Loretta gave Grant a coy smile. “Near Corey’s new place on Buckthorn Road. He put a trailer on her land, north of her house. Maybe you’ll even get a chance to see Corey.”
Grant met her smiling eyes with a cold stare. “Or maybe even her husband.”
Undaunted, Loretta turned her attention to Larry. “By the way, I saw Suzanne today. She certainly is getting big.”
“Yup. A regular dinosaur.”
“You still got her working at the hospital?”
“Damn straight. She’ll get her time off when the kid comes.”
“Time off!” Loretta snorted. “She’ll never have any time off again! And what’s with Dawson Penfield? I saw what happened out there with Butch. That boy loses his license for DWI, and he’s still out raising Cain!”
Larry shook his head. “Let’s face it, Mrs. B., Butch Phillips could make Mother Teresa raise Cain.”
“I don’t see where Dawson Penfield’s got much in common with Mother Teresa,” Loretta muttered. “Damn little, in fact. The boy’s a menace.”
“Let’s go, Larry,” Grant said, grabbing his partner’s arm. “Thanks for all your help, Loretta.”
Larry sat quietly beside Grant in the pickup as they drove out of town toward Corey Dayton Sloan’s new house. He knew better than to kid Grant about Corey. She and Grant had been a hot couple in high school, and everyone had expected a double wedding with their best friends, Larry and Suzanne, the following year. But while Grant was traveling back and forth from college, Corey had begun to go out with Allen Sloan, as well. By the end of Grant’s freshman year, she was two months pregnant, and the ensuing scene between them had been an ugly one. She wanted Grant to marry her, but he demanded a guarantee that the baby was his. He forced her to go back over the previous months, recounting how she had spent her time when Grant was not around. To his shock, she admitted that even when he was home for spring break, she had spent time with Allen Sloan, either before or after being with Grant. Furious, he pinned her against the cabin wall and yelled that even if it were his, he really didn’t care. He was nineteen years old and didn’t want a wife and baby at this point in his life. He wasn’t about to tie himself down the way so many of his Chatham friends had done. College was his means to break away from this nowhere town in Vermont.
He had let go of her then, saying he would call Sloan’s mother and have her send Allen to the cabin to pick up his bride-to-be and their child. Then he had walked out and driven away, leaving her alone and sobbing, slumped against the cabin wall.
Now, seven years later, when Grant lay alone in the cabin at night, the memory of what he did haunted him. His bachelor’s degree had not led him on to bigger and better things. He had returned to Chatham to live the life he knew best: sugaring, hunting and fishing, and working with his hands. Corey’s little girl was a beautiful little redhead like her mom and bore no particular resemblance to either Allen or Grant, who were similar in stature and coloring anyway. He had never found anyone to take Corey’s place, and now that Larry and Suzanne were having their first child, he was even more aware of the void in his life. To make matters worse, although Corey and he had not exchanged more than a polite greeting in seven years, he still loved her, perhaps more than ever.
“There’s Wes’s truck.” Larry’s voice broke into Grant’s thoughts. “He’s at Corey’s house.”
For a moment Grant considered driving on by, but that was absurd. He snapped on his left blinker and wheeled his pickup into the dooryard, pulling up behind Wes Dayton’s old Chevy.
Wes himself was nowhere in sight, and Grant feared they would have to ring the Sloans’ doorbell to find him. He was about to suggest they leave, when Wes appeared around the side of the house, followed closely by a bouncing bright-eyed little carrot-topped girl. Grant watched her from his seat in the cab. She had lost both front teeth, but that didn’t keep her from chattering incessantly to her grandpa as she ran to keep up with him. Wes spotted Grant and Larry and altered his course to greet them. The little girl stopped in mid-bounce and stared at them with large blue eyes, then ducked behind her grandfather’s lanky frame to hide as Grant stepped down from his truck.
Wes extended his large-knuckled farmer’s hand to Grant and Grant shook it, wondering how this man was going to be happy without the farm he had tended for over sixty years. Wes was a contemporary of Grant’s grandfather and had outlived two wives, Corey’s mother being his second. He had known Grant when the latter was a toddler tagging after his grandfather. He was not one who would take easily to retirement, and Grant worried about him. He inquired after Wes’ health, and they discussed his latest bout with arthritis. Their small talk would have surprised the average flatlander who could rarely pull a full sentence from the old timer under any circumstances.
Wes told Grant about the sale of his property and pointed out his new trailer up the road. His steady blue eyes held Grant’s for a long moment. There had been a time when Wes had assumed that Winston McIan’s grandson would own the family farm someday along with Corey, for Grant had been a welcome companion on the farm and in the sugarhouse for over a decade. But that union had not come to pass, and now the farm was sold. To people from Maine, he said.
Had he met them, Grant asked? Just him, Wes said. She was the one who signed the papers, but she never came to see the place. Kind of odd, he thought. He didn’t expect they would be farming or sugaring. The man seemed too citified.
A professor, Grant asked? Don’t know, Wes answered. Never said. Grant told him about his plans to ask for sugaring rights, and Wes nodded in agreement. He’d get the papers and call Grant with the name and address. They shook hands, and Grant and Larry returned to the truck. Corey’s little girl watched them from her grandpa’s side, and when Grant waved good-bye, she responded with a shy smile and a small wave. A hollow longing filled Grant’s chest as he drove away.
He had made so many mistakes in his life.
Chapter Three
Dawson scattered the last shovelful of sawdust beneath the restless cows and returned the shovel to its hook on the wall. The watering system had broken down again, a pipe freezing during the night. He would have to carry water, but that was no big deal. There were only nine cows now, which was why the system had had a chance to freeze – not enough consumption to keep the water moving into the bowls. Two five-gallon pails rested against the sawdust bin; he grabbed them and headed through the ell toward the house.
Blake was coming out the kitchen door as Dawson approached. “Guess what! I just talked to the guy who bought Dayton’s farm. He’s looking for bids on a big job up there.”
“What kind of job?”
“Changing the barn to a studio or something. He’s there now, but not for long. We gotta go.”
“I’ve got to water the cows.”
“Fuck the cows. We can’t lose this one. It’s all inside work, and he wants it done yesterday. Sounds like big bucks.” Blake leaned back toward the open kitchen door. “Ma! You gotta water the cows! Sonny and me are headin’ out on a job!”
Dawson dropped the buckets outside the door. “Thanks a lot. The old man’ll kill me.”
Blake led the way out into the dooryard. “Why don’t you grow up and get outta here?”
“Yeah, and where do I go? Are you going to let me move in with you and Donna?”
“Bobby Glenn’s place is for rent again.”
“That’s a pig sty.”
“So clean it up.”
They climbed into Blake’s battered blue truck with the white lettering on the door that said “Penfield Brothers Construction, Chatham Ridge, Vermont.” So far, their construction jobs had been less impressive than the name implied; more often than not, they ended up working as carpenters on someone else’s job. No doubt that would happen here; Barrister or Wakeland would get the bid and hire local help. Still, old Blake had to give it a try.
The driveway up to Dayton’s hill farm wound back and forth through a magnificent hardwood stand, the mapl
es Grant and Larry had been talking about. Thoughts of those two brought back memories of his confrontation with Butch Phillips, the fat jackass. He wished he’d had his chance to grapple with Butch, to shut the fat man’s mouth. Next time. And he was sure there’d be a next time. There always was.
The road crested the hill, then made one last sweeping curve and opened into the dooryard of the farmstead. To their left, a huge gray barn stood silhouetted against the slowly darkening sky. Straight ahead was the eighteenth century two-story colonial that had been in the Dayton family for almost two hundred years. A series of connected outbuildings in various stages of disrepair ran from the house to the barn, while abandoned farm equipment sat about the yard, settled into the tall brown grass for the winter. A light shown in one multi-paned window in the house, and Blake and Dawson headed for the front door.
The man who answered was tall and thin like Dawson, but the similarity ended there. His hair was an explosion of sand-colored curls, an afro as large as any they had ever seen on a militant black Dartmouth student. He had pale, almost colorless blue eyes, set deep in a handsome face with finely sculpted features. Dawson’s first thought was of a Greek statue he had seen in a book. The man offered his hand and introduced himself as Shane Freeman. He said they had been recommended by Wes Dayton himself. He stepped back into the house for his coat, then led them to the barn to show them what he needed done.
The huge old barn was dark and gloomy inside, the whitewash long gone from the walls. Wes Dayton had let the place run down after his wife had died. He had sold off the last of his dairy cows two winters before and had kept only pigs and chickens. His fields had begun to grow in when he stopped haying; Dawson could see the encroaching brush through the back windows of the barn. He glanced at the collegiate-looking man beside Blake, then out the windows once more. This guy wouldn’t have any interest in running a farm. The surrounding woods would reclaim these fields in no time, and another set of formerly purposeful rock walls would wander a meaningless path through trees and underbrush. If only there were a law that kept flatlanders from buying up old Vermont farms. What had Blake said this guy wanted them to do? Turn this fine old barn into condos or something?
Freeman had turned on the lights, a few bare dust-covered bulbs burning weakly in white porcelain sockets. The old barn was a magnificent three stories in the back where the hill dropped away and two stories on the dooryard side. Dawson could see it was in surprisingly good shape for its two hundred years and would need a minimum of structural work. Freeman was pointing to various parts of the barn and describing roughly what he wanted. The whole place was to be insulated and sheetrocked and the back side opened up with rows of windows to let in maximum light. The front was to remain traditional in appearance. The top floor – currently the hay mow – would become living space with several bedrooms, bathrooms, and a dining space. The first floor would be divided into three large workrooms. The lowest level, which could be entered only from the back, would be cleaned up and used for storage. He wanted it done as soon as possible and was willing to pay accordingly. They should hire as many men as necessary to get the work done, but it should be done well. He would leave it up to Blake to contract out the wiring and the plumbing.
Dawson stared at the man in disbelief. He wasn’t even asking for a bid. The job was theirs if they wanted it, on Wes Dayton’s recommendation. Even Blake looked stunned. Freeman wanted a written estimate for a ballpark figure; Blake said that might take a couple days. The man wrote down his address in Maine, saying he would be heading back tonight. Then he led them across the dooryard and back to the house. A shed attached to the gable end as part of the ell was being used as a garage, and the man pulled open the double wooden doors to reveal a brown station wagon with Maine registration plates. Dawson noticed the plates bore the symbol for a handicapped person.
“But first,” Freeman was saying as he gestured toward the house from inside the garage, “I need you to build a wheelchair ramp here. You can take out that step and come back as far as you need. We’ll only be using one stall in the garage.”
Blake glanced at Dawson, then said, “What about the kitchen door? Is it wide enough for a wheelchair? And the inside doors?”
“They’re okay. I measured,” Freeman answered.
Dawson nodded his agreement, and Blake said, “No problem. Anything else?”
“Not for now. I’m sure after we’ve been here a while we’ll be looking to renovate the house, but not right away.” Freeman extended his hand, first to Blake, then to Dawson. “I look forward to working with you. We plan to move in two weeks before Christmas, so please be sure to have the ramp done first.” With that, he ushered them out of the garage and disappeared into the house.
Blake and Dawson stood in the waning November light and stared at each other.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Blake hissed, his blue eyes wide. “Can you believe it? Am I right? We got this job?”
“I guess. Can we do it?”
“Sure we can do it. It ain’t gonna get done yesterday, but we can do it. We’ll have to see who all we can get to work for us, but that shouldn’t be too hard in November.”
“Skip Wainwright and Bobby Cropp. Dasher. Grant and Larry.”
“Yeah, but don’t forget deer season.”
“So get the framing done and get the electrician and the plumber. Cliff Burbank doesn’t hunt. Get him to wire it. Allen Sloan could plumb it.”
The two started for the truck. “Jesus,” Blake said again, grinning now. “I don’t believe it. Wait’ll I tell Donna!”
Dawson climbed up into the passenger seat of his brother’s truck. And who was he going to tell? Pregnant Cassie? His pa? He stared out the side window at the old farmhouse fading into the darkness.
“So, is that guy in the bucks or what?” Blake said, putting the truck in gear. “I wonder what it’s all for?”
“Did you notice he never smiled?”
“Nah. I’m so used to you – you never smile.”
“Just because I’m not a grinning fool like you.”
“Watch it or you’ll be walking home.”
“His wife must be a cripple.”
“Somebody is.”
“Why would a guy like that marry a cripple?”
“Maybe she wasn’t always a cripple. Maybe it’s not his wife. He never said he had a wife. Maybe it’s his old lady.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. It’s probably family money.”
“Sure, that’s why he don’t care what it costs.”
“Well good, I’m glad we got that all figured out.” Dawson settled back in his seat and closed his eyes to catch a few as the truck started its downhill journey.
“The name Wes gave me was Shelby Weaver-North,” Grant said. “I don’t even know if that’s male or female.”
Blake shrugged his shoulders as he swigged the last of the beer from the bottle. “The guy we met was Shane or Sean or something. I got it written down. Sonny and I figure he’s spending somebody else’s money, since he don’t seem to care what it costs.”
“Was he from Portland, Maine?”
“Yup.”
“Well, shit. I wish I’d known he was here. I could’ve talked to him about the maples.”
Blake thumped the empty bottle onto the table and peered at Grant. “So, are you guys gonna help us out or not?”
Grant looked at Larry for confirmation, then said, “I guess so. Except for hunting season and then when sugaring starts.”
Blake nodded. “Hunting season’s gonna be a bitch for us, too.”
Larry let out a barking laugh. “Gimme a break. You guys jack deer all year long.”
Blake belched loudly before he said, “Not me. And Sonny’s got a perfect right.”
“Bullshit. When did they pass that law?”
“It’s nature’s law. The law of the land.”
“The hell it is!”
Dawson leaned his chair back against the cabin wall and watched the two men
talk about him as if he weren’t in the room.
“Indians gotta get something for having their land taken away,” Blake said. “Plus Sonny only takes what we can eat. You need the laws for the flatlanders who come up here looking for trophies, not food.”
“I’m no flatlander!” Larry answered hotly. ”And I don’t hunt for trophies. I hunt for meat!”
“Sure. That’s why you got all them racks hangin’ on your garage. ‘Course, most of ‘em are spikehorns.”
Dawson looked at Grant McIan. The latter met Dawson’s glance with a small smile, then resumed watching the other two in silent amusement.
“And what are you talking about?” Larry demanded. “I heard you say just the other day about how Sonny got a ten-pointer on the ridge last year.”
Lonely Souls Page 3
