Читать книгу Harvest Moon - Sharon Struth - Страница 9

“All we need is your John Hancock on the dotted line and the car is yours.” Don Peroni handed Trent a pen, and a large Rolex, or knock-off of one, peeked out from beneath his suit jacket.

“Just sign my life away, huh?” Trent grinned, even though the statement carried a grain of truth.

“Trust me. In mid-January, you’ll be glad you made the trade.”

The decision to switch his Audi was an attempt to start his new life without flaunting the excesses of his former one and get a more sensible car for winter weather. Outsiders drove around Northbridge in fancy sports cars and expensive SUV’s. This two-year-old Jeep Cherokee fit in, far less flashy than his red Audi.

Trent scribbled his signature. “I suppose you want my keys for the trade-in?”

“Whenever you’re ready.”

Trent reached into the pocket of his Levis and quickly handed them over before he changed his mind. “Find a good home for her.”

“Oh, this baby’ll sell fast. Don’t you worry.” Don smiled, flashing his coffee-stained teeth.

Five minutes later, Trent pulled from the car lot and headed east on the lake road into downtown Northbridge. He imagined Duncan’s surprise at seeing the new wheels, but even if Trent explained how he’d simply wanted to blend in with others, Duncan wouldn’t quite understand. Confidence had always come easily to his brother.

A mile from the center of town, Trent’s cell phone vibrated on the passenger’s seat. He glanced at the caller ID, hesitated, then pulled to the curbside and answered.

He pressed the “talk” button. “Hi, Mom.”

“Are you in Northbridge yet?”

“You caught me on my way.”

“Then I won’t keep you, but…” She hesitated, a far cry from her usual certainty with most matters. “I believe I owe you an apology.”

“What for?”

“When you first told us about your plans, I may have acted…” She paused. “…unsupportive, I suppose. Maybe you’ll finally be happy there.”

Three years into his recovery, everyone still worried he’d slip back into old habits. A little confidence in him would go a long way. Long-term resentment pulsed beneath his skin, but he bit back any snide remarks. She’d never understand how his adoption into the Jamieson family made him feel like an outsider peering through the window of a world where he didn’t belong. Combined with his father’s constant disregard, Trent had learned to turn to other places for happiness—at least he had up until three years ago.

“I have been happy, Mom.” He instantly regretted the snap and softened his approach. “You’re coming to Sophie’s birthday party, right?”

“Of course we are. Duncan insisted. We’re going to use the time in Connecticut to visit some other friends in Litchfield the next day. Remember Ham and Nora Ellsworth?”

“I do. So then I’ll see you tomorrow night. Jay’s expecting me at the farm, so I need to run.”

Trent ended the call and drove into town. The noon sun hung high in the sky. People hurried along the sidewalks, popping in and out of pre-W.W.I. storefronts on the busy main drag. He was about to pull into a space in front of Sunny Side Up to grab some lunch, but a blue, white, and red striped barber pole a few blocks down caught his attention. He parked halfway between the two shops and headed to the barbershop for a trim.

At an old windowed door, a sign overhead read, “Kenny’s Kuts and Shaves.” A bell tinkled when he pushed it open.

Walls covered with dated paneling and faded newspapers, shouting dramatic headlines such as “Nixon Resigns” and one with a photo of President Kennedy, hung like relics of an era gone. An American flag had been stationed near an old campaign poster for Eisenhower. Trent’s gaze landed on a taxidermy stuffed raccoon mounted high on the wall, giving him second thoughts about staying.

“Can I help you?” An older man with thick white hair and wearing a dark blue smock with “Kenny” written on the pocket continued to clip his customer’s hair.

“Any chance I can get a trim?”

“Sure. Gimme a few.” He tipped his head toward a lineup of chairs. “Have a seat. He’s not waiting. You’re next.”

Trent tried not to flinch when Northbridge First Selectman Buzz Harris stared back at him from one of the chairs. His suit jacket lay over the chair beside him, and a crumbled sandwich wrapper next to a nearly finished Snapple littered the seat.

“Hello, Buzz. I haven’t seen you since RGI pulled their bid.” He inwardly cringed, wanting to slap a hand over his own big mouth. The large-scale resort plans, which had brought the Jamiesons back to Northbridge nine months ago, may have been the wrong subject to open with.

Buzz cleared his throat. “Your brother told me he’d offered you a job at the vineyards.”

“Yup.” Trent glanced at the worn floorboards before meeting Buzz’s hard stare. Buzz was the one person Trent had worried about running into once he’d decided to make this place his home. “I start my work there today, as a matter of fact.”

Trent took a place a few seats away from Buzz, aware of an awkward stillness in the air, as if he’d walked into the wrong classroom at school. He cleared his throat. “You should stop by the vineyards sometime. The place is really coming together.”

Buzz pressed his lips tight.

Only a handful of people in town knew about Trent’s family’s history in Northbridge. Buzz was one of them. What had happened at Buzz’s house long ago left Trent embarrassed by his actions, but he’d hoped by now Buzz and his wife had moved on and forgiven him. Another reason surfaced for the sour face, maybe the more obvious reason for Buzz’s discomfort, although this wasn’t the place to bring up the decades old topic.

Buzz stood, slipped his wrinkled linen jacket on over a short-sleeved dress shirt. “Good luck in your new job.” Buzz picked up his lunch leftovers and tossed them in the trashcan on his way to the door.

“See you at six on Saturday morning, Kenny. Bait’s on you this week.”

Trent couldn’t move, immobilized by a strange, indefinable sensation. Seeing Buzz right off the bat forced him to face his past, and he hadn’t crumbled. Yet the foreboding winds of the complicated issues they shared would need to be addressed at some point.

* * * *

“He’s a moldy old mossback.” Phyllis Katz stood at the door to Veronica’s office and scowled, making the soft creases on her cheeks crinkle even further.

Over the twenty years Veronica had worked with Phyllis at the library, this wasn’t the first time she’d heard her complain. The attractive eighty-year-old, who wore her salt-and-pepper hair styled in short layers, always had some grievance. This was, however, her first complaint about their newest helper, a charismatic octogenarian who’d joined them as part of a volunteer program put in place by the Northbridge Senior Center.

“A mossback?” Veronica snapped the lid back on her salad and glanced at her doorway. “Now there’s a term you don’t hear every day.”

“From my Word-of-the-Day calendar.” Phyllis glanced over her slender shoulder. She turned back to Veronica and dropped her voice. “It sure describes an old-fashioned dope like him. He wants to wait a while to start dating. Wait for what? At our age, time is precious.”

Veronica understood the impatience of waiting, especially these days, when her conscience urged her to consider changes she wasn’t sure she could handle. “Be patient. He only lost his wife a year ago. Whatever you do, don’t call him a mossback to his face.”

“Don’t worry. I know better.” Phyllis turned to leave.

“Could you shut the door, please? I need to make a call.”

Phyllis arched a silver brow, but did as asked.

Veronica’s fingers raced along the keyboard of her computer, a slight lift in her pulse as she entered the password to her e-mail account. Three days ago was the last time she’d heard from Ry. Her heart jumped when an e-mail from him finally appeared. She opened it.

To: Musetta@yahoo.com

From: Ry@eclecticexpressions.com

Subject: Your Opinion

Hi Etta,

I’ve been swamped lately and apologize for being out of touch these past few days. I thought of you when I passed a singing group in a mall. Did you try out for the solo in your chorus group yet?

I remember my first solo, back in middle school. It was a “Rock n’ Roll” production. I’d been taking guitar lessons for a year and hoped I’d make the cut. Those lessons were the first time I understood the power music had over me. I got the part and think I did pretty solid justice to Elvis impersonators around the world with my version of “Rock Around the Clock.” The worst part was how they made me wear a white jumpsuit! Not my style then or now. Let’s just say, I won’t dress up like that again.

I’ve tweaked the music I sent you last month and would love your input. File is attached.

Promise to write more soon. Another busy day ahead…

Ry

P.S. Remember our first argument about bad music videos? I think you’ll agree THIS link contains the worst.

Their first argument? Unexpected tenderness for him settled in her heart. The idea they bantered in good humor, like a regular couple, pushed her a step closer to him. She opened the link to a video of “We Built This City,” and laughed through the entire video.

Her smile faded as Emily’s concerns echoed in her ears. Ry was a sweet man. He remembered things Veronica told him, like about her solo. The details, of course, omitted. Not a word about performing with The Right Notes at the town’s Harvest Festival because then he’d know too much, enough to locate her.

The first time they’d ever e-mailed away from the blog she’d admitted to him a reluctance to talk to a stranger through e-mail. He could’ve answered any number of ways, but his suggestion they keep their real names and where they lived private greeted her like an opened door to a safe haven.

A part of her wished she could tell Ry everything about her and ask the same of him. Did he ever think about meeting her, too?

She clicked open his file, “Song 32.” At the first soft pluck of a guitar string, she shut her eyes and let the music dance inside her mind. Notes now moved at a faster tempo than his last version, a more uplifting sound. She detected some added parts, a place where the melody dipped, but wasn’t down for long before soaring back to the inspiring tune.

When the last note played, she opened her eyes, blinking to adjust to the sun peeking through the slats of her window blinds. Over a month ago, he’d asked for her help with song lyrics. She liked how he remembered when she’d shared about an eleventh grade poetry contest win, but never dreamed he’d ask her to tap into those skills.

She went to her e-mail inbox, to a folder marked “Eclectic Expressions.” Every piece of their shared correspondence was saved here, like treasured notes from a lover. If Emily knew, she’d surely launch into a lecture about how keeping these virtual letters was pathetic, especially when actual men roamed the earth.

Veronica searched through them until she found an e-mail with the subject “Lyrics Part 2,” where she’d asked what inspired him to write this particular piece in the first place. She reread his reply… My song is about hope.

She leaned back in her chair and played the song again, optimism obvious in each gentle note. His music lifted her spirits and made her crave more information about the man behind the music. What did he hope for, though? In the time spent crushing on him like a fifteen-year-old, she rarely gave much thought to his real life.

She closed the old e-mail, the words for his song still out of reach, and replied to this morning’s letter.

To: Ry@eclecticexpressions.com

From: Musetta@yahoo.com

Subject: Our Second Argument

How quickly men forget. Our first argument was a rather lengthy discussion over the best Beatle’s song, one ending in a draw.

Sorry, but now I can’t get that Elvis image out of my head. I will forever believe I’m e-mailing a man dressed in an Elvis jumpsuit, bejeweled and dazzling. Still wearing those sideburns long?

What can I say about “Song 32?” You are truly gifted. These latest changes have taken the piece to new heights. After hearing other music you’ve written, I’m beginning to get a sense of your musical voice. You’re very talented.

Why haven’t you signed with a record label yet?

I haven’t forgotten your request for lyrics, and I’m giving them their due consideration… The creative muse cannot be forced.

Now, on the matter of our SECOND argument, when you watch this video clip, you may agree that I have won this worst music video battle. Or maybe it’s another draw….

Etta

After a quick search, she found Olivia Newton John’s song, “Let’s Get Physical,” and inserted the link at the e-mail’s bottom. An unexpected smile traced her lips, thinking about his reaction. She hit send, wondering where he was right now. Having his morning coffee? In another time zone, like the west coast, and still asleep?

Her smile disappeared. Visions of this man—whose face she’d never seen—appeared in her mind: him having coffee with his spouse before work, or lying in bed with his wife or girlfriend. Had she gone so insane that real opportunities slipped past her while caught up in a fantasy man?

Like the moment when the stranger’s stunning blue eyes met her gaze in that stuck elevator. As if a switch flipped inside her, desire she’d buried after her rape had worked to the surface, in hindsight the very reason she’d scurried away so quickly once they got out.

Veronica’s computer pinged. Ry had replied, much faster than usual.

To: Musetta@yahoo.com

From: Ry@eclecticexpressions.com

Subject: My Music

I knew I shouldn’t have told you about the Elvis outfit…lol!

Gee, where were you when I was in my early twenties? That kind of morale boost would’ve made me indulge in real considerations of a music career. Thank you so much for your kind words. It means everything to me that you like the piece.

Fondly,

Ry

… It means everything to me that you like the piece.

Mixed emotions seized her, an equal balance of romanticisms for him and fear of the unknown. If the Internet camouflage were lifted with Ry, she’d feel scared, like she had on the elevator floor with Mr. Blue Eyes.

Scared of what, though? The man on the elevator hadn’t wanted to hurt her. There had been moments his soft gaze showed kindness. She swallowed, reminded how she’d been mistaken about such indications before.

She exited the e-mail program, but the fears pinning her down for far too long still lingered.