Purling Road - The Complete First Season: Episodes 1-10

by M. L. Gardner

  At least there were no more cancellations, she thought as she looked around the back room that served as a home for her press, a dark room fashioned in the opposite corner and supplies stacked along one wall. Hettie Helps seemed to have put a quick stop to that. Her spine snapped straight. That reminded her, the box outside. She made quick steps out of the back room, through her office and out the front door. She fumbled with the lock and when it finally gave way, she lifted the wooden lid. There was at least twelve pieces of folded paper, as well as two of the subscription slips she’d left on top of the box.

  It had come to her that some of the women who submitted questions might not have subscriptions and surely they’d want to see their answer in the next Saturday edition.

  Just as she thought, both subscription forms had a check on the box next to Saturday delivery only. She smiled. It was a good start.

  Already her mind was moving ahead to the possibility of running Hettie Helps more days of the week, generating more subscriptions which could effectively save her paper.

  “Things are looking up, Muzzy. Inch by inch, you’re going to make it,” she whispered.

  With a bit more spring in her step, Muzzy walked back to her desk and arranged the submissions neatly before stuffing them in a file for Maura. Remembering the one underneath Harold’s articles, she tore off the end of the envelope and out of sheer curiosity, read it. After just a few lines, her blood ran cold.

  WE KNOW THERE IS NO MR. BROWN. WE KNOW YOUR PAPER IS STRUGGLING. A BUSINESS OWNED AND OPERATED SOLELY BY A WOMAN WILL NOT BE WELL RECEIVED IN THIS TOWN. WE ARE WILLING TO BUY YOU OUT WITH A FAIR OFFER. WE’LL BE IN TOUCH.

  Muzzy sat down in her wooden chair with a thud. She’d been so careful not to reveal her secret to anyone other than her closest friends.

  Her fingers, strumming the desk rapidly, suddenly stopped. Mr. Tierney. He knew. But he was in Boston and worked for a cigarette company. Why would he care, much less offer to buy her out when all that was important to him was making the board members happy with well placed ads.

  The only thing to interrupt her racing mind was the strong smell of coffee. She rose and wandered toward it, her brow furrowed. All she could do was wait and see if the person who wrote the letter made good on their promise to be in touch.

  ***

  “Auntie, thank you for coming,” Tarin said. She stepped aside as Maura entered and took stock of the girl.

  She was sallow, dark circles ringed her eyes. She might have lost a few pounds. In a girl as thin as Tarin, it wasn’t hard to notice a small difference in weight. She leaned to one side as she walked back to the sofa. One arm was wrapped around her stomach and she moaned.

  A slow wide smile spread across Maura’s face.

  “I’m to be a great aunt,” she said quietly.

  Tarin nodded weakly and with considerably less joy.

  “How long have ye known?” Maura asked, rushing to sit next to her.

  “Easy, Auntie, if you jostle me, I’ll be sick on you. Though there’s not much left to be sick with.” She pulled her knees up and leaned her head over on the arm of the sofa.

  “Sorry, love. How long?”

  “I suspected last month. I started getting violent sick last week. When it didn’t pass in a few days, I knew it wasn’t the stomach ailment that was going around.”

  The Irish accent she’d all but lost was more pronounced in her discomfort.

  “Oh, when does it stop, Auntie?” she asked, covering her head with her arm.

  “It could be a few weeks, perhaps a month or two.”

  “A month or two of sickness this bad?” she asked with a deep whine. “I can’t live like that.”

  Maura patted her arm. “I’ll help ye. I’ll come over every day and see to things so ye can rest. I’m sure the other women will jump to help as well, once they find out.”

  “I can’t ask you to interrupt your life, Auntie. Or anyone else’s.”

  “Nonesense.” She took Tarin’s hand and noticed how cold it was. Instinctively, she fetched a small quilt from the hallway closet. After tucking her in a cocoon, tight and cozy, she smiled.

  “Is Mr. Gordon happy?”

  Tarin’s eyes glanced up shamefully.

  “I haven’t told him.”

  “How can ye not have told him?” Maura nearly shouted. “Moreover, how could he not take one look at ye and know himself?”

  “I guess his first wife was never sick like this. I told him I have the stomach ailment and he’s been falling all over himself to take care of me. He hired two more dairy hands so he could be here more, but the work is still so much that he barely gets in in time for dinner.”

  “Why don’t ye want to tell him?”

  “I will, just not yet. I don’t want to get his hopes up in case anything…” She lowered her eyes. “In case anything goes wrong.”

  “Ah,” Maura said in a breath. “After seein’ what I went through, I suppose that’s understandable.”

  “Not just you, Auntie. In Ireland two of my friend’s mother's announced they were to have babes and they both lost them that same week. It’s bad luck. That would kill poor Gordon. I don’t want to say a word until I know it’s taken root good and healthy.”

  “I understand, dear. I’ll do my best to keep yer secret.”

  “He’s gone all day, if you still want to help,” Tarin said with a weak smile. “I would appreciate it so much, even just a few days a week.”

  “Consider it done.”

  ***

  Claire’s mother walked in, a tight smile below her strong hooked nose. Her white-gold hair was pulled back in a sweeping bun, held with an elegant clip. Around her shoulders, a mink stole. She glanced around with interest and hesitation.

  “Mother, did you have a nice trip?” Claire asked.

  Catherine leaned in, gave her an airy kiss on each cheek and stepped away quickly.

  “Not particularly,” she said. “The roads were full of holes. I feel bruised all over for the jostling.” Her eyes were still wandering and the judgment in them was obvious for all to see.

  “Why didn’t you take the train from Boston?” Claire asked.

  “Because your father wanted to take the scenic route and have our own vehicle while we are here.” With that, Claire’s eyes went to her father, Monroe.

  “Father. Good to see you,” Claire said. She stood in front of him as stiff as a soldier waiting for inspection. He offered no expression of affection.

  “Claire,” he said with a solemn nod.

  Aryl watched from the doorway. They were already getting under his skin and their coats weren’t even off yet. Which reminded him, he should offer to take them. Before he could make himself move, Claire was taking them. Her parents noticed him lurking and stopped cold.

  “Aryl.” Her mother clasped her hands, looking him up and down. Her father simply stared.

  “Catherine. Monroe. We’re glad you could join us for the new year.” He surprised himself that he’d managed to say it.

  Aryl took the coats from Claire. He flashed a tight smile and she returned an even tighter one.

  She began talking to her parents rapid fire—something she did when she was nervous—and ushering them into the kitchen. She offered them a seat at her table, a small brown one with a well-worn top. The gloss had faded, scratch marks and water circles were scattered about. It was obviously a family table. Claire groaned inside, wishing she had asked Aryl to refinish the top before they got here.

  Her mother pulled out one of the four chairs and glanced with what Claire thought was amusement at the white and yellow checked fabric that covered the seats.

  “You don’t have a separate dining room?” she asked as she gracefully lowered into the seat and crossed her legs.

  Aryl could hear them and hung the coats slowly, delaying sitting with them for as long as possible. The only pleasant conversation he’d ever had with these people was about money. The more he made, the nicer they were. If there was one
thing he hated in this world, it was people as fake as this.

  Of course Claire would never stop trying to win their approval. Approval might, after all, lead to affection. Something Catherine and Monroe were not known for.

  “What a lovely silver carafe,” Catherine said. Claire looked pleasantly relieved.

  “But this isn’t the one I gave you for your wedding.”

  Claire’s smile dropped. “No, we just…acquired this one recently,” she said.

  “What happened to the other one?” Catherine asked, her head tilted, eyes narrowed.

  “Well, it was…you see, we had to...it really was a nightmare, the whole thing—”

  “They took it,” Aryl said, now standing in the doorway. With all eyes on him he took the last available seat. “They took that and everything else to pay my debts.”

  Monroe grumbled under his breath and sipped his tea. His frame was too large for the small wooden chair. He tried crossing his legs, but there wasn’t the room.

  “I see,” Catherine said. For a moment she looked concerned. Aryl prayed she’d say something kind to her daughter.

  “So, everything I gave you is just…gone?” she asked. Her look of concern slid into one of inconvenience. “You couldn’t manage to hold on to any of it?”

  “The debts were enormous.”

  Monroe grunted again. “I thought that Garrett fellow was steering you in the right direction,” he said to no particular person.

  “What happened isn’t Jon’s fault. There were many more casualties besides us.”

  “Your sisters, or I should say, their husbands fared well enough,” Catherine said.

  Claire’s face was strained. She didn’t keep up with her sisters. They were both too much like Catherine. Materialistic and judgmental.

  “I’m glad for them,” Claire said.

  “That’s because they diversified their money,” Monroe offered. “Sure, they lost in the market like most folks, but they didn’t trust the banks as if they were God. Had plenty stashed at home. And, with all that real estate, they’ve nearly fully recovered now.”

  Aryl’s lips had slowly clamped down into a fine line.

  While he wouldn’t wish anyone the continued struggle he faced every day, he didn’t necessarily want to hear about how well others were doing now. At least not if those ‘others’ were Claire’s extended family. Never a more self-centered, self-serving bunch with a complete lack of compassion and humanity had he ever come across. He marveled many times at how Claire had come from this lot.

  “Aryl does own his own fishing company now,” Claire said. Aryl could see how desperately she hoped this would matter to them.

  “Fishing?” Monroe asked with a brow cocked in amusement. “Who the devil would take a fishing expedition in these freezing temperatures?”

  “It’s not recreational fishing. Commercial.”

  “Commercial, eh?” Monroe at least looked a bit interested.

  “How big is your fleet?”

  “Three boats,” he said proudly, knowing pride in such a small thing would confound them. “We’re thinking about bringing on a fourth as soon as we can.”

  Monroe’s business interest turned to personal entertainment.

  “Three?” he asked quietly, nodding.

  “It’s small, but growing,” Claire offered.

  The table was awash in silent tension. Claire’s eyes twitched nervously from her mother to Aryl.

  “I’m sorry Jac is napping. I know how anxious you are to see your grandson,” Claire said with much more enthusiasm on her face than what Aryl read in theirs.

  “We’re patient. Besides, I’m sure he looks just like your sister Susan’s son, Rory. Who looks so much like Linda’s son, Gregory,” Catherine said.

  “Seen one grandchild you’ve seen ‘em all, eh?” Aryl asked. He had that mischievous look in his eyes.

  “Aryl, darling, why don’t you go check on him.”

  Aryl jumped at the chance. “Of course.”

  “Sometimes he wakes up and plays for a bit before crying for us.” Which was a blatant lie. It was more like sometimes Jac woke up and climbed up the wall, across the ceiling and tried to swing on the light fixture before crying for them.

  “Where was he delivered?” Catherine asked, helping herself to more tea, scrounging for conversation.

  “Here,” Claire said, pointing discreetly to the upstairs.

  “You didn’t go to a hospital?” Her father asked, wide eyed.

  “No, there really wasn’t any need—”

  “Wasn’t any need?” Monroe nearly yelled. This was her father. Quiet, aloof and unimpressed one minute, ugly temper flaring the next, usually at something he considered an injustice. “Is this really what this has come to? My daughter is expected to labor in her own bed without the attention of a doctor like a commoner? What if something had gone wrong?” he asked.

  “You could have bled to death,” Catherine added. “Or Jac. He could have been breech or—”

  “Any number of things could have gone wrong. Why is it that Aryl thought this was acceptable? That’s what I want to know.” He stopped short of saying young lady, but she understood the tone well enough. She was a teenager again; her every word and action scrutinized by these people, and she’d better have a satisfactory answer. Unfortunately, she did not.

  “That was while Aryl was gone, remember?” Her nerves were getting the better of her. She folded her hands in her lap to keep from fidgeting them and being told it wasn’t lady like to fidget.

  “Gone,” Monroe said flatly. “Right. When he disappeared for a time.” He was hardly sympathetic, but couldn’t fault Aryl for something when he hadn’t even been here. Not that he wouldn’t continue to try. “Still, you should have gone to the hospital. You could have sent us the bill.”

  “It wasn’t about the bill. I would have rather been here,” Claire said.

  “You’re a grown woman, Claire, but sometimes I worry about your judgment,” Catherine said with an airy humor.

  “Here he is,” Aryl said as he walked into the kitchen. Jac’s eyes were wide as saucers; sheet creases marked his red cheek.

  “He looks like he just woke up,” Claire said.

  “He woke just as I opened the door.”

  Catherine and Monroe studied the child, narrowing their eyes, craning their necks as if he were a piece in a gallery to be surveyed.

  “He certainly looks more like Aryl,” Monroe said.

  “Yes, but you can see Claire as well,” Catherine said. It was as close to calling him a beautiful child as she would come.

  Aryl combed Jac’s hair with his fingers, breaking up the curls, matted as they were to the side of his head.

  Claire should have begun rattling on about him, how smart he was, how energetic…or should she say athletic…inquisitive…that was a good one.

  Definitely accurate. As she thought about ways to brag on her son, she realized there was nothing she could say that would impress them. Instead, she held her hands out for him. He jumped from Aryl’s arms to Claire’s lap and she said a silent prayer that he’d be quiet and still, just for a few more moments.

  “Are you staying for lunch?” Aryl asked as he sat down.

  “We’d had plans to, yes. But under the circumstances we see that it might be an inconvenience—”

  “How would it be an inconvenience?” Aryl asked with a direct stare. Certainly these people wouldn’t be so crass as to say it didn’t look like they could afford to feed two more.

  “Nonsense,” Claire said before her parents had the chance to prove themselves just that crass. “I have a nice lunch all planned. Besides, Aryl’s parents are going to join us.”

  “They are?” Aryl asked, head whipping over.

  “Yes, I invited them over yesterday. They said they’d love to. They haven’t seen you since, well, the wedding.”

  Catherine’s lips pursed as she looked down. Monroe sat back appearing none too happy he’d been wrangled i
nto a lunch of simple food in an overcrowded kitchen with people he barely remembered and didn’t care to know better.

  Aryl crossed his arms with a sigh he tried to hide. Oh, this was going to be an evening to remember.

  ***

  Muzzy bundled as well as she could before climbing onto her motorbike. The sun shone bright overhead, giving the illusion of warmth. After snapping on her goggles and checking her pocket a third time for the money to buy ink, she set out for Boston, trying to think of what shops she could stop at along the way to warm up if she needed to.

  She had just left the edge of Rockport, traveling along a two lane road at a decent speed when something caught her eye in the woods to the right. She slowed and tried to get a better look. There was a narrow dirt crossroad, barely more than a trail that broke off the main road, so subtle you’d miss it if you weren’t looking for it. It doubled back through the woods so far she couldn’t see the end of it.

  Zipping along at a ridiculous pace on that dirt road of hills and turns was another motorbike. The rider was recognized immediately. Peter.

  “What are you doing all the way out here?” Muzzy whispered aloud. Without thinking further, she turned and followed.

  For several moments she kept him in her sights, but stayed far enough back that she was sure he couldn’t hear her over his own bike.

  He had something strapped to the seat behind him and Muzzy nearly hit a tree stretching her neck to better see.

  Suddenly she heard his engine kick down and then rev back up again. With a panic she realized it was getting closer, not farther away.

  Never one to back down from a juicy lead, she continued on. But also not being one to be outright stupid, she looked for a good place to pull off and get her bike turned around in case she needed to get out of there quickly.

  At the last minute, she saw a clearing, pulled in and angled her bike just as Peter came to a rolling stop.

  “What are you doing?” he asked. She couldn’t read his face. For the first time she was studying his features with suspicion, not lust.