After Darke

by Heather MacAllister

  The intimidatingly elegant Nora Darke changing diapers? Nope. She was a nanny mom through and through.

  “My dad died when I was seven. He was a lot older and had children from his first marriage, who inherited a chunk of his estate. Let’s just say that our income dropped, but our standard of living didn’t.”

  “Are you saying you were poor?”

  “We would have been if Mother had continued spending the way she was. The accountant convinced her to economize.” Jaron chuckled. “She didn’t have a clue. She did things like have Cook fix macaroni and cheese three nights in a row.”

  Bonnie laughed, too.

  “She figured it out, though. By the time I was nine, she began taking me to parties with her. She saved on baby-sitting costs—the nannies and servants were gone by then—and fed us both, too. I had dinner jackets and suits and formal wear tailored for me. I was her ‘walker.”’

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Escort. A lot of women don’t like attending functions alone, and an attractive, unattached, well-spoken male is always welcome.”

  “You were nine.”

  “Only in years. Mother was never a blocks-and-finger-paint mom. This was what she knew and this was what she taught me. It was great. I loved it. I went to art gallery openings, plays, concerts, charity galas, and private gatherings, as well. I’d hit the hors d’oeuvres, make sure I greeted everyone I knew, then plop myself in a corner somewhere and do my homework.”

  Bonnie sat straight up in the cot. “Or eavesdropped and sold what you heard to the gossip columns!”

  “Ding ding! Give the lady the stuffed monkey.”

  “I want the panda bear. But why did the other kids make fun of you?”

  “They thought I was a dork. I was more comfortable around adults and I got to go to parties and they didn’t. I liked dressing well, which meant I didn’t embrace the styles of the seventies. You know the kid with the glasses, the slicked-down hair and the sweater vest? That was me.”

  “Wow.”

  “I convinced myself that I didn’t care, but I did. Anybody would.”

  Bonnie felt awful for him. “Oh, Jaron.”

  “Cut it out. You’re over there feeling sorry for little Jaron, aren’t you?”

  “Well, not anymore.”

  “Good.

  “It’s big Jaron I’m thinking about.” She winced. Why had she said that?

  “What are you thinking?”

  She was thinking lots of warm fuzzy thoughts. They’d bonded. “Thanks for telling me.”

  “You’re welcome. It was only fair. I learned more about you than I ever wanted to know today.”

  Warm fuzzies turned into cold pricklies. When would she learn? “Jaron? This doesn’t mean we like each other any better or anything.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Good.”

  “Fine.”

  “So...I’m going to sleep now.”

  He exhaled softly. “Good night, Bonnie.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  FREEDOM. SORT of. If anyone could ever be free once caught in a small-town web.

  In spite of his resolution, this was the third morning in a row that Jaron had eaten the huge Twin Oaks breakfast, but the first time he’d eaten downstairs.

  Maureen and Clint had a great place here. There were worse places to be stuck. The B and B managed to look old and new at the same time. Too much chintz for his taste, but the mahogany table in the dining room was a wonderful piece and he’d always appreciated fresh flowers.

  He and Bonnie had deliberately waited until most of the paying guests had served themselves from the buffet and left for the day. The only dining-room occupants now were a couple with a young girl who’d attracted the attention of the twins, and a rawboned man who ate as though he was starving.

  Maureen came through the kitchen to the dining room to refresh the coffeepot. “Here’s the money for the chickens, Ed. And for some reason, no one wanted blueberry muffins this morning. May I give you some? Otherwise, they’d just go to waste.”

  Smiling, his mouth full, the man took the envelope and shoved it into the pocket of his worn jeans. He hesitated, but took the plastic bag Maureen held out to him, looking as though he’d discovered gold.

  Sure, the muffins were good, but they weren’t that good.

  Maureen poured a mug of coffee for herself and came to join Bonnie and Jaron. “Ed, I didn’t see you at tea yesterday, so you haven’t had a chance to meet Bonnie’s fiancé, Jay Drake. Ed Taylor is our neighbor and raises free-range chickens.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Ed stretched a work-roughened hand across the table. “Best wishes to you both.”

  Jaron gripped it and felt nothing but tendon and bone. The man didn’t have an ounce of fat on him.

  Maureen stirred sugar into her coffee. “Bonnie, you’re awfully quiet this morning.”

  Beside him, Bonnie held up one finger, then drained her coffee mug. “Give the caffeine time to kick in.” She stood and retrieved the coffeepot, pouring herself another cup, topping off Ed’s and Jaron’s before returning the pot to the sideboard.

  “Bonnie feels quite strongly about her coffee in the morning,” Jaron said.

  “I also feel strongly about Maureen waiting on us like we’re paying guests.”

  Maureen smiled. “If you insist, I’m sure I can find a dish or two for you to wash.”

  Oh, joy. Not that it wasn’t fair, but visions of unending KP didn’t thrill Jaron.

  “We’ll talk,” Bonnie promised.

  Maureen nodded, sipped her coffee, then wrapped both hands around the mug. “You know the closest outbuilding?”

  “The one that looks like an animal shed?” Bonnie asked.

  “I’m too much of a city girl to know what it was used for. We’ve been storing things in it. Anyway, Clint and I were thinking it would be a good place for Jay to stay. There are a couple of electrical outlets in there, but they don’t work. Seth would have to take a look at the wiring. The attic is going to be a mess with the renovations and this will give Jay someplace quiet to work.” Maureen glanced meaningfully toward Ed Taylor.

  A cue. “I really zone out when I’m writing code.” Jaron hoped he had the terminology correct. He doubted the farmer would know the difference.

  “And if bookings stay as steady as they have been, we might look at converting it into a guest cottage.”

  “Sounds good.” Bonnie dipped the last bit of her griddle cake in syrup. “You know I’m game.”

  Ed pushed back from the table. “Thanks for the breakfast, Maureen. You’re a real sweetheart.” He made as though to take his dirty dishes into the kitchen, but Maureen waved him on.

  After he left, she grinned. “Guess what’s for dinner tonight?”

  “Chicken?” Bonnie grinned back. “Jay, you’re in for a real treat. Ed’s chickens are as natural as you can get. No growth hormones or anything else. Pure chicken.”

  Okay, so Cooper’s Corner wasn’t the total backwater he’d thought. “I’m looking forward to it—which brings up a point that’s been bothering me,” Jaron said. “I can’t mooch off you and Clint forever.”

  “It better not be forever,” Bonnie muttered into her coffee.

  “One more person hardly makes a difference,” Maureen said.

  Twin Oaks rented out four rooms and supported five people on the income. One more person would make a difference. Jaron had a little cash left, but it wouldn’t last long.

  “Excuse me a moment.” Maureen rose to see off the other family and corral her girls.

  “Time to get—” one twin began.

  “—the towels?” the other finished.

  “Did you hear the dryer buzz?”

  They nodded.

&
nbsp; “Then okay. Fold the towels nicely, but no jumping in the pile!”

  “Okay, Mommy,” they said in unison, and ran out the door.

  “They’re actually a help there.” Maureen returned to the table. “And they’re learning responsibility, cooperation, how to contribute to the family and a little bit of geometry to boot.”

  “They’re growing so fast.” Bonnie had that gooey tone in her voice that women get when discussing small cute children.

  It was a tone that made men very nervous, and Jaron was no exception. “Now, about me staying here—is Quigg paying you anything?”

  Maureen shook her head. “Bonnie was going to live here, anyway. It’s part of her contract.”

  “Quigg should at least pay for me. I would, but I can’t access any of my accounts.” Jaron was disgusted. Quigg didn’t have to hire anyone to protect them; Bonnie was taken care of—the least the police department could do was pay the Coopers a stipend.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Maureen said.

  Jaron had no intention of worrying. He was going to do something about it. He’d already composed a sneering lead for a column on bullying government policies before he remembered that he wasn’t writing his column.

  He’d write it anyway and have it for backup. But he was going to give Quigg a call.

  After breakfast, Clint, Bonnie and Jaron went to inspect the building. Jaron had been preoccupied on the way over yesterday and hadn’t really seen the full effect of the Twin Oaks drive.

  Pairs of magnificent oaks lined the drive and led to a spectacular view of the village and surrounding hills.

  “Twin Oaks is named for those trees.” Clint Cooper stopped beside Jaron. Bonnie kept walking.

  “Each time a set of twins is born into the Cooper family, two trees honoring their birth are planted along the drive. The smallest ones way down there are for Randi and Robin, Maureen’s girls.” He drew a deep breath and gazed into the distance. “It’s really something, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. Though I’ll have to admit, I’ve got the city in my blood.”

  “Not me. You couldn’t pay me to go back.”

  “You lived in New York?”

  Clint nodded. “Since I was a kid. I was an architect.”

  They talked buildings and possible mutual acquaintances. Jaron was familiar with a couple of Clint’s projects. And Clint, who knew Jaron’s real identity, mentioned enjoying his columns. Yet another preconception about small-town people bit the dust.

  “So what made you come out here?” Jaron asked.

  The other man was silent, staring into the distant hills. “My wife, Kristin, died.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jaron said, even as something niggled at his mind.

  “Yeah. Neither Keegan nor I adjusted well. By the time I surfaced from grief, he looked like a street thug, with the attitude and language to match. He was running with the wrong crowd and I knew a clean break would be best for both of us.”

  “He seems fine now.” Not that Jaron knew anything about raising kids.

  “There are moments. And we both miss Kristin like crazy.” Clint smiled wryly. “But believe me, things are a lot better here.”

  Kristin...Cooper. Kristin Cooper. “Kristin Cooper, the art critic, was your wife?”

  Clint nodded. “Did you know her?”

  “We’d met. I was dating Sydney Pendleton back when she owned the Pendleton Gallery. I ran into Kristin several times at showings.” Sydney had always been nervous when Kristin Cooper was in attendance. Kristin’s opinion could make or break a fledgling artist’s career. “She’s missed,” he said simply.

  Clint gave him another tight nod and gestured for Jaron to follow him to the weathered building across from the garage. Jaron guessed that they’d painted it when they’d painted the farmhouse, and it looked like the paint was the glue that held it together.

  Bonnie met them at the door. “Clint, this would make a great cottage.” She disappeared back inside. Clint followed her.

  Jaron peered in, not at all certain that the place wouldn’t blow over in a stiff breeze. But Clint should know. The man had worked for a prestigious firm—and he’d enjoyed Jaron’s columns, which meant he had good judgment.

  Jaron stepped into the gloom. Bonnie and Clint must have great imaginations. He saw a dirt floor and rotting wood. Mysterious bits of metal and leather were tacked on the unfinished walls. A tarp covered the ceiling at one end, and beneath it were painting supplies and rolls of wallpaper and scraps of carpet. Aged gardening equipment took up the rest of that end.

  Clint and Bonnie were talking. Bonnie was gesturing to where she wanted to install the bathroom. “Clint! This view cries out for a Jacuzzi.”

  “Bonnie, we’re not that kind of place. We need to stick to the family crowd.”

  “But with a little extra, this could be the perfect honeymoon cottage. Private and isolated...soaking in the Jacuzzi together with just the moon and stars to see you...”

  “And anybody in Cooper’s Corner with a telescope.”

  “Okay, if you’re not going to go for the Jacuzzi, then how about a double claw-footed tub?”

  Clint hooted with laughter. “You’ve been trying to unload that old tub for two years! Your mother told me so.”

  “But I just found vintage fittings for it.”

  “Hmm.” Clint examined the beams and pushed at the supports. “I think the bathroom should go over here.”

  “That’s not romantic at all! Clearly, this will be the bedroom and the fireplace should go there.” She patted a spot on the wall. “It’ll be easier—and cheaper—to access the main sewer line from over by the window.”

  “What, ten feet less?”

  “We could wet vent from there. I haven’t measured, but my guess is that this is outside the code distance for wet venting.”

  He gave a rueful smile. “It figures.”

  After that, they got even more technical, and Jaron tuned them out. He wandered over to the window Bonnie wanted to make part of the bathroom. This was where he was going to put a table and chair. He could look out as he wrote. He still wasn’t a country person, but he might as well try to appreciate it while he was here.

  “You mentioned electricity?” he asked them, still looking out the window.

  “We’ll get Seth to check it out if you’re interested.”

  Interested?

  After fighting to get to sleep last night, Jaron was ready to sleep in a tent to get away from Bonnie. He didn’t want her knowing things about him. He didn’t want to talk with her and he didn’t want her telling him stuff, either. He didn’t want to think about her or her stupid sheep pajamas.

  As he’d listened to her voice in the darkness, he’d remembered the feel of her pressed against him, the curves she kept hidden beneath the loose clothes—except for that one pair of jeans. And knew that only a flimsy floral sheet—and the utter horror of what would happen if he actually slept with her—separated them. He was not going through that again.

  He’d seen her world. Bonnie had grown up with these people and they weren’t the type to tolerate no-strings sex. She had more strings than a plate of linguine.

  He couldn’t believe this was even an issue for him.

  She’d contaminated him, that’s what she’d done. Everyone knew “flannel nightgown” was synonymous with unsexy. And sheep-covered pajamas was the corollary. So why was he drawn to her? Why did he want to rip down the sheets and count sheep?

  So, yeah, this place would do. At least he and Bonnie wouldn’t be sleeping under the same roof. He nodded to Clint. “Have Seth check the electricity.”

  After Clint left, he and Bonnie straightened up the place. Bonnie had been surprised at his determination to sleep there, but he was adamant. Next they’d wrestled the folde
d cot down two flights of stairs and out the front door.

  Maureen met them when they returned. “I need a volunteer to go into town for chocolate chip cookie supplies.” She grinned. “Seems we had a run on them yesterday.”

  “I’ll go.” Jaron sounded pathetically eager, even to his own ears.

  “Take my truck,” Bonnie offered. “Do you drive a stick?”

  “No.” Jaron saw his chance at freedom fade.

  “Then take my car.” Maureen handed him the keys.

  “Bless you,” Jaron whispered.

  Actually, driving wasn’t something Jaron did very often, but he made it to the tiny library just fine.

  On Saturday it was open for only a couple of hours, and he had about thirty minutes before it closed. Entering the door, he inhaled the smell of wood and books and smiled.

  “Hello again.” The pianist from yesterday’s tea greeted him. She seemed to be the only person in the room. “I’m Beth Young, the librarian. We met yesterday, but I know you met a lot of people.”

  “I remember. You played the piano—and quite well.”

  She dropped her gaze. “Thank you. It’s something I enjoy.”

  “Where did you study?”

  She looked startled, then her gaze went blank. “At home. I went to weekly piano lessons like every other kid. Was there something specific you came to find, Jay?”

  She didn’t want to talk about herself. That was more than fine with him. He didn’t want to talk about himself, either.

  “I’ll just look around and see what you have here.” Before he finished the sentence, he caught sight of the wooden newspaper rods by the desk. “Hello—you’ve got the New York Times.”

  Smiling, Jaron slipped it off the rod and sat at one of the tables. Oh, bliss. He turned to the spot that should have had his column. Which one had Angela run today?

  There was his picture, and beneath the byline was a notice: “Jaron Darke is on sabbatical while he works on a novel. During his absence, we’ll repeat some of his most popular writings.”