Small-Town Secrets. Pamela Tracy

and at his mom still working at her desk inside.

      It was in little more than a strip mall.

      His dad had traded the highlife for such a venture. His dad had had a good reason, though. He’d not given up on his old life; he had instead given his all to what mattered.

      Adam wasn’t sure he could say the same. But he was determined to change that.

      * * *

      YOLANDA HADN’T SLEPT all night. Every noise she’d heard had had her grabbing a flashlight and heading downstairs. Plus, when she’d showed the book to Rosi, her grandmother hadn’t remembered owning such a book and refused to even look at it, muttering that she didn’t want to remember the Ventimiglias.

      Odd.

      Yolanda had then spent an hour going through the books she still had to shelve. None were on the history of Scorpion Ridge. Later that evening Gramma Rosi begged off Yolanda’s offer to take her out to dinner because her favorite television show was on. Gramma Rosi never put television before family.

      So she’d taken the mysterious book to bed. Now on Yolanda’s nightstand was a book that didn’t belong to her, but possibly did belong to a woman who’d not only disturbed Yolanda but had also disturbed her grandmother.

      Adding to Yolanda’s anxiety, the book’s letters were small and handwritten, the words running close together—forget paragraphs. There were no indentations. Her head started hurting after reading two pages. So at midnight, when she realized sleep was a goal not to be realized, she settled on reading the pages devoted to a Ventimiglia: Richard. Chester wasn’t mentioned at all.

      What she did like about the book were the drawings. Hundreds of thumbnails all about Scorpion Ridge. Some were faded and impossible to make out. Others, though, were still crisp and clear, almost jumping off the page in bold strokes.

      Bold strokes? Now that was an Adam Snapp term.

      The pictures were of homes and people—mostly faces. Most of the places were long gone; most of the people had passed away. She recognized her own house, looking much the same only with a stable. The other house she recognized was downtown and housed the Scorpion Ridge Historical Society Museum. The drawing showed the building with a door in the middle and two windows flanking it on each side. It looked the same today, except the front door had been moved, and there was now a swamp cooler on top. Yolanda had been there many times and remembered that the hardwood floor creaked and the ceilings were low. The back porch was big enough to sleep on. It was an old adobe dwelling with a plaster coating, same as in the picture.

      Next came a drawing of an old mission that looked a lot like San Xavier Mission in Tucson. Under the drawing was a name, but Yolanda couldn’t make it out. The last structure she recognized was the old Scorpion Ridge courthouse. She remembered hearing about it in school. The old building had burned down in nineteen hundred and forty-six and had been replaced with an ugly cement structure.

      But Adam had mentioned there was a plaque on the wall that mentioned Chester Ventimiglia. Here was something Yolanda could actually investigate! She finally fell asleep knowing how she’d spend her morning.

      Her alarm sounded and she rolled out of bed at the first ring. Today she’d strive for good mood and peace of mind.

      Not always easy. Yolanda had always been a worrier. Gramma Rosi blamed Yolanda’s mother for passing on such an unnecessary pastime. Yolanda knew that worry was a choice, and one she needed to make differently. She got up, got dressed and made an easy breakfast: cereal. Then she checked her to-do list before spending the next few hours stocking the last empty shelves in the children’s area.

      Tired of bending, dusty from the books and needing to get outside, Yolanda locked the front door behind her and walked downtown. It took her three blocks and ten minutes. It would have only taken her eight minutes, but there were plenty of people to say good morning to. All asked about her grandmother. Two asked about the opening of her bookstore and promised to bring her some gently used books. And one offered a marriage proposal.

      “No, thanks, Otis. I’m too busy to get married.”

      Otis Wilson gazed past Yolanda at her Victorian. “I used to love a girl who lived there, you know.”

      Yolanda wasn’t surprised. According to legend, her Gramma Rosi had been quite a looker. Of course, Gramma Rosi liked to weave her own legends. Whether they were true or not...

      Yolanda arrived at Scorpion Ridge’s courthouse at the same time as the mayor, who’d been her third grade teacher. Janice Kolby had handed Yolanda her first Ramona book. “I hear the bookstore’s coming along,” Mayor Kolby said.

      “Every room is stocked.”

      “Make sure you take advantage of all the tax breaks given to female business owners.” With that, Mayor Kolby hurried through the front door. According to Gramma, the mayor was just as good at fiscal responsibility as she was averaging classroom grades. Which meant Gramma was pleased because Scorpion Ridge was debt-free.

      Yolanda hoped her bookstore was a success and she could continue to be debt-free. If the business failed and she lost all her mother’s money...? Maybe she should have taken a “real” job. One that had benefits and where she didn’t need to prove herself.

      Or maybe she should have bought the Corner Diner. She’d been offered that business, one already established and making a profit. Lucille Salazar, the owner, had been wooing Yolanda for years.

      “You’re the best cook in town” had been her first compliment. “Come work for me.”

      That had been a mere five years ago, and Yolanda had been attending college and working as a housekeeper for Ruth Dunbar, who used to be a Moore, owner of one of the other still-standing houses in Yolanda’s book.

      Not Yolanda’s book—it was Chester’s.

      Then Lucille had tried, “A little restaurant is easier to manage than a mansion. Come work for me.”

      Yolanda’s hours had been flexible when she’d worked for Ruth. The pay had been good. And Ruth had treated Yolanda like a daughter who happened to help around the house.

      Ruth had paid for most of Yolanda’s schooling because no one—not Yolanda, Gramma or Ruth—had known that Trina was a miser.

      Eventually, Lucille said, “I’m wanting to retire. I’ll give you a good price.” But Yolanda didn’t want to own a restaurant. She loved books. They opened windows to adventure and took readers to new worlds. So if she was going to take a risk, she wanted it to be for something she loved.

      Today, however, Yolanda’s adventure was the Scorpion Ridge courthouse, and it was nothing to get excited about. When the original building depicted in the book had burned down, only the iron doors had been salvaged. Adam was right, though. A bronze plaque was on the front wall, down a bit from the doors, and now partially hidden by a giant bougainvillea bush. Yolanda had to step off the walkway in order to read the words. They were weathered, time-faded and neglected. She brushed away a bit of mud that obscured the first word. She traced the engraving, so worn away by time that it could barely be read.

      Erected in nineteen hundred and fifty because of Richard Ventimiglia and by Chester Ventimiglia, by his hard work and money.

      She’d once known a poet who’d said, “I’d rather write a book than a poem. Much easier to get everything said.”

      This plaque boasted sixteen words, and Yolanda immediately realized their depth. His hands not their hands. His money not their money.

      “So you never noticed this before?”

      Yolanda jumped.

      Adam grinned, only one side of his mouth going up in a lazy, devil-may-care expression. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I was delivering a stack of advertisements—” he held up a flier with Snapp’s Studio pictured across the top and a twenty percent discount coupon on the bottom “—to the woman in charge of parks and recreation.”