The Passions of Chelsea Kane

by Barbara Delinsky

  “Are you sure you want me to see these?” They seemed intensely personal, even more so than all he’d told her because they were material relics, of which he seemed to have precious few.

  “She was good. I want you to see,” he said, but Chelsea saw something else then. Hunter loved his mother. Despite all she had put him through, despite all the town had put him through because of her, his mother’s work made him proud.

  She took the bundle to the sofa, set it in her lap, and carefully untied the ribbon. She was fully prepared to ooh and ahh regardless of what she found. She wanted to give something to Hunter. Since he wouldn’t allow a hug, expressing admiration for his mother’s work would have to do.

  She wasn’t prepared for extraordinarily delicate drawings, done in various shades of ink with what Chelsea could have sworn was a quill. Nor was she prepared to see glimpses of Norwich Notch, but that was what Katie had drawn with remarkable accuracy. Each drawing was on a piece of white paper the size of a greeting card, each of a single building, each done in a single ink color. The detail work was astounding, from the sixteen tiny panes of glass in each window of the library, to the lyrical swirls etched in wood at the top of the bandstand on the green, to the initials carved on the front row of markers in the graveyard beside the church. Most remarkable, though, was the message that came through. Despite what Norwich Notch had done to Katie Love, the town was her home.

  Chelsea went through the bundle of drawings slowly, savoring each one before turning to the next. She went through again, looking for anything she’d missed the first time, and in the process something moved her. She didn’t know what it was, whether it was the beauty of the drawings or their history or simply the fact that Hunter had shown them to her, but by the time she had them gathered together again, she was feeling weepy.

  Holding the bundle in her lap, she looked up at him. “They’re beautiful,” she said. “What a treasure.”

  He held out his hand. With great care she retied the ribbon, but she didn’t hand the bundle back immediately. She touched it gently, the top drawing, the bottom one, the ribbon. Finally, feeling indeed as though she were relinquishing a treasure, she handed it over.

  Oddly, her tears lingered. She blotted her lower lids, but new tears replaced the old.

  Having put the drawings back in the chest, Hunter came to stand at the far end of the sofa.

  “They weren’t supposed to make you sad.”

  “I know.” She went to the chair where she’d left her coat and reached into the pocket for a tissue. “Don’t mind me. I’ll be fine.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Maybe I’d better go.” She slipped into the coat. Remembering the orange juice she’d barely touched, she picked up the glass and started toward the kitchen.

  He met her halfway and took the glass from her. She avoided his eyes and made for the door.

  Her hand was on the knob, when he called on a note of pique, “What in the hell do you want?”

  She didn’t turn. “What do you mean?”

  “With me. From me, what do you want?”

  She paused. “Friendship.”

  “But why me?”

  She did turn then. “Because I like you. You’re as lost and alone as I feel a whole lot of the time.”

  “You? Lost and alone?”

  “I was born here, Hunter, thirty-seven years ago last March. I have no other information than that. I don’t know who either of my birth parents are, or whether I have brothers and sisters. All I know is that someone doesn’t want me here.” She took a shuddering breath. “So there are plenty of times when, yes, I feel lost and alone. Tonight was one of those times.”

  He looked stunned.

  She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her coat this time. With a final sniffle she said, “Anyway, I always did take to the underdog, and you are that. I do like you, Hunter. If you were anyone else, I’d give you a hug and kiss you good-bye. On the cheek. Quite platonically.” She paused. On a more hopeful note she added, “Maybe another time?”

  When he didn’t answer, just stood there looking at her dumbly, she gave him a sad wave and let herself out.

  ———

  CHELSEA LOOKED FOR HUNTER THE NEXT DAY AT THE QUARRY, just to make sure that her visit hadn’t annoyed him too much, but he wasn’t at Moss Ridge when she stopped by, or at Kankamaug, or Haskins Peak. None of the men had seen him. Nor did anyone seem concerned. Apparently Hunter had a habit of disappearing from time to time. What worried Chelsea was that he had disappeared because of something she’d said or done.

  This time she drove past his house for three nights running before she saw the Kawasaki in the driveway. She parked out front long enough to see him moving—alive and apparently well—around the living room. She debated knocking on the door. In the end, out of respect for his privacy, she shifted into drive and went home.

  Nineteen

  Coincidentally, the first of the season’s Wednesday afternoon teas took place the week after the Notch learned Chelsea was pregnant, and Chelsea wouldn’t have dreamed of missing it. She’d meant what she had told Hunter. She wasn’t being ostracized the way Katie Love had been. If anyone tried it, she would fight.

  She wore the first of her maternity clothes, a pair of tailored pants that were expandable at the waist and a long sweater, and had to admit that other than the small bulge of her belly, she looked very much as she always did. She might as well have had a brand on her forehead, though, because the instant she entered the main room of the library, the ladies stopped their chatter and stared.

  “Hi,” she said with a bright smile on her face. Of the twenty-some faces in the room, she recognized nearly every one, which made a statement about how far she’d come. The fact that not one of them stepped forward to greet her made a statement about how far she had yet to go. “I’ve been hearing about these teas since last June,” she said. “This is a treat.” Still smiling, she moved toward the table where the large silver tea service was prettily arranged. “How are you, Maida?” she asked. Maida Ball was the matriarch of the accounting Balls. She was pouring tea with the realtor’s wife and lawyer’s mother, Stella Whip.

  Maida nodded somberly. “Fine.”

  “Stella, I understand your grandson just started at Princeton. I studied architecture there. He’ll love the town.”

  “His father went there,” Stella said dismissively.

  “Ahhh. Well, good luck to him.” Chelsea moved on past silver trays lined with tea sandwiches. “I love your blouse, Nancy,” she said to the librarian posted there. “Did you pick it up in Boston?” Several weeks before, when Chelsea had stopped at the library for literature on birds and bird feeders, the woman had chatted on and on about an upcoming librarians’ convention in that city.

  “L.L. Bean,” Nancy said now.

  “Oh. Interesting. Pink is your color.” When Nancy seemed disinclined to say more, Chelsea said to her companion, “It’s good to see you, Mrs. Willis. I’m still getting compliments from people who were here for the open house last month. They loved the inn. I take it all’s well there?”

  “Yes, ‘tis,” Mrs. Willis said.

  “Are things slowing up?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Oh. Why’s that?”

  “Peepers.”

  “Ahhh.” Chelsea had forgotten. The fall foliage season was approaching its height, bringing with it an influx of sightseeing buses. “That’s good for business.” She paused, then smiled and said, “See you in a bit,” and moved on to the nearest group of women. It contained Margaret Plum, Lucy Farr, and Lucy’s daughter-in-law, Joanie. “How’s Oliver feeling, Margaret?” she asked. He hadn’t been at the quarry. Word was he had the flu.

  Wearing an innocuous expression with a voice to match, Margaret said, “He’s feeling better. He’ll be in the office tomorrow. You know, you really shouldn’t be here, Chelsea.”

  Chelsea hadn’t expected such bluntness so fast. “I thought these teas were open.”

  “They are. But
given your state, a bit of prudence is in order.” She clucked her tongue. “And Judd isn’t even the father. Do you know who is?”

  “I certainly do. He’s someone back home.”

  “Are you planning to marry him?” Lucy asked.

  “He’s already married,” Chelsea said before she realized the mistaken impression she was giving. She opened her mouth to correct it, then, at the bidding of a mischievous little voice inside, didn’t say a word.

  Lucy looked bothered. Joanie looked bored. Less innocuously now, Margaret said, “We don’t much like things like this.”

  “My pregnancy”—Chelsea was driven by the mischievous little voice to say the word aloud—“shouldn’t affect you at all.”

  “But it does. When your name is said in the same breath as Norwich Notch, what you do affects every one of us.”

  “Margaret,” Chelsea protested gently.

  Margaret looked past her. “Oh, my, there’s Rachel, just back from the doctor.” She raised her hand to wave, accidentally hitting Chelsea’s tea cup in the process. Its contents spilled from the saucer to the floor before Chelsea could right it.

  Margaret tisked. “Goodness, I didn’t mean to do that. Lucy, some napkins, please. Joan, stay and talk with Chelsea while I clean this up.” She had taken the cup and saucer from Chelsea’s hand before Chelsea knew what she was up to.

  “No, no, I—“

  “I’ll be right back,” Margaret said, and was off.

  Alone with Chelsea, Joanie wasted no time. “You’re the talk of the town.”

  Chelsea shrugged. She had never quite known what to make of Joanie Farr. Dark-haired and stylish by Norwich Notch standards, she had a come-on quality that made her a man’s woman, which was fine with Chelsea. What bothered her was Joanie’s opaqueness. Chelsea couldn’t read a thing of her character. She was an attractive facade that hid God only knew what.

  “Did you plan this pregnancy?” she asked, ironically in a tone that hid nothing. Her disapproval was clear.

  Chelsea sighed. “That’s neither here nor there,” and was none of Joanie’s business, she thought. “I’m really excited about the baby.”

  “You won’t get much support.”

  “I don’t need much.”

  “You may later on. Winters are long here. They’re isolating. You’d be better off in Baltimore.”

  Lucy chose that minute to return with a handful of paper towels. “Let me do that,” Chelsea said, but the older woman had the puddle absorbed in no time flat.

  “All done,” she said, and vanished.

  Joanie picked up where she’d left off. “Donna would be better off if you were in Baltimore, too. You’re making trouble between Matthew and her.”

  “Me?”

  “She talks back to him. She never used to do that.”

  “Maybe she has cause.”

  “Not with Matthew. Matthew’s wonderful.”

  Chelsea wondered if they were talking about the same man.

  “Stay away from them,” Joanie warned. “He has enough trouble with her. He doesn’t need more.”

  Chelsea was about to ask what trouble innocent, good-hearted Donna could possibly be, when Margaret returned with a fresh cup of tea. “There,” she said. She handed Chelsea the cup and took Joanie’s arm. “Rachel wants us.”

  Chelsea watched them leave, then turned to face the others. They stood in small clusters, abundantly aware of her, she knew, but busying themselves with each other. She sipped her tea. She wondered when Donna would arrive. She did everything in her power to look perfectly at ease in what was an infuriating situation.

  She was debating which group to confront next when a woman close to her own age approached. She wore the Notch uniform—a simple wool skirt and a blouse—and the same kind of innocuous expression Margaret had worn. Chelsea steeled herself for another attack.

  “I’m Sandra Morgan,” the woman said in a voice that nixed the idea of an attack. It was small, shy almost. “My husband is loan officer at the bank. My sister is Wendell Hovey’s wife. You’ve been kind to them. I wanted to thank you.”

  Chelsea’s smile relaxed. “No thanks necessary. I feel terrible about the accident. I’m just grateful Wendell didn’t lose the leg.”

  “Caroline is your biggest fan.”

  Chelsea had sensed that in subsequent visits. “She’s a sweet girl. She was so frightened at first. I would have taken her home with me, but that would have frightened her more.”

  “Probably,” Sandra said, and dropped her eyes. In a murmur that wouldn’t carry far, she said, “This is a very self-righteous group.”

  Chelsea chuckled. “Tell me.”

  Still studying the floor, Sandra said, “I’m no gossip. But it isn’t fair, what they’re doing. None of them’s perfect. Stella Whip is such a nut for neatness that she has her family walking around the house with plastic bags on their shoes. Joanie Farr sleeps with Matthew whenever she can. And Margaret, Margaret’s the one who made Donna deaf. I’ll bet you didn’t know that.”

  “What?” Chelsea whispered.

  Sandra raised her eyes. “You have a right to have your baby. I just want you to know that if you need any help, you can call me. Or my husband. He’s always glad when new people come to town. So are lots of others. They just don’t say it.”

  “Thank you,” Chelsea managed. “Joanie and Matthew?”

  Sandra shook her head. “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not my affair.” Her gaze shifted. “There’s Donna. Don’t say a word.” She smiled. “Hi, Donna. . . .”

  JUDD WASN’T KEEPING TRACK OF CHELSEA. IT WASN’T HIS BUSIness to. She had gotten pregnant on her own, she had moved to Norwich Notch on her own, she was a competent, independent, self-sufficient woman. She didn’t need him, and he wasn’t dallying where he wasn’t needed. There were too many more important demands on his life.

  That was why he was annoyed when Fern called him at Moss Ridge to ask if he’d seen her. “Not me,” he snapped.

  “Odd,” Fern said. “She was supposed to be here for a conference call at ten-thirty, and she’s always on time. But it’s eleven-thirty, and she hasn’t been in. No one’s seen hide nor hair of her since yesterday afternoon.”

  Judd had seen her since then. She had stopped by the house in the early evening with an apple pie that was slightly burned at the edges. Leo, bless him, had loved it. He didn’t remember that edges weren’t supposed to be burned.

  Judd hadn’t seen her since then. “Have you tried the house?”

  “No answer,” Fern said.

  “Call Donna. See if she was at aerobics.” He couldn’t believe that Chelsea was still doing that, but she insisted that the exercise was good for her heart and the baby both.

  “She wasn’t there,” Fern said. “Donna thought maybe she decided all of a sudden to visit her father, but it’s not like her to forget business.”

  Judd agreed. Chelsea was nothing if not reliable. He pushed a hand through his hair. “I’ll go by her place on my way back to town.”

  Determined not to rush—he wasn’t her keeper, damn it—he finished what he had to do at Moss Ridge, stopped briefly at Pequod Peak—one of the newer quarries, turning out some of the finest green granite they’d seen in years—and only then drove over to Boulderbrook. He had to admit to surprise that the Pathfinder was there. He didn’t know why she wasn’t answering her phone.

  He knocked on the door. When there was no response, he used the key he’d never returned and unlocked it. “Chelsea?” He went through the living room to the kitchen. Her purse was there, open to reveal her wallet and everything else she would surely have taken if she’d gone out. Feeling a flicker of worry, he went up the stairs to her bedroom.

  There was a huge mound of coverings on the bed, not only the quilt that matched the sheets, but another one, plus assorted blankets thrown on in haphazard fashion. October nights were cool, he agreed, but not that cool. “Chelsea?”

  The mound moved. There was a small soun
d, then more movement. He went to the bedside and began peeling layers away. By the time he found Chelsea’s head, she had one eye slitted open.

  “Judd,” she said in a voice that was hoarse and not at all like her own. “What are you doing here?”

  “Do you know what time it is?” he asked gruffly. He didn’t want to show concern.

  She flinched at his voice, closed her eyes, and pulled the covers back up to her ears.

  “It’s nearly twelve-thirty. Fern’s been trying to reach you.”

  “No, she hasn’t,” she mumbled.

  “Why didn’t you answer your phone?”

  “It didn’t ring.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” he asked, annoyed. She wasn’t playing by the rules. The rules said that she should do her work the way she’d promised, show up when she was supposed to show up, and have her baby without asking anything from anyone.

  “Twelve-thirty?” She moaned.

  “Are you sick?”

  “All night. I didn’t fall asleep until dawn.”

  He pulled the covers aside, then the tangle of her hair so that he could see her face. She looked totally washed out. He hadn’t seen her looking that way since the very beginning, when she’d had morning sickness. Of course he hadn’t known she had morning sickness, or that she was pregnant, just that there were mornings when she looked like she’d had a bad night. Just like she did now.

  More gently he asked, “What happened?”

  She still had her eyes closed, still lay on her side curled up under the covers. “I don’t know. I was fine until nine or ten, then my stomach got upset. It was awful. I’ve never been so sick.”

  He touched her skin. It felt cool enough and soft, butter soft. “Fever?”

  “It broke.”

  Her hair was soft, too. He drew strands of it away from her ear. She had pretty ears, delicate ears. There were two tiny gold hoops in the one he could see. They were delicate, too. So was her nightgown. It was flannel, with a high neck and little flowers. Surprising, but there was nothing at all sophisticated about it.