by Peg Cochran
Gina went behind the counter and leaned her elbows on it. “I’ve been in kind of a slump lately to be honest with you. Frankly, my romantic life is nonexistent.” Gina pouted. “There are no eligible men here.” She rolled her eyes. “You were lucky to nab Greg Harper when you did.”
Monica didn’t think she’d nabbed Greg exactly. She’d hardly set a snare for him like some sort of Venus flytrap. As a matter of fact, romance had been the last thing on her mind as they had gotten to know each other over time.
“But I did see something hopeful this morning.” Gina leaned forward and her necklace clanged against the counter. She lowered her voice to a throaty whisper. “A gorgeous Jaguar came down Beach Hollow Road—and I’m not talking about the animal—and parked right in front of the hardware store next door. I got a brief glimpse of the driver when he got out of the car—tall and slim with thick silver hair.” She winked at Monica. “And decidedly male.”
Gina frowned. “I had a couple of customers in the shop so I couldn’t go introduce myself, but I’m hopeful I can track him down before someone else grabs him.” She rolled her eyes. “Not that there’s a lot of competition in this town. That’s one good thing at least.”
Monica froze. It sounded like Gina had seen John Kuiper in town. Jaguars didn’t prowl the streets of Cranberry Cove often, not even among the tourists who flooded the town in good weather. Monica didn’t want to be the one to tell Gina that John already had a trophy wife who was probably at least twenty years Gina’s junior. It was unlikely that John would be spending much more time in Cranberry Cove anyway. Gina would soon give up and be onto something else.
Gina was silent for a moment. She tilted her head to the side. “You wouldn’t happen to know who that man is, would you?”
Monica opened her mouth but nothing came out. She shook her head quickly.
“Nope. Never seen him before.” She hoped that didn’t sound as insincere as it felt.
Gina gave a gusty sigh. “I so wish I could have what you and Greg have.”
Monica wanted to tell her that she needed to stop going after the wrong sort of men—the ones with lots of money, big houses and fast cars. If she would settle for someone normal, she might be able to have the love she wanted.
• • •
Monica made a stop at Bart’s Butcher Shop and purchased pork chops for dinner. She planned to cook them with cranberries, shallots and a bit of balsamic vinegar. It was one of Greg’s favorite meals.
By the time she got back to the cottage, Greg’s car was already in the driveway.
“You’re home early,” Monica said as she put her packages down on the kitchen table.
Greg was unpacking a box he’d placed on the counter. He indicated it with a nod of his head.
“I went to an estate sale this afternoon. I was beginning to think I had wasted my time when I found a first edition Ngaio Marsh—A Man Lay Dead—published in 1934, the first book in her Roderick Alleyn series. It was like finding a pearl in an oyster. It’s in mint condition, too. It doesn’t look like it had ever even been cracked open. I also picked up some current best sellers. Customers are always looking for those at a reduced price.”
Monica opened the refrigerator and paused with her hand on the handle. She had a sudden thought.
“I can’t remember if I turned the oven off in the farm kitchen.”
Greg looked over his shoulder at her. “You probably did it by rote. It’s one of those things you don’t think about—you just do it. Then later you can’t remember actually doing it.”
Monica bit her lip. “I don’t know. I think I’d better check.”
She took her jacket from the coatrack and slipped it back on. “I’ll be right back,” she said as she headed out the back door.
The sun was getting lower in the sky and it felt as if the temperature had dropped even lower. Monica hadn’t bothered to grab her hat or gloves. She turned up the collar on her jacket and stuck her hands in her pockets.
The last few rays of sun glinted off the ice covering the cranberry bogs. There were small paw prints in the snow—a fox perhaps?
The wind shifted slightly and it whistled down her back. She quickened her steps.
Finally the building was in sight. A light was burning in one of the windows. Had she forgotten to turn those off, too?
Monica fumbled in her pocket for the key, her fingers clumsy and numb from the cold.
She finally got the door open and stepped inside. She was walking toward the oven when she heard a noise. It sounded as if it was coming from the storage room at the back of the kitchen. She prayed it wasn’t a mouse—it might chew through the bags of flour and sugar kept in there. That had happened once already and the mess had nearly made Monica cry.
She hurried across the kitchen and was about to reach for the door to the storage room when it opened. She couldn’t help it—she was so startled she screamed.
She wasn’t sure who was more surprised to see the other, her or Kit.
“I didn’t know you were still here,” Monica said somewhat breathlessly. Her heart was beating so hard she could hear it thudding in her ears.
“I didn’t expect you to come back,” Kit said, glancing behind him.
“I came to make sure I’d turned off the oven. Then I thought I heard a mouse.”
Monica peered into the storage room. There was something spread out on the floor. It looked like a sleeping bag.
A sheepish look came over Kit’s face.
“Have you been sleeping here at night?” Monica said.
“It’s only temporary, darling.” Kit looked at his feet. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“But don’t you and Sean have a house?”
“Yes, of course. But there’s been a tiny problem, you see. Sean and I had this itsy-bitsy little tiff. Nothing serious. I’m sure it will blow over. But at the moment we’re not speaking to each other.”
“Well, I certainly don’t mind if you stay here, but I hate to think of you sleeping on the floor.”
“I don’t mind in the least.” Kit put a hand on his hip. “I’m tougher than I look, you know, darling.”
• • •
Monica finished rearranging the muffins and scones on the assortment of trays she’d collected for use at the farm store and brushed some flour from the front of her sweatshirt. The trays of baked goods were going to the store for sale and she had another box filled with what she planned to take to the food pantry.
“That really is terribly good of you, darling,” Kit said as he helped Monica carry the boxes to her car. “I’m sure people will appreciate having something fresh to eat. Food pantries are usually all boxes of hamburger helper and dented cans of beans.”
Monica started the car, waved to Kit and headed downtown. She felt a glow of satisfaction as she drove. It was a good feeling to be doing something for others—it was easy to forget that there were people in need when you were wrapped up in work and your own daily life.
The food pantry was located across the drawbridge that spanned the inlet into the harbor. It was down a street so narrow and dark it could have been mistaken for an alley and was located right next to Flynn’s, a rough bar for hard drinkers that was known for the fights that broke out nearly every night.
It was a tight squeeze, but Monica maneuvered her Focus around the turn and down the narrow space. She found a parking spot at the bottom of the hill not too far from the food pantry and parked the car.
She stacked the boxes of baked goods and managed to carry them to the food pantry in one trip. She placed them on the counter with a sigh of relief.
The waiting room was nearly full with people patiently waiting their turn to select food from the nearly bare shelves behind the counter.
A woman was at the counter holding a bag of canned goods that Monica assumed she was dropping off. She smelled of tobacco and looked slightly disheveled, as if she’d rolled out of bed moments earlier and into whatever clothes were at hand. Althoug
h she appeared to be in her forties and must have once been quite attractive, there were deep lines running between her nose and mouth and her face was puffy.
She was talking to the food pantry volunteer, and Monica couldn’t help overhearing their conversation.
“I’m sorry about your cousin Marta,” the volunteer said. Her name tag read Dorothy. “She was always a great help to us. We’re going to miss her.”
“Marta Kuiper?” Monica said as she edged closer. “She was your cousin?”
The woman turned toward Monica. “Did you know her?” Her voice was husky, from cigarettes, Monica guessed.
“Not exactly. I know her sister, Dana.”
“Cheryl DeSantis,” the woman said, holding out her hand. Several bangle bracelets on her wrist jangled melodically.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Monica said. “Were you and Marta close?”
Cheryl sniffed. “Yes, we were. Marta was so good to me. She let me move in with her when I was . . . uh . . . between houses.” She smiled. “She wanted me to stay, but I didn’t want to take advantage of her generosity—it was so kind of her—plus, I had made other arrangements. It was time for me to move on.” She leaned closer and the smell of cigarettes and whiskey on her breath drifted toward Monica. “I wanted my own place.” She gave a pained smile. “You know how it is.”
Monica nodded.
“It was nice to meet you,” Cheryl said as she picked up the bag of canned goods and turned to leave. “I have to go.”
So she had been wrong, Monica thought. Cheryl was getting food from the food pantry, not donating. If Cheryl had hit hard times, she wondered why she didn’t move back in with Marta. Was it pride?
Of course, she might have a low-income apartment and simply needed help with food. Many people were living from paycheck to paycheck and often came up short at the end of the week and couldn’t even afford a box of macaroni and cheese or a packet of ramen noodles.
Dorothy beamed when she saw Monica’s box of baked goods.
“These will be so appreciated. You can’t even imagine,” she said. “We never get anything fresh, although in the summer we occasionally have farmers donate vegetables and fruit. But the winters can be grim—all processed food.”
Monica was glad she had decided to donate. She and Dorothy chatted for a few minutes and then Monica left.
Cheryl was still outside on the sidewalk putting her bag of canned goods into the backseat of her car. The car was old and rust had eaten away at the wheel wells. It looked to be on its last legs. The backseat was filled with what looked like Cheryl’s possessions—clothes, shoes, bags of potato chips and other junk food.
Was she living out of her car? Monica wondered. Then why on earth would she turn down Marta’s offer to live with her?
Or was there more to it than Cheryl had admitted?
Monica watched, curious, as Cheryl walked up the street toward Flynn’s, pulled open the door and went inside.
Chapter 7
Monica drove back down Beach Hollow Road toward Sassamanash Farm. The lake, in the distance, looked cold and forbidding and the wind, which was blowing dark clouds in from the west, was buffeting Monica’s small car. She hoped more snow wasn’t on the way. The winter had already seemed to be decades long.
She couldn’t wait for spring, when things would begin to bloom—the pink flowers on the cranberry vines, the climbing roses on the trellis outside her back door, the fragrant herbs in her small garden.
She was rounding a bend in the road near the farm when she noticed a car stopped by the side of the road and a woman standing next to it.
As Monica got closer she realized the woman was Joyce Murphy, Marta’s friend. She slowed and pulled over onto the shoulder opposite Joyce’s station wagon. Monica checked the traffic, carefully opened her door and got out of the car.
She crunched along the snow piled on the shoulder of the road, at one point nearly slipping on a patch of black ice. A frigid wind blew in off the lake and she huddled in her parka as she dashed across the street.
Joyce had her arms wrapped around herself as she stood waiting in the cold beside her car.
“What’s happened?” Monica asked when she was within earshot. “Have you had a breakdown?”
“I don’t know. I had the car at the garage for a tune-up just the other week—Smitty’s right outside of town. I’ve been going there for years. I think it must be the battery. The nice young man who looked after me warned me that I’d soon need a new one but I didn’t want to spend the money until I had to.” She sighed. “Penny wise and pound foolish, as my dear mother used to say.”
“Have you called for a tow truck?” Monica shouted over the roar of the wind blowing in off the lake.
Joyce shook her head. “No. I’m afraid I forgot to bring my cell phone with me.”
Monica noticed Joyce’s car was filled with cardboard boxes of canned goods. “Were you headed to the food pantry with that?” she asked. She was puzzled since the food pantry was in the opposite direction.
“Yes, but I was going to go home for a bite of lunch first. I was feeling a bit wobbly, I’m afraid. I’m one of the volunteers who are collecting the donations from all the merchants in town. I’m pleased to say we’ve done quite well, as you can see.”
“You must be frozen solid standing out here,” Monica said. “That wind is bitter. Why don’t we sit in my car and call the towing company?”
They waited till a truck had zoomed past them, sending slush and snow flying in its wake, then made their way across the street. Joyce sighed as they settled in the warmth of Monica’s car.
Monica retrieved her cell phone from her pocket and dialed the local towing company. She knew the number by heart—her ancient Ford Focus had broken down numerous times and she knew she’d soon have to face the fact that she’d need to replace it.
“It seems they’re quite busy,” Monica said after ending the call. “It’s going to be over an hour before they can get here.”
“I couldn’t possibly ask you to wait that long,” Joyce said, her hand already on the door handle.
“Why don’t we go back to my house? I’ve got some leftover beef and barley soup in the fridge. We could do with something to warm us up.”
Joyce’s face lit up. “That does sound heavenly,” she said, settling back in her seat.
Monica put the car in gear and headed down the road, quickly traversing the short distance to Sassamanash Farm.
“What a darling place,” Joyce said, clasping her hands together when Monica’s cottage came into view and they made their way down the drive to the farm.
“Come on in.” Monica held the back door open for Joyce. “Don’t mind Mittens. She’s very friendly.”
Mittens stared at the visitor curiously then began to walk in and out between Monica’s legs, her long tail swishing back and forth, nearly tripping her.
“I’ll get the soup going,” Monica said as she led the way to the kitchen. “Take the chair over there by the heating vent and get warm.”
“This is so kind of you, dear.” Joyce kicked off her boots and hung her coat from the back of the chair. She sat down with a sigh of relief.
“How long had you and Marta been friends?” Monica asked as she got the container of soup from the refrigerator and poured it into a pot.
“We go way back,” Joyce said, folding her hands and putting them on the table. “All the way back to elementary school. Marta’s family has been here in Cranberry Cove for generations. My family moved here when I was seven years old. My father took a job with the Baker Furniture Company. It was hard adapting to a new school and a new place. Before that we’d lived in Iowa, you see. It’s so terribly flat there that the hills and valleys here took me quite by surprise.”
Monica got bowls out of the cupboard and two spoons out of the drawer.
“Can I do something to help, dear?”
“Thank you, but there’s no need. You sit and rest. I hope you’re getting warm.�
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“Delightfully so. It’s those small pleasures that are so important in life,” Joyce said. “Getting warm when you’ve been cold, eating when you’re hungry. Who needs the grand things in life when all your needs are being met?”
Joyce had a point, Monica thought.
“That very first day at my new school I was scared half to death,” Joyce continued. “I remember my knees were shaking when my mother dropped me off outside the second-grade classroom.” Joyce’s eyes took on a faraway look. “But Marta befriended me almost immediately. Later on I realized how unusual that was—she was painfully shy and didn’t really mingle much with the other children. Perhaps she sensed a kindred spirit in me that day.”
“How wonderful to have had such a long friendship,” Monica said as she ladled the hot soup into bowls. Steam rose up from the hot liquid and bathed her face.
“Yes, we were certainly blessed.” Joyce gave a sniff and fumbled in her purse for a tissue. “I’m certainly going to miss her. I was quite alarmed when I thought she’d be moving.”
“Oh?” Monica put the bowls on the table.
“Yes. When the developer made that offer for her land. It was an incredible amount of money for someone like Marta, who had spent her life scrimping and saving and making do.”
“But I understand she didn’t plan to sell.”
“She didn’t. Money can’t buy everything, you see. She’d grown up in that house. It was all she’d ever known and she didn’t want to leave no matter what her brother did.”
“John?” Monica’s ears perked up. “What did John do?”
“He was putting pressure on her. He wouldn’t let up. He had the poor thing in tears at times. He even put her name down on a waiting list at the Sunnyside Retirement Community in Grand Rapids. As if Marta wanted to move that far away from everything and everyone she knew.”
