Waiting Out the Storm

by Ruth Logan Herne

  High time, then. She slipped under the covers once she’d undressed, relieved she could lie down once more. The pillow beneath her cheek brought no pain. No suffering. Sighing, she sank into its softness.

  She felt good. Happy. One with the Spirit. She dozed off, thinking of pretty frocks and a handsome man, hoping the two were compatible. A girl had to step out of barn boots once in a while.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Serious makeovers should not be undertaken alone. Sarah sought Rita’s advice. “I need help.”

  “Admitting is the first step, Sarah.” Rita looked up from the online sudoku puzzle, teasing.

  Sarah scowled. “I’m serious.”

  “Oh, so am I,” Rita returned. Then she grinned. “What’s up?”

  “Clothes.”

  “Clothes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are we talking particular clothes? Winter clothes? Used clothes?”

  Sarah worked not to choke. “Pretty clothes.”

  “Pretty clothes?”

  “Stop repeating what I say.”

  Rita grinned. “Sarah White Fawn, you have no idea how long I’ve waited for this moment. You, wanting advice on clothes. Wait, hold on.” Rita waved a hand Sarah’s way. “I need a moment. I’m all verklempt.”

  “This is serious.”

  “Sorry.” Rita made a show of composing her features. “There. I’m ready now. So what’s the occasion? Job interview?”

  Sarah squirmed.

  “So…. Not a job interview.” Rita tapped a finger to her chin, pretending confusion. “What else could you possibly want new clothes for, Sarah?” She paused overlong. “Unless it’s to attract a guy’s attention.”

  Sarah sank into the chair alongside Rita. “I’m no good at this kind of thing.”

  Rita laughed. “Oh, honey, we’re all good at it. Some of us just have more practice than others. And I’m glad to lend you a little of my expertise.”

  “Before the festival?” Everyone took part in the upcoming town festival. The busyness of festival week offered the area towns a chance to come together for a long weekend of welcoming visitors, family and friends.

  Rita stood. “How’s now?”

  Sarah smiled, relieved. “Perfect.”

  “What about the red?”

  Rita studied the combination Sarah held up, then frowned. “Trying too hard.”

  “That’s not something.”

  “Just part of the game,” Rita replied. “Besides, Craig’s already interested. You want clothes that say he’s got plenty of reason to be attracted, but subtle. And this is a fool’s chase, anyway. The guy’s smitten.”

  Sarah remembered the look on his face when she left him with Lady. Closed. Shuttered. “Just in case you’re wrong, I want something that says I know how to step out of barn boots when necessary.”

  Rita grinned. “Can’t argue that. What about the gold?”

  Sarah slipped into the fitted, ribbed top. The cut-in neckline showed plenty of shoulder.

  “Perfect with your skin and hair,” Rita told her. “Your shell necklace would go great with it, too. And that earthy wraparound skirt. The short one.”

  Sarah fingered the soft folds, the muted colors welcoming fall, then eyed the growing pile to her left. “I haven’t spent this much on clothing since…ever.”

  Rita laughed. “Then it’s about time. And try this scarf as a belt. No. Lower on the hip.”

  “Lower?”

  Rita rolled her eyes. “Here. Let me.”

  Sarah stared at the reflection in the mirror. “What do you think?”

  Rita met her gaze through the looking glass. “I think Craig Macklin’s dead in the water.”

  “Really?”

  “Indubitably. This outfit says one thing and one thing only.”

  Sarah was almost afraid to ask. “And that is?”

  “Wow.”

  Brett and Craig stood side by side when Sarah pulled into the drive. Both faces turned her way, one looking hurt and lost, the other—

  She tried not to read too much into what she saw in Craig’s gold-flecked eyes. The approving appraisal took him long seconds to mask as she moved across the yard. “Hey, guys. What’s up?”

  Brett stayed quiet, the sting of the soccer rejection still raw. Craig took the reins. “The annual fishing derby is coming up during the festival. I want to enter Brett and me in the competition.”

  “Together?” Sarah looked up at him. Big mistake. No way could she hide the feelings she harbored when he was right there, flesh and blood, looking too good to be believed in jeans and a roughed-up Syracuse T-shirt. Flecks of pale paint dotted the thinning knit, almost transparent in places after no small number of washes.

  Talk about a rock and a hard place. Looking up, she faced his eyes, the steady gaze that saw into her heart. Her soul. Facing straight on, she got a close-up view of cotton-draped chest, broad and brawny. Muscular arms whose sharp definition showed the work of building houses and tending animals. Trouble, either way.

  She glanced up.

  Head tilted, he watched her. A tiny smile edged his mouth as his left eye narrowed, then relaxed. A glint of amusement made brighter flecks stand out in his light-brown eyes.

  “They’ve got various categories,” he answered, rocking back on his heels. “Age groups and pairs. There’s a mixed doubles grouping as well. You like to fish, Sarah?”

  The innocent question sent her heart pounding. She hazarded a glance into his eyes. “I’d like to learn.”

  Amusement turned to tenderness in a heartbeat. “I expect you’re a fast learner.”

  She stepped back, literally and figuratively, refocusing on Brett. “Um, not that fast. You and Brett are entering together?”

  “I dunno.” Brett sounded worn. Sarah elbowed him.

  “You like to fish, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you’ve got Doc ready to pay the entry fee?”

  “I guess.”

  “So what’s to wonder? You’ve got precious little summer left, kid. Enjoy it. Can I come watch?” Again she lifted her face to Craig’s. This time he grinned.

  “I’d like that. If you don’t disturb us, that is.” He tried to make his face serious, but failed. She laughed at his efforts.

  “Promise. I’m helping at the sheep products booth during the festival, so I probably won’t get time to pester you boys.” Her heart soared when Craig looked disappointed. “But I’ll be glad to watch you grab first prize.”

  “People come from all over for this derby,” Craig explained, dubious. “The prize is a twenty thousand dollar bass boat. I’d be happy with a fifty-dollar check and a box of new hooks.”

  “Me too.” Brett sided with his friend in quick fashion.

  “You’ve got to dream, boys,” Sarah reminded them. “Reach for the stars.”

  “Did you up your meds without medical permission?” Craig demanded, feigning concern.

  Brett looked confused. Sarah grinned, then turned, looking over the simple property that bore her name. A dream come true for a young woman, a shepherd. “Nope. Just learning to go for the gold.”

  “Are you now?” His tone showed a definite upswing.

  She nodded and headed for the stairs, various shopping bags clutched in her hands. “Most assuredly.”

  Craig spotted his grandmother’s wide-brimmed summer hat in the lodge vegetable garden and headed her way. “Need help?”

  She turned and smiled to see him, then eyed the peck baskets dotting the row. “I’d love it. I enjoy picking, but carrying baskets is no big treat these days.”

  “That bursitis still bothering your shoulder?”

  She sent him a wizened look. “Only when the humidity’s up or there’s a storm brewing. Best barometer in St. Lawrence County.”

  Craig laughed, then sobered. “Grams, I need to talk with you. About the festival next week.”

  She nodded, eyes down, her aged hands gently plucking pickling cukes from broad-lea
fed vines. “What’s up?”

  “I’m entering the fishing derby.”

  She nodded. “Good plan. Your grandpa always said you were the most natural fisherman he’d ever seen. Got it from his daddy, he’d say.”

  “With Brett Slocum,” Craig continued. “Tom’s son.”

  Grams rocked back on her heels and peered up at him. “Do tell.”

  “He’s been living with Sarah, across the street from my new place.”

  She nodded, making the connection.

  “And he’s been helping me with the house. Doing this and that. Odd jobs.”

  “And you’re worried how I might take this?” Grams’ expression said his worries were unfounded.

  Craig didn’t try to hide his relief. “I wanted to be upfront with you. Not surprise you while you helped at the baked goods booth.”

  Grams pursed her lips and stood. Craig reached out a hand to help her balance. She faced him square, her jaw set. “Craig, I loved your grandpa. Loved him to distraction. He was a good man, a good father, a strong partner. He loved God and loved me, and worked hard. What more could a woman ask?”

  Craig shrugged. “I think that about sums it up, right?”

  She narrowed her gaze and looked off, beyond him, then brought her focus back, brows drawn. “But he wasn’t perfect, Craig. Like the rest of us, Grandpa had his weaknesses. A little too headstrong, too impetuous. That business with Tom Slocum, the investments.”

  Dread filled Craig’s heart. His soul. His belly filled with an anchor weight of guilt.

  “Grandpa never had extra money to play with, but he loved to study the market, see what was going on in the big leagues. When his retirement turned over and we got the check for selling the old house, he went a little crazy. Plum over the top.”

  Dread sucked Craig’s air. Meeting Grams’ earnest look, he knew it was time to confess his part in the whole mess. “I encouraged him, Grams.”

  Her brow wrinkled deeper, puzzled.

  “When he talked about investing the whole thing, I told him to go big or go home,” Craig confessed. “He laughed and said I was a chip off the old block, and then went ahead and did it.” Craig shook his head, sorry to have to confess his stupidity but glad to finally have it off his chest. “I’ve been sorry ever since.”

  Grams grasped his arm. “You think you influenced him?”

  Craig nodded. “I know I did.”

  Grams tilted her head, her face a blend of concern and empathy. “Craig, no one talked your Grandpa into anything, ever. I was married to the man for nearly fifty years, and Heaven knows I couldn’t sway him one way or the other once his mind was made up. You didn’t push him to invest that money.” She shook her head, decisive. “And I couldn’t talk him out of it, though I tried. In the end, Tom did us wrong, but your grandpa knew better. He just couldn’t resist finally having some money to invest, a chance to play the market. Run with the big dogs.”

  “But—”

  Her grip tightened on his arm. “Tom did us wrong, no two ways about that, but Grandpa shouldn’t have gone into this so shortsighted. Trusting. There’s plenty of blame to go around, and none of it’s yours.”

  “But I—”

  “No.” Grams’ firm tone left no room for discussion. “I loved your grandpa, but I knew his weak spots. He made this decision on his own. It had nothing whatsoever to do with you, regardless of what you might have said or done. I mean that.”

  The weight Craig had carried for years eased.

  Grams motioned to the baskets. She grasped one while Craig manned the other two. “On top of that, there’s no time like the present to put all of this to rest. Put it behind us. I’m going to call Rita Slocum and see if she’d help us out with the baked goods booth. No one holds a candle to that woman when it comes to baking, and if we can offer some of her creations, we’ll have record sales. This year’s earnings are going towards the new hospice facility in Canton.”

  “You wouldn’t mind working with Rita?” Craig asked.

  “Not in the least,” declared Grams. “I’m old enough to realize that people shouldn’t be held accountable for the actions of anyone other than themselves. I’ll call her now, see what she says. It would be good for all concerned to have her there, don’t you think?”

  “Yes.” Craig set the pickles down and grabbed Grams into a big hug, his turmoil eased by her commonsense directives. “Yes, it would.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Sarah handed the phone to Rita, unable to hide her surprise. “It’s Cora Macklin.”

  Rita paled.

  Sarah extended the phone, nudging Rita with her look.

  Gulping, Rita took the phone, a slight tremor moving her fingers. “Hello?”

  Sarah couldn’t hear Cora’s end of the conversation, but Rita’s responses clued her in. She’d called to invite Rita’s help in the baked goods booth at the festival.

  Sarah’s heart stutter-stepped, afraid this was too much, too soon, and half scared the gesture was too little, too late.

  “I…umm…”

  Rita nodded, listening. Slowly, her frown eased. “I could handle those at my place.”

  Her tone sounded hopeful. Almost normal. Sarah breathed deep, watching, waiting, unsure what to expect. What to do. The mix of emotions made her realize she’d been emulating Brett and Livvie’s behavior, protecting Rita from anything that might nudge her off the wagon.

  “Well…” Rita hesitated, thinking. “We could do a selection of background cakes to augment what others donate. Pounds, layers, small sheet cakes that we can price affordably and still make a decent profit. How would that be?”

  Cora’s answer must have been positive because a small smile softened Rita’s jaw, her cheeks. A moment later, she shadowed. “Cora, are you sure about this? Really sure?”

  Cora’s response had Rita breathing a sigh of relief, the shadow disappearing. “I’ll see you Thursday night for setup. And Cora? Thank you.”

  Rita sent Sarah a nervous smile as she handed her the phone. “You heard.”

  “Yes.”

  “You think it’s crazy?”

  “I think it’s wonderful. And way past time.” She met Rita’s look and couldn’t help but ask, “Are you ready, Reet?”

  Rita swept the room with a look, her gaze taking in the late summer day, the thinning light, the country sounds of a settled evening. “My ovens have been cold for way too long, Sarah. It’s way past time to fire things up.”

  Sarah grinned. “Dibs on the first carrot cake.”

  Rita slanted her a teasing look. “Only if you pay up, Wise Woman. We’re supporting a good cause here. No handouts.”

  Sarah laughed. “I’ll bring along the little I didn’t spend on new clothes,” she replied. “Make the carrot cake small, okay? Affordable.”

  Rita’s chin came up, her shoulders straighter. Firmer. “Will do.”

  “What’s the leaderboard look like?” Sarah counted on Ben Waters’ height to see above the press of people surrounding the weigh station Friday evening.

  “Some guys from Michigan are in first in the large mouth doubles category. They’ve been on the Deborah I.”

  A Macklin entry. Craig’s dad knew area waterways. He was a woodsman’s woodsman and had turned his love of nature into sound provisions for his family. His lodge thrived with business, his knowledge of North Country hunting and fishing almost legendary.

  “Second is some fellas from Erie. Third I can’t read because some woman’s wearin’ a hat that could shade an opry singer and leave room for friends. Fourth is your boyfriend and nephew.”

  “Ben.” Sarah chastised him with a look but couldn’t quite hide her pleasure.

  “Tell me he ain’t.” The old man looked down and grinned before he turned back. “Thought as much.”

  Fourth. Not bad for a guy and a kid in a rowboat. Craig seemed accustomed to the good-natured teasing that went along with his low-investment fishing style amidst the huge expenditures laid out around
him. His attire screamed local yokel, his flannel shirt waving open over the worn T-shirt beneath, his battle-scarred baseball cap completing the image. There wasn’t a vestige of doctor apparent.

  “It gives a false sense of superiority,” he assured Sarah when she rolled her eyes at him that evening. His glance indicated the mass of fishermen waiting for their official weights. “Designer polos don’t belong on fishing boats. It goes against nature.”

  “Isn’t there a happy medium?” she asked, raking his clothes a look before laughing at his manufactured hurt expression. “Casual and cool?”

  “This from a woman who runs a sheep farm in overalls and barn boots.” When she dropped her chin, he tipped it back up, his glance skimming her cute skirt and rib-knit top. “You clean up real nice, Miss Slocum.”

  Was it the look or the words that made her feel so good? Probably both. “So do you,” she admitted with a grin. “Though it’s a rare occasion.”

  “We’ll remedy that next week,” he promised, his fingers grazing her chin. “A night out, you and me. Dinner. Romance.” He grinned and winked. “Wednesday?”

  “Craig.” The combination of his touch and his words flustered her, making her want to move forward, into his embrace. Unfortunately a wooden counter lay between them, stocked with mittens, socks and hats.

  Still, a date, at long last—

  She blushed, thinking of it.

  “I’ve got to round up Brett,” said Craig, regretful. He let one finger trace the heat of her cheek, his manner intent. He leaned close, rubbing her ear, her temple with his whiskered cheek, the textured feel of his beard-roughened skin a sweet pleasure. Sarah was pretty sure fishing wasn’t topping his priority list as he stepped back, his gaze lowering to her mouth, lingering. He sighed. “He was snagging freebies at the baked goods booth. This has been really good for her,” Craig acknowledged, shifting his look across the green to where Rita and various other women boxed and sold delicious confections.

  The sight of Cora Macklin and Rita Slocum working together had drawn more than one curious look, but the two women had found common ground.