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Dallas Jean looked longingly towards the kitchen, towards the sounds of clinking plates and glasses.  “Honey, can this wait?  I’m about to have some pie…”

Grayson gaped at her.  “Honey, don’t take this the wrong way, but you had five pieces at the event earlier.  And a whole bunch of those bookworm cookies.”

“What’s your point?” Dallas Jean snarled, throwing down her fork and rearing up.  Her chair flew backwards, slamming against the floor.  “God help you if you’re implying anything about my figure not needing another piece of pie.”

Grayson wisely said nothing, retreating out the front door.  Smoothing a snarl from her lips, Dallas Jean gave one wistful look towards the kitchen.  “Adelaide, will you save my pie for me?”

“I won’t let anyone so much as breathe on it,” Adelaide assured, her lips twitching.  She watched as Dallas stomped out the front door, then turned her attention to Miss Maisie coming through the kitchen door with a tray of pie slices and mason jars of milk.  “Miss Maisie?  Ever had your palm read?  I’m a psychic you know.”

Letting the front door of the pie shop slam behind her, Dallas Jean stomped onto the porch and glared at her husband.  “What?”

“I’m glad to see you.”  Her husband smiled and held out his hands.

“What do you want, Grayson?”  Dallas Jean folded her arms and raised an eyebrow.  “You got that slick look on your face.  That may work with everyone else, but not me.  What’s wrong?”

Grayson sighed.   Rubbing his temples, he sat down on the white porch swing and leaned back.  Rocking back and forth, he exhaled through a long stream through his teeth.   “Can I talk to you?  As a wife, not a competing candidate?”

Dallas Jean’s face would have made a baby look guilty.  Lowering herself next to her husband, she rubbed his back.  “You know you can, honey.”

Grayson pursed his lips, staring straight ahead.  “I’m not sure if I should stay in the race.  There’s some things I’m concerned about.”  Dallas Jean waited, her hand moving up and down his back in a smooth stroke as he took a deep breath.  “I think Norman might be up to something.”

“Duh.”  Dallas Jean rolled her eyes.

“And I think he’s been feeding Clementine Jane propaganda,” he continued, ignoring her outburst.  “Dallas, I know we’ve got our little wager and everything, but I’m worried.  I don’t want to rip our family apart over this.”  As Dallas Jean sputtered, he shook his head.  “And we’ve got to do something about Clementine Jane.  She’s sneaking around in the night, running around talking to sketchy people…I don’t trust that boss of hers.  I think he’s filling her head with terrible ideas about what the press is really like.”  He took Dallas Jean’s hand, his thumb stroking over hers.  “Maybe we should drop out.”

Dallas Jean chewed on her lower lip, shaking her head.  “I don’t think that’s a solution, Grayson.  Neither one of us would be happy.  You really want to be mayor, don’t you?”

Grayson lifted his feet off the ground, watching as they swung over the weathered porch boards.  “I don’t even know anymore.  I thought I could do some good, but maybe I’m naive.  You’re better at all this than I am.  Heck, you took over my event today and won over everyone in your camp!  And those ladies hated you!”  He shook his head.  “Norman was right.  I don’t know anything.”

Dallas Jean squeezed his hand.  “Honey, I’m sorry.  I was trying to annoy Norman more than anything.  I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“You didn’t.”  Grayson smiled, his eyes crinkling.  “I thought you were so cute, so smart.  I was proud of you.”  His face drooped, his lips turning down.  “But none of it matters if our daughter drags us through the press with her pen and our son slips away.  And if we wind up fighting each other.”

“It’s not a fight.  It’s a healthy competition.”  Dallas Jean’s eyes sparkled as she leaned towards her husband.  “Of course, you could always give me the money now for Europe.  I could book the plane tickets tonight.”

“And you could always be a sweet, docile, mayor’s wife.”  Grayson laughed as Dallas Jean recoiled, a disgusted look on her face.  “But what about Clementine Jane?  And what about Norman?  Can I trust him?”

Dallas Jean rose, extending her hand.  “That’s a question that can only be answered over pie.”

***

Across town, Norman paced in his office.  The press event had been a disaster.  Nothing had gone as he had planned.

“Curse Dallas Jean,” he muttered, stabbing his feet into the well-worn boards.  “I should have known she would have messed up my plans…How am I going to win this race if she keeps popping up everywhere?”  He picked up a pencil and snapped it in half, digging the sharpened ends into his palms as he crumpled the pieces.  “The press loves her,” he fumed, dropping the pieces into a wastebasket.  The clanging metallic clatter was not soothing to his nerves.

“The people love her.  The animals love her.  The children love her.  Even her daughter, who I thought was a true journalist, loves her…”  He snarled.  “And so far, my conversations with her have not been as successful as I hoped.  The bunny is not hopping into the box, no matter how many carrots I lay out.”  He slammed his fist into the desk, falling into his chair.

Suddenly, he raised his head.  His eyes lit up.  “Maybe the bunny isn’t hopping into the box because it doesn’t like carrots,” he mused, tapping his fingers against the desk.  “Maybe I need something tastier.”  Chuckling, he picked up the phone and punched in a number.  “Much tastier.”  Holding the receiver to his ear, he smiled when he heard the voice he wanted answer.   “It’s Norman.  I’m calling in your old debt.”  The voice spoke again, and Norman nodded.  “This time, it’s serious.”

***

Taking a deep breath, Clementine Jane strolled into the bank building.  She hurried up to the front teller and held up the worn brass key.   “Can you open security deposit box 2345 for me?”

The woman gave her a curious look, but nodded.  “Step behind the blue door on the right, please.”  Clementine Jane did as she asked, hiding her trembling palms in her pocket.  Leading her down the hallway, the woman raised her eyebrows.  “2345 is one of our oldest boxes.  How did you get it?”

Clementine Jane’s mouth was dry as she tried to answer.  “It’s my grandfather’s.”

Nodding in satisfaction, the woman lead her to a small metallic box.  2345.  “Please don’t remove any items without filling out this form,” she informed her, pointing to a stack of papers.  “And call when you’re done so a bank official can check you out.” Her heels clicking efficiently, the woman left, shutting the door behind her with a decisive metal click.

Clementine Jane took a deep breath.  Raising her quaking hand, she inserted the key in the lock.

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  We have some whimsical fun tomorrow and next week, more stories and delicious tasty things!  Stay tuned!

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