Keeping Victoria's Secret

by Melinda Peters

  “The cash box was full by closing time. Not bad for an afternoon’s work. Well, figuring all the time I spent picking, and then the plowing in the spring, planting. I guess it was more like a hundred hours. No matter, this was just the first day; it will make all the difference to us financially.”

  She shook her head. “No Jack, it isn’t my money, it’s yours. Remember the agreement. I pay taxes, insurance, and all the household expenses and I get to live in this house. You do all the heavy lifting work out there, and you keep the money from the produce and the apples,” she said, gesturing with one hand in the direction of the orchards.

  He nodded, “Right. Of course, we’ve got to stick to the agreement.”

  Victoria smiled sweetly, and his heart melted. At that moment the thought of spending his life with her, raising children here on her family’s farm seemed so right. What would it be like, married to a famous author? Even the book club girls knew who Tori Baxter was. What if all the guys knew that she wrote that stuff? Should I chance asking her how she feels about Joe? Quickly he decided against that. It’s her business if she wants to see Joe.

  I don’t get it. We spent an incredible day together having incredible sex, and then she wriggles out of my arms the other night when I try to kiss her? What’s with that?

  Victoria eyed Jack warily as he sat silently across from her. What do I say if he calls me ‘Tori’ again? Why doesn’t he just come right out and ask me about Tori Baxter? Is he playing games with me? Maybe he doesn’t really know. The suspense began to irritate her. That ‘Goodnight Tori’ could be just a slip. No, he always calls me Victoria, never Vicky or anything else. He figured it out that day of the book club meeting for sure. I was fooling myself to think otherwise. Damn! Jack won’t hold this over my head, will he? I can’t bring up the subject; I don’t know what he’ll say.

  Jack has a one-night-stand with me, decides to pretend I’m not even alive for over a month, and then the other night he tries to kiss me. What nerve. If he weren’t so damn good looking and so nice, at least most times he’s nice, then it would be easier to stay angry with him. Maybe I should have let him kiss me? Hoping to hide her feelings, she took a long drink of her tea.

  Their private thoughts hung in the air, filling the void between them.

  Jack pushed back his chair, deposited his empty glass in the sink, and started for the door. “I’ve got to get cleaned up. Tomorrow’s going to be a busy day. Thanks for the tea Victoria.” He was out the back door and into the yard, before she could react.

  Vicky sat for a long time sipping cold tea, wondering about Jack. How do I really feel about him? The ice in her glass was long gone and the tea was room temperature when she came finally to some conclusions. They scared her. She looked up to see that it was dark outside, so she rose and turned on the lights.

  The next day business was again brisk at the vegetable stand. Although Jack was busy picking every morning, he still ran low on green beans and squash. I’ll have to get picking again. The second planting should start producing soon. Maybe I’ll put in another planting next week. There’s still time.

  When he finally closed for the evening, Jack made his way slowly up the drive and wearily mounted the steps to his apartment. I really should have hired some high school kids to help me out. After showering, he went to look for some junk food to snack on, too tired to make the effort to fix real food.

  When he opened the refrigerator, to his surprise, there was a plate of sandwiches and a large wedge of chocolate cake. “Oh wow! This is great.” Sliding these out, he saw covered bowls of baked beans and potato salad.

  A note taped to a lid read:

  I thought you might be too tired and busy to go to the store.

  Congratulations on your success!

  Vicky

  Through the dark, he could see into the lighted window of the farmhouse kitchen and the figure of Victoria moving about. I wonder what she’s doing. Silently, he thanked her for being so thoughtful, as he dug into his supper, eyeing the house through his window.

  The screen door opened a crack and the two kittens slipped out. Romeo jumped from the steps and began pacing back and forth in the soft turned earth in the flowerbed. When he found just the right spot, he scratched and dug, and squatted, his back to Juliet. She sat primly on the top step, pretending not to watch.

  “Romeo and Juliet,” said Jack laughing. He went to his bookshelves and found his copy of Shakespeare. Relaxing in his leather recliner, he found the play and began reading. When he came to the scene in the Capulet’s orchard with the poor love struck Romeo below professing his love to Juliet on her bower, he smiled. A short while later he was sound asleep, the book open on his lap.

  Jack awoke with a start feeling a little anxious. Man, I must have been having one hell of a bad dream, but I don’t remember any part of it. Stretching his stiff muscles, he got up and made his way through the darkened room to his big king-sized bed. Shedding his clothes, he slipped between the sheets and was asleep in less than a minute.

  Once more, he woke with a start, feeling restless. What’s wrong? Sitting up, he saw light flashing outside his window. Another storm? Weather didn’t say anything about a storm. He groped for the little clock on his bedside table. The luminous dial told him it was a few minutes after two o’clock. Then he heard a distant roaring sound like the approach of a freight train. Rising he ran to the window over his kitchen sink and stared out, amazed. “Oh, my God! What the hell?”

  As fast as he could, he pulled on jeans and shirt and raced down the steps and across the yard. He slowed halfway down the drive to stare, and then continued on, gravel biting into the soles of his bare feet. His roadside stand was fully engulfed in flames. The bright yellow blaze licked skyward casting eerie dancing shadows on the lawn and farmhouse. Wood smoke hung in the humid summer air stinging his eyes. Rooted to the ground, he stood and watched in consternation as it burned. He heard a noise behind him over the roar of the flames.

  “Jack,” came the frightened call from Vicky.

  He turned to see her standing on the porch in her robe, one hand clutching the door, fear plainly etched on her face. Slowly, he walked back and up the front steps.

  “Jack, I’ve called nine-one-one. They’ll be here in a minute.”

  “It’s too late to save it now.”

  “How could that happen?” she sobbed.

  He took her hands and guided her to one of the wicker chairs. Sitting down beside her, he held her hand in his and watched the fire consume all his hard work.

  “How could this happen? Did somebody throw a cigarette butt out of a car window or something? What caused it?”

  His response came in a low angry growl, “No Victoria. It didn’t happen that way, not this quickly. This was no accident. Some bastard did this on purpose.”

  They watched helplessly as the fire burned, flames leaping high in the sky.

  The volunteer firemen came quickly and doused what remained of the fire to prevent it from spreading. After they left, Jack persuaded Vicky to return to bed, but he remained on the porch, his gaze fixed on the smoldering embers.

  * * *

  As the sun was coming up, Victoria slipped silently onto the porch and handed Jack a steaming mug of coffee.

  “Thank you very much Victoria. I really need this.”

  “You were up all night.” When he didn’t respond she said, “I couldn’t sleep either.” Vanishing into the house, she returned coffee in hand to sit beside him. Blowing across the rim of her cup to cool the liquid, she sipped.

  “I can’t imagine who would have done something like that. This must have been an accident. Just a careless cigarette butt thrown out a window, something like that.”

  “No Victoria, it was intentional. Someone vandalized us.”

  “Well who then, Jack?”

  He had an idea who, but just shrugged. He was thinking that someone crazy and malicious enough to do this might have bigger ideas yet. Next time it could be the
barn, or even the house. Not wanting to alarm Victoria, he kept these thoughts to himself. I’ll have to talk with Vince. Maybe even put up a motion detection camera or something. Vince will know what to do. In silence, he considered his options.

  A red Ford mustang came cruising down the road, slowed, and pulled into the driveway.

  “Here comes Paul Revere, but he's a little late,” said Jack.

  John Van Wart climbed out, waved to them, and then stood hands on hips eyeing the blackened remains of the fruit stand. Turning he made his way to the porch. “That just happen last night?” he asked.

  “Yup,” said Jack.

  Vicky got up. “John, have a seat. How about I get you some coffee?”

  “Thanks Vicky. That would be great. Just black, don’t need to put anything in it.”

  She went inside and John took one of the wicker chairs. “I came out here this morning for a reason. Had something specific I wanted to tell you.”

  Jack grunted, “Didn’t think you drove all the way out here because they’d run out of coffee in town.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying so Jack, you seem like you’re in an unusually disagreeable mood, even for you. I came out to warn you about something, but it looks like I’m too late.”

  “Some bastard torched my fruit stand in the middle of the night. Of course I’m in a bad mood. Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “Yeah well, what I was going to tell you was that Rip Van Winkle came into town yesterday, like he always does. About the same time every Wednesday afternoon, Rip shows up. Goes to the grocery and picks up a case of beer and some food, then over to the Shell Station to gas up. Same routine, every week. Old Rip is, if nothing else, a creature of habit. The operative word being creature.”

  “Is this a long story John? Is there a point you’re trying to make?”

  “Bear with me. Remember when you asked Vince, Jimmy and me to watch Van Winkle to see if he did anything unusual? You weren’t sure if it might help the legal case, but you wanted to know anyway. I told my guys working at the station to tell me if he did anything out of the ordinary, and yesterday he did.”

  “And that would be what,” asked Jack.

  “Every week he pulls in and fills up his pickup with regular and fills his five gallon gas can that he keeps in the back of the truck. Guess he uses that much with his lawn tractor and equipment at the cider mill. Then he comes inside and pays cash, and always, without fail, buys two Hersey bars with almonds. Yesterday he did something different. He filled two five gallon gas cans instead of just the one.”

  Both men looked across the lawn at the charred stumps of lumber and debris from which tendrils of blue smoke still climbed skyward.

  “I’m not saying that Rip used that extra gasoline to start a fire or anything like that, but….”

  Vicky emerged from the front door and handed a mug to John. “You’re thinking that Jonathan Van Winkle did this,” she said.

  “No way to prove it, but I’d say that was a pretty fair guess. I don’t believe in coincidences,” said Jack. “So then, the next question is what do I do with a barn full of vegetables without the stand to sell them?”

  Neither John nor Vicky answered him, then Vicky rose and slowly walked to the end of the porch. She turned and walked back, and stood giving the porch an appraising look.

  “What are you doing?” asked Jack.

  “I’m thinking. You want to know what I’m thinking.”

  “Sure Victoria, I’ll play along. What are you thinking?”

  “Jack, you don’t need that stand on the road. The porch here is what, maybe forty feet long and ten feet wide. We just sell the stuff from the porch. What’s the difference? So people have to drive another hundred feet up to the house.”

  “Jack shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Jack! Vicky has a great idea. Don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself. You’re just so pissed off that you’re not thinking clearly,” offered Van Wart.

  “I’ll help you Jack; we can sell the vegetables from right up here on the porch. Why not?” said Vicky.

  “All you have to do is let everyone know about the change,” said John. “If people hear that the stand burned down, they might not bother driving out. I’ll put a notice up in the window of the Shell station informing them you’re still in business, and I’ll tell Vince and Jimmy. Those two will spread the word faster than the evening TV news.”

  Vicky returned to her chair. “You’re right, John. Come on, Jack, let’s do it. You’re not going to let Van Winkle win this thing are you? If I remember, you’ve always said you’d fight him to the end. I’ll help you. We’ll turn the porch into a little store.”

  “She’s right Jack, it’s a good idea.” added Van Wart, his voice rising an octave. “Of course, if you want to try a more direct approach, you and I can sneak over to Van Winkle’s tonight and burn down something on his property. Maybe a chicken coop or something. Better not tell Vince though.”

  “Don’t think that’s a good idea, John. You two are right though. I’ll admit that. I’m not going to let that little tub of lard get the best of us. Okay, so I agree with you. Why not use the porch.”

  “All right, lady and gentleman, I’m off to town to spread the word and go to work on this. Thanks for the coffee.” John gave a salute, and in a moment, was speeding down the road in his red Mustang.

  Chapter 22

  Marsha Chandler drove slowly, not wanting to miss her destination on the unfamiliar country road. Her windows were down and the fresh air wafted in. The day was picture perfect, sunny and mild, under a brilliant blue cloudless sky. Approaching a curve in the road, she saw there were orchards with rows of neatly pruned trees to either side. Her GPS spoke, informing her, “You have arrived at your destination, four hundred feet, on left.” She glanced down at the print out of Vicky’s email on the seat beside her. It was always comforting when the GPS agreed with the old-fashioned written directions.

  Marsha heard the voices and laughter before she saw the crowd of people. Rounding a bend in the road, the GPS confirmed her successful arrival. She braked, coming to a full stop and once again glanced at the written directions. “This can’t be right. It doesn’t look at all like Vicky described the farm, though…” She squinted at the number on the mailbox at the end of the drive. That’s correct, so it must be the right place.

  Down the road lay a tangled heap of blackened timbers. “Wonder what that’s all about?”

  Cautiously she turned into the drive that was filled with parked cars and trucks. Some spilled onto the lawns. A good looking guy in jeans, cowboy boots, and blue work shirt was leaning against a red Mustang convertible. He was in conversation with a pretty, dark haired girl, a mug in one hand gesturing with a half-eaten muffin in the other. Glancing at the Mustang’s bumper, she saw a National Rifle Association sticker and another that was a pink ribbon with the words, “SAVE THE TA-TAS.” Another pink-ribboned sticker proclaimed, “SAVE THEM ALL, BIG OR SMALL.”

  “O-kay.” she said, drawing out the word and rolling her eyes.

  Several young children were squealing with glee as their father tossed a Frisbee into the air for them. A large dog chased after the Frisbee along with the children. Everywhere people stood about chatting and laughing. Up on the front porch there were perhaps a dozen more people picking vegetables from baskets ranged along one wall. They were filling bags while others patiently waited their turn. Marsha scanned the faces, hoping to see Vicky, but she was nowhere in evidence. This looks more like a farmer’s market than anything else. It was the right address, and it looked like the farmhouse as Vicky had described it, but she’d said nothing about this.

  She picked her way through the crowd that parted for her, everyone smiling and wishing her a good morning. What’s with this? Vicky said this was a quiet sleepy little town and she lived a quiet existence on this out-of-the-way little apple farm.

  Marsha mounted the steps and saw a tall dark handsome man who see
med to be the one in charge. At least he was taking money from customers who were coming up clutching their paper bags filled with beans and squash. She made her way to the end of the porch where the tall man was in conversation with a young woman holding a baby.

  “Hey,” she said with a smile. “I’m looking for Vicky Buonadies. I’m a friend of hers. Hope I’m in the right place. Are you Jack?”

  “I plead guilty! Name is Jack Conner. Victoria said she had a friend coming this weekend. That would be you, I guess. Sorry things are so hectic now. Excuse me. Yes Mrs. Johnson, let’s see, I suppose that’ll be four dollars and fifty cents. Thanks very much. Yes indeed those are certainly some lovely cucumbers. You have a nice day now, okay?”

  The girl with the baby stepped forward beaming, “Hi, I’m Penny Smith and this is Charlotte.” Little Charlotte rewarded them with an exceptionally cute, high-pitched baby squeal.

  “What a darling. I’m Marsha Chandler, glad to meet all of you,” she said with a wave.

  The screen door banged open and Vicky emerged balancing a large tray filled with enormous muffins. “Marsha! So glad you got here okay. Welcome to Pippen’s Grove. Come on in, have some coffee and a blueberry muffin.” She set the tray down on a table next to a coffee urn surrounded by cups, cream, and sugar.

  Marsha went to her friend and gave her a hug. “Vicky, Honey, this is the sleepy little town with nothing happening? Didn’t know you were running a grocery store. I’d love coffee and a muffin, thanks.”

  Another woman was at her elbow putting a muffin on a paper napkin. “I’m Diane Vandersmoot. Nice to meet you. Vicky says you live in the city?”

  “I do. Vick and I’ve been friends, oh; I don’t know, six, maybe seven years now. So Vick. What’s going on here?” said Marsha with an inclusive wave of her arm at the throng of people.

  “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you everything later.”