She sat back down at her table with her notepad poised. She had her paper and her favorite pen. She was ready to write.
All that she lacked was the inspiration. She dropped her pen to the table and perched her chin on her hand.
As she did so, her fingers brushed her cheek. Perhaps the duke ought to brush Wanda’s cheek with his fingers. It had made Lois feel special when Clark had done that. Certainly Wanda would feel the same way. Better yet, maybe she should end the flashback and bring Wanda back together with Kent. It would be fabulous if Kent were to touch Wanda that way.
It was funny where inspiration came from. Who would have known that an unsophisticated guy like Clark would provide fodder for a romance novel? But who cared? The important thing was that she was writing again.
Kansas proved to be surprisingly pretty. It was a lot of grass and trees and such, but altogether it wasn’t as boring as she had expected it would be.
She had been traveling all day, but despite the fact that she had been sitting around doing nothing she hadn’t gotten any writing done. It didn’t seem right to channel lusty Wanda with uptight Clark sitting at her elbow. Besides, her novel was her business.
Since it was his stomping grounds, Lois had let Clark drive from the airport back to the farm.
She futzed around with a map while he chatted away about something only he cared about. “You’re in for a real treat,” he informed her with an easy grin.
“Is it chocolate?” she teased him.
She glanced at the map. There was a town named Burlington, but wasn’t Burlington in Iowa? Another town was named Ottawa; everyone knew that was in Canada.
“Even better. You’re arriving in Smallville just in time for the harvest festival.”
“I thought harvest would be over by now,” she mused to herself, not expecting an answer.
On the map, she randomly located another town. Quincy was “The City of Presidents” in Massachusetts. It was just a farm town in Kansas.
“A common misconception among ‘city folk’. Did you know that the granny smith apple doesn’t ripen until early November?”
“I did not know that.” She feigned interest.
A Buffalo, Kansas reminded her of Buffalo, New Troy. Heck, there was even a Manhattan, just like the business section of Metropolis. Wasn’t there *anything* original in Kansas?
She glanced at her partner. She had to admit that he was certainly one of a kind.
“It’s true. You can be picking granny smiths off the tree with snow on the ground.”
“Not me. I pick my apples from the produce section at the Supercostmart.”
“That’s second best, but I suppose you can’t teach an old goat new tricks.” He smirked, apparently quite happy with his slight. “You’ll find much fresher at the Harvest Moon Festival.”
“So what can I expect from a harvest festival? Ritual crop worship? Dancing and chanting to the goddess of rain?”
“If you’re not careful I’ll introduce you to the god of manure,” he warned with mock severity.
“I’m sure you’re on a first name basis.”
He clamped his mouth shut, before changing the subject. Obviously he bowed to her superior wit.
“There’s the bakeoff, pie walk, pumpkin carving, bobbing for apples, the apple peeling competition…”
“I might be good at that,” she mused. “I’m pretty fast with a knife.”
“Prizes are awarded to the one who can get the longest continuous peel.”
“Oh.”
“But if you’re fast you might want to enter the husk-off.”
“I thought corn was a summer vegetable.”
“They combine it up until the end of October.”
“You certainly are a fountain of unimportant knowledge,” she quipped.
A hurt look crossed his features for just a moment, but then quickly disappeared. “We’ll probably miss the parade and the judging for the scarecrow contest, but people leave their decorations up for a long time.” He grinned viciously. “You might enjoy the pie eating competition.”
“I bet there’s not a cross-training gym for miles around. No thanks.”
“If you’re concerned, you can always borrow Mom’s weight set and treadmill. She never uses it this time of year--not until after the first frost. Of course, you probably won’t need the exercise. There will be plenty of walking around during the investigation and any other calories you need to burn you can dance off at the Harvest Hoedown.”
“I’m not sure about a hoedown, but I can line dance.”
He swiveled to look at her clearly, forgetting that rule about keeping both eyes on the road. “You line dance?”
“Of course, I line dance.” She confirmed, before reluctantly confessing the whole truth. “It was supposed to be this great way to meet guys.”
He grinned as he returned to more attentive driving. “Did it work?”
“Define guys,” she enigmatically admitted.
As a reporter he was very good at reading between the lines. He laughed wholeheartedly. Her smile grew into an accompanying chuckle.
“You’ll love the Harvest Hoedown then. There will be plenty of line dancing. And you’ll love the coronation.”
She eyed him warily. “Oh yeah?”
“They’ll be crowning the Mum Marm.”
Her eyebrows shot up against her will. “Like a schoolmarm?”
“Mm hmm. You know mums are harvested in autumn, too.”
“Yeah, I know that,” she lied, “but… but… but that sounds so stupid.”
“Are you knocking small town life? That’s so typical of you.”
“I’m not knocking your town. I’m knocking the author who came up with the title Mum Marm.”
“Oh? What would you have called her?”
“Oh, I don’t know. The whole idea of crowning someone queen just because there’s a dance seems a little insipid. So, if you’re done telling me about this treat of a festival, then fill me in on the investigation. There is an investigation; isn’t there?”
“Of course, there is. I wasn’t done telling you about the festival, but I suppose we could do work before play.”
Lois’ mind wandered while Clark wagged on about some neighbor and an investigation that didn’t make sense. As far as she was concerned, the only reason they were here was because of some emotion that flitted by Clark, worrying him that something or other was hinky. It still seemed rather small-town and boring to her. I-just-know-the-guy-is-innocent didn’t make for good copy.
She took a mental vacation for the rest of the journey, allowing her mind to wander down to the docks while her partner prattled on.
~*~
Smallville was just what she’d expected. What was it they called places like this? A one-horse town.
Clark wouldn’t drive to the local motel because he said that there was a rodeo that would be coming into town one hundred miles away in another three days. Apparently rodeos were such a big deal that people arrived early and commuted a long way. Lois planned to call the motel when Clark wasn’t paying that close of attention just to ensure that a spare room wasn’t available.
He did stop at the farmhouse to drop off luggage. Since he was local he tried calling Mr. Irig, the man who had started all this nonsense. He wasn’t surprised that nobody answered, saying that instead he expected to just run into him at the festival.
“Typical,” Lois muttered under her breath. She was surprised when Clark turned to face her, unaware that his hearing was that acute. “We’ve come all this way for nothing.”
“No, we haven’t,” he reassured her. “We’ll get our story.”
“If a story is there,” she countered, not at all convinced. She paused at the farmhouse door waiting for Clark to lock up behind him but he simply bounded through the door without stopping. She figured that the door locked automatically.
Clark paused on the way to the car, tilting his head to the side quizzically. She knew that look on his face.
“What’s the matter? Did you suddenly remember you needed to return a library book? You better hop on a plane and get right on it. I know how quickly all of those quarter fines add up.”
Clark shook his head, resuming his original path to the car. “It’s nothing. Maybe we should check out the Irig farm while everyone is in town for the festival.”
“You think the EPA will go into town to celebrate the harvest?” she smirked climbing into the passenger side of the rental car.
“No, but that just means there will be fewer witnesses when you decide to break in.”
“You got that right,” she agreed, slamming the door shut for emphasis.
~*~
The trip to the farmhouse was not surprisingly a bust. The only thing that they learned was that the government official who worked there was way too competent for her pay grade. She was probably a plant—either that or the feminists had a point and overqualified women were being held back for no apparent reason.
Lois begrudgingly confessed to herself that her hillbilly partner just might possess an ounce or two of reporter’s instinct--not that she would ever admit it out loud. If only his gut feeling hadn’t led them into the middle of an empty field.
It was nearing dinner time when they rolled into town. Clark was convinced that if they wandered through the crowds enough they could chitchat their way into knowing the full story. She had no doubt that the gossip mill was alive and well in Tiny Town, but she wasn’t so sure it was accurate. Since she was also sure that Bobby Bigmouth wouldn’t have the full scoop, she decided to tag along.
Clark mingled, catching up with every last red neck. Since everyone wanted to know why their favorite son was back in town, he naturally segued into the story on a regular basis, asking questions along the way. She hobbled along behind him, wishing she hadn’t worn pumps and a business suit to cowland.
Finally she gave up, finding a picnic table to slump into to take a load off of her aching feet. More than anything she wanted to be back at the office, typing her novel.
She wondered what Wanda would do in Smallville, Kansas. The idea of Wanda Detroit putting down a few bucks on Cow Chip Bingo was laughable.
She just hoped that when the opportunity finally came to write something that the environment wouldn’t poison her writing too bad. Where in the world was she going to find inspiration for a romance novel when she was stuck in the middle of nowhere with Clark?
~*~
There were so many stars twinkling that night as Lois sat on the porch swing, notebook and pen tucked under her arm. She closed her eyes, trying to bring the sounds of waves under the wharf and the smell of old fish back to her mind. Unfortunately that was hard to do with Clark and Jonathon chitchatting in the kitchen with the fragrance of leftover pie lingering in the country air.
She tucked a foot under her lap. She was happy she had made the decision to purchase a new pair of shoes and a couple of dresses down at the fair. For one thing, while she was perusing the racks she had found a pair of flannel pajamas that looked very comfortable. Flannel wasn’t her normal fare, but of course that didn’t matter once she realized that she had neglected to pack any pajamas at all.
Usually she was such an organized person, but the burden of living a dual life (Lois Lane by day/Wanda Detroit by night) had left her scatterbrained.
“Do you mind if I join you?” a pleasant voice interrupted. Clark’s mom took a seat on a wooden bench on the other side of the porch.
Lois smiled wanly. The lady was nice enough, even though her guest had managed to unintentionally insult her every time they met. It was all Wanda’s fault. Wanda left Lois befuddled, and writing left her short of sleep.
There was a blue light as her hostess opened a laptop, plugging it into an outlet next to the kitchen door. “I hope I’m not being rude,” she explained, “but November is National Novel Writer’s Month. I try to get a few paragraphs written every time I have a few minutes to myself.”
Lois nodded mutely. Now was the perfect opportunity to make her own confession and pull out her notebook.
But her novel was extremely personal. It was kind of like an ugly baby. You didn’t share them until they had grown into their full potential. On the other hand, it was her ugly baby and she loved it dearly.
It wasn’t that she didn’t trust this fellow novelist. However, Clark was sitting just a few feet on the other side of that door. Even if they spoke quietly, he still might overhear. She just didn’t want her private thoughts to be fodder for watercooler gossip.
“What’s it about?” Lois asked, mentally cursing herself for being such a chicken.
“It’s about a young country girl who falls in love with an avant-garde artist during Woodstock in 1969.”
“Is it based on your life story?” Lois wondered, wishing she had the courage to share her own plotline.
Mrs. Kent laughed. “Heavens, no. First off, I’m a city girl who happened to fall in love with a country boy. Secondly, Jonathan and I celebrated our eighth anniversary in 1969. Even if we had met later, he’s not exactly the Woodstock type. I would have fit right in, but Jonathan would have looked awfully silly wearing overalls and a flannel shirt in Bethel, New York.”
Lois smiled. “I’ll let you get to your writing.” She waited until Mrs. Kent’s was engrossed in her laptop before she pulled her own pad of paper out.
She was bound and determined to get something on paper, even if it needed severe editing next month. She scribbled on her page. “I’m writing. I’m writing. I’m writing. I’m writing about Kent. Wanda is devoted to Kent, even if he doesn’t give her the time of day.”
She glanced at what she had written. It wasn’t in character. It wasn’t something she would keep. However, there was a lot to be said for getting ink flowing across the page.
She tried writing more freely. “There was nothing like playing Metropolis. Singing at Chumley’s wasn’t the same as headlining in Vegas, but it paid the bills. The smoke-filled air was murder on the chords…”
Lois jumped as the kitchen door swung open, guarding her notebook from view.
“We’re writing out here,” Mrs. Kent complained good-naturedly.
“I won’t interrupt,” her son promised. He extended a hand to Lois. “Feel like walking off some of that dessert?”
She hesitated for a moment. The Lois Lane of October wouldn’t have paused a beat; her health was vital to her. But novelist Lois had finally eked a few words out and didn’t want to be disturbed.
“Why don’t you let the women enjoy each other’s company,” Mr. Kent suggested as he swung open the kitchen door. “I was hoping you’d help me out in the barn, Son.”
“Sure, Dad.” Clark looked at Lois reluctantly before following his father across the yard.
~*~
The ink was really flowing when the call came from the barn.
“Martha? Martha!”
“I’d better go see what that’s all about,” Mrs. Kent said as she excused herself.
Lois nodded, stifling a yawn. She was far short of the 1600 words she had hoped to write today, but that was the last interruption she could stomach. Besides, she was exhausted after the long flight and her mind was still in a later time zone even though her body was here.
She mounted the stairs and slipped into her new flannel pajamas. They felt strange, despite the fact that they fit the environment she had found herself in. She brushed her teeth on auto pilot, before slipping beneath the cotton sheets.
She was dozing almost as soon as her eyes closed.
~*~
Lois bolted awake, unsure of what had troubled her. She glanced out the window. It was still dark. A series of eyes peered back at her from beneath the tree. Is that what opossums looked like? Didn’t they hang upside-down by the family load?
The clock said that only a couple of hours had past.
There was a strange noise coming from downstairs. It was probably just the fax machine. It was still early in Metropolis, and Jimmy had promised her he’d send her some information on federal cleanup sites as soon as it became available.
She reached for her robe, only to remember that she had neglected to pack one. Oh, well. It wasn’t like flannel was very revealing.
She padded down the stairs, trying not to disturb the farmer and his wife. She might be a city girl, but even she knew that farmers went to bed extremely early, rising before the sun did.
She pulled a page off of the fax machine and headed into the kitchen to read it. There was a light on in the kitchen, so apparently Clark was still up. She tugged the top of her nightshirt closed for modesty’s sake before making her way to the table.
“Clark, look at th-”
She rounded the corner to find both Mr. and Mrs. Kent huddled around Clark. Her partner’s eyes were mere slits. His face was flushed.
“What’s going on?”
“Clark’s allergies are acting up,” Mrs. Kent explained.
“You look horrible.” The words slipped out before Lois had the chance to consider how rude that sounded.
“The pollen count goes through the roof in November,” Mrs. Kent muttered.
Mr. Kent added, “Welcome to the country.”
“I just got this fax from Jimmy, but it’ll wait until morning.” She set it on the table next to what appeared to be a broken thermometer.
There was something strange going on here. Small towns were always odd places, full of eccentric people with secrets and other oddities. Somehow she expected Clark’s family to be above all that.
