Pamela Tracy - Small-Town Secrets

“I’ve got a class to teach,” he reminded her, but he didn’t leave. The street in front of her wasn’t busy. It was a small-town kind of Monday, paced for the beginning of the week. Tuesday and Wednesday would see more people out and about. By Thursday the out-of-towners would arrive not only to enjoy the wildlife habitat but also to stay at the many ranches that catered to weekend cowboys.

It was Yolanda’s town. The Acuras had arrived here just after the Moores and Ventimiglias. She liked the close-knit Scorpion Ridge community, quaint downtown and the feeling of a rich history that came with it. Adam had always been meant for bigger and better things, however.

He stood for a moment, watching her. “If you’re really afraid, you can always come to the studio with me. I doubt your ghost will be signed up for a beginner’s class.”

“She wasn’t a ghost. Ghosts don’t smoke.” Yolanda stepped around him and settled in one of the two rocking chairs on the front porch and studied her surroundings. Across the street, a young woman pushed a stroller. The woman’s husband worked at a nearby mine. Maybe someday she’d come in for a romance novel for her and a picture book for the baby. Another neighbor raked his yard. A car—Yolanda recognized it as belonging to the minister—traveled down the street and turned right.

Nothing was out of place or suspicious.

“She’s gone,” Yolanda muttered.

“Who’s gone?”

Yolanda started at the new voice. “Gramma Rosi, where’d you come from?”

“I was sitting in the backyard on the swing, enjoying the garden. I thought it was time to come in.”

Rosi Acura still owned the house, still had a key. She could visit whenever she wanted...and apparently leave doors unlocked so people could wander in off the street.

Right now she called a lot of shots in Yolanda’s life. Her biggest stipulation: “Even though I’m giving you the house, I still want things in my name. I’ll pay the gas and water and such. All the taxes.”

When Yolanda protested, Gramma Rosi merely scoffed and added her two cents to Yolanda’s mom’s wish that her daughter live her dream. “In the world today there are people who love what they do and people who don’t know how to love. You are a lot like your mother, but you don’t have to live like she did. All my life I worried about that girl.”

“Hello, Mrs. Acura,” Adam said. He took two steps down the front stairs, apparently feeling it was okay to leave now that Yolanda wasn’t alone.

“Adam, I love what you’ve done to the floorboards. They look like they did when my family first moved in.”

“When was that, Mrs. Acura?”

“Nineteen hundred and forty-six... maybe earlier, or later. I had just turned sixteen. Until now, it’s always been a private residence.” Gramma Rosi gazed up at the house, all smiles, something in her eyes that Yolanda didn’t understand.

“It’s still somewhat a private residence,” Yolanda reminded her. “I’m living upstairs, remember.”

Maybe Scorpion Ridge was too small a town for a used bookstore... That had been her aunt Freda’s comment. Rosi’s second daughter. Yolanda had always thought it magical that her grandmother had had two families. First, she’d had Trina. Then, when Trina was grown and gone, she’d had two more children.

“They kept me young,” Gramma Rosi claimed. “Also, it made it so much easier to lie about my age.” Freda had moved to California the day after her college graduation. They saw her maybe once every three years.

You’ll have to take care of your own insurance, both life and medical ... That had been her uncle Juan’s contribution. He was Gramma’s youngest child.

He lived life to the fullest, always had, yet seemed to land on his feet and make good decisions. Yolanda, on the other hand, needed prodding to take risks and sometimes took so long deciding which course to take that she missed out on opportunities.

But Rosi had made the decision to open the bookstore easy by giving Yolanda her house. “You, more than Freda or Juan, deserve the house. Take it now while I can enjoy watching what you do with it.”

True, Freda was in California. She didn’t want it. Juan lived in Phoenix in a gated community, complete with wife and children and all their activities, although he did love to come visit.

Grandma had another stipulation. “And I’ll work for you. You don’t even have to pay me.”

Just what Yolanda needed. Gramma Rosi would give away books if the customer didn’t have enough money, or worse, she would lend him the money. And if a book that had questionable content—maybe it was a bit too sensual—wound up on her counter, she’d accidentally misplace it. Even if a buyer was right in front of her.

But her immediate concern was the mysterious older woman. “Gramma, did anyone leave out the back door while you were sitting in the backyard swing?”

“No, why?”

“I found an elderly woman in the history section. She said she was searching for a book. I turned away for a moment and when I looked back, she was gone.”

“It was someone you didn’t know?”

“She said she was related to the Ventimiglia family.”

Gramma Rosi’s smile disappeared. “You must be mistaken,” she said. “That family died out. They’ll do no more harm.”

“Harm?” Yolanda said.

“What did she look like? What did she want?”

Quickly, Yolanda described the woman and mentioned the book she’d asked after.

“Phhh,” said Rosi, still frowning. “Probably some reporter thinking there was a story. The Ventimiglias used to own just about everything in these parts. If she appears again, you find me.”

“But—”

“Just do it,” Gramma Rosi said.

With that, she went inside. Yolanda watched her climb the wide stairs, slowly and stiffly.

“I’ve never seen her like that,” Yolanda remarked.

“I’m curious, too, now. Let me call GG,” Adam offered, setting his tool chest on the porch. “If there’s a Ventimiglia relative still living and hiding somewhere, she’d know.”

For a moment Yolanda thought about saying no. Her grandmother had been so upset. But why?

“I guess it wouldn’t hurt.”

“They’re about the same age, your grandmother and mine.”

Which meant that Adam’s great-grandmother Loretta, who wouldn’t let him add great to her title and so was called GG, was nearing ninety.

“She was a Realtor for all those years,” Adam said. “What she doesn’t know about Scorpion Ridge isn’t worth knowing.” He fetched his cell phone from one of his many pockets and soon was busy trying to get the lowdown on the Ventimiglias.

Yolanda sat down on the top step, wrapping her arms around her knees and listening.

“GG says she thinks the family has died out, too,” he reported. “And she’s never heard of a Chester. GG wants to know if you’re sure the name was Chester and not Richard.”

“I’m sure.”

“Guess neither of you noticed the plaque on the courthouse in the middle of town,” Adam teased before returning to the call. He paid rapt attention to Loretta, nodding exaggeratedly before sharing, “The last Ventimiglia, not named Chester, left decades ago, more than six.” He listened some more, finally saying to Yolanda, “GG says they were not a nice family, and everyone was glad to see them go.”

“Well, your great-grandma and my gramma agree. Hmmm, why’d they leave?” Yolanda wondered.

But Adam was still intently listening to Loretta. “GG says she’s not heard the name Ventimiglia in a long time. She’s sure you’re mistaken about the name.”

“No, I’m not. And the name sure got a rise out of my gramma.”

Adam shrugged and handed Yolanda the phone.