“I don’t have time for that anymore, and no taste for it either,” Wally said. “I told you; I’m a family man now. And you should lay off that stuff too. It’ll kill you.”
“You lecturing me, little brother?” Jem’s smile remained, but his eyes had turned dark.
“I’m talking to you like a brother,” Wally said, surprised at the heat he felt creeping up to his neck. “God gave me a second chance at life,” he heard himself say, “and I’m not going to mess it up.” A lump stuck in his throat. He was glad they’d reached his truck. He swung the door open. “Come on.”
“God?” Jem echoed when he’d climbed in the passenger side. “You’re not lecturing; you’re preaching!” he said. He didn’t seem angry, though, just amused. Wally had always been the go-along-with-whatever guy, Jem’s meek, little shadow.
Jem was quiet for a while and then muttered, more to himself than to Wally, “God never had much time for me.”
Wally wanted to ask how much time he’d had for God, but he let the comment rest between them. They were almost up to the Gas N Go, and Wally turned in. The gauge had been hovering close to the “E” mark.
The place was a hotbed of activity. There were lines at the pumps, and Scooter was doing his best to help drivers get on their way. It was Friday, and folks were filling up for the weekend. He pulled up to a pump when the path cleared and got out to help himself. Scooter was busier than a one-armed paper hanger.
“Think I’ll go in and grab a bag of chips,” Jem said. “Missed lunch, and I’m starving.”
He’d gone inside the station and returned with a bag of Twizzlers. Wally slapped a twenty in Scooter’s hand as the boy whizzed past, and then they left the Gas N Go.
Friday afternoon.
Now, as the conversation on the porch continued, Wally felt a gnawing in his stomach. Was it possible that Jem had … ? He didn’t want to finish the question even to himself, and he certainly didn’t want to hear the dreaded answer his mind was supplying. In the old days, Jem had thought nothing of swiping a soda here, a candy bar there.
But Jem was a grown-up successful businessman now. Surely he didn’t need to swipe money from a cash register. Wally caught the inside of his cheek between his teeth. Those days of penny-ante thefts—larks on a summer day—were over, weren’t they? But what did he really know about this brother who had left home so many years ago?
Wally packed up his tools and walked out onto the porch.
“Ready for some lemonade?” Annie asked, rising. “Ian didn’t eat all the oatmeal cookies. Here, sit down.”
“I—I think I’d better take a rain check. I forgot … there’s something I have to do.” Jem had dropped him off earlier, so he’d have to walk to town or see if Peggy had time to swing by. Either way, he needed time to consider what he’d heard.
“Oh.” Annie seemed genuinely disappointed. Her eyes narrowed briefly. “Is everything all right? You look a little …”
“I’m fine,” Wally managed. Annie had a way of seeing into a person, and Wally didn’t want her to look just now. “I’ll be back in the morning to work on the pantry. Is nine o’clock OK?” He reached for his toolbox and made a show of straightening the bill of his ball cap.
“Sure,” Annie said. “And thanks for all you’re doing. I can’t wait to see the new and improved pantry.”
“See you, Mr. Mayor,” Wally said. He could do with a little time to think. But the direction his thoughts were taking filled him with dread.
12
Tara quickened her steps as a low growl warned of coming rain—a sudden tempest on a Monday afternoon. She peered up at the fast-moving clouds. If she had accepted Annie’s loan of her bike today, as she sometimes had, she could have made a mad dash to Carla’s. But she had wanted the time to think, so she’d set off on the two-mile trek to the shelter, and that with no umbrella.
When she left Grey Gables, the sun had been smiling in a benign blue sky. She’d slept well in spite of worrying about Jem’s impromptu visit to Grey Gables last week. It was unnerving when he popped up unannounced like that. Things had been going so well. That day she had finished helping Annie prepare cross-stitch canvases for the Hook and Needle Club to frame. They had listened to comforting music and talked while they worked. She had never had many friends—certainly none like Annie.
Tara smiled, remembering how good it felt to be there—helping to restore the beautiful handwork of a real artist. Together they had washed the soiled pieces, pressed and stretched them, and then, when they were dry, carefully wrapped them in acid-free tissue paper. It was a work of love for Annie, she thought, remembering how tenderly Annie’s fingers had traced the lovely designs and the precise stitches. They had been worked with love too. What was love like that? Tara couldn’t understand it. She’d felt a bit like an outsider watching Annie, but Annie had quickly drawn her in, trusting her with the remarkable cross-stitch canvases.
As she quickened her steps, Tara marveled that she had been accepted into Annie’s circle of friends. She was even learning how to knit, thanks to Mary Beth, who had decided that knitting suited Tara’s personality better than crocheting. But they know nothing about my “personality,” she thought as the first scant drops of rain fell on her face. They didn’t know that the person who had shown up on Annie’s doorstep was actually an interloper, and that she was part of a scheme that would violate all the trust that Annie had placed in her.
When Jem had appeared at Grey Gables with Wally, Tara thought she would faint right there on the spot. What did he think he was doing just walking in like that? He’d told her he would stay out of sight, that he’d pretend they didn’t know each other. Then he just popped in without warning—drank coffee in the kitchen and sweet-talked Annie like he’d known her all his life. Jem could be so exasperating. Had she covered up her initial shock upon seeing him? Did Annie suspect anything?
Suddenly, as she neared the stretch of woodland on the outskirts of Carla’s place, she heard footsteps behind her. She whirled around and felt Jem grab her wrist. He pulled her off the path and into a stand of trees.
“Caught you!” he said, laughing, and tried to pull her into his arms. His skin was hot from running and damp with sweat and rain. She detected the sweet-sour smell of beer on his breath—in the middle of the day. Oh, Jem.
She pushed away from him. “What are you doing!” she demanded, anger rising in her. “You can’t just keep popping up and scaring me out of my wits like this.”
“Come on, baby. I missed you,” he said, backing her against the rough bark of a tree. His voice was husky but insistent, dark eyes lit with humor. “Haven’t you missed me?”
“No. How can I miss you when you keep jumping out at me?” Her heart thumped like a wild thing in her chest, but she leveled her gaze at him. “Showing up at Grey Gables like that wasn’t smart either.”
His eyes narrowed, and she knew she’d touched a sore point. Jem didn’t like being told what was smart and what wasn’t. Sometimes he just didn’t think! He took a step back but kept his hands pressed against the tree trunk on either side of her, effectively pinning her there. “I told you I’d be watching.” He paused, and considered her as though trying to be patient with a stubborn child. “Besides, what could be more natural than getting to know my brother’s friends? It’s a bonus to learn Wally’s such a regular around there.”
“And how did you get here?” She looked anxiously around for the sleek rental car he’d been showing up in. What had he done with the old conversion van?
“Takes money to rent a car—and my cards are maxed.” He glared at her to make his meaning clear. It was her fault; she was moving too slow.
“But we can’t be seen together. You said—”
“I said I’d be nearby, and I’d be watching.” A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Your rich friend doesn’t suspect a thing.”
She recalled the day he’d nearly been caught snooping around Grey Gables. Boots had been blamed for the downed flowerpot.
It was a really stupid move. Sometimes, Jem just didn’t use his head.
“What I want to know is what you’ve discovered in that attic, so I can figure out how to make our plan work,” he said evenly. “You’ve had plenty of time to find the stuff we’re looking for.” He drew his lips together like a petulant child and glared at her, waiting for her answer.
“Jem, I can’t just go rummaging around in there, even if I knew exactly what to look for. It’s just not that simple.” She squirmed out of his grasp. “I have to go to work. I’m going to be late.”
“What are you doing that’s so important?” He made no move to touch her but leaned back against a tree, facing her. He folded his arms across his chest and looked at her through heavy-lidded eyes.
“I’m making some money the way people are supposed to make it. I’m working.” Jem had held a number of jobs, none of which lasted long. It was always someone else’s fault when he was let go. Why couldn’t he just settle down instead of thinking up new schemes to get quick money? She thought about Wally, how carefully he set about his work, how much Annie appreciated him. How could two boys who’d grown up together be so different? She drew in a quick breath. “Annie got me this job, and I’m not going to mess it up.”
“So, it’s ‘Annie’ is it? You’ve gotten pretty cozy with the rich lady, haven’t you?” His lip curled in scorn but quickly turned into a sly smile. “But that’s good. Cozy is good. You just keep it up. Stay on her good side.” He leaned toward her, dark hair falling over one eye. “Once we get our hands on those canvases, we’ll have some real money, and we can go away together—you and me.”
She kept her eyes down. She didn’t want to be moved by that little-boy posture that always got to her. She was tired of the pretense, of wishing and hoping. She let out a long breath. “Jem, we don’t need to do this. I’ll have some money on Friday. You can have it—all of it. I just don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want …” Her throat ached, and she felt the tears gathering. He would try to take her in his arms, comforting her like he always did, and she would crumble like a house of cards. If only she were strong like Annie.
Annie had survived many losses in her life—her parents, her beloved husband, her grandparents. She’d struck out on her own in a new town with people she didn’t know. And she had remained strong through it all. Tara thought about the cross-stitched lighthouse she had washed and pressed. The design showed dark waves cresting a rocky shoal, and from the lighthouse, yellow light radiated in a steel gray sky.
“A person can stay strong through trouble by doing what’s right, Tara … and by opening your heart to others.” Annie had smiled gently with those words and looked off into some distance that Tara couldn’t see.
But knowing what was right wasn’t always that easy. And opening your heart could be dangerous. Tara swallowed, realizing that Jem had gone very quiet. No cajoling; no attempt to embrace her.
It was silent in the little grove except for the rain, still gentle, whispering through the leafy boughs above them. Jem remained with his back against the tree, arms folded. They were so close she could see the little black hairs in the hollow of his throat quivering with the rising and falling of his breath. Her own breath seemed to have stopped.
She looked up to see him studying her, the expression in his deep-set eyes hard to read. His pupils were dark, and his mouth rigid. From far away a gull cried. Jem suddenly dropped his arms, turned away, and disappeared into the trees.
She listened for his retreating footfalls, but she heard only silence. The rain, too, had stopped, as though it had been startled back into the heavens from which it came.
A terrible emptiness gaped inside her. She was alone, more deeply alone than she had ever felt. She stepped away from the tree and moved out of the woods, putting one foot in front of the other. But the ground beneath her seemed without substance. She began to run … faster and faster. This was how an empty person moved. She cleared the distance to the animal shelter in what seemed seconds. Perhaps she was, in fact, without substance herself—a ghost.
The barking of the dogs grew louder and more insistent as she approached the large farmhouse. They always made a racket, but the sounds were different—sharp, urgent. She could see them pacing and jumping in their pens. The closer she came, the more boisterous their complaints. It was Vanessa’s day off, but in her absence Carla would have fed and watered her charges long ago.
Drawing alongside the pens, she realized that the metal water pans on the concrete slabs were empty. Food dishes had been scattered, some of them turned upside down. She stood still, listening and scanning the area, but there was no sign of Carla. Chilled by the brief rain and Jem’s dismissal, Tara shivered.
She ran past the pens and headed for the rambling farmhouse where porch lights still burned at nearly one o’clock in the afternoon. Where was Carla?
She opened the unlocked screen door and stepped inside. The front part of the house had been made into a kind of office that was more like an old country kitchen. The computer loomed on a great round table, surrounded by several wire baskets for records. There were books on animal care, assorted pens and pencils—Carla was not known for tidiness. Four wooden chairs surrounded the cluttered table that served as a computer desk. Carla’s desk loomed in one corner, a rambling thing with big drawers, but Carla liked to have everything at her fingertips. She knew “exactly where everything was.”
“Hello?” Tara called idly. “I’m here.” She draped her wet jacket over a chair and straightened the file folders. She cleared the area around the computer and prepared to continue her work from last week. She was anxious to get busy; she didn’t want to dwell on the meeting with Jem and the way he’d simply left her, the hurt and anger plain on his handsome face.
An eerie silence pervaded, mixed with the muffled braying of dogs. Maybe Carla was out in the back preparing the feeding run that Vanessa usually took care of. She herself had never done it; Carla had made it clear that Tara was needed in the office. In the two weeks since she had worked at the shelter, she’d been tied to the computer. Maybe Carla was in her quarters behind the burgeoning office. She wasn’t the welcoming type, though she hadn’t fulfilled the dire prophecies people had predicted. It was true that she watched her like a hawk, but with eyes more curious than critical. Sometimes a soft half-smile would transform her harsh expression. Then, catching Tara’s glance, she would look away.
The minutes passed. Something didn’t feel right. A rustling came from the hallway leading to the kitchen where the barred owl resided. Carla kept Gomer in a large cage while its feet and toes mended. Tara peered around the corner. The bird stared at her, angry eyes oddly glazed. It opened its beak as though it would say something, but only a strange guttural sound came out. She shivered again and kept her distance. She’d be glad when Carla released the owl. Who knew what diseases the thing might be carrying? She’d learned diseases could be passed from vertebrate animals to people. They were known as zoonotic diseases, but she’d had no experience with such things.
She settled herself in the chair by the computer and focused on the website. She had to calm herself after the encounter with Jem. Was he angry enough to leave her this time? If only she’d never heard of Stony Point, Maine. If only they hadn’t come here, and she’d never met Annie Dawson. And yet …
“Pay attention to that Annie Dawson; she’s got an honest heart.” Carla had said those words out of the blue recently—Carla, who didn’t even seem to like Annie, who didn’t seem to like anyone. It was strange.
Suddenly Boomer came scuttling in, his usually perky tail draping the floor. He dragged himself toward her on his crippled hip, whining all the way. He nudged her with his snout.
“Hello, boy,” she said gently. She frowned at his continual whining and the odd way he tossed his head. Perhaps he was in greater pain with his hip condition than they’d thought. She’d loved the dog from the minute she’d met him. “What’s the matter, boy?” He sidestepped aw
kwardly and returned to nudge her again. Was he trying to tell her something? She got up and followed.
Boomer led her to a partly closed door off the east end of the long hallway. He pressed his furry weight against the door, flinging it wide.
Tara sucked in her breath. There was Carla on her back on a rumpled bed. She lay eerily still, her complexion drained of color. She was fully dressed in jeans, and the floppy plaid shirt she often wore had become twisted on her stout, muscled body. Graying blond hair had pulled away from its tether, and a few strands strayed across her lined forehead. In that prone position she looked old beyond her fifties.
“Carla!” she whispered, drawing close to the bed but stopping short of touching her. Her arms were flung out and hung limply over the narrow bed. Her eyes fluttered briefly, and faint groans escaped her lips.
A cluttered table by the bed held spent tissues and glasses, a bottle of cough medicine and a sticky spoon. She’d had a slight cough when Tara had seen her on Friday. Over the weekend she must have gotten worse and was treating herself for some kind of respiratory problem.
“Carla, can you hear me?” Then Tara spotted the wrist that had been bandaged after the scrape with Gomer. Ugly and red, it had swollen to twice its size. She raced down the hall for the telephone and dialed 911. Quickly, she gave the location and described Carla’s condition. She told them about the owl and the bite and Carla’s swollen wrist.
Urging them to hurry, she went back to the bedside, carrying the cordless phone with her and answering the emergency dispatcher’s continued questions. Boomer sat with his big head on Carla’s blue-jeaned thigh. Carla seemed only barely conscious, occasionally muttering something unintelligible in a breathy tone. “Sorry” was the only word Tara could make out.
“Help is coming. It’s going to be OK,” Tara whispered. Her voice sounded odd, far away. What more could go wrong on this terrible Monday! She wished she knew how to pray. Dampening a cloth she touched it to her boss’s hot forehead, thinking how much the crusty Carla would bristle at such attention if she had been her usual self. “All prickles and stings.” That’s how Alice described her. And Stella Brickson had harrumphed and offered, “You’d need a tank to get through that woman’s defenses!” But Tara recognized something in her new employer—a deep place where pain kept her prisoner as surely as the bars in Gomer’s cage.
The Stolen Canvas Page 11