“Don’t tease me, Emma Jean. I’m too old for games.”
Emma scowled and pulled her hand back out. “Then you’re probably too old for what I brought you. I’ll just to give it to Mikey.”
Greta sat down and grabbed the bag. “That overgrown boy’s not getting my gift,” she scolded as she reached inside. She squealed when her hand came out gripping a book. “Stephen King’s newest! Oh boy. I’m gonna be scared silly tonight!”
Emma shook her head. “I don’t know how you can sleep in this creaky old house after reading his stuff.”
Greta was hugging the book to her bosom and grinning from ear to ear. “I met him once, you know.”
She’d heard this story a thousand times already,
but Emma dutifully answered the unspoken request. “Really?”
“Sable and I were shopping in that bookstore in downtown Bangor. You know, the one that has all his books. And he was there! He autographed one for me and one for Sable.” Greta was positively glowing, her eyes shining as she tried to look knowledgeable. “He’s a regular person, you know. No airs about him. He walks around town as if he’s nobody.”
Emma reached for the pot of tea so she wouldn’t roll her eyes. “I didn’t sleep for a week when I read that book you lent me.”
Greta reached back in the bag and found the rest of her surprise—linen towels with moose on them. “Oh, Emma Jean, you shouldn’t have.”
Emma had intended to keep them, but on the flight home she had given herself a good talking to, reminding herself that old dreams were better left unresurrected.
“Oh, Em, they’re beautiful. They’re too nice to use, though.”
“You could cover your rising bread with them,” Emma suggested. “Or just hang them here in the kitchen for looks.”
Greta set the towels on the table and patted them as she leaned over and looked at the other bag on the floor. “What’s in that one?” she asked, raising her brow.
Emma picked up the shiny black plastic bag and sat it on her lap. “Um, I bought a dress. For the dance tonight.”
Silence stole across the table and Emma finally looked up to find Greta staring at her, utterly surprised. Then the old woman waved at Emma to show her the dress.
“By the color of your face, missy, I’d say this dress is not your usual style.” She cocked her head at her. “Or is it your date that’s got you blushing?”
Emma did roll her eyes then. Leave it to Greta to sink her teeth into the heart of the matter. “Mikey’s been visiting you.”
“With amazing tales about a long-lost father,” Greta confirmed with a nod. “He’s more excited than a cat stuck in a mouse hole.” She picked up the teapot and poured herself a cup. “Go on, Emma Jean,” she continued. “Show me the dress.”
“I … I’m not going to wear it. I don’t know what possessed me to buy it.”
“A good-looking man possessed you, if I remember Benjamin Sinclair.” She covered her cheeks with frail hands. “Land sakes, that boy was handsome.”
“He’s no longer a boy, Greta. He grew a foot taller and two feet wider, and he’s got a beard Paul Bunyan would envy.”
“You gonna pull that dress out, or are you trying to wrinkle it to death?”
Emma finally opened the bag and slowly pulled out the scarlet sheath she had purchased.
“Oh my.”
Determined to show just how silly she was, Emma held the dress up to her chest. It wasn’t all that long on the bottom, and not too tall on the top, either. It was cut low in the back and held up by two narrow straps.
“Stand up and show me,” Greta demanded, motioning with her hand and standing herself. “Oh Lord, that’s a sight I’ve waited years to see.”
“What?”
Walking around the table and taking the dress to hold it up to Emma’s shoulders, Greta smiled and shook her head. Emma stared at the woman who came up to her chin, and swore under her breath when she noticed the sheen in her friend’s eyes.
“I’ve been waiting twenty-four years for you to come to your senses, Emma Jean. This is you. The real you. This dress was made for your beauty.”
Emma snorted and sat back down. “I was temporarily insane when I bought it. That is not me. I’m flannel and denim and hiking boots.”
Greta reached into the bag and pulled out the matching shoes. “These could have been a bit taller in the heel,” she said with a sigh. “But I suppose anything sexier and you would have broken your neck.”
“I’m not wearing the dress, Greta.”
“Of course you are, child. And you’ll put your hair up all nice and feminine-like, and you’ll wear your mother’s pearls.”
Emma gave her a horrified look. “I’ll be laughed right out of the dance hall!”
“Oh, posh. It’s time the menfolk around here got woken up.” Greta laid the dress over a chair and sat down. “It’s about time you woke up.”
“I’ll look like I’m trying to impress … people.”
“Not people, Emma Jean. Just one man.”
“I sure as heck don’t want to impress Ben.” She sat her cup in the saucer with a clink. “Are you forgetting everything he’s done?”
Greta stared at her. “What has he done, exactly?”
“He got my sister pregnant and then walked away.”
“Did he? According to Michael, Ben Sinclair walked away from a confused young girl, not a pregnant one. He didn’t know, Emma. That makes a mighty big difference in my book.”
“Rumor has it he blew up the dam.”
All Emma got for that unworthy statement was a good glare.
“He’s going to cause trouble, Greta. And he’s going to take Mikey away.”
“Maybe not.” The old woman smiled at her. “Once he sees you in that dress.”
“Greta!”
“Oh, eat your cake, Emma Jean.”
Emma picked up her fork and drove it rather forcefully into the huge piece of cake. But she didn’t get the dessert halfway to her mouth before the back door slammed open and Mikey walked in.
“I’m here, Aunt Greta. What’s to eat?” he hollered to the entire house. “Oh. Hi, Nem. Back from your pilgrimage already?”
“That’s no way to come barging in here. And wipe your feet,” Emma said.
With the negligence of a teenager, he made a showing of scuffing his feet on the rug before he sauntered up to the table and examined its contents. He reached to pull out a chair, but stopped when his hand landed on the dress.
“What’s this?” He held it up. He looked from Greta to Emma, then back at Greta, and softly whistled. “Wow. Aunt Greta, you going to kick up some dust tonight?”
He winked at her as he held the dress by the straps, examining it again. “Ah, Grets, don’t you think it’s a little cold for this outfit?”
Emma grabbed the dress out of his hands and pushed it back in the bag. “Good point, Mikey. It’s definitely too cold for this.”
“That’s your aunt’s dress, Michael. And I’m lending her a pretty gold shawl to wear with it.”
For one fleeting moment, Emma saw shock wash over Mikey’s face. And then he just stared at her. Finally he nodded. “Take the shawl, Nem. And make sure those straps are good and secure.”
Emma stood up. “Here. You can have my cake. I’m going home.”
“Not yet, Emma Jean. I need you to take some laundry up to Wayne’s room for me,” Greta said, standing up as if to block her exit. She smiled up at Emma. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Mikey can do it.”
“No. He’s got to get out the Henry J. He’s driving me into Greenville for a doctor’s appointment.”
Emma arched one brow at Mikey, but he was too busy stuffing his face to look back. His mouth full, all he could do was nod and shovel.
“Wayne Poulin is thirty-five years old. He should be doing his own laundry.”
“Here’s the key to his room. Just put the clothes in his drawers for me. Please?”
“S
hould I rotate his socks while I’m at it?” Emma drawled.
Greta shoved the basket at her. “That would be nice. And maybe you could dust a bit while you’re up there.”
Emma scowled at her.
“Oh, and make sure you don’t knock down the key he’s got hidden behind the picture on the dresser. It’s to his desk, and I don’t dust in there. It’s where he keeps his private papers,” Greta said, tossing a small ring of keys onto the laundry. “And while you’re upstairs, that gold shawl is folded over a hanger in my closet. Take it. And wear it and the dress tonight. That’s an order, Emma Jean.”
Emma went upstairs to Wayne’s room and set the basket down in the hall. She tried three keys before she found the right one. Silently scolding herself for what she was about to do, but determined nonetheless, she opened the door and stepped into Wayne’s private domain.
Emma sat the basket on the bed and looked around, wondering if she would have gone to Wayne’s rescue as quickly as she had Ben’s. She snorted. Not likely. She had never had a teenage crush on Wayne Poulin. She’d taken his measure the first night he had come to the house to pick up Kelly. She hadn’t liked what she had seen then, and she still didn’t.
There was something calculated about Wayne. His beady little brown eyes ruined his otherwise handsome face. He was short, with straight brown hair, and he had a wiry body. He was a forester for one of the larger mills just north of here, and he spent a great deal of his time in the woods. He reminded Emma of a pit bull.
Wayne’s room showed all the signs of a man who had spent fifteen years living in a boardinghouse. It was cluttered with books and trade magazines and outdoor equipment. There was a gun rack on one wall sporting a shotgun, two high-powered rifles, and a compound bow.
The ring of keys bit into her hand, and Emma realized she had a death grip on them. Well, she was here, Wayne was not, and she knew where the key to his desk was. She was going to look for Kelly’s letters.
She heard a garage door open and looked out the window. Mikey was carefully backing out Greta’s classic 1956 Henry J. Emma shook her head. That car was the pride of both Greta and Mikey, and he was the only one she would let drive it. For two years now, Mikey had been driving Greta to appointments, the grocery store, and the library in Greenville.
They had been stopped by a deputy once, and there had been quite a ruckus over there being a thirteen-year-old at the wheel. But Amos Ramsey, the county sheriff, also boarded at Greta’s, and after a week of burnt meals and gritty bedsheets, all the deputies suddenly went blind when Mikey was driving the Henry J on the back roads of the county.
Greta and Mikey pulled out of the driveway and the house took on an eerie silence. Emma quickly found the key sitting behind the picture on the dresser, right where Greta had said it would be. She turned back to Wayne’s desk. It was on old rolltop without a speck of dust on it—which meant Greta had all but told Emma to snoop.
Which she fully intended to do. And even if she didn’t find Kelly’s letters, she would see what Wayne used for stationery. Then she would ask Ben what his letter had looked like. Maybe Wayne was the one who had lured Ben here. Emma wouldn’t put it past the man; he was bitter enough to want to stir up any trouble he could. Maybe he even thought that if Kelly found out Ben had come back, she would return also.
Yeah, that made sense. Wayne had never moved on from Kelly’s abandonment. He had received pitying looks from people at first, but now he was the recipient of laughter. After ten years, he was starting to look more like a fool than a pining boyfriend.
Wayne blamed Ben for the whole mess. And it had been Wayne who had first suggested Ben and his group of environmentalists had blown up the dam and killed her dad.
The old desk creaked as she raised the top, and the inside was much more stark and far more organized than the room. In this one place, Wayne was a professional, it seemed. His paycheck stubs were all filed by date in one of the cubbyholes.
She found some writing paper and envelopes, and stole one of each. Then she searched all the drawers and every nook and cranny, finding no letters from Kelly. But under the blotter, written in bold, harsh lines, were some numbers. Studying them, Emma realized they were map coordinates in longitude and latitude. It wasn’t a range of parallels or minutes, like a tract of land that Wayne’s company might be planning to harvest, but one particular spot.
They could mean anything. With a Global Positioning System, Wayne could have marked any spot for future reference when he had been in the field. The coordinates could be a start-off point for cruising timber. It could be a logging camp. Or a freshwater spring he had found. She tucked the paper back under the blotter and sighed, looking around the room for anyplace else Wayne might hide a letter.
Emma was just closing the rolltop when she spotted the corner of the paper sticking out from under the blotter. She pushed it fully under the blotter to hide her snooping, but was drawn back to it for some reason. The coordinates made her curious. She had a GPS in the Cessna, as well as a handheld device, and she knew the exact coordinates of Medicine Creek Camps. These numbers were northwest of her camps, less than one day’s walk.
She also knew there was nothing in that general area. The mills hadn’t cut that land in nearly forty years.
She pulled out the stationery she’d stolen and quickly copied down the coordinates. Then she shoved the scrap of paper back under the blotter and closed the desk and locked it. She took the laundry out of the basket, and instead of putting it in his bureau, she set the clothes on Wayne’s bed. The jerk could rotate his own socks.
She was going home, taking a long, relaxing bath, and then dressing up for an evening of certain disaster.
“What are you doing? We’re going to be late.”
Emma looked up at Ben and frowned. “I’m creating ammunition for the coming battle with Mikey. This is a game timer. Here. Take this string and tie it to that porch post over there.”
“What in hell is a game timer?”
Emma straightened and made sure her coat was buttoned up to her chin. “It’s a clock with a string attached. You stretch the string across a game trail and set it. When a deer comes walking along, it trips the string, stopping the clock. That way you know what time the deer are walking that particular area. Most animals are creatures of habit.”
“And we are setting this up on your porch … why?”
“So I know exactly what time your son comes home. This gives me the ammunition to catch him in his lie.”
“Why do you think Mike’s going to lie to you?”
“It seems to be a newly acquired habit of his, ever since his father told him to go out and have a little fun.”
“Now, Em, you know I was right.”
“I know that it’s dangerous to let an overintelligent teenager loose on society. Sheriff Ramsey drove out here yesterday to warn me that Michael was seen in town with an unsavory group of kids.”
“How unsavory can kids get in Medicine Gore, Em?”
“Unsavory enough to harass some environmentalist when no one is looking. Most of the kids’ parents make their living off the forest one way or another, and this political war has filtered down to the children.”
“Mike wouldn’t do anything stupid.”
Emma hunched down to set the timer, nearly falling off the steps as her high heels wobbled. “Mikey is probably their ringleader. Their latest prank has all the earmark of his handiwork.”
Ben pulled her away from the edge of the steps. He took the timer and hunched down to secure it to the post. “What prank?”
Emma sat down beside him on the top step, and set the clock and tested the string, making sure Mikey wouldn’t see it but would still trip it. “Somebody built a fort of logs around an environmentalist’s truck two nights ago.”
Ben grinned, his teeth white and his eyes glistening in the moonlight. “That wasn’t so bad. It’s kind of brilliant.”
“Very brilliant. As for being bad, there was no way to dismantl
e the logs without caving them in on the truck. Which is precisely what happened.”
“Any number of kids around here must have access to a truck full of logs and a pulp loader. What makes you think it was Mike?”
“Because only Mikey would realize he could commit a crime without actually doing anything wrong. After all, they didn’t touch any property, they simply built a log cabin. It wasn’t their fault the truck was damaged. The environmentalists did that themselves when they tried to free the truck. What crime could the kids possibly be charged with?”
Ben sat down on the porch. “Hell, you’re right.” He wrapped his arm over her shoulders. “Mike’s a genius.”
“Doesn’t he scare you sometimes?”
“He scares the hell out of me,” he said.
Emma rested her chin in her fists. “Me, too.”
“You’ve survived well enough.”
“Only because Mikey’s been charitable to me.”
“I love your legs.”
“Huh?”
“And your hair. You’ve fixed it just right to show off your lovely neck and your cute little ears. You look very delicious tonight, Miss Sands.”
Emma shot out from under his arm and was halfway to the truck before he caught up with her.
“Was it something I said?”
“Thank you.”
“For?”
“The compliment.”
“Hmm. I don’t suppose you’ve had many, have you? Here’s another one: thank you for doing such a fine job of raising Mike. A father couldn’t hope for a better son.”
Emma stopped and stared. Had she just heard right? Was Ben thanking her for raising Michael?
“Say ‘you’re welcome,’ Em.”
“But you hate me.”
He shook his head. “No, I don’t.” He shoved his hands in his pant pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Not anymore.”
Emma took a step back, his words making her heart beat a little faster.
“I hated Kelly by the time I was done reading that letter. Then I learned that you had raised Mike, so I turned my anger on you. But I can’t hate you. You love him, Em. And that’s something I understand.”
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