“Oh.” I took a deep breath. Get a grip, Chloe.
“You are getting so upset, I . . . well . . .”
“What?” My temper flared.
She gave her lilting laugh again. “I’d almost think you have feelings for him.”
Her minions giggled.
She took a sip from her fresh cup. “That’s silly. You have to know his family would never approve of you. You’re English.”
I cocked my head. “So are you.”
“True, but I’m Mennonite. I guess his family feels if he’s going to leave the church, I’m close enough. We share the same faith and values.” She frowned. “I’m surprised he didn’t tell you about me.” She crushed the second empty paper cup in her hand. “I’ve heard all about you. You were trapped in the tornado together. No wonder you have a crush on him.” Her eyes narrowed. “How cute.”
“I’ve got to go.” I got up from the table and walked away. How dumb of me to come. My version of plain clothing or not, I did not belong here. I was better off with my high-tech toys. Hannah was right; she was a much better fit for Timothy than I could ever be. If Timothy had been promised to her, it was no wonder he’d been reluctant to talk to me about his past. The question was, why did he bother to tell me at all? I knew I should go to Timothy directly and ask him. That’s what Tanisha would have done. But I didn’t have my best friend’s nerve. I couldn’t bring myself to do it at the picnic with Hannah close by. I needed to get out of there to clear my head.
I was almost to the parking lot when Timothy touched my arm. “Chloe, what’s wrong? Where are you going?”
I tensed. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“You’re upset.”
“I’m not upset.” I could hear my own voice catch, and took a breath. “I’m going home.”
“What happened?”
“Ask Hannah.”
His eyes were concerned. “Is Hannah all right?”
His question was like a punch in the gut. Maybe she had been telling the truth. “I have to go.”
“It’s late. How are you going to get there?”
“Same way I got here. I’ll walk,” I snapped.
He jerked back as if I slapped him. Then he let go of my arm and let me walk away.
As I walked home, I felt ridiculous for getting so upset. I let Hannah get to me without giving Timothy the chance to explain. He deserved the chance to do that. As I walked along the sidewalk, a flush ran up the back of my neck into the crown of my head. How could I be so stupid?
As I made my way up the path to my house, a silver car drove by me very slowly. I tamped down a shiver. I must still be spooked from today’s encounter with Curt and Brock. I put the key in the lock, then glanced at the silver sedan’s taillights. At least it wasn’t a green truck.
Chapter Fifty-One
On Monday afternoon, a reception was held in the cafeteria for summer staff. Dean Klink and the college president stood behind a podium in front of an unlit fireplace. The dean tapped his finger on the microphone. Pop. Pop.
Next to me, Clark winced, his voice a harsh whisper. “I hate it when people do that. Hurts the equipment.”
The dean leaned into the mike. “Can you hear me?”
A shout came from the back of the cafeteria. “No!”
Clark groaned.
I elbowed him. “Go up there and help him.”
“All right.” He left his seat and wove through the chairs.
The dean clapped his hands. “Oh good, I see Clark’s coming to help us.”
Miller kept rearranging the salt and pepper shakers on the table. I fought back the urge to snatch them from him.
A cluster of secretaries stood in the middle of the room, blocking half of the stage. I stood up and took a few steps to observe Clark. His foot stuck out from the side of podium. An amp or speaker must have gotten unplugged. I was about to sit down when I noticed a third person standing, waiting to speak. My back stiffened. Grayson Mathews. What is he doing here?
He made eye contact with me and smiled. A chill ran down my spine.
Clark crawled out from under the podium, said something to Dean Klink, and then hurried back to our table.
“Thank you, Clark,” Dean Klink spoke into the microphone. “Thank you, everyone, for taking time from your busy day to come out and meet together as a campus this afternoon. We know you are all tirelessly working to make this the best year Harshberger has ever seen. As year-round staff, you’re the wheels that keep us moving, and we thank you for that. Each and every one of you is important to the success of this college.”
He waited for the round of applause to die down before he continued. “Since you work all year round, we only thought it was fair to share some exciting news with you first. We have a new partnership coming to Harshberger College, and we are thrilled to tell you about it.” Dean Klink gestured to the president. “President Hammerstein, would you do the honors?”
I’d yet to meet the college president in person. He was an elderly man with a beaklike nose. His wide smile softened the severity of his features. “This school year we will be breaking ground for a new building: The Mathews Science Center.”
The sound of clapping resonated through the room.
“The Mathews Science Center will have state-of-the-art labs for all our science majors, including nursing. Mr. Mathews and his company have made a generous two-million-dollar donation, and many other donors have also given gifts.” He started listing the donors. As he did, I could not take my eyes off Grayson Mathews. When we met, I had told him I worked at Harshberger. So why didn’t he tell me about this project? Was it because the college was keeping it a secret until details were finalized? What else didn’t I know about him?
Mathews stepped up to the microphone. “Thank you, President Hammerstein. Thank you, Dean Klink.” He shared his toothpaste-commercial smile with the room. “I’m so grateful for this opportunity to partnership with Harshberger College. As many of you know, my father loved Harshberger and taught here for more than thirty years in the chemistry department. Even though I never attend here as a student—I might have if you had football . . .”
A chuckle rumbled through the crowd.
“Harshberger is as much my home campus as Ohio State is. I grew up here, and I know that the great work you do to educate and prepare young people for both their personal and professional lives is unsurpassed. This new building will be in honor of my father’s memory, but also in honor of you, his colleagues and friends.”
Clark shifted in his seat, muttering. “He wants his last name on the building. It will make it easier for him with the county.”
“What do you mean?” I whispered.
“He’s not just trying to buy Amish land, if you know what I mean.”
I wrinkled my forehead.
Miller rotated the salt and pepper shakers again. “Strategic philanthropy.”
“Or natural gas,” Clark said.
“Natural gas?” The pump on the Glick farm came to mind.
“Oh, yeah. Knox is one of the top natural gas-producing counties in Ohio. I’m sure Mathews would love to get his hands on it. The Amish are sitting smack-dab on top of it.”
“What about the planned communities?” I asked.
Clark shrugged. “He might want to do that too, but it won’t make him the same kind of money the well will. I mean, who in Knox County can afford those huge houses he builds?”
Who indeed?
A woman sitting across from us made a shushing sound, and I realized I missed the end of Mathews’s brief speech.
After the speech, Miller, Clark, and I got in line for cookies. “It was the weirdest thing,” Clark said, “but I could have sworn I saw his car in the lot this morning. Later, I went outside to search for it, but by then, it was gone.”
“You did?” Miller asked.
“What kind of car is it?” I asked, half paying attention as I watched Mathews work the room.
“A silver sedan.”
My head snapped around. The car that passed me Saturday night was a silver sedan.
Clark’s brow knitted together. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No. I’ll see you guys back at the office.” I made a beeline for the punch table where Grayson Mathews stood, shaking hands.
I waited in line as one of the vice presidents gushed over him. “Mr. Mathews, you don’t know how much this donation means to Harshberger and our students.”
Mathews smiled his perfect-teeth smile and patted the man on the back as if he was a member of the same team. Old habits must die hard for the football hero. The vice president, five foot one at best, had probably not been a former football teammate, yet he beamed.
At my turn, I held out my hand. “It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Mathews.”
He gave me the same smile he shared with the vice president, but this one didn’t reach his eyes. “Oh, yes, Miss Humphrey. It’s nice to see you again. Has Timothy and his family changed their mind about my offer?”
I shook my head.
He pursed his lips. “What a shame.”
“It’s nice of you to donate to the college. Very generous.”
He smiled. “I have plans to be a large part of Knox County, and in particular, Appleseed Creek. It makes sense I would give back, and what better place to do that than to Harshberger? The college has been here for nearly one hundred years.”
“How do you plan to be a large part of the Knox County? I mean, other than the development in the Amish district. You do know you will never convince all those Amish families to sell.”
He set his punch on the table. The cup was full. I wasn’t surprised. Grayson Mathews didn’t strike me as a fruit punch kind of guy. “You may be right. Not all the families will sell—at least not right away. However, if I can convince a few strategic sales, we can move forward with our plans. The plans may have to be scaled back, but we can always add on later as more land becomes available.”
I selected a sugar cookie from the tray. “Strategic sales? Do you mean the Glick Farm?”
“I appreciate your curiosity, but that’s simply none of your business.”
“Are you interested in the Glick’s land or the natural gas pump on the property?”
His head whipped to one side.
“I’m guessing you would have to offer each family much more for their property if you took into account their mineral rights. Have you included that in the negotiations?” I folded the cookie into a napkin.
The developer’s jaw twitched. “You don’t know what you are talking about.”
“True, I don’t know much about it, but I do know real estate is not as profitable right now as gas and oil is.” The cookie crumbled inside the napkin as I squeezed my hand around it.
“We are done here. Your college president wishes to speak to me.”
I turned around to see President Hammerstein standing behind me. As I left, I tossed the mangled cookie and napkin into the trash.
At the office, Miller and Clark were already back at their desks. It was almost four o’clock. “You guys can go home early.”
They peeked out over their cubicle walls and nodded in tandem. The two then grabbed their lunchboxes and made a dash for the door. I laughed. I couldn’t believe how much lighter the mood was in the office now that Joel was gone. It had been difficult to let him go, but it was the best thing for the college and the department. I prayed that now Miller, Clark, and I could become a real team.
Alone, I logged onto the Internet and started researching Grayson Mathews. This time I would dig deeper. Considering his wealth and reputation, there was bound to be a plethora of information about him online. I wasn’t disappointed. The first half-dozen articles talked about all the work that Mathews had done creating a planned community south of Columbus called Jeffersonville Village. Every article mentioned his record as an Ohio State football hero, as if that should give him the credentials to develop property.
I clicked a tiny icon, a logo of some type, at the bottom on the main page of his website. The logo led me to a new website called Buckeye Tree Companies.
The CEO of that corporation was Grayson Mathews. A long list of businesses fell under the corporation’s control, from Jeffersonville Village to restaurants to a gas company—Buckeye River Gas. “Got you,” I whispered. I couldn’t wait to tell Timothy why Mathews was really interested in the Amish lands.
My stomach clenched when I saw the name of another company halfway down the page—Little Owl Greenhouse. I clicked on the link and found a photograph of the place where Becky worked. She was there now.
My heart revved. Calm down, Chloe. So what if Grayson’s corporation owned the greenhouse? He owned half a dozen other small businesses in and around Knox County, too. There didn’t have to be a connection with the greenhouse and his real estate or gas companies.
I couldn’t let go of the fact that Scotch and Cookie had offered Becky a job she was clearly unqualified for. Yes, when she lived with her Amish family, she’d helped with the gardening. However her experience had been exclusively related to fruits and vegetables. She didn’t know the scientific names of flowers; she didn’t understand growing zones or how to landscape. She was a fast learner, but she still had a long way to go.
And then, there was her broken arm.
I clicked back to Buckeye Tree Companies and found the link to Jeffersonville Village, which had its own Web site. The people in the photos smiled, showing me right away that Jeffersonville Village was the best place to live in the entire state. The village had a swimming pool, tennis courts, and a clubhouse. The list went on and on.
I clicked on the listing prices. Houses were priced from two hundred thousand dollars to five hundred thousand. I stared at the screen. My father in California wouldn’t blink at these prices. In fact, where he lived these homes would be considered cheap. However, in rural Ohio the prices didn’t ring true. Who in Knox County could afford such an expensive home?
I sat back, stunned. Clark was right. It wasn’t the land Mathews wanted. It was what was under the land.
It was after four, and Becky would be done at the greenhouse in half an hour. I thought about calling Timothy, but we hadn’t spoken since the picnic. I held my cell phone in my hand. He was working in Sunbury again this week anyway. I slid the phone back into my purse, telling myself that not calling him had nothing whatsoever to do with Hannah Hilty.
With so much on my mind, I turned off the computer, grabbed my purse, and headed for Little Owl Greenhouse.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Cookie wasn’t at the cash register when I stepped into the greenhouse, but that was to be expected. Cookie and Scotch were always wandering around. Usually Becky was the easiest to find, but I didn’t see her either.
I cupped my hands around my mouth. “Becky?”
No response. That girl really needed a cell phone for times like this. I kicked myself for buying her jeans first. I stepped through the store and hothouse, the thick air greeting me. Still no Becky. I checked outside at the fenced-in part of the property. Becky should be here. She had told me the night before that Scotch was going to teach her how to prune the fir trees. How she planned to manage that with one arm, I couldn’t understand. But I hadn’t wanted to dampen her mood. She’d been upbeat ever since our walk on the trail with Timothy and Aaron.
I hurried down the long row of maples until reaching the fir trees. It felt like I’d stepped into a potted version of a Christmas tree farm. “Becky?”
Still no answer. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, prickling my skin. I turned around to head toward the exit.
&nb
sp; Just then, Brock and Curt stepped out from opposite sides. They trapped me in the middle of a stand of pine trees. Curt’s lip curled. “Red’s back, Brock.”
“Hello, friend.” Brock clapped his hands, the sound of it like thunder. “We missed you.”
“I can’t say the same,” I snapped. “Get out of my way.”
Curt shook his head. “No need to get testy.” He took a step toward me.
My breath caught, and I retreated, the sharp, spiny branches of a fir tree poking me in the back. “Don’t come near me or I will scream. The people working here will hear me.”
Curt snorted. “You mean Cookie or Scotch? They are old friends of ours. They won’t say anything about your screams.”
“Old friends? What are you talking about?”
“My goodness, Brock, she doesn’t have it all figured out. I would have thought Little Miss Super Sleuth would know everything by now. You’ve been all over the county, poking your nose where it don’t belong.”
I clenched my fists. “Where are Cookie and Scotch?”
“They’re here. Keeping quiet just like we told them to. They’re good at following orders.”
“Not all the time,” Brock corrected.
“They are after we roughed up Scotch a little, you know, as incentive.” Curt smirked.
My heart pounded in my chest, the sound exploding in my ears. “Where’s Becky?”
“Don’t worry. She’s here. She’s been spending some time with us. We’ve decided to put the past in the past. Now we’re all chums.” He nodded at Brock. “Aren’t we, brother?”
“Totally,” Brock agreed.
“You better not have hurt her.” I removed my phone from my pocket, then swallowed a groan. No service.
Brock grabbed the phone from my hand. “There will be none of that. No calling for help, especially from that Amish boyfriend of yours.”
Curt paced in front of me. “Why would you bother with some buggy-rider when you could have a real man like one of us?”
Appleseed Creek Trilogy, Books 1-3 Page 27