Lonely Souls

by Rosemary Fifield

  His ma was the one who had insisted they involve Floyd. The baby was his grandchild, as well as Miriam’s, she said. Somehow, Dawson had doubted that the man would be overly sentimental about that fact, but he had honored his mother’s concerns anyway. Now he wished he hadn’t.

  He turned toward the house in time to see his ma coming out of the front door. Cassie stood framed in the doorway, watching Miriam leave. His ma came around to the driver’s side of the car and got in, laying his down vest in his lap before buckling her seatbelt and starting the car.

  “Did you ever have to tell him the truth?” He knew she had been worried about upsetting him too much, considering his cardiac status.

  “No, but I told Cassie she needs to. In good time.”

  “In the meantime, he thinks it’s Claude’s and that I’m a fag.”

  Miriam looked over her shoulder to back the car out of the driveway. “The man’s an asshole, Sonny. Who cares what he thinks?”

  Dawson grinned at his ma. “Wow. I’ve never heard you use that word.”

  Miriam shifted the car into drive and headed toward North Chatham. “I hope Shelby got on okay with Corey Sloan.”

  “They’re like peas in a pod, Ma.”

  Miriam made a small harrumphing sound. “I don’t consider that to be a compliment to Shelby.”

  His ma rarely said anything negative about anyone, and Dawson was intrigued. This was two in one night. “What’s wrong with Corey Sloan?”

  “Let’s just leave it at that. Shelby is not like Corey Sloan.”

  Dawson smiled to himself as he leaned back and closed his eyes. The rest of their trip was made in silence until they reached Sloan’s.

  Shelby was ready to go when they arrived; Cassie had called ahead to tell her they were on their way. Dawson helped her into the front seat and buckled her in, then climbed into the back of his mother’s car and reclined on the bench seat until they reached the farm. Shelby was quiet the whole way, as was her habit when riding in a car.

  “So, did it go okay?” she asked as they walked up to the ell together.

  “As well as one might expect,” Miriam said. “We weren’t asking his permission. This was just a courtesy.”

  “And Cassie’s still okay with it?”

  “She seems to be.”

  They entered the summer kitchen and paused outside the kitchen door to hang up their jackets and vest. Shelby led the way into the kitchen with Miriam behind her turning on lights as Shelby forged ahead into the darkness.

  “Hey, Speedy Gonzales,” Dawson called after her. “Any chance you could work your magic on my shoulder for a few minutes?”

  Shelby stopped and turned around. She was frowning, and Dawson’s heart plummeted into his stomach.

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said last night,” she answered.

  “Oh, God. What did I say last night?”

  Miriam kept on walking, leaving the two of them alone in the kitchen.

  “That I could make a career out of doing massage. I’ve been thinking about that.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Career implies doing it as a profession. Doing it as a profession implies payment. What’s your offer?”

  Dawson smiled. “What’s your fee?”

  “I’ll have to think about that. It’ll be steeper now because I’ve got massage oil to work with.”

  “You do? Where did that come from?”

  “That’s my little secret,” she said playfully. ”I’ll meet you at the couch.”

  The massage oil smelled of eucalyptus and mint, and when it heated up beneath the pressure of her hands, the effect on his painful muscles was even better than the night before. He closed his eyes and relaxed under her touch—except for the part of him that was reacting in a way he was glad she could not see.

  “Corey asked me if Grant and Cassie are a couple,” she said as she worked her thumbs against the base of his neck. “I didn’t know what to say.”

  “I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Corey’s not with her husband anymore. Did you know that?”

  “Nope.”

  “They’re separated, and he’s living somewhere else in town.”

  Dawson sat quietly. Perhaps that was what his ma was referring to.

  “You probably made your shoulder worse by pounding staples today.”

  “Yup.”

  “And you’ll do it again tomorrow, won’t you?”

  Dawson smiled. If that’s what it took to keep her touching him, yes, he would.

  When she finished, he sighed audibly, then made snoring sounds to make her laugh. She was still standing behind him, her hands on his shoulders, when he said, “So, what’s your fee?”

  “I want to feel your buns.”

  Dawson’s heart skipped a beat, and he laughed nervously. “Think of something else. Something appropriate.”

  “Why is that not appropriate?”

  “Because we don’t have that kind of relationship.”

  “But we do. You saw me.” The playfulness had gone out of her voice. Dawson turned around to look at her. She was frowning at him, and the skin on her face had gone pale.

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?” he said quietly.

  “Yes.”

  “Shelby, your touch does things to me. ‘Seeing you,’ as you put it, did not do that to me.”

  “Can you see me right now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you see the shape of my breasts?”

  Dawson sighed. “Yes.”

  “Can you see my ass?”

  He glanced at her denim-covered hips. “Yes.”

  “I want to see yours, the only way I can.”

  “Clothes on or off?” he asked, watching her face. She did not smile.

  “On is fine,” she said. “Because it won’t go any further than that.”

  “You’re sure? You’re not going to up the fee on me at the last minute?”

  A slow smile came to her face at last. “I’m sure.”

  “You do realize this isn’t fair.”

  “You’re a big boy. You can handle it.”

  “Yes, I am a big boy,” he grinned, and Shelby laughed. He loved it when she laughed, and now he just wanted to wrap his arms around her and tell her so, but he feared her reaction if he did. “All right, let’s get it over with.” He stood up and walked around the couch, watching her passive face as he approached.

  “What are you wearing?” she asked when he was standing directly in front of her.

  “Blue jeans.”

  “Is that what you always wear?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Turn around.”

  Dawson dutifully turned around and took a deep breath.

  “Actually, turn sideways.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake!” He turned with his left side toward her.

  Shelby grinned as she gently patted his rear through his tight jeans, first one cheek, then the other, feeling their curves and gauging their size.

  “Now face me.”

  “Shelby …”

  When he failed to move, she reached out and put her hand on his waist as her guide before moving around him until they were face to face. She stepped closer until her breasts were almost touching his chest, then reached around him to slide both hands down over his ass. He let out a small sound as the expected physical reaction occurred.

  “That’s enough,” he said, moving away from her. “You’ve ‘seen’ what you came to see. I need to get to bed. Four-thirty comes around pretty fast.”

  She stood in place, looking tense and irritated. “I’m sorry if I offended you. I didn’t mean to.”

  “What you’re doing isn’t easy for me to handle, Shelby. You must know that.”

  “It sounds like you handled it okay with Cassie.”

  “I didn’t love Cassie.”

  “Sex isn’t about love.”

  A picture of Marcia flashed through Dawson’s mind. “It doesn’t have to be, I guess. But
when there is love, it’s a whole different thing.”

  Shelby nodded, her expression contrite as she said softly, “At least I’m not freaking out, Dawson. That’s a good thing.”

  Dawson nodded in return. “I suppose it is. Good night, Shelby. I love you.”

  “Good night, Dawson.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Saturday, April 2, 1988

  The predicted storm arrived shortly after midnight—a bona fide nor’easter, its eye over the Atlantic and its swirling, high velocity winds poised to dump large amounts of precipitation over the New England states.

  Dawson awoke at four-thirty a.m. to the eerie sound of howling winds lifting and flexing the metal roof above his head. Normally, from his window on this end of the house, he could look out over the hills of Chatham Ridge to the lights of North Chatham. This morning the intensely blowing snow completely obscured his view. The usual drafts around the window frames were moving the edges of his curtains as he pulled on work pants over his long underwear. This was the type of weather that ells were made for, allowing the New England farmer to reach his barn from the house without needing to go outside. There would be no more fence repair for a while.

  Miriam awoke at five-thirty. She expected the first light of dawn to illuminate her room as it had for the past few days, but the sky was as dark as a morning in January. Frozen rain ticked against the windows, a sound that made her want to roll over and go back to sleep, but she knew Sonny was out in the barn milking the cows and would be hungry and in need of coffee regardless of the weather. She forced herself out of bed and shuffled into the kitchen. The howling wind had found the cracks in the siding and the absence of insulation, and the kitchen was unusually cold. She buttoned her sweater over her ample breasts, then filled the firebox of the kitchen cookstove with paper and kindling and lit it with a wooden match struck against the brick hearth on which the stove stood. When the kindling was burning well, she added small sticks of popple to create a hot fire and put a griddle over the flames to preheat. Today everyone would welcome the additional heat provided by her wood-burning cookstove.

  Cassie had not slept well all night, waking periodically to seek a more comfortable position than the one she was in but never finding it. She was aware of the storm from the moment it started, with the tick of frozen rain followed by screeching winds and the sound of trees snapping and popping under their burden of ice. The baby within was restless, as well, affected by her inability to lie still, and Cassie was generally miserable overall. Nighttime gave her too much time to herself to think about things, like why Grant had simply dropped out of her life. And to worry about her imminent delivery, acutely aware that no one else could do this for her, nor could she refuse to go through with it. She pushed herself clumsily from the bed and looked out her window at the blowing snow. If she went into labor today, she would never get to the hospital. Jeanine was her designated driver, and she was scared stiff of driving in snow like this. Of course, she could always call for the Fast Squad if things got too bad. That would be one way to get Grant’s attention.

  At seven-fifteen, Shelby woke to the sound of unusually high winds, but by then the frozen rain had turned to prodigious amounts of fluffy snow and she could hear nothing that would inform her about the mounting whiteness outdoors. She could smell the sweetness of poplar and birch burning in the woodstove, mixed with a little apple wood. Miriam would have a fresh pot of coffee waiting for her, since the one Dawson would have made at four-thirty would be overcooked by now. The thought of Dawson made Shelby smile. If this storm kept up all day, he would not be able to go outside to work and would have to find things to do in the house once his barn chores were done. Perhaps, if Miriam took a nap or worked upstairs in her sewing room, Shelby and Dawson might even have a little private time to continue to get to know one another better.

  Grant was ecstatic. He stood in the doorway of his cabin and watched the snow pile up in the woods around him. Vermonters called this sugar snow. After the moderate temperatures of the past few days, the dramatic drop in barometric pressure that accompanied a storm like this would push the sap up through the trees day and night. The snow would add needed moisture and would keep the roots of the trees just cold enough to discourage the buds from opening. When the storm stopped, he’d plow his road and then his parents’. He and Larry would need to go out on snowshoes to check for damage from the wind when they could, but unless a main line was down, most likely they would find themselves too busy gathering and boiling to worry about minor losses. One complicating factor could be the effects of a storm like this on his fellow Chatham residents. Heart attacks while shoveling snow, power lines down, chimney fires, and people stranded on the roads were all reasons why his beeper might go off. Like always, he would just ride it out and see what happened.

  Marcia had already decided to spend the day in bed eating and reading. She had plenty of snacks and a supply of paperbacks from the summer flea markets she loved to frequent. Teddy had installed a generator, so if the power went out, she’d still have lights. The snow piling up around her cozy mobile home would deter any visitors, which was fine with her. Teddy was out on the road, far away from New England, so the storm wouldn’t bother him, and by the time he came home three days from now, most of this would be gone because April snows never lasted. The days would warm up again, the snow would slump, and the little crocus and blue things whose name she could never remember would be pushing up through any snow that remained. In the meantime, she was happy just to revel in the forced solitude and to take care of no one but herself.

  Shane was in a motel in southern Massachusetts. He had left New York City around midnight, thinking he would drive all night and be home by six a.m. or so. He preferred night driving because the traffic was minimal, and it had never occurred to him to check the weather report before leaving. The past two days in the City had been in the seventies and sunny—remarkable weather for this time of year. Of course, he hadn’t been out much to enjoy it. Finishing up in the recording studio had kept him indoors for most of this trip. Now he was anxious to get back to surprise Shelby with the results—his first professionally produced album of original material. She had sounded incredibly depressed when he had called Thursday, but that hadn’t surprised him. Her testimony to the prosecutor had been a terrible thing for her to endure. It had been a terrible thing for Shane to hear. He had almost cancelled this trip to New York to be with her, but he knew in his heart that would be of little consequence. Her best chances for recovery lay with Dawson and Miriam Penfield.

  The freezing rain had begun while he was in southern Connecticut, and he had been forced to slow down considerably as the road iced over. Huge flakes of snow began to appear while he was approaching Hartford. The density of the snow increased quickly and the wind blew it in swirls that made it impossible to see more than a foot in front of the car. He had forged on in the hopes of outrunning it, but by the time he passed into Massachusetts it was obvious that this storm was not going to abate any time soon. Windblown snow was piling up on the highway and no plows were venturing out to remove it. About the time that Dawson Penfield was waking in Vermont, Shane was pulling into an all-night motel in an unknown location in southern Massachusetts.

  With the storm raging outside, Dawson resigned himself to staying inside. There was no point in removing the accumulating snow while the wind continued to blow it cross-wise. He brought in extra firewood for the kitchen stove, filled the woodstove in the basement, and made sure all the kerosene lamps had ample fuel and solid wicks, assuming that, in time, the power would go out. The chickens and cows were fed and watered and would not require attention again until the afternoon milking. He cleaned up areas of the ell that he had been neglecting lately, but by eleven a.m., he had exhausted the possibilities in the outbuildings. Shelby and his mother were folding laundry at the kitchen table when he came into the house to stay.

  His ma reminded him about the dripping faucet on the kitchen sink, so he pu
lled out his plumbing tools and replaced a washer and managed to keep himself busy until lunchtime with maintenance chores inside. Outside the kitchen window, the world was reduced to a muted palette of white and blue-gray with the occasional dark green of evergreen boughs disappearing beneath their burden of snow. The faded red of the barn all but disappeared behind blowing snow. The blowing and drifting made it impossible to gauge how much snow had fallen so far, but Dawson guessed at least twenty-four inches plus the underlying layer of ice.

  The noontime sky remained dark and ominous, and Miriam, Shelby, and Dawson ate lunch together with the kitchen lights on. When they finished, Dawson washed the lunch dishes and Shelby wiped, while Miriam went into the bedrooms to put away the laundry.