“He’s quite the peacock, strutting around like that. I’ve seen him at the quarry. Come to think of it, he made a pass at me when I first came, only I didn’t realize it was a pass until now. Quite the ladies’ man, is he?”
Donna rolled her eyes.
“How does he manage to carry on with three live-in lovers in a conservative place like the Notch?”
“He lives in the Corner. Things are different there.”
“Standards, you mean?” Chelsea asked, then looked up suddenly and said, “Hello, Margaret.”
Donna wasn’t surprised to see her mother. Margaret was like a shadow at times. This time she was carrying two lunches, and for a split second Donna wondered if she’d set out to chaperone Nolan and her. But no, she didn’t look startled to find Chelsea.
“May I join you?” she asked.
“Of course,” Chelsea said, sitting straighter. “We were just talking about Stokey French.”
Had it been up to her, Donna never would have broached this particular topic in front of her mother. Margaret had strong feelings about certain things, and although she was miserly with words, she could be expressive.
“Smarmy man,” she said now as she lowered herself to the ground. Setting one of the lunches she carried by the one already there, she opened the other. “It’s indecent, how he lives, how they all live in that place.” She unwrapped her sandwich, lifted the top piece of bread, and studied the filling. “ ‘Twasn’t always that way.”
“How was it before?” Chelsea asked.
“Safer. They were docile. They followed our rules at the quarry and at home. A man lived with the woman who bore his children. If she bore any children other than his, she was punished.”
“Punished?” Chelsea asked, frowning.
Margaret replaced the top piece of bread, turned the sandwich over, and removed the bottom. “Cast out.”
“Exiled?”
“Shunned.”
“That’s dreadful!” Chelsea said, and Donna held her breath, but Margaret remained calm.
“ ‘Twas actually quite humane.” She replaced the bottom piece of bread. “Rather than being sent away penniless, she was allowed to remain.”
“But her life must have been miserable.”
“Yes. She was made an example to the others of what not to do.”
Chelsea looked appalled. Turning to Donna, she said, “Did that really happen?”
Donna hesitated, then nodded.
“Do you remember it?”
Donna was wondering how she could change the subject when Margaret said, “Donna was very young when it last happened. The woman was the wife of one of our men. Twelve months after he left her, she gave birth to a bastard son. You know him. Hunter Love.”
Donna’s stomach had started to clench.
Chelsea’s jaw dropped. “Hunter? That’s incredible.”
“She was a trollop,” Margaret said.
“His mother?”
“She went mad, all alone.”
“Before he was born?”
“She did something she shouldn’t have done, and she paid the price. Then the boy killed her.”
Donna died inside.
“Killed her? Hunter?” Chelsea asked.
“Hit her over the head.”
Donna bit her tongue to keep from crying out.
Chelsea looked shaken. “How old was he?”
“Five. That was how long she kept him hidden in that shack of hers. He killed her to escape, hit her over the head with a piece of wood, then ran off. They found him on the road. He refused to talk.”
He was only five, Donna wanted to cry, little more than a baby. He’d been locked up all his life. He’d been damaged. But she didn’t say a word. She never did when it came to Hunter. She’d learned her lesson the hard way.
Taking a tiny straw of salt from the lunch box, she focused on it so that she wouldn’t know what they were saying. It was the one advantage of being deaf, blocking things out simply by looking away. But she couldn’t bear that, either. She wanted to know what Margaret was saying about Hunter so that she could set Chelsea straight.
Chelsea looked as though she were having trouble with Margaret’s story. For that alone Donna adored her.
“She died of a blow to the head,” Margaret said, “and he was the only one with her.”
“She might have fallen,” Chelsea argued.
“She was hit.”
“Was it ever proven?”
“Not in a court.”
“Did they ever do anything to him?”
“He was just a child. What could they do?”
“If they deemed him dangerous, they could have put him in an institution.”
Margaret drew herself up. With measured movements she laid her sandwich in its wrapper, returned it to the box, and closed the cardboard lid. “They didn’t do that, because my husband said that the boy couldn’t be blamed for what his mother had caused. My husband saw to it that he was placed with a family in the Corner and cared for until he was old enough to care for himself. Then my husband saw to it that he had work. To this day my husband sees to that. Oliver Plum is a very charitable man.”
Seeing Margaret’s words put Donna on the edge of hysteria.
Even Chelsea, who didn’t know the half, looked pale. “Charitable is one word for it. Wise is another. From what I can see, Hunter does a decent job.”
“He’s a hooligan,” Margaret scoffed.
“He’s done a fine job on my farmhouse.”
Stiffly Margaret got to her feet. “Are you defending him?”
“No,” Chelsea said. “I’m simply giving him the benefit of the doubt.”
“He doesn’t deserve that. She was a whore, mother to a murderer. I have the newspapers from that time in a box at the historical society. They tell it all. If you’d like to see them, you should stop by.”
“I just may do that.”
“We’re open Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays from ten to one, Tuesdays and Thursdays from two to three-thirty.”
Chelsea nodded. “I’ll remember.”
Margaret turned and walked off. Donna stared after her, waiting, waiting until she was far enough away. Then she turned to Chelsea with a flurry of words such as hadn’t come from her mouth since she’d gone deaf.
“She’s wrong, all wrong, don’t listen to what she says about him, Katie Love fell, the autopsy said it.”
Chelsea took both her arms. “Shhhh. Go slow.”
Donna looked around to make sure no one else was near. Even then she struggled to keep her voice low. “He thought he killed her. That was why he didn’t talk at first. And he was scared of people. He hadn’t seen anyone in his life but Katie. At first he used to have nightmares and wake up crying. The Maycock kids made fun of him for it, so he kept himself awake at night. Then he would fall asleep at school in a corner of the playground. I remember seeing him there, all huddled up. It was so sad.” She had always thought it so, but particularly after Joshie’s birth. She used to watch him playing with other children and imagine how she would feel if he were plagued by nightmares, afraid to sleep, called names, excluded, all alone. That wouldn’t happen, since he was a Farr, but Hunter hadn’t had that advantage. Hunter hadn’t had any advantage at all.
“Who was his father?” Chelsea asked.
Donna shrugged.
“Does anyone know?”
Donna shrugged again.
“Does Hunter know?”
Donna suspected he did. She also suspected he had been bribed to keep quiet, and she couldn’t blame him for taking every cent. Life hadn’t been easy for him. Money couldn’t begin to cover what he’d missed.
But she couldn’t tell Chelsea all that. She didn’t know anything for sure. Her thoughts were muddled sometimes, and her ears rang.
She was saved from replying when Chelsea looked up again.
“Well, well,” Matthew said with his patronizing grin, “look who we have here. This is the brightest corner of
the playground by far. You’re looking patriotic, Miss Chelsea.”
“Why, thank you,” Chelsea said.
“We could use more good-looking women like you in this town. You’re a welcome sight.” He held out a box lunch. “I was coming to make sure you had one of these. Looks like someone beat me to it. I keep telling them to do something different, like cold fried chicken, but the ladies say it has to be chicken salad. Must be a little embarrassing for someone like you.”
“Embarrassing?” Chelsea asked, and raised her brows toward Donna.
“I mean,” he said with distaste, “chicken salad.”
“Actually, I like chicken salad,” she said. As though to prove her point, she took a large bite.
Matthew beamed. “Then we’re doing things right after all. That’s good. Say, will you be going to the basketball game this afternoon?”
“You bet,” Chelsea said and asked Donna, “Are you?”
Donna wanted to say that she’d be there for a short time before she left to help get things set up for the barbecue on the green. But she didn’t want to talk to Chelsea in front of Matthew. He was sure to say something cruel about her voice. So she remained quiet while Chelsea’s eyes went back to Matthew.
“I’ll be glad to be your guide there,” he told her. “I saw you all by yourself at the parade. You could have come and joined us, you know. Some of them don’t want you around, but if you were with me, you’d be okay. How about I provide a little color commentary? You’re still a newcomer. The faces must get confusing. I can tell you who’s playing for who, give you a little of the . . . dirt on each, if you know what I mean.”
Donna knew just what he meant. Matthew was the type to bad-mouth anyone who was superior to him in any way, shape, or form. When it came to basketball, for which he had little interest and even less aptitude, he was full of venom.
Chelsea, bless her, refused his offer. “I was thinking I’d just wander around. I want to see the art and quilt sale, so I’ll be back and forth. I may not sit in one place for long.”
“That’s fine,” Matthew said with a generous nod. “I can understand it. There’s a lot to see in our town on the Fourth. But you be sure to look for me if you have any questions.” With a one-fingered salute and a wink for Chelsea, and absolutely nothing for Donna, he was gone.
Twelve
Chelsea wandered from booth to booth on the green. The artwork on display was local, and although some looked distinctly homemade, some was quite good. There were crafts for sale as well, interesting wood carvings, decorative candles, woven wall hangings. Most impressive, though, were the quilts that had been made by the guild. A large one with panels each done by different women was on display prior to being sent to Washington for inclusion in a “Back to American Basics” show. Smaller quilts, no two the same, were up for sale. Chelsea fell in love with the smallest of them, the crib quilts, but she was uncomfortable buying one yet. Instead she bought a pair of slightly larger quilts to hang on the wall in the living room of the farmhouse. They had a warm feeling. She wanted that in her home.
Leaving the quilts to be picked up later, she walked on. As opposed to when she had arrived four weeks before, she knew a smattering of people. She spoke to those and smiled at others. Occasionally she got a smile in return. She would have liked more.
She hadn’t counted on such an awful sense of aloneness, a waking up in the middle of the night feeling cold and frightened, a dire need to be held. The pregnancy was to blame for a lot of it, she knew. She was supersensitive. Her emotions were raw. She had never been a mother before, and with the passing of her initial bravado, a vague nervousness had set in. She wished she had someone to talk to, but Cydra was the only one who knew, and they had never been phone friends. Besides, Cydra had never been pregnant.
Donna had. Her son, Joshie, was an adorable boy and seemed like a good kid to boot, which was a tribute to Donna, given the state of her husband. Matthew Farr was impossible, alternately ignoring Donna and insulting her. He bothered Chelsea every time she saw him.
Judd Streeter bothered her, too, but in a totally different and somewhat overwhelming way. It hadn’t died down in the least, the heart-throbbing each time she saw him. If anything, it had grown worse, because he was aware of it. He held her eye now. He sent her the clear message that he found her attractive—that he didn’t want to, because he didn’t like who she was, but that he found her attractive anyway.
There was some gratification in that, she supposed.
With a sigh, she adjusted the brim of her hat against the afternoon sun and walked on. She stopped at a booth selling sheepskin goods and picked up a pair of slippers. They had instant appeal. Having had a taste of the Notch’s cool summer nights, she shuddered to think what winter nights would be like. “Did you make these?” she asked the teenage boy behind the table.
“No, ma’am,” he said nervously. “My dad did.”
Chelsea remembered the sheep in the parade that morning. With a gentle smile to relax the boy, she asked, “Is your dad Farmer Galante?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Do these come from your sheep?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then I’ll take a pair,” she decided, to please both the boy and herself. She liked the idea of wearing local goods, particularly when the goods were as practical as this.
She was paying the boy when she caught sight of Hunter. He was sitting on the split-rail fence at the edge of the green, not far from where she stood. His legs were crossed at the ankles, his hands tucked under his arms, and he was watching her. At least, she thought that. His head was aimed her way, but he wore reflector sunglasses that allowed no glimpse of his eyes.
Margaret’s story came back to her. Chelsea wondered how much of it was true. If even the smallest amount was, Hunter had suffered a horrendous childhood. She couldn’t begin to imagine what he had experienced and the lingering effects that would have.
Looking at him now, she felt an odd affinity. But for the grace of God and one woman’s decision to relinquish her child, Chelsea might have been in his shoes.
Taking the bag from the boy with a smile, she headed for the fence. “Hi,” she said. “I haven’t seen you all day. You’ve been missing the fun.”
“What fun?” Hunter asked in an even tone.
“The pancake breakfast. The parade. The trash-and-treasure sale.”
“Ahh,” he said with a dry humor that Chelsea liked, “that fun.”
“The lunch was good.”
“Don’t tell me. Chicken salad.”
She smiled. Behind the smile, she was wondering how he had spent his holiday if not here, whether he had anyone in the world to give him warmth. The day was ripe for couples, but he was alone. She didn’t understand why. He was a nice-looking man, well built, of good height. He was wearing his customary black, in this instance a T-shirt and jeans, but the darkness was an attractive foil for the pecan color of his hair, even for the gold of his earring. In Chelsea’s experience, men who looked like Hunter, and were aloof as he was, usually had women waiting in line. There was an air of mystery to them. The more disinterested they were, the more women flocked.
Hunter didn’t appeal to Chelsea that way, but she was curious about him. The motorcycle and the earring were signs of a rebel. One part of her identified with that. Another part respected the work he was doing on Boulderbrook. Another part wanted him to make it at Plum Granite. She had always been one to root for the underdog, and Hunter was clearly that. Having heard Margaret’s talk, she wasn’t averse to being his friend.
“You survived the night at Boulderbrook,” he observed.
“Uh-huh. Aside from a few weird calls, everything was fine.”
“Weird?” His face was impassive. “How?”
“Silence. Then voices. Children’s voices.” So gently as to be nonoffensive, she teased, “You wouldn’t by chance know anything about those, would you?”
“Not on your life,” he claimed.
/> “Any idea who would?”
“Someone who wants you spooked.”
“Who would want that?”
“Half the town. You’re rich and smart and city. You come here showing them all that they’re not, and now you’ve moved into their haunted house. They’d love to see you scared so bad you’ll turn tail and run.”
Chelsea might have counted on Hunter to put it so bluntly.
She didn’t have to see his eyes to know that there was a challenge in them. “Would you?” she asked.
“Like to see you run?” He thought about it. “I don’t know.” He thought some more. “When you first came, I did. Now I’m not so sure. You can give the company a good shaking up. About time someone did.”
Chelsea took that as quite a concession on his part, even a compliment. Pleased, she took his arm and said, “Walk me to the game?”
He pulled his arm from her grasp. She felt a quick hurt; her gesture had been one of friendship. She was about to tell him that, when he pushed off from the fence, buried his hands in his pockets, and hitched his head to invite her along.
She was a toucher. He wasn’t. She could accept that.
With an arm’s length of open space between them, they walked in silence to the end of the green and started along the narrow road that led to the fire station. Their destination was the basketball court behind that.
When they were halfway up the road, Chelsea asked casually, “So, what’s your stake in the company?” She was still trying to define his role, not on an everyday basis, but in the long run. Clearly it was tied in with his relationship with Oliver.
After a brief silence he said, “I’ve got no stake.”
“You’re third in command.”
He snorted. “Looks that way, doesn’t it.”
“Not so?”
“Nope.”
They walked farther. When they came even with the fire station, he said, “I’ve got no power.”
“You’re important to the company. You do most anything that needs to be done.”
“Judd does the same.”
“He can’t be two places at once. When the computers come, he’ll be in the office more. Once we have samples of what we’ve cut and polished, he may be traveling. We’ll need you directing work at the quarries.”
The Passions of Chelsea Kane Page 20