The Weaver

by Heather Kindt

  “Hi, everyone.” She smirked at Jason. It seemed like the focus of the squad now shifted to Jennifer to see what she would do.

  She smiled. “Laney, Jason told us all about you. I’m his girlfriend, Jennifer. Come sit down with us.” She pulled out the chair on the other side of her.

  Laney sat down reluctantly. Her hands increased their shaking, so she quickly put down her tray and used the table for support. The mood changed from stiff and hesitant to easy-going and relaxed. The strange shift revolved around Jennifer.

  “Hi, Laney.” The boy across from her leaned forward to shake her hand. “I’m Shawn.” He stood a good four inches taller than Jason, with broad shoulders and blonde hair. “Jason told us how you knocked out that guy in the subway with an uppercut. Way cool.”

  “Then I’m sure that Jason told you how he rescued me from certain death.” Laney picked at her pizza crust.

  “Yeah, yeah, but we expect that kind of superhero stuff from him. You should see him on the lacrosse field.” Shawn reached across the table and punched Jason’s arm. “Last week during our practice game, Jason and Nick scored eight of the ten goals.”

  “I’m Nick, by the way.” The boy next to Shawn had short, dark hair and a slighter build than the other two. He wore glasses and seemed more reserved than Shawn, possibly a fellow introvert.

  “Hi.” Laney stared back down at her pizza, but shot one more look at Nick.

  Nick smiled and went back to eating his dinner. She secretly wished she could blend into the wall with him.

  Laney faced Jennifer, her biggest fear at the table. Her presence alone intimidated her; not only because of her beauty, but by the way she held herself. Her long auburn hair flowed past her shoulders over clothing that revealed her gorgeous body. She looked like she had just stepped off the page of a trendy clothing catalog. Laney glanced down at her old blue t-shirt and felt extremely underdressed next to her.

  “So, Jason says you’re a writer.” Jennifer ran her fingers through her long hair, pushing it off her shoulder. “I don’t know if he told you, but I’m an English major.”

  “No, he didn’t tell me.” Laney continued to pick at her slice of pizza. There was little that she did know about Jennifer. Jason didn’t bring her up much when they were together.

  Jason’s head shot up from his burger. “I wanted to let you tell her. I thought the two of you could bond or something.” He squeezed Jennifer’s arm.

  Laney smiled to herself as she thought of a bonding experience with Jennifer the model. She’d probably try to give her a makeover.

  “Do you write?” Laney tried to keep the conversation going and off the topic of her friendship with Jason.

  “I’ve written a few things, but nothing I’m excited about.”

  “I don’t know how you girls do it.” Shawn leaned back in his chair. “Writing’s boring. I have to write a ten-page paper for my Lit class by Monday. I’ve got twenty bucks if either of you want to write it.”

  “You’re not going to take either of my girls from me.” Jason lifted a straw to his mouth and shot the wrapper across the table at Shawn.

  Laney bit her lip and stared at Jennifer, but the auburn goddess looked bored as she nibbled her salad. The other girl at the table, who she assumed was Jennifer’s friend, shot Laney a nasty look. Her comfort level fell back to the ground floor.

  “I’d better get going.” Laney picked up her tray with her uneaten dinner, scanning the room for the quickest escape.

  “Don’t leave already.” Jason protested. “We’re going to hang out downstairs after dinner.” His pout made him hard to resist, but she knew she only had one choice.

  “Maybe another time. Nice to meet all of you.”

  “Let me know if you change your mind about my paper,” Shawn shouted after her.

  She rounded the corner and pushed through the front door. The fresh air filled her lungs as she hurried out of the dining hall. Tears began to fall as memories of high school filled her head. The hope that college might be different diminished in the ten minutes Laney spent with Jason’s friends.

  Chapter 6

  Jason made the trek from the locker room to the lacrosse field ahead of his teammates. The makeshift field was outlined in the middle of the main quad, surrounded by three dorms and the library. He arrived early to get some extra shots on the goal before the game started. After what happened last Friday with Laney and Jennifer, he didn’t expect Laney to show up for the game. Of course, Jen would be there, and that would make Laney feel like a piece of dirt. Jason knew he had to break it off with his girlfriend to even have a glimmer of a chance with Laney, but it scared him. His relationship with Jen was safe. He knew what to expect because it was all he ever expected from any relationship he had in high school. Laney frightened him.

  Jen showed up with her entourage a few minutes before the game. She had made a sign with giant red letters and glitter that said:

  Jason Harrison

  #24

  He’s red hot and all mine!

  Jason rolled his eyes and pulled his helmet on, ready for his next opponent. Glancing up at Laney’s dorm, he saw her watching from the window. He felt more energized knowing she was there, even behind a curtain. Maybe she didn’t want Jen to know she was watching.

  The night before, Jason encouraged Will to come out to the game. He worried about his roommate’s social life. It seemed he was always in the dorm room or the library studying. It wasn’t like Will wasn’t a good-looking guy. Jen already wanted to go on a double-date because her friend Nicki salivated over him like he was a piece of meat. When Jason brought it up, Will just said he wasn’t interested.

  “I belong to someone else.” His eyes never left the book he was reading.

  “You belong to someone else?” Jason repeated. Was this guy for real? “It sounds like someone’s got you whipped. Like a high school long-distance relationship?”

  “Something like that.” Will’s eyes drifted from his book to Jason. They held an intensity Jason had not seen before from his roommate. “There will never be anyone else for me.”

  Jason laughed. “That’s a little extreme, don’t you think? I mean there are tons of girls out there. How can you be so sure?”

  “When you know, you know.” Will gazed off into some nonexistent place on the wall. “When you meet the right girl, which I’m daring to say is not Jennifer for you, you will know.”

  Jason decided not to respond to Will’s last comment, but his thoughts turned to Laney.

  The week passed without any uncomfortable encounters with Jason or Jennifer. Laney watched a little bit of the lacrosse game from the lobby of her dorm. Instead of being social, she filled the time with homework and writing. As the week wore on, she became increasingly anxious to leave campus with her history class and learn more about the mysterious William.

  Friday finally arrived, and Laney met her classmates in the lower parking lot, backpack in tow. As she approached the van, she saw William sitting in the backseat with a couple of students, so she grabbed the shotgun position. Being around upper classman really put a strain on her nerves, but Richard quickly put the class at ease and they felt like a family. Each building and grassy knoll had at least one story behind it. Richard’s knowledge was a newly unearthed treasure chest, and Laney clung to his every word. When they passed an area of town with little historical significance, the class discussion died down and the students began to drift into other conversations.

  Laney wanted to find out more about Richard. She peered at him out of the corner of her eye. His clothing appeared to be that of a typical professor — tweed jacket, bowtie, polished shoes — but nothing matched. It was as if he were trying to fit in, but failing miserably. His look comforted her.

  “How long have you taught at Madison?”

  “Longer than you’ve been alive. Imagine living through some of the history you’re teaching. It begins to make you feel older than the aches and pains.” Richard swung the steering whe
el and the van rounded a corner. He seemed oblivious to road signs and speed limits —anything that wasn’t historical didn’t appear to register with him.

  “Living through something makes you one of the best teachers. My high school history teacher was part of the Civil Rights movement. He taught us so much more than the book.”

  “Unfortunately, I didn’t live through the Salem witch trials, but being in the area is the next best thing.” Richard grinned as he turned on the windshield wipers. A light mist rolled off the ocean as they approached the outskirts of town. “Have you ever been to the Corwin house?”

  “Quite a few times. My grandpa Grady has lived in Salem most of his life, down off of Essex Street.” Laney adjusted her seatbelt to face her professor. “That reminds me, could you drop me off at his house this afternoon? I told him I’d visit.”

  “Of course.” Richard took out his handkerchief and wiped his nose. “And what about your grandmother? Does she live there, too?”

  Laney shifted back into the seat. “No, she died a few of years ago.”

  Richard kept his eyes on the road. “I’m sorry to hear that. Well . . . maybe you could teach us a thing or two about the town.” He remained silent for a moment. The fog wafted in waves past the window, like small clouds that had gotten lost. Richard leaned forward, hugging the wheel. “I wondered why a freshman was interested in local history. Most of your set is off at a party or a lacrosse game. You seem different to me.”

  She sneaked a glance behind her to see if anyone was listening. “My parents raised me in an antique store. There wasn’t a lot of time for friends in high school. I spend most of my free time writing and reading.”

  Richard nodded. “Now I understand your interest in history. We’re a dying breed, Delaney. Even my most loyal seniors don’t have a deep-rooted love in the subject. ”

  The remainder of the ride went by without further conversation with Richard. Getting out of the van at the House of Seven Gables, Laney hung toward the back of the group. Every time she visited this historic mansion, she was awestruck by the house that inspired Nathaniel Hawthorne to write his novel. The brown gables shooting through the light mist and the rolling fog sent a chill down her spine. She pictured the characters from Hawthorne’s novel in the house.

  Richard gathered the students together before entering. “Distinguished historians, feel free to roam the house, taking notes for our discussion. Please give special attention to the artifacts contained within the house, and refrain from getting lost in any secret passages.”

  “Cool.” The red-headed guy shoved his hands in his pockets, winking at a tall brunette girl. She turned to her friends and giggled, which put a wide grin on the boy’s face.

  “Of course, Dennis,” Richard paused to look at him and then turned back to the class. “I don’t expect any intentional outings in the passages.”

  The class shuffled through the front door as Laney took a moment to enjoy the mist on her face. She closed her eyes, inhaling the history of her surroundings. Through the cool mist, she sensed a warm presence behind her.

  “Do you make it a habit to avoid others, or have your feet been accidently planted in the ground?”

  Laney turned and found herself face-to-face with William. She gasped and her cheeks grew hot. His deep green eyes searched her face, but they held no amusement. They held a look she had never seen before. A longing to bridge the short distance between them. He didn’t make any attempt to step back out of her personal space, causing her legs to shake and her heartbeat to accelerate.

  She cleared her throat. “We better get inside before Richard wonders where we are.” She turned and walked to the door without looking back. Why did he make her so nervous? What was this electricity that permeated even the deepest parts of her body?

  William followed Laney through the front door, where they met the curator — a heavyset woman named Margaret. She was on a first name basis with Richard and basically gave him free rein of the house. As they roamed through the rooms, Laney avoided eye contact with William, even though his eyes were at the forefront of her mind.

  She forced her thoughts to Hawthorne’s characters and the effect the past had on their lives. The tormented souls were haunted by their ancestors, who were tied deeply to the witchcraft trials. Could a house be haunted by its past? Time seemed to be such a powerful thing and Laney knew that the objects in this house and her parents’ store drew her closer to the past. Her writing pulled her closer, too.

  She glanced across the room. William was reading the plaque in front of some kind of necklace. What if the boy in the colonial schoolyard and the man who wanted to defy the British was living and breathing in the same room as her at this very moment?

  William left through a side door, so Laney walked over to look at the necklace. The large, blue stone caught her eye, but the similarity drew her in. Resting between a pair of cufflinks and a handwritten memoir was a pendant identical to hers — the spherical shape, the golden spider, the cut of the stone. Only the chain differed, being more masculine in design. She pressed her hand against her chest to make sure that her necklace was still there.

  Checking on Margaret, Laney figured that there’d be little chance she’d take the pendant out of the display case for her. She had taken on the role of a prison guard, with her eyes darting nervously from one college hooligan to the next. Bending over, Laney hoped the shelf was made of glass so she could see the bottom, but all she saw was a piece of wood with the word fragile stenciled across it. While she was still bent over, Richard crouched down to her level.

  “I will have to look over my notes, but I’m pretty sure I won’t ask you a question about the type of wood used in the display case.” He thumbed through the pages in the tattered notebook in his hand.

  “Have you ever seen anything like it?” Laney’s heart raced as she stared at the twin in the case. She couldn’t imagine anything contained in the Queen’s personal collection being any more beautiful.

  “Last week, I went down to the lumberyard and saw a similar piece of pine, but no, nothing exactly like it.”

  Laney rolled her eyes.

  “Or do you mean the sapphire pendant?”

  “It seems out of place in the collection.” For years, Laney wanted to find out more about the mysterious spider, but her father never found another, or anyone who could tell him anything about it.

  Richard put his hands in the pocket of his coat. “Many years ago, I saw a similar pendant. The casing held obsidian, instead of a sapphire, and it had an ivory skull as the centerpiece. Like Hawthorne’s stone, it was difficult to forget.”

  “Do you know where the pendants were made?” Maybe they were mass-produced and put in cereal boxes in a factory in Hackensack, New Jersey.

  “No, but I know they’re very old, probably made by an artisan before the modern age.” He straightened up, stretching his legs in the process. “Do you want to get some fresh air?”

  “Sure.” Laney hoped he’d continue to talk about her necklace.

  The fog rolled off the water while they walked along Derby Street. A seagull’s lonely cry echoed across the waves, highlighting Richard’s silence. He cut behind the house, toward the seaside garden and she followed, wondering when he was going to stop. When they reached the garden, Richard sat down on a bench and looked up at her. His eyes seemed expectant, like he wanted Laney to speak first. All was still, except the constant mist drifting off the ocean.

  “What drew you to Hawthorne’s pendant?” Richard’s hands were in his pockets, and his eyes were on her.

  Laney fumbled for an excuse. “It’s just that I enjoy writing and I’m fascinated by other authors. I wondered why the charm was important to Hawthorne.”

  “What do you write about?” Richard’s question felt intrusive, but he also extended a level of comfort by leaning forward on the bench.

  “Mostly history . . . surprise, surprise.” She sat down next to him. “I only write fiction.” Laney didn’t let
him know that she wrote fiction to play out her silly, girlhood romantic notions. Richard wouldn’t understand that part of her like he understood her fascination with history.

  “Hmm . . . historical fiction. I’ve delved into a little writing myself. Foolish nonsense.” He grinned, as if laughing at a private joke.

  “I’m sure it’s really good. You know so much, I can’t imagine that you’d write nonsense.” Laney wondered if she’d ever get a glimpse at his writing.

  “You flatter too much. But I’m much better with the spoken word.” Richard’s outward ways were so different from her own.

  “Richard, I asked you about the necklace. What does this have to do with my writing, other than the obvious connection with Hawthorne?” They were getting off-topic, and she really didn’t like to talk about her story.

  “More than you may realize.” He scooted to the edge of the bench, leaning forward. His hands were tented on his knees. “Are your parents writers?”

  “No.” She tried to hold back her laugh. “Not at all. My father is a terrible writer.” Laney thought about her poor grandmother living in Albuquerque, never receiving a letter from her son.

  “And your mother?”

  “No, nothing more than a letter or a grocery list.”

  “What about your grandfather?” His eyes held more intensity with this last question.

  Laney squirmed a little, still not really understanding what his questions had to do with the necklace in the case. “No, not that I know of. He’s a retired mechanic.”

  Richard gazed out at the water as a fishing boat passed along, his face twisted in a scowl. Laney clutched her bag tighter to her lap, thinking about her own writing inside. It felt heavier now that at least two of her characters were possibly living and breathing. Somehow, she was responsible for their lives and the safety of the journal. She really liked and respected Richard, but she felt like he knew something and wasn’t telling her. The mist began to chill, making Laney more and more uncomfortable, yet she wanted to hear Richard’s response to her question about Hawthorne’s pendant — and to get off the subject of writing and her family.