Sweet Harmony. Felicia Mason

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.”

      Ophelia shook her head slightly. “Those people wonder why the media gets a bad rap. Someone’s trampled my impatiens.”

      Marcus went to the window, but didn’t see or hear the circus she described. “Are they all gone now?”

      “Goodness, no. But I did send someone out with brownies and pecan rolls. For sale, of course.”

      Marcus grinned.

      “This room is at the back of the house, so you can’t see them,” Ophelia explained. “I thought you’d like a garden view. The trucks and the girls and my ruined flowers are outside in front.” The innkeeper twisted her hands together. “I don’t think the nasturtiums will ever recover.”

      “I apologize. And I promise to make it right, whatever damage has been done,” he said. “The entertainment reporters and paparazzi can be pretty relentless until they get what they want.” He shrugged. “Some people think it’s news every time an entertainer sneezes. I’d hoped for a nice quiet month here in your town.”

      The innkeeper grinned. She hooked her arm in his. “You said your house is on Brandywine?”

      He nodded.

      “To my recollection, the only empty one over there is Mrs. Abersoll’s house, God rest her soul. It’s a lovely home. And it’s next to Kara Spencer’s place.” As soon as she said it, a sly smile crossed her mouth. “I saw the two of you on the news last night. Kara’s a nice girl. And she’s single, you know.”

      Marcus got more than a whiff of preliminary matchmaking in the works and decided to remain neutral. “The forum was well attended and she was on the panel.”

      The innkeeper chuckled. “Umm-hmm. But the electricity between you and our Kara was pretty intense.”

      “Well, uh…”

      “I know how to outsmart them,” Ophelia said.

      “Who?”

      She jerked her head toward the front end of the house. “Here’s what you have to do.”

      “I don’t have a comment,” Kara kept trying to tell the smiling reporter. The card the woman had thrust into Kara’s hands announced that she was a field correspondent for All Urban Entertainment, a cable program Kara had never heard of.

      This was the third crew she’d dealt with already. At this rate, she’d never get any work done today.

      “Don’t be shy, Dr. Spencer. All of Marcus Ambrose’s fans want to know what’s at stake in your challenge. Is it true that you’re the reason he abruptly broke it off with actress Cameron May?”

      Another name she failed to recognize. “Who? No, I—”

      “He proposed to you last night and if he wins the challenge you’ll marry him? Is that it?”

      “What?”