“I-I’m Nolie Harper,” she said, making an effort to sound neighborly. “This is my daughter, Micahlyn. And you are? . . .”
He swore again, one succinct word, then dragged his fingers through his hair. It did nothing to restore order to it. Then he sourly, reluctantly, gave his name. “Chase.”
At least, she thought it was his name. For one regretful, wasted moment, Nolie wished she’d been more on the ball when the lawyer had mentioned her tenant. He’d told her that a real estate agent in Howland, forty-some miles from Bethlehem, had rented the cabin to a woman in Boston for a year, and nothing else. And she hadn’t asked any questions. Not “What is this woman’s name?” or “Does she live alone?” or “Does a very scary, menacing, dangerous man live with her?” She hadn’t even asked how much rent the woman was paying.
She needed to get a handle on this property-owner business before some hustler figured out she was ripe for the pickin’.
“Do you . . . uh, do you live over there?” she finally asked.
“Yeah.”
“Alone?”
His gaze narrowed and sent a shiver down her spine. “Until today.”
“I-I was told the-the person who rented that cabin was a woman. From Boston. In Massachusetts.” She clamped her jaw shut to keep from blurting out anything else she might think of in short fragments, as his gaze narrowed even more.
“Lorraine,” he said grudgingly, as if he resented every bit of information he had to give her. “She leased it for me.”
Nolie didn’t mean to let her gaze slide over him again, from that unkempt black hair all the way down to the wretched shoes, and she didn’t mean to think that this Lorraine, whoever she was, must be one desperate woman if she was interested in this man. Maybe it was just prejudice because he was so spooky, but Nolie swore he didn’t look too sane. And as a breeze blew up from behind him, she noticed he didn’t smell too sweet, either. Stale cigarette smoke, sour booze, and a general disregard for daily baths—eau de neighbor from hell.
Maybe she could break Lorraine’s lease on the grounds that . . . what? Her friend-boyfriend-relative was too scary to have for a neighbor in such isolation? He’d made her daughter cry? Made her want to keep a sturdy door barred between them?
“Well . . .” She couldn’t think of anything else to say, so she tightened her grip on Micahlyn and said it again. “Well . . . I-I have things to-to do. If you’ll excuse us . . .”
He stared at her, and she stared back. When a moment passed and he still hadn’t moved, she did, closing the door and locking it securely. Sidling up to the window, she peeked out as he muttered something—most likely another vulgarity—then spun on his heel and headed back to the second cabin. He never looked back and didn’t slow his steps when he reached his own porch. He took the steps two at a time, went inside the cabin, and slammed the door. She imagined she heard it even from a distance . . . but in reality, it was merely the thudding of her own heart.
HASE WILSON PACED FROM THE LIVING ROOM TO the kitchen, a cold beer in hand, muttering every foul word he knew—and considering that he’d spent twenty-two of the past twenty-three months in prison, he knew ’em all. He’d come back to Bethlehem to be left alone. He didn’t want to see or talk to anyone—didn’t want to feel their stares or hear their whispers. He didn’t want to face their accusations or his own feelings of guilt.
And he damn well didn’t want some woman and her kid living fifty yards down the road—especially when the kid had a scream that could raise the dead and she wasn’t afraid to use it. He didn’t like kids in general and homely little red-haired ones in particular.
Truth was, he didn’t like people, not anymore. He wasn’t fit to be around them. The kid’s scream had proved that.
He thought about packing up and getting the hell out— was on his way to pull a suitcase from the closet when he stopped. Where would he go? If he got anywhere near the house he’d bought in Boston, his ex-wife would have him hauled off to jail in handcuffs while his ex-partner, her new husband, stood by and laughed. Ditto on the beach house. There was no way he could go to his parents’ house in town. It had been a hell of a long time since he was welcome there . . . if ever.
And he had no place else. New places required energy, stamina, courage—things he’d been missing for a long time. He didn’t have the nerve to face a new place.
That admission brought a bitter smile to his mouth. He was a loser and a fool. He’d screwed up his career, his marriage, and his life. He’d lost everything he’d ever had, and he’d brought shame on the family name.
And now, to that list of sins and shortcomings, he could add one more—he was a coward.
If his father could see him now. . . .
He drained the last of the beer and tossed the bottle in the trash can that held nothing but empty beer and liquor bottles. When was the last time he’d eaten, not counting stale cereal straight from the box?
He couldn’t remember. That was pathetic.
He was pathetic.
If his father could see him now, he would claim he’d always known Chase would never amount to anything. Hell, the old man had done his best to guarantee that outcome, riding Chase all the time because he wasn’t smart enough, popular enough, talented enough on the football or baseball fields. Earl Wilson had wanted a son who would be just like him, and he’d been damned displeased with the one he got instead. He’d once declared Chase would be dead or in jail by the time he was twenty.
Actually, he’d been thirty-one when he’d gone to prison.
Dear old Dad’s opinion notwithstanding, Chase had amounted to something . . . for a time, at least. Unwilling to stay in Bethlehem after high school and face more of the same censure and conflict, he’d moved to Syracuse, where he’d busted his butt to get into college and to stay there— with no help from Earl. There he’d found out he was smarter than anyone had given him credit for, even himself. He’d gone deep into debt to attend law school and had worked long hours for little pay, making a name for himself in criminal law before snagging the job that made it all worthwhile. Before long he’d been earning a mid-sixfigure salary and been engaged to the most beautiful woman he’d ever known. He’d had it made.
Until he’d lost it all.
Lost so much that there was nothing left for him but to go back home.
With a snort, he took a Healthy Choice dinner, the name mocking him, from the freezer in the laundry room, then set it in the microwave. He didn’t have a home . . . or a family, friends, a career, a reputation, or even self-respect. What he had was a used SUV, black all over except for one primer-gray fender, some secondhand furniture, some third-time-around appliances, and eleven months left on the cabin lease. What he had was not much better than nothing, and a lot of people who thought even that was more than he deserved.
Most of the time he agreed with them.
Oh, and neighbors. He couldn’t forget that. Now he had neighbors.
Maybe they wouldn’t be a problem. Maybe they wouldn’t stick around or, at the very least, would keep their distance. Considering the way the kid had reacted, no doubt she’d stay as far away as she could. He figured the same for her mother. Though she’d tried to hide it, she’d been afraid, too—her blue eyes had been alive with it.
As long as she stayed at her cabin, he would have no problem keeping to his. Like he said, he didn’t like kids, and the mother was about as far from his type as a woman could be. He liked beautiful, delicate, ultrafeminine women. Not redheads with freckles who stood closer to six feet tall than five. Certainly not chubby redheads who looked as if they had a fine appreciation for food in all its fattening forms.
He liked women like his ex-wife, Fiona, who was five feet four, as fragile as a china doll, with the softest skin and the sweetest voice. She’d had a fine appreciation, too, for four-star hotels and the best restaurants, for designer clothing and flawless diamonds and A-list parties, and—for a time—for him. Prison had been easy compared to learning to live w
ithout Fiona.
Not that he’d had any choice.
The microwave stopped and beeped three times. He pulled the plastic plate out, thought of all the two-hundred-dollar meals he and Fiona had shared over the years, then dropped the plate, food and all, in the trash and opted for another beer instead. He wanted it. Needed it.
In the five weeks since he’d been released from prison, he’d learned two lessons.
On a good day he only wished he was dead.
On a bad day he might make his wish come true.
And this day was turning out about as bad as they came.
COMPARED TO WHISKEY CREEK, BETHLEHEM WAS practically the big city. Where Nolie’s hometown had one grocery store, one combined gas station/restaurant, and fewer residents every year, Bethlehem had every convenience she could think of—clothing stores, restaurants, gift shops, a bookstore, and even a library and a movie theater.
As soon as she was settled in, they would have back a business they lost when old Hiram passed away—the feed store. Her great-grandfather had left that to her, too, along with the two cabins and about forty acres of heavily wooded land. There was a trail through the woods that led from the back of her cabin to the back of the store, according to the lawyer, but she hadn’t walked it yet.
Frankly, after meeting her neighbor two days ago, she was a little afraid to be walking through the woods alone or with Micahlyn. Not that she’d caught so much as a glimpse of him since then. Once, when she’d walked around her cabin, she’d seen just the back end of a black truck pulled around the far side of his cabin. Other than that, the place could be abandoned for all the life it showed. There was no loud music, no slamming doors, not even any lights on at night. Maybe he couldn’t afford to pay the electric bill, or maybe he was just one of those people who went to bed when the sun set. She’d known plenty of both types back home in Arkansas.
“What do you think of this, babe?” She held up a bolt of fabric—pale yellow with a subtle leaf pattern a few shades lighter.
Micahlyn shook her head and patted the bolt she was carrying in both arms. “I like this.”
“I mean for the living-room curtains”
With a grin, Micahlyn patted the pink-hearts-andflowers fabric again. “So do I.”
Nolie rolled her eyes and added the yellow leaf fabric to the bolts she was already carrying. After meeting Chase, she’d decided curtains were definitely called for on every window. Truth was, she wouldn’t object to iron bars on every window, either. For all her talk about a new life, she hadn’t been prepared for one major aspect—living alone. She’d gone straight from her parents’ house to the trailer she’d shared with Jeff, and from there to the Harpers’ house. Now that she was in a house all her own, she’d discovered what comfort there was in knowing someone else was just down the hall.
There had been such comfort in knowing Jeff was right beside her. Feeling his warmth. Hearing his soft little snores. Knowing that if she moved against him, he would automatically snuggle her close. Three years he’d been gone, and she still wondered how she’d ever learned to sleep without him.
She wondered how she would ever learn to sleep in this strange new place without him.
Curtains would help, would make the cabin cheerier and homier. There were yellow-and-white stripes for the kitchen and dining room, pink-hearts-and-flowers for Micahlyn’s room, a swirl of pastels for her own room, and white eyelet for the bathrooms. As soon as she got home, she would hang the miniblinds she’d bought earlier and install the additional window locks she’d picked up at the hardware store down the street. Then she would haul out her sewing machine and whip up the curtains so she could take down the sheets that currently covered every pane of glass.
And then she would feel safer. More at home.
Once the fabrics were measured and cut and she’d matched thread to each of them, she paid for her purchases, then followed Micahlyn out the door. “Now I have to meet with Mr. Thomas, the lawyer,” she said as they carried their bags to the car. “But when we’re finished, want to have lunch at the café over there?”
Micahlyn looked across the street at Harry’s Diner, then lifted one shoulder in a negligible shrug. “I s’pose,” she replied, using one of her grandmother’s favorite phrases in a disinterested tone. “Mama, when we get back to that house, can I call Grandma? I wanna tell her ’bout my new curtains.”
“Why don’t you wait until this evening, so you can talk to Grandpa, too?” Nolie kept her tone mild and even managed a smile, though it felt more like a grimace. They’d been in Bethlehem only three days, and Micahlyn had called Grandma and Grandpa three times. The first time she’d told them all about the bogeyman, and Obie had gotten Nolie on the phone and demanded that she bring his granddaughter home right away. When she’d refused, Marlene had taken the phone and cried, and that had made Micahlyn cry and left Nolie so frustrated that she’d wanted to cry.
Micahlyn stared at her through smudges on her glasses, then gave a long-suffering sigh. “I s’pose.”
Alex Thomas’s office was on the second floor of a two-story stone building a few feet down the sidewalk. They went inside to find the receptionist, a grandmotherly type, chatting with a dark-haired woman about Nolie’s age. When Nolie gave the receptionist her name, the woman beamed. “Welcome to Bethlehem! I’m Eleanor Perkins, and this is Leanne Wilson. Leanne, Nolie is Hiram Legare’s great-granddaughter, and she’s come to take over his business. Isn’t that great?”
Leanne’s smile was only a fraction the wattage of Eleanor’s, but it was warm and friendly and encouraged Nolie to smile back. “It is,” she agreed. “I bet you’ll like it here. I’ve lived here all my life and can’t imagine moving anywhere else.”
That had been true of Whiskey Creek for Nolie . . . but here she was.
Shifting her gaze, Leanne bent and extended her hand. “Hi. I’m Leanne.”
Micahlyn slowly eased out from behind Nolie and laid her hand in Leanne’s. “I’m Micahlyn. I’m gettin’ curtains with pink hearts on ’em.”
“Oh, that’ll be so pretty. I love pink hearts, but you know what? My little boy won’t let me put them in his room.”
“Well, of course not,” Micahlyn said with a giggle. “They’re for girls.”
“Yeah, that’s what he keeps saying.”
Eleanor spoke again. “Nolie, you can go on in. If you’d like to let Micahlyn wait here, I’d be happy to show her the toy box.”
“Great. Nice meeting you, Leanne.” With another smile, Nolie moved to tap on the inner office door. The knock was answered almost immediately.
“Mrs. Harper, come in, please.” Alex Thomas was tall, handsome, and reminded her of her favorite TV lawyer. He shook hands with her, offered her a seat, then sat in the second of the two chairs rather than behind the desk. “How was your trip?”
“Long,” she said with a faint smile. “Moving with a five-year-old who doesn’t want to move, isn’t a lot of fun.”
“I bet she’ll be fine once you get settled. Bethlehem’s a great place for kids. Whenever you’re ready, give me a call and I’ll ask my wife to arrange a picnic or something so your daughter can get acquainted with some of the kids around here.”
Of course he was married. All the gorgeous ones were. “I would appreciate that.”
“Is everything okay with the house?”
She thought of Chase and managed to smile again. “It’s fine.”
He grinned. “Old Hiram lived a rather drab existence, don’t you think?”
“He must have gotten an exceptionally good deal on brown paint. If he was anything like my grandmother, he pinched his pennies until they squealed.”
“Sounds about right. I take it you never met him?”
She shook her head. “My grandmother left home when she was sixteen, and she never saw him again. Did you know him?”
“Just to say hello to. He wasn’t the friendliest soul in town. Is your grandmother still living?”
Nolie shook her
head. She’d never had much family, and except for Micahlyn, they were all gone. She’d been pretty much alone in the world since she was eighteen, which helped explain why she’d been married and pregnant at nineteen.
Rising from the chair, Mr. Thomas circled the desk and pulled a file from the stack on the corner. “I’ve got some papers here for you to sign, as well as a set of keys to the feed store. People will be glad to see you open it up again. They’ve been having to drive to Howland, which can be more than a little inconvenient when you’re trying to get some work done. Do you know anything about feed stores?”
She accepted the ink pen and the papers he offered. “Not a thing,” she said, then offered what she hoped was a confident smile. “But I’m a quick learner.” Which wasn’t entirely true. She was a quick study on subjects that interested her—things as common as cooking, sewing, and crafts, and as unusual as astronomy, herbology, and Egyptology. What could she say? She liked knowing that the constellation Cassiopeia had shone down as brightly on Ramses II all those hundreds of years ago as it did on her and Micahlyn today.
He explained each document she was signing, separated her copies from his, then picked up the conversation where they’d left off. “Don’t worry about the store. The place practically ran itself when Hiram was alive, and there’s no reason it can’t do the same now. And if you run into any problems, give me a call. I’m sure we can find someone who can solve them for you.” Tapping the folder against the desk, he asked, “Do you have any questions?”
“Nothing I can think of.” Then curiosity forced her to change that. “Actually . . . I was wondering about the people who rented the other cabin. Do you know anything about them?”
Cabin Fever Page 2
