His Hometown Yuletide Vow
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Carol Ross
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CHAPTER ONE
“HERE WE GO,” Anne McGrath said before looking down and reciting the tweet in question. “‘Just one kernel of my popcorn is smarter than @ginnybell58. Does the scammer truly believe she can scam #DerryPop with the old there’s-a-mouse-in-my-food routine? Better get a new scam. She won’t be getting any money—or popcorn—anytime soon! #liar #ginnytheninny #nopopcornforyou.’”
Jack Derry, known in the Twitter-sphere as @JackDerryPop, was the owner and CEO of Derry Pop Popcorn, one of McGrath PR’s biggest, and arguably most important, clients. He chuckled as his own words were read back to him.
Anne placed her phone on the conference table between them. “Jack, you called her a scammer, a ninny and a liar—all in one tweet.”
“Don’t forget grifter,” he retorted, clearly pleased with his cleverness. “#ginnytheninny was trending there for a bit, which is interesting because I thought #nopopcornforyou would be the one people would—”
“Jack,” Anne said firmly. “I think you’re purposely missing the point.”
“That’s because I don’t like the point you’re making.”
She tried not to smile, which wasn’t an easy feat because she adored Jack. Not only was he her longest-standing client at McGrath PR, but he was also a good friend. Twelve years ago, when she was a newbie working her first job at Mitchell West Publicity, he’d taken a chance on her when they’d hit it off at a party hosted by her former boss.
Four years after that, when she’d ventured out on her own, he’d come with her. His loyalty had been vital in keeping her head above water as she built her business. Jack sang her praises to anyone who’d listen. As a result, he’d brought her an untold amount of clients in the ensuing years and earned her lifelong devotion.
“We’ve talked about this, and I thought we agreed these types of personal criticisms were not going to be a part of your platform.”
Folding his arms across his chest, he leaned back in his chair and countered, “Well, she is a liar and a grifter, so would those really be considered insults?”
“Let’s not get into semantics here. The point is, did you have to tweet about this to your eight-point-three-million followers? She claims she’s now being harassed by your fans. She says she’s gone into hiding.”
“Must not have a very good hiding spot then, if she’s still being harassed.”
Anne barely managed to stifle a laugh. The man had a point. That was the thing about Jack; nearly all his points were good.
“Anne, come on now! Should I just let people believe this woman opened a bag of my popcorn and found a dead mouse inside? Thirty-two years I’ve been popping, packaging and selling popcorn without a single legitimate foreign-product complaint. At great expense and against all advice—my late wife, Yvette, being the single exception—I went above and beyond with my safety measures to prevent it from ever happening. It’s not fair for someone like her to try and harm my reputation with this type of false claim. And the nitwit should know it’s impossible with my system. Not to mention this trick has been tried before—a few hundred thousand times.”
“She” was Ginny Bellweather, a consumer who’d concocted the mouse-in-my-popcorn claim to try to get money or free popcorn out of Jack’s company. But she’d chosen the wrong guy to hustle. Jack was the type of person who would spend every penny he had to right an injustice rather than settle a fraudulent claim. And he had plenty of pennies.
Enough to hire a private investigator, who’d discovered seven similar claims in several states by Ginny spanning the last four years. She was being investigated for insurance fraud in Nevada. Come to think of it, Anne was suddenly grateful he hadn’t tweeted about her criminal leanings.
“I agree. She should have done her research before trying this particular angle. Mice, cockroaches, hairballs, severed fingers—very unoriginal. But one tweet from you about this topic was enough. The one we composed denying the accusation, along with providing the link to the excellent article you wrote explaining why it’s impossible for a mouse, or any other foreign object, to be packaged inside your popcorn. The proof speaks loud and clear.”
Jack frowned. “What if sales take a hit?”
“Have they?”
“Well, no... But she said she’s going to sue me to kingdom come. A lawsuit is always bad for business.”
“A matter for your legal team, which, you and I both know would, if it comes to that, dispense with the case very quickly and efficiently.”
“We would countersue.”
“Yet another reason why you should not be tweeting about it.”
“Years ago, when I first got on Twitter, you told me to be myself. To tweet the funny things that I think. No matter how random, and not to worry about selling popcorn or even talking about popcorn, remember?”
“Of course, I remember. That’s essentially what I’m trying to remind you of right now. I’d like you to stick to your positive vibe.”
Jack sighed. “That’s hard to do when I’m being falsely accused.”
“I know. This woman’s scheming is just that. Calling people insulting names, though, redirects the narrative back at you. It makes you look mean. And you are not mean, Jack. Don’t give her anything to use against you. You bring a lot of joy to a whole lot of people.”
Five years ago, when Anne suggested to Jack that he join Twitter, she knew people would think he was funny. But she could never have predicted the degree of celebrity he’d achieve. People adored him. He had a knack for pointing out the absurd in a funny but harmless way. He’d been compared to a modern-day Will Rogers. Mostly he tweeted his witty and interesting observations about life in quirky Portland, current events and his beloved baseball team, the Northwest Pacific Panthers.
It was their shared devotion to NPU baseball that had first drawn them together. During the party where they’d met, Jack had found her alone in her boss’s den watching a Panthers game. Both alumni of NPU, they’d bonded over their mutual love for their alma mater, especially its baseball team.
That she’d been dating Derrick Bright, the university’s superstar catcher at the time, hadn’t hurt. All these years later, she and Jack were both season-ticket holders and active in the NPU athletics fundraising organization, the Panther Project.
A few years ago, she’d suggested printing his funny observations on his popcorn bags. He’d agreed. Sales had skyrocketed. He’d credited her ingenuity, which had further cemented their friendship.
“This company is my life.”
“I know,” she answered quietly. “I get that.” And she knew he believed her because it was no secret that McGrath PR was her life, too.
“Fine.” Jack finally nodded. “I trust you, Annie. I’ll lay off. You haven’t steered me wrong yet.”
“Thank you. You won’t be sorry.”
“Now, let’s talk about this Panther scandal. Haven’t tweeted a word about that yet. Can’t find the humor or the truth.” Jack shook his head. “Poor Coach. Imagine beginning your career with this rotten pile of stink on your plate.” The Panthers had a new head coach, Kellan Nichols. Anne hadn’t met him, but he and Jack were evidently tight. “Hopefully—”
“What scandal?” Anne interrupted.
“Ah, man,” Jack said, wincing slightly. “You haven’t heard from Coach Nichols yet? I gave him your number. He’s going to need help with this. It’s shaping up to be quite a mess.”
“Jack, you know McGrath PR doesn’t represent anyone or anything to do with sports,” Anne said. But she couldn’t resist asking... “What happened?”
“But, Annie, these are our Panthers we’re talking about here. Easton Bright is headed for the draft after next season. At least, I’m hoping he is. It’s going to break my heart if he’s guilty and—”
The name had her tensing with concern. “Easton Bright?”
Easton was her ex-boyfriend Derrick’s younger brother, a sophomore second baseman and switch-hitter at NPU who’d just finished a truly astounding season. A few years ago, it was rumored that he was headed down the same rebellious path Derrick had once traveled. But as far as Anne knew, Easton had cleaned up his act. Although she’d believed the best about Derrick once, too, hadn’t she? Look how that had turned out for her.
A knock sounded. Keira Chkalov, her best friend and colleague, opened the door and stuck her head inside. “Anne, you have—” She cut off her sentence with a bright smile toward their client. “Oh, hey, Jack!” All of the staff at McGrath PR loved Jack, too—all four of them. “Sorry to interrupt. I thought you were finished.”
“We mostly are. Talking baseball now. What’s up?”
“There was an urgent call for you. This person would like you to call back ASAP.”
Keira handed her a folded slip of paper. Anne opened it, saw the name and braced herself as a combination of curiosity and apprehension spilled over her. Silently, she read the entire message: Kellan Nichols, head baseball coach, Northwest Pacific University. Please call ASAP.
DERRICK BRIGHT STEPPED away from the dining-room wall to survey his handiwork. Only to immediately realize that it was impossible to appreciate the full effect of a knickknack shelf when it was bare. Like a bat without a ball or a stadium with no fans. Okay, maybe that was a bit dramatic, but it was important he get this right.
Moving about the room, he gathered his measuring tape, screwdriver, coffee cup and three candles from the center of the dining table. From the sideboard, he borrowed Grandma’s prized geode, which she’d found on one of her rock-hunting excursions, a box of tissues and a crystal dish full of candy. After arranging everything neatly, he backed away again and reevaluated his achievement.
Grandma’s friends, “the gamers,” would be so impressed when they showed up next week to find her entire pottery collection displayed on a series of handcrafted shelves.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” he said aloud, even though he was alone in the room.
Spotting his hammer lying on the floor, he reached down and picked it up, then tucked it into place in his new tool belt. His entire life, he’d wanted a tool belt like Grandpa’s, and the one now fitted around his hips was as close as he could find. Made from thick, soft leather, it hadn’t been cheap, but he’d justified the expense the way he once would have a new pair of cleats or even a mitt. Like an investment in his future.
That was the good thing about retiring young. At thirty-two, he reminded himself every time he started missing baseball that he still had plenty of time left to pursue other hobbies and interests. Like woodworking and...other stuff he was sure he would enjoy once he tried it. So far, he’d been unsuccessful, but he’d get there. He’d find his groove—his other passion that wasn’t baseball.
He could even have another career, something he didn’t want to think about just yet, even as he couldn’t seem to stop thinking about it. Because what did a person do when they’d dedicated their entire life, their body, mind and soul, to one single activity and then suddenly, bam, it was gone? After a routine play at home plate, his career had ended. Injuries were always at the back of a ballplayer’s mind, and, like most players, he’d suffered his share. But still, he’d always operated under the belief that retirement would come when he decided. After he’d had plenty of time to plan his postbaseball life. At least, that had been his strategy once.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that his ex-girlfriend Anne had been right all those years ago; maybe he wasn’t “capable of being more than a baseball player.” Those words, and similar ones repeatedly echoed by his father, kept coming back to him, causing a now familiar and increasingly smothering tightness to knot in his chest.
His nineteen-year-old brother, Easton, sauntered in from the kitchen, steaming mug in hand. Perfect timing, because just his presence reminded Derrick of the other good stuff about retirement. Easton and Grandma May, his family. They were everything to him, and the fact that he would be here to witness Easton’s final season at NPU, to help guide him through the decisions he’d have to make as he prepared to go pro, was the best part.
That, and he could now be a consistent presence for Grandma, who, despite an energy level that frequently outpaced his own, wasn’t getting any younger. Critical since Easton would be leaving after next season. Finally, he could live full-time in this big old farmhouse he’d bought for them all to share, but where he’d only ever lived temporarily. Giving him time to work on his DIY home-improvement list, hone his carpentry skills and...not play baseball.
No more baseball. Ever again.
“Hey! Good morning,” Easton cheerfully greeted him. His little brother’s grin had always been contagious, and Derrick smiled through the chest jabs and took a few seconds to be grateful for the way Easton had gotten himself back on track.
“You’re sure at it early today. Do you want—?” Stopping midsentence, Easton glanced at the wall before eyeing Derrick up and down. “You need a tool belt to hang a shelf?”
“Shelves,” Derrick corrected, pointing at the stack still to be hung. “I made all of those.”
“Wow. So this is what you’ve been working on out there?”
“Yep.” Derrick had spent the last few days in the shop sawing, sanding, finishing...constructing this shelving project. It felt great to be using Grandpa’s tools again, something he hadn’t done since he was a kid. Grandpa Marty had died when Derrick was twenty-one, right after he’d been drafted into the major leagues. But the time they’d spent together had created many of his favorite childhood memories. Woodworking alone, he’d already discovered, was a little different than puttering around with Grandpa. Derrick definitely had a few things to learn.
“Huh.” Easton pursed his lips and tipped his head thoughtfully. “I put together the entire media stand in the family room in like an hour with one little Allen wrench.”
“Yeah, well, these didn’t come in a package that said ‘some assembly required.’ Real craftsmanship requires time, patience, skill and a variety of tools.”
“I see...” Easton drawled, slowly bobbing his head. “Well, you’ve got that last one covered for sure. I’m surprised you can walk around with all those gadgets weighing you down,” he joked, gesturing at Derrick’s tool belt. “I hope you have a supply of water in that thing, too, because if you go down with that bum leg of yours, you’re going to be there for a while. You know Grandma’s friend Cass? She has this necklace she wears with a button she can press in case of a fall. We could get you one of those to stuff in there, too.”
“You’re hilarious,” Derrick said flatly.
“I know,” Easton said, and chuckled. “Seriously, though, it’s looking awesome.” He angled his chin at the shelf. “Grandma is going to love it.”
“Thanks. Have you seen Grandma this morning?”
“Yep, the general is already out in the garden on slug patrol.”
“Of course, she is,” Derrick said.
Accomplished, strong, resilient and generous, Grandma May had always been the stable force in both his and Easton’s lives. From volunteering with the homeless to fostering kittens, she’d do just about anything to help a creature in need. Except for a slug. When that particular enemy invaded her turf, there was no call for mercy.
“We’re pickling some veggies later. You want to get in on that?”
Five years ago, after their dad died and Mom relocated to Maryland, Grandma had taken in a young and troubled teenage Easton with open arms. That’s when Derrick had purchased the five-bedroom house and farm just outside the city. At the time, there’d been no “farm” left to speak of, just an overgrown field, a plot of weeds, a tangled raspberry patch and the remnants of an ancient chicken coop.
But the house was roomy and charming with an abundance of irresistibly beautiful details, like thick wood trim, arched doorways and leaded glass windows. And while it had needed some sprucing up, the structure was sound, and the setting both pretty and private.
Best of all, Grandma May had fallen in love with it on the spot. That was enough for Derrick. And he’d agreed with Grandma that the work fixing up the place would help keep Easton busy and distract him from the trouble he’d been finding at the time. Grandma would teach him some “life skills,” and the distance from the city might help, too.
The strategy had worked. With Derrick happily financing the improvements, Easton had helped Grandma transform the property into this sanctuary. In the process, his little brother had discovered an unexpected passion for farming and “country life.”
Derrick hadn’t pushed Easton to play at NPU, but he’d been secretly thrilled when he’d chosen the local university that was also his alma mater. Easton had then opted to live at home on the farm with Grandma. And an added bonus had recently occurred with the hiring of Kellan Nichols as the Panthers’s new head coach. Kellan was a close friend and former teammate of Derrick’s.
He asked Easton, “Aren’t you working out this morning?”
Easton had racked up a truly phenomenal season, but he needed to keep it up. The next one would be critical to determining the rest of his future. Major-league rules allowed college players at four-year schools to be drafted at the completion of their junior year. His stellar performance this season was a double-edged sword. High expectations meant all eyes would be on him for the one to follow.
“Not until later. I went for a run this morning. I’m going to fry a few eggs—you want some? The girls are laying like crazy.”
“The girls” being Easton’s chickens, nine hens that he doted on.
“Sure, sounds good. How was your date last night?”
Easton had recently started seeing a fellow athlete named Hailey, a talented long-distance runner on the track team. The relationship was new, and Derrick had only met her a couple of times. He silently hoped it wasn’t serious, as he knew all too well how difficult it would be for Easton to say goodbye when he signed with a pro team. An experience that had marked the beginning of the end of his relationship with the only woman he’d ever loved.
Easton raked a hand across his jaw but not before Derrick noted the grimace. “Not great. We had an argument.”
“I thought you were home kind of early.” He’d been surprised to hear Easton come in well before midnight. “What happened?”
Inhaling and then filling his cheeks with air, Easton seemed to consider the question before slowly blowing out the breath. “Long story.”
“You can tell me while you help me with the rest of these. I want them up before Grandma hosts the gamers next week.”
Grandma had had the same tight-knit group of friends for as long as Derrick could remember. Years ago, they’d started playing board games once a week to “stay sharp.” Somewhere along the line, they’d flippantly begun calling themselves “the gamers.” The moniker had stuck even as their game playing had evolved to include other activities, such as hiking, canoeing and yoga.
“So... Has Grandma talked to you about that yet?”
“About what?”
“About their most recent, uh, games?”
“She told me they’ve been branching out. I know they’re playing something called ‘bury the hatchet’ next week, which I’ve never heard of, but she’s been wanting some shelves in here for a long time, so I thought I’d surprise her and get them ready before game day. Sharpen my skills at the same time.”
“Great idea, although I doubt they’ll be playing that here in the dining room.”
“Well, I’m sure she’ll want to show them off, anyway.” Derrick lifted another shelf. “Can you hold this for me?”
“Sure.” Easton set his coffee on the table and took up one end of the shelf. “Speaking of the gamers, you remember that cardiac episode Grace had last year?”
“Yep.” Grandma and Grace had been best friends since elementary school. “But it wasn’t serious, right? Grandma said it was just a scare.”
“That’s right, but—”
“See that mark there?” Derrick asked, pointing to a pencil line on the wall where he wanted Easton to hold the shelf. “You know how I’ve been trying to decide what to do now that my baseball career is over? I’m thinking I could hire myself out as a handyman.”
He was only half-joking. He liked the idea of building things, working with his hands. Maybe he could be a contractor, or craft custom furniture. “Flipping houses” was popular these days, too. He could totally do that. He watched all the shows about it. Home-improvement TV was his not-so-secret indulgence, and the renovation programs were his favorites.
Power drill in hand, he carefully positioned the screw. “Grandma told me I should use shorter screws, but...” Engaging the trigger, he added, “That pottery is heavy, and I—”
Pop!
Easton let out a yelp. Derrick flinched, yanking the drill upward. The lights went out. The loaded shelf came down. Glass broke, candy scattered and the geode hit the floor with a heavy thud.
“Holy cats!” Grandma called from the kitchen. Seconds later, she appeared in the doorway wearing her gardening uniform; rubber clogs, cargo pants and a faded NPU Panthers hoodie that hung almost to her knees. A pink bucket hat was pulled low over her gray curls. “You boys, okay?” she asked, her hands dripping soapy water.
“Did we have an earthquake?” Derrick asked a bit breathlessly, adrenaline shooting through his bloodstream.
“We’re fine, Grandma,” Easton said, his voice thick with laughter. “And, no, Mr. Handyman, not an earthquake. You might want to put that latest career dream on hold for now. Pretty sure your screw hit a wire and blew a fuse. You knocked the shelf off when you jerked the drill up.”
Grandma’s expression softened as she took in the scene. “I’m guessing you went ahead and opted for the longer screws?” Nodding, she answered her own question and then observed in a dry tone, “Inherited your grandfather’s carpentry skills along with his power tools.”
Easton cracked up. Grandma joined in. Derrick chuckled, too, telling himself he had to expect a few setbacks on the path to artisan craftsmanship. They were always running into trouble on those TV shows.
On the table, his phone vibrated with a text. He ignored it to clean up the mess. Another followed. He ignored that one, too, placing the geode on the table. A side benefit of retirement was the luxury of neglecting his phone. It was probably his agent, Trace, texting to remind him about the fundraising benefit he was supposed to attend that evening. He kept insisting Derrick needed to “announce his reentrance into the community.” How was he supposed to do that when he had no answers to the inevitable questions? Ones like “What does your future hold without baseball?” and “What are you going to do with yourself now that you’re retired?”
Grandma’s leg let out a chirp. She didn’t disregard her phone, though, and instead dug it out of the large side pocket of her pants. As she studied the screen, her features tightened into a worried expression that Derrick recognized all too well. In his wayward youth, he’d brought it on himself more times than he liked to recall.
“Grandma?” Easton asked. “What is it? Is everything okay?”
Easton’s phone went off next.
And then Derrick’s phone lit up again, too, this time resounding with the lively notes of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame,” his friend Kellan’s ring tone. The song, accompanied by Grandma’s question and the now-constant chirping from Easton’s phone, was officially too much to ignore.
Then Grandma looked up, her gold-brown eyes fraught with alarm as they landed on Easton. “Easton, honey, exactly where were you last night?”
