“Well, it was just a thought,” he said, then forced a grin to prove he didn’t care that she preferred Rockwell to him. “You want to stay here, suit yourself. I think you’re crazy, but maybe that’s why you fit in so well here.”
“I don’t fit in so well,” she argued, getting serious just as he was trying to lighten things up. “I wish I did. It’s been my dream to fit into a town like this. And in time, I think that dream will come true. It’s not easy, but I haven’t given up yet.”
No surprise that she was stubborn. That was one of the things he liked about her. But he was still infuriated by the thought that she’d turn her back on what they’d shared last night for this—this dead quarry town full of busybodies and scammers, people who’d ignore you until they thought you might be rich or famous or, God help you, both, and then they’d target you for friendship or legal action or burglary.
She’d chosen Rockwell over him, and it hurt.
ERICA UNFOLDED HERSELF from Fern’s car and met Fern at the rear bumper. They’d driven over together from the school in time for John Willetz’s graveside service Tuesday afternoon. Fern had suggested they travel together because it would be easier to find one parking space than two.
Erica hadn’t imagined that anything—even John Willetz’s burial—could cause a parking problem in Rockwell. Obviously, her imagination was much too limited. The sides of the road near the gate that led into the cemetery were packed with cars, most of them protruding halfway into the roadway and narrowing the space for traffic like an artery narrowed by cholesterol deposits. Why anyone would have created a cemetery without a parking lot was beyond her.
She wished she could have thought of a good excuse to miss the service. But the only excuse she’d come up with was the truth, and the truth—that she’d slept with Jed and then he’d asked her to go to New York with him, without any promises or plans, and that for reasons she still couldn’t fathom, she’d said no—was better kept to herself. If Fern found out Erica had been the most recent Rockwell female to drop her panties for Jed…Well, it was just better if no one knew.
As it happened, Fern had other things on her mind. “Avery invited me down to Cambridge this weekend,” she’d told Erica on the drive over to the cemetery.
“He did? When?”
“He called last night. Well, he called Sunday night, too.”
He hadn’t called Erica. She hadn’t expected a call from him, other than to report on his continuing examination of the box and its contents, but still, the box was what his trip to Rockwell had been about.
No, it wasn’t. It had started out that way, but then he’d met Fern. “Are you going?” Erica asked, keeping her tone casual.
“Do you have to ask?” Fern’s eyes shimmered. “Cambridge, Massachusetts! Avery told me it’s full of boutiques and little cafés and movie theaters that show films with subtitles. He said Boston is right across the river, and it’s got even more boutiques and theaters and restaurants with food from all around the world. Hungarian, Greek, Thai, Ethiopian—I don’t even know what they eat in Ethiopia. Camels?”
“It’s kind of similar to Middle Eastern food,” Erica told her.
“He said Harvard’s got all these old buildings—really old. Older than the box. Three hundred years old.”
“I know. I was a student there, remember?” Impatience had colored Erica’s voice, and when Fern had looked wounded, she’d suffered a twinge of guilt. “I take it you accepted his invitation?” she’d added in a softer tone.
“Of course I accepted. Cambridge! It’s like, when I was studying nursing at UNH, people talked about Harvard like it was, you know, the pinnacle of something. Like you’d expect to see old guys in togas wandering around, spouting philosophy.”
“The only guys I ever saw in togas were undergrads and they were drunk,” Erica said, recalling an Animal House–inspired party one of the houses had sponsored her junior year.
“Anyway, the main attraction isn’t old buildings and Ethiopian restaurants. It’s Avery.” Fern released a wistful sigh.
Erica shook her head. “I thought you were setting your sights on Derrick Messinger. He certainly had his sights set on you.”
“He did?” Fern sounded surprised. So much for Derrick’s vaunted vibrations detector. “I suppose there’s something to be said for fame and glamor, but Avery…God, Erica, I don’t know why sometimes things click. Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined clicking with a Harvard history professor. But this sort of thing isn’t supposed to be logical, is it? It just is. You accept it.”
“You celebrate it,” Erica had said, genuinely happy for Fern, but unsettled for herself. Something had clicked between her and Jed. In her wildest dreams, she wouldn’t have imagined clicking with him—except yes, she would have. He would have been the local man who could complete her fantasy about life in a small town. In her dreams, she’d have that life and the love of a man who shared her passion for nature and small-town society. They’d plant their roots and their garden together and live happily ever after, surrounded by verdant forests and pristine mountains, with deer roaming through their yard and devouring their garden.
But Jed wasn’t the man to fulfill that dream with, and Erica didn’t have his love. Just his amazing passion, which was nothing to sneeze at.
She hadn’t seen him since he’d asked her to go to New York City with him. It had been such a bizarre idea, at odds with all her plans. New York would be like Boston to the tenth power: crowded, noisy, frenetic. A garden in New York would likely be a flower box on a fire escape. Apartment kitchens would be too small to bake in, if she ever mastered the art of baking.
But along with giving up everything she had in Rockwell, what would she gain by going to New York? Jed had been terribly vague on that score. He wasn’t asking her to marry him, not that she was certain she’d have accepted if he did, but still. So why prolong things? Why torture herself by spending more time with him?
Because John Willetz had been her landlord, and her nearest neighbor for two years. She couldn’t very well skip the service without arousing gossip.
Given the number of cars parked along the road, she figured the crowd would be significant. She and Jed wouldn’t have to see each other, let alone talk.
She and Fern ambled down the center of the road to the open gates, then followed one of the winding paths up a hill to where a crowd had gathered. The instant Erica reached that crowd, her gaze collided with Jed’s. So much for their not seeing each other. He wore a dark suit and a white shirt but no tie, which didn’t surprise her. Jed Willetz in a tie would be as absurd as Pop Hackett in a dress.
Jed stood near the small hole that had been dug in front of a double-width stone of New Hampshire’s finest granite, with his grandmother’s and grandfather’s birth and death dates carved into it. There was no sign of a box containing John Willetz’s ashes; perhaps that had already been lowered into the ground.
Next to Jed stood his father. Jed had a couple of inches in height on Jack, and a good thirty pounds of solid muscle. Erica had never realized how scrawny Jack Willetz was, but beside his son he looked as if his body had been constructed out of Tinkertoys. He wore faded corduroy slacks and an even more faded plaid shirt under a winter coat. It wasn’t that cold, but the sun had failed to burn through the layer of gray clouds that spread above the graveyard.
Hands in pockets, Jack was chatting amiably with a short, plump woman Erica recognized as Reena Keefer, the maple syrup lady. Scanning the crowd, Erica also spotted Hazel Nagy, who glowered at Fern, and Myrna Gilhooley from town hall, and Butch Weber, who owned the Moosehead. Glenn Rideout was also there, his arm around a mousy woman with brown hair as fluffy as cotton balls. Was that Randy’s mother? Erica had never met her.
She noticed Meryl Hummer standing off to the side, snapping photos. Just as unearthing the coin-filled box had been last week’s front-page story, the interment of John Willetz’s ashes was this week’s front-page story. Erica glimpsed Ha
rriet Ettman in a thick, multicolored cardigan that looked hand-knitted—maybe Erica ought to take up knitting; it seemed like a wholesome, small-town craft—and a chubby, balding man who kept tilting his head toward Glenn, cupping his ear and shouting, “Huh?” Potter Henley, Erica recalled.
At least fifty people were gathered around the grave site, and Erica recognized just about all of them. Reverend Pith, of course, and Sewell McCormick. A few teachers from the primary school; Dr. Hoyt, the pediatrician; Ostronkowicz from the gas station; Stuart Farnham, who worked for the state highway department and plowed the roads in the winter; Pop Hackett’s wife, Elaine; Janelle from Rockwell Rx; Toad Regan, looking dazed and poking at a scraggly tuft of grass with his toe.
Erica knew all these people. She’d lived in Rockwell just under three years, and she knew everyone. And only one of them—Fern Bernard—did she consider a friend.
Silly thought. That she knew her fellow Rockwellians was enough. They were a community, neighbors, acquaintances. She could trust them all—well, no. She couldn’t trust Toad. She couldn’t trust Glenn Rideout. She couldn’t trust Burt Johnson, the school principal, who was always meddling in her lesson plans and demanding that she put aside her big-city pedagogical concepts. Janelle had never screwed up a prescription for Erica, but she suspected that if she’d ever needed a drug for something more exotic than a flare-up of hay fever or strep throat, the entire town would be talking about it within an hour.
Of everyone gathered around the grave site, only Fern had any idea what Erica believed in, what she hoped for, what she cared about.
Only Fern and Jed.
Glancing back at him, she found him still staring at her. Why? What had she ever done to him, other than refuse to abandon her house and her job for a no-strings-attached romp with him in the Big Apple? Why did he look so…sad?
Because he was burying his grandfather’s ashes, of course. The shadows veiling his eyes and the frown lines notching the bridge of his nose had nothing to do with her. He was in a mournful state because his beloved grandfather was truly dead and his father was a petty thief and all he wanted was to get away from this town where, like Erica, he knew everyone.
Reverend Pith began to speak: “Dearly Beloved…” and Erica’s gaze slid to Jed again. If he was so damned sad about his grandfather, she thought, he ought to be staring at the hole in the ground, not at her. She wasn’t his dearly beloved.
The minister droned on for a while and then turned to Jed. “Now we’ll have a few words from the grandson of the dearly departed, John Edward Willetz III.” Erica didn’t care for Pith’s profligate use of the word dearly, but she loved his use of Jed’s full, formal name. It lent him a stature he hardly needed. Somehow, he seemed even taller when he was “the Third.”
“Some of you may be here out of respect for my father and me,” Jed said. He didn’t shout, but his voice carried, cutting through the dank air. “But I’m sure all of you knew my grandfather. We said goodbye to him last January. Today all we’re saying goodbye to is his remains. He’s not here anymore. He left Rockwell a few months ago, when the ground was too frozen for us to bury him.”
Jed paused. He took a deep breath and his eyes zeroed in on her again. She wished she could back up until she was hidden behind Darren Choate, who still had the build that had made him a standout defensive end on the high-school football team a few years back. But she couldn’t very well recede into the crowd, not when Jed was watching her so intently.
“I don’t know whether I believe in heaven,” Jed continued. “Sometimes I think heaven is where you go when you leave Rockwell.”
A couple of people chuckled. The rest probably didn’t get the joke.
“I will say this,” Jed went on. “My grandfather was an ornery son of a bitch, but he was also one of the best people ever to call this town home. I miss him, and I’m sure you all do, too.” With that he took a step back. His gaze still on Erica, he quirked one eyebrow, as if to ask how he’d done.
He’d done beautifully. His simple words were more eloquent than the Reverend Pith’s long-winded bromides. Erica nodded, and Jed’s mouth hinted at a smile.
She was touched that he wanted her approval, even though he had to know she wouldn’t agree with his definition of heaven. It was his definition, though. Everyone was entitled to his or her own definition.
Hers was—not Rockwell. Heaven couldn’t possibly have mud season. Heaven couldn’t have pathetic creatures like Toad Regan breaking into people’s houses and squeezing their wrists. Heaven couldn’t have prigs and busybodies like Burt Johnson and Hazel Nagy interfering with the way Fern and Erica did their jobs.
Her heaven would have bountiful gardens, though. Fresh tomatoes ripe for picking, and not too many zucchini. Adequate sunshine and water and fresh air. Her heaven would abound in love.
The Reverend Pith asked Jed’s father if he wanted to add anything. Jack ruminated for a moment, then cleared his throat and said, “Just that it don’t matter how much you kiss up to someone—when they pass on, they’re gonna leave you whatever the hell they feel like.” Jed rolled his eyes. He could have been furious, but he seemed to have a sense of humor about his father’s tastelessness. That sense of humor was just one more thing to love about him.
Not that Erica loved him. Heaven wasn’t Jed Willetz—one night in bed with him notwithstanding.
The minister said a few more words, then dug a shovel into the small pile of dirt beside the hole and tossed some in. Jed took the shovel next, handed it to his father and strode through the crowd, barely stopping to shake hands and acknowledge the condolences people were uttering. He headed straight for her.
“What’s this all about?” Fern muttered. “He’s not going to fight you over the box, is he? I heard a rumor he was hiring a lawyer, but I didn’t think it could be true.”
“Jed started that rumor deliberately to get Glenn Rideout off my case,” Erica whispered back, wondering if she could make a discreet departure before Jed reached her. Not possible. She was surrounded by Rockwellians, all of them swarming and chattering. What little she picked up from the din of conversation indicated that they weren’t talking about the man whose ashes they’d just buried. They were analyzing Janelle’s shocking-pink fleece jacket and Toad’s bloodshot eyes, and commenting that, for all his poise, Jed Willetz was a scamp for having turned his back on his hometown. “What’s he got in that big dirty city that he doesn’t have here?” one person asked; another replied that what he had in that big dirty city was access to a lot more hot-to-trot women than what you might find in Rockwell.
The nearer he drew to Erica, the less she heard the voices around her. She smelled damp earth and Jed’s minty fragrance, and she wanted to grab Fern’s hand and run for her life. But she held her ground, or, more accurately, the ground held her, its spongy consistency molding around her loafers.
“I’m leaving Rockwell tomorrow,” he said.
She searched his words for a hint that he was asking her to join him. He’d already asked and she’d declined, and no, she didn’t hear him asking again. “I’m sure you’re needed back at your store.” That sounded too cold and impersonal, so she added, “What you said about your grandfather was really nice.”
“Much better than what old Pith had to say,” Fern agreed.
Jed nodded briefly at her, then turned back to Erica. “I meant what I said the other day. And the weird thing is, I don’t know why I said it.”
“I figured as much.”
“But I did mean it. And I can’t shake the feeling that if I could have explained it, your answer would have been different.”
Tears stung her eyes, and she lowered them so she wouldn’t have to view his beautiful, bewildered face. “I don’t know, Jed. I honestly don’t.”
“Well.” He reached up and brushed a lock of hair back from her face. Then he placed a light kiss on her forehead. “Don’t let this place chew you up and swallow you,” he whispered. “It’ll do that if you’re not car
eful. It’s got big teeth.” He stepped back, gave her a heartbreaking smile and strode down the hill toward the gates.
“What was that all about?” Fern asked, staring after him.
Erica didn’t answer. Staring at Jed’s receding back, she felt a piercing pain in the vicinity of her heart, but she wasn’t sure if Rockwell or Jed had bitten her. He’d never offered her a damn thing, he didn’t know what he wanted or why—and he was walking out of her life.
This was not her definition of heaven.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
JUNE IN MANHATTAN was usually hot and humid. The rich folks made their weekly escapes to the Hamptons or the Berkshires, leaving behind the teeming masses, whose tempers generally soared right along with the heat and humidity. When Derrick Messinger had been at the top of his game, he used to escape to the Hamptons, too. He’d never owned a beachfront estate, but he’d been able to rent a cottage about a mile north of the shoreline—not the most posh address, but worthy of a certain degree of prestige.
Then, of course, his career had fallen apart and the Hamptons had been out of the question.
They were in the question now. He was soaring once again. But if he wanted to flee the city for a weekend, he’d just as soon head north to, oh, say, the Moose Mountains of New Hampshire.
Rockwell might not have much going on, but if he was going to be a mile from the beach, anyway, what difference did it make? He’d enjoy better dining in the Hamptons, of course, but those restaurants were outrageously expensive, and there was always a chance someone famous would be seated at the next table just when you were knocking over your glass of wine or choking on your pâté de foie gras. Plus, in the Hamptons, there was always an A-list party going on, and if you weren’t invited, you’d feel terribly un-A. A person didn’t ever have to worry about anyone hosting an A-list party in Rockwell.
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