Town Square, The

by Miles, Ava

  This side of him intimidated her, and part of her missed the easy going man she’d come to know.

  He slammed the door to his Thunderbird and waited until she was in her car, ready to follow him. Then he drove down Main Street.

  She’d heard he’d bought an old house on a hill overlooking the valley rather than moving in with his parents. It was a good fifteen minutes out of town, and if her mind hadn’t been spinning like her stomach, she would have stopped to appreciate the towering pines rising up the mountain on her left while the valley flowed out below her like a large salad bowl.

  His house was a white A–frame and had a porch boasting a gorgeous view of the mountains and the valley. She pulled in behind his car. He didn’t wait for her to reach him, his legs eating up the distance to the front door. Part of her wanted to hurry after him, but she held herself back. Remained in control.

  Though she was used to him holding doors open for her, he didn’t this time, and she had to open the front door herself. Because of her upbringing, she rubbed her feet on the rug before setting foot on his gleaming hardwood floor.

  She wandered into the living room. It could use some furniture, she thought, but it held a lot of promise with its fifteen–foot high white plaster walls and white crown molding with fleur de lis in the corners.

  She heard his steps off to the right and followed the sound. He was hefting boxes onto an old partner’s desk when she found him. The room had three big windows, one with lead glass panels in the shape of a peacock’s tail, and was filled with boxes.

  “You can start here,” he said.

  The lone overhead light didn’t provide sufficient light without a table lamp. “Where?” she asked.

  He gestured to the two boxes he’d hauled over and spun them around. The name Wentworth was written in black marker in his handwriting, and somehow the starkness of seeing her family name like that made her tummy spasm. Her father’s work had boiled down to these papers sorted into a box, nothing to identify them but the careless scrawl of letters.

  It hurt, seeing that.

  “You can start with these two boxes, and if you get through them in the next two hours and want more, you can start on the next ones.”

  “Which ones?”

  He pointed to the back of the room, and as she looked deeper into the room, she saw her family’s name scrawled across at least seven more boxes that were facing front.

  Her throat clenched at the sheer volume of it all, and she couldn’t speak.

  He crossed his hands on his chest, his mouth tight. “You didn’t think I’d give the parents of those babies false hope, did you, by throwing out an unconfirmed cause? Or that I’d ruin a respected scientist without doing my research?”

  Unable to meet his gaze, she looked down at the rug. It was an uninspired Aubusson with a blue background and faded yellow flowers. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “The file in your hand is a summary of everything in the boxes by number.”

  “How many boxes are there?”

  “Twenty–five,” he said, walking toward her. “Do I need to take your purse?”

  Clutching it was an automatic response. “Why ever would you say that?”

  Those blue eyes held a hint of danger. “I don’t want you taking out a matchbook and burning the evidence. It won’t change what happened. The New York Times has copies of the key documents.”

  He thought she was capable of arson?

  A tick in his jaw made her realize he was angry, and who could blame him?

  “After last night, I’m assuming there’s pretty much nothing you wouldn’t do.”

  Right. Even she had discovered there were things she didn’t know or like about herself. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

  “Good,” he replied. “I like this house. Wasn’t glad Mrs. Pokens passed, but was glad I could have a place of my own like this one. Be a shame if it burned down before I got the chance to move in properly. There’ll be coffee in the kitchen if you get thirsty.”

  And then he headed toward the door.

  “Arthur?”

  He paused, the muscles of his back shifting when he placed his arm on the doorframe, not turning around.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, clutching her purse to her side. “For last night. I went too far.”

  His head lowered, but she couldn’t see his face. “Yes, you goddamn did.”

  He left her alone then, in the room filled with the twenty–five boxes organized by number and marked with her family name.

  Chapter 8

  Watching her go through his files about her father was like being a spectator at a funeral. She came and went from his house for the next two days, stubbornly sifting through the papers in the boxes after telling him that she needed more time to go through all of them.

  All of them.

  She wasn’t going down without a fight. Her face might look ashen, but the chip on her shoulder could take down a small army.

  The story he spread around town was that they were working at his place, with her sister acting as chaperone, while a water leak was fixed at the office. He hired Herman to fix the imaginary leak and swore him to secrecy, saying they were working on a big case that required total privacy.

  While he was protecting both their reputations, he realized he was lying for her again and wondered what that said about him.

  Maybelline was out for a walk when he walked past his home office. Harriet sat on the floor in a pink sweater set and black skirt with one knee bent at the leg. Her hand was pressed against her forehead, and she was clutching some papers to her stomach. Boxes surrounded her like a maze.

  He would have walked by, but he heard a sniff and then the unmistakable sound of a woman crying softly.

  Cripes, he thought, and ran his hand through his hair. Why wouldn’t she give up? Then he realized she couldn’t. It was her father, and because he loved his family too, he could understand.

  “Harriet?” he called out softly.

  Her head jerked up, and she dashed a hand at the tears streaming down her face. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m almost finished.”

  He walked forward, his hesitance making him drag his feet. Being nice to her was the last thing he should do, wanted to do. Yet, here he was, fishing out his handkerchief and handing it to her. “It’s clean. So, what box are you on?”

  The dainty way she wiped her nose reminded him what a city girl she was. “Eighteen,” she whispered and extended the file she was holding to him.

  Ah, God, he thought. The medical reports on the babies who’d died. He’d gotten drunk after reading through those the first time.

  “He lied,” she said in that soft tone. “My father lied.”

  He sat on one of the boxes encircling her, the cardboard giving a bit. He’d been wondering when this moment would come. Part of him had dreaded it.

  Her father had fallen off his pedestal.

  “Yes,” he said, wanting to reach out and stroke the lock of fiery hair that had come loose from her bun.

  The file fell to the floor. “Those poor babies,” she said. “I keep reading the mothers’ statements about how healthy they were, and how they sickened and died so quickly after drinking the formula.”

  He hung his head. Interviewing the four mothers who had agreed to speak to him had been the hardest experience of his life. The other women had been too inconsolable to talk to him, and their husbands too angry.

  “Let’s get you a cup of coffee, and when Maybelline gets back from her walk, you can go home.”

  He pulled her up and helped her step over the boxes. She leaned against him for a moment when she stumbled. Putting his arm around her, he waited until she found her footing, trying to ignore the thrill of touching her. Once she steadied herself, he stepped back. Like he’d been doing since he discovered who she was and why she was here.

  She followed him to the kitchen and sat at his farmer’s table. Since he drank coffee throughout the day, there was already
a pot of it on the stove. He grabbed mugs from the cabinet and poured them both a cup. She didn’t reach for hers when he set it in front of her. She just stared unblinkingly at the table, which he’d covered with one of his mother’s old plaid green tablecloths.

  “Arthur,” she said, shaking her head like she was shaking off a daze. “I owe you an apology. I came here…thinking…” Her fingers feathered her brow. “I don’t know what…”

  “Let’s leave it at that.” Knowing she was sorry did a lot to abate the anger he felt, but he still didn’t want to see her suffer.

  “You’re letting me off too easy,” she murmured, reaching for the cup.

  Probably, and he didn’t want to think about that either. His mouth quirked up, likely his first smile in days. “What do you want me to do? Tie you to ol’ Bessie in the barn and have her drag you down Main Street?”

  Her mouth changed and then fell flat again. “They used to do that around here, right?”

  “My granddad told tales.” He took a sip of coffee. “So what are you going to do now?”

  He hoped she wouldn’t go through the rest of the boxes. It only got worse from there.

  Her finger traced the plaid squares on the tablecloth. “I don’t know. I’d hoped to restore my father’s reputation, if not his sanity, but now… Our family is in disgrace. We don’t have anything to go back to. I couldn’t find a job back home, and Maybelline was asked to leave college.”

  Jeez, he hadn’t imagined anyone other than their father reaping the consequences of his actions, and he hated that Harriet and Maybelline were paying for his mistakes. It was unjust. “Why don’t you stay here?” he heard himself say. “You already have a house. Give yourself some time to figure out a long–term plan.”

  She laid her palms flat on the table and then patted it, like she was trying to play the piano, searching for the right notes. “You surprise me. Just a few days ago, I tried to ruin your reputation in your hometown.”

  Like he could forget. The memory of her in that black slip kept running through his mind. “And yourself. Since you brought it up, would you really have gone through with it?”

  Her hands flexed, and she lowered her eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m more like my father than I thought.” Her scoff didn’t quite come off. It was more like a soft sob.

  He took her hand when she patted the table again. “Maybe it will help you forgive him.”

  “Forgive him?” she said, her voice breaking. “He killed seven babies and lied about it.”

  When she tried to yank her hand free, he held firm. “He didn’t intentionally kill those babies, and while that doesn’t bring them back, it does make a difference. I won’t excuse his lies about the faulty batch of formula, but I’m a bit more cynical after living in New York. The lies change as often as the headlines out there.”

  “Whereas the people out here are pretty much what you see is what you get.”

  “Yes,” he responded. “Another reason I’m glad to be home.”

  Her fingers pressed against her temples like she had a headache. “I should go find Maybelline and get out of your way. We’ve encroached for too long as it is.” She stood, leaving her coffee untouched. “Thank you for letting me go through…”

  “You’re welcome.” My God, how could she drag out pleasantries when her whole world had been destroyed? “If you want to keep working for me until you figure out your next steps, you’re welcome to do so.” He still needed a secretary, right?

  Her mouth parted in shock.

  “It might keep the talk down,” he reasoned. “People are already wondering what’s going on between us. Two days to fix a water leak after a late–night visit to your attic? Well, folks around here aren’t stupid, and we’re pushing the limit, even with your sister acting as chaperone.”

  “A water leak?” she asked. “I hadn’t realized you’d created…a cover story. Thank you, Arthur.”

  Well, he’d done it to protect himself, and maybe her a little, too. He didn’t like thinking about that. But if she thanked him one more time, looking like a white bed sheet, he was going to lose his temper.

  She wandered to the front of the house and went out the door without putting on her coat. Grinding his teeth, he grabbed her navy wool coat and rushed after her. The wind was brisk and had already loosened more strands of red hair from her bun. She was weaving in place like she was lost.

  “For God’s sake, get into the house where it’s warm. I’ll go find your sister.”

  Why her sister loved walking outside in the winter still baffled him, but he’d learned that the Wentworth sisters marched to the beat of their own drum.

  After depositing her inside, he grabbed his own coat and headed out to find her equally feckless sister.

  The Wentworth sisters were more trouble than they were worth. Hah. Terrible pun, he realized.

  And if he didn’t feel a little guilty—and dammit, still attracted to Harriet—he would have never suggested they stick around Dare Valley.

  They weren’t done complicating his life.

  Chapter 9

  The chik–chik–cha–chik–chik–chika–chik–cha–chik–Ding–ziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip of Arthur’s typewriter greeted Harriet when she arrived in the office the next morning. As usual, he’d started working before she arrived. People had commented that he was still keeping city hours, but deep down she knew he was a man who liked his work.

  Like her father had.

  The very thought made her unbearably sad and angry, so she firmed her shoulders and walked over to his office, pausing in the doorway to watch him work.

  His back was to her, and she watched with fascination as the muscles in his back shifted as he went through the rhythm of typing. Arthur demonstrated beauty and grace as he swept his hands across the machine and started again. With every press of the keys, it was like he was imprinting his vision of the newspaper story he was writing, one letter, one word at a time. So focused on telling the truth. Sharing what his senses had detected.

  The back of his neck gleamed, likely from a trip to Dave at the Barber Shop. The faint aroma of his cologne permeated his office, all forest and spice. Powerful shoulders filled out the open–collared navy shirt he was wearing.

  She could finally admit to herself that she was attracted to him. It might not sit well, but she was tired of the lies. The ones she’d told others. And the ones she’d told herself. It was time to turn over a new leaf.

  After talking it over with Maybelline last night, they’d agreed to stay in Dare for a while and sort out what to do next. Both of them were too tired to try and start over again somewhere else right now. Plus, Harriet felt like she owed Arthur a debt of gratitude. Staying to help him start up his newspaper was the least she could do.

  “I brought you a jelly donut,” she finally said, walking into his office. “Alice at Kemstead’s said you like the apricot ones best.”

  He finished the current section of his news symphony and then swung around in his chair. The smile he normally gave her didn’t appear.

  Funny how she missed it.

  “There’s been a cave–in at the mine in Blisswater Canyon. Twenty–one miners are trapped. I was just finishing up the initial story and was going to call it in before heading to the site.”

  “I can do that,” she replied, setting his coffee and pastry on his desk.

  He grabbed the pastry and devoured it in three bites, took a gulp of coffee from the cup on his desk, and then sat back down. “Thanks,” he muttered before turning to resume his typing.

  She busied herself with some filing, but her mind was elsewhere. The tension between her and Arthur could be cut with a knife.

  Fifteen minutes later, Arthur dropped the story on her desk. “Some of the townspeople are heading up to help. A few local women have volunteered to cook for the Rescue Team and families keeping vigil. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone—”

  “I want to come,” she interrupted, standing up, realizing she wanted to h
elp. She’d ignored the tragedy of the families who’d lost their children to the defective formula to protect herself, her family. Perhaps this was her chance to make amends.

  He scratched his cheek. “There won’t be much for you to do. I’ll be interviewing people, taking pictures.”

  Picking up her white gloves, she tugged them on, smoothing out the wrinkles. “I can take photos for you, or cook, or take care of any children who are there.”

  “Trust me, there won’t be any children there. It’s not a place for anyone with a soft stomach.”

  “I can take it,” she said, infusing her voice with steel even though part of her knew he was right. She had no idea what she was getting herself into.

  His blue eyes studied her. “You’ll need to dress warmly. Perhaps change into something you don’t mind getting dirty. If they have to blow part of the mine to clear out the rubble, we’ll be covered in dirt.”

  Her nod was crisp, a contrast to her wobbling stomach. “Fine. I’ll call in your story and then drop by the library to tell Maybelline. I can be back here in twenty minutes.”

  “Great. I’ll have Alice over at the bakery make us up some lunch. These things often take a while.”

  “You’ve been to a cave–in before?” she asked, a little breathless in the face of his intensity and the thought of what she’d agreed to do.

  “Yes,” he replied, putting his hands on his hips.

  “What is it like?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Gut–wrenching chaos.”

  ***

  If there was one thing about Arthur she’d come to appreciate, it was that he never exaggerated.

  So when he told her to expect gut–wrenching chaos, he meant it.

  Harriet surveyed the cluster of about a hundred people in what had been deemed the safe area or the Rescue Camp, as Arthur called it. The miners’ wives and mothers were being comforted by a scattering of older men, probably the miners’ fathers. The women were inconsolable, and she found herself brushing aside her own tears.

  She couldn’t imagine what they were feeling right now, with their men either dead or trapped in the mine that had put food on the table for their families. How horrible it must be to fear your children would never see their father again. And part of her realized she knew exactly how that felt, even if their situations were different.