Changing His Plans

by Jo McNally

  Nate looked out over the hills with a warm smile, his eyes going tender and distant, as if he was enjoying a memory.

  “Grandpa was a tough old dude. Shorter than me. Not all that impressive to look at, but he was strong as an ox. He could carry a half keg of nails on each shoulder when he was in his sixties. Just like his daddy did. And his granddaddy.” He glanced at her. “You want to know why the history of Gallant Lake is so important to me? It’s because my ancestors basically built the place. The hardware was the second business in town, right after the saloon, which is long gone. The building is one of the originals. Grandpa cared about that legacy, and he taught me to care, too.”

  “And your father?”

  Nate barked out a laugh that had no humor to it.

  “I’m afraid the legacy skipped a generation there. Dad couldn’t have cared less. He went to college in the early ’60s and became a bit of a revolutionary. Down with the establishment. Build a new world on the ashes of the old one.” He lifted a shoulder. “It’s not that his ideals were all bad—he wanted a better world for everybody. But he wanted it at the expense of everything his own father had worked for. As much as he claimed to hate everything about the ‘old ways,’ he brought my mom to Gallant Lake to raise me here, where he’d been raised. But he and Grandpa fought all the time. About the business. About politics. About the town. My father had a contrary streak in him that just got worse as he got older.”

  Nate rubbed the back of his neck, staring at nothing. His brows were low and tense. The memories weren’t as happy now.

  “It wasn’t all on Dad. Grandpa was set in his ways. He wouldn’t let Dad change anything in the store, and the place started to slide because the two of them couldn’t agree on a single thing. The resort was facing foreclosure back then. The town was drying up. Dad started going to Atlantic City every weekend. Gambling gave him the thrill he’d never found in Gallant Lake.”

  He stopped, still staring into the past. Brittany waited, half regretting that she’d asked and half fascinated to see this side of Nate. To learn his story. As calm as he always seemed to be, he’d had pain in his life. She could relate to that.

  He shuddered, then blinked up at her with a lukewarm smile.

  “Sorry, I don’t know why I just spewed all of that at you. I’m worse than a spitting llama.” He reached for her hand. “We should get going. The Kennedy place doesn’t have power, and we don’t want to be crawling around all that junk in the dark.”

  She hopped down to the ground. He was done sharing, and she was okay with that, even though the story wasn’t finished. She had the feeling he’d gone as far as he could go right now. Further than he’d intended to, for sure. She flashed him a smile to let him know she was on board.

  “What do you mean, junk?” She nudged his arm. “I thought we were picking treasures?”

  They started walking down the hill toward the parking lot. “The farm we’re going to has been deserted for years. And the old guy was practically a hoarder. I’m afraid we’ll have to get past some junk to find that treasure I like so much. But it’s in there.”

  It’s in there.

  She’d just seen some of what he had inside, and it was more a treasure than she’d expected. Despite the sadness of his father’s struggles, that past had somehow built the man Nate was now. It felt a step too far to call that treasure, but the thought insisted on rattling around her mind as she followed him to the parking lot. Unexpected treasure.

  * * *

  It was a quiet drive to the old Kennedy place. The only sound in the van came from the few things they’d purchased at the barn sale rattling around in the back of the van. Nate couldn’t believe he’d dumped all that stuff about his father on Brittany back at the llama farm. He barely talked about it with his closest friends, much less a near stranger. Now that he’d brought it up, sour memories churned inside his chest. At the same time, he felt an odd sense of peace, too. As if he’d lifted a relief valve just long enough to let off some steam and ease the pressure of keeping all of that bottled up.

  He glanced at Brittany, who didn’t seem conflicted at all. Her chin rested on her hand, and her elbow was propped on the van door. She was watching the farms roll by, and she looked...content. The little buzz of energy she always carried was gone for the moment. Her hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, and she had the shirttails of that plaid shirt—clearly worn for his benefit—tied at her waist. The white tee she had on under it wasn’t very practical for picking, but at least she’d worn jeans. Jeans that clung to her like a second skin, but they were jeans. And she had on green canvas sneakers. Not the most protective things in the world, but at least they weren’t high heels. Although those skintight jeans would look damn good with stilettos...

  He sat up straight and chased that thought clear out of his mind. Bad enough the woman made him spill his guts about his past and his family. He did not need to keep having these fantasies about her. He had to remember two things about Brittany: she was only in Gallant Lake temporarily, and she was up to something with this “client” of hers and his mysterious plans for a business on Nate’s Main Street.

  He turned the van onto a dirt driveway that led up a hill through a stand of trees. The Kennedy farm had been at the top of this little rise for well over a hundred years, but no one had lived there for the past twenty.

  “Uh...please tell me you don’t expect me to go in there. This place is straight out of a horror movie.” Brittany stared through the windshield at the large farmhouse, with its peeling white paint and tilting front porch. Behind it was an even larger barn, the ancient bare wood making it look like it had grown right out of the ground in that spot. It had a slight lean to it, but Nate had checked it out a month ago with his architect friend, Asher. They’d deemed it structurally sound. At least sound enough for one or two people to explore gently.

  The yard had vanished long ago under a tangle of weeds and scrub brush, making the place look creepier than it really was. Nate opened his door as he answered Brittany.

  “As far as I know, there have been no murders up here, or paranormal activity of any kind. It’s just an old farm that got left behind by the family after the owner passed. Walt Kennedy called himself a collector, but he was a borderline hoarder after he got in his eighties. There’s a ton of stuff in the house and barn, and some sections are like time capsules from the past.”

  She stared at him, and a smile played at the corner of her mouth. “You turn into an excited little kid at these places, Nate. I’ve never seen anyone more excited about dirty old stuff as you are.” She opened her door. “If I see one mouse or any other nasty critter in there, I’m gone.”

  “Don’t worry about that.” They walked toward the house. He was careful not to tell her it wouldn’t happen, because he’d seen signs of mice in the house and heard some rustling. He knew they were in the barn, along with a boatload of spiders and bats and other stuff she didn’t need to know about.

  “And it’s okay for us to just walk in this house with no one here?”

  He held up a key. “We’re not trespassing. I have permission from Walt Kennedy’s daughter. She and I agreed that I could pick through and make her an offer for anything I was interested in. I’ve been here a couple times already, but there are so many boxes to dig through.”

  They started in the parlor at the front of the house. There was room to move around, but every surface had piles of boxes and random items on it. Old magazines, toys, porcelain pieces, glassware... It was almost overwhelming. He gave Brittany instructions to let him know about anything she thought might be interesting. Sometimes a stack of magazines in a box could be covering something like a Wedgwood serving platter.

  There wasn’t a lot of conversation as they dived in. He was sure she was still digesting the life story he’d shared. He was still digesting it, too. Grandpa had been friends with Walt Kennedy. They used to hunt and fis
h together. It was Walt who got Grandpa started on picking fifty years ago, but Nate’s grandfather had always been more selective about what he acquired. Walt seemed to grab whatever caught his eye. He was a big fan of buying boxes of stuff without knowing what was in them. Sometimes the gamble paid off, but most of the time he ended up with boxes like those in the parlor—completely random and mostly valueless junk.

  They went upstairs next, to check out the bedrooms. That was the first time in the house that he saw Brittany looking anything other than slightly disgusted. Downstairs she’d been pulling things out of boxes with the very tips of her fingers, holding them at arm’s length to avoid getting dirty. But as soon as she saw the heavily carved bed, her eyes lit up. The headboard stood over seven feet tall, made of walnut and maple. It rose in the center to a crown of carved decoration and a finial that resembled an ornate fleur-de-lis. The sturdy posts had round carved finials, and the footboard was lower but had a carved medallion that matched the headboard.

  Brittany was no longer afraid of dust. She wiped it off the carving on the headboard with her hand, wiping her hand off on the old bedspread, which was probably just as dirty as the headboard was. But Nate didn’t say anything. He was having too much fun watching the excitement in her eyes. He was witnessing the birth of a picker. That spark of appreciation for something handmade and very old. He’d seen that look before, but it was a lot more special when it was Brittany involved.

  He walked over to her. “From what I’ve heard, that bed was made from the wood of trees cut down right on this farm, by one of the Kennedy ancestors. It’s been in this room since the day it was built.”

  “It’s beautiful. How old do you think it is?”

  He pointed to the trim work on the headboard. “That cathedral window design tells me it’s from the late 1800s. It’s too bad it’s so small... I doubt this is even a full-size bed by today’s standards. Probably takes a three-quarter mattress, which is custom.”

  She frowned at the bedding. “But couldn’t you have someone add to it to make it full-size? Or maybe even queen?”

  He recoiled as if she’d suggested burning it. “Add on? You mean nail new wood onto an antique just to make it fit some modern aesthetic? The purpose of finding antiques is to preserve them. That would be criminal, Brittany.”

  She arched a brow. “More criminal than leaving it unused in a falling-down house where no one will ever be able to appreciate it?”

  Nate scowled. She had a point, damn it. “Someone could use it at this size as a child’s bed or something. I’m not saying it should be neglected, but...”

  “Does this look like a child’s bed to you? Besides, a child would probably end up carving their name in the wood or something. I’d love to have a bed like this.” She ran her hand down the bedpost. “But you’re right. It’s too small as is.”

  They poked around the rest of the bedroom. The dressing table was clearly built at the same time as the bed, with an arched mirror that tilted in the frame, and small decorative shelves for knickknacks. A tall dresser was slightly more recent than the other pieces, but had been finished to match. It was a nice set, but Nate had no room to store or display something that large. If he could figure out how to buy Stella’s shop next door to his, he could put antiques over there, and then he could move more than just smalls.

  Brittany kept glancing back to the bed as they searched through drawers and boxes. They found a hat pin in one small drawer with a gold glass bead at the top, and she held it up.

  “This would be perfect in the hat-pin holder in your store!”

  “It would. Add it to the crate.” He’d brought an old wooden crate from downstairs to put items in. He’d talk to Blanche Kennedy tomorrow and send photos and values for what he’d picked, and hopefully come to a price they could agree on. Brittany found a couple of lacy doilies that she declared she had to have. He explained they’d been handmade, in a craft known as tatting. She held the pieces up to examine the fine threadwork involved.

  “These will look so pretty on my nightstands at home. They’ll bring a little character to the room. And they’ll remind me of the bed I can’t have because I’d have to commit a crime to make it usable.” She winked at him to let him know she was teasing, but he didn’t miss the desire in her eyes when she looked back to the bed. Maybe... No. Altering an antique would be a crime. No self-respecting picker would even think of it. But then again, the bed was sitting up here in a vacant house, where no one was appreciating it. He snapped a few photos on his phone when Brittany wasn’t looking. It wouldn’t hurt to toss an offer to Blanche and see what happened.

  Once they’d filled two crates with smalls he could carry to the van, they locked up the house. The sun was settling lower in the sky, but it was still light enough to do some barn exploring. Nate thought he’d seen an old dentist chair in there that would be a great conversation piece in the store. And there was a stack of old advertising signs, even some old neon ones, against the back wall. Signs were always great sellers.

  Brittany hung back after he slid the big doors open. There were two ancient farm tractors in there, probably valuable to the right collector, but way out of Nate’s wheelhouse. A few antique cars, up on blocks and coated with decades of dirt and neglect, sat behind the tractors. Nate took a few photos and sent them to his buddy Wyatt, who had a commercial garage and restored cars like that. Maybe he could broker a deal between Wyatt and Blanche for the whole bunch. He looked up at the old rafters in the barn, where he could see pinholes of daylight through the roof. It would be a shame to leave the vehicles in here to rot.

  Brittany cautiously followed him as he worked his way deeper into the barn.

  “All this needs to complete the serial-killer vibe is a bunch of chain saws and meat hooks hanging from the rafters.” She froze as something scampered across the loft floor above them. “Please tell me that was a cute kitty cat.”

  “It’s possible,” he said, turning his head away to hide his grin. “Or a squirrel. Or a raccoon. Or a rat.”

  She made a strangled sound, then smacked his shoulder. “You take that back right now, Nate Thomas. If there are rats in this place, I’ll be waiting for you in the van.”

  “Relax. This place is probably a squirrel metropolis, and squirrels are harmless.” That was all true. He also knew there had to be barn rats in here, but hopefully they’d stay hidden.

  Her eyes narrowed to slits, but she stuck close as they went to the back wall. The air was stuffy and stale in there, and the old straw still scattered on the floor didn’t help. He probably should have grabbed a couple of dust masks from the glove box in the van, but he’d been too lost in his thoughts to remember them. He’d make this quick—his primary interest was the old gas sign he’d spotted back there with the bright red Pegasus on it.

  He slid a few signs to the side to expose it. Even Brittany was impressed.

  “Wow, that Pegasus is gorgeous! That would look so cool hanging on a wall somewhere. And it looks in good condition...no holes, not much rust...” She stepped forward to touch it. She’d been paying more attention to his talks about antiques than he’d thought. He tipped the sign forward to show her it was two-sided. That was when all hell broke loose.

  A huge barn spider, complete with a grossly bulbous belly, crawled up the sign behind the one they were looking at. But it didn’t matter where it was once Brittany spied it. She let out a scream and jumped backward. He let go of the signs and reached to steady her. When the signs slammed against the wall, two small mice bolted out and ran right across the toe of her bright green tennis shoes.

  While he started to laugh, Brittany’s screams amped up to the earsplitting level, and she pulled away from him, turning for the door. Instead of following the same path they’d used coming in, weaving between the old cars, she went to the far side of one of the old posts—that had once been a tree trunk—holding up the beams overhead. And she
ran smack into a thick wall of cobweb spanning the distance between one column and the next.

  She was in an absolute panic now, frantically swinging at the cobweb to get it off her and making a keening sound of terror. He was afraid she’d hurt herself tripping over all the farm equipment between her and the doors. The old plows and menacing hay rakes could cause serious damage if she fell on them. He grabbed her arm firmly enough to pull her back. She couldn’t seem to decide if she was more afraid of him or the webs hanging on her head, so she swung wildly at both. He pulled her in close and embraced her, just to pin her arms to her sides.

  “Stop!” His voice was sharp enough to break through her panic. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

  “Get me out. Please get me out...” Her voice broke.

  “I will. I promise. But you have to listen to me so you don’t hurt yourself.” He nudged her toward the cars. As soon as her hands were free, she started clawing at the cobweb again. He took her hands in his and led her outside, where she started doing the same thing, wiping her head and chest over and over.

  “Is it on me? Is it on me? Oh, my God...is that thing on me?” Before he could react, she’d untied the cotton shirt and flung it to the ground. She grabbed the hem of the white tee and yanked it over her head, tossing it as far as she could. And there she was, wearing only a skimpy white bra and her jeans. Her hands swept up and down her body. When she reached behind her as if to unhook her bra, he finally broke out of his shocked trance.

  “Whoa, whoa. Hang on. Don’t do that.” As much as he’d like to see her topless, this wasn’t the way. Or the time. Or the place. “You’re okay. I promise.”

  “But what if it got inside my clothes? Ugh. I’m burning those shirts.” She slapped her hands to her head. “Is it in my hair? Can you see it?”

  “See what? The mice? They’re long gone...”