J Stanley - The Battered Body

Eventually, James began to make quiet small-talk with Willow and learned that she had been Paulette’s assistant for the past three years and that her job requirements included, but were not limited to, seeing to the Diva’s travel arrangements, answering fan mail, editing her cookbooks, handling all the personal phone calls Paulette deemed unimportant, and fetching her non-fat, no foam vanilla lattes from Starbucks whenever the Diva required a caffeine fix.

Willow leaned toward James and muttered softly, “Though these days she prefers the eggnog lattes. The Diva’s a total eggnog junkie.”

“Wow,” James whispered and said a silent prayer of gratitude for the wonderful job he held. “I hope you get paid a lot for all you do.”

“For being a slave, you mean?” Willow murmured lowly and then uttered a humorless laugh. “I haven’t had a raise since I started, but I’m planning to ask for one on this trip. After all, weddings are supposed to bring out the best in people.”

James had no idea whether Willow was being sarcastic or not, but he didn’t have the opportunity to ask her as a few miles north of the town of Battle Creek, Paulette shoved her phone into a purse large enough to contain a small goat and inquired sharply, “Is there some logical explanation for your indigo tongue?”

“I ate a blue candy cane on the way to the airport,” James answered somewhat sheepishly, and then, as he met Paulette’s judgmental stare in the rearview mirror, his embarrassment quickly morphed into irritation. “The Charlottesville airport is much closer than Dulles. You could have saved a lot of time by flying in there.”

“And subject myself to one of those tin cans with wings the airlines call ‘sky buses’? Never! Those things are death traps!” The Diva removed a compact from her purse and touched up her flawless makeup. “Are we almost there? This vehicle is most uncomfortable.”

James rubbed his steering wheel with tenderness as though to ward off Paulette’s last remark.

As the Bronco climbed a steep hill, Willow whistled at the sight of a dramatic slope covered in green-topped pine trees and leafless hardwoods. “I bet this looks lovely in the snow,” she said.

“The Shenandoah Valley is the most beautiful place on earth,” James bragged. “I’d rather be here than on a beach in Hawaii or some café in Paris.”

Paulette snorted. “As if you’d know what a Parisian café is like. I went to culinary school there and the dirtiest alley in France has more grandeur than these puny, blue hills. Oh, how I detest the country! How on earth could my sister be living in such a state of crudeness?”

Annoyed beyond measure, James switched on the radio. “Jingle Bells” played merrily through the speakers as the Bronco moved rapidly through the town of Grove Hill. Most of the towns along the highway could be driven through in the time it took one to sing the chorus from “Jingle Bells,” but James was tempted to pick up speed in order to shorten the amount of time he was forced to spend with the Diva.

“Is your town like all these others?” Paulette inquired with a trace of anxiety. “I haven’t seen a single Starbucks, let alone a decent hotel or restaurant.” She leaned forward and poked Willow in the shoulder. “I told you we should have had cooking supplies FedExed down here. How am I supposed to make my sister’s wedding cake using materials from a store called Food Lion?”

James couldn’t take it any longer. “We’re actually still usin’ the barter system ’round these parts,” he drawled. “But I’m right sure you could find something to trade for a dozen eggs and some fresh-milled flour. Someone might fancy that fur coat of yours. Now, sugar’s mighty dear, what with the war and all. And I sure hope you brought your own toilet paper for the outhouse.”

“Very droll, young man,” Paulette replied acerbically, but James thought he caught a glimmer of amusement in her cool, gray eyes.

Having been instructed to take Paulette directly to the only inn near Quincy’s Gap, a quaint bed-and-breakfast called the Widow’s Peak, James was greatly relieved when he turned off the main road and made the steady but gentle climb up the winding driveway to the front of the restored 1800s farmhouse.

“Oh my,” Paulette muttered as James turned off the engine. “Willow, you’d better have bought out all the rooms for the next two weeks. I don’t want to have our work interrupted by couples on romantic getaways or those bed-and-breakfast junkies that actually seek out these sorts of establishments. Also, I was assured that we could have full use of the kitchen. Make sure they’re aware that I will not stand for any interruptions when I’m baking, no matter what time it is.” After a moment’s pause, the Diva of Dough sharply chided, “Why are you still standing there, you fool of a girl! No wonder you can’t find yourself a husband. You’re as slow and stupid as a particular member of the bovine kingdom. Get going!”

After Willow scurried away, James marched to the rear of the Bronco, opened the door with an angry jerk, and blocked Paulette’s exit from his truck. “Ms. Martine, your sister is about to marry my father and for that reason, and that reason alone, I’m going to be as cordial to you as possible, no matter how you act in return. However, people in this part of the country are polite to one another as a rule, and no one’s going to be willing to accept the kind of treatment your assistant does.”

Paulette smiled a slow, deliberate smile. “But that’s exactly why I employ Willow. She’ll put up with anything, especially since I caught her…” She trailed off, straightened the fox head on her shoulder, and then said, “I’m weary, so do excuse me…” And without a thank-you or goodbye, the Diva of Dough strode into the inn as though she were the Queen of England.

From the safety of his Bronco, James frowned as he watched her walk away. It was going to be a long two weeks with Paulette Martine in residence only a few scant miles down the road from the Henry home. Sighing over the certain loss of the harmonious existence he had enjoyed prior to the disappearance of Glowstar, the news of Murphy’s book release, and the arrival of the Diva of Dough, he turned the key in the ignition. As the Bronco eased back down the driveway, James glanced at the sky, which was thick with heavy pewter-colored clouds. The bank of clouds seemed to close in around the surrounding mountains and James was seized by an uneasy, claustrophobic feeling.

“Pop was right. It is going to snow. This sky does not bode well for the Christmas Cavalcade tonight,” he murmured to himself as he headed north toward home.

But if it snows really hard, he thought with a sudden surge of hopefulness, Paulette might be forced to stay inside the inn for a few days.

“In that case,” he said with a sympathetic chuckle, “God help those innkeepers.”

At five o’clock that same Saturday, the supper club members gathered on the front porch of Gillian’s house. Every one of them was bundled up beneath layers of shirts, sweaters, and outerwear. An unpleasant wind had developed over the course of the afternoon, which seemed intent on forcing goose bumps to erupt on the back of everyone’s neck.

“This is the bad part about living between two mountain chains,” James said with a shiver. “The wind just attacks you.”