Boo Who (2 page)

Oliver offered him the vinyl seat on the other side of his desk, and then sat down across from him, scooting some neatly stacked folders to the left and pulling out a notebook.

“Now, Wolfe,” he began, “I just want to make sure this is what you want. I mean, this is going to be quite a different kind of day than you’re used to. I imagine your mornings start with a lazy cup of coffee and a half an hour in front of your window thinking out some creepy new story line. Things can get rather hectic here. Especially during car-buying season.”

“When’s car-buying season?”

“Well, anytime peoples cars start breaking down.”

“Oh.” Wolfe had been energetic about the idea of finding a new career. But ideas and reality, as he was well aware from his former profession, can be worlds apart. It had been a good “idea” to work selling cars. However, dread—the very kind he loved to build into the plots of his books—now stalked him as fiercely as one of his famous villains.

Oliver prattled on. “So anyway, I have to say I was a little shocked when you answered the ad for a salesman position here.”

It had only been a little over a month since Wolfe had been found facedown in the snowy forest near his home, on the brink of death. And just over four weeks since he’d asked Ainsley Marie Parker to marry him, the best day of his whole life.

Since then he’d tried day after day to write something. Nothing would come. Not even a poem. And then one snowy evening, when Ainsley had drifted off into a light slumber on the couch in front of the fireplace, Wolfe had an unbelievable urge to be ordinary, common, an average Joe. He’d lived years being a celebrity, giving interviews, collecting awards, attending writers’ conferences and book signings. But he’d also lived years being alone. Now he felt a part of a community, he had
friends, and people looked at him like he was one of them. He wanted that feeling to continue, and although he didn’t need the income, he knew the best way to be normal was to do what everyone else did … get a normal job.

“I’m nervous,” Wolfe admitted, shifting his attention to Oliver’s eager face.

Oliver nodded. “I can show you the ropes, my friend. I’ve always wanted to mentor another salesman, but I never had a big enough business to hire anyone but me and Virginia.”

“Are you sure I’m the salesman type?”

“We don’t hire sharks here,” Oliver said. “And we’re no clip joint.”

“Clip joint?”

“That’s a dealership that has a reputation for overcharging. Good example is Ron’s Car Lot, about fifteen miles east of County Line. Sure, we hammer the customers some—”

“Hammer?”

“It means put pressure on a customer to buy a vehicle. But it’s always done in good taste.”

“Okay.”

“And we’re a reputable car dealership. I won’t lie. We’ve got some Tin Lizzies out there. What dealership doesn’t? But we’d never sell a sled or even put it on the lot. And I’ve had some customers trade in some crop-dusters complete with a set of baldinis. But just one look and you know that we’ve got a lot full of cream puffs ready to bring in the long green.” Oliver smiled.

“I have no idea what you just said.”

“It takes a while.” Oliver stood and went to the wall nearest Wolfe. A large white poster board hung by string around a tack. “It’s a secret language.”

“A secret language?”

“All car salesmen must learn it. It’s how we communicate with one another.” Oliver flipped over the poster, and handwritten in black marker was a list titled
The Secret Code Language.
Wolfe scanned the vocabulary list.

Tin Lizzie—a very old vehicle
sled—a slow, cumbersome, and worthless vehicle
baldinis—bald tires
crop-duster—a car that blows smoke out the tailpipe
cream puff—a used car in excellent condition
long green—money

The list went on and on. Wolfe felt his eyes grow wide. Oliver patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “It takes a while to learn these. That’ll be your homework over the holidays. I want you to go home, memorize the list, and come back after Christmas able to say one whole sentence using five of these words.”

Wolfe shook his head. “When do we learn the secret handshake?”

“Don’t jump ahead, buddy. You’ve got quite enough to learn for now.”

“Oh! Oh! Oh oh oh!”

The haughty and thin saleswoman, whose features all ended at some sort of sharp angle, gasped and stepped back a few inches. “What?”

“This one,” Melb Cornforth said, stroking the silk, rubbing the lace between her fingers. “This one.”

The saleswoman’s left eyebrow popped up in question, creating a perfect triangle above her small eye. “Um …”

“It’s just gorgeous. I’d look like a princess in this one.” Tears welled in Melb’s eyes. A princess. That’s what she had become since Oliver had proposed to her. She whirled toward the mirror, holding the white dress in front of her. The sleeves poofed as if baby cherubim were holding up the material just for her. The gown flowed like a river, reflecting the light of what was sure to be a thousand candles lining the moonlit path she would walk down in her glass slippers. Oliver would be at the end of that path, hair slicked back on the sides, just the way she liked it. She glanced at the dress again in the mirror. Her wedding was going to be perfect.

And then she saw it, dangling from the arm of the dress, twirling in
the draft of the room. The price tag. Her face flushed with anxiety. She had a budget. She knew the number in her head. She’d said it out loud five times before she left, making an oath to herself as she placed her checkbook next to her Bible. She. Would. Not. Go. O. Ver. Buh. Dget.

But. This. Was. The. Per. Feet. Gown.

No! Budget. No! Budget.

No budget. No budget. No budget.

She flung the dress away from her the way a Southern belle might push away a suitor. It landed in a heap on the ground. The saleswoman gasped and ran to the dress’s aid. Scowling, she looked up at Melb and lifted the gown off the ground. Then Melb saw it. The price, doubly underlined: $3,000. She burst into tears.

“What’s wrong?” the saleswoman asked, her tone curt with annoyance. “First you throw this dress on the ground and now you’re crying?”

But she couldn’t stop crying. This was the dress she wanted. This was what she’d dreamed of walking down the aisle, the sidewalk, the beach, the hotel lobby in for her whole life. But she could not afford three thousand dollars. Oliver had outlined their budget—
theirs
because now they were a couple soon to be on the same budget together—and stressed the absolute discipline required to withstand the temptation of spending more than allotted.

A hand tapped her back. “There, there.”

Melb glanced at herself in the mirror. Black mascara caked her cheeks in perfectly even stripes from her eyes down to the corners of her mouth.

“Maybe he’s not the one for you.”

Melb cut her eyes sideways at the woman.

“It’s just that you don’t seem very happy about getting married.”

“I’m ecstatic,” she said, tears bubbling from the rims of her eyes. “It’s just, that, well, this dress is everything I ever dreamed of. But … I can’t afford three thousand dollars.”

The woman’s edgy expression softened as she glanced down at the dress. “Didn’t you get it off that rack in the corner?” Melb nodded. “Well,” the woman said, “that’s our clearance rack.”

She stopped in midsniffle. “Clearance, you say?”

The woman smiled for the first time since Melb had stepped into her uppity little dress shop. “Seventy-five percent off.”

Melb was trying to do the numbers in her head, but couldn’t quite carry the one and remember where to add the zero.

“How does $750 sound?” the woman asked.

“I’ll take it!” she exclaimed, squeezing the dress with all her might. Every part of this dress was puffy, from the sleeves to the waist to the bow on the back.

The woman nodded. “That dress must’ve been waiting for just the right customer.”

“Really? Why do you say that?”

“We’ve had it in the store since 1989.”

“Well your
mama
has
arrived!”
Melb shouted, and then did a little dance like those she’d seen Pentecostals do. She’d always wanted to dance in church like that and shout to the Lord. But instead she was raised to believe that dancing was bad and that complete silence in church was preferred over shouting.

“And here’s the veil,” she said, handing Melb a headband. Melb put it on and looked into the mirror.

Her first impression was that she looked an awful lot like John McEnroe in his early tennis days when sweatbands were all the rage. But then her eyes caught the tulle flowing down her back like the hair of Rapunzel. She was a princess.

“Perfect.”

The woman said, “Let me show you the dressing room where you can try it on.”

“No need. Destiny brought this dress to me.”

“But … it’s a size ten.”

“I’m going to shed a few pounds before the wedding, don’t worry.”

“But—”

“And I know these kinds of dresses always run big anyway,” Melb said with a wink. The woman didn’t wink back.

“But—”

“And I’ve got a girdle.”

The woman said nothing more, but by the somber expression on her face, she knew the woman had her doubts. Yet Melb had no doubts whatsoever. After all, the dress had been waiting for her since 1989.

The woman cordially handed her the receipt and asked, “When is your wedding?”

“Valentines Day. Isn’t that just perfect?”

“Best wishes.” The saleswoman handed her a sleek gray dress bag and nodded in dismissal.

Melb swung the dress over her shoulder and sauntered out of the store with unspeakable joy, practically prancing with each step. The perfect dress.

And only $550 over budget. Oliver would understand.

CHAPTER 3

“O
RDER!
O
RDER
, P
EOPLE
!”

A dozen people stood in the community center, shivering beneath their coats because nobody knew how to turn the heat on. They now glanced in the speakers direction as if they had just noticed she was behind the podium.

“Come now, we don’t have rabies. Let’s scoot together a little bit.”

The small crowd glanced at one another and scooted a few chairs inward, still looking sparse among all the shiny silver chairs that lined the community center conference room in perfectly neat rows.

Missy Peeple would not allow herself to feel it, but inside she knew disappointment threatened like a bad case of heartburn. This was by far the smallest crowd ever to attend a meeting she called. No thanks to the Thanksgiving Scandal, as it was now known, she’d lost credibility within the town that she’d loved so much. When she passed townspeople on the street, they scowled at her now instead of nodding with the respect to which she had been accustomed.

Still, she would not be deterred. She had a vision for this town. She knew it would work. In fact, she’d bet her whole life savings on it just a little over two weeks ago. It had cost her nearly everything she owned, but she knew it would work. It had to.

The glum faces that stared back at her needed inspiration, and she was here to give it to them. She made herself stand tall, pushing her back straight as she held onto her cane.

“I’ve called this meeting today,” she began, “to give you hope. As I’m sure all of you have noticed, our town has changed. Thanks to Wolfe
Boone, who has decided he no longer feels responsible for what happens to our beloved town, we will no longer be known as we were before. But do not fear!” She raised her hand over her head and pointed a knobby index finger skyward. A few people looked up, thinking she was pointing at something. “We will be known! Skary, Indiana, will not be a nothing town with nobody people. We will not sink back into obscurity. Do you hear me? We will continue to be famous. I will see to that.”

“How?” came a voice near the back.

“I have already made a way. Because, my friends, I am smart and determined. And I always have a plan.” She smiled and blinked slowly like the town matron that she was.

“Well, if were not known for Boo, who will we be known for?” asked another voice.