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“Well, now…” Old Ben scratched his chin, thoughtful. “I might hold out for another thousand or two if you’ve taken that kindly toward it.” Craig’s chagrined expression drew the old farmer’s chuckle. “Gotcha. Tell your Realtor to come by with papers. I’ll sign ’em. The building approval is up to date. I jes’ kept renewing it, thinkin’ it would pay off.”
“I’ll subcontract the work right away. That way I can finish the interior by the end of summer.”
“I’m a good hand with plumbing,” acknowledged Ben. “You need a hand laying pipe, I’ll step in.”
“Thank you, sir.” Craig gazed into the worn, blue eyes of the smaller man. “I’ll remember that.”
“Congratulations, son.” Jim Macklin clapped Craig on the back. “That’s pretty country up there. And nice that it’s a quick closing, no contingencies.”
“Which means we can get things moving ASAP,” Craig replied.
His mother seemed happy but unsurprised. “I prayed you’d find the right piece.” She smiled as she handed him a hunk of fresh-baked bread, slathered with butter, her confidence that God had time for such little things amusing to Craig. “I asked God to provide everything you needed in a home site.”
“Like God doesn’t have better things to do than diddle with my building lot.” Craig spoke around a bite of bread, then waved the chunk in appreciation. “This stuff’s perfect. I was starved. I didn’t stop for lunch and made do with cookies in the car.”
“And coffee, I’d wager.”
He grinned. “Long day. Longer yet,” he noted, eyeing his watch. “I’m supposed to meet Marc at the park. We’re running an eight-mile loop tonight.”
“So showering now would be useless.” She wrinkled her nose in his direction.
Craig laughed and frowned. “Sorry. I should have showered and gotten rid of the clothes before I came into the kitchen.”
“That would be a switch.” She nodded to the large kettle on the stove. “Can you shift half that pot into the eight-quart kettle for me, please? Dad’s got a fishing crew on the Deborah I and they’re due back. I want supper ready when they get here.”
“Will do.” As he poured half the soup into the smaller kettle, he angled a brow his mother’s way. “So. What did you ask God for?”
Her quick smile brightened gray-blue eyes. “The usual. Affordability. Hills, trees, land, good neighbors and room for dogs.” She didn’t mention Rocket by name. They both knew the inevitability of the old boy’s future. Talking about it didn’t make the outcome easier, although Craig hoped the Lab could make the move with him. Time would tell. “And I love that section of the county, so close to the state park. Beautiful land, Craig.”
“It is.”
“And it’s a family home you’re building.”
“Yup. Me and Rocket.”
At his name, Rocket almost perked an ear, but it was obviously too much effort. The misnamed hound let out a whine, passed gas, then stretched, his paws kneading air in his sleep.
“I was referring to the human variety, but…” His mother slanted a grin Rocket’s way. “He’s a solid beginning. Kind of.”
“I don’t think finding the right girl is as easy as you make out,” Craig argued. “Can’t say my luck’s running any too good in that direction.”
“Depends on where you’re looking,” she shot back. “Probably wouldn’t hurt to expand your horizons, my boy. Search outside the box.”
“Girls don’t come boxed,” Craig pointed out. “That would make things way too easy.”
“Or Stepford,” Deb replied. “When God puts the right woman before you, you’ll know it. There’ll be no doubts.”
“None?”
“Nope.”
“Like you and Dad?”
“Exactly like that,” she agreed. “We’ve weathered some storms, but haven’t capsized yet.”
“And you knew right off the bat,” Craig teased, grabbing another slice of bread, then re-thinking the decision. Eight mile runs and full stomachs weren’t a great mix.
“I was sixteen,” Deb laughed, poking his arm. “But yes, Craig. I knew.”
On his way upstairs to change into running shorts and shoes, Craig spotted Grams sitting on the side porch, a blanket drawn around her shoulders as the evening air cooled. He decided to drive fast and take a minute with her. Life had been crazy busy this spring and their shared moments had been few and far between. “Grams?”
She smiled and turned. “Craig. I was just thinking what a beautiful day this was and now it’s even better.”
He grinned and sank into the rocker alongside hers. The wraparound porch, barren now, would teem with flowers once the nights warmed. His mother didn’t care that most of their reservations were hunters and fishermen. She believed people should appreciate God, flowers and good food.
Grams leaned his way. “You’ve been busy, I hear.”
“Crazy,” he agreed. “And you?”
She laughed. “Your Aunt Cindy kept me hopping these past weeks. I helped when Lisa had her baby, and oh, my, that was a walk down memory lane.” She patted his knee. “I remember you children being born like it was yesterday, your mom and I walking you and Cade through town in your strollers. Then on trikes. The idea that thirty-five years have passed…” she paused, staring outward, then gave a little jerk. “Anyway, it’s nice to be part of this new generation. Watch you youngsters have babies of your own. Your grandpa would have loved that.”
The wistful look in her eye magnified Craig’s inner guilt. If Gramps hadn’t died of a heart attack, he might be here to play with Lisa’s baby. Or her little boy, Jack.
But no. Gramps was gone and hadn’t known the joy of his great-grandchildren, except Kyle.
And whose fault is that, his conscience prodded.
Craig surged from the seat and noted the time, then hurried off, unable to meet Grams’ look, a mix of trust and loss. Would she hate him, knowing what he’d done? That he’d spurred the old man on?
Did it matter? He hated himself for the brash actions of youth, the foolish yammering of a young man who thought he knew so much.
He was living proof of the old adage his grandfather liked to quote: “Better to close your mouth and let people think you’re stupid, than open it and prove them right.”
If only he’d learned the lesson sooner.
Chapter Six
The first scream brought Craig’s head up. It was followed by a second and a tirade of crude words Craig hadn’t heard since party nights in college.
“I hate you! I really, really hate you! I’ll kill you when I get my hands on you, you little worm!” The threat was followed by the slamming of a door, first once, then twice. As Craig hurried down the drive, a runner hurtled toward him, full tilt, arms pumping, an expression of half fear, half triumph lighting the boy’s face.
Behind him pounded a girl, tall and lanky, her athletic prowess outstripping that of the huskier boy. Reaching out an arm, Craig caught the boy, noted the look of surprise and confusion, then held tight while the girl barreled toward them. “What’s going on?”
“Let me go!” The boy struggled against Craig’s grasp.
Craig tightened his grip. “Be quiet. Now.” He directed a calm look to the agitated girl whose knowledge of words unsuited for God-fearing ears was most impressive. Keeping his eyes impassive, Craig stared her down. “Swearing isn’t going to help your situation. I’m not turning him over to you until I know what he did to deserve the beating you can’t wait to dish out.”
The boy squirmed. Craig sent him a look meant to quell. It did. Keeping his body between the antagonists, he angled his head. “What’d he do?”
“Besides reading my journal to his stupid friends over the phone? Even the most private parts?” The girl’s pitch heightened significantly. With good reason, it seemed.
Craig squelched the boy with a stern expression. “Her journal? You would stoop that low?”
Trying to wriggle away, the boy realized the futility when Craig’s arm clenched tighter. “It’s just a stupid old diary.”
“It’s hers.” Craig’s tone allowed no leeway. “Private. Confidential. What were you thinking?” Staring into the boy’s light eyes, he issued a challenge, man to man.
“I just wanted to see what girls write in those things.” Reading Craig’s expression, the boy turned sheepish.
“You’ve got a lot to learn about women, kid,” noted Craig. He was about to continue when a swift-moving figure emerged from the far side of the barn. Startled, he recognized the tawny skin and raised planes of the cheekbones. Huge brown eyes, deep and dark, complementing the long, thick black braid. She’d obviously been working; she bore the look and scent of barn labor.
The girl rolled her eyes as Sarah approached. Then she sniffed, unimpressed, the sound insulting. The boy stilled as if ashamed.
“What’s going on?” Sarah’s voice held the same calm, flat intonation he’d come to know. Tilting her chin, she met Craig’s eye. “You may let go.”
“Of course.” Irritation at being told what to do rose within him. “Now that I’ve saved his life, I’m expendable.”
She didn’t smile. Grim, she addressed the girl. “Who’s watching Skeeter?”
The girl flinched. “She’s watching cartoons.”
Silent, Sarah didn’t move. She used the full force of those dark, impenetrable eyes to subdue the teenager. Defeated, the girl fidgeted. “I’ll see to her.”
The teen flounced back to the small green house set in the trees, her posture indicating displeasure at life in general.
Sarah’s gaze turned to the boy while the sound of a motor bore up the rise of the hill. As a group they moved the few steps to the road’s edge, allowing room for the oncoming vehicle. “What have you done, Brett?”
Craig started at the name. Realization set in. Brett. Brett Slocum. Tom and Rita’s son. The girl must be the older daughter. Thinking back, he remembered her from her father’s funeral. She’d been in junior high then. Must be high school, now. Pretty name, too. Liddie? Tivvie? Something like that.
The approaching car drew abreast. Glancing up, Craig recognized Maggie James’ polished silver coupe. She smiled and waved, then tooted the horn before she pulled ahead, angling her car to the side of the road.
Brett’s look turned hopeful, maybe thinking his aunt wouldn’t chastise him in front of others.
No such luck.
“Brett?”
He scuffed a toe into the scrabbled dirt along the road’s edge. “I read her stupid book.”
“Her book?” Sarah’s exaggerated confusion flustered the kid. “She was upset because you read a book?”
“A journal,” Craig supplied, keeping his countenance void of emotion with no small effort. Seeing the boy writhe under Sarah’s surveillance brought back plenty of memories. Her interrogation tactics were not unlike his mother’s.
Sarah’s mouth dropped open. She gasped in righteous indignation. Her look implored the boy to set the record straight, declare the accusation untrue. Oh, yeah. Craig remembered the routine, front to back. Guilt 101. Did they teach that to women in class or was it intrinsic, inherent to the gender?
Brett’s toe scuffed harder. Head down, he refused to face the look of disappointment on his aunt’s face. Craig couldn’t resist. “There’s more.”
Brett shot him an affronted look and jammed his hands into ragged pockets. Glancing from Craig to Brett, Sarah made no acknowledgement of the approaching woman, focusing on her nephew. “Tell me.”
“I told Matt DeJoy what it said.”
“You didn’t.” Her dismay increased exponentially. “You shared your sister’s journal? Her private thoughts and dreams?”
The boy’s toe dug faster as the charges compiled. His cheeks reddened. His shoulders twitched. He jerked his head. “It’s just a stupid diary.”
“There is no such thing.” Sarah’s tone dropped to the dangerously quiet level Craig remembered all too well. Oh, yeah. That tweaked a memory or two. Times a hundred, at least. He fought a smile as Maggie reached them.
With Maggie’s intrusion, Sarah raised her gaze. Again Craig was struck by the unflappable expression. The lack of affect. He used to think her unfeeling. Unreachable.
Watching her interaction with the boy, he glimpsed the inner struggle. Saw the work it took to maintain the imperturbable appearance. She grasped the boy’s shoulder, her grip unyielding. “Get changed. You can help me in the back barn. Five minutes.” She added the last with a pointed look.
He marched off, defiant, much as his sister had done.
An awkward silence ensued. Maggie looked irked at Craig’s lack of greeting and Sarah seemed ill at ease. She nodded his way. “Thank you.”
That was it? He opened his mouth to say something trite, then paused, reading the look in her eyes. Embarrassment. Shame.
The shadow was brief, no more than a glimpse, but evident. He nodded back. “You’re welcome.” Feeling out of his element, he turned to make introduction. “Maggie James, this is Sarah Slocum. My neighbor, it seems.”
Sarah’s look swept the work site cresting the hill. Something soulful flashed in her dark eyes. Pain? Her nod to the well-dressed taller woman was polite but swift. The tone of her cheeks went a deeper bronze. “I should get back to work.”
Craig noticed Maggie’s subtle appraisal of Sarah’s appearance. Smells that clung. The dark flecks dotting her tall boots. A protective surge swept him again. He fought it off. “Of course.”
With another nod, Sarah pivoted and strode away, the set of her narrow shoulders rigid. Craig turned toward Maggie. “You came to see me?”
She swept his hillside setting a glance. “I heard you were building a house.”
“You heard right. They just finished the fourteenth course of the basement. Not much to see yet, and probably not a good idea to hill-climb in those.” He dropped his gaze to her spiky heels, about as different from Sarah’s barn boots as you could get.
And why on earth that thought occurred to him was a wonder in itself.
“Probably not,” she agreed. She hesitated, shifting her purse up. “You won’t mind the smells out here?”
Craig crinkled his forehead, then relaxed. “You mean farm smells?”
“Yes.”
He laughed. “Not at all. Especially not when farm visits are all in a day’s work. I don’t even notice it.”
“I would.” She sounded regretful, but resigned. “I just thought I’d stop by and wish you well with your building. I know it’s something you’ve been looking forward to.”
Forward to and then some. He’d had his house plans drawn up nearly three years back, then saved for the dream, living at home a year longer than originally planned.
Now his wish became reality, day by day, emergent from the adjacent hillside splendor.
And directly across from Sarah’s sheep farm. How in the world had that happened when he’d been so careful? Thinking back, he remembered querying Steve Laraby about ownership of the land to either side of him. East. West.
Not across the street. He swallowed a groan with the realization.
