Hidden Treasures

by Judith Arnold

  She was always going to be Erica Leitner, the Harvard graduate from Brookline, Massachusetts, and she was not going to become one with the world of Rockwell. The only thing she might become one with around here was Jed Willetz—in a strictly physical sense.

  Her dizziness left her. Of course she was going to become one with Rockwell, with her garden, with the muddy soil beneath her shoes and the open sky arching above her. Sleeping with Jed, who rejected everything she chose to embrace, didn’t change her goals and plans. She’d made her commitment to Rockwell, and one night of fabulous sex wasn’t going to change anything.

  “Stick with the computer games,” she urged Randy as she gathered their tools. “You’re better off sitting in front of a computer than sitting in front of a TV, even if all you’re doing is playing.”

  By one-thirty, the garden work was done and the tools put away. After letting Randy scrub his hands and face at the kitchen sink and devour a few more cookies, she sent him on his way and scanned the phone messages that had accumulated while she’d been toiling outside. A few distant relatives, the boy who’d taken her to the senior prom in high school, an investment adviser—“calling you on a Saturday, Ms. Leitner! Surely that proves how dedicated I am!”—Burt Johnson asking her if she intended to renew her contract for next year now that she was rich, and her mother again, reminding her that with her newfound wealth, she could probably afford a nice little pied-à-terre in Back Bay. No messages from Avery, which meant he was probably still at the Hope Street Inn. He wouldn’t leave Rockwell without the box, and he couldn’t retrieve the box from the bank without her.

  She changed from her gardening clothes into a pair of soft black jeans and a rose-hued sweater and brushed her hair. The mirror above the dresser reflected her unmade bed, the rumpled sheets and indented pillows and the stray condom packets caught in the blanket’s folds. A broken sigh escaped her.

  He’s gone, she reminded herself. Even if he hadn’t actually departed from Rockwell yet, he was gone in every way that counted. He’d magnificently ravished her, and now he would return to the big, crowded, noisy city. Last night had never been about love. It couldn’t be, because she and Jed were walking different roads. Hers was a two-lane blacktop weaving over hills and through pine forests, and his was the interstate that led south to Manhattan.

  If only he’d stay. He could live at his grandfather’s house—his house now. He could collect junk up here, although that would probably entail doing business with his father, the town’s official junk collector, and he wouldn’t like that—but he could do it. He could rehab the junk in Rockwell and transport it to his store in New York every few weeks. And then he could come back. He could help her keep the garden flourishing, and they could learn to bake bread together. And every night while he was in town, every long, loving night…

  No. It wasn’t going to happen. She couldn’t keep him where he didn’t want to stay.

  Aware that she’d gone too long without consuming anything but coffee, she detoured to the kitchen, searched for inspiration on the shelves of the refrigerator, then opted for a couple of the store-bought cookies she kept on hand for Randy. They weren’t bad, actually. Much tastier than her last attempt at homemade cookies. Next time, she promised herself as she headed out the back door and locked it, she’d eat something healthy and earth-mothery. For the moment, she needed sugar, fat, refined flour and preservatives.

  She got into her car, backed it out of the shed and headed in the direction of the Hope Street Inn, promising herself she would think only about Avery and the box. No more mooning over Jed Willetz.

  She mooned over him all the way into town. Main Street looked as spruced up as it did on the Fourth of July when Rockwell staged its grand parade, which invariably featured two fire engines, a phalanx of children on bicycles with red-white-and-blue crepe-paper streamers fluttering from the handlebars, a few 4-H kids accompanied by pigs and cows and some convertibles with World War II veterans enthroned in the back seat. Erica spotted almost as many flags hanging from storefront brackets today as she saw on the Fourth. On this slightly overcast spring day, however, instead of the sidewalks being lined with folks in lawn chairs drinking iced tea and beer and waving at the parade marchers, the sidewalks were lined with outsiders armed with cameras and notepads, latching on to passersby.

  Erica avoided eye contact with townspeople and reporters alike as she cruised down Main to Hope Street. She’d had her moment in the spotlight last night. She didn’t want to be the star of anyone’s story today.

  Fortunately, no reporters were visible in the vicinity of the Hope Street Inn. She parked behind the building, climbed the steps to the wraparound porch and went inside.

  Nellie Shoemaker hustled into the entry hall wearing an apron marked by multicolored stains that implied that she was engaged in real cooking. “Oh, hi!” she said, obviously recognizing Erica. “Thank goodness you’re not someone looking for a room. We’re booked solid—all these reporters from out of town! I’ve got to tell you, your little box is the best thing that ever happened to my business!”

  Erica smiled faintly. Just as she didn’t want to be viewed as Rockwell’s media darling, she also didn’t want to be viewed as its economic savior. “I’d like to see Dr. Gilman,” she said. “Is he here?”

  Nellie shook her head. “He checked out last night. I was annoyed about that because his reservation was until Sunday, but then a reporter all the way from Syracuse showed up around 11:00 p.m., desperate for a place to stay, and I was able to give him Dr. Gilman’s room—at twice the price! So it all worked out just fine.”

  Pain played a drum solo inside Erica’s head. Maybe thinking about Avery and the box wasn’t such an improvement over mooning over Jed. “What do you mean, he checked out? Where did he go?”

  “He didn’t tell me,” Nellie said with a sly grin.

  “He ran off with the redhead,” Derrick Messinger’s mellifluous voice emerged from the parlor.

  Erica managed another smile for Nellie, then turned and followed the voice to its source. Derrick was ensconced in one of the chintz wingback chairs in the parlor, a porcelain cup in one hand and a bottle of scotch in the other. His hair, as always, was impeccable. His outfit—crisp khakis and a starched oxford shirt—was equally impeccable. Beside him stood a wheeled suitcase. He looked miserable.

  “Avery Gilman ran off with Fern?” Erica asked, afraid to consider all the possible connotations of “ran off.”

  Derrick took a delicate sip from his cup, then refilled it from the bottle of scotch. “They left here together last night, with his suitcase. You tell me, Erica. You’re the VIP today. You tell me.”

  Tell him what? “I’m not a VIP,” she argued, pulling over an ottoman and sitting on it. “I spent the morning planting my garden. No one’s interviewing me—which I like,” she hastened to add, on the chance that Derrick might whip a camera from his suitcase and start taping this exchange. “And Dr. Gilman’s a man with a lot of responsibilities, not the least of which is that he’s supposed to take the box back to Harvard for analysis. And Fern has a job here in town. She’s the school nurse. She can’t just run off.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because…” Erica had to think. “Because when a student loses her tooth in school, Fern’s got these little treasure chest–shaped plastic containers for storing the tooth so it won’t get lost. And she cleans up after kids with stomach bugs.”

  “If I were her, I’d run off,” Derrick said before sipping from his cup.

  Erica conceded privately that she would, too. If Fern had fallen in love with Avery, why stick around in Rockwell to mop vomit? Even if she hadn’t fallen in love with him, why stick around?

  “I would have taken her to New York with me,” Derrick muttered. “What does that musty professor have that I haven’t got?”

  “A job at Harvard?” Erica suggested. Some people might be impressed by that. Fern had never been impressed by Erica’s Harvard degree, so she probably w
ouldn’t have been influenced by Avery’s prestigious faculty position. But to list for Derrick everything else Avery had going for him—modesty, intellectual breadth and hair that didn’t appear glued into place—would be tactless.

  “He was good on the show, at least,” Derrick admitted. “We did great in the overnight ratings. I guess I should thank you, too.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I’ll return to New York a conquering hero. Fern could have ridden that wave with me if she’d wanted.” He sighed, then focused on Erica. “I don’t suppose you’d…?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t think so. You weren’t sending out vibes. Fern was. Unless I misread her. That’s the scary thing, Erica. I’m good at reading people. I’ve got to be. It’s essential for an investigative reporter to be able to read people, and I thought I’d read her perfectly, from the title page to the appendix. Oh, well.” He sipped again, sighed again. “There are plenty of women in New York. Plenty of women with vibes. Countless vibrating women.”

  And most of them would undoubtedly be happy to vibrate right out of their panties for Jed Willetz, Erica thought glumly.

  Damn—she wasn’t going to think about him. “I’ve got to go,” she told Derrick. “I’ve got to find Dr. Gilman.”

  Avery couldn’t have run off with Fern, she knew. Fern was impulsive, but not that impulsive. Avery wasn’t impulsive at all. She recalled his patient, methodical approach to opening the box last night. If he’d been impulsive, he would have just broken the lock.

  Donning her sunglasses as insurance that none of the reporters would recognize her, she drove down Main Street and then east to Fern’s house, a few blocks from the primary school. She parked alongside the dead grass of Fern’s tiny front lawn and raced around to the back door. No one used front doors in Rockwell.

  Fern’s back door was unlocked, and Erica opened it to discover Fern and Avery seated at the kitchen table eating apple pie. The room was warm and tangy with the perfume of hot apples and cinnamon. In fact, Fern’s kitchen looked exactly like the sort of place in which a person would bake apple pies. Copper pots hung on a wall rack. The white walls and pale tiles on the floor enhanced the room’s lighting. The counters were polished granite, which Fern had pointed out was relatively cheap in these parts, since granite was mined locally. Relatively cheap wasn’t cheap enough for Erica, who was still reeling from the expenses she’d incurred by purchasing her house and signing a mortgage, but perhaps one day, if she ever got a raise and saved a little money, she might install granite counters in her kitchen, too.

  Granite counters would not endow her with the ability to make such a gorgeous, fluted piecrust from scratch, however.

  “Erica!” Avery leaped to his feet, smiling so broadly his teeth seemed to be biting through his beard.

  Fern smiled, too, a subtler, sneakier smile. “Hey, TV star! How about a slice of pie?”

  “Did you just make it?” Erica asked, slumping into a chair.

  “Avery helped.” Fern stood and fetched a plate and fork for Erica. “He did all the peeling.” She winked at Avery, who blushed. Erica couldn’t believe her fusty professor was blushing. “Have you bought one of the souvenir T-shirts yet?”

  “No,” Erica replied. “And I don’t intend to.”

  “Oh, but you should! They’re so Rockwell.” Chuckling, Fern cut a slice of pie for Erica.

  “The development of a market for T-shirts is really rather interesting, actually,” Avery observed. “The box itself contained coins that are no doubt of substantial value, but the wealth it’s bringing to the town is only indirectly related to that value.”

  “All that kitschy merchandise is going to disappear in a few weeks,” Erica predicted. “Derrick Messinger will do some new show about a lottery winner in Idaho and everyone will forget all about Rockwell.”

  “I won’t,” Avery said, sending Fern a dewy-eyed gaze. “It’s only two hours from Cambridge. Less, if I can compel myself to exceed the speed limit.”

  “I bet you can,” Fern purred.

  Erica dug into her pie so she wouldn’t have to witness the goo-fest in progress between Fern and Avery. The apples were tart and spicy, with a hint of crunch. The crust was light and crisp, still warm from the oven. How did Fern do it? Was her skill at baking innate? Was Erica doomed because she’d grown up in a semi-urban home where her mother never baked because, “Let’s face it, there are a dozen gourmet bakeries in this town that make better pastries than me, so why should I knock myself out?”

  She continued to eat while Avery and Fern murmured to each other on the subject of speed limits. The pie filled her as the cookies she’d snacked on before leaving her house hadn’t. When she was done, she pushed her plate away and said, “Avery, I don’t know how long you’re planning to stay in town, but if you want to get access to the box, we have to arrange it with Peter Goss. The bank is closed on weekends, so we’d have to contact him and see if he could meet us there.”

  “I was thinking I’d stay until tomorrow,” Avery said, addressing Fern more than Erica.

  “I can get Peter to open the bank,” Fern assured him. “He’s scared of me.”

  Before Erica could ask why, Avery said, “I’m not surprised.” Erica decided to let it lie.

  “Well. Okay, then,” she said, forcing enthusiasm into her voice. “We’re all on the same page. I just wanted to make sure.”

  “I think you should hire an attorney, Erica,” Avery said abruptly.

  Erica flinched. “Why?”

  “We talked about it, “ Fern chimed in, surprising Erica even more. Surely they had better things to do than talk about Erica. “Now that everyone in the world knows what’s in that box, Glenn Rideout’s going to be making all kinds of claims. He’s got a lawyer. You should get one, too.”

  “Is there more than one lawyer in Rockwell?”

  “I’d recommend someone from Cambridge,” Avery suggested. “We might even be able to hire someone through the university—although if you did that, the attorney would be representing Harvard’s interests more than yours.”

  “I can’t afford a lawyer,” Erica said. She couldn’t even afford granite counters in her kitchen.

  “If the box and its contents are worth as much as I’m starting to think they are,” Avery pointed out, “you can afford an attorney.”

  “I don’t even want the box! What would I do with it? It’s an antique artifact. It belongs in a museum.”

  “If it’s yours,” Avery explained, “you can donate it to a museum. But first you’ve got to ascertain that it’s yours.”

  “And not Glenn Rideout’s—the greedy creep,” said Fern.

  “All right.” Erica rested her head in her hands. It still thrummed with pain. “My cousin Naomi’s husband is a lawyer down in Cos Cob, Connecticut. Maybe I’ll call her.” Naomi’s husband, Sheldon, charged top dollar—he was quite the hotshot, according to Erica’s mother. Naomi had met him at Cornell. Why couldn’t Erica have met a hotshot at Harvard? If she had, she could have been living in a four-bedroom Colonial with central air in Cos Cob, too.

  She’d call Naomi tonight. She’d call her mother. She’d do everything everyone thought she should do. Her life had been slipping out of her control ever since the box had been found. She hadn’t wanted anyone to see it, yet that very first evening Meryl Hummer had managed to finagle a photo for a front-page story about it, and Erica had never regained her footing.

  That very first evening, Jed had entered her house and her world. She’d armed herself with a knife, but unlike Fern, she inspired no fear.

  God, she was a failure. At everything. Her garden was a muddy mess, the plants unevenly spaced and poorly chosen. Her culinary skills were zilch. Her family didn’t approve of her career. She had an Ivy League degree with high honors and she felt like an idiot.

  And the man she wanted, the man allegedly every woman in town except for Fern wanted, the man who had loved her all night long, so sweetly, so wildly t
hat merely remembering caused a wave of heat to surge through her, was going to bury his grandfather’s ashes and disappear.

  A stupid box had changed her fortunes, and instead of making her feel grounded and rich she felt lost and impoverished.

  SEEING HERSELF as a fifth wheel, she refused Fern’s offer of a second slice of pie. Avery promised to phone her tomorrow, once Fern had worked out a time with Peter Goss to meet them at the bank. “Buy a T-shirt,” Fern urged her as she headed out the back door. “I mean it, Erica. You don’t ever have to wear it, but you should own one, just in case.”

  Erica didn’t want to contemplate just in case what. She drove back toward town, wondering whether buying a T-shirt would make her feel better or worse. She decided to buy one. If it turned out to make her feel worse, she’d send it to her mother.

  An impressive crowd swarmed outside Hackett’s Superette, watching a TV reporter ply his trade on the sidewalk. Erica kept driving, heading down to Rideout’s Ride. For Randy’s sake, she’d buy her shirt from his father.

  The bar was not as lively as the sidewalk outside the Superette, but its clientele seemed relatively spirited. At least a dozen people, mostly male, occupied the tables at the rear of the tavern. They conversed, they smoked cigarettes and they shuttled glasses of booze between their cocktail napkins and their mouths. They seemed well suited to the place, their faded plaid shirts and burly demeanors making her think of hunters, just as the antlers hanging on the wall made her think of the hunted.