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Chapel Springs Survival

By Ane Mulligan

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CHAPTER 1

Like a shot pinball, Claire Bennett pinged against, around and between hordes of straw hats, bikinis, and plaid shorts. All along Sandy Shores Drive, shoulder-to-shoulder throngs of people crowded the sidewalk and spilled into the avenue. A party atmosphere—with noise level to match—permeated the quiet morning and their once peaceful village.
What had they done? When she and her friends envisioned the revitalization of Chapel Springs, it was a nice, controlled rise in tourist trade—not this craziness.
One bruised elbow later, Claire reached the door of her art gallery, The Painted Loon, and turned her key in the lock. A heavy hand grasped her shoulder. Her heart skipped a beat. Was she about to be robbed?
Hold on. In broad daylight? With this crowd watching? She may not be the brightest color on the palette, but she did possess a little common sense. Her gaze traveled up the beefy arm clutching her shoulder to a scraggly-bearded face with beady eyes. A rolled red bandana wrapped around his forehead, held back salt-and-pepper hair. Beside him stood a bleached-blonde motorcycle mama, dressed in a halter-top and the skimpiest shorts Claire had ever seen. Strings hung from their ragged edges, drawing attention to the lumpy cellulite dotting the back of her thighs. Who was this woman trying to kid? She was fifty if she was a day.
"You're the loon lady," Motor-mama said. "We want to see your pots." They tried to shoulder their way into the gallery, but Claire stood her ground.
"I'm sorry, we aren't open yet. Please come back at ten." She threw the deadbolt, pulled down the window shade, then leaned her back against the door and drew in air. The familiar scent of lemon oil-rubbed wood with the ever-present, underlying twang of turpentine wrapped around her like a hug.
After rattling the door handle a few times, the couple retreated. Claire's breath released in a whoosh and she slipped into the back workroom, where she and her gallery-partner-slash-best friend, Patsy Kowalski, created their art. And, Claire had to admit, a problem for Chapel Springs. The review they received last year—Patsy for her paintings and Claire for pottery—had put them on the art world's radar.
Between that and the town's cleanup campaign, Chapel Springs attracted half the population east of the Mississippi. Then Rod Campbell, Nashville's newest country heartthrob, strolled into The Painted Loon one day and bought some artwork. And he told a Hollywood producer about them. And the producer told one of his starlets, who was an art collector.
Now Chapel Springs was filled with stargazers, and their quiet little village by the lake had become the trendy place to visit in north Georgia. Oh sure, Chapel Lake was the best summer vacation spot in the state, with its tournament fishing, beautiful beaches, and fabulous hiking trails. Naturally, the town's merchants wanted to increase the tourist trade.
But because Claire had come up with the revitalization plan, the mayor blamed her for the ensuing problems. And problems were plentiful. College kids decided their little village was the perfect party town. Aside from their noise and litter, and traffic congestion on the main road through town, Chapel Springs didn't have enough rentable living space for more than a couple hundred overnighters.
Claire sighed. Apparently, that lack of foresight was also her fault, along with the wild parties in Warm Springs Park. But their cantankerous popinjay of a mayor sure took credit for the financial gains.
Peeking out the back door, she found the coast clear and sprinted for Dee's 'n' Doughs. One of Dee's apple fritters and fortifying high-test coffee would go down good. Then Claire and her friends, all local entrepreneurs, could strategize a way to survive this pickle.
She slipped into the bakery's rear entrance and was immediately plunged into gastronomic delight by the heady aroma of sugar and spice. It made her want to lick the air. Dee stood next to a large industrial mixer, pouring milk into its stainless steel bowl. Claire waved but between concentration and the noise of its motor, Dee didn't look up. However, her new assistant, Trisha, who was elbow deep in a huge batch of some wonderful concoction, did look up and frowned. With the back of her wrist, she rubbed the side of her nose, leaving a trail of flour.
Claire waggled her fingers as she passed by. "I'm avoiding the foot traffic out front."
"Well, just don't touch anything."
Sheesh. Even a newcomer knew her infamous reputation for calamity. She had hoped being elected to the town council would have brought her a modicum of respect. But no such luck. She was still the town's favorite joke. If Henderson’s hadn't had a Halon fire alarm system in the cooking school, it wouldn't have been a big story.
Maybe if she ran for council chairwoman she could change her personae—become a purveyor of wisdom instead of a diva of disaster. Pondering that thought, she scurried through the double swinging doors into the front.
A din louder than Dee's giant mixer rolled over her. Van Gogh's ear! The hordes had invaded Dee's 'n' Doughs, too. And they all chattered at once like monkeys in a jungle. She started toward the bay window, when a hand rose above the crowd and waved at her—from the opposite side of the room.
"Over here, Claire."
The vacationers had commandeered her favorite spot too, relegating her friends to a smaller table in a dark corner. Maybe it was for the best. They could talk unobserved back there. She grabbed a cup of coffee and a warm apple fritter, then joined Patsy and Lydia Smith, who owned the Chapel Lake Spa. Except she wasn't Lydia Smith any longer. She was now Lydia Sanders. At least she didn't have to throw away anything monogrammed.
Claire hip-bumped the closest chair, moving it so she could sit.
"Ouch."
"Oh, my, I'm so sorry, Lacey." Embarrassed not to have noticed her, Claire patted her friend's shoulder and tried to hang her Minnie Mouse tote bag on the back of the chair at the same time. Her fritter and coffee tipped precariously. Patsy made a grab for them before she spilled everything all over Lacey's shoulder.
"Thanks, girlfriend." Claire couldn't count the times Patsy saved her from mortification. The first, if she remembered correctly, was when they were four and Claire tried to make grilled cheese sandwiches in the toaster.
She planted her backside in the seat. "So, what do y'all think of this ... this crush of humanity?"
Lydia craned her neck to look at the mob crowding the bakery. Her shiny, dark brown bob swayed, brushing her jaw line. "I'm surprised they're still here. Once school started, I thought we'd get our little village back." Her fluid voice and slow Alabama drawl charmed even Southerners. She and her sister, Lacey, both had that sweet Alabama accent, but somehow Lydia's was more pronounced.
"This is way more than any of us expected." Patsy tore off a corner of Claire's fritter. She claimed it was her duty to help Claire avoid gaining weight. "I figured when August was behind us, they'd leave. It's September and they're still here."
For the first time in her life, Claire wished the temperature would drop. Then again—"It'll be the leaf-peepers next," she grumbled around a mouthful of fritter. "All I can say is I'm thankful we don't have a ski resort."
Lydia swatted Claire's hand. "Don't say that out loud. Mayor Felix will find out and want one."
"Did you hear the McMillans put their house on the market yesterday?" Patsy's forehead wrinkled beneath her bangs. "And they're not the only ones."
"Really?" Claire ripped open a packet of raw sugar and stirred its contents into her coffee. She wasn't surprised about the McMillans, since Bev filed for a divorce, but—"Who else?"
"The Lees, the Chapmans, and a couple of others. The Greins moved last week."
With so much congestion in the streets and the park, Claire hadn't been taking long walks like usual. It was one way she kept up on everyone, but she never saw the for sale signs. Her twenty-one-year-old twin daughters would be devastated. The Grein kids were among Megan and Melissa's, closest friends. This wasn't good, and Felix Riley would try to blame her for that, too. "What can we do? Anyone have a good idea?"
Patsy shook her head. When she started to chew her bottom lip, Claire knew something was up. That was Patsy's "I've got a problem" M.O. But when she sighed on top of the lip-chew, a sick feeling dropped like lead into Claire's stomach. "What? What's wrong?"
"Last night Nathan made a few choice noises about all this."
"What do you mean 'noises'?"
"For one, he said if he wanted a loud, congested town he'd move to New York. At least there he could make more money."
Claire recoiled like she'd been slapped. She didn't know what she'd do if Pat-a-cake moved away. They grew up together, suffered through acne together, raised their babies together. Her chest constricted. Nobody knew her like Patsy did. Tears stung the back of Claire's eyes. "Pat-a-cake, he's not serious is he?" Her fritter lost its flavor.
"He ordered home delivery of the New York Times so he can look at the classifieds." Patsy beleaguered the artist’s callus on her right middle knuckle. Whoa, she was scared.
Now, Claire could maybe put up with losing a few old friends and neighbors, but not Patsy and Nathan. Why, Nathan was her Joel's best buddy, and Patsy was like a sister. This was serious. They had to do something—but what?
The bells on the front door rang with a jocular jingle. A man entered the bakery wearing nothing more than a Speedo and a sombrero, and he was at least fifty pounds over the Speedo limit.
That was the last straw for Claire. Between Patsy's possible move and this sight, she crossed her eyes and pushed the covered apple fritter to the middle of the table. "I think I just lost my appetite."
Lydia giggled behind her hand. "If my husband had worn one of those on our honeymoon I'd have cut it up and buried the evidence."
Claire could see her doing it, too. Lydia was a true steel magnolia. Which reminded her— "How was the honeymoon? I sure wish you had gotten home sooner. I needed you at the town council meeting."
There were issues on which the mayor and Claire retained opposite views, to say the least. The pleasure she got over his near apoplexy when she won the open seat on the town council had been worth the aggravation of campaigning. Felix Riley would skin the bark off his mother's Sweetgum tree if he thought it would line his pockets, and he knew she'd be watching him closely. He'd have some wild scheme to fix this mess without losing any revenues. She knew that man and didn't trust him one iota.
"Virginia Beach was fantastic." Lydia swirled a plastic stir stick around in her cup.
Her mind was obviously not here, because her cup was empty. So was it just Virginia Beach or the new hubby? "Do tell? What hap—" Patsy's foot connected with Claire's left ankle. "Ow! What?"
She glared at Patsy, who raised one eyebrow at her and gave her "the look."
"Oh, right." Claire had made a vow to guard her tongue against blurting out whatever popped into her mind. Most times, the darn thing seemed to work on its own before she could stop it, though. Leave it to Patsy to remind her to engage her filter—another reason for her not to move.
Claire returned a wry grimace to her grinning friends. "Sorry."
"Why did you want me at the council meeting?"
Lydia was obviously ignoring Claire's intended question about her new hubby. Okay, she'd find out later anyway.
"I needed reinforcements. Patsy had a showing in Atlanta and couldn't be there, and Dee's kids had soccer practice. For one thing ... " She paused, wanting the gravity of her impending announcement to sink in. "Felix has appointed his brother to oversee the springs restoration."
Patsy choked on her coffee. Even Lacey's eyes bugged and her mouth dropped open. Only Lydia didn't react, but she hadn't lived in Chapel Springs long enough to know the mayor's brother well, so Claire forgave her faux pas.
Patsy grabbed a napkin and wiped her chin. "Dale Riley hasn't got enough brains to give himself a headache. How's he supposed to come up with an idea?"
Claire nearly spewed the mouthful of java she'd just gulped. "Why, Patsy, that was downright merciful. I'm not sure he deserves the compliment."
Patsy and Lacey both giggled, but Lydia tipped her head to the side as if a different perspective might make this conversation less confusing.
Before Claire could explain, the door burst open, its bells jangling wildly, and the devil himself—uh, Dale Riley—shuffled in.
"Whatever tidbit he's heard," Patsy said, "it's burning a hole in his tongue."
In Chapel Springs, there were three forms of communication: telephone, telegraph and tell Dale. He and his brother had determined their sole purpose on earth was to humiliate Claire—that and think up schemes to make money. Armed by caffeine, she pushed her empty coffee cup aside.
"I'm ready for him."
He spied them quick enough and aimed his get-along right for their table. But instead of taking a bead on Claire, his usual target, he grabbed a chair from a neighboring table, scooted it in between her and Lacey, and plopped himself down. With his back to Claire. She didn't know whether to be insulted or relieved.
Dale leaned close to Lacey. She leaned close to her sister. Tension as thick as the frosting on one of Dee's cinnamon buns spread between them. His eyebrows rose to his nonexistent hairline. Did he think that made him look like he had something more than a baldpate? Except for two small tufts on either side, he had more hair growing out his nose than on his head.
He pulled on his ear. "I hear Jake fired his Looziana chef at The Krill Grill. Why'd he do that? Ain't nobody can cook seafood like a Nawins chef. You watch. The place'll die in a week." He sat back, a self-satisfied smirk on his round pink face.
Lacey blinked then shrugged.
Dale squinted his beady eyes. "Din' cha know about it?"
Claire wanted to slap him upside the head. He'd badger a corpse if he thought he could get a rise out of it. "Give it a rest, Dale."
He turned and speared her with a leer. "You thinkin' of applying, Claire? That would cinch Jake's failure—if 'n ya didn't burn the place down first." He snorted a cackling laugh.
She refused to satisfy him with a response and returned as cold a stare as she could muster with her blood boiling. He chortled at his own joke and returned his attention to Lacey.
"So, didn't ya know?"
"Of course I did. Jake knows what he's doing. And the new chef is way better. His jambalaya is to die for."
Bless her heart, saying that much was quite a stretch for Lacey, but the result was worth it. Dale deflated like a sinking soufflé. Whatever trouble he was trying to stir up, Lacey stole his spoon.
He recovered quickly enough, though. Looking past her to Lydia, he turned on the charm. No matter what Claire thought of him, she had to admire his gumption. Still a bachelor at sixty-four, he never gave up hope of finding a bride. She'd give up her next sale to know what was going on inside his head right now.
"You're the one they's callin' the 'widow on the hill,' ain't cha?" He propped his elbow on the table and leaned his jaw on it, staring moon-eyed at Lydia.
Now it was her turn to lean back and send the rest of the women gathered around the table a silent plea for help. "Uh, not—"
"Don't you have a job to go to?" Claire asked him.
"Nope." He never took his eyes off Lydia. "I quit."
Most likely got fired.
"Bagging groceries at Lunn's ain't my idea of a career." Dale grinned at Lydia, who leaned back a little more.
So, Claire’s weren't the only produce he'd squashed or bruised.
"I'm goin' into gee-logical restoration. After I fix the springs, I'll move onto bigger things like inveramen ... uh ... envirymen ... uh, that green stuff." He glared at Claire. "And I don't mean collards." He rose and hitched his britches. "I'll get me a big career. One fittin' to support a wife in style." He winked at Lydia but didn't wait for a response. At the coffee bar, he poured a to-go cup and left.
Gasping for breath between giggles Patsy wiped her eyes. "I just can't get a handle on Dale with a wife or what she would actually be like."
Neither could Claire. "He seems to have pinned his hopes on our 'widow on the hill'." She steered a wink in Lydia's direction.
"He's not serious is he?" Her voice rose to a squeak. "He's joking, right?"
"You might want to get caller ID." Claire picked at the rolled edge of her paper coffee cup. "When Dale gets an idea, it sticks in his nooks and crannies, and it looks like he's got his sights set square on you."
"But I'm married now."
Claire chuckled. "Dale doesn't know that. He left before you could tell him." And she couldn't wait to see his face when he found out.
"I need a refill." Lydia hurried to the coffee bar.
Claire stuffed her napkin into her now empty cup. "While she gets more caffeine, do you have any ideas to corral the crowds?"
"Not really. Too bad these folks can't spread themselves around," Patsy said. "Why aren't there more towns on the lake? Other than Pineridge and Scarlet's Ferry on the south shore, Chapel Springs is the only village with a beach and lake access."
"The terrain doesn't allow for it without destroying too much of the forest or excavating into the lake." Claire brushed stray crumbs off the table. "The twins did a report on it in high school."
Lydia returned with her cup steaming. "What am I going to do about Dale?" She wrinkled her nose when she said his name.
Claire couldn't help herself. It was too delicious. "Invite him to dinner and let Graham open the door."
Lydia's eyes sparkled over the top of her cup as she took a sip. "That would be fun, but it's not really nice."
"Neither is Dale. Now, tell us about the honeymoon."
"But without the details," Patsy said.

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