by Irene Hannon
Linda, too, had needed a way to cope, but she’d struggled with bulimia—an ongoing battle Dale had prayed every day that she’d win. And those prayers had seemed to reap results in their last few months together. It always struck him as ironic that just as she’d seemed to turn a corner with her problem, her life had been cut short.
As for Christine—Dale hoped she’d succeed in subduing whatever demons plagued her existence. If the name of her farm was any indication, she was certainly making an all-out effort to start over. And he wished her well. Because if her past was anything like Linda’s, it would be a long, hard, uphill fight.
“Christine? This is Eleanor Durham. Marge said she mentioned to you a week or so ago that I might call. I’d like to talk with you about working a couple of days a week in our humble little library. Please call me at your convenience.”
As Christine jotted down the number the woman had left on her answering machine, she shook her head. Marge was a dynamo, no question about it. Not only did she run the Oak Hill Inn and serve as president of the chamber of commerce, last year she’d convinced Cara Martin—a cordon bleu chef from Philadelphia—to open an upscale restaurant three nights a week at the inn. Cara had told her the story when she’d placed a second order by phone two days ago.
Abby was no slouch, either. Two days after the women had visited, Christine had received a call from the editor of the Gazette. A reporter and photographer had appeared the following day. The resulting feature story was scheduled to run in an upcoming edition of the weekly paper.
It seemed the whole town was invading her space. Including the sheriff. But she had to admit that his interference in the reckless driving incident had turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Like clockwork Stephen Mueller showed up three days a week after school and on Saturday afternoons. His muscle power had eased her workload quite a bit, and he’d exhibited a genuine interest in the farm, asking intelligent questions and showing a real knack for understanding the principles and practices of organic farming.
Considering her vow to lay low and maintain her distance from the townspeople, Christine found all this activity unsettling. Yet the human contact felt good. Her self-imposed isolation had given her a feeling of safety, but it had been lonely. She wasn’t, by nature, a recluse. One of the things she’d loved about her library work was the opportunity to interact with a variety of people every day.
Now she was being offered the chance to return to that work on a part-time basis. And it was doable, she acknowledged. Three weeks ago, she wouldn’t even have been able to consider it, given her workload. But the season was beginning to wind down. And since she could count on Stephen to not only show up but offer real assistance, she might be able to fit in a few hours a week at the library.
Deciding it couldn’t hurt to talk with the woman, Christine tapped in her number. She recognized Eleanor’s voice when she answered, and as soon as Christine identified herself the woman’s enthusiasm crackled over the line.
“Oh, I’m so glad you called! I can’t tell you how delighted I was when Marge said she’d found a real librarian who might be willing to fill in for Sally. Isn’t she a wonder? She always says, ‘Ask and you shall receive,’ and she certainly does her part to make that happen. Can you imagine how hard it is to find a qualified librarian in a town the size of Oak Hill? Sally wasn’t trained, you know, but she’d been here for years and learned a lot on the job. I’m devastated to lose her.
“But I’ve always believed that God provides—and now here you are! Marge told me how busy you are with the farm—it sounds very exciting, and I must get out there soon for a tour—but I hope you’ll consider filling in, if only until I can round up someone else on a permanent basis.”
By the time the woman stopped to take a breath, Christine was reeling from the effusive, nonstop download.
“I am busy,” Christine confirmed. “But I also love library work. How much time would you need?”
“We’re open Monday, Wednesday, Thursday and Saturday from ten until four. Sally always worked Monday and Thursday, but I’m very flexible. Right now I’m holding down the fort alone, and to be honest, much as I enjoy the library, it’s cramping my style. I’m missing quality time with my two little grandbabies. Whatever you can manage would be much appreciated.”
“I’m afraid I can’t spare two days. I go to the farmers’ market in St. James and Rolla on Tuesday, Friday and Saturday, and the day before I have to harvest and package my herbs and flowers. A few hours on Wednesday would work, and I could probably manage to cover the first three hours on Monday.”
“Perfect! I can’t tell you what a help this will be!”
“Would you like me to come in for an interview?”
“Oh, that’s not necessary. I can tell from talking with you on the phone that you’ll be fine.” She mentioned a wage that seemed more than fair.
The woman must be desperate if she was willing to hire her sight unseen, Christine decided. “When would you like me to start?”
“How about next Monday?”
“That would be fine. But wouldn’t you like some references, or perhaps a résumé?”
“Well, of course that would be very nice. Yes, I suppose we should have some documentation for our records. But if Marge says you’d be good for the job, that’s enough for me. You can bring the résumé with you on Monday. You know where we are, don’t you?”
On her occasional trips to town, Christine had noted the modest library, housed in a stand-alone building a few doors down from Dr. Martin’s office. “Yes. I’ve driven by.”
“Good. Then I’ll see you Monday. I’ll give you a tour—not that that will take long. I’m sure this is small potatoes compared to the library in Omaha. And I’ll fill you in on our procedures, such as they are. You’ll have it down in thirty minutes.”
“I’ll look forward to meeting you.”
“Oh, the pleasure is all mine, trust me. Have a great weekend.”
As the woman severed the connection, Christine propped her chin in her hand and looked out the window beside her kitchen table. Stephen was still working in the herb garden, finishing up the day’s harvesting. When he left, she’d put in another few hours of labor, sorting and packaging the herbs into small bunches and arranging the flowers in bouquets for the next day’s trip to St. James. Now that she was a regular at the two area markets, she’d developed a growing base of steady customers, and more and more she was selling out well before the noon closing.
The farm was working out just as she’d hoped, she reflected in satisfaction. By next year, it would provide a welcome supplement to the income generated by the investments she’d made with her modest inheritance from Jack’s estate. In the meantime, she was managing.
In retrospect, she supposed she should have fought for a bigger share of Jack’s assets. For the sake of justice, if nothing else. After what he’d put her through, she’d deserved far more than he’d left her. But at the time of his death, she hadn’t had the strength for it. She’d already been teetering on the verge of an emotional meltdown, her precarious mental state exacerbated by her mother’s rapid deterioration. The thought of launching a legal battle she’d had no confidence she’d win had unnerved her.
Besides, as the attorney she’d consulted had pointed out, Jack had tied up all the loose ends, dotting all the i’s and crossing all the t’s. There was nothing to contest. The company, she’d discovered, had been left to a cousin, and most of Jack’s other assets were linked to the business as well.
Once all the dust had settled, the house and some mutual funds had gone to her. She’d sold all the physical property at once, using the proceeds to buy Fresh Start Farm, and retained the investments for the small, steady income they provided. She was getting by, but the revenue from the farm would give her a little more breathing space.
“Ms. Turner? I took all the herbs to the packing shed. Do you need me for anything else today?”
Swallowing past the bitter taste in
her mouth that thoughts of Jack always left, she turned toward the screen door and forced her lips into a smile. “No, thank you, Stephen. That should do it.”
“Okay. I’ll be back Saturday afternoon.”
“Do you need to call your dad for a ride?”
The youth grinned. “Nope. He let me bring my cell phone today. I’m going to call Megan while I wait.”
The cell phone had been one of his revoked privileges, and Megan was his girlfriend, Christine knew. He had shared quite a lot about his life as they worked side-by-side in the garden. And as she’d gotten to know him, she’d come to the same conclusion as the sheriff. He was a good kid at heart. A bit starry-eyed about this Megan, but she supposed that was the nature of young love. No dark clouds had yet moved in to dim those stars.
As she watched him stride down the drive to wait by the road, the phone to his ear, she was surprised by the sudden yearning that swept over her. A yearning to once again be young and in love. To believe in romance and happy endings. But experience had taught her the danger of trusting someone with her heart. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.
In retrospect, Christine knew she’d been a victim of her own romantic fantasies when she’d met Jack five years ago, days after blowing out the candles on her thirtieth birthday cake with a wish for a little romance in her life. If an old school friend hadn’t invited her at the last minute to accompany him to a dinner at the convention he was attending in Omaha, Christine would never have met the man who became her husband. It had seemed like fate.
The keynote speaker at the dinner, Jack had been the only son of a prosperous farm equipment dealer in out-state Nebraska. They’d exchanged no more than a few words, so she’d been surprised—and flattered—by his follow-up call. How could she have known that his ready smile and good looks masked a sadistic streak that would turn her life into a nightmare? Or that his promises on their wedding day had been empty? How could she have known he would find a way to trap her in an intolerable situation, or that his buddy, the local sheriff, would ignore her pleas for help?
Suppressing a shudder, Christine focused on Stephen in the distance, deep in conversation with his girlfriend. Not all romances turned sour, she reminded herself. But if there was one Jack out there, there were others. And if she hadn’t been able to see beneath her husband’s veneer, she didn’t trust herself to see beneath any man’s.
With ruthless determination, she tamped down her sentimental yearnings. She didn’t need romance or love in her life to be happy. She had her independence, not to mention Fresh Start Farm.
And that was enough.
As she finished the story and closed the book, Christine smiled at the six children seated cross-legged around her on the floor in one corner of the library. When she’d mentioned during her orientation tour with Eleanor that she used to do a children’s story hour in Omaha, the older woman had enthusiastically embraced the idea.
Now, a week and a half into her part-time job, Christine had just conducted the first Oak Hill Library story hour. Judging by the animation on the young faces beaming up at her, it had been a resounding success.
“Can you read another one, Ms. Christine?” A freckle-faced little boy gave her a hopeful look. Brian, she recalled, from their earlier self-introductions.
After checking her watch, Christine shook her head. “Not today, Brian. I promised your mommies and grandmas that I’d be finished by two o’clock. But you can come again next week. And I have a treat for you before you leave. Wait here.”
Rising, Christine retrieved a tin of homemade chocolate chip cookies from behind the counter in the middle of the single large room that housed the Oak Hill Library. Holding it up as she returned, she scanned the parents and grandparents who had accompanied the children, raising an eyebrow in query. At their nods, she passed the tin around, letting each child take a cookie. Then she offered them to the adults.
A young woman wearing far too much makeup gave her a shy smile as she took a cookie from the tin. “Thank you for starting this. Brian’s only five, but he already loves books. He couldn’t wait to come today.”
“It’s good to get children interested in books at a very young age. I’ll never forget the first book I…”
A sudden bang interrupted their conversation. As Christine swiveled to check it out, the young mother gasped and gave a violent jerk, dropping her cookie.
“Sorry.” The sheepish apology came from a patron across the room who had lost his grip on several books.
Giving him a reassuring smile, Christine turned back as the woman rose from retrieving her cookie. The color had drained from her cheeks, and a film of moisture beaded her upper lip. Concerned, Christine laid a hand on her arm, alarmed by the tremors beneath her fingertips. “Are you okay?”
The woman tucked a hank of limp blond hair behind her ear with a shaky hand. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
But she didn’t look fine. Now that her hair was pushed back, Christine could see a purple tinge on the skin stretched taut above her cheekbone, the bruise too discolored to be concealed even by the heavy makeup.
A sick feeling of dread clawed at Christine’s stomach as her brain clicked into analytical mode. A facial bruise. Over-reaction to the loud noise. The woman’s attire. Despite the early October Indian summer weather, which had pushed temperatures back into the eighties, she wore a long-sleeved turtleneck that left little skin exposed.
The signs of abuse were all there.
“Mommy, can we come back next week?”
Little Brian drew their attention. Giving him a quick scan, Christine saw nothing to indicate he’d been touched. He wore a short-sleeved T-shirt and shorts, and the only marks on his face were his freckles.
“We’ll try,” the woman promised, taking his hand.
Christine wanted to stop her, to ask some questions, to offer help. She knew what it was like to be abused and alone. Jack hadn’t hurt her physically—his abuse had been more sophisticated than that, and far less visible—but his sadistic behavior had left scars that sensitized her to this woman’s plight. She couldn’t let the young mother leave without at least getting her name.
“By the way, we haven’t been formally introduced.” She tried to keep her tone conversational as she held out her hand. “I’m Christine Turner.”
“Erin Carson.” The woman’s handshake was tentative and quick. “We need to get home. Thank you again for today.”
Before Christine could say anything else, the young mother led Brian toward the door.
“Now it’s my turn to introduce myself.”
Disturbed by her encounter with Erin, Christine shifted around to find a tallish woman with stylish white hair, hand extended.
“I’m Arlene Lewis. I brought my granddaughter, Jenna, today.”
With a mental shake, Christine forced herself to switch gears and process this new information. Lewis. Granddaughter. Jenna. This must be the sheriff’s mother. And the little blond-haired cherub with the blue eyes who’d sat at her feet for the past hour was his daughter.
Realizing that the woman was waiting for a return greeting, Christine took her proffered hand and forced her stiff lips into the semblance of a smile. The sheriff might make her nervous, but there was no reason to panic around his mother or child.
“It’s nice to meet you.”
“My pleasure. I understand you’ve met my son, the sheriff.”
“Yes.” She left it at that.
“It was so thoughtful of you to send the book to Jenna. Dale tells me that she insists he read it to her every night.”
“I’m glad she liked it.”
“And I’m glad we came today. I ran into Marge at a church meeting last night, and she said Eleanor had told her about the story hour. I knew Jenna would enjoy it. I told her when I picked her up from preschool at noon that I had a surprise for her, and she was almost too excited to eat lunch. Isn’t that right, honey?”
The affection in Arlene’s eyes as the little girl joined
them, munching on her cookie, softened Christine’s lips into a genuine smile.
“I ate some of my sandwich. And now I have dessert.” She beamed as she held up the half-eaten cookie. “This is really good.”
“I was just telling Ms. Christine how much you liked the book she sent to you.”
The little girl’s eyes widened. “Are you the mystery lady?”
Confused, Christine sent Dale’s mother a questioning look. But the older woman seemed puzzled by the youngster’s question, too.
“What do you mean, honey?” Arlene asked.
“Daddy said she’s a mystery lady, because nobody knows very much about her.”
“Oh, my. Little pitchers.” Arlene gave Christine an apologetic look, then spoke to her granddaughter. “Ms. Christine hasn’t been in town very long. Pretty soon we’ll all get to know a lot more about her.”
“I already know she lives by herself. Daddy told me.” Jenna tipped her chin up to regard Christine. “Don’t you get lonesome?”
Taken aback by the candid question, Christine gave an honest, if incomplete, answer. “Well, I have a farm, so when I’m not here I’m pretty busy. I don’t have much time to think about getting lonesome.”
“That’s what daddy said. And he said you were pretty. I think you’re pretty, too.”
Shaking her head, Arlene gave Christine a wry smile and took a firm grip on Jenna’s hand. “I think it’s time we said goodbye.”
“Bye, Ms. Christine. I’ll see you next week.”
“Goodbye, Jenna.
The two made a quick exit. Christine watched through the window as the slightly stocky woman and the sprite of a little girl disappeared down the street in the direction of the sheriff’s office. Were they going to pay him a visit and report that they’d met the “mystery lady”? Was Arlene going to alert her son that Jenna had passed on his compliment about Christine’s appearance?
Christine wasn’t sure how he’d respond to that news. But her own reaction was easy to identify. Surprise. She’d picked up nothing in the sheriff’s manner to indicate he found her attractive. She’d sensed more suspicion and speculation than anything else. Yet according to his daughter, he’d said she was pretty.
