Keeping Victoria's Secret

by Melinda Peters

  Startled by squishing footfalls on the porch steps her thoughts were interrupted. Jack stormed through the porch door. Calmly she looked down and saw the reason for the odd squashing sounds as Jack stormed in, trailing rivulets of muddy water. A backpack over one shoulder and a fishing rod in his hand, he glared at her, water dripping and pooling at his feet.

  Standing angrily over her, he looked at all the junk she’d dragged onto the porch disapprovingly. “What the hell’s all this?” he asked gesturing at the mess. A muddy brown puddle pooled around him and rapidly spread.

  “I’m cleaning,” she said, turning back to the bookcase.

  Jack sighed heavily. “We need to talk Victoria.”

  “Yes,” she said, swiveling around to look at him again.

  He stood, fishing pole and pack in hand.

  “Fishing?”

  “No, I just carry this rod around with me everywhere I go,” he shot back sarcastically. The water crept from the puddle, a small stream snaking its way down hill towards the screen door.

  “I see.” Coolly she watched the brown water creep across the floor, determined not to start an argument. “Catch anything?”

  “Listen, we need to talk.”

  “Yes, we do.” She agreed again, turning back to the shelf and removing another book, wiping the spine with her damp cloth. Studiously, she ignored his glowering silence and watched as he set down his fishing gear and dropped the bag beside him, spraying brown droplets across the floor.

  Jaws clenched, Jack faced her with feet set apart, fists balled at his side, and began his rehearsed speech. “Okay, I know Fred Douglas thought he was doing the right thing, but I won’t be relegated to some sort of sharecropper on this place. The bottom line is I won’t take forty percent for working my ass off. It wouldn’t amount to much more than Uncle Charley’s peanuts. If you have a problem with that, I’ll hit the road. I have other places I can go and other places I can work. Do you understand?” His menacing dark eyes glared at her.

  Vicky turned and looked at him directly. Reaching up with one hand she brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen across her forehead. “All right. That’s fine with me.” She smiled at him and returned to her dusting.

  He stared at her, eager for an argument. “I don’t think you understand me. I will not be an employee or some flunky on this farm. For damn sure, I’m not going to come to you with my hat in my hand every time I need to buy something or make a decision.” He looked at her pretty auburn hair and down at her long bare legs. Her features were small and delicate, nose perfectly straight and lips parted revealing very white even teeth.

  “I understand perfectly. You do the work and make the decisions; you buy or sell whatever, as you see fit, and keep all the profits. I’ll pay the taxes and basic expenses. I just want to live here, in Nanna’s house. What you’re asking is all right with me.”

  Their eyes locked for a beat, before he cleared his throat and spoke. “What? What’s all right?”

  “What you’re saying. I totally agree with you. It’s not fair that you do all the work here and not fair that you put in all those years while your uncle was taking advantage.

  “Do you mean that, or are you messing with me?”

  She got to her feet, brushed herself off, and took a couple of steps toward him. “Yes, of course I mean it. I wouldn’t joke around about something as important as this. I have another suggestion. I’d like you to take responsibility for all the farming. I know nothing about that stuff. You take care of everything and keep the money. I don’t want it. All I ask is that you let me do what I want with the house. It was my grandmother’s home and I want to live here. I want to take care of it, in her memory. You can have everything else, okay?”

  Mouth gaping, he was at a loss for words. He blinked, swallowed, and stared at the beautiful girl before him. Her auburn hair shone with golden highlights, and she wore no jewelry, no makeup and needed none.

  He shook his head, and replied, his speech halting, “Well then, I’m glad you see things my way.” Clumsily, he reached for his fishing rod and left, shoes squishing with each step.

  “Here, you forgot this.” Vicky picked up his bag and as she did, the thick paperback volume slid out.

  He saw her surprise as she read the title, The Complete Collection of Poems by William Butler Yeats, before he angrily snatched it up and jammed it into the bag. “We’ll talk tomorrow,” he growled over his shoulder.

  Jack strode quickly across the yard behind the garage where he had a big Adirondack chair on the lawn. He collapsed into it emotionally exhausted. What just happened? Looking back at the house there was no sign of Victoria. She was gone.

  The vision of Vicky with hair falling across her shoulders, bare legs, and bewitching eyes haunted him. How did she morph from that plain frump into something so beautiful? Were the Irish Fairies playing tricks with his mind?

  An amusing thought occurred to him. Irish mythology held that goddesses could transform themselves into some plain ordinary creatures like fish or birds, and then back at will, into ghostly beings of great beauty. Jack pulled the paperback from his bag and found the page he wanted and began reading a favorite poem. As he read, his clothes began to dry in the morning breeze.

  The Song Of Wandering Aengus

  I WENT out to the hazel wood,

  Because a fire was in my head,

  And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

  And hooked a berry to a thread;

  And when white moths were on the wing,

  And moth-like stars were flickering out,

  I dropped the berry in a stream

  And caught a little silver trout.

  When I had laid it on the floor

  I went to blow the fire a-flame,

  But something rustled on the floor,

  And some one called me by my name:

  It had become a glimmering girl

  With apple blossom in her hair

  Who called me by my name and ran

  And faded through the brightening air.

  Though I am old with wandering

  Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

  I will find out where she has gone,

  And kiss her lips and take her hands;

  And walk among long dappled grass,

  And pluck til time and times are done

  The silver apples of the moon,

  The golden apples of the sun.

  Chapter 7

  Gwendolyn shivered with fright as the Captain grabbed her roughly by the arm. “Stay close by me and you will be taken for one of my crew,” he muttered into her ear. Disguised in men’s clothing with her titian hair hidden under a wide brimmed hat, he forced her from the longboat into the salty shallows and dragged her onto the beach.

  Struggling to match his long strides through the sand, she looked back over her shoulder at the three tall ships anchored in the bay. On the beach was a riotous throng of laughing buccaneers passing bottles of rum and terrified women captives back and forth. Bales and boxes of plunder were handed quickly up a long line of men from the boats. For now, she was this mad man’s prisoner and had no choice but to do as he demanded. She trembled with fear. The fact that she’d not yet been physically molested by the pirate captain was her sole consolation.

  From “Caribbean Fire”, by Tori Baxter

  * * *

  Victoria leaned back and peered at her computer screen imagining the pirates and their captives on the beach engaged in something resembling a wild frat party. Tapping her finger, she visualized the scene. Men would yell commands in French, English, Portuguese, or Spanish. From different stations in life, they’d be in a variety of dress, or state of undress. She laughed as she thought it might resemble the bar scene from Star Wars. Should some of the women be carried off with bodices torn and breasts exposed? Perhaps.

  Her cell phone chimed and recognizing the number, she flipped it open. “Hello, Dr. Sweeny. How are you?”

  “Very well, thank you. I called
to let you know Elvira has collected those photos and keepsakes from the days when young Victoria lived in Pippen’s Grove. Would it be convenient for me to bring my wife by the house today?”

  “That would be wonderful. I really want to know all I can about Nanna’s life.” After saying good-bye, she closed the phone and focused on the computer screen once more to read over what she’d just written. She enjoyed the morning sun streaming into her new office as she rocked back in the worn oak chair at the roll top desk. Had Nanna ever sat at this desk, in this chair?

  As her fingers once more went to her keyboard, the cell phone rang again. This time it was her agent, Marsha Chandler.

  “Vicky, how’s life up in the Hudson Valley?”

  “Hello, Marsha.” She listened, juggling the phone. “Very good. Thanks.”

  “Listen, I know you’re busy, but I wanted to know if you’ve received my email about the printing date of your latest novel.”

  She apologized explaining that she hadn’t yet established internet service, and was still in the process of moving, making a mental note to get that password from Jack today.

  “Well, just wanted to let you know, a few days ago I shipped you a box of your latest, Rendezvous Romance. It should be there soon.”

  Rendezvous was her most exciting book so far. A torrid tale of love set in the high Rockies during the 1830’s; it fairly bristled with danger and excitement. It was full of steamy sex and romance between handsome fur trappers and their beautiful Indian maiden lovers.

  “That’s good. Marsha, I promise. As soon as I get things more settled I’ll be back in touch with you.”

  They said their goodbyes, but when the cell phone rang a third time, Vicky decided that she was through working, at least for the moment. This time it was the man from the furniture store delivering her new bed asking for directions to Pippen’s Grove and the farm. Before leaving New Jersey, she’d impulsively purchased an old-fashioned walnut sleigh bed. Though she’d always wanted one, there hadn’t been room for a large bed in her grandmother’s apartment. As she closed the phone, she heard Doc’s car on the gravel drive.

  Sighing, she saved the file she was working on and closed the laptop. Her secret authorship of sexually explicit romance novels under the name Tori Baxter was still known only to her literary agent and she wanted to keep it that way.

  Vicky met her friends at the door and ushered the smiling couple into the kitchen. “I was just about to make some fresh coffee in my new pot.” She grinned at them indicating the coffee maker Doc had picked up in town for her. “Would you like a cup? It’s all set up.”

  “I’d love some coffee,” said Doc sighing as he sat down at the kitchen table.

  Uncovering a large plate, Elvira placed it on the table. “I thought some of my double chocolate brownies would be just the thing while we go through these keepsakes.”

  Vicky took one and moaned in pleasure as she bit into it. With her mouth full she said, “These brownies are awesome Mrs. Sweeney.” She swallowed. “Absolutely delicious. So nice of you to bring them.”

  “Why thank you.” Elvira smiled at her. “I’m glad you like them.” Then she reached for the shoebox that Doc had carried in and opened it. Removing pictures and yellowed envelopes, she shuffled through the old photos until finding the one she wanted.

  “Dear, this is a picture of your grandmother and my mother taken in front of Victoria’s beautiful flower garden”

  Taking the photo, Vicky exclaimed, “That’s Nanna, but she must have been only about sixteen, when it was taken. I’ve never seen a picture of her that young.” Two smiling girls stood dressed in their Sunday best, with the farmhouse and garden in the background. There were no screens on the back porch and the garden was full of blooms, but there was no mistaking the house.

  Elvira Sweeney was again sifting through her stack of photos. “Oh yes, here we go. Victoria, did your grandmother ever speak to you of her brother?”

  “Yes, she told me that she had no sisters and her only brother was killed during the Second World War.”

  Elvira passed another picture to her. “This is one of your grandmother and her brother, Alexander, in his uniform. I gather it was taken just before he went overseas.”

  She gazed at the picture of a young Victoria, beside a handsome older boy looking very proud in his army uniform.

  Doc was busy reading several old letters and documents while the women passed pictures back and forth.

  “Mother told me that much of this was given to her when your grandmother divorced Charley and was preparing to leave Pippen’s Grove. I believe that she entrusted them to Mother because there were things that Victoria simply couldn’t bear for Charley to have. They corresponded for several years and some of those letters are in here, but I don’t believe the two friends ever saw one another again. By that time your grandmother’s parents had passed on.”

  Someone began knocking and Vicky excused herself and went to answer the front door. It was Mr. Douglas. Fred followed her back into the kitchen to join the group. Pouring coffee for everyone, she felt grateful for these good neighbors. As they nibbled Elvira's brownies, the three older people reminisced about the past.

  The rumble of a truck on the drive brought her once again to the door. Movers from Jersey had arrived with a van full of her things and right behind it the furniture delivery truck bringing her new bed.

  Hurrying back to the kitchen, she explained, “My furniture and things have just arrived so I’ll have to direct the moving men. It won’t take long.”

  Smiling to herself, she stepped onto the porch. Everything’s falling into place. I’m finding so many of the missing pieces to Nanna’s life. Things are more or less settled with Jack and here are all my books and things.

  Outside, men were climbing down from both trucks looking about them. She waved, running down the steps and across the yard. “You’re in the right place. I’ll tell you where to put everything.”

  Idling truck engines were turned off and doors flung open. Movers and deliverymen milled about catching a quick cigarette and evaluating what needed to come from their trucks. They discussed the best way, in their professional opinions, to get everything into the house.

  The U. S. Mail jeep pulled up on the road next to the farm’s rural box and the mailman, Jimmy Smith leaned out and waved. “Morning Miss Buonadies. Got a package for you and it sure isn’t going to fit in the box.” Jimmy climbed out and came around to Vicky, his arms full. “Got this box from New York and here’s your mail and a stack for Jack Conner too.”

  “Thanks Jimmy, How are you?”

  “I’m just great. Another beautiful day. Look at all those apple blossoms. They’ll be gone soon though. They come quick and they go quick.”

  “They’re awesome Jimmy, absolutely beautiful. I’ll give Jack his mail.” She saw that the box was from her agent and must be the copies of Rendezvous Romance. She reached for it, but he held onto it, pulling her around as he headed toward the porch.

  “Why don’t I take this up for you, it’s awfully heavy.” Ignoring her outstretched arms, he continued around her and headed for the steps. “Looks like you’re moving in Miss Buonadies. So you’re with us permanent here in Pippen’s Grove?”

  Turning to follow him, she didn’t have a chance to answer as the delivery men were at her elbow, interrupting.

  “Hey lady, where’s this bed here going? It’s real big, you sure it’ll fit up them stairs?”

  “Please take it upstairs and assemble it in my bedroom,” she said.

  “Hey lady?”

  She turned to the next questioner. Now it was one of the moving men, his arms filled with boxes.

  “Lady, you want them boxes labeled kitchen, in the kitchen and you want them boxes labeled bedroom in the bedroom upstairs, but where you want them boxes labeled miscellaneous?”

  She tried desperately to remember what she might have packed in the “miscellaneous” boxes but drew a blank.

  “Lady!”
It was the furniture deliveryman again. “You got like four bedrooms up there, which one gets the bed? And I don’t know if this thing will fit up them stairs. Did you measure?”

  Turning back to the two men waiting, holding the sleigh headboard between them she said, “Please assemble the bed in the room upstairs at the rear of the house, the one that has no bed in it.” Her head began to spin. She turned back to the moving men that were still standing there. “Oh just stack those labeled miscellaneous in the dining room.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a dirty, battered, pickup truck slow and then pull off onto the shoulder just beyond the driveway. The driver’s side door opened and Jonathan Van Winkle stepped down and came toward her. He grinned slyly and touched the visor of his ball cap.

  “I really, really don’t have time to deal with this guy,” she murmured. She turned, looking for Jimmy and the mail.

  Van Winkle called out to her, “If you got a minute Miss, how do you say your name, Bundies? You’ve got to make a decision about this year’s apple crop.”

  “It’s Buonadies, Mr. Van Winkle, and no, I don’t have a minute. Obviously I’m busy, and in any case, if it’s apples you want to talk about, you need to see Mr. Conner.”

  “Hel-lo? Hey lady.” It was the movers again, pulling a rocking chair from their truck. “Where you want us to put this?”

  Van Winkle was persistent, still wearing that creepy smile of his. His voice tinged with malice he said, “Apples and everything else here might not be Conner’s decision no longer. In future it’s maybe not yours neither. Could just be this place don’t belong to you or him. I’m just sayin’….”

  Vicky frowned at him. She had no idea what he could be talking about, but his tone sent a shiver of fear down her spine.