Autumn Changes

CHAPTER ONE

Grace Harkins made small talk with her husband, Mark, as if they were accustomed to driving across the county in the wee hours before dawn every night of the week. Farmhouse lights shone amber, hazy squares in the thick morning mist. The sun would be up before they reached Cherryvale.

In the back seat, Tiffany Lane’s head wedged against the rest and her mouth gaped in an oval. Maggie Harkins, Purse Everest clutched to her chest, sat as far from Tiffany as possible without actually getting out and running alongside the car. Grace knew this was a shot the paparazzi could profit from, but their escape had worked. The highway lines dashed past as they put miles between their getaway car and Tiffany’s late night arrest.

Grace’s own eyes felt heavy as she pondered having the actress, Tiffany Lane, a friend...and now a problem, in their lives.

Ever since she’d moved in with Maggie after wrapping up The Scrapbook five months ago, there had been never a dull moment. Most recently, tonight’s mission to spring her from the police had begun just a few hours earlier when the phone woke Grace from a deep sleep.

****

Hullo?

Tiffany’s in trouble! Maggie Neville’s voice, equal measures anger and concern, shifted Grace’s heart to full-on panic. Police just called.

Hand cupping the mouthpiece, Grace turned so she wouldn’t wake Mark. Where is she now? Groping for her robe, she eased out of bed. Is she under arrest?

They took her to the station. There was a party, underage drinking. And possibly drugs. Maggie’s pitch rose. What do I do? Is this one of those tough love moments?

I’m coming over, I’ll be there in ten. She hung up and scooted into the bathroom to pull a comb through her chin-length bob. She padded back into the bedroom and lifted the comforter. Tiffany’s in trouble, Maggie needs me. The police station’s on Cooper and Vine, right? She pecked his cheek, but his hand shot out and grabbed hers.

You’re lucky being on call has conditioned me to odd hours, Gracie. He ran fingers through his brown wavy hair, releasing an unruly gray lock. I am not letting you two women go out in the middle of the night. Especially to that part of town. He yawned and sat up, flicking on the lamp. Even if one of you is a perpetual busybody and the other is the ever-fearless Maggie.

Thirty minutes later, the dusty bulb over Maggie’s kitchen sink cast a sepia tone over three to-go cups, lined up and waiting to be filled. Neighbors called police about the noise. Maggie’s hand shook as she removed the carafe, the final drops hissing onto the heat element. The cops hauled her in like she was your average citizen.

Grace held a carton of milk at an angle to check the expiration date. She’s still a citizen, even if she is a celebrity, Maggs. She tipped a splash into Mark’s cup and then too much into her own. She has to obey the same laws. Grabbing a dishtowel, she wiped up the spill, and with a fold, set it to the counter.

How did she find kids to party with so soon, anyway? Maggie handed over tops for the cups. I’ll look for my keys. She came back in, rummaging through her giant bag Grace nicknamed Purse Everest.

Kids are socially connected like never before, Maggie. And what, are you planning to interview all her new friends? Grace snapped the lids in place. She’s liable to attract all sorts of friends, and you can’t interview them all. The girl’s been on her own, and she’ll resent you trying to control her.

We never should have taken that trip to England. Maggie shoved stacks of magazines and envelopes around on her rolltop desk. Leaving her here all alone was stupid. I’ve never had a kid; I don’t know how much I’m supposed to be involved in their private life. She jabbed a flyer at Grace. How should I know if she can even make decent friends? All she knows are those leeches back in L.A. or those kids like you see on reality shows. Maggie pulled out a drawer crammed with lingerie and slammed it shut again. What if this makes the papers? People won’t bring their children to my petting farm if they think there’s a felon on the premises.

Alleged felon. Grace’s attempt to lighten the mood failed. Maggie pulled out another drawer, its contents spilling onto the floor. Grace tried again. She passed the tests, didn’t she? And she kept the livestock fed. She scooped up an armful of clothes, tossing them on the bed as she considered Maggie’s dilemma.

Connie kept the livestock fed, Maggie argued. Tiffany didn’t want to break a nail. She waggled fingers in the air.

We’d better go. I have to get to the hospital in a few hours. Mark pulled keys from his pocket. I’ll drive while you two brainstorm how to discipline a wayward movie starlet who has more money than any of us put together.

We can’t exactly ground her or take away her iPod. Grace followed him into the hallway. Can we?

Fool devices, Maggie said. Probably how she found out about the party, come to think of it.

That’s not what iPods do, Maggs. Grace wondered how the lifelong traveler and world-wise Maggie could be so clueless about technology. You’re getting things mixed up—

Maggie’s warning scowl halted her from commenting further, and she brought her cup to her mouth, but her heart softened at the telltale tremble of Maggie’s lower lip. Honey, she’s going to be all right, this is just a minor setback. It’s all in God’s hands. He knows what she needs, and in His time. You’ll see.

Maggie shrugged into a sweater too heavy for the warm night. She’s only been living here a couple months and I was already thinking of her as family. Now she does this?

We knew it wasn’t going to be an easy transition for her. And when you’re a family, you have to take the bad with the good. Now get some shoes on so we can go.

Leo, Tiffany’s teacup Yorkie, clicked across the wooden floors toward them. Grace squatted and held her hand out for him to sniff. Did we wake you up, fella?

He yawned in response.

Don’t worry, honey, we’re going to spring your mistress from the big house. She scooped him up and set him on a well-worn sofa. You keep those photogs from hiding in the bushes while we’re gone.

Her attempt at humor backfired. Maggie’s expression congealed into anger. Just when I thought the pester-azzi had lost interest in Tiffany, she stirs them up again. She wagged a finger at Grace and Leo. I’ll tell you another thing. She’s a disorganized slob. Have you seen her room? Slinging her bag over her shoulder, Maggie slid on a pair of clogs.

Grace stopped herself from commenting about the muddy shoes, literally catching her tongue between her teeth. Instead, she scooted Maggie to the door. She’s used to having people for that. With my help, we’ll teach her how to stay organized in no time. I smell a trip to the container store!

On the porch, Maggie shot her a sideways glance. Your kids never acted out. The door clicked shut behind them and they hustled down the steps into the black night.

Our kids weren’t raised with the world watching their every move and seven-figure incomes chilling in their bank accounts.

Mark waited, already behind the wheel, engine idling white smoke out the tailpipe. Sliding in next to him, Grace pulled on her seatbelt and twisted around to face Maggie. You have your checkbook? In case we misunderstood and she needs bail or something?

If there is, I’m certainly not paying it. Maggie crossed her arms across Purse Everest as tires rolled on gravel. She’s lucky I’m coming at all.

Mark focused on the two-lane road from Cherryvale to Franklin City, hands gripping the wheel, Maggie fussing non-stop. I told you this would backfire, she reminded Grace from the backseat. I just knew it.

The pocket-dog-toting, above-the-line actress, Tiffany Lane–star of The Scrapbook, which was filmed in town the past summer–fell for the small town and its promise of a total lifestyle change. But as foster Mom Maggie reminded Grace, the wild ways she’d left in Los Angeles had apparently followed her to Cherryvale.

Forty-five minutes later they pulled into the parking lot of the Franklin City police department. Grace breathed a sigh of relief when they saw it was still void of news vans or reporters.

An officer behind a glass window checked their ID’s and buzzed the door, admitting them into a dim holding area. A rack of florescent lights flickered overhead. Dense and close, metallic odors mingled with ammonia and sweat.

Tiffany huddled on a grimy wooden bench, her blonde hair stringy across mascara-smudged cheeks. She reminded Grace of a stray cat her kids brought home once. It had slithered away and hid in a corner of the utility room with much the same expression. Frightened, yet defiant. Tiffany glared up at them, and then sank her head in her hands. Mostly defiant.

Maggie plopped down next to Tiffany. Grace started to sit also, but mysterious goop puddling on the seat turned her stomach and kept her standing. Mark slipped into the gentlemen’s room.

Tiffany remained motionless, her head buried in her hands.

Maggie leaned in. Tiffany. No reaction. Hey!

The girl startled, blinked up at Maggie, Grace, then back at Maggie. What?

What do you mean ‘what’? Maggie bellowed. We drive all the way over to the police station in the middle of the night to bail you out, and all you can say is ‘what’?

Oh, crap. Tiffany squirmed and leaned away from Maggie. No lectures already.

Maggie’s body tensed for the retort and Grace made a hasty decision. She took a firm grip of Tiffany’s elbow. Come on, honey, let’s get you cleaned up. She tugged upward. Maggie, you go check on her paperwork, make sure it’s okay to leave. Where are your shoes, dear?

Exhaling heavily, Maggie hauled herself up and went over to an officer working at a computer.

Tiffany scooted a foot under the bench, producing a Styrofoam cup covered in dust and spiderwebs.

What in heaven’s name? Grace’s stomach gurgled acid into the back of her throat.

Can’t reach. Tiffany wiggled bare toes.

Grace leaned over, found a broken pencil, and hooked a strap of one red patent Jimmy Choo. Dangling it for Tiffany to grab, something greenish oozed off and plopped on the floor. The shoe clattered on the grimy tile as Grace jumped back.

Eew! Tiffany squealed.

Brother Billy’s balloons, you’re the most… Maggie hurried back over and knelt down, dragged out both three-inch stilettos, and tossed them in Tiffany’s lap, …prim and prissy…both of you.

Tiffany swatted at them as goo seeped onto her couture jeans.

We’re okay now, Maggs. Mustering bravery, Grace urged Tiffany to forget about the ick. Never mind, we’ll wash them at home. Or burn them. She found a tissue in her purse, wiped off the shoes, and helped the girl strap them on before Maggie insisted she walk out barefoot.

Tiffany Choo’d up, Grace guided her toward the women’s restroom. Mark passed them and Grace nodded toward the desk where a uniformed officer slid forms underneath a pane of safety glass. Can you help Maggie with the paperwork so we can get home before— Over Mark’s shoulder, headlights caught her attention. Oh, no. Too late. A van squealed to a stop at the curb and the doors opened, spilling out a suit-clad, microphone-wielding news reporter. I better hide her in the bathroom.

While Tiffany knocked about the narrow stall, Grace soaped her own hands—twice. Tiffany reappeared, and she hinted the girl might want to splash water on her face.

I feel sick. Tiffany leaned against the counter, rubbing her belly.

Wait in here. Do not come out until one of us comes to get you. She felt bad for the girl, even if she’d caused her own misfortune. I’ll see if there’s a ginger ale or something.

Mark was sitting on the bench thumbing through a book of mugshots while Maggie was showing her ID to the officer.

Can you get Tiffany a soft drink, honey? She’s queasy.

Mark nodded, heading for an ancient vending machine, and Grace joined Maggie at the glass window. Excuse me. She addressed the officer, polite and respectful. We’re going to need some help getting out of here. Maggie’s head popped up from the paperwork. Grace nodded toward the parking lot.

The officer shook his head. We’ve got better things to do than escort drunk teenagers home.

She’s not any old teenager. One of Maggie’s curls corkscrewed onto her forehead as she poked the pencil through the hole in the glass. You don’t know who she is?

We all know who she is. His rolling chair squeaked. She let us know all the way across town. She’s lucky we didn’t lock her up.

Grace hip-butted Maggie aside and smiled sweetly. I’m sure you don’t want the station swamped with reporters all night. You have better things to do. One news crew will attract more. Soon you’ll have a parking lot that looks like seagulls on a beach picnic.

She’s right, Maggie agreed. We need to slip out without fanfare.

Mark joined them, holding a can of lemon lime soda. What we need is a diversion.

The door swung open and they all turned to watch Tiffany. Makeup still smudged, her hair hung in knotty ropes. Her dabbing had left damp blotches all over her jeans. And that gorgeous silk blouse? Grace shuddered.

Mark popped the tab and handed it to Tiffany.

Sit down while we figure out how to get you home. Grace helped her sit.

Mark tried to take her pulse but she yanked her hand away. Leave me alone, all of you.

Even though she was famous, the girl had arrived in town a virtual stranger to them. After they’d gotten a glimpse at the real girl behind the walls she built to protect herself, they’d fallen in love with the sweet Tiffany. Kind, sensitive, and smart, she was just like any young girl her age. If you didn’t count her millions of dollars in the bank and the fact that hers was a household name.

Thinking she would be like the daughter she’d never had, Maggie stepped up to the challenge and offered her a home so Tiffany could follow her dream to attend college. Grace had offered to tutor her, and Tiffany had put her movie career on hold. What she hadn’t done was dial down her party-girl lifestyle that now threatened not only their trust in her, but also the tenuous anonymity she’d need to live in Cherryvale without completely blowing it with Maggie.

Mark gave up assessing Tiffany’s health and approached an officer passing by. Deputy, can I have a sidebar? They exchanged a few words, shook hands, and the officer disappeared out a rear door. Mark returned, rattling his keys. He said the back lot is fenced and guarded. When we leave, he’ll offer to give the media a statement, but he won’t reveal her identity. That should buy us ten minutes. He tipped his head in, Grace and Maggie did the same. Operation ‘Smuggle out Kiteflyer’—all systems, go. Flicking his jacket collar up, he ducked his head and exited through the lobby, to saunter past the reporters gathering on the sidewalk.

Maggie blinked and Grace fought a tiny smile. Now she felt like an international spy working out a plan to save the world. Tiff moaned. One celebrity orphan at a time.

Through the glass, she could see Mark nonchalantly unlock their car.

The deputy reappeared, lifted a phone from his desk, and pushed a button. Civilian pickup coming through in a… He glanced beyond them out the front window. Silver Lexus?

Head bobbing, Grace was surprised she was suddenly a jumble of nerves.

Thanks, Joe. The officer replaced the receiver and moved toward a door marked Staff Only. Pulling a ring of jangling keys from his belt, he turned toward them. Ladies?

Down a dark hall past jail cells, he held a hand up and unlocked the door. Leaning outside, he looked around and saluted Mark. Ladies? Stay out of trouble! He stood back, and they dashed down the sidewalk to the waiting car.

****

Honey, we’re nearing Maggie’s place. Mark gently poked her knee, rousing her to the present. You said to wake you up.

Grace blinked, looked out the window at the gray light of dawn, and pulled out her phone. She needed to ask Rose Perkins, the Stables’ owner and Maggie’s next-door neighbor, to check for the paparazzi before they pulled in with Tiffany. When Grace explained their imminent arrival, Rose agreed to check for news vans or other suspicious vehicles and called to her Anatolian heeler to go with her.

Grace held a hand over the mouthpiece. She’s doing a sweep of the entire area. Bucky’s helping.

We don’t see or hear anyone, Rose said. I don’t hear Scarlett and Rhett barking from Maggie’s place. If anyone was near the house, they’d be on the alert.

Thanks, Rose. We’ll fill you in later. Grace hung up and looked at the passengers. Maggie was glowering out the window again.

Grace flashed a thumbs-up in Mark’s direction. Rose and Bucky gave us the all clear. Permission granted to land with the Kiteflyer, chief!

****

Leo’s nails clicked as he trotted behind them. His nose high, he followed his mistress’ scent down the hallway as Grace and Maggie helped her to the guest room. Grace peeled off Tiffany’s soiled clothes and folded her into a threadbare but roomy t-shirt while Maggie fed her two pain pills on Mark’s advice. Grace lifted Leo to the bed, and the small dog circled and settled in the crook of Tiffany’s knees, smacked, and laid his muzzle on his paws.

Maggie trolled the floor for an armload of couture clothes. When she threw the door back, Grace lunged in time to prevent it smacking into the wall, her arm brushing a teetering stack of textbooks. Spanish 101 clapped against the wooden floor and Tiffany moaned, pulling the pillow over her face. Grace replaced the book on top of the others and clicked the door shut to follow Maggie.

They passed Mark snoring lightly, one long leg propped on the loveseat’s arm, the other loafered foot on the rag rug.

The lid to the olive green washing machine clanged open in the small utility room. Maggie stuffed the soiled designer jeans and silk halter-top into the washer with extra-strength wrath. I open my home to this girl and this is how she treats me.

I think that’s silk! Grace protested, but Maggie dumped more clothes on top of the expensive blouse.

I don’t care.

You didn’t think there would be a miraculous change. Grace scooped detergent into a cup and handed it to Maggie. You can’t expect her to change overnight. A couple months ago she was photographed for all the fan-zines partying with her pals. Or peeps. Whatever they are. And now she’s buried in flyover country facing college entrance tests.

Maggie dumped the soap and spun the dial twice before pulling out the knob on extra hot. The pipes whooshed and clattered. She’s making more work for me instead of helping, and I never dreamed she would be so…defiant.

I know, honey.

When I invited her to live with me, Maggie leaned against the machine, I never dreamed she’d thank me like this. I’m not one of her peeps… the word spat out like a raspberry seed, …as you call it, and I have too much on my mind to worry about keeping her sorry butt off magazine covers. She pushed away and her heavy footsteps shook the wood frame cottage.

Maggie safely slamming cabinet doors in the kitchen, Grace searched a jam-packed drawer for a plastic bag. Flicking the bag open, she peeked in the washer, the new-improved Ocean Breeze scent tickling her nose. She groped through the hot, sudsy water, found the blouse, wrung it gently, and dropped it into the bag.

Maggie might be angry at Tiffany now, but the shirt didn’t need to be ruined. Like their friendship, Tiffany was accustomed to being treated with kid gloves. Moving in with Maggie to try and make a go of her education after living in Hollywood all her life was going to be tough on them both. But Grace knew with the right touch, prayer, and all in God’s timing, they could work it out. Maggie, having lost Joe since moving to Cherryvale, needed a family just as much as Tiffany did. And if they didn’t see it, well, Grace knew they would eventually realize it as much as she did.

But it would take some finesse to help them work out their differences.

She tucked the warm, soggy mess under her sweater and wandered innocently past Maggie, now cleaning out the coffeepot. She perched on the arm next to Mark, unsure how long it was customary to sit with someone after a jailbreak.

Maggie joined them, sinking in the stuffed chair, flicking chips of mud as she kicked her foot in rhythm with the chugging machine.

Let’s look at the bright side. The sticky, moist plastic bag squished under Grace’s heavy sweater. Tiffany’s trying. She let me set up a tutoring schedule with her. Grace wiped a touch of sweat off her upper lip, aware of Maggie’s curious stare. Maybe we’re making too much of this. We haven’t even asked her what happened.

Making a schedule and keeping it are two different things. Maggie scowled. You having a personal summer over there?

I-I think I pulled a muscle the other day so I’m cooling my side. Grace lifted her shirttail to give Maggie a glimpse at the bag without revealing its contents. Don’t give up on her, Maggs. Making a fresh start is hard for anyone, much less a seventeen-year-old girl. Don’t you think it’ll take a while? Mark? Grace shook Mark’s floppy arm. Right, honey? Another droplet trickled down her forehead. Fine time for a hot flash. The air in the room felt humid and close.

Mark nodded, his eyes closed. Whatever you say, Mrs. Harkins.

Lemme get this guy home. If you can’t get her to talk tomorrow... Grace checked the mantle clock. Land sakes, look at the time–make that later today, maybe we can get her to meet with Pastor. And we’ll all keep praying. She hugged the bag and a trickle ran down her leg. I’ll call you later.

Maggie stared past Grace without focusing.

Do you want me to come back and help you feed?

No. Maggie sighed. Troubled you two enough. Thanks for your help. She slapped her thighs and stood up. Henry will be here soon to help. He makes a mess and I have to double- check how much he feeds, but for a guy who started out kidnapping me, he’s a decent helper. Bought himself a scooter and rides over every morning from the factory.

That’s terrific. Grace used her free hand to urge Mark to his feet. I’m glad things are working out so well. Hey, let us know what else we can do. She wrapped her arm around his waist and checked through the glass pane, but no cars or vans trolled by. Another thing, Maggs…it’s possible Tiffany misses the attention. Think about it. Just when it gets quiet, she finds a way to attract attention to herself again. As odd as it may seem to us, that’s exactly what normal feels like to her. She didn’t add what else she was thinking. That it could get a whole lot worse before it got better.

****

Grace settled the lid on her own brand new front-loading washer. It swish-swooshed Tiffany’s top through the cool water cycle on delicate. She crawled back under the covers and rolled on her side, studying the objects on her dresser. Perfumes stood in a neat row, her jewelry box angled to balance a vase of fresh flowers. Predictable. Consistent.

She pondered Tiffany’s childhood. Growing up a kid actor could not possibly be compared to any other lifestyle. Between the attention, being treated as an adult, expected to work and go to school all in the same day must have been grueling. From hearing about those parts of her life, Grace marveled that Tiffany had any sense of normalcy at all.

A schoolteacher for twenty years, Grace understood the pressures to make good grades stressed out the most grounded kids. Add the expectation to perform in front of a camera, mix in flying around the world in chartered jets for appearances and location work, and then multiply that by seeing yourself on magazine covers. Formula for a demanding, self-centered diva with a tough exterior. Underneath it all, Grace sensed Tiffany wanted to be accepted and loved for who she was, warts and all. Just like any normal kid.

She gave up and got out of bed, padded into the bathroom, closed the door, and twisted the tub faucets. Water rushed through the pipes and she tipped a handful of bath salts under the stream as it grew warmer, dropped her nightie, and stepped into the claw-footed tub. A long hot soak to wash off the last twelve hours was just the thing.

She scooted down in the water until it covered her shoulders, her head against a bath pillow. Praying for wisdom how to reach Tiffany, her thoughts wandered to the deputy’s comments.

I’d begin looking for community service opportunities for her, he’d advised. That’s the most likely outcome in cases like this.

Community service.

The sun peeking over the bathroom’s half curtain, Grace’s shoulders warmed and her brain slowly activated. A terry robe wrapped around her dripping self, she trotted across the house.

In the small study off the kitchen, she entered a string of search words into her computer, cut and pasted a document of information together, and while the printer churned out the results, congratulated herself for a most brilliant idea.

Operation Save Tiffany Lane would commence immediately.

CHAPTER TWO

Maggie tipped her head back, watching Henry Weston count methodically. Hand raised, he tapped his pointer finger against the others, jotted a number on a notepad, and showed it to her.

That’s right. She nodded, proud of his answer. Once a week I want you to count all the feedbags just like that. And then I’ll know if we need to order more. She waited for that flicker of understanding. Each species has its own column, see?

Where are the sheep? The gentle giant scratched his head. I don’t see no sheep.

They’re living temporarily over at the stables. Remember?

I forgot.

The way his face reddened, she knew he realized it was his fault they were farmed out. We’ll move them back as soon as all the utilities are working again in the main barn.

Nodding, he slid the pencil into a loop. What days do you want me to count them bags?

How about the first and third Monday of the month? His gaze slide past her. I’ll write it on the jobs board. First thing when you get here, you read what I’ve put under your name for the day.

Henry’s chin stubble sprouted like cactus spines from his grin. That’s a good idea, Maggie. You’re full of good ideas.

They crossed the yard from the feed barn to the rebuilt, much improved administration building. Tangy fresh-cut pine and the aroma of coffee brewing mingled in the morning air.

They stopped before a gridded whiteboard with columns labeled Daily and Weekly. Under them, Maggie had listed chores for herself, Henry Weston, and part-timer, Connie Field. Another column was titled Volunteer assignments. Since her farm had nonprofit status, she would have to rely on Cherryvalers and high schoolers needing service hours to volunteer for her.

Henry, look under your name. Maggie stepped aside so he could scan the board. What jobs have I given you today?

He worked his jaw in concentration, tracking back and