Читать книгу Blue Ridge Hideaway - Cynthia Thomason - Страница 12

CHAPTER FOUR

DORIE USED A thick slice of bread to soak up the last of the gravy in the bottom of her bowl. “This came out of a can?” she said when she realized Bret was staring at her, an amused expression on his face. Let him laugh if he wanted to. It wasn’t a crime to be hungry.

“Sure did. Got it at the big box store in Asheville the last time I went for supplies.

“Well, it’s good.”

The wine was good, too. Dorie had been surprised when Bret had brought out the bottle and two glasses. She’d smiled at the images of moose on the tumblers—the glasses were definitely more suited to iced tea or, as in Clancy’s case, a frothy serving of Guinness.

Bret held the bottle over Dorie’s glass, but she covered the opening with her hand. “No more for me. I need a clear head to deal with the Donovan men.”

He added an inch or two to his own glass. “Oh, come on. You don’t think we’re all that scary, do you?”

“No, I guess not.” But this place is. She stared out the window to the exterior of the porch where a single exposed lightbulb attracted hardy insects not burrowed in somewhere against the cold. Beyond the porch, the woods were black. “Does it always get so dark up here?” she asked.

“On this side of the mountain, yes. On the other side, the direction the sun sets, it stays lighter a bit longer. But this is the country. We don’t exactly have streetlights on every corner. We don’t even have corners.”

She definitely wasn’t used to outdoor living of this magnitude. Living so close to the beach when she was growing up, Dorie had gone to the ocean nearly every day, but then her mother had run off, and at eighteen, Dorie had suddenly been in charge. Her beach visits had become less frequent. The brief note her mom had left saying she was sorry, and they’d be better off without her hadn’t excused her abandonment in Dorie’s mind.

But the small wood-framed cottage her mother had purchased for the family worked just fine for Dorie and Jack and, amazingly, had been paid off a couple of years before Linda Howe’s departure. Dorie had had to borrow against the house on a couple of occasions, and she’d only been late on her loan payments a few times. Though built in the fifties, the bungalow was Dorie’s pride. The house wouldn’t last forever in the punishing sea air, but she kept the appliances up and regularly painted and repaired what needed attention. And she enjoyed the lights that illuminated her street every night.

She casually stretched to cover any sign that the darkness bothered her. Then she picked up her bowl and glass and headed toward the kitchen.

Bret rose and took the dishes from her. “I’ll take care of this.” Glancing at Clancy, he said, “On second thought, Pop, the least you can do is clean up.”

“I suppose I could.” Clancy stacked the dishes and went into the kitchen.

Dorie put on her jacket. She didn’t look forward to going outside in the cold but she needed a bag from her truck. Luckily she’d packed a change of clothes and a few grooming products just in case.

Bret gave her a quizzical look. “Where are you going? I thought we’d decided you’d stay here. I really don’t think you should drive on that road tonight.”

She almost smiled. “Worried about me, junior?”

“I’d worry about anyone foolish enough to attempt that narrow path in conditions like these.”

“Well, don’t be. I’m not going anywhere. Despite your announcement of a possible plan, we didn’t actually come up with a solution that works for me.” She fumbled with her zipper. “But a girl can only carry so much in her pocket. Mine was used for mace, so I have to get my toothbrush out of my truck.”

“Want me to go with you?”

“You’re offering to escort me a few feet out your door? I don’t think so, junior. I’m not afraid of a few fireflies.” Lies, all lies. In Dorie’s mind there could be plenty of larger creatures out there that would scare the daylights out of her.

“Leave the door open and yell out if you need me.” He covered her hand with his and helped yank the stubborn zipper to her neck. When the pulse in her wrist quickened, she pulled her hand free.

“I’m glad you’re staying,” he said.

“Yeah, well, I’m hoping you’re my fairy godfather and you’re going to slip five thousand dollars under my pillow tonight.”

“I don’t exactly keep five grand in small bills around this place,” he said.

“And I don’t believe in fairy tales.”

She went out the door and, without looking in any direction other than her truck, she dashed off the porch and flung open the passenger door. With one quick swipe, she had her pack under her arm and was running back.

Bret had settled at the picnic table again and was rubbing his thigh much as he’d done before. She set her pack on the table and sat across from him.

“What’s wrong with your leg?” she asked, surprised that she might actually care.

“Job-related injury. I’m still in recovery mode.”

“Related to your painting-and-scraping job or your cop job?”

“The latter.”

“So were you a cop here in North Carolina?” She thought that because of Jack’s involvement in a shooting, that might be an important detail to know. Maybe this ex-cop was one of the good ones, and she could actually tell him why she needed the money and how Jack had been treated so unfairly by the police in Winston Beach. On the other hand, maybe he was part of some brotherhood of North Carolina cops and wouldn’t feel a bit of sympathy for Jack. Because the local police believed Jack was guilty, Bret automatically would, as well.

“Miami,” he said without adding details.

“And so you gave up the excitement of police work in a city like Miami, Florida, to commune with nature?”

“I moved here because I wasn’t crazy about working a desk job,” he said. “Among other reasons.”

Earlier, she’d come up with a few explanations for his hermitlike existence—an unfavorable internal affairs incident at his old job, a love gone sour or being stalked by a vengeful parolee he’d put away. Now, hearing this scant bit of information, she figured he was in the mountains because he’d suffered an injury and could no longer serve as an active-duty police officer. That had to be tough.

“So what is your purpose here?” she asked. “Besides peeling off old paint?”

“That’s just part of what I’ve done to this place,” he said. “And what I still need to do. The Crooked Spruce is more or less the realization of a dream of mine. I don’t know if you looked around when you first drove up, but the property extends for a couple of acres. There are a few rudimentary cabins out back of this one. An old bathhouse and a shed. The buildings are pretty weathered but still stable enough.”

Once she’d arrived on Crooked Spruce property, she hadn’t seen anything but the main building and Bret Donovan up on the ladder. Still, after Bret’s description, she didn’t think she’d missed much. “So this really was an old Boy-Scout camp?” she said.

He nodded. “It was closed down almost thirty years ago when attendance fell off. The state of North Carolina took over the deed and held on to the acreage. Why, I don’t know. They didn’t do much to beautify the place. But I guess even the minimal upkeep needed to stop the structures from falling down wasn’t justified, so some bureaucrat up in Raleigh convinced the state to put the place up for sale about a year ago.”

“And you bought it?”

“I did.”

“Cops make pretty good money in Miami, I guess.”

“We make a little higher than the national average, but I had only saved enough for a down payment on the property.” He leveled his index finger against his brow. “I’m up to here in mortgage debt. And I’ve just about maxed out my credit cards.”

She was sorry to hear that, for Jack’s sake, but couldn’t help pointing out the obvious. “But you had enough to loan Clancy three grand when he needed it.”

“Yeah. I wish I still had it. I didn’t realize how much fixing this place up would set me back. If I had that three grand now I’d hire plumbers and carpenters, and other experts who wouldn’t have to dance around the code-enforcement guys.” He shook his head. “Never mind. I’m learning a lot thanks to the library of do-it-yourself books I’ve collected in the past few months. And they know me pretty well at the Home Depot.”

“I guess you’re not planning on bringing back the Boy Scouts.”

“Not hardly. The Boy Scouts haven’t been interested in this property in years. No reason to think they would be now.”

Dorie looked around the lodge room. “This must have been the main structure.”

“Yep. The kitchen was here when I bought the place. I put in the fireplace and shelves and bought the furniture.”

“It’s kind of a shame, you know,” Dorie said. “I would think all this woodsy-ness and outdoor living would still attract young people. But I read somewhere that there aren’t as many Boy Scouts as there used to be.”

“I read that, too.”

“Too bad,” she said. “In my opinion, that leaves a void that should be filled somehow. Kids need guidance, even if it’s not from a parent.” She paused. “Especially if they don’t have parents.” She thought of Jack and how staying in a place like this might have helped him on his road to adulthood. Under the mentorship of a good adult he might have learned responsibility and finished high school. He might have been saved.

“Maybe so, but it won’t be filled by me. I’m catering to an entirely different clientele. Grown-ups with money, I hope.”

She stared out the window where the bugs had increased in number and were circling the lightbulb in a frenetic search for warmth. Right. Rich people with designer insect repellent were going to flock to this backwoods location. “You know, junior, this isn’t exactly the Ritz-Carlton.”

He frowned. “Would you quit calling me junior? I told you my name’s Bret.”

“Okay, Bret.”

“And this wasn’t meant to be the Ritz-Carlton. It’s an outpost.”

“Which is what exactly?”

He explained the dual purpose of his camp. An outpost was a sort of refuge for folks on the trail, a spot where they could shower and sleep one night in a bed. But The Crooked Spruce would also serve as an outfitter’s store, a place where hikers could purchase gear they had forgotten or suddenly decided they needed.

“So what’s your plan for attracting the jet-set crowd?” she asked.

“I’m planning to cash in on one of the latest fads of corporate ladder climbers.”

She snickered. “What fad is that? CEOs like freeze-dried food and sleeping bags now?”

He shrugged. “As a matter of fact, they do. Believe it or not, Dorie, guys like to prove their mettle on the open trail under seemingly harsh conditions.”

“Seemingly harsh?”

“Oh, sure. The weather, the setting, the wildlife. All that can be harsh, but comfort is only a matter of the gear you invest in.”

“And where do you find these adventurous CEOs?”

He proceeded to tell her how he hoped to market his new enterprise by saturating the internet with advertising about his Blue Ridge Mountain outback experience. He’d started to put together a list of sites frequented by over-stressed executives and people looking for a different vacation experience, one that got them about as far away from city life as possible.

“This part of the Blue Ridge, what’s called the old Timber Gap Trail, is just far enough from the well-traveled Appalachian Trail to be tempting to men wanting to hone their survival skills,” he explained. “On this mountain you won’t find campers every few hundred yards, so the guys who’ll come here are on their own until they hit The Crooked Spruce.”

“And you think that’s what the modern executive is after?” She gave him a skeptical look. “What makes you think the Caribbean or Europe isn’t their destination of choice?”

His eyes burned with a secret enthusiasm she had yet to fathom. “Look at all the reality shows on TV now,” he said. “Bosses disguising themselves as workers, millionaires going into ghettos, normal suburbanites taking on survival experiences. I’m telling you, the modern man secretly yearns to explore his wild side.”

His excitement might have been infectious, but no way did Dorie believe folks used to comfort and convenience would enjoy trekking across a mountain that barely allowed her pickup to climb it. Still, she had seen some of those television shows and the guys who attempted a less civilized life didn’t want to come across as weak.

“Maybe those execs you hope to attract will get a kick out of a night or two under the stars,” she said. “But I’m thinking that when their tootsies start to chafe in the cold and they find something curled up next to them in a sleeping bag, they’ll hightail it back to Asheville.”

“That’s where the outfitter plan comes in,” Bret said. He pointed to the shelves lining one wall. “I’m going to fill those shelves with everything the guys might have neglected to buy in the first place, or replacements for anything that proved disappointing.” He enumerated on the fingers of his left hand. “All kinds of camping gear, warm clothing, meal packs, tools...”

“Snake antivenom.”

He ignored the comment. “Sleeping bags...”

“Three-hundred-dollar sleeping bags, I’ll bet,” she said.

“Right. And once the cabins are fixed up, I’ll have the facilities for warm beds and hot meals.” He leaned forward, his gaze intent on her face. “It’s my firm conviction, and my hope, that once the city boys get partway down the trail, they’ll spend whatever they have to in order to make it all the way to trail’s end and not come off looking like they don’t have what it takes.”

“So the success of your little venture depends on the macho stubbornness of your customers combined with an inbred inability to adapt to this environment.” She raised her eyebrows and added, “And the extravagant use of their credit cards.”

He gave her an admiring stare, apparently impressed that she’d zeroed in on the brilliance of his plan right away. In a way, the idea was brilliant if one didn’t consider that Bret Donovan had inherited the same scheming genes that dominated his father’s actions. But at least junior’s plan was legal, and he was only bilking those who could afford it.

“You think it will work?” he asked.

He wanted her opinion? Well, okay. She had one. “Maybe. There could be enough Paul Bunyan wannabes out there who might find your wilderness experience satisfying.” He started to respond, but she held up her hand. “But, honestly? I just don’t see the point.”

“What do you mean?”

She considered not telling him. She didn’t want to make an enemy of Bret Donovan. She needed him to make good on his father’s debt, but he had asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “I was just thinking that this place probably was a pretty good Boy Scout camp.”

“I imagine so,” he said. “And I don’t disagree with you that places like The Crooked Spruce could help shape young lives. I’ve seen enough troubled kids in my former profession who might have benefited from the responsibility and work ethic that a youth camp could provide, but I’ve moved on from that life and its problems. And I wasn’t responsible for the Boy Scouts leaving. So if they don’t want to come here anymore, why shouldn’t I take advantage of what they left behind?

“Bottom line,” he said. “The Crooked Spruce is mine now. I need to make a living, and this is what I want to do. This may have been a decent Boy Scout camp, but it’s going to be an even better outfitters.”

“Yes, it will. Still it’s kind of a shame....”

“Dorie, I can’t fix people. Lately I’ve barely been able to fix myself.”

She shrugged. “Fine. Good luck. Now where do you suggest I bunk tonight?”

“Pop and I sleep on the second floor. But you’ll be staying in the spare room down here.” He pointed toward the hallway where she’d gone to use the bathroom. “It’s the last door down on the right. Technically it’s a storeroom right now, but there’s a bed in there. Not fancy, but it’s clean. You can use the bathroom down here and avoid bumping into Pop and me.”

“All right.”

He walked slowly to the kitchen, favoring his right leg. Obviously the inactivity of the past few minutes had affected him. Before going in, he stopped and turned back to her. “I hope we can work this out,” he said. “What happened to you isn’t right.”

“We agree on that.” She waited for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, she said, “So you never told me what’s wrong with your leg.”

He paused as if debating whether or not to tell her. Finally he sighed and said, “A few months ago, when I was still a cop, I got shot in a botched liquor-store robbery.”

She couldn’t control her reaction. A startled cry came from her throat.

“I know,” he said. “Sounds like a cliché, doesn’t it? Liquor-store robbery in the middle of the night. But it happened. And I got a bullet in my thigh for my troubles.”

Her mind flashed back to the details of Jack’s case. A convenience store robbery. Three teenagers. One gun. A downed store clerk. She flinched.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he said, misinterpreting her reaction. “I’m getting better every day. You know the worst part? The shooter only got a light sentence. He’ll be out in three years if he doesn’t screw up.”

He stared around the room, a faraway look in his eyes. “So, yeah, The Crooked Spruce used to be a Boy Scout camp, but here’s some irony for you that came out in the trial. The guy who popped me was once an eagle scout. Had more medals than a five-star general. Guess you never can tell about people.”

She didn’t know how to respond. It was a crazy bit of irony.

He could have gone into the kitchen, but instead he held up one finger. “One more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“You got anything against kids?”

“Of course not. Why?”

“My ten-year-old son’s due back tomorrow. He’s been staying with my sister over spring break from school. He’s a good boy. Quiet. Won’t bother you too much.”

“I don’t have a problem with that...if I’m still around when he gets here.”

“Okay, then. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

Dorie looked at the door after Bret had closed it. Questions flooded her mind. How did a ten-year-old like living on this mountain? Where was the boy’s mother? What kind of a father was Bret? She came to the same conclusion she often did about children who lived with only one parent. They were luckier than those who had none at all.