by Nancy Gideon
Ordinarily, Bess would stop at each booth to admire the craftsmanship and share a few minutes of conversation with a lonely farm wife. Often she'd buy things she didn't need to help out those she knew were having a hard time making payments at home. Some were ritual purchases: Betty Schoop's quince jelly to last through the winter months; painstakingly crocheted wash rags from the arthritic Mrs. Mendleson; and flavored taffy, pulled by the girls' soft ball team.
This year she stayed on the walk, discouraged by the startled looks she received. Then the unwelcoming glares as attention fixed upon Zach. Each stare levied that same harsh blame, that same unforgiving judgment. Bad seed. Bad news. Bad to the bone.
Asking what was she doing with the likes of him?
Beside her, Zach walked tall, pretending he didn't notice that he was as welcome as a hailstorm before harvest. Despite the casual ease in his stance, his expression remained all sharp, angular lies, evidence of the strain he must feel pretending this was just another place, that he was just a regular guy out to enjoy the company of an old friend.
The people of Sweetheart weren't about to let him forget who he was. Nor could she ignore their shock and displeasure in seeing her as his escort, their sweetly sensible Bess Carrey, almost unrecognizable in her blindingly bright almost-not-there shorts. Traitor, those narrowed gazes accused her, churning up an acidy taste of guilt, anxiousness and anger.
Zach paused at one of the booths, picking up one of the handmade items. He didn't notice the way Helen Jeffers stiffened up behind the table, but Bess did.
"Think Mel would like this?"
Bess looked at the cinnamon-filled fabric tube coiled into a hot pad so that the heat of a serving dish would release its pleasant scent. She could imagine Melody's surprise at receiving the thoughtful token. "I'm sure she would."
Even as Zach reached back for his wallet, Helen Jeffers snatched the hot pad from his hand.
"That's not for sale. It's my last one. I'm using it as a sample so I can take orders."
He couldn't mistake the snap of her tone. Still he made himself smile and speak politely. "I'd like to order one then."
The woman's gaze narrowed. "I can't say when I'd have time to get to it. I've already got a whole season's worth of work ahead of me." And her thin smile implied that she'd make sure something else always took precedent.
Zach put his wallet away. "I appreciate your honesty." He stared at her just long enough to say he'd gotten the message then turned away from the table.
Bess lingered a moment, lifting the hot pad for a closer examination. "Mrs. Jeffers, this would be so pretty in my kitchen," she confided in a low aside. "If you're not taking any more orders, do you think I could have this one?"
"Well…"
Bess smiled hopefully, winning the other woman over.
"I guess so. That'll be four dollars and fifty cents." As she reached out for the money, she felt free to add, "That's a different look for you, Bess." Different, implying unappealing.
Bess felt color creep up into her face, nearly as hot and vivid as the ensemble. "Faith picked it out."
The woman nodded with a resigned lift of her brows, a "what can you do with kids these days?" attitude.
Feeling provoked and more than a twinge ashamed of herself, Bess paid, then rejoined Zach with the small parcel in hand. He glanced at it, his emotions veiled.
"Give it to Melody from both of us." She extended the sack covertly, but he didn't take it. She frowned, wondering if she'd made a mistake.
"Don't, Bess," he told her with a penetrating quiet. "I don't need your under-the-table charity anymore."
Her frown became a scowl. "That's not what it is."
"Oh? My mistake."
But he wasn't wrong. She'd purposefully angled so Helen Jeffers couldn't see the exchange. To protect the feelings of two people she cared about? Or her own image in the eyes of the town?
Flustered by the ridiculous conflict unfairly involving both heart and mind, she urged, "Take it, Zach. Please. For Melody. She'd enjoy it." She pushed the bag at him again, feeling his tense displeasure, refusing to back down before it. Finally he snatched the sack then leaned around her to meet Helen Jeffers's hostile glare. He lifted the bag, smiling smugly before mouthing a mocking, "Thank you." The woman blinked, betrayal bright in the aggrieved stare she turned on Bess. Bess looked away quickly and hustled after Zach's stalking figure. His mood telegraphed itself in each stiff-legged stride, so she stayed silent.
"You don't have to keep me company," he said with a growly snap. "It's not like I'm a stranger here. I'm sure you'd rather spend your time with your neighbors."
But Bess was beginning to wonder if he was a stranger to her. She was remembering the boy he'd been. What if there was no goodness left in the man he'd become?
"I see them all the time." She put a hand on his arm, apologetically, staying him, trying to sidetrack his anger. "I wanted to spend some with you."
He paused, casting a brief glance her way before glaring ahead at the scurry of faintly recognized townsfolk who were so busy eyeing him anxiously that they were bumping into one another.
"And I'm not making it very easy, am I?"
She didn't answer. What about Zach Crandall had ever been easy?
But she'd known that and still came with him.
"So what's on the Sweetheart agenda for this evening?" He didn't look at her. Paper cracked as his hand clenched and loosened rhythmically on the offending sack.
Wishing she'd never made the backfiring gesture, Bess replied, "Oh, the usual. Class reunions and a buffet in the high school cafeteria and a dance in the gym later. I'm working the refreshment tables. I've got to change first." Into something less glaring than the red shorts. Something sedate and more Bess Carrey.
Zach made an acknowledging noise.
"Thinking of going?" She didn't want to sound too obvious—like she was asking him out or anything. Wistfully she recalled all the dances in her senior year that had passed by uneventfully while she'd gone to bed early and fantasized about being in Zach Crandall's arms.
"I don't exactly have a graduating class. Think I'll pass."
"Oh." How stupid of her not to remember. He was the only official dropout from the Class of 1980. Not something he'd want pinned on the front of his shirt for all to see.
"It should be fun for you. You've got a lot of friends to catch up with."
This time she said nothing. Though she knew everyone in Sweetheart, how many friends did she really have? The kind who were confidants, the ones who shared secrets and gossip and comfortable silences? None that she could name. None except Zach. And they'd shared everything except a future.
They came to the edge of the square, having seen all there was to see. Zach turned to her, his expression stoic. He took a step back, widening the space between them. She stood against a backdrop of noisy fellowship, as one of the included, while he stood at the fringe, on the outside, ever looking in.
"Aunt B, come look what I found!"
Faith's energetic approach created an easy way to break from each other. Bess looked around, and Zach retreated to the street, meeting her return glance with a thin smile.
"I gotta go. I've got something to do before Mel gets off work." He hesitated, looking as if there was more on his mind, but deciding to say nothing more.
Bess hesitated, drawn toward him and at the same time, pulled back into the neighborly hubbub behind her. Again, she let him go with a wan smile.
"Thanks for this morning. It was like old times."
His smile never reached his eyes. "Old times." He made it sound very final, like there was no connection between then and now.
Torn by this, Bess nodded wistfully. Maybe it was better to leave the past in the past where Zach was concerned.
Seeing her answer in her eyes, Zach spun away, walking determinedly out of her life again.
How could she let him go?
She was just about to call out his name, when Faith tugged on h
er arm impatiently.
"Hurry, Aunt B. There's only one left and I've got to have it!"
Sighing, Bess turned from the sight of Zach Crandall's retreat and let herself be yanked back into the fold of Sweetheart tradition.
* * *
Tired and headachy after working a double shift, so the others could sneak out to enjoy the festivities, Melody Crandall let herself in the gate leading up to her quiet house. She started down the walk, sorting through the day's collection of bills and junk mail, and was halfway up the porch steps when a familiar odor reached her. Shock jerked her up taut as her wide gaze flew about, fixing in mind-numbing terror upon the figure of a man. Seated in the vine-covered darkness upon one of the side rails, he was faceless, just a large, intimidating silhouette with a beer bottle dangling from one hand.
An inarticulate cry tore from her as mail fluttered from nerveless fingers. She staggered back, knowing herself trapped, knowing she couldn't run as he rose up and started toward her.
"Mel?"
Confusion made her light-headed. She tried to breathe. It came out a funny little squeak. Afraid of passing out, she fumbled for the rail behind her with both hands just as late-afternoon light slanted across his face revealing the glitter of pale eyes and the strong, squared angles. Her knees gave out and the edge of the step cracked against her tail bone.
"Mel?" He dropped down in front of her, big hands bracing under her elbows to keep her from going over backward.
His voice … the concern crowding his dark brows.
"Zach?" She touched his features, her fingertips trembling. Then her arms lassoed his neck, tight, as she sobbed, "Oh, Zach. I thought—I thought it was—"
"Hush, baby. I know what you thought." He hugged her close, his own eyes squeezed shut as her fear and pain shattered through him. "It's all right. I'm sorry I scared you. I'm sorry, Mel."
"I—I smelled the beer and saw someone out here waiting—"
His embrace dragged her even closer. "It was just me. I'm sorry." He'd get rid of the rest of the six-pack without opening them. Remorse pounded in time with her frantic heartbeats. Gradually, her fright eased back into the past where it belonged and she pushed back from him with a nervous laugh.
"You must think I'm crazier than a rabid skunk."
He rubbed the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. "No. I don't think that at all. I do think you should have gotten the hell out of this house a long time ago."
"I couldn't, Zach."
"Why?"
"I—I got married. We lived here for eleven years."
Where was the thud from his jaw hitting the steps? "Married? When? To whom?"
"I don't want to talk about it now. Let me find the rest of my bills—" she was twisting away, fumbling for the letters "—and I'll make us some coffee."
"Mel—"
"Later, Zach. Please?"
He couldn't bring more anguish into her uplifted gaze. "Coffee sounds good. I've got some made inside."
The warm scent of cinnamon filled the kitchen, drawing Melody's attention to the hot pad beneath her coffee carafe.
"Like it?" He waited awkwardly for her response.
"You bought it for me?" She turned big eyes upon him, and as tears welled up along the lower lashes, he turned to complete mush.
"Bess and I did. I thought you might—" The rest was choked off by her sudden hug and the wad of emotion that remained stuck in his throat long after she spun away to wipe at her eyes and pour two cups for them. It punched home all over again just how difficult things had been if such a small gesture won a reaction of such magnitude. He'd make it up to her. He'd shower her with gifts until she could smile with delight upon receipt instead of bursting into grateful tears.
They sat in the bright kitchen, making small talk about the festival until Melody's hands grew steady and her breaths more regular. Zach wanted to ask about her marriage and why her finger was bare although, sensing her vulnerability, he stayed silent. But he couldn't leave it alone.
He knew how he could find out the details.
When the coffee was gone and Melody had cleaned up the kitchen, she bent over him, surprising him with a kiss upon the temple.
"What was that for?"
"For being here," she answered simply. She stroked his face, her own features growing wistful and sage beyond their years. "Don't let the ghosts drive you away, Zach. They will if you let them."
* * *
Bess spent the early part of the evening refilling the buffet table and ladling out punch. It gave her the opportunity to see and speak to everyone without the obligation to carry on conversations. She knew what everyone wanted to talk about.
They wanted to know about Zach.
Music started up in the gymnasium at nine, honoring decade after decade of nostalgic hit tunes. After she'd helped out in the kitchen, storing the leftovers and stripping the stained table covers, she thought about going in but quickly squelched the notion. She wasn't in the mood to twist to Chubby Checker with George Glover who'd come down from Ames wearing a horrible hairpiece, bragging about his successful car lot, or to fend off those determined to pry tomorrow's rumors from her. It had been a long day. The heels she'd wore with her wispy dress pinched her toes. The evening held no magic. Time to go home and soak up the solitude.
She didn't own a car. Everything in Sweetheart was within a five-block radius, and she liked to walk and savor the night air. There was no hurry. Faith and her friends would be at the carnival riding the Tilt-A-Whirl and gorging on elephant ears until eleven, so Bess set a leisurely pace, clearing her mind of the things that crowded her heart.
As she turned up her drive, she thought she heard music. She nixed the notion that it might be Faith. The teen wouldn't be caught dead listening to "How Deep is Your Love?" in Bee Gee falsetto. The sentimental old tune filtered out into the darkness from her front porch.
She paused, startled to see Zach Crandall sitting there on the stone steps with a miniature boom box between his feet.
"Zach?" Her voice quavered. "What are you doing here?"
He stood slowly, letting her take her fill of him with her bedazzled eyes. "There are a couple of things I wanted to ask you."
"Oh?" A croak of sound forced from a suddenly dry throat.
"About Mel."
"Oh." Fragile hopes scattered with the brief shake of her head. She started up the front walk steps toward him. "What about her?"
"I need you to fill in some of the blanks for me."
"Don't you mean a big blank? A seventeen-year blank?" She couldn't resist the needling jab. He didn't wince, so she sighed. "What can I tell you that you can't hear about from her?"
"Who did she marry?"
Taken aback, she blurted, "She didn't tell you?"
"If she did, I wouldn't have to ask you, would I?" She could ignore his curt tone because of the apprehension behind it. He knew something was wrong, knew it was something he wouldn't like. And he was asking her to lay it on the line.
"Todd Nesman."
Zach mulled the name over, then shook his head. "I don't remember him."
"There's no reason you should. He was two years ahead of us in school. Red hair. A lot of big talk. Had a fast car and picked up some pretty good money on the pro stock circuit."
Zach's brow puckered then furrowed in deep horizontal lies. "I remember now. A real ass."
Bess nodded, dropping down onto the cement porch across from him.
"How did Mel get mixed up with him? I don't recall her seeing anyone in particular."
"I don't think they ever really dated." Bess paused, wondering how much she should reveal. She didn't want to cross the lie between a friend's confidence and public knowledge. The private stuff should come from his sister, not from her.
Zach read her reluctance. "I came here to hear the truth. Don't sugarcoat it, Bess. I can take it."
Could he? She wondered. Could he hear the truth and not hate himself for leaving her alone to face such misery? She star
ted talking, keeping her facts objective, betraying none of her own opinions in the candid picture she drew him.
"When your mom went to prison, your brothers took off in all directions, afraid they'd be placed in the foster care system. Melody was determined to stay, to try to hold on to the house so you'd all have something to come home to. You remember Mrs. Todd, don't you?"
"The social studies teacher?"
Bess nodded. "Melody stayed with them while the court was deciding about custody. She was underage, and there was no family."
Zach's features darkened, impatiently. He knew all that. "So?"
"So Todd promised to help her hang on to the house, if she'd marry him. She didn't have much choice. There was no one else for her to turn to."
Zach studied his fingernails with a fierce concentration. She didn't voice her comment as an accusation but he received it as one. He hadn't been there to help his little sister. She'd been forced to depend upon a stranger. "What happened?" he asked fatalistically.
"It wasn't a good marriage. She was looking for security and ended up … with someone like your father."
Zach didn't look up. The muscles in his jaw spasmed tightly. "Did he—did he mistreat her?" He was thinking of her glazed stare when he'd caught her wrist across the counter. Thinking it was his fault that she'd had to endure another monster.
"Not that she told anyone."
"So, where is he?"
Bess shivered at the deadly quiet in his words. The sound of a man sharpening his knives before beginning a hunt.
"I don't know, Zach. He left town. He took off with some bumper babe from the race circuit. Melody filed for divorce and got it." Bess added in a soft addendum. "He left with everything she had."
Zach surged to his feet with a violence that had Bess cowering back. What worked in his face was frightening to behold. Then it was gone, and somehow the lack of animation was scarier. "Guess I'll have to go find him."