Mad About You

cannot swim and fell into a pool by accident. It is not known if alcohol was a factor, but the story took an ironic twist when it was discovered that the man who pulled her from the water and resuscitated her is Ladden Sanderson, the same gentleman who only yesterday was linked romantically to Ms. Crowne by a bizarre message on several billboards on the bypass." The woman's mouth quirked. "Political analysts say this is yet another blow to Governor McDonald's image, and does not bode well for the upcoming election."
    Cursing, Ladden turned off the television, then padded downstairs for his morning ritual of breakfast and paper on the porch. He hadn't slept well. He couldn't stop thinking about Jasmine... their dance, their kisses, the warmth of her body next to his... and the incredible terror he felt when he pulled her from the pool. God, how he'd wanted to be with her last night, just to watch over her.
    The only good news, he decided when he opened the paper, was he didn't have a customized headline. The bad news was the featured photograph showed him reviving Jasmine, which to the casual reader looked as if they were locked in an intimate embrace.
    Both Mrs. Matthews and Mrs. Hanover traipsed over to try and squeeze any tidbit of gossip they could out of him, but he managed to gloss over the details and dismiss the media's assertion that Governor McDonald's campaign had stumbled because of his "friendship" with Jasmine.
    He was glad to be reopening the store today, he decided as he pulled his truck into the alley. Customers would help keep his mind off Jasmine. The rug expert would be stopping by, he remembered, and he needed to start making plans for his new store space.
    It came as no surprise to him that the rug was once again spread over the table he'd been holding for Jasmine. He saluted as he walked by, closed the door connecting the storeroom and showroom, then picked up the phone and arranged for another antiques dealer to deliver the table to the governor's mansion. The last thing he needed was another run-in with McDonald, especially after Duncan's none-too-subtle threats last night.
    The morning passed quickly. Business was brisk, with new customers who were curious and old customers who stopped by for coffee and gossip. And he had a barrage of phone calls from family and friends who wanted just the gossip, hold the coffee. He had managed to put the other strange incidents of the last few days out of his mind until the bell rang and Marie Davies walked in with a smile and her magnifying glass to inspect the rug.
    Ladden stepped from behind the counter, feeling suddenly nervous about letting someone else examine the carpet. "Hello, Ms. Davies."
    "Hello, Ladden." She peered over her half-glasses. "You're quite the celebrity, I hear."
    "Don't believe everything you read."
    "I've worked with Ms. Crowne on several occasions—a lovely woman, I'm so glad she's all right."
    "So am I. In fact, Ms. Crowne is the designer who wants to buy the rug."
    "For an account of hers?"
    "Something like that."
    "From your description of the carpet over the phone, I must admit, I'm very intrigued. Do you have any documentation?"
    "No, but there was a small oil lamp in the same lot and it had these markings on it. I don’t know if it might help to date the rug." He handed her the symbols he’d written down.
    She squinted at the markings. "There’s no date or numbering here. The only word I can make out is 'magic.'"
    Magic? He tucked his tongue into his cheek and reached for the paper. "My mistake—the lamp must be a toy. Give me a moment to retrieve the carpet. I, um, have trouble keeping up with it." He backed away with a smile and opened the door to the storeroom tentatively, his heart sinking when he saw the rug had once again scampered away. But this time he couldn't find it. He peered behind and under every piece of furniture, and after twenty minutes, he was ready to concede defeat.
    "Is there a problem?" Ms. Davies poked her head through the doorway.
    He shrugged sheepishly. "I can't find the carpet. I've been moving things around so much lately, I must have misplaced it."
    "By chance, is that the rug?" Ms. Davies asked, her head tilted back.
    Ladden followed her gaze and nearly swallowed his tongue. Indeed the rug was hugging the ceiling, a good thirty feet above their heads—and he had absolutely no idea how to retrieve it.
    "Um, n-no, that's not it," he lied. He tucked the note on which he'd scribbled the