Rescuing jellybean, p.1
Rescuing Jellybean, page 1
Table of Contents
Excerpt
Praise for Nicki Pascarella
Rescuing Jellybean
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
A word about the author…
Thank you for purchasing
“Hello, Rainey,” said Sherry. “Do you remember Connor Sullivan? He inherited Ed’s place on the overlook. Connor, remember Rainey Thibodeau? You two used to play together when you were kids. She bought the Millers’ organic farm about a mile up the road and spruced it up with a cafe and farm store. Plus, she runs the local dog rescue.”
Rainey bit her lip as she looked into Connor’s blue eyes. Now she recognized him. About fifteen years ago, he had pushed her off the dock into ice-cold water, and eighteen years ago, he had rubbed her doll’s face in the mud.
The man looked up from his burger to take her in. A second later, he grinned. He wiped his hand on a napkin and held it out. “Hey, Rainey. Last time I saw you—”
She ignored his extended palm. “You were about fifteen, and I was thirteen, and you called me monkeyface.” And you didn’t bother to come to Ronnie’s funeral.
Praise for Nicki Pascarella
“Pascarella has a dynamite series in the Miranda Albright, Ph.D. books. These books are for the reader who wants it all—mystery mixed with humor, topped with steamy romance. Her small town is full of quirky characters the reader will never forget.”
~Marilyn Barr, Author
“Troubles in Bellmount by Nicki Pascarella is a charming murder mystery with an endearing female protagonist who, much like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, realizes that what is most important to her was right in front of her all along. Miranda Albright, Ph.D., is brought to life through solid first-person narration, well-crafted dialogue, and detailed description.”
~D.S. Marquis, Author
“Pascarella has a way of weaving a story that keeps you turning the pages to discover more.”
~Corinna Bellizzi, Podcaster
Rescuing Jellybean
by
Nicki Pascarella
Jelly Beans and Spring Things Series
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Rescuing Jellybean
COPYRIGHT © 2022 by Nicki Pascarella
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com
Cover Art by Diana Carlile
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Edition, 2023
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-4737-0
Jelly Beans and Spring Things Series
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To my Jellybean, my beautiful daughter, Josephine. I love you with all my heart.
Chapter One
Rainey
A jagged yellow line lit up the night a second before a crack of thunder echoed through the valley. Rainey Thibodeau ignored the trickle of blood running down her finger and gave the purple leash a light tug. The shivering Shetland sheepdog sat on her haunches.
“Come on, sweetpea. The barn is warm.”
The dog plopped her belly into the mud.
“She’s one of them mini Lassies. And she’s limpin’ wicked bad,” said farm manager Zack Lambert.
Rainey would explain the difference between a Collie and a Sheltie when they weren’t freezing their asses off underneath rumbling electrons. “I can’t see anything through this rain. As soon as we get her into the barn, I’ll check out her leg.”
“Whoa, Miss T, why don’t you call your boyfriend to check her out?” Kent Wood chuckled.
A reverberating crash and the animal’s terrified whimper distracted Rainey from spouting out Go to hell. Well, that and the fact that she never swore in front of the animals.
Kent’s digs about the veterinarian whom she regretted sleeping with a few times were getting old.
“Maybe we can lure her with food.” Zack turned toward the farmhouse. “Be back in a minute. Plus, I’m grabbing the first aid kit.”
“My hand is fine,” Rainey insisted.
“Dude, why don’t we just use the treats in the barn?” Kent asked.
“No, suh. This girl needs the good stuff. There’s some grilled chicken left over from today’s lunch special,” Zack called over his shoulder as he plowed into the downpour.
Rain pelted Rainey so hard that her hood didn’t keep the water droplets from blinding her. She dabbed at her eyes, then squatted to coo words of encouragement.
“Sweetpea, I know you’re scared, but we’re going to take good care of you. We’ll find your family. But I need to get you inside; we’re all getting soaked.”
“Maybe little dudette is afraid of the goats,” said Kent. “Or maybe the cluckers. Those fucking chickens are damn scary.”
Rainey opened her mouth to remind Kent to use work language when another boom banged, and the dog’s shaking doubled in speed.
“I can just pick her up and carry her.” Kent reached his arms around the wet furball.
“No,” Rainey called while attempting to use her arm as a shield.
A second later, the dog snarled, and Kent jumped back. “Whoa! You don’t think she’s got rabies, do you?”
Rainey glared at her finger and shook her head. “No.” At least, she didn’t think so. The poor thing was just cold, injured, and terrified. “But if the grilled chicken doesn’t work, I’ll have to try to pick her up again.”
She also needed to swallow her pride and call Douglass Walton. However, exposing her phone to the rain and making the call in front of a nosey employee were unpalatable ideas.
“Kent, keep an eye on her, and when Zack gets back, see if you guys can lure her into the barn. I’m going to call the vet.”
She didn’t need to see Kent to know that he was winking and reveling in her embarrassment.
Rainey groaned and headed into the barn. She passed by a sleeping cat, three dreaming dogs, and seven drowsy goats. She sat on a bale of hay, exhaled, and pressed on Douglass Walton’s photo.
He answered on the second ring. “Hey, Lorraine,” he said, sounding a bit too peppy for her mood.
“Hi, Douglass. Are you still at your office?”
“No, I left before the storm hit.” His voice dropped an octave. “Do you want to come to my place, or should I come to the farm?”
Rainey closed her eyes and carefully formed her response. “A dog was just dropped off at the rescue. I’m guessing she is about two or three years old. I think she’s been on her own for a while. I’m worried she might have injured her paw, and I have no idea how she’s survived this latest cold snap.”
There was silence on the other end.
“Douglass?”
“I’m here. I’m a bit disappointed. I thought maybe you wanted to see me.”
She sighed. Now was not the time to soothe the man’s large ego. Besides, he was gorgeous and wealthy. He could have any woman in the county. Why was he interested in her? On second thought, she was probably just one of his many booty calls.
Bang! A crash shook the barn.
Rainey placed a hand on her heart. Thump-thump-thump. Her organ pounded like a bass drum. Hopefully, the poor pup in her front yard hadn’t just had a heart attack.
“Anyway, she’s terrified, and this thunder isn’t helping. She bit me and snapped at Kent.”
“Bit you? Oh, my God. Are you okay?”
The man acted like he hadn’t had a few nibbles taken out of his skin over the years.
“I’m not sure I can get her into the car. Could you come to the barn?”
After a way-too-long pause came his annoyed response. “I suppose so.”
Was he upset about going out in bad weather to care for an injured animal? Perhaps, he had had a long day and was simply tired. Or, maybe he was angry this wouldn’t end in sex.
“Never mind. I’ll call another vet—”
The barn door flew open, startling Rainey for the second time in less than three minutes.
Kent stood in the doorway, drenched and covered in mud. “Miss T, little dudette ran away.”
“Crap,” Rainey grunted. “Douglass, I’ve gotta go.”
“Lorraine, babe, I’ll be right—”
She disconnected and trudged out the door to stare into the darkness. “How do you lose a dog with a limp who is on a leash? She will freeze to death tonight.“
Giant-sized Zack slogged through the prec ipitation toward them, flashlight in one hand, first aid kit in the other. The leftover chicken must have been in his jacket pocket.
“That last strike was wicked close.” He halted and perused the area. “Thank goodness. Did you finally get the princess into the barn?”
“No,” Rainey grumbled.
“I lost her,” said Kent.
Zack’s flashlight flew about. “What the hell, Kent! How do you lose a little dog with a limp?”
The light beam landed in Kent’s eyes. He blinked, then squinted.
“Were you smoking that funky shit again?” asked Zack.
“No, dude.”
“Then what the hell happened?” asked Rainey and Zack at the same time.
“Man, that lightning scared the shit out of me. I jumped, lost my balance, and fell over. I kept slipping in the fucking mud. When I finally got up, she was gone.”
Chapter Two
Connor
After eight hours in a car—thirty minutes of it in freezing rain that pounded on his windshield so hard it was a wonder it didn’t slice through the glass—Connor Sullivan was in a snit. It was April, for Christ’s sake. He’d forgotten how cold Maine got, and the light jacket he had in the backseat wouldn’t keep him warm. At least he had packed sweatshirts.
His tight shoulders relaxed when the beam from his headlights lit up the neon Moose Pond Variety sign. He’d grab the camp keys from the Bernards and fill up on supplies for the week.
He swung his car into the turning lane and pulled into the lot.
“Shit!” There were a lot of cars, and he was too tired to deal with humanity.
When he slammed on his brakes to avoid hitting a fluffy-tailed creature skittering toward the tree line, the seat belt kept him from smashing his chest into the dashboard.
“Fuck,” he sputtered before taking time to steady his heartbeat and breathing.
Once calm, he sat forward and kept his gaze on the bumper in case the beast darted in his path again. He parked between two pickup trucks and killed the engine.
Damn! The weather sucked. Connor slid into his jacket and sprinted past the gas pump to the entrance. He pushed on the door, and warmth and noise greeted him.
Although not a sentimental man, he was overcome with nostalgia. It was as if time had stood still because nothing about the establishment had changed.
At least a dozen customers sat at round tables covered with red gingham table cloth. Photos of bears, moose, and fish adorned the paneled walls. The scent of fried food, fresh fruit pies, and coffee permeated the air.
He took a whiff. Fifteen years hadn’t dulled his memory of Sherry Bernard’s baked goods.
As if in a time warp, Sherry Bernard stood, hands on hips behind the long counter; her forehead was covered with perspiration. Her large bosom heaved as she bellowed, “The jelly bean contest was supposed to start tomorrow at six a.m. Your grandkids are going to be disappointed.”
“I’m telling you I bought the damn candy.” Louis Bernard elongated the sound of his O’s like he was dropping a stone in a well.
The angry woman pointed to an empty glass jar on the counter. “Then where in the hell is the bag?”
Mr. B had never been intimidated by his wife. He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. “Last time I saw it, it was with the rest of the Eastaw supplies on the front porch.” Like a typical New Englander, Mr. B’s speech was littered with w’s in the wrong place.
Connor held in his chuckle as he mentally rehearsed, Pawk the caw in the Hawvard Yawd.
“Why in the hell was it on the front porch?” Mrs. B asked.
Fifteen years hadn’t changed the Bernards’ bickering.
“Listen, woman. No one was there to help me carry it in from my truck.”
Mrs. B’s spatula lifted into the air, and she waved it about. “I’m handling the cooking, running the cash register in the store, and baking. What the hell are you doing?”
Louis Bernard’s eyes were tiny slits as he hissed, “Running the gas pump, stocking the shelves, and shopping. What the hell is Diego doing?”
“Dishes, dishes, and more fucking dishes,” yelled a dark-haired man standing behind the sink.
“Language. We don’t use the f-bomb here, mister,” yelled Mrs. B and her angry spatula.
A heavily bearded man sitting at the counter piped up. “Louis, I been telling you that you have a wicked varmint problem out there. You need to let me trap ʼem for you.”
Holy hell. Fifteen years later and Claude Cloutier hadn’t moved from his stool.
Connor’s chortles ripped, and the gazes of everyone present focused on him.
It wasn’t recognition in Sherry Bernard’s gaze when she spotted him. It was that eyelash flutter that women always bestowed upon him. She might have been almost as old as his grandmother, but he was an equal opportunity flirt. Age, size, race, and religion didn’t matter to him.
He smiled and swaggered toward her calling out, “Hello, Mrs. B.”
Big arms grasped him before he made it to the counter.
“Connor, how in the hell are you?” said Mr. B. “Sorry about your Uncle Ed. We miss him.”
Connor hugged the big man back. “Thanks, and good to see you, Mr. B. It was a long drive, and I almost hit a raccoon in the parking lot. But as soon as I have a piece of Mrs. B’s pie, I’ll be golden.”
Mrs. B dropped her utensil and flung her large body from behind the counter to embrace Connor. She kissed him on each cheek. “My lord, did you grow into a good-looking man.” She backed away to run her hand through his hair. “I’d pay a fortune for this color.”
“Damn, raccoons love jelly beans,” said Claude. “I bet you a million bucks the rodent absconded with your candy.”
Mrs. B stopped molesting Connor to glare at her regular. “When you start reading the dictionary, Claude?”
“When in the hell have you ever seen a raccoon eat a jelly bean?” asked Mr. B.
“I seen plenty. I even caught a mouse in a trap with a jelly bean once. A brown one.”
Connor couldn’t help himself. “Hiya, Mr. Cloutier. A brown mouse or a brown jelly bean?”
“The mouse was gray. The jelly bean was brown.”
Mrs. B snorted and let go of Connor. “For Christ’s sake. There ain’t no such thing as a brown jelly bean, Claude.”
“Fucking language,” yelled Diego from his sink of dirty dishes.
Mrs. B was the master of the I’m-going-to-whip-your-ass look.
“The damn thing was brown,” said Claude. “Originally, all jelly beans were brown because they were supposed to look like rabbit turds.”
“You’re a dolt, Claude,” grumbled Mrs. B.
A few of the customers joined in on the brown jelly bean debate. Eventually, Diego stopped scrubbing pots to pull out his cell phone. “Chocolate, cappuccino, root beer,” he announced to his attentive audience.
Diego’s cell phone made the rounds as all interested parties checked out the photo of the brown beans.
“No, suh. I still think you’re full of shit, Claude,” said Mr. B.
Claude scratched his head. “Hard tellin’. Maybe I caught the mouse using one of those chewy chocolate rolls.” He ran his fingers through his beard. “Yes, suh, I remember now. Most definitely one of them roll candies. But I know raccoons eat jelly beans. Damn things dug ʼem out of my trash and made a wicked mess all over my yard.”
Mrs. B rolled her eyes, then offered Connor a seat at the bar. “Meals on the house. What do you want?”
He wanted one of everything. “Cheeseburger, fries, and coffee. I’ll have a slice of whatever the fruit pie of the day is and a couple of your homemade whoopie pies to go. Surprise me with the flavors. I also need a box of supplies for the camp.”
Mrs. B placed a steaming mug of coffee in front of him. He wrapped his hands around it, absorbing the warmth.
“I was up ta camp two days ago, turning on the water and getting things ready for you. I already took a load of wood up. I know exactly what you need,” said Mr. B. “Ed was struggling with his health toward the end. Didn’t get to the camp much, so it got a little rundown.”
Connor was certain the camp had been run-down for at least three decades. As a young boy, he hadn’t minded the warped wood and spiders. At fifteen, his parents had divorced so he was sent to vacation with his wealthy maternal grandparents. Once he was older, Ed had invited him back. He had meant to visit, but life had gotten in the way. Now he wished he had more time to drink a beer while looking out over the pond with his favorite uncle.
