Читать книгу The House on Creek Road - Caron Todd, Caron Todd - Страница 9

THE BLADE SANK ALMOST A QUARTER of an inch into the glued pages. Jack sliced in between the lines of text, removed the point of the knife and sliced again. When he’d cut three sides of a four inch square, he bent back the paper like a door. He placed an unlabelled diskette inside, smoothed a little glue on the cut edges, then pressed the pages down. He had opened the book at random, but King Lear’s line, just above the cut, would amuse Reid if he noticed. Who loses, and who wins; who’s in, who’s out… Not that the game ever really had a winner or a loser. It was the challenge they enjoyed.

The shelves of the built-in china cabinet in the dining room were full of books: paperback thrillers, textbooks of computer and mathematics theory, gold-lettered classics. Jack slipped The Complete Works of Shakespeare back in its place.

He’d spent a lot of time he didn’t really have preparing the clues contained on the disk. Reid might not even find it. He would try, though. Housebreaking was a new twist to the game, and Jack didn’t like it. He lifted the box he’d got from Daniel Rutherford onto the kitchen table. A surprising man, Daniel.

The bulletin boards were one of the things Jack liked about Three Creeks. Birthday announcements, cards of thanks, lost dogs, free-range hens, help wanted, jobs wanted. One of the ads had always made him smile. Punks a Problem? Poachers Got Your Goat? Call Daniel Rutherford…Taking Care of All Your Security Needs Since 1975. Not expecting much, Jack had decided to see what Daniel had to offer.

The older man lived alone on the edge of town, in a story-and-a-half house with crocheted doilies protecting his sofa and chair from the touch of his head and hands. Down in his basement, it was another world. Metal shelves were filled with precisely organized equipment—cameras, tape recorders and other machines Jack couldn’t identify. It turned out Daniel wasn’t a retired farmer, as he had supposed. He was a retired cop. RCMP Special Branch, long disbanded and replaced by CSIS, the Canadian Security Intelligence Service. A retired spy? He couldn’t be.

Once Daniel knew Jack was there on business his tendency to gossip had stopped, just like that, like turning off a tap. Still, Jack was cautious. Taking his cue from Daniel’s ad, he’d said kids were poking around his place, not causing any real trouble, but he wanted to find out who they were. He had come away with two small cameras that could be hidden under the eaves near his front and back doors, and an electric eye to place at the end of the driveway. Anyone driving or walking in would trigger the cameras, so intruders would film themselves. Daniel liked the irony. And Jack liked knowing Reid wouldn’t surprise him again.

ELEANOR HAD SETTLED INTO THE CHAIR by the woodstove, her feet up on a three-legged stool one of her great-grandchildren had made in shop class. “Do you mind if we don’t work today, Elizabeth?”

“Of course not,” Liz said quickly. Over the past few days, they had decided the fate of nearly every stick of furniture in the house. Eleanor had struggled to be objective, but each piece held a bit of personal history, and some choices had been hard to make. “Are you all right, Grandma?”

“It’s nothing a quiet day won’t fix. You’ll find you slow down a little in your ninth decade, too.”

Liz reached for a banana muffin. Eleanor would hate it if she fussed. “I can use the day to finish getting ready for my visit to the school tomorrow.” She had agreed to show Pam’s students how a book was made and to help them make books of their own.

“That will be such a treat for the children.” Eleanor closed her eyes.

Liz felt a jolt of concern. How could her grandmother be tired in the morning, after a good night’s sleep? She’d been old for as long as Liz had known her, but she’d always been strong and full of energy.

For every bit of work Liz had saved her grandmother since she’d arrived, she’d probably caused just as much. Tonight she’d take care of dinner, something simple, soup and sandwiches. Tomorrow, she’d get up in time to make breakfast. When Eleanor came down to the kitchen she’d find tea and eggs ready and waiting.

“Are you enjoying your visit, Elizabeth?” Eleanor’s eyes were open again, and they looked clear and alert. “I hoped it would be more than work for you.”

“It is, much more.” Liz wasn’t exactly enjoying it, but she was glad to be here. She was getting used to finding ghosts around every corner. Relatives, too. People were always dropping by for a hot cup, keeping a finger on the pulse of each other’s lives. “I’m not sure how well I handled things at the barbecue, though.” Other than agreeing how attractive the yard had looked and how good the food had tasted, they had avoided discussing Saturday’s party.

“Very well, I thought.”

“Except when I saw Wayne Cooper.”

“It would have been more thoughtful for him to stay away.”

“Jack…sort of rode shotgun for me.”

“That sounds like Jack.”

There was the proprietary tone again, as if Eleanor had raised him herself and was proud of how he was doing. She acted almost as if he were her grandson or nephew. Maybe that was it. Maybe he was the unacknowledged offspring of a wandering great-uncle and he’d come to Three Creeks to claim what he thought was rightfully his.

“Nobody minded giving an opinion about Susannah’s wedding.”

“Uninformed opinions and plenty of head-shaking. Interest in Susannah’s marriage will die down soon.”

Liz hesitated. “Was there as much gossip about me?”

“When you left? No. People were very quiet about that.” Eleanor sighed. “It was all a long time ago, Elizabeth. You were angry and you wanted nothing more than to put this place behind you. But fifteen years…wouldn’t it be best for you to make peace with what happened once and for all?”

Liz looked away from her grandmother. How could she make peace with it, even if she wanted to? That was like saying it didn’t matter, all was well that ended well, water under the bridge.

“Ah, my dear. But you came to help me anyway, feeling as you do about the place. Sweet child.”

“I’m thirty-three, Grandma.”

“A baby. But you’ll grow up one day, I suppose.”

It almost hurt to see the affection on her grandmother’s face. For the first time Liz got an inkling of what tending her anger at the people of Three Creeks had cost her. “I’m sorry I didn’t come to see you before.” Uncertainly, she added, “I think you’ve been disappointed in me.”

Eleanor didn’t deny it. “It’s always a pity to waste time. Now, you need to get out and get some fresh air. Who knows how long these lovely fall days will last? Why not return that pie plate to Jack for me? I meant to do it days ago. Take the girls with you—they’ll enjoy seeing him, too.”

THE DOGS HURRIED AHEAD when they realized they were going to Jack’s. By the time Liz got to the house, all three of them were waiting for her on the back stoop. Jack looked distracted, as if he had been deep in thought or in the middle of some engrossing project, and was having trouble adjusting to the interruption.

“I should have called—”

“No need for that.” He leaned down, rubbing the dogs’ ears. “Good girls,” he said soothingly. “Fine, beautiful girls.” They rested their heads against his legs.

“You’re so good with them. I’m surprised you don’t have a dog of your own.”

“I’ve thought about getting one. Some big, friendly mutt who’d follow me from my truck to the field to the foot of my bed…I don’t know. Pumpkins are needy enough.” He gave a quick grin. It didn’t erase the impression that he’d meant what he’d said.

She held up a neatly creased paper bag. “Grandma asked me to return your pie plate.”

He gave each dog one last pat, then took the bag and moved aside so Liz could get through the door. “I was just going to make a hot drink. Join me?”

“That would be great. It was a chilly walk. Is it cold for October, or have I forgotten what it’s like here?”

“Snow by Halloween, people are saying.”

Liz followed Jack into the kitchen. It was a large room, the most important room in the house at one time, with space for cooking and canning, separating cream from milk, churning butter, eating and visiting. It didn’t feel welcoming, though, not like Eleanor’s kitchen. Wires and pieces of something mechanical were spread out on a Formica-topped table, competing for space with a fax machine and laptop computer. “I’m interrupting you.”

He hooked a finger through the handles of two mugs and grasped a bag of coffee beans with his other hand, closing the cupboard door with his elbow. “I was ready for a break…and I’m glad to have company.”

The coffee grinder whirred into action. Jack packed the grounds into the filter of a stainless steel espresso and cappuccino maker. “Should I froth some milk?”

“I’ll take it straight. It’s days since I’ve had a proper cup of coffee.”

Steaming liquid, dark and pungent, flowed into one mug, then the other. Jack led the way into the living room. “Make yourself comfortable. I’m afraid it’s a bit of a mess.” He sounded surprised.

Liz looked around for a place to sit. Jack and the dogs had congregated near the sofa, and an acoustic guitar occupied one of the chairs. Another chair doubled as a shelf for newspapers, books and videos. “Isn’t this the Ramsey’s furniture?”

“It came with the house. They just took personal things, pictures and so on.”

Nails still protruded from the walls here and there, surrounded by discolored squares and rectangles where pictures had hung. How long had Jack been here? A year? It looked as if he were camping in someone else’s house, with or without their permission.

He handed her one of the mugs, then moved the guitar, leaning it against the wall.

“Thanks.” When Liz sat down, dust drifted up from the upholstery and tickled her nose. “You play guitar?”

“A little. Just to relax.” He moved some newspapers to make room for himself on the sofa. “Sorry about all this. There hasn’t been much time to think about the house. Every now and then I run a cloth over the tables, but I haven’t got around to buying a vacuum.”

“You’ve been busy establishing your farm.”

Books were piled on every surface. Liz turned her head sideways to read the titles on the table beside her. Blueberries for the Prairies. Growing Heritage Pumpkins. So You Want to Grow Christmas Trees. “Do you really think you can learn to farm from books?”

“That’s a funny question for a writer to ask.”

“It’s like cooking. You taste something delicious at a party and you get the recipe, but when you try to make the dish, it doesn’t turn out the same. People leave out subtle details.”

“I guess I’ll learn as I go. I’m doing all right so far.”

“Christmas trees, blueberries and pumpkins.” Liz smiled. It sounded like the beginning of a song. “You must have a bit of the child in you.”

For some reason, it was the wrong thing to say. Jack seemed to withdraw. “To choose those crops? It’s just good business sense.”

“If you had good business sense you wouldn’t be farming.”

She’d meant it as a joke, but he responded seriously. “Everyone wants blueberries in summer, pumpkins in October and evergreens in December. An abundant local supply, organically grown, can’t fail.”

Barring drought, pests, early frost or a downturn in the economy. At least he had the optimism a farmer needed.

Peeking out from under a Three Stooges video and a seed catalog, Liz noticed the corner of a familiar book cover. The Intergalactic Pirate by Elizabeth Robb. She moved the video and catalog and lifted the book to show Jack. “Researching me?”

“I was curious,” he admitted. “I read it with you in mind, trying to decide what it told me about you.”

“Absolutely nothing.”

He smiled as he zeroed in on his point. “And my choice of crops tells you absolutely nothing about me.”

Liz laughed. Bella and Dora looked toward her with interest, their tails thumping on the floor. She smiled at them instead of at Jack. “Did you enjoy the story?”

“It’s fun. Brave, resourceful kids right at the center of the action. Grown-ups on the sidelines if they’re there at all.”

“Children like that…a chance to feel like the powerful ones.” The more they talked, the less Liz could concentrate on what they were saying. Jack wore a dark gray sweater that drew her attention to his eyes and his fair skin. He must have just shaved—his face looked smooth. She found that she wanted to touch it, to let her fingertips drift along his cheek.

His hand came up to his chin. “Have I left some breakfast on my face?”

Liz flushed. She had always been a tactile person. It was all right most of the time—shopping for bedding or towels, admiring the grain of an oak door, trailing her hand in the water—but definitely not a tendency to indulge when returning pie plates to her grandmother’s neighbor. “Was I staring? Sorry. It’s a bad habit. After all that effort as a child learning not to do it, they encourage it in art school.” She went on, blurting out the truth. “I was just thinking you must have been a beautiful little boy.”

His quick, assessing expression had nothing to do with fairies or knights of the Round Table. “I don’t know about that. I heard a lot of complaints about my unwashed neck.”

“Mothers are like that.”

“My uncle, actually.” Abruptly, he stood. “More coffee?”

“I still have lots.” She’d been savoring it, letting the caffeine drip slowly down her throat and directly into her bloodstream. She followed him as far as the doorway and watched while he prepared another cup for himself. He’d been relaxed and friendly, with an enjoyable trace of something more. Now his back was one big Do Not Disturb sign. “I was so grateful for your help at the barbecue. You didn’t wait for an explanation. You just…stepped in.”

Jack leaned against the counter, refilled mug in hand. “No problem.” His stiffness was already disappearing. “We had fun when things settled down. I got the feeling I was missing something, though. Everyone was smiling and visiting and saying how wonderful it was that you were home, but there was an undercurrent I didn’t understand.”

Newcomer or not, Liz was surprised no one had filled him in. “A bit of tension is to be expected after all this time. I could have used a couple of quiet days between the trip and the barbecue. You know how it is before a holiday.”

“The last minute stuff?”

“No matter how organized you try to be, something always crops up.”

“What happened this time?”

She wasn’t sure if he was really interested or just relieved that they weren’t talking about him anymore. “Breakfast was the first problem. I had to get rid of all the perishable stuff in the fridge, so I ate a half carton of beef in black bean sauce, a slice of mushroom pizza and a scoop of potato salad.”

“That’s what the garbage can’s for, Liz.”

“I’ll try to remember that. Then I made a quick trip to the pharmacy for antacids and before they’d even had a chance to work I cornered my landlord and risked his disfavor by reminding him about the window in my kitchen that doesn’t close all the way. A lot of rain, gray squirrels and burglars can get into an empty apartment in two weeks. I left him muttering about rent increases and headed to the airport, but on the way I stopped at my publisher’s to hand-deliver the manuscript and illustrations for my new book.”

“It doesn’t sound as if life’s all that much better in Vancouver. Chaos with a view.”

“And then there was the drive—”

“And the car—”

“And the deer at the side of the road.”

“Anyone would think you didn’t want to get here.”

Liz stared at him. Of course she’d wanted to get here.

“You must have a really good reason for staying away.”

The comment would have surprised her, coming from a man who didn’t like to talk about his own private life, but he didn’t seem to be asking for information. He was just noticing. He almost sounded protective. Something warm and pleasant stirred inside her. “Going to put me in a pumpkin shell?”

He looked baffled. She’d meant him to laugh.

“Mother Goose. Remember? Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater…”

“I don’t know much about children’s literature. That’s your department.”

“I thought everyone had those rhymes embedded in their brains. Peter puts his wife in a pumpkin shell and keeps her very well…” No expression of sudden recognition came over his face. “Your concern made me think of that. It was just a joke.” He was looking at her as if she was the silliest person he’d ever met. “Some people think political messages were hidden in the rhymes. In those days you couldn’t just write an editorial.”

“Sort of a code. That’s interesting.”

“Does it have to be useful to be worth talking about? Can’t it just be fun?”

“Codes are fun.”

“Right. They’re math, Jack.”

“Not always. Sometimes they’re a silly rhyme.”

“You’re hard to peg.”

“Are you trying to peg me?”

“Don’t look so pleased. It’s nothing personal. It’s what writers do.”

“All in a day’s work?”

“That’s right. In fact, I’m thinking of doing something with a pumpkin grower next, maybe a variation on the Cinderella theme. The hero could be a fairy king, incognito, or the modern version of a fairy, an alien. Instead of a carriage, the pumpkin could become a spaceship…no, I guess that’s too corny.” He looked horrified at the thought of having a character based on him. Most people liked it. “Don’t worry. You’re safe for a while. I can’t work here.”

“Why’s that?”

Because it’s a narrow-minded, destructive place. “Oh, I don’t know. Too many distractions. I’ll be gone soon, though. Grandma and I should be able to organize things in another week. If not, Emily could help.”

“You’re eager to get back to Vancouver?”

“The sooner, the better.” Trying to sound less vehement, she added, “A couple of weeks away from my own life is enough. Oh! I almost forgot. My grandmother’s hoping you can come for dinner tomorrow.”

“I’m afraid not. I’ll be in Brandon until late.”

“Saturday, then? Be warned—I’m cooking.”

“Sounds good. What can I bring?”

“Besides dinner?” She smiled. “Just yourself.” She put her mug down on the kitchen table. “I’ve kept you from your wires long enough. Thanks for the coffee.”

Halfway to the trees, she turned to look at the house. Jack was still at the kitchen window watching them go. In spite of his tendency to raise the drawbridge without a moment’s notice, she felt good when she was with him. Was she doing what she always did? She tended to see more than was really there when she first met men. It was nice at first, but it led to disappointment down the road.

JACK WATCHED LIZ DISAPPEAR into the woods. Even wearing jeans and running shoes, and with the dogs for company, she looked as if she belonged in the city. Her walk gave her away. You could see she was used to well-tended parks, not overgrown, twisting paths.

He’d almost invited her to go to Brandon with him. A novel date, shopping for farm machinery. It was just that every time they talked, he didn’t want the conversation to end. Not because of her looks. Green eyes, fair skin, spicy hair, willowy body, that dreamy, off in the distance expression that made him want to go after her or pull her back…nope. He could resist all that without any trouble. Well, without much trouble. What got to him was how easily she trusted him, even though she hardly knew him. That, and the tenderness he’d seen between her and Eleanor.

Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater. Now that the words had percolated for a few minutes, they sounded familiar. His grade one teacher was always making them play with their fingers, spiders going up spouts and dickie birds flying here and there. Maybe she had recited Liz’s rhyme. Miss…he couldn’t remember. She’d loved that stuff. Plums, candlesticks, clocks. No wonder Liz unsettled him. You shouldn’t be attracted to someone who reminded you of your grade one teacher.

He picked up a Phillips screwdriver and tried to remember how far he’d got with the project on his table. Hardware wasn’t his specialty. Daniel’s penciled instructions looked more like directions to Pine Point than a system of electrical wires. “It’s as easy as pie,” Daniel had said—absolutely deadpan and professional, but Jack knew it was a crack about his baking.

LIZ AND EMILY SPRAWLED on the living room floor surrounded by albums and boxes of photographs.

“I won’t have room for all of these,” Eleanor said. “I suppose the rest of you would take some? I’d hate to throw them away.”

“Of course we’ll all take some!” Liz exclaimed. “We’d never throw away photos.”

“It’s the saddest thing—I don’t know if you’ve ever seen this—someone’s family pictures in a secondhand store. A young man you don’t know in a fine mustache and straw boater, fishing. A row of children in their Sunday best, solemn before the camera. And people buy them for some reason.” Eleanor touched a picture of her brother in his RCAF uniform. “I’d hate it if that happened to these.”

“No one will ever take your photos to a secondhand store,” Emily said. “We won’t throw them away, either, not even the blurry ones or the ones of strangers. And especially not ones like this.” She held up a picture of a young woman in an evening dress, satiny material clinging to her curves. “Don’t tell me that’s you.”

“That’s me.”

“You didn’t wear that, Grandma!”

“I did! I saw a dress just like it in a magazine and set my heart on it. I knew I wouldn’t be allowed to have something so…well, sophisticated, shall we say? So I made it myself. From the lining of my bedroom curtains.”

Liz and Emily laughed, trying to imagine their practical grandmother ruining curtains in an effort to look glamorous.

Eleanor’s face was warm with the memory. “I went out the back door, wearing my everyday dress in case my parents saw me, and changed in the storehouse, if you can imagine that. Me, in my underclothes, in the storehouse! I was sure every sound I heard was my father coming to catch me. My friend waited in his car, just out of sight of the house and we went to a dance in Pine Point. The dress was completely wrong for the occasion. It would have been more suited to sprawling on a chaise lounge with a cigarette holder in hand, but I didn’t care.”

“My grandmother, a wild, disobedient girl?” Liz shook her head.

Eleanor looked pleased. “I wasn’t wild. I was an absolutely normal girl. It was the rules that were unreasonable.”

“Who was the friend?” Emily asked. “Was it Grandpa?”

“It was a while yet before I starting seeing your grandfather.” Eleanor’s face softened. “This was someone else entirely.”

“Was he your true love?” Liz asked. Unthinkable if Grandpa wasn’t.

“I don’t know about that. Certainly my first love.”

“You’re being mysterious,” Emily said. “Who was it? Spill, Grandma.”

Eleanor just raised her eyebrows and went back to sorting photos, smiling faintly.

Who could it have been? Liz wondered. Some rakish stranger, chugging down the road in a shiny two-seater roadster? A movie star, or some English aristocrat, or even the Prince of Wales, on his way to his ranch in Alberta?

It was clear Eleanor didn’t plan to tell them more, so Liz went back to leafing through the photo album on her lap. The Robbs took the same pictures every year. Children on ponies. Children leaning over cakes, blowing out three, then six, then eleven candles. The family sitting around the table at Christmas, everyone wearing new blouses or new sweaters, everyone with forks near their mouths.

Her hand stopped. There, at the bottom of the page, next to pictures of herself and Tom, was a small shot of Andy. “Grandma?”

“Hmm?”

“You have a picture of Andy.”

“Of course. He was a member of the family.”

Liz took a deep breath to ease the sudden tightness in her chest. “No one else thought so. Mom and Dad thought he was a mistake.”

“I’m sure they didn’t,” Emily protested. “They were just surprised.”

“He was a sweet boy,” Eleanor said. “I liked Andrew.”

Liz blinked a few times. They would be so embarrassed if she started to cry.

Eleanor set aside the photographs on her lap. “I think we’ve had enough sorting for this evening. Tea?”

Emily jumped up. “I’ll make it. I’ll even make toast.”

Stepping over boxes, Liz carried the album she’d been holding to the hutch cupboard. “Leave the boxes, Grandma. I’ll get them.”

“In that case, I’ll help your cousin.”

When she heard her grandmother’s footsteps in the kitchen, Liz reopened the album, easily finding the page with Andy’s photograph. He looked younger than she remembered. They had been sure they were all grown up, eager to jump into their lives, impatient with the restrictions put in their way. But his cheeks were smooth, still slightly rounded. It wasn’t a man’s face.

She hadn’t packed any pictures of him when she’d left Three Creeks. She’d gone quickly, hardly thinking, leaving most of her things behind. Andy was so much with her then, real and vivid, she never would have believed she’d need a picture to remember him. Somehow, unbelievably, the details of his face had slipped her mind. Whenever she’d tried to draw him after the first year, he’d looked like a stranger, someone observed in a crowd.

“Liz? Tea’s ready.”

“Coming!” She slipped the photo into the pocket of her jeans before putting the boxes and albums away.