Mad About You

patted his arm. "It's very romantic, Ladden. I had no idea your Jasmine used to date the governor. No wonder she looked so familiar."
    "Not used to," Ladden corrected, keeping his voice calm. "She still does."
    Ernie whistled low. "Brass balls," he said with raw admiration. "You inherited those from me, too."
    "My, it must have cost you a bundle," his aunt said, her voice singsongy.
    "You can't imagine," Ladden muttered. His chances with Jasmine had gone from zero into the negative range.
    "Business must be better than I thought," Ernie said. "Or are you counting on a big insurance settlement?"
    He then realized in exasperation that he'd let the eccentric man who could verify his story about the earthquake slip through his fingers. "A friend of mine bought the billboards as a joke."
    "What was Jasmine's reaction?" Silvie asked.
    He ran his hand over his face. "I have no idea."
    "You haven't talked to her?"
    "Nope. Listen," he said, ushering them into the storeroom. "I know you two need to get to work. Maybe the rear entrance will be clear. And I'd appreciate it If you didn't talk to any reporters, okay?"
    "All right," his aunt agreed hesitantly, clearly feeling left out. "Will you call me later and let me know what Jasmine—" She stopped, her brow furrowing. "What an unusual rug."
    Ladden followed her finger and bit down hard on his tongue. The notorious rug lay draped over the collection of old trunks, a good ten feet from the table where he'd last seen it. "That, Aunt Silvie, is an understatement. I promise I'll call you later." He steered them out into the alley. A couple of spectators loitered even here, and a photographer stood, snapping his big truck from every angle. Shaking his head in frustration, Ladden slammed the door behind them, glared at the rug, then strode into the showroom to use the telephone. He had twenty-seven messages.
    Most of them were crank calls from relatives and friends, laughing uproariously over his stunt. He ground his teeth. Two radio stations requested live interviews, and someone from the headquarters of Trey McDonald's opponent seemed eager to speak to him. But wedged between the nonsense was a call from the rug expert who said she would stop by the next day, and a brief message from Jasmine that sent his pulse climbing. He listened to her words three times, becoming more depressed with each replay. She sounded polite, yet mortified—and why wouldn't she be? His mind spun, wondering what on earth he was going to say to her.
    Still holding the phone, Ladden sat down in a lumpy wing chair and stared into space. Never had he felt quite so out of control. Between the mysterious earthquake, the generous gift from Mrs. Pickney, the turbaned stranger, and all the hullabaloo surrounding Jasmine and the billboards, he didn't have a clue what to do next.
    A burgeoning headache he'd tried to ignore for the last hour had finally battled its way to the surface, jackhammering his temples. If he were a serious drinking man, he'd be on his way to oblivion right now. But he had the overwhelming fear that if he turned his back on his predicament even for a moment, something more bizarre might happen.
    He sighed. Perhaps the sign company was the best place to start. Maybe they would tell him who had rented the billboards. Then at least he'd have a name when he dropped by the shelter to see if the old man would sign an affidavit about the tremor. He ran down the number, and a young man's voice came on the line.
    "Capital Citywide Signs."
    "This is Ladden Sanderson. I'm trying to—"
    "Ah, Mr. Sanderson. Your money arrived this morning."
    "My money?"
    "Yes, sir. Eighteen hundred dollars for eighteen billboards for one day." The man laughed. "Kind of risky to send cash, don't you think? Do you need a receipt?"
    "N-no, thank you." Ladden chose his words carefully. "How did you know the cash was from me?"
    "The stationery envelope with your return address," the man said, his tone puzzled.
    Ladden rummaged around on his desk and withdrew one of the off-white envelopes. He frowned. The old man must have lifted one before, during, or after the earthquake. One thing was sure, if the man had sent nearly two thousand dollars in cash through the mail, he had to be certifiably insane.
    The young man broke into his reverie. "I spotted your messages on the way into the city this morning. Caused quite a traffic jam on the bypass. Caused quite an uproar around here, too. The boss is looking for the salesman who