Kate had already composed herself, but the changing shade of her eyes—a sort of aquamarine in full sunlight—presented a different kind of distraction, one Conor could neutralize only by rationing his glimpses at them, like a man sipping at something he knows is too strong for him.
"That was . . . weird." She sounded calm and puzzled. After considering a number of responses, he decided to risk none of them.
"I'm not usually like this." She dropped her chin to her chest. "What an idiotic thing to say. "
"It's not idiotic." Conor was grateful to offer a comment that couldn't be misconstrued.
"Have you ever been married?" she asked.
"No. I got engaged once, years ago. Didn't work out. She thought she could do better and I'm sure she was right."
"That's very gallant." She smiled and bent her head, picking at the cracked edge of the bench. "You probably think I hate those cows. I don't, but I can't say I love them, either. He seemed to, though. We found the inn on our honeymoon. How could a painter resist a name like Rembrandt, right?"
"Was he an artist?" Conor asked.
"No, I am . . . was. Am." Her brow puckered. "Michael grew up on a farm in Newfoundland, but he had a falling out with his family and ended up in New York. He had a job selling software systems to restaurants and bars—high tech cash registers, basically. He still liked to call himself a 'simple Newfie farmer.' I met him at a cocktail party my father hosted at La Grenouille. He wasn't an invited guest. He'd come to train the bartender, then he crashed the party to meet me." A private smile touched her lips and quickly disappeared. "Anyway. We came back here for our first anniversary and found out the place was for sale. Eventually, we made an offer and they accepted."
Kate stopped. The sun continued climbing and a bead of perspiration trickled down Conor's back. He removed his jacket and laid it between them. After a moment she reached down to pluck one of the early dandelions dotting the pasture like pinpricks of sunlight.
"A week after his memorial service I went ahead with the closing. We'd already made the arrangements. My family called me crazy, but that's nothing new. I headed up here with a couple of suitcases. Good thing I had them because the rest of my stuff got lost. The moving van never showed up. Ever. Talk about a clean slate. But I don't regret coming here, not for a minute." She rubbed the flower against her lips and gazed at the barn. "I do wonder if keeping the farm was a mistake. I want to believe my motives were noble, but sometimes I think I'm hanging on to these cows just so . . ."
She paused again, and under the influence of equally complicated thoughts Conor filled the silence without thinking. "So you can stay angry with him. For leaving you alone to deal with everything." As soon as the words left his mouth he flinched in alarm and turned to her. "Kate, I—Jesus. I've no idea why I said that. I'm sorry."
"Don't be. You're probably on to something." Kate tossed the dandelion into the grass. "It's what happened to you, right? You had to run the family farm when your brother died."
Conor didn't need to answer. The question was rhetorical, the assumption cemented, and he'd been taught to exploit such opportunities. He could shape the narrative to match what she already believed by simply remaining silent. Their eyes met . . . and he couldn't do it. "Didn't happen like that, but I'm familiar with the idea of doing something you don't feel suited for, and having to learn things you never wanted to know."
"You hate farming that much?"
"Oh. God, no. I wasn't thinking about farming." Conor saw some of the sadness lift from Kate's face. "I resented it for a while, but when I stopped being sorry for myself I discovered the life has qualities I hadn't recognized, and doing the right thing brings its own satisfaction. Sort of like the Hindu idea of dharma, the obligation to fulfill your duty."
She nodded. "Making a big decision for the right reasons must feel good. I make little decisions. I build little bridges to carry me from one crisis to the next. I'm hoping the next one will be longer, to give me time to think."
The hint, obvious enough, had come earlier and in a manner far different than Conor had expected. She needed a farmer. He'd known that. It was the whole bloody point of choosing this place. He was a farmer who'd needed a place to go, to disappear. A simple concept, and he'd anticipated a straightforward, unemotional proposition, no strings attached. He had not anticipated this.
The strings were everywhere, fine strands of red gold spinning him into confusion. He recognized the danger but he was like a fly that perceives the web too late. Conor took a deep breath—the sandpaper quality of his voice evened out with a lungful of air behind it—and plunged ahead. "I'll look after your farm for a while, if you like. To give you time to decide what to do. Would that—oh, Jaysus. Please don't cry."
"I'm trying hard not to." Kate laughed a little, wiping her eyes. "I'd hoped you might help, but I was afraid once you saw all this you wouldn't stay long."
"Well, I don't know how long I can stay," Conor warned. "I've left a lot of things behind me, Kate, and to be honest I'm not sure they're far enough back. I'd say the last thing you should want around the place is some dodgy Irish vagabond, but you need a farmer and Phillip is right. I happen to be a good one. I won't take it as a paid position; I'll work for room and board. If you can have me on those terms, I'd be happy to have a go at your cows and see how we get on."
Kate lowered her head in furrowed concentration. As the minutes ticked by Conor grew convinced she'd send him away—certainly the prudent course of action after his outburst of candor. While waiting for her to speak, he indulged in lengthening glances at her profile.
He glimpsed a quiver in the curve of her flushed cheek, spotted two small moles below her ear when the breeze lifted the hair from her neck. In the space above her scoop-necked shirt, freckles—like a light dusting of ginger—began at the base of her throat, spreading over her collarbone and down . . .
His gaze flew to the horizon as she abruptly looked up, squinting at him uncertainly.
"This is an unusual job interview."
Conor released his breath in a cough. "Yeah. Sort of unorthodox."
"Are you sure you want this?"
"Are you offering it?"
"You know I am."
"Then, I'm taking it."
She nodded, satisfied, and they sat quietly, watching a barn cat creep belly-flat against the pasture, stalking a group of sparrows. Kate tossed a stick to frighten them away and turned to Conor with a bright smile. He faced her, forcing himself to meet her blue-eyed scrutiny. He'd have to get used to it sooner or later.
"I guess now is a good time to tell you about a project I've been considering for a new breed of cow."
Oh, Christ.
He clamped his mouth shut, swallowing the expletive. He nodded for her to continue, keeping his face neutral. "What sort of breed did you have in mind?"
"Something that would work for this terrain." Kate popped up and paced a few steps along the steep incline of the pasture. "I've even got a name—Hillside Holstein."
He nodded again, patiently. "Uh-huh. Hillside."
"We'll breed them with shorter legs on one side. So they can stand up straight when they're grazing."
Conor's rigid jaw relaxed. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "I see. What happens if they want to turn around and graze the other way?"
Kate regarded the pasture and looked back with a mischievous shrug. "Well, then they fall over. I haven't worked that part out yet."
He heard himself chuckle hesitantly—as though trying to remember how to do it properly—but Kate's uncontrolled mirth was a contagion beyond resistance.
"Oh my God. The look on your face. Priceless." Her cheeks coloring to a deep shade of pink, she rocked forward and literally hooted. The infectious sound caught him by surprise, prompting a helpless laughter so natural and spontaneous he almost couldn't believe it was his.
Later in the afternoon Conor settled into a sunny corner of the porch to flip through a magazine. The glossy cover of
Vermont Life had enchanted him with a depiction of mountains saturated in color, but after only a few minutes the sun's heat had seeped into his muscles and the images on the page began swimming in a kaleidoscopic blur.
He quickly stood up and tossed the magazine aside, appalled by how close he'd come to falling asleep. One of the more harrowing aspects of his recent illness involved the regular humiliation of screaming himself awake in a London hospital bed, convinced he still lay pinned on a frozen mountain trail, gunfire shredding the trees around him. The idea of subjecting his new hosts to such a scene was mortifying to even contemplate.
He headed out into the fresh air, re-tracing the route of his earlier tour with Kate, and again ended up on the disintegrating picnic bench. The pasture seemed to grow greener as he watched, and the sound of running water was everywhere. The brook at this distance had the muted quality of white noise, but another burbling source of run-off was more immediate. Narrow rivers coursed through trenches along both sides of the road below him, echoing in the culverts and carving small tributaries that snaked into the pasture before returning to the main channel. Submerged in the running stream, flattened stalks of last year's saw grass undulated with lazy elegance.
Conor took in the view and the smell of the sun-warmed ground. The place glowed like a mythological idyll, brimming with the essence of things unseen. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to be found by the boundless thrumming presence hovering at the edge of his senses. Never far away, an elemental spirit too vast to understand waited only for a nod of permission to surge forward and wash into him. He'd spent much of his life avoiding this inherited fragment of his mother's stronger gift, but now he welcomed it—it was the one thing that brought him closer to everyone he'd lost, and those he'd left behind.
Duty. Dharma. Conor thought of another motherly figure who epitomized this concept, who'd shown by the example of her life that duty might also be a source of joy. He opened his eyes to fix on the spot where Kate had stood earlier, remembering her face, bright with laughter, and his own response—a rusty tingle of pleasure to have been the cause of it.
He didn't know when, if ever, 'joy' would be part of his vocabulary again, but if he could do something useful here, something that might offer a small measure of peace . . . maybe it would be enough.
5
Conor started before dawn the next day, taking up the reins with a gusto Kate had frankly not expected, since he'd only just recovered from a serious illness. Within a few weeks he'd transformed her barn into the agricultural equivalent of a bright new penny, and had completed a project she and Abigail had often discussed but never found time for—the creation of a kitchen garden to supply the restaurant with homegrown vegetables.
He'd plowed and harrowed a parcel at the end of the meadow below the inn, fussing over the work for days before presenting the acre of dark rich topsoil for Kate's inspection. After walking its borders, marveling at the geometric precision of his work, she'd delivered her verdict with a happy smile.
"Beautifully done. Thank you. You're a little bit of a neat freak, aren't you?"
"I'd prefer to say meticulous."
"I see." She laughed at his mock solemnity. "I'm not awfully meticulous, myself."
"Really? I hadn't noticed."
"Smart ass."
While appreciative of the effort Kate had worried he might be working too hard, but all evidence indicated the pace was exactly what Conor needed. He showed an astonishing capacity for hard labor, fueled by substantial infusions of Abigail's cooking, and within weeks his gaunt frame had begun disappearing under layers of muscle.
"I covet that man's metabolism," Kate sighed one afternoon after he'd devoured two separate lunch entrees before heading out the door again. "I don't know what you're learning from this experiment, Abigail. Apparently, he's an omnivore. He'll eat anything."
Her chef had been tinkering with the spring menu and had cast Conor in the role of lab rat. With the tactful charm he used to manage her in general, he'd refused nothing, ate everything, and thus had secured his place in Abigail's wild and tender heart forever. Shuffling through a handful of dog-eared recipe cards she peered at Kate over a pair of reading glasses.
"The menu's been finished for a week."
"You're kidding. So, why do you keep giving him two meals at a time? Are you still experimenting? Because maybe Dominic would appreciate trying a few new dishes."
Originally from Italy, Abigail's husband was a dapper man with a mild and sunny temperament, who didn't seem to mind his wife spending most of her waking hours at work. They shared an odd but affectionate relationship, and as the inn's consummately professional dining room manager Dominic was an invaluable asset.
"Dom doesn't need fattening up." Abigail went back to her recipe cards. "Conor does."
"Okay." Kate nodded agreement. "But, why not pump up the volume on one entree?"
"I'm rotating through the combinations he liked most one more time."
"Why?"
With uncharacteristic calm Abigail removed her glasses and set them down. "Because it's all I can do. Don't pretend you haven't noticed, Kate—how he jumps at his own shadow and sometimes looks like he hasn't slept in days. He's getting stronger, bit by bit, but the man is clearly recovering from something besides pneumonia. You know what I'm talking about, honey. You understand this kind of thing even better than me."
Kate rested her chin on one hand and stared down at the table. "Yes. I do. He's mourning the loss of his family and home, but it feels more complicated than grief, and he doesn't seem to want to talk about it." She smiled at Abigail. "At least you thought of a practical way to help. I wish I could do as much."
Abigail gave her hand a pat and got to her feet. "I think you're helping more than you realize. Now, are you going to polish the hall floor before we open or did we give up on that plan?"
"Today. I promise." Kate slapped her palm on the table. "But I'm taking a walk to Longchamp's first. We need a new mop and I need the exercise. I'm afraid I gained weight just watching him eat."
"Uh-huh, of course I've met him." Yvette Longchamp lifted a mop from its rack and propped the handle against the floor. "He's here all the time."
"All the time?" Kate ignored the mop and returned her friend's placid gaze. With a tawny complexion and high cheekbones hinting at her French-Abenaki heritage, Yvette's face often betrayed little more than flat stoicism.
"Almost every day. Comes around ten o'clock. Gets a cruller and a cup of tea."
Kate grinned. "Crullers? Don't let Abigail know. She'll be making those for him next. He eats everything she puts in front of him."
"Doesn't seem to be hurting him." Yvette's comical leer was uncharacteristically expressive. "The man looks good in his Carhartts. They should put him in the catalogue."
"Yeah, okay. What else?"
Yvette leaned on the mop—it wasn't much shorter than she was—and considered the question. "Quiet, but friendly. You know the morning crowd here. Quiet and friendly suits them fine. Somebody's got to be the audience for these characters. He's starting to talk a little more, though. Smiles more. Fits him better. He's not really shy. Just acts like a guy trying to get comfortable with himself again."
Yvette's clipped insights were in tune with Kate's. Conor was growing more talkative with her as well, offering glimpses of a dry mischievous humor, and she was pleased he'd become a regular at Longchamp's. The local all-purpose emporium—a place where carpet tacks, dish drainers and flannel shirts could still be found under one roof—was the oldest business in Hartsboro Bend, and stood at the center of town in both the literal and figurative sense. She liked the idea of him settling into its convivial atmosphere as a member of the community.
Yvette rapped the handle against the floor, patiently amused. "Do you even need a mop?"
Startled out of her private thoughts, Kate gave a brisk nod. "Of course. That one's perfect. You still haven't said what you think of him," she added, following Yvette to the fro
nt of the store.
"Seems nice enough. Ask me again next week. We're hiking Elmore on Sunday."
"Oh? Mount Elmore?"
Another surprising piece of news. Apart from solitary walks around her thirty acres Conor had never expressed interest in any wider exploration, but then again Kate realized she'd never suggested showing him anything.
"Is Bobby going, too?"
Yvette had divorced her husband ten years earlier and Bobby Gilligan—a captain with the local fire department—was her longtime boyfriend.
"Nope, he's working." Yvette rang up the sale and handed over the mop. "Are you jealous? Because you looked a little bit jealous, just then."
"Don't get started with this."
"Not me. You started it. Sounds like you should get to know this guy better yourself."
"Enough," Kate warned. "You and Abigail double-team me with a matchmaking radar that never shuts off, and I haven't got time for it."
"No? When will you?"
"Yvette—"
"Okay, okay. I'm just saying. There's never enough time, so don't wait for that. Anyway, this Mount Elmore deal was Jigger's idea. I'll spend most of the day keeping track of him." Yvette handed Kate her change. "He's out back. Go say hello before you leave? He'll be disappointed if you don't."
Kate exited through the rear door and found Yvette's twelve-year-old son sitting at the end of the porch. His name was Andrew but he was universally known as "Jigger," a fitting nickname for the boy's special brand of excitable movement. At the moment he was unnaturally still, squinting at a guitar across his lap, but at the sight of Kate he beamed a smile of pure joy. He set the guitar aside and jumped up to throw his arms around her.
"Kate! I'm so glad to see you. I missed you!"
"Has it been that long? Well, I missed you too, honey-bun."
The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3 Page 38