Irish Stewed Part 27

Before I could, Rocky pulled a bottle of wine out of the basket she'd brought with her.

"We need to have a gla.s.s before we head out, eh?" She didn't wait for us to agree, but reached for the corkscrew she'd also brought along and opened the bottle. "You have gla.s.ses, George?" she asked and since we didn't have a liquor license and there weren't any appropriate winegla.s.ses around, he brought over water gla.s.ses. Four of them.

Rocky didn't mind sharing. She poured into each of the gla.s.ses and she was just about to take a drink when Sophie stopped her.

"What about a toast?" Sophie asked. "We always have a toast."

"Oh." As if this was a new thought, Rocky blinked and stared into her gla.s.s.

This time, Sophie augmented That Look with a scrunched up nose and a tip of her head in Rocky's direction.

I knew a losing cause when I saw one.

I put a hand on Rocky's arm and couldn't help but notice that when I did, she flinched.

"Are you all right?" I asked. "You seem distracted."

She made a face that would have been convincing if I hadn't spent the last few years of my career as the personal chef of Hollywood megastar Meghan Cohan. I knew actors. Good actors. Bad actors. Rocky fell into the latter category.

"I get so fl.u.s.tered when I'm running late." I guess Rocky forgot all about the toast, because she downed her wine. "We should probably get going, huh? We don't want to miss the book signing."

"Imagine, Aurore Brisson here in Hubbard!" It looked as if Sophie knew a losing cause when she saw one, too, because she gave up on the toast, took a quick sip of wine, and set down her gla.s.s. She stepped up beside Rocky. "How exciting it must be for you to have a Frenchwoman here in town. And such a famous one! That book of hers-"

"Yesterday's Pa.s.sion. Yes, yes." Before Sophie could pilot her to the door, Rocky poured another gla.s.s of wine and slugged it down. "I'm anxious to read it. I've always been interested in my country's history but really, I don't know all that much about the Middle Ages. The story sounds so . . . so romantic. Knights, ladies, castles-"

"And that gorgeous hunk, Sam Baker, who's going to play the lead role when the book's made into a TV series!" Sophie grinned and leaned closer to Rocky, speaking in a stage whisper I couldn't fail to hear. "Laurel knows him."

Rocky raised her eyebrows.

"Not well," I admitted because it was better than letting anyone know that Sam Baker had once had an affair with Meghan Cohan and had come onto me one morning while I was getting breakfast ready for the two of them down in the kitchen of Meghan's mansion. "We've met."

"Is he as gorgeous in person as he is in the movies?" Rocky asked.

He was, and I admitted it. Without adding that he was also a little too much into recreational drugs and other men's wives.

"It's only natural that he's playing the lead. Isn't that right, Laurel?" Sophie asked. "Meghan Cohan herself is producing and directing and starring. She's playing Cecile. The tabloids say they're having an affair, Meghan and Sam." Sophie paused, waiting for me to fill in the blanks. When I didn't, she breezed right on. "Oh, I can't wait to read the book and see the show and see if they stick to the original story. Is that how it works, Laurel? When they make a film or a TV show, do they usually stick to the original story?"

In this case, only if the original story involved late-night fights of epic proportions, accusations thrown back and forth like rocks from a catapult, and a huge and ugly breakup the tabloids had yet to get wind of. No doubt the network had squelched the truth to get as much mileage as they could out of what they were touting as both an on-screen and an off-screen romance.

"Well, I'm buying a copy of the book, that's for sure," Sophie told us. "And I can't wait to get Aurore Brisson's autograph. How clever it was of John and Mike over at the Book Nook to get her here just in time for the Statue of Liberty celebration. She's such a superstar, so young and pretty. I bet there will be a line out the door of the book store. Let's get over there fast."

Fast, of course, is a relative word when it comes to Sophie, who always has a patron to stop and say h.e.l.lo to or a neighbor to greet. Then, of course, there was the matter of Sophie's knee. Oh, she didn't move at a snail's pace because of that replacement surgery back in the spring. She'd recovered from that and gone through rehab and all was well. At least for a few weeks. That's when she twisted her knee. While she was on a Mediterranean cruise. On an island. Drinking ouzo and doing the Zorba-the Greek dance-with some hunky fisherman who e-mailed her regularly now and called her his little baklava and promised to come visit some time soon.

To say this new injury annoyed me no end makes me look small-minded when, in fact, it makes sense that I'd be irritated. See, I had no intention of staying in Hubbard and I'd told Sophie that from the start. I promised I'd stay only until she felt better and could take over the management of the restaurant herself again.

Only that didn't look like it was going to happen any time soon.

I held on to my temper along with the thought that this, too, would pa.s.s. And when it did . . .

We had just walked out the front door of the Terminal and a brisk autumn breeze ruffled my hair along with the French flag we were flying from a post out front, and I made sure to keep a smile off my face.

Sophie had an uncanny way of reading into my smiles and for now, what I knew about how long I was staying and where I might be going when I waved adios to the town that time forgot was my business and mine alone.

We fell into step behind the throngs of people milling in front of the bookstore and slowly making themselves into some sort of orderly line, and while Sophie and Rocky chatted about people I didn't know, I had a few minutes to look around. What was now called the Traintown neighborhood had once been at the heart of Hubbard's industrial center. There were railroad tracks that ran along the back side of the restaurant and six times a day, a train still rumbled by and shook the Terminal to its nineteenth-century foundation. Across the tracks was a factory, long shuttered, just one of the many businesses that had gone south/closed their doors/given up the ghost in what had once been a vibrant community.

Fortunately for the people of Hubbard and the small-business people who wanted so desperately to make a go of life there, Traintown took shape from the battered landscape. It was only one street, anch.o.r.ed at one end by the Book Nook and at the other by the Irish store, a charming little gift shop run by Declan Fury, who was even more charming than every last little stuffed leprechaun he kept in stock.

And he knew it.

Automatically I glanced down the street toward the green shamrock that danced above the shop's front door in the autumn breeze. There was no sign of Declan and while I couldn't say if that was good or bad, I wasn't surprised. Not only was Yesterday's Pa.s.sion the biggest thing to come out of New York publis.h.i.+ng since Scarlett lifted her fist to the sky, it was historical romance in all its over-blown, trashy, bodice-ripping glory. Traintown fairly gushed estrogen and no self-respecting guy would be caught dead in the crowd.

We crossed to the other side of the street and the end of the line that snaked out of the bookstore and past Caf-Fiends, our local coffee shop, and all the way over in front of Artisans All, a craft and gift shop with decent merchandise and prices that made this California girl think she'd died and gone to heaven. There we stopped behind three young women wearing medieval attire: long dresses, wimples, and veils. Though I am certainly no historian, I was pretty sure the tattoo on one girl's wrist wasn't exactly authentic to the period.

"Oh, I forgot to give you the CDs of French music!" Rocky pa.s.sed a hand over her eyes. "Silly me. You'll find them, Laurel." She put a hand on my arm. "In the basket with the herbs. I brought you Piaf and Maurice Chavalier and of course, Telephone!" When Sophie looked at her in wonder, Rocky managed a laugh that for a second, erased whatever it was that was bothering her and transformed her into the vivacious Rocky I knew. "Hey, back in the day, they opened for the Stones!"

The doors of the Book Nook swung open and a buzz of feminine excitement filled Traintown as we surged forward and closer to the shop and to Mike and John, who stood on either side of the front door.

The Guys, as they were affectionately known throughout Traintown, were personal as well as business partners. They were middle-aged, both tall and thin and they both wore wire-rimmed gla.s.ses and had receding hairlines. Mike, dressed tonight in a dapper suit, favored herb teas and had been the first in line when we introduced sus.h.i.+ at the Terminal. John, who sported a beret and a red cravat, adored the strong coffee I made for myself (and shared with him when he stopped in). That evening, he had a cup from Caf-Fiends in one hand and when we finally got close enough, he raised it in greeting.

"Fabulous turnout." Not that he needed me to tell him. I tried to glance over the crowd and into the shop. "And the guest of honor?"

Behind those wire-rimmed gla.s.ses, John rolled his eyes. He looked around to make sure no one was paying attention to us when he mouthed the words, "Prima donna."

This didn't surprise me in the least. But then, I had previously lived and worked in a place where prima was never prima enough and every last donna thought she was G.o.d's gift.

A few minutes later we were in the shop and just a bit after that, directly in front of the table where Aurore Brisson, blond, plump-lipped, and curvy, looked very bored and very eager for the harried a.s.sistant at her elbow to grab the next book, open it, and slide it in front of her so she could scrawl her signature and move on to the next fan.

"Bonjour." When Rocky greeted her, Aurore glanced up, but only for a moment. "Bienvenue a Hubbard!"

The author's smile was tight.

"Next!" the a.s.sistant called out.

Rocky stepped aside and Sophie took her place. "So much for trying to be friendly," I said to Rocky, but she was hardly listening. She'd already flipped open the book and stepped to the side. The last I saw of her, she was headed down an aisle between two bookshelves marked Crafts and Cooking, her nose in the book.

"I'm afraid it's my fault." Sophie side-stepped her way around the three medieval maidens who were busy trying to find the best angle for selfies that would include Aurore Brisson in the background. "Rocky's worried. She's nervous. You know, about the symposium over at Youngstown State."

It took a moment for the pieces to fall into place in my brain. "The peace symposium? Rocky's speaking at it, I know, but how is that your-"

"I talked her into it." Sophie's shoulders hunched. "She didn't want to do it, and I talked her into accepting the invitation. In fact, I volunteered her when I heard Professor Weinhart was putting together the symposium. I told Rocky I thought it was important for people to hear about her experiences on the front lines of the peace movement back in the sixties and seventies."

Though Rocky had never said a word to me about her hippie days, I'd heard the story from Sophie before. I knew that Rocky had once been involved in a group devoted to ending the Vietnam War. While they were at it, they did their best to spread peace, love, and joy throughout the land. Now, like I always did, I marveled at the very thought. The only thing Rocky Arnaud was radical about these days was the quality of her produce.

"She has so much valuable information, so many interesting experiences with community organizing and lobbying," Sophie said, glancing toward the aisle where Rocky had disappeared. "They were peaceniks, you know. They were sure they could change the world through their message of love and tolerance. Young people need to hear the story these days and it wouldn't hurt for some of us old-timers to be reminded, too. But ever since she agreed to speak at the symposium, Rocky's been . . ." Sophie crinkled her nose. "Well, when she first heard Aurore Brisson was coming to town, she couldn't wait to get over here and meet her. And last time I talked to her about it, she was just about jumping up and down with excitement about the big parade tomorrow and the talk that Statue of Liberty expert is giving over at the library. But the symposium is getting closer and closer and now tonight . . ."

"She'll be fine," I a.s.sured Sophie. "Maybe it's just a case of the jitters."

Sophie cradled her copy of Yesterday's Pa.s.sion to her broad bosom. "Well, I hope so. At least she's excited about reading the book. I mean, she must be, right, because she couldn't wait to open it and get started. That's a good thing, right? Maybe it will take her mind off that symposium and speaking in front of an auditorium full of people."

Another group of people-all clutching the book-moved away from the signing table, and I grabbed Sophie's arm to get her out of the way. But then, the last thing I wanted to do was see her take a fall and end up in rehab again. "Caf-Fiends is serving cookies and coffee," I told her. "Let's get some."

If the crowd hadn't been so heavy, there was no way Sophie would have agreed. See, in her book, Caf-Fiends is an affront to humanity, a place that adulterates coffee with things like whipped cream, sprinkles, and flavored syrups. Then they have the nerve to charge more than three dollars a cup for it. Back when I first arrived in Hubbard, there had been plenty of tension between Caf-Fiends and the Terminal because the Terminal was losing business to the new coffee shop with its wraps, its fancy sandwiches, and its killer key lime pie. The good news was that these days with the ethnic specialities on our menu and our crowds up, the Terminal and Caf-Fiends were learning to peacefully co-exist.

Well, some of us were.

I stepped up to the dessert table and came eye to eye with Myra, the Caf-Fiends waitress who made no secret of the fact that she had her eye on Declan Fury and that she didn't like it one bit when she saw the two of us together. Hey, I wasn't the one who was going to tell her that she had nothing to worry about. Declan and I, we were- "Coffee?" Myra held out a cup toward Sophie and pretended I didn't exist. "We've got cookies, too. John and Mike had us bring lots of cookies." When she swiveled to look my way, her chestnut-colored ponytail twitched. "Ours are the best."

"I have no doubt," I said, scooping a cookie from the table even though I didn't want one. I chomped into it, turned my back, and made my way over toward the cash register so Sophie could pay for her book. After that, it was all a matter of waiting. Once the crowd of book buyers dwindled, we were told that Aurore Brisson, she of the too-yellow hair and the too-white smile, would be giving a little talk.

I found Sophie one of the last chairs in the shop and stood behind it, waiting for the big moment, and I have to say, once it came, I was a tad underwhelmed.

Aurore, who spoke decent-enough English, didn't have a whole lot to say other than that her book, it was fabulous and the cable TV series that was about to premiere . . . well, it was nothing short of extraodinaire!

When she was finished singing her own praises, we clapped politely and Mike moved to the front of the room.

"We've only got a few minutes," he said. "But I think . . . I hope . . ." He smiled at the author who did not smile back. "Ms. Brisson has been gracious enough to say she would answer a few questions."

"Questions? Questions?" Where Rocky came from, I couldn't tell. I only knew that there she was, out of whatever hidey-hole she'd gone into to read, standing at the center of the room with her arms pressed to her sides and her cheeks flaming and for a moment, I saw a glimpse of the peace crusader she had once been.

Rocky's head was high. Her shoulders were steady. Her voice rang through the shop like the first strident, brilliant chord of Jimi Hendrix's "Star Spangled Banner."

"I've got a question for you, Aurore Brisson!" Rocky held her copy of Yesterday's Pa.s.sion to the sky and used her other hand to point a finger at the author. "How did you . . . Why did you . . ." Rocky's voice broke and she pulled in a sob. "How can you stand there and let these mensonges . . . these lies . . . leave your lips? Why did you steal Marie Daigneau's book?"

Kylie Logan is also the national bestselling author of the League of Literary Ladies Mysteries and the Chili Cook-off Mysteries.

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IRISH STEWED..