Crispens Point - Book 1 of the Blackberry County Chronicles Read online

Crispens Point

  Book One of the Blackberry County Chronicles

  JoHannah Reardon

  Copyright © 2011 by JoHannah Reardon

  Discover other titles by JoHannah Reardon at johannahreardon.com

  Cover photo by Bill Longshaw, freedigitalphotos.net.

  DEDICATION

  To my mother, who told me I could do anything and that I was especially good at writing.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Mrs. Bartholomew’s nose twitched as she peeked out the window. All anyone looking at her from the outside would have seen was one eye squinting and half of her nose scrunched up. She loved to watch what was going on in the neighborhood without being detected, as if yearning for the good old days of the cold war, when an enemy could be raking his leaves right across the street.

  “She’s a pretty little thing, Custer.” Custer was her golden cat; he kept watch with her in almost as furtive a manner. He purred loudly as if to concur. “I wonder who she is?” When Custer failed to respond, she continued, “She seems to be all alone. That’s a twin bed going in now, and I haven’t seen a double. No kids, either, because there’s no baby furniture or toys. She looks to be about thirty, wouldn’t you say?” In answer, Custer stood up and stretched, jumping down from the sofa and meowing loudly to go out.

  “You’re perfectly right, dear. We need to go meet her. I’m glad I made those cookies yesterday. We’ll take half of them over to her. That should encourage her to talk.” Mrs. Bartholomew made her way slowly into the kitchen, pulling a basket off the top shelf. After laying a towel inside, she piled it full of her famous oatmeal chocolate chunk cookies. Custer jumped on the table to get a better view and to make sure there were no bits of chicken or tuna in the basket.

  After arranging it just so, she slipped out of her house shoes and into the pumps she kept by the door. Looking in the mirror hanging at the entrance, she tucked a few gray hairs back into her tidy bun and pinched her cheeks to get some color into them. Custer rubbed back and forth between her legs, anxious now to go out. As she opened the door wide, he dashed out and disappeared into the bushes. “Aren’t you coming with me?” she called after him, but Custer had seen a bird and lost all interest in what was happening across the street.

  So Mrs. Bartholomew made her way around the moving van and the men who were quickly getting all of the young woman’s belongings into the house. She walked up the brick sidewalk and peeked into the open door of the little clapboard bungalow. She’d been in it before, of course, and knew that the living room leaked slightly in a heavy rain. She’d always liked the place, though. Although small, it had lots of what her sister would call charm, from the rustic fireplace to the pine cabinets in the kitchen. Both bedrooms had slanting ceilings and window seats, which gave it a cozy look.

  “Hello,” she yelled as loudly as her cracked old voice would project. “Can you hear me?” No one answered, so she boldly marched in. “I’m from across the street. Hello.” In answer, she heard water running and the mysterious young woman walked out of the kitchen.

  “Oh! Who are you?”

  “I’m Mrs. Bartholomew, your neighbor across the street. I’ve brought cookies to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

  “How thoughtful!” She looked truly pleased as she took the basket from her. “I’m not used to small towns yet. In the city no one would have noticed that I’d moved in.”

  “You’re a city girl then?” Mrs. Bartholomew asked with the savvy of a personal investigator.

  “Most recently, yes. I can’t believe how quiet and peaceful it is here. That’s what drew me to the place.”

  A large man carrying a chair interrupted them. “This is the last of the furniture, Miss. Just boxes left now.”

  “Thank you, Joe. Put the rest of the boxes in the garage in the back. I’ll go through them later.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Joe nodded to his associate and headed back to the truck.

  The young woman smiled and looked after them. “I’m not used to being called ma’am. Another nicety about country life, I think.”

  Mrs. Bartholomew squinted at the woman, trying to think what information she needed next. “So what brought you to Crispens Point, here in the middle of Blackberry County?”

  “Let’s go sit down at the kitchen table. I’m exhausted and I want to try one of these cookies.”

  Mrs. Bartholomew followed her and sat down in a straight-backed chair at an oak table. She approved of the woman’s practical choice of furniture. The woman sank into a chair with a sigh and took a bite of a cookie. The look she got on her face reminded Mrs. Bartholomew of Custer when he caught a mouse. “Delicious!” was her only comment, then she suddenly added, “The remoteness and the low cost.”

  “What?” Mrs. Bartholomew looked at her as if she’d just said that she’d flown in from Mars.

  “You asked why I came to Crispens Point. It was because it’s country like and the housing market is reasonable. I can’t afford city prices.”

  “I see.” Mrs. Bartholomew looked around her for a clue as to what to say next. “There aren’t many jobs here. You going to commute into the city?”

  “Heaven forbid! I’m planning on becoming a country girl for good.”

  “You come across an inheritance or something?”

  “Oh no. Why would you ask that?”

  “I just don’t see how you’ll make a living here, that’s all.”

  The woman jumped up and filled a paper cup with water. “I need to wash down that cookie. I could eat the whole batch, but I’d regret it later.”

  She sat back down and sipped her drink. Mrs. Bartholomew looked annoyed. “You’ll starve!”

  “What? Oh no, one cookie will hold me for now.”

  Mrs. Bartholomew blew air out of her mouth in exasperation. “No, I mean you’ll starve if you don’t have work.”

  The woman laughed. Mrs. Bartholomew liked her laugh. It sounded like her wind chimes. “I’m a writer. It doesn’t matter where I live. My novels sell well enough to make a comfortable living for me. I’m not rich but I can make the house payment and have enough left over for the necessities.”

  Mrs. Bartholomew sat up straighter, looking like Custer when he was about to surprise a bird. “What’s your name?”

  “Charlotte Fyne.”

  Mrs. Bartholomew looked disappointed as she waved her hand. “I’ve never heard of you.”

  Charlotte laughed again, “I suppose not. I’ve never made The New York Times Best Seller list.”

  “You don’t write trashy romances, do you?”

  “Never! Only extremely dignified ones.” Charlotte smiled, realizing she’d found a way to tease her.

  Mrs. Bartholomew didn’t look convinced, but decided to leave it at that. “You won’t be having men drop by all the time, will you?” Her eyebrows connected in a frown that served as a warning. To her surprise, Charlotte’s mouth turned down at the corners.

  “I’m afraid not. I’m pretty good about writing romance, but I haven’t been able to snag a romance of my own. The man I thought I’d marry left me for another woman a couple months ago. I haven’t had the courage to look further since then.”

  “Nonsense. We’ll have you married off in no time. You’re too young and pretty to be all alone like me.”

  “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me for weeks. It’s been a while since I felt young or pretty.”

  “Well, you are.” Mrs. Bartholomew nodded her head once as if it were a done deal and no more discussion would be allowed.

  “I’m happy the way I am for now. I’m confident that if God
wants me married, He’ll send the right man at the right time.”

  Mrs. Bartholomew perked up at the mention of God. “You religious?”

  “I don’t know if religious is the right word. I love God and want to follow Him, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Of course I do.” She looked put out. “You have a denomination?”

  “In the city I went to a nondenominational church. I noticed the Community Church as I drove in, so I thought I’d visit it on Sunday.”

  “Hrmph. It’s kind of a newfangled church.” She lifted her chin with frown, looking as if Charlotte had just said she’d go to the races on Sunday.

  “I guess I’ll have to find out for myself if it’s a good fit.”

  This seemed to mollify Mrs. Bartholomew. She stood up suddenly, as if her mission was accomplished and she needed to start a new one. “I’d best get back home.”

  Charlotte walked her to the door and waved when she turned back to look at her from her house. “Thanks again for the cookies.”

  Mrs. Bartholomew nodded and headed inside with Custer at her heels.

  CHAPTER Two

  After watching her neighbor disappear inside, Charlotte turned to the many boxes that needed to be put away. She liked this little house a lot better than her apartment in the city, so she didn’t mind the work that was ahead of her. And in spite of what she’d just said to Mrs. Bartholomew, she didn’t mind living alone. It gave her plenty of time to write, which was her first love.

  Five years ago, she’d quit her job as a day care director to pursue writing full time. The one novel she’d worked on for years had finally sold, giving her enough of an income to leave the security of her job. Now she had fifteen books on the market, creating enough of a nest egg that she was able to afford this place. At first she’d been nervous about small town life, but the idea had grown on her steadily.

  She was putting away her dishes when she heard a knock on the window in the back door. A man in overalls and a baseball cap waved to her as she swung the door open wide. “Yes?”

  “Howdy. I knocked on your front door, but you didn’t hear me, so I came around back.”

  Charlotte nodded and waited.

  “I’m from the gas company. I just wanted you to know, you’re all hooked up.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He stood there and smiled, looking pleased with himself as if he’d rescued her from a burning building. “Nice place you have here.”

  “Yes, it is. Well, I’ve got a lot to do. Thanks for hooking me up.” She started to close the door when he stopped her.

  “Since you’re new here, I thought you’d like a tour of the town. I’d be glad to show you around.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. I’d rather explore it myself.” Charlotte felt bad when his face fell, but it was better to get this over with now. Years of being single had taught her that.

  “Here’s my number if you change your mind.” He handed her a scrap of paper with something scribbled on it.

  “Thanks.” She closed the door firmly this time and rolled her eyes as she turned away. She finished putting away her dishes and had started on the pots and pans when she heard a firm knock on the front door. Still holding a frying pan, she opened it to a man in a three-piece suit, holding a briefcase.

  “Well, hello! I heard you were new in town, so I popped over to see if you needed any insurance. I sell to everyone in town.”

  “No, thanks. I already have insurance.”

  “Well, then, how about dinner?”

  “Pardon?”

  “How about going to dinner?”

  Charlotte stared wide-eyed before speaking. “Um, I don’t know you.”

  “Well, dinner is a great way to get to know me.”

  “Thank you for the offer, but I have a lot to do.”

  “Everyone’s got to eat.”

  “I’ll manage.”

  He stood there a moment longer, struggling to find another way to convince her, but he finally gave up and walked out to his sports car.

  Charlotte went back to the kitchen and had gotten as far as the silverware when she heard a knock on the window above the sink. A man in a Hawaiian shirt stood waving at her and motioning toward the back door. When she opened it, he threw his arms in the air and said, “Whoa! You’re as pretty as they all said. I just had to see for myself.” He then turned and walked away without another word.

  Charlotte shook her head and grinned, thinking, “This town must be in desperate need of women. I wonder if any of them send off for mail order brides.” Then a second thought occurred to her: “What will Mrs. Bartholomew think after I assured her no men would be stopping by?” In another hour she had finished the kitchen without further interruptions, and she decided to make a grocery store run for supplies.

  She got in her car and drove to the one and only food market in town. It was about half the size of the store she was used to shopping at, but the food looked fresh. Her cart was getting full when a woman with bright red hair, dressed in a pastel flowered blouse tucked into a sky blue skirt, stopped her. “Are you Charlotte Fyne?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I love your books! I heard you were moving into town.”

  “My, news travels fast.”

  “Oh yes, everyone knows everything about you. Your Realtor told us you were coming.”

  “So you know where I live?”

  She nodded and her red curls bobbed up and down. “The old Fowler place. That’s a cute house. I thought it would sell fast.” When Charlotte didn’t respond, she added shyly, “If I brought lunch over tomorrow, would you mind signing one of your books for me?”

  “I’d be glad to. You don’t have to bring lunch.”

  “No, I want to. It’d be an honor.”

  “Okay. I’d like that. What’s your name?”

  “Janice Powers. I work as a teller at First National Bank.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Janice. I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

  Charlotte left the store feeling glad that a woman instead of a man wanted to get to know her. There was something about Janice she liked. Maybe it was her bright demeanor or her warm manner. At least she explained the men showing up one after the other at her house. News had obviously spread that a romance writer was in town.

  Janice showed up right at noon the next day carrying a basket of sandwiches, fruit, and fresh vegetables. With Mrs. Bartholomew’s cookies, it was a perfect lunch. “I can’t believe I’m having lunch with Charlotte Fyne. I’ve read all of your books. My favorite is Love Falls, which I’ve read three times. It’s the one I brought for you to sign.”

  “Why don’t I do it right now before we forget?”

  Janice handed her the book. “I’ll bet you get tired of doing this.”

  “I’ve only done it at book signings. You’re the first person to recognize me in my normal life. It’s kind of fun.”

  “Are you kidding? I figured you had the most glamorous life possible.”

  “No, my life is actually very sedate. I’m alone a lot without much adventure. I guess that’s why I write stories. It makes my life more interesting.”

  “So you’ve never married?”

  “I’m afraid not. I’m still looking for Mr. Right. How about you?”

  “Me too. I’m beginning to think he doesn’t exist.” Her red curls drooped and bright blue eyes dimmed at the proclamation. As quickly as that mood had come upon her, it fled as she asked, “Tell me what your perfect man would be like.”

  “Oh my goodness, you’d think I’d know that with all the writing I do about it.” Charlotte rubbed her forehead and looked into the distance as if she were seeing a vision. “First of all, he has to be a Christian, and not just someone who says he’s a Christian. He has to follow God with his whole heart, and his life should reflect Jesus Christ in his actions. Second, he needs to be pursuing goals he feels passionate about. If I’m going to follow this man around, I’ll need to be confident that
his goals are big enough to absorb my interest and participation. Third, I have to like being with him.” She paused a moment, then added, “I guess that pretty well sums him up. Know anyone?”

  Janice laughed, reminding Charlotte of Lucille Ball. “If I knew someone like that, I’d nab him for myself.”

  They finished their lunch and Charlotte saw Janice to the door. She noticed Mrs. Bartholomew standing slightly behind one of the bushes across the street, so she waved to her. Mrs. Bartholomew jumped as if shot by a BB gun, since she thought she was well hidden. She tried to act like she was pulling weeds and waved to Charlotte. She definitely had to work on her detective abilities with this woman in the neighborhood. She had a feeling Charlotte would be much more interesting than old Mr. Fowler, who used to live there.

  Charlotte went back inside, surveying her small domain. Everything was set up except her office, which would take a while. She began going through her manuscripts, skimming through some of her favorite parts. There were times when she felt like she couldn’t write at all, and going back to read her successes helped to re-inspire her. She was currently working on a novel about a woman who met her love on a trip to the South Pacific. Maybe that’s my problem, she thought. I never go anywhere, and now I’ve moved to this minuscule town. I don’t suppose I have a chance of meeting anyone here. Oh well, at least three men are interested in me. And delightful fellows they are!

  The day went quickly, and Sunday arrived before she knew it. She’d been looking forward to Sunday because she knew that a lot of her social life would revolve around the church. She put on her most conservative clothes since rumors about her were flying around town. It’s best to counteract my reputation right away, she thought as she chose a tan skirt and navy blue blouse, low heels, and very little make-up. When she was convinced that she was schoolmarmish enough, she headed out the door and walked to the church, which was just a few blocks down the street.

  Stepping into Community Church, she liked it at once. A sunny building with lots of windows, it had been a Congregational Church years ago, then an antique store, but was now reclaimed for its original purpose. She saw with pleasure the warm wood of the pews and the worn beams that lined the ceiling of the sanctuary.