He smiled. Nothing at all like his usual smile. Drawn and tight and dry, it looked like it hurt his face.
What it did to her… “Quince—”
“Don’t stop me now. Besides, we just got to the part where I started disappointing dear old dad. Oh, I’d been disappointing all along. I was a good student, decent athlete, so I wasn’t a total loss. But I wasn’t stellar. No top-notch achievements to burnish his image. And I wasn’t particularly good with people.”
“You weren’t?” she blurted.
“Nope. Especially not his associates. I tended toward surly. Maybe that was being a teenager. Or maybe something was brewing inside me I wasn’t astute enough to recognize. Not until the day Roselle brought me to college — my father, naturally, was otherwise engaged. After arranging my things according to her standards, she drove away and I could not stop grinning.
“I was in the process of undoing most of what Roselle had done — not neatly — when in walked Zeke. Any other roommate would have recoiled in horror at the devastation I’d created. He didn’t notice. Hell, he barely noticed me. Just walked in, sat on his bed, and pulled out a laptop, apparently prepared to bury his nose in that for four straight years. But a girl I’d met when we first came in the building had invited me and my not-yet-roommate to a gathering in her room after dinner.”
Was this the mystery girl?
Part of that deeper hurt Darcie had alluded to?
“No way was I going to Fiona’s room without him. The invitation had been to bring my roommate and I wasn’t sure I’d be let in solo. So he was coming.”
His mouth quirked, forming something closer to his usual grin.
“From then on, it became a goal to get him out of the room as much as I could. If I’d had a normal roommate, somebody eager to be my friend, to go out and be social with me, I suspect I’d have stayed surly. But Zeke being Zeke gave me the perfect opportunity to be as contrary as I’d always wanted to be to my father. Contrary to my father was surly. Contrary to Zeke was social and friendly. So there I was, being social and friendly.”
“Are you saying you became a people person because Zeke wasn’t?”
“Partly. He got me out of my own head and in to the challenge of trying to get into his. Hell, I took psych classes specifically to figure out ways to motivate him to be more social.”
“And the girl who invited you to bring your roommate to the party?
“Fiona was my co-conspirator and Zeke was our project. Now it’s your turn.”
“To what?”
“Tell me something you’d rather keep to yourself. That’s how this confiding thing works.”
“There’s nothing to te—”
“Then I’ll pick. Tell me the history that makes you loathe Bob Chitmell. Did it happen before or after he declined to renew credit for the farm?”
“He didn’t just decline to renew our credit. He waited until the last possible moment to do it. Gave no warning at all. Kept stringing me along, until the end, when he said, oops, no credit for you. When it was too late for me to line up another source of credit for the season. I paid up front for the seed we had to have, which cut our cushion to something more like a thread. If we’d had a decent harvest… But we didn’t. As soon as we finished harvest, I started trying to line up credit for this coming spring. But with them already jumpy because I’m a woman, and Chitmell pulling our credit after all these years — there’s got to be a fire when he’s blowing smoke, right? — and the rotten harvest we had providing them reason to say I’m a lousy farmer…”
“An excuse, not a reason.”
Small and wry, her smile still made his heart ka-thump.
“It would be really ungrateful to say: Like you’d know, Mr. Not-A-Farmer-At-All, wouldn’t it.”
“Totally ungrateful,” he agreed.
“Anyway. No credit.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Keep trying to get credit. No, don’t say it. I already know — the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome.”
She raised her hands and dropped her head. He expected her to drive her fingers through her hair.
Instead, she stopped the motion, sat straight, and spoke. “If we don’t get credit, we’ll plant as much as we can. I’m talking to a few people about potentially leasing some of our land. We’d put aside that money for seed for next year. With fewer acres, there will be less demand on our equipment, so that would be good.”
“Less cost-effective and less income,” he murmured.
“Yes. But that’s the way it goes. We’ll work our way back bit by bit, being careful and frugal, but not scared. That’s what we’re going to do.”
He didn’t believe he’d ever been more impressed by someone’s quiet determination. And he’d been with Zeke Zeekowsky from the start.
Why the hell couldn’t these bankers see what he saw?
“I’ll stake you. Whatever you need.”
First, she gaped. Then she started shaking her head.
“You don’t know what kind of money we’re talking, Quince. There’s a reason even few well-to-do farmers don’t self-fund. It’s a whole lot to have tied up.”
“I have money,” he said quietly.
“That kind of cash? It’s—”
“Remember, I’ve been with Zeke-Tech from the start. The stock—”
“No. Absolutely not. You are not selling stock in Zeke-Tech to gamble on Hooper Farm.”
“A lot of people considered Zeke-Tech a gamble, you know. Besides, it’s no gamble. I’d be investing in you.”
“I can’t— Thank you so much, but no…”
“Anne—”
She touched his cheek. Lightly, briefly. “No.”
They held like that an instant, looking at each other. Then he took her chin in one hand, as he leaned in for a quick, soft kiss.
She tipped her head. Just a bit. Perfect as their lips met again. Not as soft.
The third kiss, she met him.
He parted her lips, stroked his tongue inside, shifted the angle and stroked a second time, a third, a fourth, building a rhythm.
One of her hands wrapped around his wrist, the other went behind his head. He had his free hand in her hair, his fingers sliding through it to shape to the curve of her skull.
Other curves beckoned.
Her throat to her shoulder first. Then cupping the point of that shoulder, which carried so much.
More curves. More softness. So much…
She jerked sideways.
Away from him? Trying to get away—? No. She’d slid on the narrow edge of the bathtub. If he hadn’t had a hold on her she might have fallen in or off. But he held her steady.
So he felt the change in her immediately.
Her eyes were still closed, but it was gone. That moment. That closeness.
He waited until her eyes fluttered open. Yes. Those bruised, stubborn eyes had everything shut back behind her defenses.
Something had hit her. Hit her hard.
If he pushed now — to know what it was, to batter down those defenses — he might never get through.
“Just a few kisses, Anne,” he lied. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
She stood, the first aid kit falling to the floor. “I’m not worried. It just won’t happen again.”
She walked out. Straight-backed and determined.
*
“I’m sorry, Everett.”
She hadn’t slept much the night before. She’d like to think it was because of disappointment that the farm tourism was not going to be even a partial solution to their financial needs.
But she wasn’t completely self-deluded.
Quince had had the tact to retire to his room with an ice pack last night and was gone when she got up.
So she and Everett were having breakfast alone.
“What for?” He didn’t look up from his coffee.
He was going to make her spell it out. P
art of her penance, she supposed.
“I’m sorry you saw Quince and me kissing yesterday.”
“Why’re you sorry?”
“I know how much you loved Chris, and I never meant to upset you or—”
“Upset me? You think I don’t know the boy’s been dead these three years and more, and you’ve been living like a nun? You think I don’t know that’s not natural for a young one like you? Or’d you think I’m jealous? An old man—”
“Jeal—?”
“—who isn’t gettin’ any himself and don’t want anybody else to get any ’cause of it. Well, I’ll tell you, missy, I’m not so old as you might think. Now I’m gettin’ into town regular, I’ve got more of a social life myself. You might just be surprised.”
“You’re … you’re seeing someone?”
“Yup.”
“Who? You haven’t said a word to me.”
“That’s because once you’ve let the cat out of the bag, it’s darned near impossible to get it back in. But it’s time to let ’er out now. I’ve got a gal.”
*
“Surprised? I was astonished,” Anne told Jennifer the next day.
They were about to take a lunch break during an all-day working-on-the-books session at Stenner Autos in preparation for taxes.
Anne had carefully edited the conversation to remove any reference to how the topic had arisen, so there was no mention of her and Quince. Certainly nothing about kissing.
Although she caught Jennifer giving her a look that made her a little uneasy.
“Are you sure you should be telling me? Everett might not like it.”
“Are you kidding? Not only was he positively boasting to me, but he also said that tonight, they’re — and I quote — going public at bingo.”
“So, who’s the woman?”
“Mrs. Richards.”
“Mrs. Richards?”
“What about Mrs. R?” asked Darcie, stepping into the office, followed by Vanessa Irish. “Oh, good. You haven’t started eating yet. Rewrap those sandwiches, and prepare for a feast. Heard you were prepping taxes, so you deserve it.”
She set a loaded shopping bag on the conference table at the other side of the room and started pulling out dishes, silverware, and tin-wrapped packages.
“She’s taken to kidnapping, again,” Vanessa said, setting an insulated bag on the table and pulling up a chair. “I was her first victim today.”
“Sometimes it’s the only solution with you workaholics. If I didn’t kidnap Vanessa from the Zeke-Tech offices and show up uninvited to interrupt you two, you’d all work non-stop.” Darcie unzipped the insulated bag and drew out a steaming pan. “Voila! Molly Harkin’s famous lasagna.”
“Ohhhh, that smells fabulous.”
Jennifer followed the aroma, with Anne right behind her.
Only when they’d filled their plates, did Vanessa ask, “What were you saying about Mrs. Richards?”
The Zeke-Tech CFO rented Mrs. Richards’ attic room, and Anne heard a note of protectiveness in her question.
So, for a second time, she told the carefully edited version of her conversation with Everett.
For a second time, the ending was greeted with gratifying surprise, as well as a level of delight expressed in Darcie’s enthusiastic “Way to go, Mrs. R.”
Less gratifying for Anne was their reaction after she’d answered their questions about the farm tourism fiasco.
For no reason she could see, her recap of the never-to-be-repeated day drew looks from each of the women that left her rather uneasy.
She put her head down and ate her lasagna.
She’d been talking too much anyway.
*
With Everett accompanying Mrs. Richards to bingo, it was just her and Quince for dinner.
The first time they’d seen each other since … uh, since yesterday evening.
Cooking was done, eating was done. Soon the busyness of cleaning up would be done, too.
Anne could hear herself talking too fast as she told Everett’s story for the third time today.
Quince wasn’t giving her any of the looks she’d thought she’d seen from Jennifer, Darcie, and Vanessa — at least he didn’t in the few times she looked toward him — yet she found herself talking a mile a minute.
“And you will never guess who it is.” She squeezed out the sponge and set it in the holder to dry.
“I know who it is.” He smiled.
“You know? Already? But it can’t be on the grapevine yet. We all swore to keep quiet so they could have their drama at bingo tonight.”
“It wasn’t the grapevine. Everett mentioned it to me a while back.”
She gaped at him. “I don’t believe it. I mean, I’m not saying you’re lying, I just… He told you? Why didn’t you say anything to me?”
“Because I can keep a secret.”
Something about the way he said that made her instantly wary. He seemed in a strange mood tonight. Not as even and relaxed as usual. She licked her lips but said nothing.
“Not as well as you can. Holding everything in, keeping it all heaped on your shoulders.”
“All?”
What did he know? What had he heard?
“The present and future well-being of Hooper Farm, as well as Everett Hooper. Your own, too, but you ignore that.”
“It’s just the way farming is.”
“You’re too smart not to know you can’t keep going on this way.”
“Yes, I can.” She had to.
“Do you know the segment of the population with the highest suicide rate?”
That startled a “What?” out of her.
“Farmers. Because they’re isolated to start with, they deal with so many unpredictable factors they can’t control yet they take on all the responsibility, and — here’s one that will shock you — they think they have to do it all alone. In other words they suck at accepting, much less asking for, help. When was the last time you took a day off? When was the last time you actually relaxed?”
In her relief at the slight turn in the topic, she tried, “Relaxation’s overrated.”
It fell completely flat. Not even a flicker of a smile from him.
“Okay. Forget you for now. What about Hooper Farm? How long can it keep going on the way it’s been going?”
Irritation came to her rescue. She welcomed it. “Quit interrogating me.”
“Quit being evasive.”
“I don’t have to tell you anything. I’m not some rescue project for you to take on. Me or the farm. Even if I wanted you to, even if you took over, you can’t magically fix everything. Quit thinking you can.”
“I know I can’t.”
“You come riding in here on your white charger thinking all you have to do is learn a little about a situation and put your mind to it, and voila! Everything will be fixed from your magic touch. Well, let me tell you, Peter Quincy, these are problems that other people have wrestled with for a long time, and no matter how much smarter you think you are than anyone else—”
“I don’t think that.” Belatedly, something in his tone on the I know I can’t tugged at her. But her irritation had carried them past that point. “However, a fresh view can see things that—”
“Seeing things that have already been seen a hundred times. It’s like somebody has a car stuck in a snowbank and you drive up and say, Have you ever thought of not driving into the snowbank?”
“Okay, my ideas have failed so far. But you aren’t going to solve anything by refusing to acknowledge what’s happening. Ah. I see by that arrested look that as much as you’d like to tell me to go to hell, your innate honesty recognizes the truth of that. Why do you fight the truth so hard, Anne?”
“Because it stinks, that’s why.”
The short, sharp words stopped them both.
After a pause, he said slowly, “I suppose it does. But someone I admired a lot once told me that no matter how bad a truth or a reality is, facing it gives you more strength
to make it work for you. Your way, you’re just pushing against what is. This other way, you can make the most of what can be.”
“Easy for you to say. The man with the gorgeous coat.” She tried to make it light, to turn the mood, to gain space.
Tried and failed.
“I didn’t say it.”
“Fine. Your friend, this somebody you admired a lot. He probably had beautiful coats, too, and knew nothing about trying to hold onto a farm that’s been in a family for generations when there’s not enough money, land, time, people, or anything else.”
“She. The person who said it was a woman.”
She.
The one he’d thought of when she asked “Who was she?”
And then she knew. Absolutely. No question. Had to be.
Fiona.
The one who’d had the party he was determined to take Zeke to. The one who’d been his co-conspirator in drawing out Zeke. The one he loved.
The woman he didn’t talk about.
“She did have beautiful coats,” he continued. “She didn’t know anything about trying to hold onto a farm. But she knew a lot about living. Living her very best. Until she died.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Anne sucked in sharply as if she’d had the wind knocked out of her by a blow and needed to resupply her oxygen in a hurry.
Truth to tell, she had had the wind knocked out of her.
Until she died.
The dark past Darcie had talked about. The pain. The loss.
The Girl.
Fiona.
The one who’d been his co-conspirator in bringing Zeke out into the world.
The one he loved.
Until she died.
“Quince.” But without air it had no sound.
“Okay, I’m done interrogating. If you want to talk…”
But she couldn’t. The breath was still not there to let her ask all the questions piled up in her throat.
He turned and left.
She could go after him—
No.
She’d complained about him asking her questions. She couldn’t do it to him.
Could she?
Funny. From this side — the would-be question asker — she could see that the questions weren’t to poke and pry. They weren’t even plain old curiosity. They were concern. And wondering if, hidden in the answers somewhere was a key that might let her lift some of that sadness she caught deep in his eyes at unexpected times.
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