Looking for Peyton Place

Chapter 1 I approached Middle River at midnight--pure cowardice on my part. Had I chosen to, I might have left Washington at seven in the morning and reached town in time to cruise down Oak Street in broad daylight. But then I would have been seen. My little BMW convertible, bought used but adored, would have stood out among the pickups and vans, and my D.C. plates would have clinched it. Middle River had expected me back in June for the funeral, but it wasn't expecting me now. For that reason, my face alone would have drawn stares.But I wasn't in the mood to be stared at, much less to be the night's gossip. As confident as my Washington self was, that confidence had gradually slipped as I had driven north. I drank Evian; I nibbled a grilled salmon wrap from Sutton Place and snacked on milk chocolate Toblerone. I rolled my white jeans into capris, raised the collar of my imported knit shirt, caught my hair up in a careless twist held by bamboo sticks--anything to play up sophistication, to no avail. By the time I reached Middle River, I was feeling like the dorky misfit I had been when I left town fifteen years before.Focus, I told myself for the umpteenth time since leaving Washington. You're not dorky anymore. You've found your niche. You're a successful woman, a talented writer. Critics say it; the reading public says it. The opinion of Middle River doesn't matter. You're here for one reason, and one reason alone.Indeed, I was. All I had to do was to remember that Mom wouldn't be at the house when I arrived, and my anger was stoked. I wrapped myself in that anger and in the warm night air when, in an act of defiance just south of town, I lowered the convertible top. When Middle River came into view, I was able to see every sleepy inch.To the naive eye, especially under a clear moon, the setting was quaint. In Peyton Place, the main street was Elm. In ours, it was Oak. Running through the center of town, it was wide enough to allow for sidewalks, trees, and diagonal parking. Shops on either side were softly lit for the night in a way that gave a brief inner glimpse of the purpose of each: a lineup of lawn mowers in Farnum Hardware, shelves of magazines in News 'n Chews, vitamin displays at The Apothecary. Around the corner was the local pub, the Sheep Pen, dark except for the frothy stein that hung high outside.On my left as I crossed the intersection of Oak and Pine, a barbershop pole marked the corner where Jimmy Sacco had cut hair for years before passing his scissors to Jimmy the younger. The pole gleamed in my headlights, tossing an aura of light across the benches on either side of the corner. In good weather those benches were filled, every bit as much the site of gossip-mongering as the nail shop over on Willow. At night they were empty.Or usually so. Something moved on one of them now, small and low to the seat, and I was instantly taken back. Barnaby? Could it be? He had been just a kitten when I left town. Cats often lived longer than fifteen years.Unable to resist, I pulled over to the curb and shifted into park. Leaving my door open, I went up the single step and, with care now, across the boardwalk to the bench. I used to love Barnaby. More to the point, Barnaby used to love me.But this wasn't Barnaby. Up close, I could see that. This cat, sitting up now, was a tabby. It was orange, not gray, and more fuzzy than Barnaby had been. A child of Barnaby's? Possibly. The old coot had sired a slew of babies over the years. My mother, who knew of my fondness for Barnaby, had kept me apprised.Soothed by the faint whiff of hair tonic that clung to the clapboards behind the bench, I extended a hand to the new guard. The cat sniffed it front and back, then pushed its head against my thumb. Smiling, I scratched its ears until, with a put-put-putter, it began to purr. There is nothing like a cat's purr. I had missed this.I was straighteninDelinsky, Barbara is the author of 'Looking for Peyton Place' with ISBN 9780743246446 and ISBN 0743246446.