Springwater Wedding
Page 4
“Couldn’t you paint on the road?” Maggie asked. A pear, she thought, is a pear, whether you paint it in Springwater or Timbuktu.
“I’d have to leave my computer!”
“Nonsense,” Maggie said. “You could buy a laptop and keep track of your on-line auctions that way.”
Kathleen glared at Maggie. “I love Springwater. It’s my home, and it inspires me. Besides, you’ve just come home, after being away all these years, and Wes and Franny are about to have another baby—”
Maggie suppressed a sigh. If ever there’d been a futile argument, this was it. “How about lunch?” she asked. “Are you coming over or not?”
Kathleen relaxed a little. “I would like to see what progress you’ve made fixing up the Station,” she admitted. “What time? I usually finish painting around one.”
“I was thinking of twelve-thirty,” Maggie said, “but I can hold out till one. Can’t speak for Sadie, though.”
Kathleen smiled. Although the beagle had numerous unredeeming qualities, such as digging in flower beds and howling at everything from butterflies to dust bunnies, Kathleen was a fan. “I’ll bring her an oatmeal cookie to make up for the delay.”
Maggie wished her mother would make an overture toward Reece, even one as modest as that, but didn’t dare say so. “O.K.,” she answered, and left it at that.
Kathleen’s thoughts had strayed; a thoughtful frown creased her forehead. “You know, I think I might be glutting the market with pears,” she mused. “Do you suppose I ought to branch out into artichokes?”
Maggie bit the inside of her lip, as she always did when she felt like smiling and thought it imprudent to do so. “Good idea,” she said.
Kathleen beamed. “I’ll get some at the supermarket this afternoon. Artichokes, I mean. I really do think I’m ready to move up.”
Maggie made for the front door, waggling her fingers in temporary farewell. “See you around one,” she chimed.
“Good-bye, dear,” Kathleen replied, already bustling off in the direction of the screened sunporch, which she had fitted out as a studio a few years before, when the passion to paint had struck her anew. Kathleen had sketched even as a child, Maggie knew, and had dabbled in watercolors and oils as a young adult, but she’d given up her art, calling it “a little hobby,” when she married. No doubt the demands of keeping a house, helping out at the mill office, and mothering three children left little time for such pursuits.
“Artichokes,” Maggie confided, with a smile, to Sadie, who was waiting in the passenger seat of the Pathfinder. “She’s going to paint artichokes.” The trouble between her parents notwithstanding, and for all that Kathleen’s choice of subjects amused her, she was glad her mother was painting again.
Sadie whimpered, as if in protest.
Maggie started the engine and put the transmission into drive. “It’s true,” she insisted, and grinned. “Artichokes.”
Less than two minutes later they pulled up in front of the ancient stagecoach station. Even though it looked pretty rundown, most of Maggie and Daphne’s efforts having been focused on the interior, the sight of it still filled Maggie with quiet, nostalgic pride. She had workmen coming the next day to begin restoring the outside, patching the chinks between the logs, rebuilding the fireplace chimney, shoring up the sagging porch and its overhanging roof. The windows would get new frames and glass, too.
Maggie supposed she was like her mom in a lot of ways, a small-town girl at heart, and a natural stay-at-home. Although she’d been anxious to leave Springwater and get a look at the big, wide, sophisticated world when she’d gone away to college, she’d yearned for home almost from the moment she’d left it. She loved the simpler way of life, the sense of family and of community, being surrounded by people and places she’d known from childhood.
Maggie had barely gotten inside and unfastened Sadie’s leash when a horn sounded out front. She went to one of the old, bubbled-glass windows and peered out. “Speak of the devil,” she murmured, watching as her dark-haired, broad-shouldered father, normally a somber fellow, sprang down from the cab of the longest recreational vehicle Maggie had ever seen. The thing gleamed in the sun, freshly waxed no doubt, and lacking only a satellite dish to qualify as a rolling monument to conspicuous consumption.
She went outside grinning, and Sadie bounded alongside her, unfettered and dizzy with the joy of even that limited amount of freedom. “Wow,” Maggie said, enjoying the frank delight shining in Reece’s brown eyes as she took in the long vehicle.
Reece bent to pet the dog for a few moments. “Pretty impressive, isn’t it?” he asked, straightening to his full height of well over six feet and gesturing to indicate the RV, as though Maggie could have mistaken his meaning. He’d always been a handsome man and, judging by the portrait of the first McCaffreys hanging in a place of honor over the dining room fireplace at home, he bore an uncanny resemblance to old Jacob. Maggie’s heart melted in the face of the childlike pleasure he took in this new toy of his.
“That it is,” Maggie agreed, approaching the gleaming monstrosity. “Does it have a hot tub?”
Reece chuckled. “No,” he said, “but it’s got two bedrooms and a good kitchen, and the bathroom’s pretty fancy.” He hurried to open the door for her and bow slightly. “Have a look.”
She stepped inside and was immediately wonder struck. There was a wet bar opposite the kitchenette, for heaven’s sake, with a mirror behind it, and a long leather couch graced one wall. The bathroom was done up in faux marble, pink and black, and it was every bit as big as the one in Maggie’s condo back in Chicago. The master bedroom would have done Elvis proud, with its mirrors and leopard-skin comforter, and the second, smaller, one was a study in economy of space. It included a built-in desk and was obviously wired for computers and other sophisticated electronic equipment.
“I thought this one might do as an office for your mother,” Reece offered gravely, with a sort of sad and hopeful pride. “You know, for her Internet stuff. Like as not, though, she’ll be so mad when she finds out how much I spent for this rig, she’ll show me the road awhile before I’m ready to leave.”
Maggie’s stomach clenched at the mere thought of her parents breaking up, never mind the reality. She was a grown woman, thirty years old and certainly self-supporting, and still the idea made her feel like an orphan lost in a snowstorm.
She summoned up a cheerful smile and patted her dad on one shoulder. “It’s spectacular,” she said. She was sorely tempted to ask if he’d blown a serious chunk of their retirement money on the purchase, but it was basically none of her business, so she kept that particular concern to herself. “Where did you get it?”
Reece’s still powerful chest seemed to swell with pride. “Bought it off ol’ Jim Young, out at Young Motors. You can hardly tell it’s had any use.”
Maggie thought of her parents sleeping under a leopard-print comforter surrounded by mirrors, and had to chuckle at the image, despite everything. “That’s true,” she said, linking her arm with her dad’s. “Come on inside and have a peek at the Station—it’s coming along so well, a person almost expects to look up and see June-bug McCaffrey herself cooking at the stove or sitting in that old rocking chair by the hearth, piecing a quilt.”
Reece smiled and they left the RV, single file, then proceeded up the overgrown stone walkway, each with an arm around the other. Sadie, having long since lost interest in the Elvis mobile, was sniffing around in the overgrown grass of the Station’s yard. Maggie closed the gate carefully and left her dog to cheerful exploration.
Reece whistled through his front teeth when he entered the old log building—Maggie had always coveted his ability to whistle like that—taking in the time-mellowed plank floors, the natural rock fireplace where so many of Springwater’s early citizens had been married, with Jacob McCaffrey himself officiating, the highly polished and very ancient wood cookstove where June-bug had made meals for weary stagecoach travelers as well as a continuous stream
of family and friends. Even the trestle tables were authentic; Maggie had spent long hours sanding them down to their original finish, with lots of help from Daphne, and she’d found several inscriptions carved into the wood—“Toby McCaffrey Emma Hargreaves,” in one place, and “Joshua Kildare” in another.
Surprisingly, Reece’s eyes glittered fiercely for a moment; Maggie thought he might actually weep. “It’s like stepping back in time,” he said, in a low and wondering voice.
He couldn’t have offered higher praise, and Maggie hugged him impulsively. “There’s still a lot to do, but I’ll have Jacob and June-bug’s old room ready to occupy in a few days. Then I plan to move in.”
The fierce gaze turned luminous as Reece looked down into his daughter’s face. “Now, honey, don’t you be in too big a hurry to move out. We aren’t using that guest house anyway, and it’s a pleasure to have you close by.”
Maggie let her head rest against his upper arm for a moment. “I know, Dad. I know. But I’ll be right down the road. Besides, you’re planning to hightail it out of here in that palace on wheels, aren’t you?”
He sighed, and his great shoulders stooped a little. “I’d sure like to see the redwoods and Yellowstone Park, and some of those places with road signs that say things like, ‘See the Two-headed Serpent, 5 miles ahead,’ but it wouldn’t be much fun alone.”
Maggie stood on tiptoe and kissed his cleft chin. “Hang in there,” she said softly. “Things will turn around.” Hadn’t Wes and Simon, her brothers, been swearing up and down that everything would be all right between their parents?
“I hope you’re right, honey,” Reece said, and hugged her once again. He’d barely gotten the words out when the door of the Station creaked open and Kathleen stood in the chasm, looking as if the locks of her hair might turn into snakes, Sadie panting at her side, curious as usual.
“Reece McCaffrey,” Kathleen said, cheeks apricot, eyes blazing, “did you buy that—that thing out there?” She pointed dramatically.
“Yes, woman,” Reece replied, “I did.”
“Oh, boy,” Maggie murmured, and stepped back, hopefully out of range. Her parents rarely fought—at least, it used to be that way— but lately they’d raised the art of matrimonial combat to new levels.
“You take it back, right this instant,” Kathleen commanded. “That Jim Young—I always knew he couldn’t be trusted!”
“He thinks right highly of you,” Reece said regretfully.
Maggie took another step back as her mother began to fulminate. Oh, but she was in her Irish glory, was Kathleen O’Shaunessey McCaffrey, all flash, fury, and fire. “Mom, Dad,” Maggie began lamely, “don’t scare the dog.”
Neither Reece nor Kathleen so much as glanced in Maggie’s direction. Sadie crawled under the restored cookstove, rested her muzzle on her paws, and yipped once, disconsolately.
Kathleen was shaking one index finger under Reece’s nose. “Have you lost your mind?” she demanded, and Maggie thought she detected the hint of a brogue in the meter of her mother’s words, even though she’d never lived on the old sod. “If you think I’m going to be one of those women who give up their house to wander from pillar to post like a gypsy, Mr. McCaffrey, you’re sadly mistaken!”
Reece’s nose was a fraction of an inch from Kathleen’s, and a muscle was leaping in his jawline. “Nobody’s asking you to give anything up!” he thundered. “I’m offering you the world—well, the United States and Canada, anyway—I’m offering you New England in October, damn it!”
Furious tears stood in Kathleen’s emerald eyes. “Have you gone deaf, now? I’m happy right here in Springwater!”
“Well, nobody would ever guess it after passing five minutes under our roof!”
“Mom?” Maggie dipped a toe into turbulent conversational waters. “Dad?”
A third voice interceded from the doorway just then. “Am I gonna have to run the two of you in for disorderly conduct?”
Maggie, Reece, and Kathleen all turned as one to find Purvis Digg, the town marshal, standing on the threshold, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the room. Sadie trotted over to sniff at his boots.
“I’m willing to press charges,” Maggie said, under her breath.
“You just stay out of this, Purvis Digg,” Kathleen said. “I’m having a discussion with my husband! That’s not against any law, is it?”
Purvis nodded to Maggie, with a half grin, and swept off his beat-up western hat. “No, ma’am,” he said. “But you’re havin’ it sort of loud like.”
Reece was chuckling by then, and that only made Kathleen angrier. “Don’t you come home,” she told Reece, shaking that familiar finger again, “until you’ve taken that foolish bus back to Jim Young’s car lot, where it belongs.”
Reece set his jaw, and his eyes snapped. He could be at least as stubborn as Kathleen when he got his back up, and he wasn’t a man who favored ultimatums. “So that’s the way of it?” he drawled.
“That,” Kathleen said, chin high, cheeks bright, “is the way of it.”
“I don’t reckon I’ll be home straightaway, then. I wrote Jim a check for that rig, and if I know him, he’s already taken it to the bank. There’ll be no going back on the deal now.”
Kathleen looked as though she might lift off like a rocket, trailing smoke and flames. Then, with hard-won dignity, she turned to address Maggie in a surprisingly cool voice, given the state of her temper. “I’ll take a rain check on lunch, dear,” she said. At Maggie’s speechless nod, she turned her attention on Purvis, like a beam of strong light. “Do say hello to your mother, Purvis. Tell Tillie we’ve missed her at quilting club meetings.”
Purvis nodded appreciatively, and with respect. “I’ll do that,” he said. “I reckon she’ll be back there stitching with the rest of you, soon enough. Her arthritis is a lot better than it was over the winter.”
“Good,” Kathleen said. After that, having visibly dismissed her husband from the universe, she stooped, gave Sadie a brief pat on the head, and then left.
“That went well,” Maggie said, resigned.
Reece ignored her and stormed out. She heard the engine of his motor home start up with a roar and chortle away, flinging gravel.
“He’s going to force me to write him a ticket,” Purvis lamented good-naturedly, “speeding like that.”
Maggie sighed. “I’ll tell you what I think you ought to do,” she said. “Arrest the pair of them. Throw them into the same cell and let them fight it out.” The first Springwater jailhouse had burned to the ground in 1957, but the town council had erected a replacement of brick and mortar with the insurance money. The place boasted three cells, one computer, a fax machine, and not much else. “On second thought, you’d better not. My mother could never tolerate any room where the toilet sits right out in the open.”
Purvis laughed. “Guess I’ll just let them slip through my fingers, then,” he joked. “They’re a pair, ain’t they?”
“That they are,” Maggie agreed. She knew her eyes were twinkling. “So you didn’t really come by to run my folks in for disturbing the peace, now did you?”
“No, ma’am,” he grinned. “I saw J.T.’s truck around the corner, and thought he might be here.”
Maggie stiffened a little, looked around, as though expecting to see J.T. lurking somewhere nearby, having gone unnoticed in all the commotion. “Why would you think that?” she asked, aware that she was being unnecessarily touchy and quite unable to help it. “He could be any one of several places. The post office, for instance. Or the feed store.”
“If he’d gone to the feed store,” Purvis pointed out, ever the lawman, though his color seemed a bit high, “he’d surely have parked in their lot, so’s he could load grain sacks and the like into his truck.”
Maggie spread her hands. “I haven’t seen him,” she said.
“If you do, let him know I’m lookin’ for him, if you will,” Purvis said.
“Sure,” Maggie promised, wit
h a nod.
Purvis was about to take his leave when a young girl appeared in the doorway. “Hello, Cindy,” he said, touching his hat in passing.
Cindy, a truly beautiful, delicate-looking creature, no older than seventeen and enormously pregnant, crept shyly into the room. She was wearing a worn smock and old jeans, probably agape at the waistline. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and her blue eyes were wide and wary. She put out a slightly tremulous hand to Maggie. “Hi,” she said.
Maggie warmed to the girl instantly, and smiled. “Hello,” she replied. “Can I help you?”
Cindy ran her tongue nervously over her lips and then straightened her spine with touching determination. “I need a job,” she said. “I thought you might be hiring, with a new business and all. I can make beds and cook, and I’ve had lots of experience cleaning up after folks.”
Maggie considered the girl, her head tilted to one side. “How old are you, Cindy?”
She held Maggie’s gaze, though not without some skittishness. “I’ll be eighteen in March,” she said.
“Ah,” Maggie said. It was early June, which meant that March wouldn’t be rolling around for a while, of course. “Are you looking for a live-in position?”
Hope flared in Cindy’s eyes, and Maggie’s tender heart climbed up into the back of her throat. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “Billy Raynor and me, we’re married now. He just went to work for
J.T. Wainwright, as a ranch hand, mending fences and the like, and we’re going to live in a trailer he’s got out there.”
Maggie wanted to put her arms around Cindy and hold her like the child she was, but she sensed that the girl’s grasp on her dignity was a fragile one and she didn’t want to undermine it any further. “When’s your baby due?” she asked, very gently. She ushered the girl toward one of the tables and urged her to be seated.
Cindy sat, somewhat nervously. She had the air of a person who expected to be declared a fraud and chased out at any moment. “I’m seven and a half months along,” she said. “Sometimes I think I’ve got twins in here.”