The Passions of Chelsea Kane

by Barbara Delinsky

  Apparently, too, the people of Norwich Notch liked pretty things. She saw woven place mats in a variety of colors, brightly enameled cookware, carved cheese boards, fluted pie plates, and an assortment of coffee mugs, and that wasn’t to mention the dried flowers and unusual baskets from which the two women were choosing. They glanced at her—curiously, she imagined, though not suspiciously. She smiled back as innocently as she could and walked on.

  There were woolen hats, mittens, and scarves, and cotton pants, jerseys, and socks. Clearly the people of Norwich Notch preferred natural fabrics, something that Chelsea did herself, and although the styles were classic L. L. Bean, the price tags were reasonable.

  Returning to the front of the store, Chelsea stood between the Norwich Notch Library Friends’ cookbook display and a short stepladder whose rungs held artfully arranged tins of hand-labeled, locally produced maple syrup and realized how relieved she was. She had been prepared for shabbiness. She had expected to find an old-fashioned five-and-dime type of store, with a layer of dust on products that had been on the shelves too long. Farr’s was a pleasant surprise.

  A woman approached. She was an inch or two shorter than Chelsea and looked to be a year or two older, though that was a calculated guess on Chelsea’s part and based solely on the smoothness of her skin. Had Chelsea gone by her hair, which was a dull sand color and pulled into a severe topknot, or her skirt and blouse, which verged on the dowdy, she would have thought the woman far older.

  She worked at the store. Her eyes—hazel eyes just a shade more brown than Chelsea’s green ones—were solicitous, warm, and welcoming, if vaguely timid.

  “I’m looking for an umbrella,” Chelsea said, glancing around curiously. “I’m sure I must have passed one somewhere.”

  Gesturing her along gently, the woman went to a spot two aisles over, where a collection of umbrellas sprouted from an urn. City girl that she was, Chelsea had automatically envisioned a folding one to fit in her briefcase, but as she looked through the patterns to pick one she liked, she realized the absurdity of that. A puny umbrella wouldn’t do here. Something sturdy was called for, something that would withstand far more than a sprint through the rain to a waiting taxi. The people of Norwich Notch were rugged. Sirloin steak, mocha java coffee beans, and Subenhara cheese notwithstanding, this was the country.

  With that thought, Chelsea felt a flash of contentment. That was all it was, a flash, come and gone so quickly that she might not have noticed it if it hadn’t been something she’d been missing of late. But it felt good, even quick as it was, and she knew that if it had come once, it would come again. There was a certain promise in that, just as there was promise in the shiny silver key. She hadn’t brought it along because this trip wasn’t for questions. It was for business, and for looking around, and just maybe for deciding what her next, best course of action would be.

  She selected an umbrella in a floral print. It wasn’t her usual style—the flowers were in small clusters and a little too sweet—but the grip was of a smooth, light wood and felt good in her hand. She gave it to the woman and took her wallet from her pocket.

  On the way to the cash register, she passed the newspaper stand. The elderly man was still there, still reading the same paper. She assumed that when he had read all he cared to, he would simply return the paper to the pile and walk out of the store. Back home that would have been unacceptable. Here it seemed fine, actually quaint, the more she thought of it.

  Casually she took a copy of the local paper. She put it on the counter beside the umbrella, then, on impulse, went to the ladder with the maple syrup and took a can, plus a copy of the cookbook.

  “Like to cook?”

  She met the pale eyes of a man whose lack of a coat suggested that he, too, worked at the store. He was of average height and weight, with Yankee-straight features, blond-white hair, and a smile meant to charm. Had Chelsea gone in for blonds, she would have thought him good-looking, but she preferred her men tall, dark, and silently dynamic, or so her fantasy went.

  “I can’t do it very well,” she confessed, “but I like to try.” She collected cookbooks wherever she went. Whether she used the recipes or not, they were fun to read.

  “That one’s a winner. It was put together by our very own women. Some of the recipes have been around for generations. Just like my family. We’re the Farrs, like the sign outside says. There are Farr recipes in there, and Jamieson recipes, and Plum recipes. The recipes from the inn, they’re the fancy ones.” He was studying her as he talked, making the words seem distracted, mere background drivel. Then his voice deepened. “Just passing through?”

  “Actually, I’m here on business.”

  “That would make you either an architect or a decorator.” When she gave him a quizzical look, he said, “Plum Granite’s the only business around that’d bring up anyone looking like you, and you’re sure not a builder.” He gave her a once-over as he relieved her of the syrup. “You’re too delicate for that. Where you from?”

  Reluctant to give him encouragement, Chelsea headed for the front of the store. “Baltimore.”

  “Architect or decorator?” he asked, following close behind.

  “Architect.” She set the cookbook by the umbrella. When the syrup was alongside, she smiled at the woman, who had been waiting patiently to ring up the sale.

  “You’ll like the syrup,” said the man. He leaned against the counter inches away from her and crossed his arms on his chest. “It’s made right here.”

  Touching the label, she said, “So I see.”

  “Actually, that’s wrong. It’s not made right here. It’s made in Stotterville, but that’s a technicality. The sap comes from the sugarbush that sits on the line between the two towns. The sugarhouse is in Stotterville, so that’s where the processing is done. Ever watched sugaring?”

  Chelsea focused on the cash register. “No, I can’t say that I have.”

  “You should. It’s an interesting process. You could take a look see while you’re here. How long did you say you were staying?”

  Politely she said, “Not long.”

  “Sap’s running now. You could ride on over.” He reached out and swatted the arm of the woman at the register with such suddenness that Chelsea jumped. With equal abruptness, his voice went from solicitous to demanding. “Go get that book on sugaring, Donna. She might like to buy it.”

  “No, no,” Chelsea protested when Donna turned away from her tallying. “There’s no need. I get so little time to read.” She stopped when she realized the protest was for naught. Donna had scurried off. Watching her go, Chelsea’s eyes collided with those of the mother and daughter, who were standing by, silently observing the goings-on. Likewise, the elderly man had lowered his paper.

  The shopkeeper scowled after Donna. “You’ll have to excuse my wife. No matter that she’s been working in this store since the day we were married, and that’s fourteen years now, but she’s still way out in left field when it comes to anticipating what the customers want.” He tapped his head. “She’s a little slow.”

  His wife. Chelsea was stunned by his scorn and could almost understand why the woman didn’t say much. It was a shame. Chelsea would choose to talk with Donna over her husband any day.

  “Excuse me,” she said, and went off in pursuit. She found Donna in a corner of the store that she had somehow missed, sifting through a rack of books in search of the one her husband meant. Touching her arm, Chelsea said gently, “Don’t bother. Really. I have books piled up back home waiting to be read. I’m so far behind.” She looked around at what else the corner had to offer. In addition to the books, all of which dealt with local topics, there were handcrafted items such as rag dolls, carved candles, and silk-screened note cards.

  “Are these all locally made?” she asked. When Donna nodded, she picked a fabric-covered band from a basket—another tiny floral print, but Chelsea rather liked it—and held it over her tortoiseshell clasp. “I use these all the time at home. H
ow does it look?”

  Donna’s eyes lit in approval. Her whole face seemed to grow younger. Chelsea put the scrunchie to Donna’s hair. “You ought to wear this.” One of the colors in it was nearly the identical shade of sand, and the contrast of the others added zip. “It’d look fabulous. A great advertisement. How long is your hair?”

  Donna drew an imaginary line at her shoulder.

  “Is it curly?” Chelsea asked. Given the few short wisps that had escaped her topknot, she suspected as much. Donna confirmed it with a rueful nod, which prompted Chelsea to say, “I fought it for years. I tried everything—professional staightening, setting it on orange juice cans, blowing it dry with a mammoth brush, ironing it. A few years ago, I gave up.” Reaching into the basket, she plucked out two different bands and put them into Donna’s hand along with the first. “I’ll take all three.”

  By the time they returned to the front of the store, the bell on the door was tinkling to mark the departure of the mother and daughter and Donna’s husband was shoving the cash register closed with an angry bang. “I was beginning to think you’d gone to lunch.”

  Coming to Donna’s defense, Chelsea said, “She was showing me what I missed. Your scrunchies are great.” Tactfully she turned her attention to her wallet. When she’d paid for all she had bought, she said, “Speaking of lunch, is there a place where I can grab something fast?” She had a one o’clock appointment at Plum Granite. It was twelve-fifteen. She hadn’t eaten since dawn.

  “There’s the luncheonette,” suggested the elderly man in a doddering voice. He was standing nearby with his bony hands folded, having totally abandoned the paper in favor of Chelsea. She didn’t see recognition in his eyes. Rather, as was the case with the mother and daughter, she was a curiosity.

  She thought a luncheonette sounded just fine. “Oh?”

  “Yup,” he went on, “only it’s not open for lunch.”

  “Oh.”

  “Open for dinner, though. Got great fish on Friday.”

  She nodded. “Ahh.”

  “Try the inn,” Donna’s husband told her. “If you ask for Shelby and say I sent you and that you’re in a rush, she’ll have you in and out in a flash.” He winked. “She’s a friend of mine.” He stuck out his hand. “The name’s Matthew Farr, by the way. And you are . . . ?”

  Chelsea hesitated for the tiniest fraction of a second. She imagined saying her name and having them all stiffen and stare. She imagined being suddenly exposed. She imagined that thunder would roll and lightning strike when the town realized that its long-lost daughter had returned.

  But if her face hadn’t done it, she reasoned, why should her name?

  Embarrassed by her own foolishness, she shook his hand and said, “Chelsea Kane.” Then she turned to Donna and smiled. “Thanks for all your help. I appreciate it.”

  Tucking the bag with her purchases under her arm, she held the umbrella at the ready as she slipped out the door.

  THE NORWICH NOTCH INN WAS ON THE FAR SIDE OF THE GREEN from Farr’s. Sheltered from the steady drizzle by the umbrella, Chelsea dropped the rest of her purchases in the car and took the long way around. She passed the store again, then, in turn, the Norwich Notch Historical Society, Post Office, Quilters Guild, and Library. They were in an assortment of frame and brick houses, some Cape style, some Colonial, some Federal. Signs identified each by function. Rising above them among the pines, at the apex of the green, was the Congregational church. The neat sign on its facade proclaimed it the town meeting house as well.

  At the top of the broad granite steps, she opened the tall double doors and went inside. The front lobby was high-ceilinged and smelled of aged wood and musk. Its walls were papered liberally with notices. Some had to do with church events such as choir rehearsals, meetings of the church trustees, and the same April Fool’s Day Dinner Dance advertised at Farr’s. Others had to do with secular events—the Boy Scouts were selling magazine subscriptions to pay for a trip to Washington, the inter-town basketball league was scheduling its playoff games, the regional hospital was having a blood drive. Mostly, though, the notices had to do with the town meeting. It was taking place the following week, every night, starting Monday, “until every said article has been raised, considered, and resolved as determined by the moderator, Mr. Emery Farr,” Chelsea read, then looked in amazement at the pages of articles to be discussed. There were proposals for the purchases of a new water fountain for the school playground, a large-diameter hose for the fire department, and a riding lawn mower for the highway department. There were articles on cooperative ventures with neighboring towns and the state, articles dealing with recycling, with changing the hours of operation of the town dump, with prohibiting the use of chewing tobacco on town fields during Little League games.

  Norwich Notch took itself seriously, Chelsea realized. For a town of only eleven hundred people, there was a whole lot going on.

  Returning to the front steps, she looked out over the town. The potential for beauty was there, she could see. Given sun, green grass, and flowers, it would be an attractive little place. In the rain things looked tired and gray, but Farr’s had been cheerful inside. She wondered what other surprises hid behind the town’s doors.

  Walking down the other side of the green this time, she passed a bank, a law office with a barber shop above it, a bakery, and the inn. She paused to contemplate a fast lunch but decided against it. There really wasn’t enough time. Besides, her hunger had passed. In its place was the urge to explore.

  She was just about to cross to her car when a motorcycle careened in from one of the side streets and cut her off. She tottered on the curb, then stepped back. Just beyond her, the cycle slowed. Its rider, wearing a long black duster and a full helmet, looked back at her, then continued on more slowly. He turned at the apex of the green and headed down the opposite side, his helmet shifting as he watched her. Chelsea, who wasn’t one to be cowed by bikers in the city, refused to be intimidated now. She held her ground until he had completed a circle of the green and halted the motorcycle several yards from her.

  He flipped up his visor. “Chelsea Kane?”

  She did feel at a disadvantage then and wished she could see more of his face beyond a swath of his eyes and nose. “That’s right.”

  The fact that his mouth didn’t show took nothing from his words, which, while muted, were blunt. “You’re early.”

  “Who are you?” She assumed he was with the granite company, since he knew of her appointment, but she had no idea in what capacity. A simple quarryman wouldn’t know who she was. Nor would anyone in upper management be careening around town on a Kawasaki. Or would he? She was accustomed to urban business enterprises, and large ones at that. She knew precious little about small, backwoods ones.

  “Name’s Hunter Love,” he said. “I work for the old man. You lost?”

  “No. I was just looking around.”

  “Not much to see here but stone.”

  “There’s more to see. I was planning to drive around. My appointment isn’t until one.”

  “You won’t get far. It’s mud season.” He tossed his head toward her car. “That’s got no traction.”

  “No problem. I’ll stay on paved roads.”

  “Not many of those. You’ll run out long before one o’clock.” His eyes were steady, defiant, she thought. “Want a tour, I’ll give you a tour. Climb on.”

  Chelsea shook her head. “Thanks, but I’ll pass. I’m not exactly dressed for it.”

  “Scared?”

  The taunt was all she needed. “Not on your life. I’ve ridden on motorcyles before. I’ve driven motorcycles before, and bigger ones than yours. But I’m here on business.”

  Unfazed by the put-down, he said, “Won’t get much of that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Company’s in trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Money trouble.”

  Given the state of the economy, there was nothing unusual in that.
She was only surprised he admitted it so baldly. “Really?”

  “Really. The payroll gets harder to meet each month, Jamieson won’t give us another loan, and the old man wants to keep doing things the way he’s been doing them for the last hundred years. Fact is he never did know how to run a company any way but into the ground.”

  The evenness of his voice gave his analysis all the more weight. Hunter Love was no advance man for Plum Granite.

  “Why are you telling me this?” Chelsea asked.

  He gave a negligent shrug. “Thought you should know.”

  “What would he say if he knew what you just said?”

  She saw the smallest movement around his eyes, a gathering at the corners that might have come from amusement or pain, she didn’t know which. “He’d say the same thing he’s been saying for the last thirty years. ‘You’re no good, Hunter Love. Got no brains at all. Don’t know why I even bother to keep you around.’ But he always does, and he always will. Guilt’ll do it every time, and me, I take what I can get. He owes me.” Flipping down his visor, he revved up his motor and, with a spattering of mud that would have hit Chelsea had she been any closer, he sped off.

  AT ONE O’CLOCK ON THE NOSE, CHELSEA TURNED ONTO A small side street on the east side of town and pulled up at number ninety-seven. Had it not been for the small sign reading PLUM GRANITE COMPANY, she might have thought she was at the wrong place. Given that Plum Granite was the single largest business in town, she had expected something more imposing.

  The office was in a small, one-story house with a slate roof and white siding, all of which looked gummy in the rain. Viewed left to right, there were two windows, a door with a triangular pediment atop it, and, protruding blandly from the side, a long garage.