Sweet Harmony

The reporters, including ones from the local radio station and newspaper, chuckled.

“There seemed to be some tension between the two of you,” one said. “Was that a prearranged setup?”

“I’ve never met this man,” Kara said, insulted that someone thought she might fake a panel discussion on such an important topic.

“I noticed some personal sparks,” a female reporter said. “Have you two met before?”

“No,” Kara said. “And—”

“Marcus, tell us about this challenge,” a man with a microphone and shiny teeth said, interrupting Kara.

“There’s no challenge,” Kara said.

“Chickening out?” Marcus asked.

Belinda Barbara sidled up to Marcus. She linked her arm through his spare one. “I can suggest a personal challenge—just the two of us.”

An awkward moment ensued during which Marcus tried to extricate himself from the television anchor while holding on to Kara. Some of the reporters smirked at Belinda, and others looked embarrassed. It was clear to everyone standing nearby that Belinda, enchanted with Marcus, had lost her professional edge.

A teenager approached with a program in one hand and her mother behind her. “Ms. Barbara, may I have your autograph?”

“Of course.” Belinda preened. She sent one final, dazzling smile at Marcus and mouthed, “I’ll catch you later” before leaving with her own fans.

Kara tried to tug free of his embrace, but Marcus held her firmly.

The reporters asked a few more questions, which Marcus answered with an easygoing camaraderie. Without effort he’d charmed fans and journalists alike. She, however, was immune to that sort of thing. At least, that’s what Kara told herself.

Another forty-five minutes and the hall finally cleared. Marcus sent his legion of people on to do whatever it was they did for him. The journalists headed to their newsrooms, and the fans went home to tell stories about meeting the great Marcus Ambrose.

She knew not a mention would be made in the media or in living rooms about the real purpose of the evening’s forum—to raise awareness about the destructive role of stereotypes. The entire night had been a cliché. People could have been helped, but Kara’s message had been lost, drowned out by both her own temper and by the vacuous appeal of celebrity and a pretty face.

Kara stuffed the stack of ignored brochures into her satchel.

Marcus turned to Kara. “You’re going to be on the news tonight.”

“Unlike some people,” Kara snapped as she pushed her notebook into her bag, “I’m not so enamored with myself that I need to set VCRs to view my own image.”

He grinned. “You have a wicked tongue, Dr. Kara. I like that. The combination of beauty and brains is…” He paused, then smiled. “Refreshing.”

“I wish I could say the same.”

He chuckled. “May I walk you to your car?”

The old-fashioned courtesy surprised her. “I’m in a side lot,” she said. “It’s around the building. I’ll be fine. Your staff members are waiting for you.” She indicated a man standing sentinel at the door. Marcus waved him on and fell into step beside Kara as she headed up the aisle. The silence between them was not exactly awkward, but not comfortable, either.

“You like that word, don’t you?”

“What word?”

“Enamored. You used it twice tonight.”

She ignored the question. “Speaking of which, why are you here, anyway?”

“Ah, see, the tardy people miss the explanations.”

She glowered at him, but Marcus only chuckled.

“I’m in town for the music and film festival. It starts tomorrow.”

She nodded, remembering. “I did read something about that.”

He clutched his chest. “I’m wounded. You mean you didn’t circle the date of my arrival in your planner and count down the days?”

She sniffed. “Hardly. And you haven’t answered my question, Mr. Ambrose.”

He steered a hand behind her as they passed through the front doors. “Call me Marcus.”

She’d do no such thing. Was it her imagination or could she really feel the heat of his palm right through a jacket, a blouse and a camisole?

“And which question was that?” he added.

“About being on the panel.”

He nodded. “We got in a day early. The TV station thought it would be a good tease to their coverage of the festival.”

“Tease?”

“It’s just a term they use regarding promotion. You see it all the time.” He held a hand to his ear as if reporting live from a scene. “‘Coming at ten, details on today’s bad news.’”

“Hmm,” was all Kara said for a moment, but a slight smile tilted her mouth. “My sister is one of your biggest fans.”

“Ouch.”

She glanced over at him. He stood there pantomiming pulling an arrow from his heart. “Is there a problem?”

“The omission pierces me.”

She shook her head. “I must have fallen down the rabbit hole this morning. What are you talking about?”

“You said your sister is a big fan. Since you left out yourself, I take it you aren’t counted in that number.”

“My tastes run toward gospel, jazz and classical music.”

He stroked his goatee. “But you knew the lyrics to one of my early hits.”

“Only because my sister drove me to distraction singing it when I lived at home and we shared a room.”

“So, you’re the local feminist with a Freudian bent.”

Kara stepped back, hands on hips. “I beg your pardon?”

“That’s not a slam. I happen to like intense, independent women. Strong ones, too.”

“I. Am. Not. Intense.”

He just chuckled.

“Marcus. Over here.” They both turned toward a woman near a white late-model stretch limousine. She wore an orange miniskirt suit, had a clipboard in her hands and a headset phone on her head.

“A little ostentatious for tiny Wayside, Oregon, don’t you think?”

He didn’t respond to that dig. Kara had been talking about the car, but now wondered if he thought she’d meant the woman. Great.

“That problem with the hotel,” the woman said, clearly picking up an earlier conversation. “It takes almost an hour to get out here from Portland. Given the drive-time traffic, we’re going to have a very early start every day.”

“Early like what?”

“Leaving the city no later than eight-thirty or nine.”

Marcus frowned. Kara rolled her eyes. Most working people were already on the way to their jobs if not already at their places of employment by the time nine rolled around.

“I checked out the places here in town,” the aide said. She shook her head with a tiny grimace. “There’s nothing suitable.”

Kara narrowed her eyes at the woman. “We have several innkeepers who operate charming bed-and-breakfasts. And the Dew Drop Inn is right off the highway. The dew is pretty in the morning.”

“The Dew Drop Inn?” The woman said the words as if Kara had suggested Marcus bunk down in a homeless shelter.

“Which bed-and-breakfast do you recommend?”

“Marcus.”

“The Wayside Inn is lovely,” Kara said. “So is Cherry Tree House, though it’s much smaller.”

Marcus nodded toward the headset woman. “Get the Wayside Inn for me, you, Carlton and Teddy. Put the rest of the crew and staff up in the Dew Drop. Rent a floor so they don’t disturb the other guests.”

“But Marcus…”

He turned to Kara. “Can I give you a lift to your car?”

Kara stared at him. “Surely you’re not planning to stay at the inn? For a month?”

“Why not? You just said it’s lovely.”

“But…” But it’s right here, she wanted to wail. In Wayside. In her town. In her space. He couldn’t stay here. “I’m sure you’ll find Portland more suited to your needs. The Benson and Riverplace in the city are four-star hotels.”

“She’s right,” the aide said.

Marcus never took his gaze off Kara. “I want to be able to explore all the charms in Wayside. We’ll stay here.”

The aide nodded.

Kara willed her heart to start beating again. She was sure it had stopped the moment he met her gaze and stared deep into her eyes declaring his questionable intentions.

With a shake of her head she scolded herself for falling into his smooth trap, a trap baited with smoky seduction eyes and an easy smile.

She could barely breathe with him this close. Having him underfoot for a month would be unbearable.

“Enjoy your stay.” She bit out the words. “Goodbye.”

Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she turned on her heel and started moving along the pathway toward the lot where she’d parked her car.

“I’m not really such a bad guy.”

Kara jumped. Lost in her thoughts, she hadn’t realized he’d followed her. “What are you doing?”

“I told you, I’m walking you to your car.”

Behind them, down on the street, Kara saw the limo slowly trailing them. “That’s not necessary.”

“I know.”

Kara stared at the limo. “Do you have a normal car?”

He chuckled. “Yes. It’s in L.A. Why?”

“You might want to get a rental while you’re here. Wayside is a small town. That,” she said with a thumb jerk toward the long limo, “is a little much.”

“Wayside’s not that small,” he said.

Kara snorted. “Right. A big celebrity like you wouldn’t waste his time in too small a place.”

“I happen to be from a small town.”

“And I’d wager you don’t get back there often.”

He leaned close. “Are you a betting woman, Dr. Kara?”

“Certainly not.”

“But you challenged me tonight. That was a bet.”

“It was nothing of the sort. And there is no challenge between us. I don’t know why you kept intimating to those reporters that there was.”

He grinned. “I’m going to enjoy my stay here.”

He stepped in front of her and took her arm. “The panel discussion is over, Dr. Kara. You don’t have to maintain this fierce psychologist role.”

She yanked her arm from his grip. “I’m always fierce, Mr. Ambrose.”

“But not intense, of course?”

She glared at him, then stalked to her car, the only one in the deserted parking lot. She fumbled with the automatic unlock and ended up jamming the key into the driver’s-side door. From where he stood, Marcus Ambrose grinned. She slid in, started the car, then gunned the engine and peeled out of the parking area, passing the limo that idled nearby.

“And I thought my time here was going to be boring.”

Kara’s phone rang exactly eight minutes after the late news started. She knew because she’d been expecting the telephone to ring as soon as the TV anchor announced the story right after the break. She didn’t have to check Caller ID to know who it was, either.

“Yes, Patrice. That was really him.”

“Oh, my gosh! Oh, my goodness. Kara!” Patrice screamed in her ear. Kara held the receiver out a bit, giving Patrice time to get herself calmed.

“Ooh. Just look at him. And you, oh, my goodness. Kara, he has his arm around your waist. Was that heaven?”

Kara just shook her head as she, too, watched the image of that evening unfold in a spot on the late news. A moment later Belinda Barbara smiled a bright on-camera smile and told all her viewers to tune in for details about Marcus Ambrose’s visit and the Wayside Music and Film Festival.

“I am too jealous,” Patrice said. “Why didn’t you tell me he was going to be there?”

“I didn’t know until I arrived. He didn’t contribute much to the panel discussion.”

“Who cares? He could just sit there and I’d be enthralled.”

It stung that even her sister dismissed her work in favor of celebrity. Never mind that Marcus Ambrose had been Patrice’s hero and favorite heartthrob for years.

Kara shook her head. “Yeah, you would.”

“So what’s this challenge business? And when’d you start calling yourself Dr. Kara? You’re going all Hollywood now, huh, sis? Today Wayside, tomorrow Oprah.”

“Hardly. And I don’t know why she called me that. As for the so-called challenge, he said something that set me off and apparently the lughead took my reaction as some sort of personal affront.”

“Well, Belinda Barbara said…”

Kara gritted her teeth. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Something else? Marcus Ambrose is in town for a month. You’re cozied up next to him on my TV. What else is there to talk about?”

Kara sighed.

“Is he as gorgeous in person as he is on his CDs and in movies?” Before Kara could answer, Patrice let out another squeal of delight when footage from one of his concerts rolled.

She was eventually able to get Patrice off the line. But no sooner had she replaced the receiver than the phone rang. Again. And again. And again.

The next morning it was still ringing. Had everybody in Wayside been watching the news last night?

Kara fielded no less than a dozen calls from relatives, co-workers and the curious. Then the reporters started knocking on her front door.

Chapter Three

A rapidly growing crowd spilled off the porch of the Wayside Inn and along the sidewalk and street in front of the house. TV trucks and giggling girls holding posters of Marcus Ambrose caused even more disruption on the normally quiet street.

“Coming through, folks. Coming through.” A small path opened for the television crew headed for the porch. Right behind them came a woman balancing a large tray of pastries.

“Had I known this many people would be here, I’d have made an extra batch of pecan honey rolls,” Amber Montgomery said as the innkeeper held the door open for her while keeping at bay the camera crew from a cable TV entertainment show.

“You probably still have time. These people aren’t going anywhere anytime soon.” Then, louder, for the reporters. “Mr. Ambrose said he’ll be making a statement later today. Over at the college. At three-thirty.”

No one moved. Ophelia Younger sighed.

Amber followed her to the kitchen. “So, the famous Marcus Ambrose is camping out at the Wayside Inn.”

“This has been a nightmare from the moment that limo pulled up followed by those TV people. Mr. Ambrose and his staff, well, they’ve been incredibly nice, but what a disruption.” The innkeeper filled Amber in on all the details. “What’s this challenge thing they’re up to? I read Cyril’s story today in the Gazette. He had more to say about the verbal fireworks between Kara and Marcus than anything else.”

Amber shrugged. “If I see her, I’ll ask.” She pulled out the invoice from her catering company, Appetizers & More, and placed it on the counter. “I saw Kara on the news last night. She didn’t look like a happy camper.”

Upstairs, Nadira Wilson set a cup of green tea in front of Marcus and picked up her clipboard.

“This place is lovely, but it’s never going to work as an office for the next month.”

Marcus grunted. He’d come to that conclusion about three in the morning when, with his mind on Dr. Kara Spencer, he’d gotten up to head to the fridge for a snack, only to discover the kitchen door locked with a discreet little sign that said “Off-limits to guests.”

“Find me…”

“A house.” Nadira finished the thought and placed three sheets of paper in front of him.

He looked at the three houses for rent and shook his head. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Radar O’Reilly.”

“Don’t call me that,” Nadira said. “The one on top comes furnished. The other two don’t. The furniture rental place can be here within three hours. The office equipment tomorrow. In addition to a large great room and several bedrooms that can be converted into office space, the middle one has a guest cottage on the property and a home theater with surround sound and a popcorn machine. The third house isn’t nearly as large. Just four bedrooms. But it’s located right next door to the woman you debated last night.”

Marcus perked up at that. “One more time?”

Nadira pulled out the sheet from the real estate company and placed it on top of the others. “This one is neighbor to Dr. Kara Spencer’s house. The real-estate agent made a point of letting me know that. He saw you two on the news last night.”

Marcus nodded. “Make it happen.”

Smiling, she placed a contract in front of him. “I figured that would be your choice.”

“Smarty-pants.” He glanced over the rental agreement, then thought of the man’s taunt last night. “Is there a pool?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. I’ll show her some real-world living up close and personal.” He scrawled his name on the agreement. Then his mind jumped to something else, something he couldn’t live without. “See if there’s a fitness center here in town. If so, get a thirty-day pass. If not, see if some weight-lifting and workout equipment can be rented along with the furniture.”

She made a notation on the ever-present clipboard.

“And get me a couple of…”

Nadira placed two pain relievers on the table in front of him. He would have smiled if his head hadn’t been pounding so much.

Stress. That’s what the doctor said caused them. But there’d been no reason for one to develop now. He was here in Mayberry, R.F.D., also known as Wayside, Oregon, about to enjoy a month of what should amount to R and R. A month away from the press and call of Los Angeles and the nonstop flying across country for gigs. The only problem was that he had a backlog of business to tend to.

The good news was that the work he’d contracted to do for the music and film festival would take all of two weeks to complete even though it was spread out over the month. Theoretically, that left him with enough free time to settle down, get caught up on breathing lessons and to unwind a little.

Between studio time, touring dates and video and movie production schedules, Marcus rarely found time to just kick back.

Now when he’d been blessed with the time, the headaches were pounding his head again. He wanted to get a jump on the early applications for the foundation he headed. The deadline loomed, still a week away. That meant the bulk of applications would pour in on the very last day. Nadira had already arranged to have them overnighted to Wayside. They’d reviewed about ten already and still had a box to go through.

He rubbed his temples.

“Do you want me to call Dr. Heller?”

The concern in Nadira’s voice didn’t go unnoticed. He shook his head. “I’m fine. But just in case…”

“I’ll get the prescription filled.”

He nodded. “You should give yourself a raise while you’re at it.”

“You already pay me a sinfully large amount of money.”

“And you earn every penny of it. You anticipate every need before I even voice it.”

“That’s why you pay me the big bucks, boss man. Now, as for the agenda today…”

He shook his head and rubbed his temples again, not really up for the task in front of him. But putting off the workload would simply make things snowball. “I need some time first.”

“All right.” She glanced at her to-do list. “Marcus, I know we’re pretty tied up here, but would it be all right if I swing down to L.A.? My dad’s not doing so well and I want to check on him.”

“Not a problem.”

“I’ll make sure someone’s here when I’m gone. Just a day on the weekends or when there aren’t any events.”

Absently, he nodded. “Tell him I said hello.”

“I will.” She put copies of the Los Angeles Times, Billboard, the Wall Street Journal and the Wayside Gazette on the table in front of him. Marcus made a habit of keeping up with the news from home when he was on the road, and he always liked to know the issues affecting the locals, whether he was in a large metropolitan city like Chicago or Dallas or in a one-stoplight place like some of the towns he’d been in while in Alabama and Mississippi.

“How much time do you need?”

Marcus glanced at the papers and at the breakfast Nadira had talked the innkeeper into letting him eat in his room. “Give me an hour.”

She raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. Normally they worked through breakfast. When the door closed behind her, Marcus let out a weary sigh. He had sixty minutes of peace before Nadira brought in the files of requests they’d spend several hours reading and critiquing.

Despite his grousing, Marcus truly enjoyed giving back to the community through the JUMPstart activism grants he’d created. The first two donations had been anonymous ones to programs he’d heard about. Shortly thereafter, he’d developed a mechanism to provide funding to worthy community groups through a foundation he headed. But he took not a word of credit for it. For six years now he’d been playing Santa Claus, and he loved it. But the volume of applications to JUMP grew each year. If the early submissions were any indication, this year would set a record.

It seemed everyone wanted a piece of the action, whether they knew he was the backer or not. He got plenty of legitimate requests that had nothing to do with the JUMP program. Then there were the diatribes demanding that since to whom much is given much is required, he should therefore fork over considerable assets to whatever cause célèbre the requester named. Marcus liked to keep a handle on where his money went, even though staff weeded out the true crazies. That still meant he had a lot to wade through.

Then there were the résumés and pleas for work in his production company and the songwriters and musicians pitching projects.

Usually he loved it, but lately it all just seemed to wear on him in ways that made it difficult to remember what his purpose was supposed to be.

Last night Kara Spencer’s questions and issues had pricked his conscience. For a long time now, his public work had run far afield of his original intentions and plans. Every now and then someone like Kara or something he’d see or hear would remind him.

And the music she’d called him on, particularly the lyrics, no longer held the appeal it once had. On his past four releases he’d slipped in a track or two that only careful listeners might recognize as more than his usual fare.

Thinking about the project he worked on when he couldn’t sleep, he got up and put the cassette tape in a player. A moment later his own voice accompanied by nothing except the piano he also played rang out. These lyrics, about grace, restoration and redemption, didn’t fit with the unfinished studio project waiting for him back in L.A.

Marcus ran a hand over his face. He sighed.

Instead of reaching for one of the newspapers or even his fork, Marcus pulled his Bible from his suitcase and settled in the comfortable chair at the window. But before he even opened the Bible, a knock sounded at the door.

“It’s open, Nadira.”

The door swung open a bit. “Mr. Ambrose?”

Marcus rose at the innkeeper’s polite inquiry. “Hello, Mrs. Younger. Come in.”

He liked Ophelia Younger. In looks and temperament she reminded him of Mayberry’s Aunt Bee.

“Mr. Ambrose, I’m honored that you’ve chosen to stay at Wayside Inn, but we just aren’t prepared or equipped to deal with this. Had we had some advance notice of your needs, maybe I could have worked something out.”

He took the older woman’s hand in his. “Not to worry, Mrs. Younger. I’ve just found a house to rent for the duration of my stay here. It’s over on Brandywine Street.”

Tension drained from the innkeeper’s face. “Oh, thank goodness. It’s not that we don’t love the idea of a celebrity here. The reporters, though, and the girls, they’re all camped outside and it’s been a distraction. I’ve gotten complaints from other guests.”

He apologized for that, even though he himself wasn’t to blame. Then he added, “Reporters? How’d they find out I was here?”

“Well, it isn’t every day that a white stretch limousine is parked in front of the inn. We’re more of a sedan and minivan place.”

Kara’s words came back to him. A little ostentatious.

“She was right.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Marcus shook his head. “Just thinking out loud.”

“Your assistant told me to tell them you’d be over at the college at three-thirty.”

He took both her hands in his. “Thank you. I’m sorry we’ve put you out.”