Cabin Fever

by Marilyn Pappano

  Using a fork, she pushed a few chili-coated onions around her plate. “I hope to have the store open in a week or so.”

  “What do you know about running a feed store?”

  “More today than when I came here.” Then she smiled. “Not much more than nothing.”

  “Then why don’t you sell the place?”

  She laid the fork down, gathered their plates, and carried them to the sink. He followed with the rest of the dishes. After she’d rinsed the dishes and put away the leftovers, she faced him. “If I can make a go of it, the store will provide for us forever.”

  “That’s a big ‘if.’ Small businesses go under every day. If you sell it, you can invest the money so it will provide for you.”

  “Investments go south every day.”

  “You’re a single woman with a child to consider.”

  “I am considering my child. Every day, everything I do—it’s all for Micahlyn.”

  “She doesn’t seem to appreciate it much.”

  A wry expression slid across her face. “Not at the moment. But she’ll come around. Today she referred to the cabin as ‘home.’ That’s a start.”

  A small one. But Chase didn’t say it out loud. He didn’t need to.

  And so ended that thread of conversation. In the silence that followed, she leaned against the counter, hands resting on the curved aluminum strip that edged it, ankles crossed. She should have looked relaxed, comfortable, but tell-tale signs disputed that. Her fingers held tightly to the aluminum, her toes pressed hard against the linoleum, and her mouth twitched as if the smile she wanted wouldn’t come. After a moment, she freed one hand to gesture to the half-full glasses he’d left on the table. “Would you like more to drink?”

  “No, thanks.” She’d served iced tea, already sweetened with enough sugar to send his system into shock. If he hadn’t already known she was a Southerner, the tea would have been a dead giveaway.

  “Why don’t we go into the living room and sit down?”

  What he really should do was thank her for dinner, then go home. But when he pushed away from the counter, it was with the intention of going no farther than the living room for the time being.

  She curled up in the armchair, feet tucked into the seat. He sat stiffly at one end of the sofa.

  With long fingers, she gracefully tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then gestured toward him. “The shave and the haircut . . . they look good.”

  Chase wasn’t sure why he’d made the changes. All he knew was he’d gotten up that morning, showered, and shaved— automatically, as he’d done practically every morning of his adult life. Then he’d driven to Howland, stopped at the first barbershop he came to, and got his hair cut. When he’d gotten home again, he’d stood in front of the bathroom mirror and stared at a reflection that looked very much like the man he used to be. That man had been thirty pounds heavier, had worn custom-tailored suits and paid two hundred bucks for his haircuts, but clearly they were the same guy. Before his life had gotten shot all to hell, and after.

  With a shrug, he carelessly remarked, “The disreputable look wasn’t working.”

  “I don’t know. It certainly put the fear into Micahlyn.”

  “Scaring small children wasn’t the goal.”

  “No, keeping people away was. Though I suspect it’ll be a long while before she completely forgets the disreputable you.”

  He didn’t bother to correct her. Yes, he wanted to be left alone. That was the purpose of having Lorraine rent the cabin. But the not shaving, bathing, cutting his hair, changing his clothes, or eating, all the smoking and drinking and brooding about . . . that was about defeat. Acceptance that the life he’d worked so hard for was over.

  Did the small changes he’d made mean he was ready to at least consider what kind of life was left for him?

  Or was he just tired of looking, smelling, and living like a bum?

  “Do you have any children?”

  Nolie’s question drew him out of his thoughts. “No.”

  “An ex-wife somewhere?”

  He thought of Fiona, beautiful, elegant, sophisticated, and costly, and for the first time since he’d found out about her affair with Darren Kennedy, his former partner, he wondered if he wasn’t lucky to be free of her. It sure hadn’t felt that way when he’d first found out about the affair, or when he’d found himself divorced, damn near bankrupt, and serving a thirty-six-month prison sentence, or even when he’d been released after only twenty-two months. Did he feel lucky now?

  It was hard to say. Maybe. Not much. But a little.

  Nolie took his silence as a refusal to answer. Her smile was tinged with weariness. “Okay. You don’t want to talk about Bethlehem, and you don’t want to talk about Boston, and personal things, like your last name and whether you’ve been married, are off-limits. So what’s left that we can—”

  “Yes, I have an ex-wife.”

  Her smile became sunnier, lighter, and added a certain prettiness to her features. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  “Her name is Fiona. We were married three years. We’ve been divorced three years.”

  “You must have been more outgoing when you met her.”

  That was a mild way of putting it. Aggressive, brash, ambitious, and determined were descriptions he was more familiar with. He’d gone after Fiona with as much zeal as he applied to his court cases. And he’d won—both her and the cases. For a time. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because getting conversation out of you now is like pulling teeth. I bet you were the most sullen teenager Bethlehem ever produced.”

  “I admit to being a bit of a hell-raiser.” A bit? Most folks in Bethlehem would say that was the understatement of the year. “I bet you were the most goody-two-shoes teenager Whiskey Creek ever produced.”

  “I was a little prim and proper in school,” she admitted with a modest smile. “My parents had certain expectations of me, and I always did my best to live up to them.”

  “My parents had no expectations of me, and I did my best to live down to them.”

  Too late he realized how personal that information was, and he scowled as he got to his feet. “I’ve got to go. Thanks for dinner.”

  “But— Wait—”

  He reached the door before her feet touched the floor. Once outside, he ignored the steps and jumped to the ground, then set off through the night toward his cabin.

  What the hell had gotten into him? Was Nolie just the type who invited confidences—open, friendly, comforting in a mother-hen sort of way—or was he tired of keeping to himself? Whatever the answer, he had to watch out, or he’d find himself telling her everything. Trusting her with everything.

  That he was an ex-con.

  That he’d failed at his job. Failed miserably at his marriage.

  That he was the loser his father had always predicted he would be.

  And she would tell someone else, who would tell someone else, and before long everyone in Bethlehem would know, including his father.

  Damned if Chase would give the old man the satisfaction of knowing just how right he’d been.

  CHASE MIGHT HAVE GIVEN UP THE DISREPUTABLE look, but Nolie had taken it up for work the next morning. She’d dressed in her oldest torn and faded jeans, a T-shirt that was permanently stained, and a pair of tennis shoes with soles that were determined to stay behind on the ground, the sooner, the better. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, with an old Case Tractor cap crammed over it, and every bit of exposed skin was spotted with white paint and oversprayed with dark blue.

  So naturally she had visitors at the store.

  The minivan that pulled into the parking lot was painted on the sides with a lovely garden scene underneath the name, Melissa’s Garden. The woman who climbed out of the driver’s seat was young, pretty, and had the sort of smile that made a person feel like her new best friend. “Hi,” she called as she went to the back of the van. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

 
“Yes, it is.” It was perfect weather for the job Nolie had tackled that morning—spray-painting the store’s metal display racks. Initially she’d planned to duplicate their original battleship-gray color, but when she’d stopped at the hardware store two hours ago to buy supplies, she’d chosen deep blue instead. She’d matched it for the trim inside and the long counter that served as both desk and checkout, and was already envisioning a few bright yellow accents to bring out the best of both colors.

  The driver returned from the back of the van, carrying a basket filled with brightly colored spring flowers and followed by three children. “You must be Nolie,” she said, smiling that amazing smile again. “I’m Melissa Thomas. My husband, Alex, is your lawyer.”

  Self-consciously, Nolie straightened the brim of her cap, then tugged the hem of her shirt over her hips. “Oh, yes. He’s been very helpful.” She glanced at the basket. “Beautiful flowers.”

  “Thanks. They’re a slightly late welcome-to-Bethlehem gift from my shop.”

  Bending, Nolie breathed deeply of their fragrance. “Thank you. That’s so kind of you.”

  Melissa handed the basket to the middle of the three children and instructed her to take them inside. As the girl raced off, the woman directed her attention behind Nolie. “And you must be Micahlyn. My husband told me about you. I’m Melissa.”

  Micahlyn slowly rose from her place on the concrete stoop, three Barbie dolls clutched to her chest, and sidled closer to Nolie before ducking her head. “Nice to meet you,” she mumbled, the way her grandmother had taught her to.

  “It’s very nice to meet you, Micahlyn.” Melissa slid her arm around the blond girl to her left. “These are my friends, Alanna Dalton, her brother, Brendan”—she hugged the young boy with her free arm—“and their sister, Josie. Guys, this is Miss Nolie, and her daughter, Micahlyn.”

  Josie, who’d taken the flowers inside, skidded to a stop with a spray of gravel and a grin. “Lannie used to play with dolls, but not me. I’m gonna be a cop someday, like my Uncle Nathan.”

  “I like dolls,” Micahlyn replied, her lower lip stuck out.

  “That’s okay. So do Gracie and Chrissy. That’s part of who we’re goin’ to see. They’re bigger ’n you, but they’ll play dolls with you anyway. And cats. They play with the cats ’til they run and hide from ’em. You like cats?”

  Micahlyn slowly nodded.

  Melissa stepped in then. “A bunch of the kids are getting together at the Graysons’ house. J.D.’s our local psychiatrist, and his wife’s a social worker, and they’ve got six kids of their own. They live a few miles farther out of town, on the northeast side of the highway. That’s where I’m taking these kiddos, and we thought Micahlyn might like to come along.”

  Nolie chewed the inside of her lower lip. On the one hand, she didn’t know these people from Adam. She couldn’t just let her daughter go off with them. On the other hand, she did know Melissa’s husband, and Micahlyn had been so bored the past week, with nothing to do but sit while Nolie worked. Back in Arkansas, she’d been a very social child. This was the first time she’d even spoken to another child since they’d come here, and there was a gleam of anticipation in her owlish eyes.

  Micahlyn tugged at Nolie’s hand. “Can I go, Mama?”

  “We’ll be having a picnic lunch,” Melissa said, “and the kids will be very well supervised. J.D. and Kelsey will be there, and me—oh, and J.D.’s father and Miss Agatha will be there, too.”

  “There they are now,” the tall blonde said.

  Nolie turned to look as a car pulled off the highway. As soon as the vehicle came to a stop, the three Dalton kids made a rush for it, calling, “Grandpa Bud, Miss Agatha!” Nolie couldn’t miss the wistful look in Micahlyn’s eyes as she watched them, too.

  Miss Agatha joined them. “Good morning, Nolie, Melissa. And good morning to you, too, Miss Micahlyn.”

  “I been invited to a picnic,” Micahlyn announced, “but Mama hasn’t said yes yet. Please, Mama, can I go?”

  Nolie hesitated only a moment longer. Miss Agatha wasn’t a stranger—she and her sister were among Bethlehem’s leading citizens, and Chase had known her most of his life. That was enough for her. “Okay, sweetie. But you be sure and mind.”

  Micahlyn rolled her eyes and started off toward the other kids before returning for a kiss. Then she raced off again.

  Melissa offered a business card. “Here’s the Graysons’ address and phone number and my cell-phone number. I’ll bring her back here in three or four hours, and if you’re already gone, then I’ll take her to the cabin. Okay?”

  Nodding, Nolie pocketed the card. “You guys have fun.”

  It was Miss Agatha who answered, with a slyly innocent smile. “Oh, we always do—both the kids and the kids-at-heart.”

  Amid a chorus of good-byes, everyone loaded up in the two vehicles, then left Nolie alone in the parking lot with nothing but the steel shelves. She was glad for the company for Micahlyn—and for the opportunity to throw herself into her work without having to worry about her daughter. Now if she just had a little music to work by . . .

  She was spraying away and singing softly to herself when the fine hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Breaking off in midchorus, she turned in a slow circle, her gaze scanning. She didn’t have far to look for the source of her discomfort. Leaning one shoulder against the cinder-block wall at the opposite side of the building was Chase.

  Her first response was a smile. For a man who claimed to want to be left alone, he seemed to be doing his best in the past few days to avoid just that.

  Her second response was a grimace. She knew too well how scruffy she’d looked when she left the house that morning, and that was before she’d gotten hot and flecked with paint. Not that it really mattered. She would bet next week’s grocery money that he hadn’t even noticed she was a woman. Well, except for that day when she’d fallen off the roof and he’d caught her. After all, she wasn’t the kind of woman handsome men preferred—thin, pretty, sexy, childless.

  She tugged self-consciously at her shirt again and wished her jeans didn’t have a large rip just above one knee, then gave herself a mental shake. She was doing messy work, for heaven’s sake, and had dressed for it. What did it matter how she looked, or what anyone thought of how she looked?

  “You just missed Miss Agatha,” she said as a greeting.

  “I saw her.”

  And stayed hidden until she was gone. Naturally. “Melissa Thomas was here, too. Do you know her?”

  He shook his head.

  “She’s married to Alex Thomas. Do you know him?” Again he shook his head, but without the same certainty, it seemed. Did that mean he did know one but not the other? Was he lying, being evasive, or giving God’s truth?

  He moved a few yards closer before taking up the same position. “I thought it was the law that all store shelves had to be beige or gray.”

  She looked at the shelving that stood around her like so many metal skeletons. “I like blue.”

  “How did you get these out here? You and the kid couldn’t have carried them.”

  “I could have managed somehow if I’d had to,” she replied, then relented. “Two of the men who hang out at the hardware store came up this morning and carried them out for me.”

  “How are you going to get them back inside?”

  Her smile was sly. “Well, since you’re here . . .” Turning away from him, she gave the paint can a shake, then began working again. “I thought your plan was to vegetate up there on the hill and never go anywhere.”

  “I go places.”

  “In Bethlehem?” Without looking, Nolie was pretty sure he’d given another of those shrugs that he passed off as responses. “I didn’t think so.”

  “I prefer to drive to Howland. It’s bigger.”

  She moved to the opposite side of the shelves and crouched to get the lower half. “Howland . . . I drove through there on my way here. As I recall, it offers the same services Bethlehem doe
s, just more choices.” Of course, Chase’s decision to drive forty-five miles for groceries and a haircut had nothing to do with the greater variety of choices in Howland and everything to do with not wanting to see anyone he knew in Bethlehem. She wished she knew why. “Besides, bigger isn’t always better.”

  “And you know that coming from Whiskey Creek, population—what? Twenty-seven, counting both two-and four-legged critters?”

  “If that.” Her hometown was so small it had gone unmarked on a couple of official state road maps. Her high school was made up of students from three towns and the surrounding areas, and still hadn’t graduated a class of more than thirty. “So if bigger is better, why aren’t you in Boston?”

  “Because I’m here. Back where I started.” His voice was flat, resigned.

  Before she could respond to that, he picked up another can of paint and began shaking it, making the ball inside rattle loudly in the still morning. After a time, he pried off the lid, then moved to the next set of shelving.

  Nolie stole frequent glances at him as he worked. He really was surprisingly handsome, considering that a mere week and a half ago, his appearance had scared both her and Micahlyn half out of their wits. Cleaned up, he had a rather formal air about him, as if he should be wearing an expensive suit or, at the very least, khakis and an overpriced polo shirt, instead of faded jeans and a white T-shirt. He should be meeting a pretty woman for lunch in a pricey restaurant instead of painting fifty-year-old shelves for a rundown old feed store.

  But he looked damn good in faded jeans and a white T-shirt.

  “Why didn’t you rent a sprayer?” he asked when she paused to shake out the stiffness in her wrist.

  “I tried. The rental place won’t have any back until Monday, and the hardware store sold their last one yesterday, and I was too impatient to wait. My timing sucks.”

  Stifling a sigh, she turned to the next set. It was a perfect day for painting outside. The sky was calm, the sun not so warm that the paint dried too quickly, and there hadn’t been so much as a rustle of a breeze. She wouldn’t mind an occasional rustle—working in even not-so-warm sunshine could make a body hot—but at least she didn’t have to worry about dust from the gravel lot blowing onto the wet paint.