fudge Cake. I wonder if the scale can even compute all this poundage, he thought anxiously and then stepped onto the chilly surface of the metal scale.

When the numbers surfaced in their silver window, James groaned. His weight was higher than he had expected by a whopping eleven pounds.

“I probably gained five of these last night.” He got off the scale and then, after waiting for the screen to return to zero, stepped back on, hoping that there might have been an error in the previous reading. The scale added another three tenths of a pound for his efforts.

“Damn it,” he muttered, snatching the shower curtain aside and hustling into the stream of hot water. The heat immediately eased some of his tension, and as he lathered his hair with shampoo, he gave himself a pep talk. “It’s okay. Today is a fresh start.” After rinsing his head, he opened his eyes and stuck his tongue out at the scale, which seemed to be mocking him on the other side of the clear shower curtain. “This isn’t over, buddy.”

After getting dressed, James packed his lunch, poured coffee into a travel mug, and tried to ignore the covered cake plate resting in the middle of the kitchen table.

“I don’t see you. I do not see you,” James spoke to the white ceramic dome that seemed to call to him from across the room. “I’m not even thinking of all those layers of sweet, buttery, and incredibly smooth chocolate icing or about how moist and springy the cake-” he cut himself off. “Nope. Not interested.”

After shoving an apple into his lunch bag, James shrugged his coat on and cast a second glance at the cake plate. I wonder how much is left, he thought.

Unable to stop himself, he lifted up the cover several inches, revealing the remaining wedge of fudge layer cake. A whiff of chocolate scent floated beneath his eager nostrils.

“I’m not even going to eat one of the chocolate curls sitting there in that bed of chocolate frosting. That’s how much willpower I’ve got.” He inhaled deeply, and his mouth filled with saliva in anticipation of receiving an exquisite morsel of Paulette’s dessert. “Well, maybe just a few crumbs…” James heard the weakness in his voice, but could not tear his eyes away from the hunk of cake.

“Who you talkin’ to, boy?” Jackson asked gruffly as he entered the kitchen in an old bathrobe.

James slammed the lid back on the cake plate and stood up guiltily. “No one. I’m… I’m off to the library. Are you planning to work on a painting of Paulette’s hands today?”

“Yep. Soon as I polish off that leftover cake for breakfast.” He patted his flat stomach as James watched on with envy. “I reckon it’ll help inspire me, ’cause I’m gonna show her frostin’ this very cake in the paintin’. I liked how she angled her wrist just so to get it on there all nice and smooth.”

James wished his father luck, and after gazing longingly once more at the cake plate, he headed off to work. Instead of driving to the library, however, he swung into a parking spot in front of the Sweet Tooth, the town’s bakery.

Megan and Amelia Flowers, the mother/daughter team who kept the townsfolks’ bellies filled with homemade breads, cookies, and pastries, were bent over the display window, smoothing a sheet of red velvet fabric across the bottom ledge.

“Good morning, Professor,” Megan greeted James briefly, and then she stood erect and put her hands on her narrow hips. “I had the pleasure of meeting your newest family member yesterday.”

“Uh-oh,” James moaned softly, and then he frowned. “Why would Paulette come in here? She does her own baking.”

“For a croissant to go with her latte ,” Amelia answered, her full lips turning into a practiced pout. “But she told my mom that our croissant wasn’t flaky enough and bought a baguette instead. She didn’t like that much either. Said it was only supposed to be crusty on the outside , not inside and out.”

“I’m sorry.” James tugged on his scarf, which suddenly felt too tight. “Paulette can be really impolite, and she seems determined to offend everyone in Quincy’s Gap.”

Megan picked up a large box wrapped in red and green foil and stuffed with wax paper, and she began to fill it with candy-cane-shaped loaves of egg bread. Megan had ingeniously dyed half of the dough red and left the other its natural shade of whitish-yellow, so that when braided, the bread looked striped, just like the sugary version of a candy cane.

“She didn’t stop her criticism with my breads either.” Megan continued crossly. “She made her shrinking violet of an assistant buy three of my cakes-whole ones, mind you-and then they left, no doubt so that our visiting celebrity could hold that girl down and force-feed her slices of my cake. I thought I was rid of them, but twenty minutes later they were back! That TV cake baker was chock full of suggestions on how to improve my recipes!” Megan furiously sifted powdered sugar over the candy-cane bread.

“They weren’t suggestions.” Amelia placed another gift box filled with iced gingerbread animals in the window. “That witch came in here lookin’ to pick a fight. She told my mom that her cakes were dry and her icing was crunchy as kitty litter! I’d have liked to pull her white hair out strand by strand when she said that.”

Megan shot a proud look at her daughter, and her tone immediately softened. “Honey, you go on and get to your studying now. I know you’ve got exams tomorrow, and I can handle things for the rest of the day.” She watched her daughter leave. “I can’t believe she’ll be done with college soon. Where does the time go? She’s dying to move to New York, but how could I let her go there if the city is populated by people like Paulette Martine?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t judge all of Manhattan based on her,” James cautioned. “In fact, I hear New Yorkers are pretty friendly. They just seem intimidating because they wear black so much.”

Megan looked unconvinced. “I’ll really miss Amelia’s artistic touch when she leaves me to pursue her fashion design career. I mean, look at this candy house she made for the window.” The baker gestured at an enormous gingerbread house built in the style of a southern plantation.

“It looks like Tara from Gone with the Wind.” James marveled at the immense, two-story structure. It had a roof created from vanilla wafers, two chimneys crafted of colored sugar cubes, graham cracker shutters, icing railings complete with green gumdrop garlands, flowers and shrubs made of marzipan, and a split-rail fence built using chocolate-covered pretzel sticks. It even had wreaths on the double front doors, made of mini red and green M &Ms and a marshmallow snowman with a black licorice hat in front of the veranda.

“Can you help me carry this masterpiece to the window?” Megan asked James. As they lifted the house, which would form the centerpiece of the window display, Megan’s mouth deepened into a frown. “That woman actually had the nerve to tell me that I should run right out and buy the book she wrote about baking cakes. I was so mad I could have shoved her into the oven! She’s mighty lucky it was turned off.”

“For what it’s worth, I love your cakes.” James eyed one of his favorites: Megan’s butterscotch cake.

Dusting off her hands, Megan touched James on the sleeve. “It wasn’t my intention to take my ire out on you, Professor. You know you’re one of my best customers and I’ll never stop being grateful to you for sticking up for Amelia and me when our reputation was on the line.” Looking at her colorful window display, Megan’s frown dissipated. “Enough of my yammering. What can I get for you today?”

“I think I’ll take my employees some hot cross buns. Scott and Francis are still up in arms over our missing library elf.” The bells hanging from the front door tinkled as another customer walked in. James continued speaking without turning around. “I might have to take out an ad in the Star , imploring the thief to bring it back before those two conduct a house-to-house search.”

“It so happens we’re offering a holiday discount to all our advertisers,” a familiar voice said.

James pivoted slowly on his heel, reluctant to meet the hazel eyes of Murphy Alistair, editor of the Star , author of the soon-to-be-released novel about the death that had occurred inches from where he now stood, and his girlfriend of almost half a year.

Ex-girlfriend, he reminded himself, noting how attractive Murphy looked in a black turtleneck, jeans, and a red toggle coat.

Murphy gave James a thin smile. “How are you?”

“Fine,” he answered tersely, and then couldn’t help but add, “I saw the postcard promoting your book.”

“Cool cover, don’t you think?” Her face glowed. “Advance sales are great too. My agent says there are actually two movie studios that want the rights as well. Can you believe it?”

Megan silently placed a white bakery box tied with green-striped string onto the counter. Along with most people in Quincy’s Gap, she knew that James had broken up with Murphy because the good-looking reporter had neglected to tell him that she had written and then sold a novel featuring James and his supper club friends as bumbling amateur sleuths.

“Anything else, Professor?” Megan queried with a false cheerfulness, hoping that her two customers wouldn’t get into a heated argument. Having had a corpse in her bakery a few years ago and her daughter briefly viewed as a murder suspect was more than enough excitement for the single mom.

“No, thank you.” James paid for his buns and then brushed past Murphy. “Have a nice holiday,” he told her with a polite formality he normally reserved for strangers.

Murphy’s enthusiasm was instantly quelled. “You too,” she replied, and then, as James opened the door, she called out, “You’re going to need to face the fact that this book is coming out! Try to consider that it might do some good for the town. Tourism will increase if people come here to see where the novel’s events took place. Especially if it gets made into a movie.” She glanced at Megan. “Your business might triple! Same with Dolly’s Diner! Couldn’t everybody use a bit more money in the bank?”

“So that’s why you wrote it?” James asked in a dangerously soft voice. “Out of altruism?”

Squirming, Murphy focused on an arrangement of custard-filled donuts covered with white icing and red and green sprinkles. “No. I wrote it because it was a good story. But it could also be a boon for Quincy’s Gap.”

“Maybe,” James opened the door and the silver bells jingled with a tinny, merry sound completely incongruent to what he was feeling. “But I can think of five of your neighbors who are seeing this book as a bane, not a boon.”

Megan broke the tension by laughing. “If y’all use words like that, there isn’t a soul in this town who’s going to be able to understand that book!”

Murphy’s mouth curved into an amused grin and James suddenly felt petty. After all, he hadn’t even read the novel yet. Perhaps he and his friends had been portrayed as wise and generous servants of their community, though in truth, he doubted Murphy’s book would appeal to Hollywood unless it was riddled with colorful content. He knew that part of his anger stemmed from the fear that he might be humiliated in print by someone he had trusted with his most intimate thoughts.

“Have a Merry Christmas, Murphy,” he said with as much sincerity as he could muster and left the bakery. As the door closed, he thought he heard her whisper, “It won’t be merry without you.”

Murphy then turned to Megan Flowers and declared, “I’m going to take every single one of your donuts. A girl’s gotta have something sweet in her life, and if it isn’t going to be a man, then it may as well be a donut.”

“Amen, sister,” Megan agreed as she began to fill Murphy’s order.