The Whispered Word Read online

  No one had ever commented on the phrase before, but Nora found herself agreeing with the woman. “Do you like food fetish better?” she teased, sensing that her customer wished to linger over the topic a little while longer.

  The woman laughed. “You remind me of my ex’s mom. She enjoyed coming up with alternative names for my addiction. She also had a great sense of humor. In fact, I got along better with her than I did with her son. Guess that’s why he’s my ex.” She accepted her decaf coffee with one hand and raised a warning finger at Nora with her other. “Never date a guy who’s looking for his mom in younger form. It’s a giant red flag. And somehow, I missed it.”

  “I won’t,” Nora said before quickly turning away. Is that why Jed was attracted to her? Because she reminded him of his mother? Because she and his mother had both been burned?

  Out by the circle of chairs, June and the woman customer had fallen into conversation. Their voices—the woman’s flute-like soprano and June’s honeyed alto—rolled into the ticket agent’s booth like the comforting current of a woodland stream. Nora thought of pouring a cup of coffee and joining them, but when her gaze fell on the mug hanging closest to her on the peg board, which was embellished with the text, GO AWAY! I’M ON A DATE WITH MY BOOK BOYFRIEND, she sat down inside the booth instead.

  She sat there, thinking about questions that had no answers, until her coffee went cold.

  Chapter 9

  Are we not like two volumes of one book?

  —Marceline Desbordes-Valmore

  The Fruits of Labor Festival was one of the town’s most anticipated events. It was wildly popular with both the locals and the hundreds of tourists who flocked to Miracle Springs to experience an event with real Southern flair.

  Once upon a time, the festival had been a harvest celebration. Farmers had carted their end-of-summer bounty to the center of town in hopes of winning a prize in Perfect Potato, Amazing Apple, Terrific Tomato, Super Squash, or the Watermelon Weigh-Off category. There’d been livestock awards and bake-offs. There’d been cake, pie, and preserved-food competitions. In fact, many local ladies still prided themselves on their ability to pickle anything under the sun.

  The Fruits of Labor Festival had evolved since its county fair origins. Though farmers attended the event, their livestock was no longer welcome, as the festival was now completely vegetarian.

  To Nora, the highlight of the weekend was the abundance of food trucks. Vendors from all over traveled to Miracle Springs to delight the inhabitants with their unique eats, and Nora remembered how tight her jeans were after last year’s event. Still, she didn’t plan on holding back just because she was on a date.

  Nora waited for Jed in front of Miracle Books. As soon as he saw her, he quickened his step. When he reached her, he immediately took her hand. They crossed the street and entered the park, their gait matching the lively fiddle music coming from the bandstand.

  As they joined the ticket line, Jed glanced at the throngs of people moving among the food trucks. Looking at Nora, he said, “Since you’re the veteran festivalgoer, why don’t you tell me how this works?”

  Nora pointed at the ticket stand. “The punch card gives you the best deal on food. You can try an item from ten trucks. After most people have stuffed themselves on the savory goodies, they take a time-out. They browse the craft stalls or play carnival games. There’s dancing on the lawn next to the bandstand too. Anyway,” she hurried on, hoping Jed wouldn’t want to dance, “everyone circles back to the food trucks for dessert.”

  “I like this plan,” Jed said with approval. He cast another glance at the long row of food trucks. “How to choose?”

  Nora followed his gaze. “In case you didn’t know, this is a vegetarian festival.”

  “Well, that’s a deal breaker. I’m out of here.” Jed pretended to step out of the line. He then spun on his heel and turned back to Nora. “Wait. Is any of this super-healthy food deep-fried?”

  Nora laughed. “Lots.”

  “In that case, I’m staying. You could deep-fry a boot heel and I’d eat it.”

  At the ticket stand, Jed purchased two punch cards. He was also given a sheet of paper that served as the festival schedule, map, and vendor list. He passed the sheet to Nora and told her to pick their first destination.

  “I hope you like chickpeas,” she said and led the way to a food truck called The Falafel Fix. When it was her turn, she ordered a falafel sample and handed the vendor her punch card. When it was Jed’s turn, he told Nora that he’d always wanted to order baba ghanoush.

  “It just sounds cool,” he explained to both Nora and the young woman taking orders.

  She flashed him a coy grin. “It’s Arabic, you know. Some say the translation is ‘pampered daddy.’ Are you a pampered daddy?”

  Jed examined his fingers. “I don’t know. It’s been ages since my last mani-pedi.”

  The woman laughed and ducked her head inside the truck to convey the order to the cook.

  “It’s your pick next,” Nora said after they’d devoured their first round of food.

  Jed pointed at a yellow food truck. “Mac and cheese pie. I need something unhealthy to balance out that eggplant. I should get huge bonus points just for eating eggplant. It has the consistency of a wet sponge. I’m not totally convinced that it’s actually food.”

  “Bonus points? Maybe for eating a handful of ghost peppers. But eggplant?” Nora shook her head in mock disgust. “You modern men. John Wayne wouldn’t know what to make of you.”

  Without warning, Jed steered them away from the Perfect Pie truck to the Keep Calm and Curry On truck.

  “What’s the spiciest thing you’ve got?” he asked the man at the window.

  The man gave Jed the once-over and said, “We can make anything as spicy as you like, but our paneer wrap has jalapeños and curry. We usually serve it mild, but you can ask to dial up the heat if you want.”

  “Oh, I want. Dial my heat up all the way, my good sir.”

  Nora couldn’t stop grinning as she ordered a vegetable samosa. She also requested a small container of raita in case Jed needed to quench the fire he was about to ignite in his mouth.

  He ate his wrap in three bites, declared that he barely felt any heat, and was already looking down the row of food trucks for his next sample when tiny dewdrops of sweat sprouted across his forehead.

  “Delayed reaction?” Nora asked, trying not to laugh.

  Jed nodded and wiped his forehead with a napkin. Turning away from Nora, he pressed the napkin to his tongue. When he faced her again, his cheeks were flushed. “I should have gotten something to drink.”

  Nora handed him the container of raita. “Eat this yogurt sauce. It’ll help neutralize the spices.”

  Jed accepted the container with a grateful groan. Tilting his head back, he let the sauce coat his tongue. He swallowed, waited a moment, and smiled at her. “You’re a genius.”

  “Not at all,” she said. “I used to live really close to a restaurant that served authentic Indian food. I ate there once a week.”

  Nora immediately focused on the map in her hands, shocked that she’d mentioned her former life. She never spoke of it. Not to anyone outside the Secret, Book, and Scone Society.

  “Do you ever miss it?” Jed asked. “The place you used to live.”

  Nora shook her head and pointed at the All Fried Up food truck near the end of the row. “Let’s go there. Maybe they’ll have those fried boot heels you were looking for.”

  Ten minutes later, Jed and Nora sat down at a picnic table with samples of Cajun-fried mushrooms, fried pickles with buffalo ranch dipping sauce, and bottled water.

  “Is there an antacid food truck?” Jed joked. He’d finished his food and was watching Nora dip a fried pickle in the spicy ranch. The smile faded from his face and his eyes turned solemn. “Look, I’ll never bring up what you shared with me last night. Your past belongs to you. As far as my story goes, I only told you part of it. It was really late, but n
ot telling you the rest would feel like a cop-out. Whenever you want to hear it, just ask.”

  Nora gazed at the crowd milling around a wood-fired pizza truck. The night was buzzing with noise, aromas, and energy. “Let’s not talk about heavy stuff tonight. Let’s just have fun.” After a pause, she added, “I’ve never been good at fun. I’m good at work. But I’m trying to change.”

  Jed grinned. “I can help.” He swiped the map from Nora and ran his finger down the list of vendors. “Okay. This is it. Finish your pickles, book lady, because we’re heading to a libation station.”

  Suppressing a bolt of panic, Nora asked, “Which one?”

  Jed refused to answer, and when Nora tried to reclaim the map, he held it out of reach.

  “You’ll have to take this back by force,” he teased.

  “Don’t tempt me,” she said, smiling to cover her nervousness.

  Suddenly, a shadow fell across their table. “Is there a problem here, folks?”

  It was Deputy Andrews. He was in uniform and stood with his thumbs hooked under his utility belt and a grin tickled the corners of his mouth.

  “Would you like a front-row seat to an assault and battery?” Nora asked, patting the bench next to her.

  Andrews shook his head. “A tempting offer, but I’m on my way to judge the Little Miss Honeybee pageant. I tell you, these little girls have to answer some seriously tough questions about sustainable crops, organic food production, and the effect of bees on the food chain.”

  “Asking tough questions is better than having them parade around in pretty dresses, waving and smiling those fake smiles,” Nora said. “This way, they get to show off their brains.”

  “They still parade around in dresses. The winners of the Little Miss and the Miss Honeybee competitions will lead the antique car parade tomorrow. Every girl in town is dying to sit in the back of that vintage Corvette. Shoot, I’m dying to sit in that car.”

  Jed and Andrews started talking cars, and Nora excused herself to search for more bottled water. All the salty foods she’d eaten had made her thirsty.

  She was in line when Andrews reappeared at her side. “Did you see the paper this morning?”

  Nora had been too busy to read anything that day and told Andrews as much.

  “You gals are in it,” Andrews said, glancing around to be sure that he couldn’t be overheard.

  “For what?” Nora asked, checking to see what Jed was doing. He was standing next to the trash can, talking to a coworker. The other paramedic was in uniform. Both men were laughing and seemed totally relaxed.

  “Your secret tote bags.” Andrews lowered his voice to a whisper. “Ms. Washington told half the town about hers. She’s working at the grocery store now,” he added, referring to one of the former Madison County Community Bank tellers. She calls you her Night Angels, and that’s what the paper’s calling you now too. Guess you four should start wearing costumes.”

  Nora sighed. The last thing she and her friends were interested in was publicity. “Please don’t tell anyone,” she begged. “The whole point of our efforts is to deliver anonymous gifts to our neighbors.”

  “Your secret is safe with me. Hester already made me promise not to tell a soul. Not even the sheriff. She said she’d never bake for me again if I snitched.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t face that. I love everything that woman makes.”

  Hearing Hester’s name, Nora felt a constriction in her chest. What would happen to their Secret Kindness bags if Hester stopped contributing breads, biscuits, and rolls? A second, much more disturbing thought followed this. What would become of the Secret, Book, and Scone Society if Hester stopped attending their meetings? It wouldn’t be the same. Nora didn’t think the rest of them could handle such a loss. Their friendship was too new. And because of its newness, it was also fragile.

  “Are you all right, Ms. Pennington?”

  Nora was torn. She could confide in Andrews. He was a good man. He’d recognize the significance of Abilene showing up at Miracle Books that first night wearing a hospital wristband as well as a dress that might have belonged to Amanda Frye. Confiding in Andrews meant going behind Abilene’s back, however. For some reason, betraying Abilene felt like a betrayal of Hester. Nora wouldn’t do that to her friend.

  Since Jed was now heading their way, Nora changed the subject. “Ms. Washington reminds me of someone else with a wagging tongue. You told me that Kenneth Frye has been doing his best to slander Virtual Genie, but I looked at their contract and his complaints are unfounded.”

  “I know. Remember how the sheriff paid Mr. Frye a visit at his hotel?” Andrews waited for Nora’s nod before continuing. “When he was done reading Frye the riot act, he went to Virtual Genie and looked them over from top to bottom. Mr. Kingsley and Ms. Beacham were helpful and hospitable. The terms and fees are spelled out clear as day in their contract. Sheriff McCabe was so impressed that he’s going to use Virtual Genie’s services himself. That should help restore their reputation. The sheriff has more influence than some smack-talking outsider.”

  “That’s true,” Nora agreed. “Then again, Griffin and Tamara are outsiders too. A person has to live in Miracle Springs for at least a decade to be considered a local.”

  Jed reached them in time to hear Nora’s remark. Looking at her, he asked, “Does that make you an outsider? Because it seems like you belong here as much as anybody.”

  Nora shrugged. “I guess I’m still being vetted.”

  “You’ve got that wrong, Ms. Pennington,” Andrews said. “You and your bookstore are part of this town’s soul. I’ve heard folks say as much.” He touched the brim of his hat. “I’d best be going. Enjoy your evening.”

  Jed watched Andrews leave. “I like that guy. The sheriff’s a good egg too. I guess Miracle Springs needed an outsider. It’s always good to switch things up. Take something that’s been around for ages and make it new. Like cinnamon apple pie moonshine, for example.”

  The comparison was so random that Nora shot Jed a surprised glance. “What?”

  Jed’s reply was lost when a voice boomed from the nearest loudspeaker. An announcer warned that the Little Miss Honeybee pageant would be starting in five minutes.

  Nora didn’t ask Jed to repeat his answer. They passed under an archway festooned with artificial fruits and the words SHOP LOCAL, SHOP BLUE RIDGE, and continued onward until they reached a very popular booth. Nora examined the illuminated sign hanging over the main table. It was shaped like a mason jar surrounding neon-blue letters that spelled Blowing Rock Distillery.

  “Ever had moonshine before?” Jed asked.

  “After hearing people say that it tastes like turpentine, no,” Nora said. When disappointment flooded Jed’s face, she amended her answer. “Still, there must be a reason why it’s so hip these days. Distilleries and craft cocktails featuring moonshine keep popping up. Either ’shine doesn’t taste like turpentine, or all these people are lining up because they’re dying for a swift burn to the esophagus.”

  Jed laughed. “I tried it once. It was my buddy’s homemade concoction and, man, it was nasty stuff! It smelled like corn but tasted like the inside of a teenage boy’s gym locker. It must have been a thousand proof. After three shots, I started seeing dead relatives.”

  A group of older ladies dressed to the nines in skirt suits, pantyhose, and heels came tottering back from the booth’s counter, giggling with every step.

  “Jedediah Craig!” one of them shouted in an exaggerated drawl. “You might be giving us a ride in your emergency bus later on. We’ve had lots of special cherries.”

  “Would you do us a favor, darlin’?” another lady added. “Drive us around without those awful sirens. I don’t think I can tolerate any more noise. Just strap me onto a bed and hold me tight when the driver makes a sharp turn. Or any turn, for that matter.”

  This comment elicited a renewed fit of giggles from the ladies, and they wobbled off toward the food trucks.

  “Cherries, eh?” Jed
murmured in amusement. “More like cherry bombs.”

  By the time she and Jed had reached the front of the line, Nora couldn’t decide what to do. She didn’t think that sampling a single Blowing Rock product would be a problem, but she knew she had to be careful. It had been a tumultuous week, and she didn’t want an array of powerful emotions riding on a wave of hard liquor to take control.

  “Here’s a menu, ma’am.” A young man wearing denim overalls and cowboy boots offered Nora a laminated list of available samples. “If you need a recommendation, just holler.”

  “I do,” she said before he could move to the next person. “What’s your least potent sample?”

  Though he looked like a young Clint Eastwood, he seemed to lack Eastwood’s quick wit. Flipping his sandy hair off his brow, the boy mumbled, “Um . . .”

  Nora pointed at the menu. “Which one won’t burn on the way down?”

  “Oh!” His face brightened in understanding. “You want more sweet than heat.”

  “Exactly,” Nora said.

  Young Eastwood told her to try the moonshine cherries or peaches. If she liked those, she could sample a shot of strawberry or lemon-drop moonshine. But if she was only going to try one thing at their booth, he suggested that she select the distillery’s most popular product, the cinnamon apple pie moonshine.

  “It’s amazin’,” he said. “Most folks go right home, get on their computers, and order a case after tryin’ a sample. We have a helluva time keepin’ it in stock.” Reddening slightly, he added, “Excuse my language, ma’am.”

  “I bet you’ll hear worse than that before the night is over,” Jed said. “Not from me—my mom wouldn’t tolerate a foul mouth—but from the people who are sampling from all the twenty-one-and-over booths without eating something first.”

  Jed’s reference to his mother reminded Nora of the customer she’d had that afternoon—the one who warned her not to get involved with a man searching for a surrogate mother figure. It was because of this, no doubt, that Nora stepped up to the distillery booth’s counter, looked at the array of colorful mason jars, and said, “I’d like moonshine cherries and the cinnamon apple pie moonshine.”