Читать книгу Harvest Moon - Sharon Struth - Страница 8

Veronica scooped up the remaining shards of shredded magazine and stuffed them into the garbage pail under the sink. Her mother always said, “Keep a clean house. You don’t want folks whispering about your sloppy habits at your funeral,” as if such a trivial matter would be anybody’s biggest concern while they paid their last respects.

Boomer’s ears perked as the lid on the metal can shut.

“Listen, big boy, this paper obsession has to stop. You might get sick. And don’t ever do this at Grandma’s house. I promise, it’ll be your last visit there.”

His tail wagged and he panted, a sure sign of agreement.

She stroked the dog’s furry neck, thinking about her mother’s obsession with the family’s outward appearances. The day her mother learned Veronica’s father had left her for his secretary, she and her siblings were told not to discuss the matter with outsiders. Ever. Veronica believed her mother’s attitude unnecessary, yet to this day still abided by Mom’s mantra to keep things private.

Disgust for her own silence over what happened with Gary Tishman back in college took hold, along with the sad realization she’d turned into her mother. Northbridge gossip had the momentum of a ball rolling down a steep hill, though, and she still didn’t want anybody knowing what happened to her back then.

Veronica changed out of her work clothes and slipped on shorts with a striped tank top. Ten minutes later, she was back inside the car and cruising along Lake Shore Drive, Wednesday night dinner at her sister’s place something she rarely missed. Boomer’s head hogged the space between the VW Passat’s bucket seats, making the rearview mirror useless for navigation. He eyed the two KitKat bars on the front passenger seat.

“Those aren’t for you, Boom-boom.”

He sniffed near her ear and licked her cheek, making her laugh and forget about any small flaws he possessed.

She followed the road and enjoyed a gentle lake breeze drifting through the open window, lifting the soft curls stuck to the back of her neck. For the first time today, she relaxed. Playing phone tag with Gail, who hadn’t come to the luncheon, had made her jump each time she received an incoming call at the library. Maybe she really didn’t want to know why Gary ended up marrying their old college friend. Didn’t Carin see the dark side he possessed?

She forced Gary from her head and, instead, concentrated on how happy she’d been to finally get an e-mail from Ry this morning. For the past six months, they’d talked nearly every day. Hard as she tried, she couldn’t find a single thing wrong with the guy. Well, there might be one little thing; she wouldn’t recognize him if she walked right into him.

Theirs was a modern day pen pal relationship, all via the Internet. Ry’s e-mails dominated her thoughts like a teenage crush. Not quite online dating—or really even a relationship—the simpatico flow of their conversations always lifted her spirits and allowed her to converse with an openness and ease she hadn’t had with a man in far too long.

The winding road narrowed at a bend. She slowed the car and turned up a hill near a nineteenth century schoolhouse, a town landmark. A few minutes later, she pulled into the subdivision where her sister lived and parked on the street in front of Emily’s raised ranch.

The new siding job, started five weeks ago, was finally complete and left a clean white exterior, a vast improvement over peeling gray shingles. Boomer bolted from the car and beelined for the open garage. She followed and pushed open the inside door, ambushed by a delicious garlicky scent. The dog went into the family room, where the television set blasted louder than necessary.

“Guess who?” Veronica yelled over the noise, while Boomer jumped on the sofa between her nieces, who sprawled all over the brown sectional sofa, their legs overlapping in the center.

“Boom-boom!” the girls cried.

“Gee, thanks. What about me?”

Cassidy giggled as Boomer’s pink tongue lapped her cheek. She pushed him away. “Hi, Aunt Ronnie.”

At Cassidy’s thirteenth birthday last month, Veronica had noted some real signs of maturity in the eighth grader. Girlish features had disappeared, replaced by subtle curves and the outline of a chest. Her maturing features also showed how she bore a striking resemblance to Veronica, both with the same pert nose and dark eyes. They could pass for mother and daughter, a fact people loved to point out, often making Veronica’s sister silently scowl.

Eleven-year-old Missy hugged Boomer, her strawberry-blond flyaway hair a real contrast against the dog’s dark fur. She smiled, showcasing new turquoise colored rubber bands on her braces. “Did you bring us anything?”

“Am I that predictable?” Veronica dangled the candy bars over their heads, and their eyes widened, arms stretched to grab the candy. “Promise you won’t eat these until after dinner?”

“Thank you! I swear.” Cassidy nodded.

Veronica raised a brow at the younger girl. “You either. Okay?”

“I promise and thank you.”

“I’ve got an idea.” Veronica walked over to a bookshelf and put the candy on top. “I’m putting these up high, so Boomer can’t get them. Okeydokey?”

They both nodded but seemed more interested in Boomer’s attempt to wedge a decent space for himself on the sofa between them.

Veronica went upstairs to the kitchen. The ceiling fan spun on high and made a clicking sound. A new wooden sign hanging above the sink read, “Happiness is Homemade.” One of many little reminders that Emily worked four days a week at Homestead House, a downtown retailer specializing in décor for those who loved the country ambiance.

“More candy?” Emily stood at the counter near the sink, dumping a bag of pre-cut lettuce into a bowl. She glanced over her shoulder.

“Come on. Doesn’t an aunt have a right to share her love of chocolate with her nieces? It’s like grandparent privileges.”

“Even Mom knows better than to bring them candy, and she has real grandmother privileges.” Emily went to the trashcan and tossed out the plastic bag. “Oh, Mom texted me. They arrived in Paris. And the month-long tour begins.”

“Glad they got there safe.” Veronica stole a cherry tomato from the salad. “She struck gold when she married Harry. He’ll do anything for her. Can I help?”

“Table’s been set, pasta is cooking…” Emily looked around the counter while brushing aside the longish bangs of her short haircut. “You could pour us some wine.” She tipped her head to an opened bottle and two glasses, then returned to the cutting board and started to slice a cucumber. “How was your luncheon yesterday?”

“The keynote speaker was great and the food was good.” Veronica poured the wine. “My morning was like one big bad omen, though. My hot water heater went, and Boomer ruined the blouse I got on our shopping trip a few weeks ago.”

She’d purposely left out the part about Gary’s return. Her sister didn’t know about Gary. Nobody did. All night long, Veronica had fought sleep, wishing there were one person who knew her secret about him, about why she’d turned down the job in D.C., and about why she’d raced back to Northbridge after getting her graduate degree.

“Oh, and when I stopped at RGI to drop something off to Duncan, the elevator broke and I was trapped for a few minutes.”

Emily stopped cutting and adjusted the strap of her sundress. “I always worry I’ll get stuck just when I need to pee. Did that happen to you?”

“No. Probably the only blessing of the moment.” The hopeful look on the man’s face when he’d said good-bye stirred the kind of emotion Veronica usually tried to block, and yet she couldn’t quite shake his image. “I wasn’t alone, either. Some guy got stuck with me. He was nice enough to point out the dried toothpaste on my dress. Right on my chest. I’ve got to stop doing other things while I brush my teeth.”

Emily lifted her brows. “You sure he was looking at the toothpaste?”

“No, and I wasn’t about to ask.” She handed Emily a wine glass. “The whole episode was embarrassing from start to finish. When the elevator stopped suddenly, I fell and knocked him to the ground. Ended up on his lap. A little too up close and personal for me.”

Emily chuckled. “Was he cute?”

“Really, Em? For all I know, he was married.”

“You need to broaden your horizons. No offense, but Jim is boring. Not really your type.”

“Geesh, tell me how you really feel.” The man she’d been seeing for six months didn’t make her heart soar, but they usually had fun going out. She sat at the round kitchen table.

“I’m sorry, but he’s so, well…” Emily stopped cutting, lifted her slender chin, and squinted while she thought. “Straight-laced.”

The word dangling on the tip of Veronica’s tongue about Jim was—safe. The single trait had been her primary criteria for the men she dated, at least after meeting Gary.

“So what if he’s straight-laced? Look, Jim’s quiet, a bit reserved, but treats me nicely. Our dates are pleasant.”

Emily rinsed her hands, dried them on a dishtowel, and came over to the table, plunking in a seat across from Veronica. “If Jim were a flavor, he’d be vanilla.”

“What’s wrong with vanilla? It’s a solid flavor choice. You know what you’re getting.”

“Exactly. Predictable, lacking in any excitement.”

“Jim is nice. The pickings get slim once you pass thirty-five. It’s companionship. If I don’t mind the lackluster taste of vanilla, why do you care?”

“Because you’re my sister and I want the best for you.”

Emily wasn’t completely wrong. Besides being predictable, Jim could be a snob about movies and only read nonfiction books recommended by the New York Times. He didn’t like to dance and scoffed at any music not classical or more traditional, unlike Veronica who enjoyed all forms. And then there was the bedroom. Bland as vanilla ice cream and yet, it was ice cream.

“Jim’s not the only fish in my pond.”

Emily’s brow rose while she sipped her wine. She lowered the glass. “I’ll assume that isn’t some weird sexual euphemism.”

Veronica rolled her eyes. “Do you want to know more or not?”

“Hell yeah. So tell me, who else is in your so-called pond?”

“There’s a man I talk to regularly. We’ve grown quite close.”

“Someone from Northbridge?”

“No.” She stared into Emily’s questioning gaze and readied herself for the reveal. “We talk through e-mail. A lot.”

“Dear God! Are you…oh what’s that called…sexting with someone?”

Veronica laughed. “No! You need to take a step into the new millennium. I know your store still uses those old cash registers and you hate computers, but maybe your husband or kids can bring you up to speed on how the rest of us use technology for socializing.”

Emily dismissed her with a sweeping hand. “I don’t need the devices the rest of you use. The old way works fine for me. So it’s not sexting?”

“No, it’s not. It’s e-mail, which you can find on your computer. You text on a cell phone.”

“Ahhhh…” Emily thought for a second. “Well, I may be challenged, but talking to someone on the computer isn’t real.” She leaned close, lowered her voice. “Do you ever talk about dirty stuff?”

“No! Maybe I should be glad you’ve chosen to stay in the dark with these devices. Our conversations are about life and music, books. Things we like and don’t like.”

Emily scrunched her brows together. “Wait. How does a man simply show up in your inbox?”

“He didn’t. One day I happened to stumble on his blog.”

“His blog?” She opened her eyes wide and her jaw unhinged. “Okay, that right there sounds dirty.”

“A blog is a webpage on the Internet. Where you write regularly about topics and readers can leave comments about what you’ve written. He writes about music. His blog is called ‘Eclectic Expressions in Music.’”

“Music? And you found him how?”

“I was searching on the Internet one day for some music info for my chorus director and stumbled on the blog. I signed up and started to read his posts regularly, even left comments sometimes. He’d respond to them. Then one day he wanted my opinion on a song he wrote so we exchanged e-mail addresses.”

“Why not just hand him your house key, too?”

“It’s not like that at all. We decided to keep our personal lives private, so we didn’t exchange our real names or other details. I gave him an e-mail address I use for anything not personal, like signing up for newsletters and what not. He had a blog e-mail address.”

Emily made a throaty sound of displeasure. “I don’t approve of these computer meeting things.”

“When did you become such a judgmental worrywart?”

“When my kids asked for Facebook accounts.” She lifted the wine glass. “The Internet is creepy.”

“Don’t you see commercials for online dating sites? People can meet that way.”

“But they’re usually predators on Dateline.” She paused, the glass inches from her lips. “Thank God Jack the Ripper isn’t alive today. You’d probably be his first victim.”

“He was British. There’s a whole ocean keeping me safe.”

“You know what I mean. Don’t you want to meet a real man? And by ‘real’”—Emily made air quotes with her hands—“I mean one with flesh and bones, not the Brawny paper towel guy. There’s a new sales rep at Walt’s office. He’s in his early forties, recently divorced, loves to kayak and hike—like you. Oh, and Walt says he’s pretty nice looking.”

“Oh well, if he’s Walt’s type then—”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m fine. I don’t need a fix up.”

“No, but maybe you’re still caught up in the past. It’s been a long time since you and Marc split up and…”

The breakup with Marc after dating for almost two years had been the reason her family believed she’d returned from graduate school “not herself.” Words they’d used on her more times than Veronica could count.

Emily reached out, rested her hand on Veronica’s forearm. “Don’t you think it’s time to let go of the hurt?”

Yes, sometimes she did. But what she needed to let go of wasn’t about Marc. Three weeks after the breakup, when she chose to leave a party with Gary, the axis of her world had spun out of control.

Her twenty-year-old secret. Now might be a perfect time to set the record straight and tell someone the truth about Gary, a man she had met at a campus party, who’d walked her home and raped her.

The same pyramid of emotions always present when the word crept into her head toiled inside her, a mixture of rage, remorse, fear, and shame. Veronica worked hard to hide it from Emily.

Her sister removed her hand, leaned back, and folded her arms. “Ronnie, I don’t want you to wake up one day and wonder why you passed up so many chances in life.”

Too late. Veronica looked past her sister and stared at the blue striped kitchen wallpaper, a pattern reminding her of the prison she’d locked herself in for twenty years. Only lately, thanks to the conversations with Ry, did she recall how she used to sometimes feel around a man she really liked a lot. The way her first love, Marc, had made her feel. The way she’d first felt when she met Gary, although the idea he could solicit the sensation now made her nauseous.

Veronica swallowed her pain and met her sister’s gaze. “I’m fine, Em. And I don’t like blind dates.”

Emily offered a sad, closed-lip smile. “Okay, hon.”

No, she definitely wouldn’t tell Emily about the rape because she’d tell their mother. Then they’d ask questions, probe for details. Maybe even discuss the incident behind her back, albeit with good intentions. Then her mother would insist they shove her pain under a rug, like Mom did with most things capable of making others talk. Neither of them would understand the scars of shame Veronica wore after the attack, or how she had worried the campus authorities or other students might call her a liar. The same way they had when another girl was raped on campus the year before, making Veronica stay silent not only to the university, but to the police as well.

The front door opened and snapped her from the horrible past. Boomer barked and scrambled up the steps behind Emily’s husband.

Walt walked into the kitchen, a tie hanging loose around the opened neck of his dress shirt and his reddish-blond hair curling around his ears. “Smells good. What’s cookin’ good lookin’?” He leaned over and kissed Emily.

“Your favorite. Pasta.”

He pecked Veronica on the cheek. “Good to see you, Ronnie. And of course it’s always good to see my best buddy.” He turned to Boomer and leaned over to rub his neck with both hands. Walt muttered strange little cooing sounds, so unlike him. Boomer’s swishing tail suggested he enjoyed the small talk.

Walt stood upright. “Can I change before we eat?”

“Yup. It’ll be out when you get down.”

He walked off. The happy family image Veronica had forfeited many years back, along with notions of romantic love, remained embedded in her mind. If only Marc hadn’t ended things… If only she’d never met Gary….

Veronica forced a smile. “Walt loves dogs. You guys should get one.”

Emily shared a long list of reasons why she wasn’t ready for one yet, but Veronica only half listened. Lately, more than ever before, a part of her wished to shed scars from the horror she’d been through in grad school. The problem was she had no clue how to start.

* * * *

The black forest chalet clock in Veronica’s kitchen cuckooed eight times, then played “Edelweiss.” The clock had been a gift from her mother and stepfather when they’d returned from their ten-year anniversary trip to Germany. She only remembered the timeframe because she’d received the gift close to her thirty-fifth birthday, a time when her mother liked to tease about Veronica’s biological clock. Mom no longer joked about the topic, a true blessing.

Veronica knuckled the sleep from her eyes, then followed the mesmerizing spin of her ceiling fan. Moving forward. Two simple words that sounded so easy. In a way, she had moved forward after Gary’s attack. She’d shut off the valve to her sexual desires, which had allowed her to resume dating. Choices were men who, she believed, would hand her the cord of control in the bedroom. The way she chose her romantic interests, even to this day. Yet, it had worked and left her moderately satisfied. At least until recently.

The PartyTime invitation had come at her like a curve ball. Carin’s image, with Gary at her side, stayed imprinted in her mind, popping up at random times. For the past few days, she and Gail had played phone tag. A demand for answers seemed to matter less and less. Gary had returned to Veronica’s orbit—did it matter why? Besides, avoidance had always been an easier pill for her to swallow.

Veronica rolled onto her side, flipped her legs to the floor, and slipped on her cotton bathrobe, tightening the belt.

“Morning, Boomer.”

The dog stood from his thick, pillow-like bed, stretched his butt in the air, and followed her into the kitchen. She started coffee, then opened the sliding glass doors. Boomer crossed the deck and pranced down the steps, wandering the yard for his morning constitutional. Veronica went to the kitchen table, where her laptop was left running from last night.

While she signed into her e-mail account, anticipation ambushed her, the same feeling she’d always get over these past six months whenever hoping to find a few treasured words from Ry. Emily’s cautionary reminders echoed in her mind. Everything about her contact with Ry always seemed like the real deal. A logical part of her understood, though, it wasn’t even close.

The day she’d first sent him her e-mail address, he’d written back right away, asking if Musetta was her real name. Musetta, a French name meaning “ballad,” had also been a musical fairy in a book she’d loved as a child. When Ry gave her the nickname Etta, the gesture brought a strange intimacy to their relationship.

Ry’s blog told readers the story of his nickname. A musical mentor he’d found in his first guitar teacher had given it to him. As a student, Ry’s musical tastes had ranged from rock to classical and everything in between. The mentor/teacher had shared the story of Ryland Cooder, one of the best guitarists of all time, who’d played a variety of music with great skill. The nickname “Ry” stuck with his teacher and musical friends from that day foreword.

After they’d talked via e-mail a few times, she’d poked around the site for more on him. His bio said, “Ry works hard by day so he can pursue his love for music at night.” Not too revealing. As time passed, her curiosity about him grew.

Boomer barked at the screened door. She quickly scanned her e-mail account. Nothing new from Ry. She let the dog inside and went into the kitchen.

As she poured her coffee, disappointment settled in her chest. She toyed with the idea of sending a message to ask him where he lived and, if close, suggest they meet for coffee. As quickly as it occurred, she pushed it aside, mindful that Ry could really be just about anybody.