Elvira pushed the plate a little closer and a weathered hand reached out and scooped up two of them.
He took a bite, closed his eyes in delight, and mumbled with his mouth full, “I haven’t tasted anything homemade like these in years. Not since my wife passed on.”
They all watched curiously.
Jack sat back and crossed his arms on his chest. “Okay, one more time. Who are you and what do you want? At the moment I’m a little short of patience.”
The old man’s pale blue eyes twinkled. “Why, I’m Rip Van Winkle.”
They all stared, incredulous at the old man who munched on his brownies with small sounds of appreciation.
After a minute or so Jack spoke up again. “Not funny. Another day maybe I’d play along with you, but not today. Who are you really?”
“You’re Jack Conner, Charley Conner’s nephew?”
Jack nodded. “My uncle passed away recently.”
“Yes I know. Turning to Fred, the man said, “You must be Joe Douglas’s boy.”
“That was my father’s name, yes,” said Fred slowly.
The old man’s gaze settled finally on Vicky.
“And who are you, young lady?”
“My name is Victoria,” she answered, unwilling to give this stranger any information.
He studied her face for a long moment before speaking, a note of sadness creeping into his voice. “Yes, yes I see. Well then. My name is Willet, and if I’m not mistaken, this is my farm.”
Chapter 9
Rain beat down steadily on the canvas above her as Gwendolyn sat shivering alone in the pirate’s lair. Great gusts of wind pounded the tent at intervals, hurling torrents of water, threatening to bring it down upon her head. Cold, tired and hungry she was surrounded by chests and crates, apparently stored there with the rest of the pirate’s booty.
Awakened in the dark of night, carried swooning from the security of her bed in the powerful arms of the swarthy pirate captain, she’d been spirited onto his ship and sent far from her home and all she held dear. Every familiar thing was taken from her; even her gown, chemise, and kid boots had been stripped away. Wrapped only in a gauzy piece of silk to insure her captivity, her future was far from certain. Despairing, she could only wait, hoping and praying that help would come from some unknown quarter.
From “Caribbean Fire” by Tori Baxter
* * *
Listening to the rain pelting down outside, Vicky brooded over her situation, well aware that her blue mood found its way into her writing. It didn’t matter. The important thing was to keep moving the story along. When dealing with Nanna’s advancing illness, escaping into her stories had helped her to cope. Her own anxieties transferred to her heroine, giving a keener edge to the adventures. She paused, leaned back in her chair, and stretched.
Well past dawn, the world outside had made it only as far as a dull gray. She’d planned to venture into the little hamlet of Pippen’s Grove today, but considering the weather, tomorrow might be the better option. Sighing, she drained the last of her cold coffee.
Wandering back into the kitchen, she felt the coffee pot to see if there was any warmth left. The dregs looked so yucky that she put a fresh pot on to brew. The old photos of her grandmother with friends and family were where she’d left them on the table the night before. Not having the heart to look at them again or put them away, she'd just slid them safely aside.
Her head popped up when she heard heavy splashing steps coming from the back of the house accompanying the steady drumbeat of rain. It was Jack running across the yard through the mud and onto the porch. Damn! I just cleaned the mud off that porch yesterday.
She dashed back to the corner office room. Saving her file, she dropped the lid of the laptop, hiding Caribbean Fire from prying eyes. If Jack ever read the manuscript, he’d recognize himself as the dark handsome pirate Captain. She’d placed him in the role of the pirate villain, or perhaps hero? She hadn’t yet decided which.
“Come on in,” Vicky called in response to his impatient banging. She heard the protesting squeak of the screen door, a slam, and Jack muttering about the wet. He removed his muddy boots and came into the kitchen in his socks; water dripping from his dark hair.
Memories of a naked Jack fresh from the shower flooded back. She drew in her breath when she saw how his damp T-shirt clung to his chest muscles. The urge to touch the dark curls spread over the V-neck was so strong that she almost reached out.
They stared at one another.
“Can we talk?” he asked.
She nodded. “Coffee?”
He went to the counter, found a mug, and helped himself before the pot had finished. “Let’s sit.” He motioned towards the table.
Regarding her over the rim of his coffee mug, Jack saw that her shiny hair was loose and curls tumbled around her shoulders. It was amazing the way the little top she was wearing molded her round breasts and slid down to her waste. Her heavy glasses were off, lying on the table beside her so he could look directly into those big, hazel eyes. Today she was lovely, but what? The eyes were so very pretty, but forlorn.
Forcing himself to look away, he sipped his coffee, peered out at the weather, and said, “Rain’s a good thing. I got another couple acres of sweet corn in the ground yesterday. Little rain, little warm sunshine, and we have corn in August. Knee-high by the fourth of July is what the old farmers say. It’s always a gamble though. If it turns cold and stays damp the seed just rots in the ground.”
“Jack, what does it matter whether the corn comes up or rots in the ground? By August, we’ll both probably be kicked out by Jonathan Van Winkle, if not that screwball old guy who claims to be a Willet relative. I don’t think I’ll bother unpacking anything. I couldn’t stand having to pack it all up again.”
She looked so sad he wanted to hold her and press those lush breasts against his chest. Then kiss her on her neck just under her ear, before traveling up to her mouth to taste those pouting....
“Do you think he was for real?” she asked.
He started. “What?”
“Do you think he was for real?” she repeated.
“You mean the old guy? Rip Van Winkle?” He shifted in his chair. “I really don’t know. Maybe he’s some Willet cousin, or maybe he’s just a crazy old man that knows about the family and the farm.”
“What about Jonathan Van Winkle?” she asked.
“Fred thinks Jonathan might have a legal right to the property. Maybe he does, and then maybe he doesn’t. There’s just too much we don’t know. I’ll say this though. I’m going to fight this thing every inch of the way. While I’m fighting, I’m going to continue doing what I’ve started. I’ll plant what I intended to plant and count on doing the harvesting as well. Fred, Doc, and Elvira will do everything they can to help. I want your help too, Victoria. I need you to back me up. How about it?”
“I just don’t know what I can do, Jack. That was so weird yesterday. The strange old man showing up, claiming he was the rightful owner of the farm, right after what Jonathan said to me yesterday is too much coincidence. Then he wolfs down a half dozen brownies, walks out the door, and disappears to where…?” Her voice trailed off as she looked into the dining room where the moving men had stacked her boxes. “Oh I forgot. Jimmy gave me your mail yesterday. I think it’s on the table on top of those boxes. I’ll get it for you.”
“Don’t bother, I’ll get it.” In the dining room, he saw a bundle of envelopes and junk mail rubber banded together sitting on a box addressed to Victoria from The Taylor Literary Agency, NYC. Why would a literary agency be mailing a box to Victoria?
Returning to the kitchen, he quickly glanced through his mail, before he set it down, exchanging it for his coffee. He took a long pull, grateful for the warmth. “I don’t believe in giving up without a fight, at least with something as important as this. We’re both on the same side now Victoria. Maybe that wasn’t the case a week ago, but it is now. You have to keep a positive attitude.
”
She gave him a little smile. “Okay Jack, I’ll try.” She looked out at the threatening skies. “There are several things I need, so I might drive into town later today. Don’t know about the weather though.”
“There’s nothing I can do here with the fields so wet. I’ll drive you into town if you want. Show you around Pippen’s Grove. It’s not much. If you blink while driving by, you’ll miss it.”
She hesitated.
I wonder what she's thinking. What's behind those eyes, so pretty once the glasses are off? And what's with the literary agency? What does she do for a living? There must be something. He gave her his most engaging smile. “Victoria, I’m curious. Did you work before you moved here?”
She rose, taking her coffee cup to the pot, and replied vaguely, “Yes, I do a little freelance work.”
“What do you freelance? What exactly is it you do?”
“Well, I write things. Nothing you’d have any interest in, I’m sure.” She changed the subject. “Conner is an Irish name? You don’t look Irish. You’re so dark, as though you were Mediterranean.”
He smiled at her. “My people are Black Irish. You know about the Spanish Armada?”
“A little,” she said. He could have no way of knowing that Vicky did actually know a good deal about the Spanish Armada, as she’d written a bestselling historical romance set in England during that era.
“When the English defeated the Spanish in the channel, most of the remaining fleet was blown north by a storm. They tried sailing around the British Isles to get back to Spain, but most didn’t make it. Several ships wrecked on the west coast of Ireland and survivors were absorbed into the population. So folks from that part of Ireland, a bit on the dark side, are often referred to as Black Irish. What about you Victoria? I saw your name on that box in the dining room and couldn’t pronounce it. Is it French?”
Shifting in her chair, she leaned over frowning at the box that had arrived yesterday on the dining room table as she answered, “Italian actually. My dad was Italian. His grandparents came from somewhere near Naples I think. Nanna’s people were from up here, mostly Dutch, English.”
His eyes were drawn to her chest as she stretched to look into the dining room. Her breasts were thrust out towards him practically begging for his attention as she leaned over. He forced himself to look away.
* * *
By noon, the downpour had diminished to an occasional drizzle. The air was cool and damp under leaden skies, promising more rain later.
Jack and Vicky sat in the cab of his truck, parked in front of the Henry Hudson Grocery. Several businesses were clustered at the intersection of the county road and the town’s main street. On one corner was a Shell gas station and on another, a barbershop, a hair salon, an antique store and a few other businesses. The grocery and its parking lot occupied the corner opposite the Shell.
“Here we are. This is beautiful downtown Pippen’s Grove,” said Jack.
Vicky looked around the intersection. Wow, a few days ago, we couldn’t stand each other, and now we’re discussing mundane things. We’re acting like two people on a blind date. Hey. What made me think that?
“Okay, let’s see what the Henry Hudson has to offer,” she said.
He got out and started around to open her door, but she was too quick for his attempted chivalry. She opened the door and jumped down on her own, slamming it behind her as she strode away from him towards the store.
Inside she found a cart and began roaming the aisles, familiarizing herself with the store’s layout.
Curious, Jacked watched her for a moment. He followed along, wondering why she made a complete circuit of the small grocery before putting anything in her cart. Women are impossible to figure. He shrugged, decided if she didn’t need his help; he’d get a cart of his own. As long as I’m here, I’ll pick up some beer and chips. What else am I running low on?
After quickly locating and grabbing the half dozen items he deemed necessary, Jack parked his cart by the checkout, smiled at the girl behind the counter, and went to find Victoria. Following her progress, he caught glimpses of her, plucking things from shelves, wandering down the aisles, bending over the meat case. He stopped, unable to take his eyes from her little round rear as she shuffled through packages of ground beef and sausage.
Today she’d worn a tight red sweater and even tighter blue jeans. Her hair though, was back in the old maid bun and the glasses were in place. It’s as though she’d morphed halfway from beauty back to the frump. The memory of that sexy little rear grinding into his lap last night brought an involuntary smile to his face. I’ll have to be careful. I don’t want to get involved with this girl.
He casually strolled over and peeked into her full cart. Women always find so much to buy. I hope she doesn’t get like those other girls in town that are always baking me pies and inviting me to dinner. He’d been successful in avoiding a series of marriage minded females, and didn’t need another one.
Vicky watched him appraising her purchases, and leaned over to tap a wine bottle with one forefinger. “Is this stuff any good,” she asked pointing to an apple wine.
He saw that she had three or four bottles of local wine. “Don’t know. I haven’t tried that one. People say it’s good, but most folks around here have a stake in the wine business. The valley is full of wineries and cider mills. I can tell you though; the apples it’s made from are good. Some come from our orchards.”
Vicky seemed pleased at this.
At the checkout, Jack helped her empty the cart. A steady beep-beep came from the scanner as the girl moved with practiced speed and accuracy while her jaws worked vigorously on a wad of gum. They both reached for the last item in the cart, a bag of sugar, and his hand closed over hers. They stood rooted on either side of the grocery cart hands touching and eyes locked for a long moment, neither of them apparently willing to break the contact. He finally thrust the sugar onto the conveyer belt.
Looking it Cindy, the checkout girl, he clumsily fumbled for his wallet. Eyes wide, her jaws temporarily ceased torturing the wad of gum.
“Jack, what are you doing? Get out of my way. You’re not paying for my stuff.” Vicky elbowed him aside and reached into her purse for her own wallet.
“Oh yeah.” His gaze went helplessly from Vicky to Cindy. “What am I doing?” he muttered to himself. “What the hell’s wrong with me?
Cindy knew Jack well. She winked, shrugged, and resumed her chewing. “You okay, Jack?”
He nodded.
Turning to Vicky, Cindy said, “Will that be all for you today?”
“Yes, thanks very much,” said Vicky swiping her credit card.
Realizing he’d entirely forgotten his own cart and muttering apologies, he raced around to get it and dashed for another checkout.
“You must be the lady I heard moved into the old Willet place,” said Cindy.
Vicky looked up surprised, and then remembered that she had moved into a small town. She smiled at the girl behind the counter who handed her the receipt.
“Yup, that would be me. I’m Vicky Buonadies. My grandmother was a Willet and lived there a long time ago. Pippen’s Grove seems like a nice place.”
We like it here. It’s all right I suppose. What’s got into Jack? He seems awful jittery. Not like him at all.”
“Couldn’t say.” She smiled back. “Tell you the truth, I barely know the man. Just met him the other day. Thanks, and have a nice afternoon.”
"You do the same. Thank you for shopping at Henry Hudson."
She rolled her cart towards the exit and out into the parking lot, trailed by Jack.
When they were back in his truck with the grocery bags safely stowed behind the seat, she asked if there was a place in town to pick up some flowers, planters and a few gardening tools.
“Sure thing, Vandersmoot’s Nursery, right down the road,” he said. “That’ll be our next stop.”
Jack made a quick circuit of the village pointing out his
toric landmark buildings, some of which dated back to colonial times. He pulled into the gravel lot of Vandersmoot’s. The nursery was doing a brisk business right at the peak of the spring planting season.
“I’ll make this quick,” she said. “I think I know pretty much what I want.”
“I’m in no rush,” answered Jack, shrugging.
Getting out of the truck, he waved to his friend, Joe Vandersmoot, who was arranging potted flowers outside the front door.
“Joe, this is Victoria. Can you help her with what she’s looking for? Victoria, Joe and his family own the nursery.”
Vandersmoot beamed a hundred watt smile at Vicky, who returned one of her own.
“You must be the girl who just moved in…,”
“...to the old Willet place.” Vicky finished his sentence for him, smiling. “I seem to be getting that a lot. Guess it’s pretty hard to hide here in Pippen’s Grove. Nice town, what I’ve seen so far.”
“It’s okay. We like it. Right, Jack? I could show you around sometime if you like.”
Vicky thanked him and moved towards the flats of annuals.
“Nice shower we had this morning Jack. Weather’s been cooperative lately. Guess that means we’ll be in for something nastier soon enough. How are the orchards?”
“They’re in good shape this year. Ought to be a good crop.
Joe turned to watch Victoria bending over to examine some Impatiens, with obvious appreciation of the way the tight jeans molded her behind. Returning his gaze to Jack, he raised his eyebrows in question, vaguely gesturing in Victoria’s direction. “You mind if I....” He looked curiously at his friend.
Jack froze. His stomach clenched at the thought of Victoria and Joe together, unsure why that might be. Shrugging to indicate his indifference he said, “Hey, I don’t own her.”
Victoria picked out several flowers and the containers she’d need. At the register, she asked for some potting soil, fertilizer and a few good hand tools. While she waited, he helped Joe load the supplies into the back of the pickup. He returned as Vicky was putting her wallet away.
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