Waiting Out the Storm

by Ruth Logan Herne

  “There is no such thing.” Sarah’s tone dropped to the dangerously quiet level Craig remembered all too well. Oh, yeah. That tweaked a memory or two. Times a hundred, at least. He fought a smile as Maggie reached them.

  With Maggie’s intrusion, Sarah raised her gaze. Again Craig was struck by the unflappable expression. The lack of affect. He used to think her unfeeling. Unreachable.

  Watching her interaction with the boy, he glimpsed the inner struggle. Saw the work it took to maintain the imperturbable appearance. She grasped the boy’s shoulder, her grip unyielding. “Get changed. You can help me in the back barn. Five minutes.” She added the last with a pointed look.

  He marched off, defiant, much as his sister had done.

  An awkward silence ensued. Maggie looked irked at Craig’s lack of greeting and Sarah seemed ill at ease. She nodded his way. “Thank you.”

  That was it? He opened his mouth to say something trite, then paused, reading the look in her eyes. Embarrassment. Shame.

  The shadow was brief, no more than a glimpse, but evident. He nodded back. “You’re welcome.” Feeling out of his element, he turned to make introduction. “Maggie James, this is Sarah Slocum. My neighbor, it seems.”

  Sarah’s look swept the work site cresting the hill. Something soulful flashed in her dark eyes. Pain? Her nod to the well-dressed taller woman was polite but swift. The tone of her cheeks went a deeper bronze. “I should get back to work.”

  Craig noticed Maggie’s subtle appraisal of Sarah’s appearance. Smells that clung. The dark flecks dotting her tall boots. A protective surge swept him again. He fought it off. “Of course.”

  With another nod, Sarah pivoted and strode away, the set of her narrow shoulders rigid. Craig turned toward Maggie. “You came to see me?”

  She swept his hillside setting a glance. “I heard you were building a house.”

  “You heard right. They just finished the fourteenth course of the basement. Not much to see yet, and probably not a good idea to hill-climb in those.” He dropped his gaze to her spiky heels, about as different from Sarah’s barn boots as you could get.

  And why on earth that thought occurred to him was a wonder in itself.

  “Probably not,” she agreed. She hesitated, shifting her purse up. “You won’t mind the smells out here?”

  Craig crinkled his forehead, then relaxed. “You mean farm smells?”

  “Yes.”

  He laughed. “Not at all. Especially not when farm visits are all in a day’s work. I don’t even notice it.”

  “I would.” She sounded regretful, but resigned. “I just thought I’d stop by and wish you well with your building. I know it’s something you’ve been looking forward to.”

  Forward to and then some. He’d had his house plans drawn up nearly three years back, then saved for the dream, living at home a year longer than originally planned.

  Now his wish became reality, day by day, emergent from the adjacent hillside splendor.

  And directly across from Sarah’s sheep farm. How in the world had that happened when he’d been so careful? Thinking back, he remembered querying Steve Laraby about ownership of the land to either side of him. East. West.

  Not across the street. He swallowed a groan with the realization.

  As he swung Maggie’s door wide, he mulled the situation. What were the odds that of all the acreage in the largest geographic county in New York State, Craig Macklin would end up building across from Sarah Slocum’s farm?

  What had his mother prayed for? Hills, trees, land, good neighbors and room for dogs.

  The whole “good neighbor” thing presented a notable challenge. Craig’s collar itched as he considered the situation. Every time he pulled out of his new driveway, Sarah’s presence would remind him of things he’d like to forget.

  Gramps’ angst and dismay upon discovering their money gone, rifled by a scheming, two-faced investor. Grams’ sadness. Their constant worry and guilt over being a burden, an elderly couple who had never burdened anyone all their lives.

  That worry hadn’t helped Gramps’ struggle with heart disease. No sir. He’d died crushed and broken under the burden of decisions he thought fiscally sound.

  Craig didn’t need reminders, but here he was, building his dream home directly across from a Slocum. A band of them, if appearances could be trusted.

  Craig massaged the bridge of his nose. If God had a hand in this, then he obviously had a sense of humor like Craig’s father’s. Dry. Subtle.

  And not nearly as funny as he thought it to be.

  “She’s your neighbor?” Deb Macklin slid a wide tray of peanut butter cookies out of her convection oven, followed by another. Replacing them with two more, she raised a brow. “A sheep farm, right?”

  “I guess.”

  “How big?”

  Craig shrugged. “No idea. I didn’t see the animals. Well…” He hesitated, reaching for a hot cookie. “I did meet the niece and the nephew trying to kill each other. I don’t suppose that counts.”

  “Craig.” His mother’s tone scolded. “She took in all three kids because Rita’s not doing well. I guess the money problems put her over the edge.”

  Her phrasing caught Craig’s attention. “What money problems? The papers were full of Tom’s private insurance and made multiple mentions of his other portfolios.” He made no attempt to hide the scorn in his voice.

  Deb shook her head as she set the oven timer. “They were wrong.” She straightened and met Craig’s gaze. “His major insurance policy refused the claim because of a suicide clause. His minor insurance paid, but that was a pittance compared to the cost of raising three kids. Keeping a home.” She turned back to the counter and scooped rounded spoonfuls of cookie dough onto fresh baking sheets. “Tom’s stock portfolio is tied in with his brother. Ed refuses to give Rita access to it. Rita sued for dispersal, but you know the courts. It’ll be a long, drawn-out process. Ed’s afraid his part will suffer if Rita withdraws Tom’s share, and she’s got no money to speak of without it. At least they’ve got medical insurance still. And Social Security survivor benefits.”

  “That’s it? After all the papers said, I assumed Rita was swimming in cash. Free and easy, while other folks suffered.”

  Deb gave him a quiet look, not unlike the gaze Sarah Slocum leveled her errant nephew the day before. “You know what they say about assumptions, Craig.”

  He set his cookie down. “So the kids are living on the farm?”

  “Yes. It was either that or foster care. Cade said Sarah wouldn’t hear of it, though I can’t imagine how she handles running the farm, her nighttime accounting business, and three kids. God love her, she’s an ambitious little thing. When we needed sheep for the living Nativity scene last year, Sarah was the first one there and stayed the whole while, making sure everything went smoothly.”

  Craig hadn’t made it to services that December weekend. A firm thwack of guilt smacked him upside the head. Was he really all that busy? Even on call, couldn’t he set his phone to vibrate for the hour-long service and show up more regularly than he’d been lately?

  Thinking back, Craig mentally scrutinized Sarah’s face. Yeah, she looked tired. More, she looked determined. Stubborn. Intent on forging ahead. His mother’s voice interrupted his reflection.

  “You’re not eating your cookie.”

  The oversized cookie sat on the counter, cool. Untouched. He shook his head, considering. “Not really hungry. I’ll grab some for lunch tomorrow.”

  Deb nodded once more, intent on her task. “Whatever you say.”

  A slight sound stopped him as he moved to the door. He turned and frowned. His mother presented a calm, serene profile, not a smile in sight. But Craig had been her son a long time. He knew what he’d heard, her distinct low chuckle that said she found the whole thing humorous.

  Huh. That made one of them.

  Chapter Seven

  Sarah considered the previous day’s run-in with Craig Macklin as she align
ed a fencing unit along the back hill.

  Bad enough that Liv and Brett showed their worst sides, reinforcing current opinion of Slocums in general. But it had to be in front of Craig Macklin. Sheep-hating, sanctimonious…

  Who was about to become her new neighbor.

  Wonderful. No doubt he’d complain of the dogs’ barking at night, the smells of a working farm by day. Sure, he was a vet, but he kept his visits to sheep country few and far between by design.

  Recalling her appearance the day past, she couldn’t blame him. Craig didn’t come off as a guy who got his hands real dirty, regardless of profession. And his current girlfriend fit the profile to the max. Leggy, lithe and lovely.

  Sarah tried to thwart a rise of insecurity, but it was no use. Feelings rose within her, how she prayed as a young girl to be normal, look normal, to fit in.

  With Tom and Ed ragging on her constantly, she’d longed to be pretty. Attractive, like other girls.

  Try as she might, though, nothing paled her deep-toned skin, softened the dense mass of hair or lightened her big, dark eyes. Owl eyes, Tom used to call them, then he’d make bug-eyed faces at Ed until they’d collapse in laughter at her expense.

  Sarah scowled at the memory, kicked a raised piece of sod, and shoved the last fencing pole into place with more force than needed.

  Standing next to Craig’s latest squeeze, she had realized she had nowhere to go but up in the looks department, at least as far as Craig Macklin was concerned. And contemplating her planned showdown with her half brother and father, she didn’t have the strength to care. Picking her battles had become a strategic necessity.

  “Ain’t none of your business, little girl.”

  Ed’s words were typical Slocum. Her father used that phrase as well, a means to keep her in her place. It hadn’t worked then, it wouldn’t now. Sarah stood silent and patient, staring at Ed.

  He twisted, uncomfortable. “Don’t try your mother’s tricks on me, squaw-girl. This is none of your affair.”

  Obviously Ed thought the word “squaw” insulting. Maybe she’d e-mail him some Abenaki history. Her squaw legacy was deep and fulfilling, a blessing for a woman of strength. Counting the longnecks on the table alongside his recliner, Sarah saw that Ed was on beer number five.

  Great. He’d gotten an early start. Sarah continued to gaze at him, then angled her head. “I have three children who need their mother, one of whom is your godson. It would behoove you to act in their best interests instead of your own. You have no financial problems, Ed. You don’t need that money. Why tie it up for Rita? What do you hope to gain?”

  “You think talkin’ like a highfalutin’ college girl is gonna get you anywhere?” Ed blew out breath that smelled of sour mash and onions. “I may be simple, but I know my rights. Tom and I created that portfolio. Until a court makes me split it, it stays put. Rita can get her sorry butt out of bed and get a job. If she’d been more ambitious, Tommy wouldn’t have had to take that money.”

  Sarah’s heart hammered. Her lungs swelled. She wanted to smack him for insinuating Rita was responsible for Tom’s illicit actions.

  Instead she took a breath, a deep one. When the adrenaline rush eased, she brought calm eyes back to Ed’s bloodshot gaze. “You realize you’ll pay more this way, right? You could be held responsible for Rita’s costs if the judge rules against you. As an accountant, I promise you it adds up quickly. Can you afford that?”

  Ed belched and sneered. “Won’t happen. Most judges around here are like me. They understand that one way of keeping a woman in her place is by controlling the purse strings. Want to know others?” He leered at her, his face suggestive, his gaping mouth showing tobacco-stained teeth.

  She didn’t act affronted. That would please him. To hear him talk like this, no one would know he was a businessman by day, successful in his own right.

  “That’s right.” He nodded as she moved to leave. “Get back to your sheep dung and those kids you think so much of. I’ve got my own two to worry about.”

  Sarah strode to the car, chin up, jaw clenched, wondering why she’d tried.

  Because it was the right thing to do, her conscience prodded. Integrity has its price.

  But dealing with her remaining brother might be too big a price to pay. Ed’s caustic sneers dredged up childhood feelings and fears that needed to be laid to rest. Sarah sighed, dropped her forehead to the steering wheel, and asked God to halt her tongue and bless her heart because as tough as Ed was, he didn’t hold a candle to their father.

  She thrust the truck into drive and headed to old Tom’s, praying to keep her temper in check.

  “Not my business, or yours,” Old Tom scolded when she approached him, his forehead drawn. “You’ve got no call to interfere.”

  “I have three children who need a mother and shoes on their feet,” she replied. “Rita’s beside herself with worry, Ed’s a selfish lout and you have a responsibility to your grandchildren,” she continued, striving to keep her voice level.

  “Go against my remaining son to help the woman that pushed Tommy over the edge?” argued old Tom, indignant.

  “That’s untrue.” Sarah maintained a calm voice, her expression staid.

  “That longhouse mentality won’t get you anywhere with me, little girl.”

  Little girl.

  It had to be genetic. She fought the urge to tell him Abenakis never lived in longhouses. Like he’d care.

  “Your mother taught you well,” he continued, “but I have no intention of supporting Rita’s drinking by giving her money. Ah…” Her father’s voice hiked in a note of triumph. “You didn’t know.”

  Sarah couldn’t hide her surprise. “Rita doesn’t drink.” Saying it, she recognized her mistake. Alcohol and depression. One could so easily feed into the other. Rita…

  “The kids know,” her father insisted. “Olivia, anyway. She’s the one who told me.” He directed a hard look to Sarah. “You might want to be sure of your facts before you run your mouth.”

  Sarah met his eye, unflinching. “And maybe if Rita had the emotional and financial support of her extended family she wouldn’t need alcohol.”

  “It ain’t your affair. Or mine. I don’t cotton to weak women and Rita’s all that. If she gets her act together we’ll talk again.”

  More punishment. Another twist of the blade embedded in Rita’s reputation. Her lack of self-worth. Sarah faced her father, hands folded. Calm worked on her behalf before. “By that time you may not have the chance. Once Rita’s better, she’d do well to shake the dust of Slocums from her feet, move forward and never look back. If you can’t extend human kindness to your daughter-in-law and her children now, why would she want to maintain a relationship with you once she’s healthy?”

  “You’re fooling yourself,” Tom warned. “You see a strength that doesn’t exist. Not in Rita, anyway. And she’s no blood of mine.”

  “And those children?” Sarah eyed him, fingers taut. “Liv? Brett? Skeeter? You call yourself a grandfather and turn your back on them?”

  “I raised my children, including you, and I wasn’t a young man then, either. I’ve no call to be raising more.”

  “I see.”

  And she did. Clearly. Painfully. Fighting emotion, she bit back words of recrimination. They would do no good. Eyes down, she walked to the door.

  Honor your father and your mother. The commandment rang in her memory.

  She paused, considering, then left in silence, wondering if God considered percentages.

  Hot tears stung her eyes as she climbed into the pickup. The night had chilled. Typical for northern springs. A promise of frost.

  Sarah headed out of her father’s drive, unsure if she’d ever come back. She had a Heavenly Father, ever-present, omniscient. Loving, caring.

  What on earth did she need old Tom Slocum for? Straining her brain, nothing much came to mind on that cold, dark ride home.

  Visiting Rita’s the next afternoon, Sarah noticed the sharp tang of
whiskey, used and unused.

  How had she missed it? Was Rita less worried about hiding it with the kids gone?

  Eyeing the mess, Sarah shook her head, then prayed. Help me, Father. Stay with me. I’m in over my head and haven’t the vaguest idea how to help.

  What do I say to her? What will it take to jerk her out of this rut? I’m not smart enough to see the answers. If You’ve got ’em, share ’em, because I’m fresh out of ideas.

  Rita sat on the back porch, staring at nothing. She jerked when Sarah stepped out, her hand flying to the glass alongside. Clumsy, her hand slipped and the glass flew, shattering on the cracked tile floor.

  Rita swore. In fifteen years of knowing her, Sarah had never heard Rita utter a profanity.

  Now angry and upset, obviously worried that Sarah might find her out, she sputtered words to impress a land-locked sailor.

  “Stop it.” Sarah grabbed her hands, tugging her back. “You’ll cut yourself.”

  “I have to clean this up. The kids are coming.”

  Pulling harder, Sarah hauled Rita away from the mess. “They’re not.”

  Rita paused in her struggle. Her fair hair, once lustrous, lay dank and dull. The blond shade, not passed to any of her children, carried glints of silver that used to look like she’d paid good money for ash-blond highlights. Rita liked to say the effect was a combination of her and God. Nothing over-the-counter.

  She was in desperate need of shampoo and conditioner. Plenty of both.

  The stench of unwashed skin and Black Velvet filled the porch despite open windows and a sweet spring breeze. Sarah guessed Rita hadn’t changed clothes in days, her top flecked with faded stains.

  Her face appeared haggard, the eyes despondent, with bags beneath. She was thirty-six years old and looked fifty. And that was generous.

  Sarah stood quiet, overwhelmed. She’d put in a long week already, the change of seasons forcing necessary fieldwork. She’d rotated ewes, fed stock that wasn’t on pasture, docked tails and inoculated lambs, cleaned the barn, tended dogs and pups, prepared meals, worked accounts at night, and minded three children, two of whom resented everything she represented. Now she faced a drunken, depressed sister-in-law with a death wish.