Necessary Evil

by Killarney Traynor

  I marveled at my own optimism and it wasn’t until I walked back to the house that I realized one reason: Joe was back in town. Further, I hadn’t seen one trespasser or abandoned hole in weeks.

  We’ve done it, I thought, my spirits rising. We’ve beaten the curse!

  Thanks to Professor Maddox and the Beaumont letter, we’d finally convinced the gold-seeking public that there was nothing to find on Chase Farm. The siege was over – recovery could begin.

  I felt so good, I wanted to call Joe right then and there and tell him, but I remembered and I restrained myself.

  No matter, I thought. It’s going to be tough for a little while, but we’re going to make it after all.

  I looked up at the sky and grinned. “Thanks,” I said and went into the house with Trusty, feeling confident for the first time in years.

  ***

  The next day was Monday and I was late for work. It had taken me the better part of an hour to fill in and disguise the prospector’s hole I’d discovered on my morning run.

  My celebration had been premature.

  The Beaumont Letter:

  Authenticated by Professor Anthony Maddox

  Dear Mrs. Chase – ma’am:

  I have recently received your kind letter of April 19th, it having followed me from my former apartments to where I am currently living. I am in good health and am in want of nothing, unless it is a restoration of my liberties. I am, however, content to serve my sentence.

  You asked for particulars regarding Alex’s death – I am sorry to say that I was not present at his passing. We did meet when his regiment passed through where I was working, and he was in good health and spirits, despite missing home and family as any man would. He encouraged me to follow his example and take up arms against the rebels, but pressing personal obligations kept me from following his honorable example and I learned of his passing from mutual friends.

  No doubt you have heard disturbing rumors regarding the circumstances of our departure from Mr. McInnis’ employment in Charleston, just before the Declaration of War. That Mr. McInnis was robbed is not in doubt – whether the goods are still intact is a matter of some dispute, even while the wisest and most knowledgeable of men know that it is likely the items would have been lost on the gaming tables, as thieves and brigands are not adept in husbandry. Even the sad passing of your son is not enough to lay to rest the vicious rumors about his noble character.

  Thinking on your widowhood, I regret that there is nothing of Alex’s that I can send to you. While noble in character, we nevertheless indulged in an occasional gaming. Even what little we had was lost and is irretrievable, including the Kirk spoons, which you mentioned in your letter.

  I hope to join the army upon my release, though I am torn in loyalties – my heart belongs to Georgia, while my wit believes in the Union. I trust I shall be guided in the right. Should I learn anything more regarding my friend, Alexander, I will be sure to contact you. I am grateful for your concern and care, and remain,

  Yours faithfully,

  J. Beaumont

  Chapter 4:

  Early May

  The months slipped by. I said nothing to Aunt Susanna about the hole I’d discovered in September, nor about the ones I continued to find, but there was no keeping the secret from Lindsay. In the course of her workweek, she covered almost as much of the farm as I did, and it was she who discovered the third hole back in October.

  I was out in one of the near paddocks, working one of the new mares, an old thoroughbred I’d bought as a favor off an old friend, hoping that I could train her as a teaching horse. We’d been working for a short time, Lucy going through her paces with the eagerness of a former show horse, and I was feeling pretty good about the purchase when Lindsay came to the gate.

  “I have to show you something,” she said.

  I reined up so sharply that Lucy complained, tossing her head and dancing to one side. I barely paid attention, just slipped off her back and tugged her along with us.

  Lindsay led us to one of the back paddocks, which - if Obadiah Chase’s careful record-keeping is to be believed – was used for wheat and later for corn. Level and neglected-looking, it suffers from occasional flooding when the Exeter runs high. It was here that the treasure hunters left their mark.

  The hole was shallow and wide, with the rocky soil thrown up in a tidy pile beside it. It was at the far side of the paddock, partially concealed by a barrel that we used for turning training. Lucy munched on the remaining grass while Lindsay and I filled the hole, patted it down, stomped on it, and rolled the barrel over it until the ground was safe enough to ride on.

  “Are you going to call the police?” Lindsay asked when we were finished.

  Calling the police meant publicity and I couldn’t afford that. I shook my head grimly. “It won’t do any good. We’ll just have to keep watch, see if we can catch whoever is doing this. Hopefully, they’ll get tired of looking and move on. Don’t tell Susanna.”

  “Right, boss.” She wiped her hands on her jeans, surveying our work. Then she shook her head.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I was just thinking – I’d never look here for the treasure. That Alexander Chase guy would have known about the flooding and, if I were him, I’d assume the soil would be washed away.”

  “You wouldn’t be looking for the treasure anyway,” I said, as we shouldered our shovels and led Lucy back to the barn. “You are smart enough to accept that there isn’t any.”

  We came across two more holes before the ground froze for good at the end of November.

  “This is such a pain,” Lindsay complained, as we filled the last one. “I hope we find this guy.”

  “You and me both,” I muttered, although I didn’t really share the sentiment. Experience had taught me that others would come to replace him.

  With the onset of snow, life went on in its dull, rhythmic routine. My job was going well enough, but even I was surprised at how quickly the weekly paycheck was eaten up by bills. We had a simple Christmas celebration, squeezed enough out of the checkbook to give Lindsay a decent Christmas bonus, then began making plans for the upcoming spring and summer season, our busiest of the year.

  Aunt Susanna recovered enough from her hip surgery to have her knee operation. Physically recovered, I should say. Hobbling around like an elderly cripple for weeks on end left invisible scars, and she seemed to age even as she healed. The temporary downstairs bedroom slowly took on permanence, a sign of her surrender - and if it weren’t for Darlene’s caustic wit and sisterly bullying, I think she would have spent most of her winter inside.

  It was a rough winter. Several of the mares became sick. In February, an ice storm damaged some of the detached stalls, and the barn roof showed signs of weakening. In March, I started negotiations with the bank to take out a second mortgage. In April, I was refused.

  “What will we do?” Aunt Susanna asked, when she found out.

  I shrugged. “We’ll think of something else,” I said. But I was fresh out of ideas. The best I could offer at that moment was the pathetic reassurance, “Summer’s coming. We’ll have plenty of work then.”

  Summer is easily our busiest and most profitable season. Aside from the usual lessons, arranging to have the fields planted and harvested, and the gardens, we always offer four riding camps: two in July, and two in August. The farm sees an increase in visitors as well. Riders prefer the trails to using the indoor ring, of course, and longer days encourage longer rides. They train more often, too - summer is prep-season for the fall shows.

  This year, besides the lessons and the camps, we had two other major events. One was the annual August Chase Farm Horse Show, a tradition since the early 1960s, when it was open to only the farm riders and boarders. When Uncle Michael took over, he opened it up to everyone and turned it into one of the most popular and profitable events of the year.

  Since his passing, attendance had dropped considerably, so I agreed to allow a wedding t
o take place on the grounds. It’s a risk and an inconvenience, but the bride was an old friend of mine and the fee she offered for the privilege was an amount I couldn’t, in good conscience, turn away.

  “Maybe weddings will end up being a regular thing,” I mused to Lindsay, as we discussed the schedule.

  To my surprise, she was less than enthused.

  “They are nothing but a huge pain,” she pointed out. “My sister got married last year and the whole thing was a headache, start to finish. You’ll make some money, sure, but you’ll be lucky if it’s worth the work.”

  She wasn’t the only one who thought so. Joe Tremonti was of the same mind.

  “Have you ever had to deal with a woman on her wedding day?” he asked me later that week, over a cup of coffee at our usual place in Salem. “Do you know what it’s like?”

  “What?” I asked reluctantly. I didn’t like to be reminded that he had firsthand knowledge. “What’s it like?”

  He took a sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim of his mug, his eyebrows raised, his hazel eyes shifting colors. I thought again, What did I do to deserve this?

  It was a happy thought, one that engendered others, and I had nearly forgotten the question when he answered it:

  “You’ve read Carrie, right?”

  I threw my napkin at him and he ducked, laughing - a rich, deep sound that made me shiver. I could get used to this, I thought; but as I looked at Joe, I couldn’t help repeating the thought, this time with genuine confusion:

  What did I do to deserve this?

  For Joe had come back into my life, and it had been he who’d done the outreach, contacting me through social media. For a month or so, that’s where it stayed – a message here and there, a joke picture passed back and forth. Then he invited me to a guest lecture.

  “I remember how much you like local history,” he’d explained in his message. “This woman really knows her stuff – I think you’ll like her.”

  I went and I liked both the woman and the lecture, but it was the coffee afterwards, in a little Boston coffee shop, that I enjoyed most of all. Joe Tremonti was as handsome as ever, and he hadn’t lost the knack of making you feel like you were the only person on the planet. But even as I reveled in the attention, I had to remind myself, Married, married, married.

  It wasn’t until he was walking me back to my car that he’d dropped the bomb. I asked him what made him accept the guest lecturing position. He was going through the usual reasons: prestige, time to write, new opportunities - when he broke off suddenly and stopped walking, his shoulders slumping.

  The parking garage was nearly deserted, not a place I’d normally feel comfortable hanging around at night. The light from exit sign partially lit his face. His eyes, lost in the shadows, looked like hollow caverns and, for the first time since I’d known him, Joe Tremonti looked tired and beaten.

  “Oh, what’s the use?” he said. “There’s no point in hiding it, not from you. Amber asked me to go. She wanted a divorce, but I… I convinced her to try separation. Give her time to think, to work things out.”

  He turned, leaving me with a curious, awkward feeling. I wanted to take his hand to make him feel better, but I knew better than to offer comfort.

  “Has it helped?” I asked. It was all I could think to say.

  “It did,” he said. “She filed for divorce on Monday.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  He turned and his weak grin was heartbreaking. “All I could think when she told me was, ‘I’m so glad I’m here, near my friends.’ You don’t know how much you rely on them… Until something like this happens.” He took my hand and squeezed it. “Thanks, Maddie.”

  I squeezed it back, feeling like a small child who’d just unwrapped the very present she’d asked for.

  Aunt Susanna was sympathetic for his plight; but after Christmas, when we started meeting on a semi-regular basis, she was not happy.

  “You need to be careful,” she scolded. “The man is barely out of one relationship. He shouldn’t be moving on this fast.”

  “Nothing like that is going on,” I said, even while I blushed. “He’s in need of a friend, that’s all. He doesn’t really know anyone at the college.”

  “He hardly knows you, either,” she said. “If he’s looking for a rebound relationship, let it be with one of his colleagues, not my niece.”

  I turned on her with a fury that surprised both of us. “We are not in a relationship!” I snapped. “We are friends and that’s it! And I’m not going to stop – if it weren’t for Joe, I wouldn’t even have a social life right now.”

  As soon as I said it, I wished I could take it back. Aunt Susanna didn’t need to be reminded that I was working two full time jobs essentially, just trying to keep the place running. I didn’t need her slipping into guilt-induced depression.

  Aunt Susanna never brought her concerns up again, even after I apologized. I was glad, because she was not exactly wrong about the situation – she just had it backwards. Joe never acted like anything more than a friend to me, but the more time I spent with him, the harder I fell. I hadn’t realized how lonely I was, how much I’d longed for some attention, until I started spending time with him.

  Joe knew how to treat a woman. He was the type who could hold the door open for you without looking like he was trying too hard, who knew just the right way to tease, when to compliment you on your hair, and when to ask, “How are you doing today?” And he worried about me, which made me feel special.

  He was worried about me the day I mentioned the wedding plans.

  “All those people running around, trampling on the grass,” he said. His tone was doubtful.

  “They can’t be worse on it than we already are,” I said, more cheerfully than I was feeling. I didn’t really like the idea of turning our place into a wedding venue, but it was better than selling the farm, as my co-workers suggested. “It’s not that big a deal. It’ll be over in a week.”

  “If you’re lucky,” he said, and I had to laugh at his dire tone.

  The days were stretching out longer, bringing with them the usual increased workload. Lindsay and I spent hours preparing lessons for the riding camps, organizing schedules, and planning the usual vet appointments and summer maintenance.

  Lindsay loved the summer. Besides her passion for horses and the outdoors, she really connected with the children we work for. Which was a good thing, because between my aunt’s slow recovery and my work schedule, the bulk of the training was going to fall on her slim shoulders.

  “You feeling up to being Headmaster?” I had asked, as we ended a meeting.

  “Oh, yeah.” She grinned. “This is going to be a blast. I’ll put them through their paces – they’ll be equestrians par excellence by the end of August, you’ll see.”

  Lindsay’s enthusiasm was infectious, and I couldn’t help but think how lucky I was to have her. I still didn’t know what I was going to do when she went to college.

  Even with Lindsay taking over most of the lessons, there was plenty for me to do: the advertising, the paperwork, the task of providing lunches and snacks every day for anywhere from five to fifteen finicky little girls, and scheduling the ever-increasing number of lessons. I couldn’t afford to turn people away. By the end of May, I was putting in fourteen hour days and seriously considering hiring two more part-time helpers.

  Added to this were the usual daily irritations. Despite the letter’s authentication, we were still getting requests from people to use the farm for everything ranging from filming horror movies to excavating on the off chance that there actually was treasure. By this point, I was immune to their passionate pleas and annoyed by their persistence. I had ordered Aunt Susanna to deny any requests that came by phone, and I deleted the email requests without replying. When Professor Randall’s email came in, I must have followed the usual procedure and trashed it right away. I don’t remember ever seeing it.

  I have a particularly sharp memory of the
early morning run on that Wednesday in May. It was a clear, unseasonably cool day, and my breath came out in gusts of condensation as I pushed along the riding trail. As I rounded the corner and headed back to the farmhouse, it loomed before me in clear relief against the foggy early morning, a solid, squat Colonial salt-house with additions marring its otherwise pure look.

  I remember pausing at the gate that separates the horse farmyard from the main yard, chilled with sweat and hungry. The house was quiet, dark windows accenting the dark blue paint that, yet again, needed new coat.

  It’s an antiquarian’s dream, our house. Built in the 1600s, it had stood through the revolutions, wars, and climate changes of America’s rambunctious history, housing generation after generation of stalwart Chases. They were the archetype - in my opinion at least - of the original settlers: hardworking, quiet, civic-minded, and stubborn.

  I loved the house. I loved it for more than just the sentimental memories of a happy childhood spent within its secure four walls. I loved the ideas it represented, its history, up to Alexander Chase. Of course, I loved the people who lived in it when I was child: my aunt and uncle had done the bulk of raising me, and I thought of them as more my parents than my real ones.

  My biggest regret has always been that my name is Warwick. As a child, I’d write “Chase” on my kindergarten school papers, and argue with my teacher about the legality of it. When she sent me home with a note to my guardians, I begged Uncle Michael to change my name.

  I’ll never forget the look on his face as he answered, “Would if I could, Maddie. I would if I could.”

  He probably would have. My aunt and uncle loved children, yet were never able to have any of their own. If it wasn’t for me, they probably would have adopted one, but they never did and now they had no one to carry on their own legacy.