“Something’s been stolen,” Chelsea said. Heart pounding, she pushed things around inside the drawer, to no avail. Crushed, she looked at Judd. “My key. It’s gone.”
JUDD WANTED CHELSEA TO STAY AT HIS HOUSE, BUT SHE refused. She loved Boulderbrook. She wanted to be there. She refused to be chased from her own home. Besides, Judd had to concentrate on Leo.
She did agree to have Buck stay with her for a while. He would let her know if there was a prowler about. She also agreed to draw a picture of the silver key for Nolan.
The loss of the key devastated her, as did Kevin’s continued silence. In the days following their confrontation in Newport, she kept hoping that he would calm down and rethink what he’d said, but he didn’t call. Neither did the conveyer of children’s voices, which was unfortunate, since the phone company had put a tap on the line. Whoever had been calling was shrewd. Either that, or whoever it was had tired of old pranks and was finding satisfaction dreaming up new ones. She kept wondering what he’d do next.
So did Judd, which was one nice thing about her dilemma. He kept an eye on her, and although there were times when Chelsea wanted more, times when the lump in her belly couldn’t divert her mind from the more private, hotter knot deep inside, the frustration of that was a small price to pay for being his friend.
DONNA HAD PLANS FOR THANKSGIVING. SHE’D HAD THEM pretty much since Labor Day and had become more committed to them after Chelsea’s experience with Kevin in Newport. She had a fight on her hands, she knew. Change didn’t come easily to the Farrs. But they owed her a favor. They owed her dozens of favors, given all she put up with from Matthew. She wasn’t asking for a divorce, just a favor, and she didn’t care if Farr holidays were sacred. She had paid in blood for the right to invite four extra people to dinner.
Lucy Farr was the one to approach. A stiff-backed woman with a humorless disposition, she had spent the prime of her life just as Donna was doing, helping her husband run the store. Never a leader, she was the kind of follower who could do well almost any task assigned her. As was the case each November, her assignment was the planning, preparation, and presentation of Thanksgiving dinner.
She and Donna had an odd relationship. They weren’t friends in the sense of enjoying one another’s company, but they shared a mutual respect. Donna imagined that Lucy sympathized with the hard work she did, having done it herself for so long. Donna also imagined that Lucy sympathized with what Donna put up with from Matthew, though the older woman never said a word, and Donna understood why. Lucy was Matthew’s mother. Her allegiance by rights lay with him, regardless of how disturbing that was.
As Donna saw it, two things in life gave Lucy pleasure—her grandchildren and the crafts purchases she made for the store. For that reason Donna chose to approach her on a day when she returned with an armload of wool scarves that had been hand-loomed by a weaver in Peterborough. The scarves were exquisite. Lucy was pleased.
“Very definitely the front window,” she told Donna. “You’ll see to it?”
Donna liked the scarves and could envision the display. “Tomorrow morning,” she half signed, half spoke, which was how she and Lucy communicated. The method was a compromise evolving from Lucy’s reluctance to sign and Donna’s to speak. It worked. “They’ll be good for Christmas gifts. Lucy? Have you started making arrangements for Thanksgiving dinner?”
“Not yet,” Lucy said. “It’s still a month off.”
“How many are coming?” By Donna’s calculations there would be thirty.
Lucy confirmed it. She looked up from the scarves. “Why do you ask?”
“I was wondering if I could invite a few friends.”
Lucy frowned. “Friends?” It wasn’t that she didn’t know what friends were, simply that Farrs-by-marriage didn’t usually ask to bring them to Farr events.
Donna pushed on, using alternately her hands and her voice. “Chelsea Kane is alone. She’s important to the Notch. We should invite her.”
“Chelsea Kane is pregnant,” Lucy said with a stern look.
“All the more reason to have her. She’s pregnant, and she has no family here.” Donna hurried on, afraid she would lose her nerve if she didn’t. “I want to invite Judd and Leo, too. And Nolan.”
Lucy regarded her in disapproving silence. “Any others?” she finally asked.
Donna signed no.
Lucy took another scarf from the bunch and examined its weave. “You know I can’t do it.”
“Why?”
“It’s just not what we do, inviting half the town.”
“Four people,” Donna signed, and said, “All special.”
Lucy looked at her again. “How is Judd Streeter special?”
“He runs the granite company for my father.”
“And Nolan McCoy?”
“He’s looking out for Chelsea. Scary things have been happening to her lately.”
“Scary things wouldn’t happen to her if she stayed where she belonged.”
Donna had things on the tip of her tongue to say, but the arguments had all been made before. Over the years Donna had learned not to suffer speaking for no purpose. She was miserly with words. That meant getting right to the point, and in this case the point was winning Lucy over to her cause. “Inviting Chelsea would be good for the Farrs,” she said in broad signs.
Lucy drew in her chin. “How so?”
“She has money. She plays a big role here. Before long everyone will want her for dinner. We should be the first.” She saw that Lucy was listening.
“People in the Corner like her. If we had her to dinner, they’d like us more and be more apt to shop in the store.”
That thought did appeal to Lucy. Donna could see it in her expression—until she suddenly gave a short shake of her head and frowned. “Emery would never hear of it. George and Oliver wouldn’t approve.”
Donna made a sign of annoyance that was more common among the hearing than not. “Have Emery put them to shame,” she said, giving her voice its way. “Have him put the Farrs in the lead. Chelsea should have been invited to dinner long ago.”
Lucy looked torn. “But she’s pregnant, and she has no husband.”
“Good reason to have Judd along. He’s like a husband.”
“She claims he isn’t the father.”
“Does that matter?”
“In the Notch it does.”
“Used to. Times change. Farrs have to change, too, or they’ll fall behind. Do you want the others to get ahead?”
Lucy looked so confused that Donna actually felt sorry for her—but not enough to dampen a certain sense of achievement. Pushing her advantage, she signed, “Can I invite them?”
“No. No. Not yet. Not until I check with Emery.”
Donna lifted one of the scarves and fingered its weave. It was bolder than the others, a blend of deep purple, lavender, and lime green wool. She considered buying it for herself.
Touching Lucy’s arm with a grateful hand, she said, “You’ll make Emery like the idea. He’ll be proud of you for suggesting it.”
IN THE IDEAL SCENARIO, LUCY WOULD BROACH THE IDEA TO Emery that night, run through the arguments that Donna had given her, and obtain Emery’s consent. Since Donna had long ago given up on ideal scenarios, though, she wasn’t surprised when Lucy said nothing the next day or the next. When she finally drummed up the nerve to ask, Lucy said simply that Emery was considering it, which was, to Donna’s dismay, as far from the ideal scenario as could be. “Considering it” meant discussing it with George and Oliver.
Donna thought of going to her father with a plea of her own but rejected the idea. Oliver had never pretended to like Chelsea. He resented the fact that she was saving his company. Besides, he wouldn’t listen to Donna. She was nothing.
So she kept her silence and hoped for the best.
Then Matthew acted up. It happened at dinner four days after Donna’s initial discussion with Lucy. Donna had left the store early to take Joshie to the dentist, though n
ot without harsh words from Matthew to the extent that the boy should go alone. To compensate for having displeased him, she had set about making something special for dinner. She knew she was in trouble the instant he entered the dining room and made a face.
“What’s that smell?”
She didn’t know what smell he meant—she had deliberately chosen shrimp, which was what he always ordered when they ate out—and conveyed that with a questioning look.
“Ah, hell, is it Parmesan cheese?”
She shook her head, set down the pitcher of water, and hurried back to the kitchen, praying that he would like the looks of the meal enough to overcome whatever he smelled. She returned to the table with the platter just as Joshie came in.
Angel that he was, his eyes went wide. “That looks great.”
Matthew had his nose turned up. “It looks disgusting. What is it?”
“Curried shrimp, eggplant and zucchini, and rice.”
“Curd srimp. What’s curd srimp?”
“Cur-ried sh-rimp,” she repeated slowly, and went back to the kitchen for the salads.
He was no more pleased with those. He flicked the greens, as though half expecting them to turn over for his inspection. When they didn’t, he raised questioning eyes to Donna.
“Endives,” she said.
“I know they’re endives. I sell endives. What I want to know is what they’re doing on this plate.”
“It’s an endive salad.”
He pushed his lips out and nodded.
“Endive salad, cur-ried sh-rimp, vegetable glob, and rice—is there something wrong with good old-fashioned steak, potatoes, and peas?”
“You complain that I make the same things. You love shrimp. I thought I’d try it.”
“This is interesting, Dad,” Joshie said.
Matthew stared at Donna. “And iceberg lettuce? Seems to me we had plenty of that in the store. And tomatoes and cukes. Something wrong with good old-fashioned tossed salad?”
Donna had so, so carefully peeled and deveined the shrimp, prepared the vegetables, steamed the rice, mixed the raspberry dressing for the endives. She didn’t know whether to be hurt before furious or vice versa. Without looking up—she didn’t want to see what anyone was saying, particularly Matthew—she took her place at the table and began to fill each plate from the platter.
She was putting Joshie’s before him when a glance at his mouth gave her the tail end of his sentence. “. . . their moms don’t cook as good as mine.”
Her eyes flew to Matthew. “Then you can just invite your friends over here and let them eat this, because I sure as hell won’t.” Shifting to stare at her, he lifted the salad plate and turned it over, dumping its contents in a spill of green and red on the white linen cloth.
“Matthew,” she cried.
“Do you honestly expect me to eat this crap?” His eyes went to Joshie. Donna’s followed.
Joshie voiced her anger. “That’s gross, Dad. You tell me not to spill things. You didn’t even try the salad.”
“Damn right I didn’t, and I’m not going to try this, either.” With one sweep of his hand, his dinner plate sailed off the table onto the oak floor.
Shaking, Donna rose. “Why did you do that?” She could see that Joshie had risen, too, and prayed he wouldn’t make things worse.
Matthew sat back on his chair, laced his fingers over his belt, and smiled. “That meal didn’t deserve any better. Clean it up, and then make something else. I’m hungry.”
Donna looked at the mess on the floor and thought of the effort she had put into the meal. She’d had the best of intentions, but Matthew wouldn’t know what those were. He hurt her every bit as much with his tongue as he often did with the back of his hand.
“Clean it up!” he bellowed loud enough for her to feel the vibration of his words. “I’m hungry. And take care of this, too.” Without pause, he dumped what remained of the platter onto the floor.
Joshie started forward. Donna restrained him.
“He can’t do this,” he signed furiously.
“He’s in a bad mood,” she signed back quickly.
His hands flew. “You spent a lot of time making dinner. If he didn’t like what you made, he could have gone out for something. He’ll go out later, anyway. Why do you put up with him, Mom? How can you stand living in the same house as him?”
The tines of a fork caught Donna on her collarbone, piercing both the sweater she wore and her skin. The fork fell to the floor as she spun away.
Joshie lunged toward Matthew.
She whirled back and caught him around the waist, screaming, “No, Joshie! For me, no! Get your schoolbooks and go to Pete’s house! Do it now!” Joshie struggled against her arm for another second before falling back. She came in front of him, placing herself between father and son. With less force she said, “Please, Joshie?”
“I’m not leaving you here.”
“I’ll be fine.”
Joshie looked at his father. After a minute he answered, “She is not always fine. You hit her. I’ve seen it and heard it.”
“Go, Joshie,” Donna begged. He was getting larger by the day, was into puberty, physically an almost man. But he was still only thirteen. She didn’t know how a thirteen-year-old was supposed to handle irrational cruelty. As a child she had handled it by blotting things out. She still did in some regards. But she didn’t wish that on Joshie. More than anything she had wanted for him the warm, peaceful home that she hadn’t had herself.
“Go?” she pleaded, and must have finally gotten through to him because, with a last, resentful look at his father, he turned away. At the front door he retrieved the jacket and books he’d dropped when he’d come home from school, then he went out the door.
Donna immediately took the platter, knelt on the floor and, ignoring the stinging at her collarbone where the fork had stabbed her, scooped up what she could of the food with her bare hands. Her vision blurred. Through tears, the mess was no better, no worse. Dinner was ruined.
She paused when a narrow stream of water began hitting the floor and looked up to see Matthew slowly and deliberately emptying the pitcher. Her mind went in circles. She didn’t know what had set him off, didn’t know what he’d do next. She was frightened, humiliated, enraged.
Standing, she took a step back. She wiped her hands on her skirt, and all the while the puddle on the floor grew. “Why are you doing that?” she asked.
“I’m doing it,” Matthew said, mocking her with the movements of his mouth, “because you don’t deserve anything more. You’re good for cleaning the floor, not much else.” His expression changed suddenly, pale blue eyes icing over. “What possessed you to ask my mother to invite Chelsea Kane for Thanksgiving dinner?”
So that was it. She should have known, should have known. Lucy had told Emery, who had told Oliver and George. One of the three must have told Matthew, so now she had the piper to pay. But, damn it, she wasn’t apologizing. “I thought it would be a nice thing to do,” she said with as much poise as she could.
Matthew glared all the harder.
“I hate that woman. You know I do. I hate Judd Streeter and that moron of a father of his. And I especially hate Nolan McCoy.” He pointed a rigid finger at her. “I see the way that man looks at you. You’re my wife! He can’t touch you! And you can’t touch him! You’d best remember that, or you’ll have a load more trouble on your hands than one stinkin’ dinner.” The words had barely cleared his mouth when, in a fit of fury, he swept Donna’s and then Joshie’s plates to the floor. China shattered, followed seconds later by glass as water goblets whizzed past her and broke against the wall.
She had her hands curled protectively around her head. He threw her arms down.
“Clean it up!” he roared. “And when you’re done with that, you can go back to the store and clean the office, and next time the kid has an appointment he can get there himself. I give you room and board and clothes, and it doesn’t come for free. You get nothing for
nothing, especially if you’re a dim-witted woman who can’t talk right, much less hear a damn word I say.” Lip curling in disdain, he shouldered his way past her out of the room. A minute later she felt the slam of the front door.
With the ruin of the evening meal before her and her ogre of a husband out the door, she began to shake in earnest. Leaning against the wall, she clamped her elbows to her sides and tried to still the shaking, but to no avail. Her entire body was into it, and her mind didn’t help. Fragments of thought were ricocheting around in a sphere of nothingness—hatred, bewilderment, resentment, fear. She was paralyzed, unable to slide to the floor, though her knees were quaking, unable to leave the wall, though she was standing on broken glass, unable to cry out loud, though there was no one around to hear. The chaos of food, china, and glass on the floor became a surreal piece of art in the most starkly terrifying of traditions, so much so that she squeezed her eyes closed.
As though shutting one door opened another, long, slow gulps of pain began bubbling up from deep inside her. She felt their rise. Her body pulsed with them. Her head and her hands fell against the wall, and she stood there, totally taken over by the dark forces of anguish.
She lost track of time.
After what might have been two minutes or ten, she felt the return of awareness. The gasping eased, as did, marginally, the shaking. In the wake of what she had been through, she was spent, calmed by sheer lack of strength.
Rubbing a hand under her running nose, she stepped over the debris. In the kitchen she took off every piece of clothing she wore, set them on the counter, and washed her hands, then her face. She ran her wet fingers through her hair, freeing it from its knot, and continued to comb it as she climbed the stairs.
A short time later, wearing blue jeans and a sweater under her faded winter jacket, she left the house. She walked down the street to the green, turned her back on the church, and stared for a long time at the three stately brick homes. Their beauty was a sham, as was the arrogance behind the family names. She cursed the day she’d been born a Plum, cursed the day she’d married a Farr. She cursed the ties that bound her to Norwich Notch, because she knew that she couldn’t leave.
The Passions of Chelsea Kane Page 38