Romance in Color

by Synithia Williams

  “The renter plants corn and soybeans. I go every weekend to work in the orchard. Five acres and the old hog shed are reserved in the lease agreement.”

  “Who lives there? Grandparents? An uncle?”

  “A guy named Daniel Larson.” He twisted his mouth as if he’d bitten into a lemon.

  “From your expression I’ll guess he’s not a friend.”

  “He’s a bully. Or at least that’s how I’ve seen him since I was a kid. If you’re lucky you won’t meet him.”

  You’re making me curious.

  “My grandparents used to live in the house. It’s known as Hilltop Farm. Decades ago an ancestor painted Hilltop across the end of the barn. When I get a few things straightened out I’ll rename it Hilltop Orchard.”

  “Are your grandparents …?”

  “Gone? Yes. Grandmother died a year ago later this month. Gramps passed two years before. The estate rents the land. Until … never mind, it gets complicated.”

  “Perhaps you’d rather save it for dessert. I put together peach shortcake.”

  His jaw slacked and he sent her a silent question. “I didn’t have peaches in the house.”

  “I improvised with canned.” I didn’t find any fresh produce in the house.

  “Oh. I’d forgotten.”

  She pushed her chair back and went to assemble the desserts. “I took it seriously when you told me to cook with what I found. Was that wrong?”

  “No, not at all. We’ll work in a trip to the supermarket on Sunday.” He stacked their empty plates and transferred them to the counter. “Are you going to the farm with me? I can promise you hard work and fresh air. But it would be volunteer labor.”

  She pressed one peach slice into the crest of the whipped topping and pushed the bowl toward him. A plea for her company seemed to radiate off of him. She detected a trace of—desperation? Maybe it was sincerity. She gave a quick check to the safety level and hoped her body language didn’t reveal how much she feared Basil finding her in Eau Claire. “Lunch included?”

  • • •

  Basil sent the waitress a quick smile and pushed his empty iced tea glass toward the end of the table. “What time did you say you got off?”

  “Don’t bother with the pick-up lines, young man. My husband’s a boxing instructor.” The new night-shift server at Hiawatha’s Griddle wore confidence and a nametag saying “Maggie.” In an instant she settled his platter of eggs, sausage patties, and hash browns on the center of the paper placemat.

  “Message received.” He lifted two fingers in a salute before digging into his meal.

  For the second night in a row Matt’s sister was absent from her previous workplace. He’d ordered a two-minute beating by his top prison contact on the chance Matt would give up either her location or a trail to the money. The odds on either point were against Basil, but he’d lose credibility and power unless he tried. More and more the situation emerged as if Matt had been the object of one of the new members’ jealousy. Soon he’d clean the riff-raff out of his own organization.

  Matt’s sister, Mona, sure was a pretty little thing. She improved the scenery in the diner with efficient movements, a cheerful attitude, and pure black hair he longed to push his fingers through. Where had she gone? Milwaukee? Chicago? A little crossroads town? A hunch deep in his core told him she was close. The bumper sticker pointed to Crystal Springs. Or an alumnus of the high school. Pity his contact at the DMV had suffered a gallbladder attack and underwent surgery before he could trace the van’s plate.

  “Joel, I’m not going to tell you politely again. The men’s room needs attention.” Maggie spoke loud enough to be heard above the clink of flatware two booths away.

  Basil spread strawberry jam on rye toast and watched the busboy. He certainly fit Nick’s description of the rogue dealer: slight build, no more than early twenties, and a bright blond faux mohawk. All Basil needed now was a few minutes alone and confirmation of what drugs the boy carried.

  According to the large clock over the kitchen pass-through Basil had plenty of time. Joel left at five thirty on the dot. Mona used to work later, giving the breakfast server a half hour or so of overlap. Thirty minutes gave Basil opportunity to enjoy his meal before he’d meet Joel out back.

  As he sipped his tea he reviewed the conversation with Daniel today. His chemist was cheating him. He could feel it in the little lies about traffic delays and hesitation before answers. Maybe after a few minutes with Joel he could prove it. If the punk kid working in the diner carried tablets with Basil’s logo he’d have enough evidence.

  Half an hour later Basil stood in the shadows and observed the busboy step into the alley behind the restaurant. He waited until Joel cleared the Dumpster before stepping forward. “Hey, punk.”

  “Who?” An instant later Joel pivoted and sprinted toward the light on the corner.

  Basil tackled him midway between Dumpster and the edge of the building. “Skittish. Acting guilty before I get the first question out. Not good form.”

  “You got no reason—”

  “Show me your goods.” Basil pulled the young man to his feet and twisted one arm behind his back. An instant later he caught the other wrist before it could touch him and wrapped an old leather shoelace around both wrists.

  “Don’t—”

  “Save the denial for the cops. You were sweating buckets in chilly air less than ten minutes ago. Now tell me which pocket has your stash.” He pushed Joel toward the brick wall. “Now.”

  “Ba … back. My right.”

  “See, that wasn’t hard.” Basil pulled out a small plastic bag and held it up to the light. “Hmmm. Three colors. Size matches. Want to bet on the logo?”

  “I … I … bought those fair and square.”

  “Wrong answer.” Basil pocketed the drugs and shoved Joel’s shoulder against the building.

  “You’re no cop.”

  “Never claimed to be. Dealer’s name.”

  Joel kicked out and twisted free of Basil’s single arm hold.

  “Bad move, Junior.” Basil ducked and reached for the smaller man. “Mind your manners. Where?”

  “Not your business.” Joel worked free of the wrist binding and dropped into a squat. He glanced at the street only a short dash away and back to Basil’s tattooed arm.

  “It is now. Those are my trademark.” Basil reached for Joel with his left hand and swung with his right fist. The shock wave when he connected with Joel’s jaw went all the way to his collarbone.

  Joel shook his head before lowering it and charging.

  Basil moved aside fast enough to suffer only a glancing blow. He fisted both hands and pursued the younger man. Half of Basil’s blows connected but that proved to be sufficient. “Who?” He panted. “Where?”

  Joel crumpled against the steel trash bin. Blood trickled from both his nose and mouth.

  “Exclusive distribution.” Basil planted his feet shoulder width apart and stared down at the busboy. “My boys haven’t sold to you for three weeks. Who’s your new dealer?”

  “Don’t. No more.” Joel wiped his face and managed to smear blood to new places on his cheek.

  “Time’s wasting.”

  Joel found the corner of the Dumpster and started to pull himself up. “No name.”

  “Description will do.” Real names were rare in this business anyway.

  “Tall. Thin.”

  “More.” Basil stared into Joel’s eyes, daring him to lie.

  “A nice dresser. Gentleman. Unlike you.”

  Basil punched him in the solar plexus for the insult. “Where? When?”

  “Today. Last week.”

  Basil added another hit to the side of Joel’s face. He warmed with satisfaction as a new stream of blood formed at the corner of the busboy’s mouth. “Where?”

  “Loring.”

  “Damn him.” Basil spit on Joel’s foot at the name of a popular park. Police patrols had concentrated on the area for the last two weeks. It was reck
less to conduct business there. “His ride?”

  “Black.” Joel retreated to the corner and swayed between wall and trash container. “Lots of chrome. Wisconsin plates.”

  Figures. Basil jerked Joel forward, delivered two more solid blows, and stood quietly as the busboy slipped into unconsciousness.

  Chapter Six

  Mona ran down the sidewalk in the eerie green light of an approaching storm. The bus on the corner. If I can get to it in time I’ll be safe. Why aren’t people moving? She dodged around a standing pedestrian. Before her foot was down again she was pulled backward, one arm around her neck and another at her waist. “No. No.” She flailed her legs as she was lifted off the ground.

  “Pay me.” The man’s lips brushed against her ear.

  She glanced down and saw stars—a dozen or more—tattooed on the arm below her chin. Basil. Only he displayed that much gang rank, history, and privilege.

  She flung her free arm back and hit—metal?

  Mona curled her fingers around a smooth rod and opened her eyes. She clutched a portion of the futon frame. It was a dream. A nightmare. Soft light seeped into the room from behind her and she began to see shapes. A door with a chair propped under the knob reminded her she was at Linc’s apartment. And he was—she touched the wall—mere feet away. For a full minute she lay still, listening for something familiar, until the soft hum of highway traffic reached her ears. She snuggled under the blanket, comforted by the idea she was not alone in this new place.

  Am I safe? Memory of the flashes in the parking garage raised a batch of gooseflesh. Basil commanded men. Controlled resources. Could he track Linc’s van? The question made a good case to leave, find a bus headed to Madison or Milwaukee.

  “Then?” she whispered. What next? Any job worth having would require ID. The further away she went, the more her Minnesota non-driver card would become memorable. Try to double back? Find a trucker willing to take her past the Twin Cities and drop her in a different part of Minnesota?

  A yawn prodded her to close her eyes. She muttered a simple prayer from childhood, adding a petition for Matt’s safety and her mother’s soul. Without a conscious decision she reached out to rest her fingertips against the wall.

  The man sleeping on the other side became more complex in each conversation. What sort of man talked of apples, land, and college classes late into the evening? At times he appeared to be giving her his biography. What did it matter to her that his first job for pay was walking dogs at his father’s veterinary practice? She’d be gone from here soon.

  I’ll puzzle it all out later. She drew a deep breath and drifted into sleep.

  “Hey. Sleeping Beauty.” Linc’s voice and two sharp knocks against the door cracked Mona’s thin shell of sleep. “Time to get going.”

  Mona snapped her eyes open. White textured ceiling filled her line of sight. “I hear you.”

  “Dress in long pants and sleeves if you’re coming to the farm.”

  Farm. Orchard. She turned toward the window and blinked in soft morning light leaking in around the mini-blinds. Had she overslept? “Got it.”

  She scrambled out of bed and pulled jeans, tank top, and clean underwear from her pack. If he so much as touched the doorknob she’d scream. A shiver disturbed her skin, reminding her of the struggle in her dream. I don’t have time. This is a new day. She cut off the internal words before the conclusion of that family saying could form. She’d take today’s ration of problems as they arrived, not seek them ahead of time.

  Five minutes later she followed the scent of frying bacon up the steps. Some cook she was turning out to be. She fixed one decent supper and didn’t even arrive in the kitchen first to make morning coffee. “Sorry I’m late. Need a hand?”

  “I’ve got breakfast under control.” Linc ladled pancake batter onto a large electric griddle.

  She paused, soaking in the view. He moved with ease, picking up a bright red coffee mug for a sip while the pancakes turned golden. Over paint-spattered jeans he wore a dress shirt with an ink-stained pocket and the sleeves rolled up past the elbow. She glanced down and noticed thick gray socks. The sight of him stirred her more than either the coffee or bacon.

  “Sleep okay?” He flipped the first of four pancakes.

  “I guess so. Didn’t intend to sleep in or disrupt your morning routine.”

  “What routine? Help yourself to coffee. I’m almost done here.”

  • • •

  “That sounds painful.” Linc glanced again at Mona’s profile. He’d managed to dig up enough questions to keep her talking for most of the forty-plus miles this morning. He figured he could listen to her for hours. Tonight, over ice cream on the deck, he’d have to ask more about her Chinese grandparents.

  “You asked for my worst experience on my bike. Getting caught in hail, even for a few minutes, was memorable. The end result turned out to be only a few bruises and a tattered poncho.” She sighed. “City adventures are the only kind I’ve had.”

  “People can move. Have new experiences in a different setting.” Will you change for me? Learn to love land and apple trees? He cleared his throat and put on the tourist guide hat. “We’ll pass two signs almost at our turn. The first one is the official village limits marker with the population. The second, to entice travelers off the road, claims we’re the ‘Heart of a Peaceful Valley.’ Local joke is that the valley’s so peaceful as to be comatose.”

  “It can’t be … population 522? That’s …”

  “Tiny.” He turned from the federal highway onto a village street. “High school is on our right. Newer elementary building will be on the left past the park. Basketball and baseball are the sports of choice.”

  “Home of the Cougars.” She read the proclamation on the side of the building. “How can such a small place have a high school?”

  “Outlying farms. It’s a big school district in square miles.” He checked his mirrors to confirm he wasn’t blocking traffic and pulled to a stop on the narrow shoulder. “Springs in the park back a hundred yards give the place the name. Years ago someone with ambition enlarged a small natural pool at the base. The creek leading out from it isn’t much at first but grows considerable after several more join in at the other end of town.”

  “Looks pleasant.”

  He studied her for a long moment and then eased the van forward. “Majority of the locals are friendly. You won’t be the only visitor this weekend. Only the prettiest.”

  “Flatterer.” She flashed her brief, warm smile with the word.

  He pulled into a gravel parking strip in front of a long, metal building. Three round grain bins poked up behind the roofline, part of the animal feed mixing facilities. “I’ve got business here at Farm Service before we go up the hill. Do you want to come in?”

  She gave the building and mud-spattered pick-up parked on the other side of the entrance a quick look before turning her gaze across the street. “I don’t think so. That store, Harter’s Essentials, do they sell sunglasses? I forgot to pack mine.”

  “Best possibility in town. I know they carry bottled drinks. Could you get us each one? We have a water tap available for refills. By the way, no bathroom at the orchard.”

  “Thanks.” She slammed the passenger door.

  “Do you have money?” He exited the van and called to her back.

  “Enough.”

  Linc stood for a minute, puzzling if the force on the door translated as anger or merely a stiff hinge resisting her small stature. Petite. The women in his life kept reminding him to use the more flattering term. No matter the word, Mona filled a pair of jeans better than most. Watching her cross the street was an enjoyable activity. Go inside and get your spray.

  “Morning, Corey.” Linc greeted one of Hilltop’s neighbors.

  “Must be Saturday if you’re in town. What’s going on with you this weekend?”

  “Routine spraying.” Linc turned to Sam, the clerk. “Did my order come in? Five gallons of the NAA.”
r />   Sam promised to check and disappeared through swinging saloon-style doors.

  “Had ourselves a nice rain midweek.” Corey launched into a pleasant monologue which included the readings on his rain gauge and complaints about a road construction detour adding five miles to his window factory job commute.

  Linc inserted a word or two where appropriate and studied the neighbor a dozen years his senior. Corey tended toward the colorful side of the personality scale. He’d talk to anyone with a pulse when he was sober. But when he started drinking—every night off from the factory—he got quiet with a trace of malice. The only other habit setting him apart from most happened to be his walks—he called them rambles—down access lanes or across fields.

  “A man can always trust you to have a pulse on activities up on the hill.” Linc rested one hip against the counter while Corey described the newest litter of kittens in his machine shed before launching into comments about his wife’s conversion of the garage into a dance studio.

  “I don’t understand Patti’s enthusiasm for teaching dance.” Corey smiled a bit as he spoke his wife’s name. “Only a few of the old style halls are still in operation. But she seems to think she can build a demand.”

  “Hey, Sam,” Linc called to the clerk. “Has that spray I ordered gone into hiding?”

  “Give me a few.” Sam’s words drifted to the sales area.

  “As I was saying, you ever want a kitten, or two, or three, you stop by. Don’t have the heart … Well, looky here.” Corey hooked his thumbs behind his black suspenders and grinned. “If it isn’t Mr. Dance Student? Morning, neighbor.”

  Linc turned his gaze to Daniel Larson striding toward the counter. Daniel lived in the house at Hilltop in a gesture of independence from his parents, who lived a mile away and rented the land. Still walks like a bully. Linc had been a target of Daniel’s pranks and insults since his first summer visits to the farm. “Morning. How are things at Hilltop?”