The Rocky Road to Ruin

by Meri Allen

  “She who must be obeyed?” Caroline brushed at the cat hairs and tightened the knot on a dove gray silk scarf I’d bought her in Paris years ago. “Spoiled beast as always.”

  Sprinkles had been hiding when I picked up Caroline for the funeral. “I can’t wait to see her.”

  * * *

  Caroline’s breathing deepened as the movement of the car lulled her to sleep. My mind wandered as we drove to the farm where I’d spent so many happy moments riding Buzzy’s sweet ponies and playing Capture the Flag after dark. And eating ice cream, of course—as much as I wanted.

  Ten minutes later, just outside of town, I joined a slow-moving line of cars. The roads around Penniman had been designated scenic byways, and every summer day brought traffic jams to the narrow lanes. I didn’t mind the slowdown. I drank in the scenery: Farmland greened into soybeans or cornfields on both sides of the road. Red barns stood tall beside white farmhouses with black shutters. We passed the gray stone walls and pillars that marked the drive to Moy Mull, Penniman’s artists’ colony.

  Who was lucky enough to live here? For hundreds of years, it had been farmers and then folks who worked at the thread mill. But in the thirties, artists started flocking to Moy Mull, along with actors from New York and Boston who wanted to escape to a country house on the weekends. For years, Penniman had been our little secret.

  About ten years ago, an article about Penniman’s organic farms put the village on the foodie map. Rich people pretending to be farmers moved in, new restaurants and shops opened. It was great for the town’s economy, but it came with a price—traffic, development, and crowds in the summer and fall.

  Just past the sharp curve where sunflowers crowded the road, a stopped car startled me from my reverie. I hit my brakes and Caroline started awake. There was a traffic jam at the ice cream shop, just like old times.

  The Udderly Delightful Ice Cream Shop had once been a simple farm stand where Buzzy sold the farm’s produce, and occasionally homemade ice cream. But Buzzy soon noticed that her ice cream was bringing in more money than the corn and tomatoes. Neighbors helped her expand the stand; Caroline and I helped her paint it her favorite color, a deep eggplant purple; and I knocked together some window boxes for flowers. The sight of the cheerful little building always raised my spirits, but now I gripped the wheel as I watched cars jockey in the crowded parking lot. Horns blared.

  “I thought Mike was going to post on social media that the shop was closed today.” Caroline fumbled in her pocket for her phone. She scrolled to the shop’s site, then huffed. “He forgot. I taped a Closed sign to the front door this morning, but I guess it wasn’t enough.”

  “You can’t blame people for coming,” I said. “It’s a gorgeous day, perfect for ice cream.”

  Caroline rubbed her forehead as I eased past cars and headed up narrow Farm Lane to Buzzy’s house.

  Farm Lane divided Fairweather Farm into two halves, and two farmhouses faced each other across the lane: Buzzy’s white farmhouse to the east behind the shop, and a sprawling red farmhouse and barn across the road to the west. Buzzy’s farm manager, Darwin Brightwood, and his family lived in the red farmhouse and ran the organic farm and orchard behind it.

  The wraparound porch of Buzzy’s small Victorian farmhouse beckoned with red geraniums and ivy spilling from baskets, and yellow daylilies and marigolds ringing the foundation. The view from her porch was breathtaking—over fifty acres of fields, orchards, and woodland.

  All Caroline’s and Mike’s now, I thought.

  Caroline craned to look back down the lane to the shop as I parked next to the kitchen door.

  I followed her gaze. “Lots of disappointed people,” I said.

  Caroline chewed her lower lip.

  We got out of the car. Some kids ran to the small petting pen where Buzzy usually kept animals, either llamas or miniature goats from neighboring farms. The pen was locked and empty. A little boy kicked the gravel, his shoulders slumped.

  “Buzzy would hate this,” Caroline said, “but Mike thought it best to close today.”

  “Of course.” We stood, shoulder to shoulder, watching cars back up.

  “Riley, are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Caroline said.

  I turned to her. “Are you thinking about opening the shop?”

  Caroline grinned. “Let’s go.”

  We jogged down to the shop, unlocked the back door, and flipped on the lights. I looped an apron over my head and tied it around my waist. Faces pressed against the broad windows and a buzz of excited voices grew as Caroline and I prepared to open. I hauled tubs of ice cream from the industrial freezer in the back and felt my spirits lift as the dipping cabinets filled with a dozen different flavors. The colors—from the pale pink of strawberry to the soft purple of lavender and honey to the rich brown of mocha almond—reminded me of a box of watercolors. The enticing scent of bittersweet chocolate filled the shop as Caroline started a batch of hot fudge in the kitchen. I glanced outside as a long black Lincoln Continental lurched to a stop right in the middle of the lane before speeding up again.

  Moments later, the back door of the shop burst open and the Graver girls hurried in. “Reinforcements have arrived! Give me an apron!” Gerri Fairweather Hunt, former principal of Penniman High School, had a deep alto voice that resonated with authority as she tossed one of her flowy scarves over her broad shoulders.

  “Gerri, I told you that with Riley here Caroline was sure to open.” Flo Fairweather looped her apron over her head, beaming at me. Flo had been a kindergarten teacher and her voice was gentle and musical, her round face surrounded by soft white curls. While her sister dressed in jewel tones, Flo wore bright primary colors, bright as a new box of crayons.

  Mike pushed through the door, his face red. He sidled behind Caroline and said in a low voice, “Caroline, we said we weren’t opening today.”

  “You forgot to put the closing online,” Caroline said. “Look at all those people.”

  Mike folded his arms and scoffed. “You don’t expect me to scoop ice cream—”

  Angelica slipped through the back door. Her eyes wide, she ran her fingers along the yellow Formica countertop, taking in the bright windows, the yellow gingham curtains, the marble tables, the mural of sunflowers behind the counter. “Oh, Mike, you never told me how cute it is!” She took an apron from a hook and turned to me. “Do I get free ice cream for helping?”

  I smiled. “Of course. Flo, will you show Angelica how to make the waffle cones?”

  “And”—Caroline squared her shoulders—“everything is free today—in Buzzy’s honor.”

  I couldn’t think of anything more appropriate. More times than I could count I’d seen Buzzy give a free ice cream cone to someone who looked like they could use a break.

  Flo, Gerri, and I clapped, Flo bouncing on her toes, Gerri’s many bangles clanking.

  Mike held up his hands. “Free? Caroline—”

  “Ready?” I threw open the door.

  * * *

  By closing time, almost every bit of ice cream in the dipping cabinets was gone.

  When people insisted on paying, saying it was for whatever charity Buzzy had named in her will, we took the money and put it in a gallon-size jar that had held penny candy. But the truth was that Buzzy hadn’t named a charity. Before the funeral, Caroline had confided that Buzzy had put off making a will, and Caroline wasn’t sure she’d even left one.

  After we closed the door and I wiped down the counters, I noticed that the money jar was gone. Caroline followed my gaze, her lips turned down. “Mike said he was taking it up to the house for safekeeping.” We shared a look.

  Wherever the money was, that’s where Mike was. Not that I could talk, but Mike had hardly ever come back to Penniman to see Buzzy, even for holidays. Caroline shared a house with some coworkers in Boston, but she spent every weekend back home in the bedroom she’d been given twenty-seven years ago when Buzzy had first fostered her as a malnourished, shy eight-year-old wit
h all her belongings in a single green trash bag.

  Caroline stood at the counter, her shoulders bowed, her hands smoothing a folded apron over and over. She looked beyond exhausted and I could feel that the emotional weight of the day was finally sinking in.

  “You head up and get a bite to eat. I’ll finish closing,” I said.

  She gave me a quick hug and slipped out the back door. I swallowed the lump in my throat as I made sure the front door was locked.

  There wasn’t much left to do. Flo, Gerri, and Angelica had whirled through cleanup. I turned off the lights and locked the back door.

  Night was falling, the sky behind the farmhouses a gorgeous shade of suede blue. A soft, warm breeze bent the heads of the tall sunflowers that crowded the lane. Buzzy had planted ten acres years ago and now they were a favorite backdrop for thousands of amateur photographers.

  It was peaceful, but the night was full of a thousand different noises—dogs barking, small critters scurrying, the wind sighing through the sunflowers. Despite the warm breeze, I felt a chill. There was something in the air, a feeling that hovered around me like a swarm of gnats.

  Sadness sure, an emptiness. I couldn’t fool myself into thinking that Buzzy would be waiting at the door, smiling in her favorite purple jeans and lucky Patriots T-shirt. But I also felt unsettled, like when I was a little girl watching a storm, counting the seconds between a lighting flash and the roll of thunder that followed. Something made me whip around and peer into the shadows behind the shop.

  I felt … watched. I scanned the farm and the towering line of sunflowers. They were beautiful but their dark shadows could hide, well, anyone … or any thing. I jogged to the back porch of the farmhouse, relief flooding me when I stepped into the pool of light by the kitchen door.

  Chapter 3

  I went inside, easing the screen door shut behind me, the warm kitchen making me feel silly for my earlier apprehension. Don’t be a drama queen, Riley.

  Caroline sat at the old round oak table, a pot of tea in front of her. It was one of Buzzy’s favorites, a Brown Betty I’d sent her from England three Christmases ago. Tupperware containers and foil-wrapped dishes lined the kitchen counter behind her. There were several pies—everyone in Penniman knew Mike loved pie. The scent of flowers wafted from the dining room, where sympathy arrangements crowded every surface.

  “So much food. People have been bringing dishes like crazy.” Caroline’s voice was dull. She hadn’t noticed that her scarf had fallen from her shoulders to the floor. I put it on the back of her chair and then hunted through the fridge and filled two plates, putting scoops of her favorite fruit salad on hers. I set the plates down and poured myself a cup of tea.

  “Where are Mike and Angelica?”

  Caroline shrugged. “In the Love Nest.” There was a one-bedroom cottage a quarter mile north of the farmhouse, built for a combative mother-in-law generations ago, which Buzzy occasionally rented out.

  “Thank goodness for the Graver Girls.” We clinked our teacups.

  “Riley, I’m so glad you’re here.” Tears brimmed and Caroline swiped them with the back of her hand. “Of course, I’m a mess, Mom’s gone. But she was eighty and she was content. She said she was going home and that Charles would be waiting for her.” Neither of us had known Charles. He’d died years before Buzzy adopted Mike and Caroline.

  “It’s just…” Caroline’s voice drifted as she smoothed her skirt, a familiar self-calming motion. “What do I do now? With the shop and the farm?”

  “Do you have to do anything?” I said. “Maybe get through the summer and then decide?”

  “Mom worked so hard for Udderly.” Caroline used our familiar name for the shop. “It’s a Penniman institution. I want to keep it open. But I have to go back to work at the auction house and none of the staff here wants to be a full-time manager and—”

  A soft knocking at the door made us turn.

  Pru Brightwood stepped inside, her wavy silver-gray hair woven into one thick braid. Her husband Darwin followed, hands in his pockets. Last I’d seen him his hair was salt and pepper; now his hair was snow white and so was his beard, but he still wore his jeans held up with bright red suspenders. Behind them came their seventeen-year-old daughter, Willow, with honey blond hair and sea green eyes so beautiful I marveled every time I saw her. Prudence was a midwife who’d thought she’d never get pregnant herself—until she turned forty and Willow made her surprise appearance.

  For more than twenty years, Prudence and Darwin Brightwood had run the farm for Buzzy, growing organic vegetables, fruit, and specialty herbs, in exchange for free rent on the property. Darwin partnered with a group that brought in volunteers who worked on organic farms in exchange for experience and room and board. These visiting interns, some from overseas, had delighted Buzzy.

  “We hardly got any time with you at the service and reception today,” Willow said, throwing her arms around me, then Caroline.

  Everyone gathered at the table. I set a platter of sandwiches in the center, then passed everyone a plate.

  Willow took a sandwich and passed the platter to her father. “Riley, I can’t wait for your next blog. Will you post more about Italy? I want details.”

  “You’ve got a fan,” Darwin said.

  “I haven’t had a chance to write.” I didn’t want to get too specific. Italy had been complicated. “I’ve been on a leave of absence from my librarian job, so I hope I can do more traveling.” I crossed my fingers at this white lie. I was on leave and did hope to travel more, but it hadn’t been my idea.

  “That sounds more exciting than being a librarian,” Willow said. “Even a CIA librarian.”

  I laughed. Little did anyone know that for the past few years, in addition to my job at the CIA library, I’d had a few undercover assignments. My librarian job as well as my blogging were great cover.

  Willow squeezed my arm, her eyes sparkling. “Riley, are you staying here for a while? You have to see the baby goats I’m raising.”

  “I’d love to!”

  “And are you going to help in the shop?” she continued.

  “Of course.”

  Pru said, “Willow and I can help in the ice cream shop tomorrow. I’m between babies.”

  I gave her a quick smile. “Thanks.”

  A plump, impossibly fluffy white Persian halted at the entrance to the kitchen, her copper eyes surveying the scene.

  Willow swooped her up. “There you are, Sprinkles!”

  Sprinkles had been a star on the cat-show circuit, granted, a difficult star, a feline Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard. Her owner, Buzzy’s dear friend, had passed away and left Sprinkles in Buzzy’s hands. She loved Sprinkles, even though she’d been more accustomed to freewheeling barn cats, not aging stars like Princess Hortense Ophelia Tater Tot, Sprinkles’ official name.

  A flash of annoyance ruffled Sprinkles’ broad face as Willow picked her up. Willow had spoiled her entrance. Sprinkles liked nothing better than to be admired—from a distance. I knew well enough to let Sprinkles come to me. She’d scratched me more than once, but she allowed Willow to pick her up without incident.

  “Hey, the gang’s all here,” Mike said as he and Angelica entered the kitchen. Everyone greeted them as Mike took off his warm-up jacket and set it on the back of Caroline’s chair, then gave her shoulder a squeeze. Caroline stiffened, but smiled a greeting to Angelica.

  Sprinkles squirmed from Willow’s arms and disappeared under the table, looping once around my ankles, then sashayed down the hallway with one sweep of her lush tail.

  Mike and Angelica had both changed into something more comfortable. Mike wore gray sweats embroidered with Mystic Spa, a pricey resort near the shore. Angelica wore blue yoga pants and a matching fitted jacket that accentuated her height and toned physique.

  “You’re Angelica Miguel!” Willow exclaimed.

  “Guilty.” Angelica shook Willow’s hand, then accepted a cup of tea from Pru. Mike unwrapped one of the pies a
nd cut a slice. “Blueberry! Any takers?” He wolfed the slice down as he leaned against the sink.

  “It’s good to see you, Mike,” Pru said. “Where are you living now?”

  “Greenwich,” Mike said. “Brand new condo with a water view.”

  Willow and Angelica chatted about tennis, but after a few minutes the conversation dragged. Caroline picked at her food and kept her head turned away from her brother.

  Pru shared a look with Darwin, then squeezed Caroline’s hand. “We’ll let you get some rest.”

  “Thank you for the snack.” Darwin brushed crumbs from his hands and stood. “Well, you know I’m up way past my bedtime.”

  Mike set his plate in the sink. “Can I talk to you for a second, Darwin?” Mike gestured down the hall to a small parlor.

  “Sure.” Darwin pushed in his chair and joined Mike.

  That was odd. What did Mike have to say in private?

  Caroline lowered her eyes.

  Pru cleared her throat. “You’re up at the Love Nest, Angelica?”

  “Is that what you call the guest cottage?” A light blush colored Angelica’s cheeks. “Mike didn’t tell me that. I guess I’ll head back up there for the evening. It was nice meeting you all.” She stepped out the kitchen door to a chorus of crickets.

  Pru and Caroline talked while Willow and I gathered the dishes. I rinsed plates, wondering what Mike had to say to Darwin that had to be said in private. Was he telling Darwin to take care of his sister before taking off with his celebrity girlfriend?

  Over the water and clink of silverware I heard the men’s voices, not their words but their tone: Mike’s low baritone, Darwin’s tenor rising at one point. I turned off the water as I cursed the solid wood walls. I still couldn’t make out what they were saying.

  Darwin came back into the kitchen, hands in his pockets, his back stiff. “You take care now, Caroline. We’re here if you need us. Always good to see you, Riley.” A rasp of repressed emotion in his voice made my heart drop. Whatever Mike said had blindsided Darwin. One of Buzzy’s old Yankee sayings ran through my mind: Beware the anger of a quiet man.