Читать книгу Shadow of Turning - Valerie Hansen - Страница 9

Charlene Nancy Boyd, Chancy for short, loved antiques so much that she was willing to work 24/7 to find and preserve them. On balmy spring days like this one, however, she was happy to find a good excuse to leave her shop and venture into the beautiful Ozark hills. Dogwood trees had started to lose their white blossoms and the oaks were producing tiny chartreuse leaves that would grow, darken and soon fill the skyline.

The auction at the old farm place off Hawkins Mill Road was the kind that always made her sad. A couple’s lifetime worth of belongings was being liquidated. Both Jewel and Pete Hawkins had passed away and their heirs were selling their entire estate, one piece at a time.

Those items that didn’t interest surviving relatives were often the most valuable, Chancy knew, and she wanted to be there to bid. If she bought something that eventually brought a profit, fine. If she let nostalgia or enthusiasm influence her and paid too much, that was simply part of the business. She much preferred auctions to private sales because she was far too softhearted when it came to the old people who were selling their last treasures.

The crowd massing around the long tables of household goods set up in the farmyard was filled with familiar faces. Chancy greeted several acquaintances before she noticed Miss Mercy Cosgrove, a former schoolteacher she saw often, particularly in church.

Chancy waved and joined the elderly woman. “Morning. Great to see you. How’ve you been?”

The thin octogenarian gave her a welcoming hug, then shrugged. “Passable, considering. If I’d known how many aches and pains I’d have at this age I’d have taken better care of myself years ago.”

“I know what you mean.” The back of her hand rested against her lower back. She made a fist and rubbed a sore spot through her blue sweatshirt. “I get a catch every once in a while, too.”

“Young thing like you?”

“I’m nearly thirty, Miss Mercy.”

“That’s impossible.” She held out her hand waist-high. “I remember when you were only this tall. Cute little thing you were, too, not that you’re not still pretty.” Eyes misty with fond memories, she studied Chancy’s face. “Still got those adorable little dimples, I see. I imagine you have to beat the boys off with a stick.”

Chancy couldn’t help chuckling. In her teens she’d adjusted to the fact she wasn’t popular the way many of the other girls were. “I think I may have hit a few of those guys too hard,” she said with a smile. “Word must have gotten around because I haven’t had to beat any of them off since high school.” And not really then, either.

“Well, more’s the pity,” her former teacher said. She tittered behind her hand. “’Course, I shouldn’t talk since I never remarried after my husband passed away.”

“We’re probably both smart to stay single,” Chancy offered. “Marriage is highly overrated.”

Mercy laid a hand on Chancy’s arm. “Now, dear, you can’t judge every couple by you know who.”

She certainly did. The turbulence of her parents’ union was well known to practically everybody, thanks to the longevity of juicy gossip in a small town. The atmosphere in the modest house where Chancy had grown up had been so volatile she’d moved out as soon as she’d been able to amass enough capital to start her business, and although that move had undoubtedly saved her life, she’d often wondered if her presence could have prevented her parents’ untimely demise.

“I should have been there to talk some sense into them,” Chancy said, remembering.

“Nonsense. Nobody can predict what a tornado’s going to do. If they’d gone to the storm cellar like reasonable folks would have, they’d probably have survived. They were grown-ups, Chancy, honey. They made their choice and it was the wrong one. That’s not your fault.”

“I know, but…”

Mercy held up a hand. “Hush. No more of that silliness. You and I can no more be responsible for life and death than we can fly. When the good Lord decides my time is up and takes me home, I don’t want anybody down here to blame themselves. I’m sure your mama and daddy don’t, either.” She smiled sweetly.

Chancy gave her a cautious hug, mindful of her frailty. “Thanks for reminding me who’s really in charge, Miss Mercy. You always were a wise lady.”

“Just repeating what the Good Book says.”

In the background, the auctioneer began making his opening announcements. Chancy tensed, half listening while she asked, “Are you going to stay for the fun?”

“I wouldn’t miss it. Got my eye on that green Depression-glass butter dish of Jewel’s over there. Hope it doesn’t go too high.”

“I promise not to bid against you,” Chancy said.

Her glance passed over the crowd, assessing the competition. She knew most of the antique dealers present and would try to pass the word to them to back off and let Miss Mercy have the winning bid for the butter dish. Most would listen. These were country people. They basically looked out for each other in a manner few outsiders could comprehend.

Interceding in this small way would be Chancy’s opportunity to repay the former teacher who had befriended her as a child and provided a temporary refuge from the daily emotional storms she’d faced at home.

The remembrance of her unhappy childhood settled like a rock in her stomach. She consciously pushed aside the negative feelings and began to wend her way into the throng, intent on trying to influence the bidding in favor of her old friend and mentor. As far as she could tell, there were only three dealers present who consistently bought Depression glass. She’d start with them.

The twin-engine Cessna 310 flew low over Serenity and set up for a landing at the rural airstrip. There was no control tower but that didn’t bother pilot, Nate Collins. Considering some of the storms he’d encountered in the course of his job, nothing much rattled him. The excitement of being a storm-chasing meteorologist had influenced him so deeply that he often felt a letdown when nothing dangerous was in the offing.

He banked, flared and set the wheels of the plane on the numbers painted at the end of the short runway. The challenge of perfect wheel placement gave him gratification even though he could have safely landed much farther down the asphalt. Cutting the power, he taxied to transient parking where a beat-up old green pickup truck waited.

An elderly man wearing denim overalls and a frayed jacket over a blue shirt got out of the truck, shaded his eyes beneath the bill of a sweat-stained baseball cap and waved.

Nate set his jaw as he returned the greeting. Grandpa Ted looked more unsteady every time Nate visited. Good thing he’d done his homework and lined up a retirement home for him and Grandma Hester before he’d left Oklahoma. It was high time they gave up this hard, dreary lifestyle and moved into a place where they’d be properly taken care of. And where he could look in on them every day if need be, Nate added, feeling pleased with himself for having taken the initiative and solving everyone’s problems ahead of time.

He turned off the plane’s engines, secured the controls and climbed down to chock the wheels and tie the wings down. As soon as he’d finished, Ted greeted him with a bear hug and a slap on the shoulder while the old, shaggy, black-and-white farm dog riding in the back of the truck barked a greeting.

“Good to see ya, son,” Ted said. “Good flight?”

“No problems,” Nate answered, grabbing his overnight bag and laptop computer. “I see you’ve still got that noisy old dog.”

“Yup. Domino and I are a pair. We’re both still hangin’ in there. He’s good company, especially when I want to sit on the porch and watch the world go by.”

“How’ve you been? And how’s Grandma?”

“Oh, you know us,” Ted said with a wide grin splitting his leathered face. “Even old age can’t keep us down. Your Grandma’s been bakin’ ever since we heard you was comin’. She’s made all your favorites.”

Nate rubbed his flat stomach with his free hand. “Good thing I don’t get to visit that often or I’d be fat as one of those pigs you used to raise when I was a kid.”

“Speaking of being busy, how’s the storm chasin’ business? After all those hurricanes a few years back, are tornadoes startin’ to look tame?”

Nate laughed and clapped the old man lightly on the back. “Not from where I stand. I’m glad I could sneak away for a few days. Tornado season is almost here and I never know what may pop up.”

“How’s this week look? Can you stick around a little while, do you think?”

“Probably. There’s a high-pressure ridge in place that should keep most of the bad weather out of the plains, at least for a few days. I’ll keep my eye on it.”

Nate walked toward the truck with his grandfather and paused to ruffle the old dog’s silky ears before he asked Ted, “Mind if I drive? I still have a soft spot in my heart for this old pickup.”

“Not at all. Keys are in it. It’ll be my pleasure to just ride for a change.” He chuckled as he hoisted the legs of his overalls and climbed stiffly into the passenger’s seat. The door slammed with a rattle and a dull bang. “Reminds me of the time I was teachin’ you to drive and you ran us into that ditch over by the Mullins place.”

“In this very same truck, back when it was almost new. I’m amazed you didn’t yell at me,” Nate added. “We did have some good times, didn’t we?”

“That, we did.” Ted’s shoulders shook with silent humor. “I wasn’t too sure it was gonna work out when you first came to stay with us but you turned out all right, son. Yes, sir, you surely did.”

“Thanks to you and Grandma Hester,” Nate said, sobering. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. “I owe you both a lot.”

“Nonsense,” Ted said. “You don’t owe us a bloomin’ thing, boy.”

“Still, I’m thankful I’m in a position to take care of you the way you took care of me.”

Watching his grandfather out of the corner of his eye to gauge his reaction, Nate saw him stiffen and push himself up straighter in the seat.

“You ain’t gonna start that nonsense again, are you?”

Nate ignored his scowl. “It’s not nonsense. You and Grandma deserve a chance to kick back and relax.”

The old man sighed and shook his head as if he thought Nate was addled. “If I don’t have my chores and my shop and Hester don’t have her kitchen and garden to tend, we might as well curl up and die right now. I appreciate your concern, truly I do, but we’re not ready to retire from life.”

“Okay,” Nate said. He didn’t want to start off on a sour note. There’d be plenty of time to discuss making sensible changes during the remainder of his visit.

He drove out of the airport and headed down Byron Road. To his surprise, cars were parked on the grassy shoulder on both sides of the two-lane road as he neared its junction with Hawkins Mill Road.

“What’s going on here?” Nate asked.

“Farm auction.” Ted grimaced as if it pained him to say the words. “The Hawkins place. Jewel went first. Ol’ Pete was lost without her. He didn’t last three months after she died. Didn’t think he would.”

Nate arched an eyebrow but held his peace. Jewel and Pete Hawkins had been friends and neighbors of his grandparents for literally decades. Losing them both so close together had to have been difficult. He saw no need to point out the obvious correlation between their lives.

He slowed the truck, barely finding room to squeeze it through the single lane remaining between the parked vehicles, while Domino panted and paced from side to side in the truck bed, trying to sniff every vehicle they passed.

“Half the population of Fulton County must be here,” Nate remarked with disdain. “Who taught these people how to park, anyhow?”

“Old geezers like me,” Ted answered. “Your grandma wanted to come to the auction today but I talked her out of it. We’ll never live long enough to wear out all the junk we’ve already got, let alone find good use for any of this stuff.” When Nate’s head snapped around, the elderly man guffawed. “That don’t mean we’re ready to pack it up and move to some fancy old folks’ home, so don’t go gettin’ any funny ideas, y’hear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Nate slowed even more, edging forward inches at a time rather than scrape one or more of the unevenly parked vehicles. “I don’t believe these people. Don’t they care about their cars?”

“Sure they do. They’re just not in an all-fired hurry the way you are. Slow down. We’re almost home. Those chocolate-chip cookies you’re cravin’ will wait.”

Before Nate could comment, a slightly built woman staggered onto the roadway directly in front of him. She was carrying such a big box, her face was obscured and she obviously couldn’t see where she was going. He slammed on the brakes to keep from hitting her, jammed the truck into neutral and jumped out, fully intending the deliver a lecture on safety that would turn her ears red.

The woman must have heard him screech to a halt and get out because she peeked around the side of the cardboard box and gave him a sheepish grin. “Sorry about that. I should have looked before I crossed. That’s my van right over there. The tan one that says Chancy’s Second Chances on the side. It’s not locked. Do you mind?” She passed the bulky box to Nate with a smile. “Thanks. That was getting heavy.”

Flabbergasted, he stood there in the middle of the road holding the box and staring after her as she turned and hurried back the way she’d come.

Traffic was beginning to pile up in both directions. Someone honked. Nate’s head swiveled from side to side as if he were watching a professional tennis match. True to her word, the woman had vanished back into the rapidly dispersing auction crowd. Southern manners dictated that he deliver the box to her van whether he liked it or not, and given the worsening traffic jam, the sooner the better.

As he stepped out of the way, he noted that Ted had slid behind the wheel of the farm truck. The old man leaned out the open window to call, “Can’t park here. I’ll go turn around and come back for you.”

Nate shook his head. “There’s no need for that. Just get out of this mess and go on home. I’ll walk over.”

“You sure?”

“Positive. It’s not far.”

“Okay. I’ll meet you at the house. Take your time.”

“Yeah, right.” Nate was miffed. Free time was the one thing he had far too little of. He’d come to Serenity for the sole purpose of convincing his grandparents to sell their small farm and move to Oklahoma where he could better look after them. He had not flown all those miles to waste one minute carrying useless junk to some peddler’s wagon. He was a man on a mission, a man with an important goal.

Reaching the back door to the van, he rested the leading edge of the box against its bumper while he tried the handle. It didn’t turn. It didn’t even jiggle.

Nate was considering abandoning the enormous box when its owner returned.

“Sorry,” she said pleasantly, “I forgot to mention that that door sticks. You have to give it a nudge to get it to open. Here. I’ll do it.”

There wasn’t enough room between the parked vehicles for Nate to step back, let alone turn and put down the box. Consequently, he found himself leaning awkwardly with the backs of his legs pressed against the bumper and grille of the truck next in line, while the woman wedged herself in front of him and the box to fiddle with the van door.

She was a little older than she’d seemed at first glance, he decided, probably nearly his age, although with her sun-streaked, golden hair pulled back in a ponytail and no makeup, it was difficult to tell. One thing was certain, she wasn’t afraid of hard work. It looked as though there was already enough heavy furniture crammed into her van to give anyone a good workout, let alone a woman her size.

She turned and tried to relieve him of the box. “Okay. I’ll take that now.”

Nate’s ingrained chivalry had kicked in. “No problem. I’ve got it. Where shall I put it?”

Her laugh was light and full of cheerful self-deprecation. “Beats me. I think I may have overbought.”

“I have to agree with you there. I take it you have a business?”

“Yes.” She pushed up the arms of her sweatshirt and extended her right hand. “I’m Chancy Boyd. Chancy’s Second Chances is my antique store. Maybe you’ve seen it. I’m one block off the square, behind the grocery market.”

“Sorry, no,” Nate said. “I’m just visiting.” He managed to shake her hand by shifting the box and temporarily supporting it with his forearm. “Nate Collins. My grandparents live right down the road.”

“Hester and Ted? You’re a Collins? Nice to meet you! Your grandparents are dears. No wonder you’re being so helpful. It must run in the family.”

Nate’s guilty conscience kicked him in the gut. Had he lived in a bustling city so long that he’d forgotten his upbringing? Apparently so.

He hoisted the cardboard box aloft and managed to wedge it into the cargo space above a carved dresser. “Actually,” he said as he brushed off his hands and the front of his lightweight jacket, “I got out of Ted’s truck to yell at you for walking in front of me. You might have been run over.”

Her bluish hazel eyes twinkled above a mischievous grin. “In that case, thanks for not smashing me flat.”

“You’re welcome.” Nate was rapidly losing his annoyance in the face of this young woman’s upbeat attitude. “So, how much more do you have to load?”

“You don’t want to know.” She made a face. “I’m sure I’ll have to make two trips to the shop to carry it all. They started bunching little items in piles to get rid of everything at the end and I wound up with a lot more than I intended to buy.”

She scanned the roadside. “You know, if we used your pickup truck to carry the excess we’d be done in no time. Where did you park it?”

“I didn’t. I told Ted to take it and go on home.”

“Bummer.” Her forehead wrinkled with obvious thought. “Say, since I’ve already settled my bill with the auctioneer, why don’t we drive over to their house to see if Ted minds if we borrow it? What do you think?”

Nate raised an eyebrow. He had no intention of telling her what he was actually thinking because it was anything but complimentary. He knew that helping a neighbor was customary in these parts but that didn’t mean he was ready to drop everything and come to her aid, even if her smile and dimples were pretty persuasive.

“Aren’t you afraid to go off and leave your stuff unattended?” he asked.

Chancy pulled a face. “I suppose you do have a good point, even in a place like Serenity. But borrowing the truck would be faster than my going back to the shop and unloading enough stuff to make room for the rest in the van.”

“Okay.” Nate saw no graceful way to turn her down without sounding snobbish. He cleared off the van’s passenger seat by gathering up a stack of framed photos and climbed in. “Then let’s go. I’ll just hold these while you drive. We can be back in a jiffy.”

“Right. Thanks!” She got behind the wheel, fired up the motor and cautiously pulled into traffic.

Habit made Nate glance in the rearview mirror on his side. The crowd was breaking up and other vehicles were also trying to join the outflow. Several car lengths back a thin, weary-looking woman wearing a bandanna around her long, dark hair darted into the middle of the street and stopped to stare after them.

Nate saw a car bearing down behind her. His breath caught. As he watched, she apparently came to her senses, whirled and stepped out of the way at the last instant.

“I don’t believe it,” he muttered.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, now. I almost saw an accident. Don’t you people ever look when you cross the street?”

Chancy laughed. “You’re definitely not from around here, are you?”

“How’d you guess?”

“It was easy. Didn’t you visit your grandparents when you were a boy?”

Nate sobered. “As a matter of fact, I lived with them for close to a year when I was finishing high school.”

He saw her brow knit. Then, her eyes widened and she stared over at him. “Nate? You’re Nasty Nathaniel? I don’t believe it!”

He huffed. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been called that. How nice of you to remember.”

“Hey, I’m sorry. It’s just that all the girls my age used to have terrible crushes on you. I think our parents gave you that nickname to scare us, which had the opposite effect, of course. You disappeared when I was in the eighth grade. What happened?”

“I joined the Marines and then went on to college and got my degree in meteorology. That’s—”

“I know. You’re a weatherman.” She laughed softly. “I suppose you thought I’d say you studied meteors. Does that happen often?”

“All the time.”

“Then it’s my pleasure to prove we’re not all country-bumpkins around here, even if we don’t always look both ways before crossing the street.”