Читать книгу The Husband Project - Kristine Rolofson, Kristine Rolofson - Страница 10

CHAPTER THREE

CONTRARY TO THE MESSAGES he was receiving on Twitter, the posts on Facebook and the texts on his cell phone, Jerry Thompson was not harboring an escaped criminal inside his rental property.

Jerry fumed as he drove down Main Street late Saturday night. The lengths his constituents would go to avoid minding their own business never ceased to amaze him. He wasn’t in the habit of renting homes to questionable tenants, and he was as committed to keeping peace in his town as the county sheriff. So why was he getting those messages? What had happened to privacy? To benefit of the doubt? To the right to do business?

And what happened to the guy who was supposed to plow out his driveway?

Two words, George Martin had typed. Witness Protection.

Myth, he’d texted back. He’d heard that old story twenty times since he’d moved here. A mobster with a big mouth sent by the Feds to Willing to hide out until some supposed trial. But the guy had been too aggressive about his privacy and tried to run over a neighbor with his snowmobile. He’d disappeared after a brief court date in Lewistown and was never seen again. That was back when Gary Petersen still worked at the co-op and had sworn the stranger had no credit record and must have been living here under an assumed name.

Psychopath? Background? another text said.

All okay, had been his response. When had Meg Ripley turned into such a worrier?

Who is Hove? Aurora had sent that.

Writer! had been his reply. She wouldn’t believe him anyway.

Mean to Mrs. Swallow, Kim Petersen, one of Gary’s twin granddaughters, texted. With pictures of the guy in the snow surrounded by firewood.

Jerry replied with a Don’t worry text and knew he’d have more messages on his home phone. Marie Swallow had most likely called him ten times.

So his renter, if not dead of hypothermia or a victim of Neighborhood Watch, had gone from being a perfectly sane travel writer—if writers of any kind could be considered perfectly sane—to a psychopath thief with a possible head injury. He hoped the guy wouldn’t sue him.

Jerry was no stranger to drama and excitement, having activated the desire to gain publicity for Willing by attracting reality television to the town. More drama and excitement were coming. The last thing he needed were distractions, especially now that the bachelors were ready for dating and, he’d just learned yesterday in Los Angeles that Sweetheart Productions was primed for making a TV show.

He had to park in the street. It was dark, close to midnight and really, really cold. Bone-chilling and windy. The snow had stopped falling, but what looked like two feet of it lay piled up in front of his house, a huge Victorian that faced the small public park and boasted the only stained-glass windows in town. Built by a prospector who’d left South Dakota a rich man, the house had been intended for a fiancée who’d died of influenza before arriving in Willing for the wedding. Jerry bought it from its fourth owners, a gay couple from Oregon who loved the house but not the winters. Jerry loved everything about the beautifully restored home except that he lived there by himself.

He grabbed his suitcase and his laptop case, trudged across the lawn, up three wide steps and stopped in front of his door. A few minutes later he was inside, his boots kicked off onto a thick mat, his coat hung on one of the hooks placed near the door. He switched on a light, boosted the thermostat and welcomed himself home with two sips of single malt Scotch and a peanut butter sandwich.

Tomorrow he’d have to come up with some way to introduce his renter to the general population, which meant a breakfast at Meg’s. Sam Hove was a bit of a mystery. He’d said he was a writer who required a quiet place to work. He’d listed his occupation as a producer and director of travel films. How the heck could that be remotely suspicious? Jerry was looking forward to meeting the guy and hearing some interesting stories. Come to think of it, Sam Hove might be an attractive bachelor for the show. He could add a little international class that was missing in Willing.

No, bad idea. He’d likely overshadow the local men, and the show was all about Montana men looking for love. Sam Hove wasn’t looking for anything but big fish to catch and weird animals to film.

Mike could do an interview with him. That was easy enough to arrange. The rumors would stop, the holidays would keep everyone occupied, and then Jerry could go back to the really important matter of saving the town.

* * *

SAM DIDN’T HAVE the slightest idea where he was. He thought about opening his eyes, but even that small movement seemed like too much work. He thought he’d simply lie there in the queen-size bed and enjoy the warm blankets weighing him down. He was warm and out of the weather, two very good things.

Sam knew enough not to move. The ache banding his chest was a constant reminder to be careful. His head throbbed and his nose was cold.

Nose cold? Ah. Montana. The old lady’s house with the woodstove.

The wild kids. The barking dog.

The annoyingly beautiful neighbor.

Lasagna.

It was all coming back to him. The food was the only positive memory, though. Little Mrs. Swallow made a lasagna to remember. She’d also built a fire to heat his house, which he realized he should now do something about. He opened his eyes and, looking at the watch he’d worn to bed, saw that it was a few minutes after nine. In the morning.

Twenty minutes later he’d managed to add some logs, coax the fire into a roar and start a pot of coffee. There was, as Lucia Swallow had said, coffee in the freezer. He wrapped a lavender blanket around him and gazed out the kitchen window while he waited for the coffee to be ready. He’d never seen snow like this. He’d grown up in Florida, lived in England for a while, spent most of his time in South America. He knew monsoons, but blizzards? Not so much. He wanted to buy snowshoes and explore, but he’d have to heal first.

He was supposed to stay inside and work. Let his ribs knit. Plan the next project. Sam looked at the snow piled high in the backyard and realized someone had shoveled a path to the woodshed. But it wasn’t his woodshed and it wasn’t his wood.

Somehow the knock on the front door didn’t surprise him. Neither did the man standing on the porch. He was of medium height, tanned and wore a big smile, as if he and Sam were old friends.

“Jerry Thompson?” Sam guessed, opening the door to let him in.

“Yeah. Good morning.” He shook Sam’s hand and grinned. “Welcome to Willing. It’s great to finally meet you in person.”

He stopped on the plastic mat just inside the door after closing it.

Sam took a step back. “Come on in.”

“I won’t stay long.” He glanced down at his snow-packed boots. “Don’t want to track all over the carpet.”

“I just made coffee,” Sam said. “And I haven’t had any yet.”

“I don’t want to intrude.” But he was already bending over to remove his boots, so Sam assumed the guy was staying. “I just wanted to see if you needed anything, had any questions, any problems with the house.”

“I’m going to need firewood, according to the woman next door. I don’t think she wants me to keep using hers.” He opened two cabinets before finding coffee mugs. He’d expected floral tea cups, but he found serviceable white mugs instead.

“Lucia? She won’t mind till you get your own.” Jerry followed him into the kitchen. “I heard you met.”

“Yesterday.” He didn’t elaborate. He poured two cups of coffee and handed one to Jerry. “I hope you like your coffee black. I don’t have any food yet.”

“No problem. You saw the note I left? You can call Hip for wood. He’s also our resident artist and EMT.”

“Theo’s cousin?”

“Yep.”

“I’ll phone him this morning. You want to take your coat off?”

“Well, sure,” Jerry said, turning back to the living room. “I stopped by to see if you wanted to have breakfast. If not this morning, then any morning when you’re up to it. You could meet some of the folks here in town.”

“I’m not really here to—”

“People in Willing always like to welcome someone new,” he said. “Most of the time.”

Sam eyed the old couch and decided not to chance it, but Jerry set his coffee on the glass table, tossed his thick blue parka on the couch and made himself comfortable amid the fringed pillows. Sam eased himself into the recliner and hoped he’d be able to get out of it without screaming in pain.

“How do you like the place?”

An interesting question. “It’s, uh, fine. Did Mrs. Kelly have any family?”

“No, not a soul. I bought the house from the estate. She left everything to the Methodist Church and they sold it to me. Lock, stock and barrel.” He looked around the living room with some satisfaction. “Totally furnished, which is what you requested. I had Shelly—she lives in one of the cabins at the café, you’ll see them when you eat there—clean out the clothes and personal items, but we left the rest to keep it homey. The church took the canned goods for the food bank.” He glanced at his mug. “Except the coffee, I guess. It lasts forever in the freezer. You can hire Shelly to clean and do errands, if you want. She’s reasonable and can use the money.”

Sam liked the sound of that. “Can I hire her to get some food for me?”

“Probably not. She broke her arm a few weeks back and I don’t know if she’s driving. I’ll give you her number. There’s a little market, more of a convenience store— Thompson’s, no relation—on Main Street across from the library. They do real estate, too, if you decide you want to buy something. Anyway, the market doesn’t deliver, but you can walk there. How are you doing? I thought you had a broken arm.”

“Cracked ribs,” Sam said, figuring his injuries would get him out of interacting with people. He wanted to do nothing more than write the damn book and feel sorry for himself. “And a bit of trouble with my heart. I was— Well, never mind.” He didn’t want to go into the details. He felt stupid enough as it was.

“No car? Or you can’t drive?”

“Both, for now.”

“I heard you had a little trouble yesterday.” The redheaded mayor took another sip of the coffee and grinned at him. “Stealing wood from Lucia.”

“Ah,” Sam said. “She’s already complained?”

Jerry laughed and shook his head. “Twitter. You saw the babysitter? Thumbs like a machine, according to her grandfather.”

Sam’s head began to throb. “I mistook the shed for mine.”

“The photo of you in the snow was grim, but now that I know you’re okay—”

“Photo?”

“Told you,” Jerry said. “The kid’s technologically advanced. But I guess they all are these days. Sorry.” He reached into his pocket, which was buzzing, and retrieved a cell phone. “Hello?”

Sam drank the rest of his coffee as fast as he could without burning the inside of his mouth. He needed the caffeine. He also needed food. Lots of food. Enough food to last him until the first of April, when he could leave this place and go back to his day job.

“It’s fine,” Jerry was reassuring someone. “He’s okay, a perfectly nice guy. I’m here with him right now.”

So the incident yesterday had been blabbed all over town. Typical, of course. Sam had lived in villages along the Amazon and knew how fast news traveled.

“Tell you what,” Jerry said, radiating good cheer and agreeableness. “He and I are going to have breakfast.” He paused to listen. “Where else? You can meet him then.” Another pause. “Well, okay, next week then.” Pause. “Yeah, that’s Thursday at seven. You got the email.”

Sam heard Jerry say ”Fine” and “No problem” a few more times before Jerry clicked his phone shut and apologized. “Sorry. Member of the town council.”

“It’s okay,” Sam said. “I imagine you’re a busy man.”

“I just returned from L.A., as a matter of fact.” He set his coffee mug on the mahogany coffee table. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard about our town project.”

“Uh, no.” Sam’s headache intensified, as did the ache in his chest. He really, really didn’t want to hear about the town project, whatever it was. Had he seen half a loaf of bread in the freezer? Was there any lasagna left? “Where did you say the market was, Jerry?”

“Two blocks away, around the corner on Main. But it’s closed on Sundays in the winter.”

“Damn.”

“What do you need?”

“Food, of any kind. I’ll call Theo and see if—”

“Hold on a sec.” He opened the phone and hit a number. A few seconds later he said, “Hey, Luce. It’s me, Jerry.” Pause. “Great. I’ll have a meeting Thursday to update everyone— Yeah, I’m home.” Pause, with a glance at Sam. “Thanks for doing that. Hey, you’re going into Lewistown today, right?” Pause. “What time?”

Luce? It didn’t take a genius to understand that Jerry was talking to the black-haired neighbor.

“Can you pick up some groceries for my renter while you’re there?” Pause. “Just the basics, I guess. He can give you a list.”

Sam caught Jerry’s eye and shook his head. Oh, man, he didn’t want to give her a list. He didn’t want her to do him any more favors. He didn’t want to be in her debt any more than he was, despite the fact that her kids and her dog cost him a painful night.

Okay, he’d slipped first, at the beginning of the attack. And he’d hit his own head on the wood when he fell. And he’d yelled, although more out of frustration with his own weakness than in pain. He’d been rude, which wasn’t how he usually conducted himself.

He was sure she was a very nice person—he knew she was, because she’d built up the fire and brought him dinner even after he’d yelled at her children. He expected her husband to knock on the rear door and tell him to back off. He would definitely apologize. Grovel, even. Because he would be living here for three months and maybe she’d make lasagna again.

“What do you want? Eggs? Meat? Milk? Bread? What?” Jerry asked.

“I don’t want to put her to any trouble.”

Jerry ignored him and spoke into the phone. “He doesn’t want to put you out. Just get him the basics, enough for a couple of days. I’ll drive him into Lewistown later in the week if he’s up to it. Okay?” Pause. “Thanks.”

He flicked the phone shut once again, tucked it into his pocket and picked up his coffee mug. “There, you’re all set.”

Sam realized he’d had no input in this. Frustrating. “I didn’t want to bother her,” he reiterated.

“No bother,” Jerry said. “She goes into town every Sunday to take her mother-in-law to church. They were just leaving. If she couldn’t do it, I’d drive over there myself. Can’t have my new tenant starving to death.”

“I don’t want Mrs. Swallow running errands for me.”

“Mrs. Swallow is her mother-in-law. You’re talking about Lucia, the goddess of baking.”

“The what?” First the “pie lady,” now a goddess. An interesting neighbor, all right.

“She went to school for it with Meg, who owns the café. Between the two of them, no one in this town goes hungry.”

Good news, Sam thought. “How far away is this café?”

“One block east and two blocks south. You can almost smell the bacon from your front porch.” Jerry leaned forward. “You’re looking a little rough there, pal. Are you sure you’re okay? Getting some food in you would help, but are you really up for a walk? I can get you something and bring it back here.”

“Food would be good, if the café’s not too far away. I could use the exercise.” He looked down at his sweat pants and socks. He could probably lace up his boots if he did it real fast. “Let me get some clothes on.”

“Good. Pardon the cliché, but we’ll kill two birds with one stone.” Jerry sipped his coffee and leaned back on the sofa as though he planned to spend the day there.

“What do you mean?” Sam paused in front of the bedroom door.

“You need to meet some of your neighbors and show them you’re normal, just a regular guy who’s not going to cause any trouble.”

“Why would I cause trouble?”

“For starters, your coming here is suspect. I mean, who moves to Willing in the winter?”

Sam shrugged. He wasn’t going to explain about the man he’d met on the flight to Miami. He’d sound like an idiot.

“Second,” the mayor cheerfully continued, “you’ve been searched for on the internet. People like the writer, adventurer, documentary-maker thing, but they don’t completely trust it. It could be a cover.”

“A cover for what?”

“Who knows? Criminal activity, insanity, government plots.” Now it was Jerry’s turn to shrug. “Hey, I’m just the landlord here. You seemed okay to me or I wouldn’t have rented the house to you.”

Sam doubted that. They’d traded emails and had one brief phone conversation. The check for three months’ rent had been cashed. Sam turned back to the bedroom, where the purple violets on the wallpaper greeted him.

“But the biggest thing,” Jerry said, slurping coffee, “is who you’re living next to.”

The violets would have to wait another minute. Sam gingerly turned around again. “What does Lucia have to do with it?”

Jerry cradled his coffee and looked very, very serious. “She’s a widow. She’s a good person. She doesn’t date. And her pie crust will make you weep.”

“A widow?” The beautiful Lucia Sparrow, who baked like a goddess and could handle a woodstove and three boys, was single? What was wrong with the men in this town?

“Yep. So don’t mess with her unless your intentions are honorable.”

“My intentions?” He chuckled. “My intentions are...nonexistent. What are you, her father?” He couldn’t help laughing at his landlord again.

“Hey, this is no joke. If anything happens to Lucia because of me...” He picked up his jacket and gave Sam a warning look. “I’d never win another election.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior,” Sam promised. “For your sake.”

* * *

JERRY DEBATED BETWEEN a booth or a stool at the counter, since the old guys weren’t in their regular spots. Being Sunday, the café wasn’t filled with regulars the way it was on a weekday. Well, Sam would meet the old guys soon enough.

“Could we sit at the counter?” Sam asked, seeming to read Jerry’s mind. “Easier to get on and off.”

“The ribs are bad, huh?”

“They’re taking longer to heal than I want.”

Jerry introduced him to Shelly, who wore a battered cast on her arm and had her blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her belly appeared to have tripled in size since the accident, yet she seemed to still enjoy working for Meg. She certainly seemed thrilled to see him and his guest.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m really good,” she said, holding the coffee carafe in her good hand. “I get the cast off in two and a half more weeks.” She twinkled at Sam. “Coffee?”

“Please,” Sam said, sounding a little out of breath, though they’d walked slowly on the shoveled sidewalks.

“Shelly, I’d like you to meet Sam Hove. He’s new in town.”

“I know. Everyone’s talking about you. I saw some of your videos on YouTube last night. Awesome stuff.”

“Thanks.”

“Those rivers looked spooky,” she said, shuddering momentarily as she placed two coffee mugs in front of them. “I’m glad I don’t live in those places.”

Al hurried out of the kitchen to shake Sam’s hand and introduce himself. “Man, I saw that show on the giant catfish a couple of years ago. I’ll never cook catfish again.”

“Catfish?” There were people who watched shows about catfish? Well, then, viewers were going to love a show about Willing, Montana.

* * *

“CAN I DO IT?”

Lucia, busy organizing groceries on her kitchen counter, glanced at her oldest son. “Not alone. But you can come with me.” Or the four of them could walk over together. The boys could wait outside, carry wood and give Boo some time to run off some energy in the yard.

“I want to do it by myself.”

“Sorry, pal,” she said, but not about to explain the reason that mothers didn’t let their little boys go to strangers’ houses.

“Why not?”

“We don’t know anything about Mr. Hove,” she said, rearranging the supplies she’d purchased for her new neighbor. “Except what we read on the internet.”

“Yeah, we do. He’s famous.”

“Remember? You can’t believe everything you read on the internet.”

Davey sighed. He’d heard that a hundred times. “But Grandma said he was famous.”

“Well...maybe a little famous.” Marie had printed out a biography off Wikipedia and a spotless people search report she’d actually paid money for. As she’d said, it didn’t hurt to be careful. But Lucia thought the man lived an exciting life. He’d produced documentaries for various cable channels that specialized in adventure shows on jungles and strange fish. They’d discussed him all the way to Lewistown, the three boys asking questions no one could answer. She’d finally distracted the kids when they were in the fish section of the supermarket. There, questions about where frozen shrimp originated had replaced questions about the mysterious neighbor.

“Maybe he could come to school. You know, talk about the jungle and stuff.”

“Maybe.”

“Can I ask him?”

“Maybe. When he feels better.” Lucia doubted that would be anytime soon. The man couldn’t even take his own boots off. Now that had been an interesting little moment yesterday. She wouldn’t even tell Meg about it because of how silly it would sound: “I untied his boots—the most intimate moment I’ve had with a man since the night before my husband went to war.”

“Mom,” her son said. “Mom.”

“What?”

“You’re not listening.”

“I apologize. I was thinking about dinner,” she fibbed. She was thinking about Sam Hove’s blue eyes. “There,” she said, giving herself a mental shake. “I guess I have everything he’ll require for a few days. Maybe even a week.”

“I need more points,” Davey, still angling to do the job himself, said. Lucia admired his competitive spirit but wondered if this Random Acts of Kindness project was something he worried about too much. Davey was her quiet son, the philosopher of the trio.

“You could shovel Mrs. Beckett’s steps.”

“She’ll just yell at me.”

Yes, she probably would. “You’re right. She’s not worth the points.”

“I think she likes being mean,” he said, but Lucia could see him considering whether being yelled at was worth a point or two on the Kindness scoreboard.

“Some people do,” she agreed. Her eight-year-old was wrestling with big concepts now. She wanted to hug him, reassure him that people were good and kind and life was fair and the world was his oyster and all that, but the truth was a little harsh: mean people existed and weren’t worth the do-good-things points.

Davey pondered that for a long moment, while Lucia dug through her purse for the grocery receipt. She’d kept Sam’s food separate from hers. It wasn’t the first time she’d delivered food next door: Mrs. Kelly had become more dependent on help that last year she’d lived in town. Lucia had agreed to Jerry’s request to pick up supplies for the new neighbor—after all, the man was practically an invalid, and she was going to the store anyway—but once in the middle of the IGA with three lively boys and a horde of intense Sunday shoppers, she’d wished she’d refused.