“Tucker, watch out for the hoe,” Mrs. Murphy yelled. She dropped the drumstick.
Pewter grabbed it. The fat swung under her belly as she shot back toward home, came within a whisker’s length of Market and skidded sideways, evading him.
He laughed.“If they want it that bad I might as well bring over the rest of the chicken.”
By the time he was back with the chicken, Mrs. Hogendobber, huffing and puffing, had plopped herself at the back door of the post office.
“Tucker could have broken my hip. What if she’d knocked me over?” Mrs. Hogendobber warmed to the scenario of damage and danger.
Market bit his tongue. He wanted to say that she was well padded enough not to worry. Instead he clucked sympathy while cutting meat off the chicken for the three animals, who hastily forgave one another any wrongdoing. Chicken was too important to let ego stand in the way.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hogendobber. Are you all right?” Harry asked politely.
“Of course I’m all right. I just wish you could control your charges.”
“What you need is a corgi,” Susan Tucker volunteered.
“No, I don’t. I took care of my husband all my life and I don’t need a dog to care for. At least George brought home a paycheck, bless his soul.”
“They’re very entertaining,” Harry added.
“What about the fleas?” Mrs. Hogendobber was more interested than she cared to admit.
“You can have those without a dog,” Harry answered.
“I do not have fleas.”
“Miranda, when the weather’s warm, everyone’s got fleas,” Market corrected her.
“Speak for yourself. And if I ran a food establishment I would make sure there wasn’t a flea within fifty yards of the place. Fifty yards.” Mrs. Hogendobber pursed her lips, outlined in a pearlized red that matched the red in her plaid skirt. “And I’d give more discounts.”
“Now, Miranda.” Market, having heard thisad nauseam, was prepared to launch into a passionate defense of his pricing practices.
An unfamiliar voice cut off this useless debate.“Anyone home?”
“Who’s that?” Mrs. Hogendobber’s eyebrows arched upward.
Harry and Susan shrugged. Miranda marched into the post office. As her husband, George, had been postmaster for over forty years before his death, she felt she could do whatever she wanted. Harry was on her heels, Susan and Market bringing up the rear. The animals, finished with the chicken, scooted in.
Standing on the other side of the counter was the handsomest man Mrs. Hogendobber had seen since Clark Gable. Susan and Harry might have chosen a more recent ideal of virility, but whatever the vintage of comparison, this guy was drop-dead gorgeous. Soft hazel eyes illuminated a chiseled face, rugged yet sensitive, and his hair was curly brown, perfectly cut. His hands were strong. Indeed, his entire impression was one of strength. On top of well-fitted jeans was a watermelon-colored sweater, the sleeves pushed up on tanned, muscular forearms.
For a moment no one said a word. Miranda quickly punctured the silence.
“Miranda Hogendobber.” She held out her hand.
“Blair Bainbridge. Please call me Blair.”
Miranda now had the upper hand and could introduce the others.“This is our postmistress, Mary Minor Haristeen. Susan Tucker, wife of Ned Tucker, a very fine lawyer should you ever need one, and Market Shiflett, who owns the store next door, which is very convenient and carries those sinful Dove bars.”
“Hey, hey, what about us?” The chorus came from below.
Harry picked up Mrs. Murphy.“This is Mrs. Murphy, that’s Tee Tucker, and the gray kitty is Pewter, Market’s invaluable assistant, though she’s often over here picking up the mail.”
Blair smiled and shook Mrs. Murphy’s paw, which delighted Harry. Mrs. Murphy didn’t mind. The masculine vision then leaned over and patted Pewter’s head. Tucker held up her paw to shake, which Blair did.
“I’m pleased to meet you.”
“Me, too,” Tucker replied.
“May I help you?” Harry asked as the others leaned forward in anticipation.
“Yes. I’d like a post box if one is available.”
“I have a few. Do you like odd numbers or even?” Harry smiled. She could be charming when she smiled. She was one of those fine-looking women who took few pains with herself. What you saw was what you got.
“Even.”
“How does forty-four sound? Or thirteen—I almost forgot I had thirteen.”
“Don’t take thirteen.” Miranda shook her head. “Bad luck.”
“Forty-four then.”
“Thirty-four ninety-five, please.” Harry filled out the box slip and stamped it with pokeberry-colored ink, a kind of runny maroon.
He handed over the check and she handed over the key.
“Is there a Mrs. Bainbridge?” Mrs. Hogendobber brazenly asked. “The name sounds so familiar.”
Market rolled his eyes heavenward.
“No, I haven’t had the good fortune to find the right woman to—”
“Harry’s single, you know. Divorced, actually.” Mrs. Hogendobber nodded in Harry’s direction.
At that moment Harry and Susan would have gladly slit her throat.
“Mrs. Hogendobber, I’m sure Mr. Bainbridge doesn’t need my biography on his first visit to the post office.”
“On my second, perhaps you’ll supply it.” He put the key in his pocket, smiled, and left, climbing into a jet-black Ford F350 dually pickup. Mr. Bainbridge was prepared to do some serious hauling in that baby.
“Miranda, how could you?” Susan exclaimed.
“How could I what?”
“You know what.” Market took up the chorus.
Miranda paused.“Mention Harry’s marital status? Listen, I’m older than any of you. First impressions are important. He might not have such a good first impression of me but I bet he’ll have one of Harry, who handled the situation with her customary tact and humor. And when he goes home tonight he’ll know there’s one pretty unmarried woman in Crozet.” With that astonishing justification she swept out the back door.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Market’s jaw hung slack.
“That’s what I say.” Pewter cackled.
“Girls, I’m going back to work. This was all too much for me.” Market laughed and opened the front door. He paused. “Oh, come on, you little crook.”
Pewter meowed sweetly and followed her father out the door.
“Can you believe Rotunda could run that fast?” Tucker said to Mrs. Murphy.
“That was a surprise.” Mrs. Murphy rolled over on the floor, revealing her pretty buff underbelly.
“This fall is going to be full of surprises. I feel it in my bones.” Tucker smiled and wagged her stumpy tail.
Mrs. Murphy gave her a look. The cat was not in the mood for prophecy. Anyway, cats knew more of such things than dogs. She didn’t feel like confirming that she thought Tucker was right. Somethingwas in the air. But what?
Harry placed the check in the drawer under the counter. It was face up and she peered down at it again.“Yellow Mountain Farm.”
“There is no Yellow Mountain Farm.” Susan bent over to examine the check.
“Foxden.”
“What? That place has been empty for over a year now. Who would buy it?”
“A Yankee.” Harry closed the door. “Or someone from California.”
“No.” Susan’s voice dropped.
“There is nothing else for sale around Yellow Mountain except Foxden.”
“But, Harry, we know everything, and we haven’t heard one word, one measly peep, about Foxden selling.”
Harry was already dialing the phone as Susan was talking.“Jane Fogleman, please.” There was a brief pause. “Jane, why didn’t you tell me Foxden had sold?”
Jane, from the other end of the line, replied,“Because we were instructed to keep our mouths shut until the closing, which was at nine this morning at McGuire, Woods, Battle and Boothe.”
“I can’t believe you’d keep it from us. Susan and I just met him.”
“Those were Mr. Bainbridge’s wishes.” Jane held her breath for a moment. “Did you ever see anything like him? I mean to tell you, girl.”