Melinda Curtis - A Man Of Influence

Roxie gripped his phone. “Is this a joke?”

“No, ma’am.” He turned the truck around, being careful of the chickens in the back. “I wish it was. You share some of the symptoms my mom had.” He spared her a glance. “Before she died.”

“I have indigestion, that’s all.” Roxie moved sausage-like fingers to cover her mouth.

She knew nothing of the warning signs of heart disease. “Maybe. The doctor will know for sure.”

“Has anyone ever told you...you’re the strangest man?”

“I’ve been called worse.” Tracy came to mind—her stubborn chin and disagree-with-you gaze.

“But...I can’t go to the hospital. My chickens...” And there it was. The denial of the need for a doctor. She was just like his parents. She’d probably put off seeing a doctor until her heart felt like it was stopping.

Well, he wasn’t letting another person die on his watch. He’d risk being called wrong and foolish and a meddler. Worst case? He’d pay for her emergency room visit. “I’ll drop off your chickens,” Chad said through gritted teeth. “Call your daughter.”

Surprisingly, Roxie did as instructed. And then she called Agnes to spread the word about the nice young reporter.

Chad may not like small towns much, but he knew how they worked. It wouldn’t take long for this to get around.

Leona wouldn’t bat an eye. Eunice would reassess her opinion of him once more. And Tracy?

Tracy wouldn’t believe it.

That was the only thing that lifted Chad’s spirits through the next few hours.

* * *

TRACY SLIPPED IN the back door to the bakery’s kitchen.

Maybe slunk was a better way to describe her entrance. That’s what deadbeats did, right? They slunk around, avoided notice and didn’t live up to their potential.

Tracy’s potential had been totaled along with Emma’s car in that accident.

She wanted the production job, but she didn’t want to appear on film.

She wanted to prove to Chad she was brave, but she didn’t want to appear on film.

She wanted to feel good about herself, but...shoot and darn. She wanted to veer right, up the L-shaped staircase to her mid-century modern studio apartment, which was way cooler than saying she had simple kitchen cabinetry from the 1950s, pink stucco walls and a pink toilet and tub, accented with pink subway tile. But there was Eunice and her purple curls in the alcove to her left, rocking Gregory between the crib and the shelves with baby toys, books and diaper supplies. And there was Jessica in the large kitchen with its four wall ovens, butcher block counters and a huge island in the middle. The paneling was dark, but windows above the staircase flooded the room with light, leaving Tracy no shadow to slink into.

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