To Thine Own Self Be True Page 15

  I followed.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m just—”

  He reached out and hugged me. “I know. It’s been a rough few months, since summer.”

  I held my hands against my chest and buried my face in his familiar shoulder.

  “Call me anytime,” he said. “I’ll be glad to listen.”

  I turned my face to the side so I could talk. “And to tell me exactly what you think.”

  He laughed. “You know it. No beating around the bush.”

  I sighed and relaxed against him.

  “I do love you, Stella.”

  I reached around his waist. “I love you, too.”

  He kissed the top of my head. “Merry Christmas.”

  I stepped back and he let his arms fall.

  “Have a safe trip home,” I said.

  He looked thoughtful. “Yes. New York is home.” He moved as if to leave, then stopped. “And I’ll think about who you could talk to about Senator Farley. I’ll call if I come up with someone.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  He went out the door and I closed it behind him, watching until he drove away. I glanced at the clock. It really was late. I took a moment to turn off the Christmas tree lights in the front room, avoiding looking at the sofa where Nick was no longer sleeping, then closed the doors to the fireplace. When all the lights were off except for the nightlight on the microwave, I headed up the stairs.

  In my bedroom I undressed and pulled an extra-large Harley T-shirt over my head before tiptoeing down the hallway to brush my teeth. The toothbrush container held three brushes—my purple one, Lucy’s yellow one, and Tess’ Buzz Lightyear. By summer it would be back to one.

  Less chance for catching colds, I told myself. Less toothpaste and soap mess on the counter. No having to share the bathroom.

  I stumbled back down the hallway to my room and had just closed the door when I noticed something on my pillow.

  A small jewelry box.

  I sucked in my breath. Oh God.

  I eased onto my bed, staring at the box, wondering if I should even open it. Nick wouldn’t just drop off a ring and leave, would he? And he couldn’t possibly think one kiss was enough support for a proposal. There was no way he was ready to leave Virginia and come live at the farm. And what if it was a ring? What would I do? What would I say?

  I took a deep breath and reached for the box, running my finger over the velvety fabric. I swallowed. And opened it.

  I was suddenly back in seventh grade, peering with envy at a pair of friends on the bus. Girls who had grown up together, best friends forever.

  The heart in my box was better quality than what those junior high girls had been wearing, but it was the same idea. A heart split in half, a chain for each part.

  I touched the gold of the heart, now locked together as one, then picked out the paper folded and tucked into the box. The note was hand-written.

  Sometimes having only half of something is better than keeping the whole thing. And lots better than having nothing.

  Nick

  I put the note back in the case, and hid the box under my pillow.

  And tried to sleep.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Lucy was humming and slicing a bagel when I got down for breakfast the next morning.

  “Told Tess yet?” I asked.

  She glanced up. “Haven’t had a chance. She’s still sleeping.”

  I brushed my hand through my hair. “That’s right.”

  She frowned. “You okay?”

  I opened the fridge and pulled out the orange juice. “Sure. Just didn’t sleep that great.”

  Lucy’s knife went through the last part of bagel and hit the cutting board with a whack. “Because of me and Lenny?”

  “No.” I took a big swallow of OJ. “I just couldn’t stop my brain.” I wasn’t ready to tell her about the necklace still hiding under my pillow.

  She stuck her bagel in the toaster and brushed by me to grab the cream cheese from the refrigerator. “You didn’t seem too thrilled last night when we got back.”

  I rolled my neck. “I’m glad for you, Luce, you know I am. But I’ve gotten used to having you around.”

  She smiled. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll still work here.”

  “But you won’t live here.”

  “Well, no.”

  I turned to open the cupboard.

  “You remember,” she said, “that four months ago you never wanted a housemate to begin with.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I remember. It’ll be fine.”

  She took a breath, like she was going to say something else, but her bagel popped and she plucked it out of the toaster.

  I poured my cereal and ate it in front of the TV. Nothing new about Wolf. In fact, he wasn’t even mentioned. I took my bowl back into the kitchen. “I’m headed out.”

  “Sure. Be there in a minute.”

  The temperature had plummeted to a frosty six degrees, and I bundled up to head outside. An unforgiving wind was also blowing, and when the first gust hit my face I wondered how frigid the wind chill factor was. I hoped with all my energy that wherever Wolf was, if he was alive, he was at least inside, where he wouldn’t freeze to death. Like Mandy.

  It was warm enough inside the barn, and Queenie met me with a little more enthusiasm than she had had the evening before.

  “It’s good you have a little nest in here, girl,” I said. “You’d freeze your tail off outside.” I’d offered different times during the cold weather to let her sleep in the house, but she seemed to feel that if the cows were penned up it was her duty to watch over them. Those sheepherding ancestors, I guess.

  By eight o’clock I was milking Olive Oyl and Betty Boop, who had to be pumped separately because of being on antibiotics, and Lucy was checking on the heifers. I looked out the window at the tree branches waving and the snow sparkling with ice crystals. No way would I be doing any outside work that day, unless the auger was frozen or some such thing. I prayed it wasn’t.

  “Auger was frozen,” Lucy said, stepping into the barn. “But I gave it a few good smacks and it came back to life.”

  “Thank God.”

  Lucy picked up a pitchfork to scrape a clod of manure from her boot. “So what are you gonna do today?”

  I lifted a shoulder. “Not sure. You?”

  “Thought I might call around a few places this morning. Check some dates. If that’s okay.”

  I stared at her blankly.

  “For this summer,” she said. “My wedding.”

  “Oh. Right. Okay. At least you can do that inside, where it’s warm.”

  She pursed her lips, her hands on her hips. “You sure it’s all right?”

  “That you’re getting married?”

  She rolled her eyes. “That I do some calling.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, that’s fine. Go ahead. I’m about done here, anyway.”

  She looked at me. “You know that my marrying Lenny doesn’t mean I’m walking out on you.”

  “Sure. I know.” I reached down to feel Olive Oyl’s softening udder.

  “And it doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”

  I turned to check Betty Boop. “Yeah.”

  “You know,” she said. “You might want to think about why you’re so upset about me getting married.”

  I straightened up. “I’m not—”

  “There’s a man in Virginia right now who’s waiting for your call. It would be good if you’d consider that. These cows are good for making a living, but they can’t give you what Nick can.”

  My jaw flexed in preparation for saying something, but Lucy held up her hand. “Don’t say anything. I’ll shut up.” She walked away, patting Queenie on the way out of the barn.

  I went over to my collie, secure in her corner, and tried to force down my irritation at Lucy’s little speech. “You’re not leaving me, too, are you girl?” Her eyebr
ows shifted as she watched me, her nose on her paws. I knelt and rubbed her ears. “You just want Nick back, huh?” She snorted, blowing hay dust over my boots. “Keep me company?” I stood and walked toward my office, pausing at the door to the little hallway. Queenie stretched, shook herself, and trotted along behind me.

  In my office I sat at my desk and pulled out the phone book while Queenie made herself at home in her usual spot. I checked the clock. Eight-thirty. Late enough to call Rusty and wake him up. I wanted to see if he could give me a line on somebody to talk to about Dennis Bergman, the guy heading up Artists for Freedom.

  I picked up the phone, but Lucy was already on the line, so I turned on my computer and waited for it to boot up. Five minutes later I checked the phone again, but Lucy was still talking. To a photographer, it sounded like.

  I labored for about an hour on paperwork, which I was doing myself again since Abe moved back to New York in the fall, and checked periodically to see if I could get on the phone. Lucy wasn’t kidding when she said she had some calls to make. Finally, I got a dial tone. I immediately called Rusty’s house, where I got Becky, his wife.

  “He’s still asleep,” she said. “Big surprise.” She laughed. “Can I have him call you?”

  “Please.”

  “Don’t know how long it will be. He’s a sleepyhead.”

  “No problem.”

  “Is it about the Moores?” she asked.

  “Well, yeah. I was wondering if he might know who I could talk to about Dennis Bergman.”

  “Who?”

  “The guy in charge of Artists for Freedom.”

  “Oh, you don’t want to talk to Rusty about him. You want to talk to Dreama.”

  “Dreama?”

  “Our older daughter. She wrote a paper about Bergman for government class. Want me to get her? She’s an early riser, unlike some other people.”

  I looked around my office. I was tired of paperwork. It was too cold to work outside. I was lucky to get three minutes on the phone, and Lucy was probably champing at the bit. “Okay if I just come over?”

  “Sure. That would be fine. Dreama always likes an audience for her research. Need directions?”

  She gave them to me, and I hung up. “Sorry, Queenie,” I said. “I’d love to take you along, but it’s too cold for you to wait in the truck, and I don’t know if they let dogs in the house.” She gave me a look that said she understood, and followed me back out to the parlor, where she sank down in her usual spot. “Take care of the girls,” I said.

  In the house Lucy was back on the phone, talking energetically about flowers and scribbling furiously on a tablet. Tess sat at the computer, Smoky on her lap, playing the Spy Fox computer game she had shown Nick only days before. Nick, who must’ve gotten home or I would’ve heard. At least I assumed so.

  When Lucy hung up I told her where I was headed, and she glanced at the clock. “You planning on being back for lunch?”

  “Can’t imagine I’ll be real long.”

  “All right. I’ll make something good with our leftovers. See you then.”

  “Have fun calling,” I said.

  She grinned.

  “Stella!” Tess came flying at me from the living room. “Did you hear? Did you hear? Lenny’s going to be my new daddy!”

  I caught her with a whoof of breath as she hit my stomach. “Yes, I heard. I guess you’re happy about it?”

  She looked up at me, her forehead wrinkling. “Shouldn’t I be?”

  I kicked myself for my careless words and glanced at Lucy, who glared at me with hooded eyes. “You should be, honey,” I said to Tess. “You should be very, very happy.”

  I left before Lucy’s expression turned even darker.

  The roads were clear of everything but salt, and the snow along the shoulders was spattered with dirt and slush. Ugly. I took a detour through Lansdale, stopping briefly to peer in the front of Wolf Ink. It was dark and silent, and my throat clogged at the memories from the last time I’d been there. The apartment was also shut up tight, although the steps had been swept off. Perhaps by the police, who wouldn’t want to break their necks climbing up and down.

  Fifteen minutes later I pulled into a parking spot in front of Rusty’s house, part of a development a few blocks from his shop.

  A woman answered the door. “Stella?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Come on in. It’s colder than Alaska out there.”

  I gratefully stepped into the warmth and stared at the woman, presumably Rusty’s wife.

  “I’m Becky,” she said.

  I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.

  She laughed. “Not what you expected?”

  “Sorry. I don’t mean to be rude.”

  Becky Oldham was as old school as you could imagine. Hair permed and highlighted, make-up tastefully applied, small gold studs in her ears—only one earring in each lobe—a light blue twin-set over khaki pants. Fuzzy blue slippers—a perfect match to her sweater—encased her feet.

  “Stare all you want,” she said. “I’m used to it. If they’re not gaping at Rusty, they’re making faces at me, wondering what on earth I’m doing with him. Or him with me, for that matter.”

  “I have to admit I’m wondering the same thing.”

  She shrugged. “I guess when you love someone, you love all of him. Globe and all.”

  “But he didn’t have that when you met him.”

  “Lord, no. All he had then was the woman on his arm, his swallow, and a few rings in his eyebrow. Those rings are gone now, for some reason. Guess he got tired of them.”

  “Only to be replaced by the large loop in his nose.”

  “All the better to lead him around with.”

  I smiled. “It’s easy to see why he’s with you.”

  She smiled back. “Yeah. Not all women are so tolerant.”

  “Not many at all.”

  “Anyway, come on in. We don’t have to stand here in the hall.” She led me into the living room and gestured at the furniture, a comfortable-looking couch and chair set, with floral designs on the fabric.

  “Have a seat. I’ll go find Dreama.” She hesitated. “I’m very sorry about your friends. Rusty’s broken up about it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “It sounds like they were wonderful people.”

  “Yes.” I didn’t like how she was using the past tense for both Mandy and Wolf, but knew it was something I might have to get used to in the very near future.

  She left, and I chose the chair, studying the room from my seat. Classic colors, from the ivory walls to the ivory and tan carpet. A piano, some ornate lamps, and a glass-topped coffee table. A few more chairs sat along the walls, and a china cupboard displayed a set of dishes, along with a beautiful set of pottery.

  I was just getting up to take a closer look at a framed painting I thought might be Rusty’s work when a girl’s face appeared in the doorway. Just the top half of her face. Her eyes peered around the corner, reminding me of Tess when Rusty had visited our house.

  “Hi,” I said. “Are you Dreama?”

  She shook her head. “I’m Rose.”

  Ah. The one Rusty had told Tess about.

  “Hi, Rose,” I said. “You can come in if you want.”

  She did, her body appearing in increments as she slowly maneuvered her way around the doorjamb and onto the end of the sofa. She was a miniature of her mother, without the tinted hair and make-up. Her fuzzy pink sweater matched her slippers, and her jeans—a paler shade of pink—were the classic cut, with only a few sparkly sequins on the pockets.

  “I’m nine,” she said.

  “That’s great. I’m twenty-nine.”

  She brightened. “Really?”

  I nodded.

  “Are you here to talk to my sister?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s seventeen.”

  “Great.”

  “What are you goi
ng to talk to her about?”

  “Well, she knows some things about a man I’m…researching.”

  She nodded gravely. “That bad man.”

  “Bad? Dennis Bergman?”

  Her forehead crinkled. “I don’t know.”

  An older girl walked into the room and ruffled Rose’s hair. “What are you telling her, sis?”

  “Nothing.”

  I stood and shook Dreama’s hand, unable to keep the smile off my face. Now this was what I expected at Rusty’s house. Dreama’s hair was dyed a startling shade of orange, which matched her lipstick and the sun tattooed on the side of her neck. Her black T-shirt hung over long and baggy jeans, the cuffs shredded from dragging on the ground. From what I could see she was barefoot, with rings around several toes. Her ears were lined with hoops, and when she talked I saw the flash of a stud in her tongue.

  “I’m Stella,” I said. “Rose was saying you’re going to tell me about a bad man. I didn’t think Dennis Bergman was bad.”

  She laughed and plunked down on the sofa. I sat, too. Rose still hung out on the end of the couch. “Bergman’s not bad,” she said. “But I started doing some research on Farley, the jerk. That’s probably who she’s talking about.”

  “Oh. Maybe you can tell me some about him, too.”

  “Sure. What I know.” She had a thick folder in her hand, and she laid it on the coffee table. “This was all my research for my paper about Bergman. And this is the paper.” She handed me a stapled stack of papers. “I printed out a copy for you.”

  “Thanks. I see you even wrote on your ‘A’ on the top.”

  She grinned. “Hey, you might as well know you’re reading quality material. Anyway, what do you want to know?”

  “Whatever you can tell me.”

  “All right.” She settled back on the sofa. “Dennis Bergman is a tattoo artist, but also a lawyer. He does mostly title work, financial stuff, you know, and when he got wind of this bogus bill, he about blew his top. Got hold of everything he could to start fighting it. Wasn’t hard to find others to jump in with him. Tattoo artists from all over the state, and body-piercers, too. Plus folks who just want to be able to modify their bodies how they want and not be arrested for it.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Makes a lot of sense. Unlike the bill. You know about it?”