“Um . . . er . . . she’s not really new. Someone we met in grade school who just came back into town. You wouldn’t know her. She moved away a long time ago.”
“You’d be surprised whom I know, Dusty. I was very active with the other parents back then. And I taught high school English until we started your homeschooling. Then I took over the Masque Ball and met literally everyone in town. Which reminds me, did that boy I recommended call you? How are you doing with the organizing? Do you need me to call anyone or email them? You know, I think maybe your father and I should just come home early. I wouldn’t want you to become overburdened by the Ball. Your health is so fragile. You should enjoy your date and not worry about the Ball.”
“Everything is fine, Mom. No glitches, everything on schedule. I just have to organize my own costume, something a little more elaborate than my usual work clothes. Though my pioneer dresses are historically accurate.”
“Oh.” Mom sounded more than a little disappointed. “Are you eating properly? Did you wash your hands? What about your date with . . .” Static filled the line.
Through the window, Dusty noticed Thistle playing ring around the rosy with a group of small children, including Sharon and Suzie.
“You and Dad have fun. Dick and I are managing on our own quite well.”
“Oh.”
“Mom, are you okay?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. I’m just not used to having all this free time.”
“Then enjoy it, Mom. You’ve earned this chance to explore Shakespeare as deeply as you can.”
“Yes, of course. The play’s the thing, and all that. Gotta run, dear. We’re seeing a different version of The Merchant of Venice tonight. It’s set in the mid-Victorian era with steam engines.” A bit of enthusiasm returned to Mom’s voice.
“Sounds like fun, Mom. Talk to you in a few days. Good-bye.”
With a snap, Dusty closed her phone and set back to work humming the tune that had haunted her for two days now, not at all minding that she couldn’t put a title or lyrics to it. Dum dee dee do dum dum.
“How can she fly without wings?” Thistle asked eyeing the moving pictures on the TV skeptically. She’d watched programs with Dusty and other children over the years, (safely on the other side of the room so the electronics didn’t go haywire) mostly cartoons and car crashes. Mary Poppins was new to her.
“She’s magic,” three-year-old Suzie explained with a touch of awe.
“And she’s a ’specially good babysitter,” Sharon added with her superior six-year-old knowledge. “Like you, Miss Thistle.”
I am the best babysitter ever! Thistle thought as she smiled and hugged the girls, one on each side of her on the sofa. A big bowl of popcorn rested in her lap. “I’d like to meet this Mary Poppins. I wonder where she lives.”
“A long, long, long way away,” Sharon informed her. “The city is called London. See it doesn’t look at all like Skene Falls.”
“You’re right. It looks . . .” she was going to say fake, but that might disappoint the girls. “It looks like a very old city, far, far away.”
“I wish Auntie Dusty could watch the movie with us,” Suzie sighed. She grabbed a fistful of popcorn and jammed it into her mouth to compensate for the absence of her other friend.
“Auntie Dusty and your dad need some time alone together,” Thistle explained. She tried not to squirm and fidget at that glorious bit of matchmaking.
“I don’t see why we couldn’t go along.” Suzie pouted.
“Got your nose!” Thistle grabbed hers between thumb and forefinger, pretending to have stolen it, before Suzie could turn the pout into sniffles.
“No, you don’t!” Suzie put her palm up to her face, just to make sure.
They dissolved into a bit of a tickle match, all three of them rolling around the sofa, popcorn flying, Mary Poppins nearly forgotten.
“This was a good idea, Dusty,” Joe said quietly.
“I’m surprised you trusted Thistle so easily with the girls,” she said rather than committing to this being a good idea or not.
This Sunday evening, they had the local, family owned and operated theater nearly to themselves. For the rest of the week, during Festival, the stage in front of the cracked movie screen would serve as a platform for costumed players to reenact the founding of the town, and a place to crown the high school senior girl as Queen of whatever this year’s theme was. Meggie had narrowly missed out on being in the court this year to a cheerleader with a lower GPA and a bigger bustline.
“Thistle has an amazing rapport with the girls. I noticed it when she first showed up at the museum on Friday. And she must be trustworthy, or she wouldn’t be staying with you.” Joe flashed her a grin and offered her a sip of the giant lemonade with two straws.
Dusty shook her head. She didn’t want any of the giant bucket of greasy popcorn covered with fake butter and too much salt either. Joe knew how her stomach rebelled at junk food and too much sugar. He should have stuck with a small unbuttered popcorn and bottled water. They weren’t teenagers on a first date, trying to impress each other.
They’d been good friends for a long time.
Joe tried to engage her gaze. He looked more like a sick puppy than an ardent lover.
She pointed to the screen where the test pattern dissolved into an ad for huge boxes of chocolate treats available at the concession stand. The lights dimmed and Dusty leaned back in her chair, wondering what had possessed her to let Joe push their friendship to a date.
Joe was Joe: bland, conservative, and middle-aged. His hair was thinning and his belly hung over his belt a bit. He hadn’t changed much at all since she’d first met him eight years ago. But they had a lot in common and never lacked for topics of conversation. They could always discuss history if nothing else.
Not at all like Haywood. The dashingly handsome man excited her. He told wonderful, if improbable, stories. And he made her laugh. When he held her hand, the air seemed to sparkle. Her world narrowed to just the two of them.
The lilting phrases of a popular love song rose through the sound system as the opening aerial shot of Chicago signaled the commencement of the romantic comedy that had been popular last spring and had fallen in the ratings when the summer blockbuster—special effects but no plot or characterization—flicks had filled the first run theaters.
Joe slipped his hand around Dusty’s. Then he raised their joined hands and kissed the back of hers.
She fought her gut reaction to jerk her hand away. This was Joe. He was safe. Boring but safe.
“We’re friends. More than friends,” he said softly.
“Yeah, friends,” she replied and settled back into the stiff and uncomfortable seat. Why ruin a good friendship with attempts at passion that wasn’t there? At least not for her.
For two hours she did her best to enjoy the movie and ignore the touch of the man beside her. A safe and well-known companion.
Right?
“Thank you, Joe. That was fun,” Dusty said as Joe walked her toward his house from his parked car in the driveway. He still held her hand.
Her palm was clammy, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“Yes, it was. We should do this more often.” He leaned forward.
Okay. This was the moment. Her first adult kiss. What was she supposed to do?
Joe tugged on her hand, bringing her closer as he bent his neck a little to reach her mouth with his.
Dusty closed her eyes and let it happen. A featherlight brush of his lips against her own. Soft. Undemanding. Safe. And gone almost before it started.
That’s it? Where’s the magic, the starlight, the enthusiasm?
“Come say good night to the girls, Dusty, and then you can take Thistle home. I appreciate you bringing her over here so that I didn’t have to pack Suzie and Sharon in and out of the car.”
“Yeah. No problem.” No nothing.
Sixteen
CHASE WANDERED DOWN the marble halls of City Hall just after daw
n on Monday morning. Designed and built before air-conditioning, the one-hundred-fifteen-year-old building held the cold, making it the most comfortable structure in the downtown area during the summer months. Especially this summer.
The more modern police headquarters tacked on behind the City Hall was less substantial and the meager air-conditioning strained to meet the demands of the weather.
Just as Thistle had predicted, today the outside temperatures would only reach the mid eighties. That made the interior of the old building almost cold.
Chase yawned as he approached the clerk of the court’s office with his sheaf of citations and warrant requests. She opened her office before anyone else, preferring to work in the morning coolness.
He hated paperwork. He’d much rather be out on patrol, even on a hot day. Saturday night, after the parade and the adventure with Thistle and Mrs. Spencer, he hadn’t been able to sleep. The vision of Thistle and her purple skin and Pixie wings haunted him, and then Dick told him Dusty had a date with Haywood Wheatland.
Dusty didn’t date. She barely knew how to look a stranger in the eye. So what made the newcomer so special?
Maybe because he was a newcomer and didn’t know everything about her, like most folks in town.
Maybe because her mother hadn’t arranged the date. Then last night, Sunday, she’d gone to a movie with Joe Newberry without his daughters. A romantic movie.
Two dates in a row after years of none.
So Chase had sat up all night polishing off two weeks’ worth of overdue paperwork to keep from wondering whether Dusty had kissed Haywood or not. Then he’d fretted all day and night on Sunday because he couldn’t turn in the reports.
He’d pulled appliances at the family diner and scrubbed grease out of the traps behind them.
He’d heard nothing from Dick about the success or failure of Dusty’s dates.
He’d resorted to painting the picket fence around his folks’ house to burn off frustration. The lavender paint didn’t look right. It reminded him too much of Thistle, or purple dragonflies. But that’s what his mom wanted.
Ginny had painted the ladies restroom in the diner the same color. Mom needed to do something with the leftover paint. Practical. Ordinary chores. Home, an anchor without questions. But it was mindless work that allowed him to think too vividly of Dusty dating both Haywood Wheatland and her boss.
He paused with his hand on the doorknob to the clerk’s office. Raised voices within the series of rooms inside caught his attention.
“We can’t sell the timber in The Ten Acre Wood,” City Councilman George Pepperidge nearly shouted. “It’s a city park.”
Chase grew rigid in fear. Log off the woods? How could they destroy the haven of every child in Skene Falls for the last six generations? The town would react as if the City Council desecrated holy ground.
Dusty would be devastated. The Ten Acre Wood abutted museum grounds. Her whole life centered on that museum.
Except Saturday night she’d gone out with a stranger who had no interest in her museum.
He could almost understand a date with Joe. They could bore each other all day and half the night arguing about historical trivia.
Chase burst into the office ready to cite ordinances against cutting timber in city parks.
The room was empty. Not even the clerk plucked away at her keyboard. Had everyone gone for coffee at the same time? Before starting work?
The soft susurration of distant voices led him to a heating grate set high against the corridor wall.
A trick of the acoustics with all the echoey marble had channeled a private conversation directly to him.
“I don’t care how badly the city needs the money. An offer from an anonymous buyer through a third party, out-of-town lawyer shouldn’t even be considered,” George Pepperidge continued in outraged tones.
Hmmm, where in the building could the councilman be having this conversation?
Chase threw the stack of papers on the clerk’s desk and set off to track him down.
“I’ll get this tour group, you finish your lunch, Meggie,” Dusty said, swallowing the last of her spinach and feta cheese salad with pita bread.
“Huh?” Meggie dropped forward; the front legs of her chair thudded sharply. “Are you okay, Ms. Carrick? You’ve been smiling all morning and you haven’t retreated to the basement once.”
“We’re busy. I’m needed up here.” She moved into the front room to greet the group of two adults, five teens, and three grade-schoolers. A family with friends. Kids these days rarely went anywhere without friends. Their companions rated higher on their priorities than family.
She remembered when Thistle was her best friend and how special she felt to have the tiny Pixie hide in her hair when Mom and Dad took her places.
Except the hospital for blood tests and scans to make sure the cancer had gone away. Thistle couldn’t stand the smell of the place. She acted as if ignoring the possibility of Dusty getting sick again kept it from coming true.
Dusty started the tour with the memorized portion of local history that led to the building of the house. Then she noticed the gazes of the teens glazing over and wandering toward the long rifle on the wall. In three sentences she transitioned to a discussion of the early weapons industry and how each gun was individually made.
“With so many variations in muzzle sizes, the gun owners pretty much had to make their own bullets.” She indicated the paraphernalia required to keep the gun cleaned and armed.
“How come the muzzle’s so big?” one of the girls asked. “Dad’s hunting rifle is about half that size.”
Dusty could see in her posture how she imagined holding the weapon and aiming it.
“Buffalo,” she answered promptly. “We had buffalo in eastern Oregon in the early years, but they were hunted out quite quickly. With a bore this large, a pioneer could be pretty sure of taking down an angry bear or cougar on the rampage with one shot. If he wanted to put meat on the table, though, he’d use a smaller gauge as the large balls damage too much muscle.”
“Wow!” The girls leaned over the ropes separating them from the gun, eager to learn more.
The girls? Usually the guns fascinated the boys. But they were bent over the spinning wheel trying to figure out how it worked. If Dusty wasn’t careful, they’d probably try to dismantle it.
“At the end of September we have a black powder rendezvous over at the community college with demonstrations and lessons in loading and shooting these weapons. They also have spinning and weaving and other pioneer crafts . . .”
By the time she concluded the tour in the upstairs bedrooms, she realized she’d actually had fun with the kids. The father had been just as eager. The mother, however, failed to show a spark of interest at anything other than her perfect manicure.
“You are free to wander the grounds. The outside exhibits are well signed. But if you’d like, I can accompany you. Perhaps the boys would like to see what an early jail cell was really like.”
She’d never offered to continue a tour beyond the indoor requirements.
Happily, she led the group outside and headed toward the knot garden. Three men standing behind the carriage barn at the edge of the woods caught her attention. She saw their bright yellow hard hats first.
These men weren’t interested in the exhibits. They’d set up survey equipment with sighting devices on tripods and were carrying industrial-length tape measures and clipboards.
Dusty stood at the edge of the herb garden, shivering in the heat. The floaty feeling she’d had since Hay had called her this morning before work just to say “hello” sank to her heels, forming a huge magnet that kept her rooted to the ground. She couldn’t flee, couldn’t think, couldn’t answer the question about the silver plant at the center of the garden.
“Are you all right, Miss?” the father asked.
“Please, call the curator,” Dusty choked out.
Seconds later, Joe marched out of the museum toward the
three interlopers. When he passed Dusty, she gathered enough momentum to creep after him. “What’s going on here?” Joe asked authoritatively. His slender stature seemed to expand with righteous indignation.
“Just doin’ my job, buddy,” the man with the clipboard said with a shrug. “This is a city park. Unless you have authorization signed by the parks commissioner . . .”
“I got a work order signed by my boss. That’s all I need. These days work is work, I’ll take what I can get paid for.”
“May I see this supposed work order?” Joe held out his hand.
“Sure, buddy. But don’t stand there very long. You’re in my way, and I gotta start cutting this timber on Friday.”
“Th . . . that’s the day before the Masque Ball. It will be ruined! ” Dusty found her voice. “We’ll have to cancel and give back all the money we’ve already raised. But we’ve spent most of it setting up the party.” Tears welled up in her eyes.
“I see nothing official from the city on this paper,” Joe said, handing back the ordinary looking memo.
“Talk to my boss about that.”
“And who is your boss?”
“A voice on the phone from Pixel Industries, Ltd. I’m independent, subcontract out to the big guys.” He waved at his assistant at the other end of the tape measure to move slightly to the left.
“I’ve never heard of Pixel Industries, Ltd.”
“Neither had I. But I got a fax with the work order and an advance wired to my bank. Now get out of the way.”
“Dusty, go call the police. And the mayor’s office,” Joe ordered. “We’ll find out who and what is behind this. As far as I know there’s a law against cutting timber in city parks except for removal of dangerous and damaged trees.”
“I’m from Portland. Don’t know about your city laws. I just know I got work after a long dry spell of no work.” The hard-hatted man returned to his equipment, clearly dismissing Joe and his protests.
He took a sheet of notepaper from one of his compatriots, started recording the figures, paused, and pushed his hard hat to the back of his head. Then he peered closer at the paper, over the tops of his glasses and loosed a long low whistle.
Thistle Down Page 13
