Chapter 4
Clare waited an hour after Russ had driven off to pick up Hadley, figuring in the unlikely event he’d forgotten anything, he’d be back within that time.
She patted herself on the back for being so productive—she had gone through all the budget reports pending the next committee meeting and dealt with Ethan’s super-awake-and-ready-to-interact mood as well.
The stove alarm beeped. She set down the last report, from the flower committee—it never ceased to amaze her how expensive flowers were—and wove her way between an obstacle course of baby toys to the kitchen to turn it off.
A quick call to the church secretary confirmed nothing had come up needing her attention, and then she looked up Meghan Smith’s number and dialed it on their old-fashioned wall phone, a landline being a must-have for both their jobs. Scratch that, her job, now.
“Hi, Meghan here.”
“Meghan, hi! It’s Clare Fergusson. Thanks again for that delicious lunch on Saturday. Look, I wanted to get in touch with Tiny, you remember, Calvin’s wife? I wondered if you had a phone number or an address for her.”
“Tiny March? I mean, yeah, but why?”
“She certainly looked to me like she needed a friend, didn’t she?”
She could hear Meghan’s sigh. “Yeah, I guess so.” There was a pause. “I’m honestly not sure how her husband’s going to react to anyone, you know…”
“I know. That’s one of the reasons I think she needs a friend.”
“Okay, hang on.” There was a long, silent pause and then Meghan came back on the line. “I’m going to tell you this instead of text it to you, ’cause, if things do blow up, I don’t want to have my fingerprints on it.”
“Understood. I won’t mention your name.” Clare jotted down the number and address Meghan gave her and thanked her.
The other woman laughed. “Don’t thank me until after you’ve dealt with Calvin.”
Clare debated calling versus showing up for about three seconds before deciding on her preferred method—jumping in with both feet.
It was easy to hang up a phone, and a lot harder to get rid of someone standing on your doorstep.
She thought about whether to bring Ethan or drop him off at her mother-in-law’s for a longer period.
Eventually, bringing him along won out. He was a natural entry point to another mother of an eight-month-old, and even if Calvin March blew his top and ordered her off his property, she was certain he wouldn’t get physical with her.
She smiled tightly. At least not the first time she showed up.
The Marches’ home was in the country, well outside the pretty little town of Corinth.
It was a long enough trip to put Ethan to sleep.
Clare missed the drive the first time, despite the GPS directions; it was so overgrown and leaf-clogged it was more like a break in the woods than a driveway.
She turned around and went back, this time spotting the listing, unpainted post that once would have held a mailbox.
She nosed her car up the lane, such as it was, following the ruts in the frozen leaves and humus.
The house was tired brown, with a larger second story stacked atop a cement brick ground floor.
There was a flattened area that might pass as a parking spot, currently empty of any vehicles.
Clare did a three-point turn and left her own car facing out, ready to take off as quickly as necessary.
She unfastened Ethan’s car seat, popped up the carrier handle, and shouldered the diaper bag.
Decaying railroad timber steps led up the small hill next to the house, where a ramp connected the earth to the open deck girdling two sides of the structure.
Clare was reminded of medieval castles, with a drawbridge and pit, although the cheap aluminum windows in the ground floor probably wouldn’t withhold a siege for more than a minute.
She was halfway up the steps, the baby carrier balanced against her thigh, when the door to the deck banged open and Tiny March stepped out. “What are you doing here?” She sounded panicked.
“Hey, Tiny.” Clare reached the top and turned toward the ramp. “Do you remember me? Clare Fergusson? We met the other day when you stopped by the Smiths’ house.”
“Of course I remember you.” Tiny looked down the driveway. “Cal doesn’t like it when people come here.”
Clare crossed the—she couldn’t help it, “drawbridge” kept popping up in her mind—and set the baby carrier down. She smiled. “What, nobody ever comes here?”
“Nobody to see me.” Tiny glanced back down the drive. From here, you wouldn’t know there was a county highway at the end at all.
“Well, I came to see you. Seeing as how we both have eight-month-olds, I figured we might visit a bit. I’m trying to get to know other moms, since Ethan’s my first.”
“Um.” The woman almost visibly fluttered, like a small brown wren caught in a trap. “I don’t know if I should…”
“I understand. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. We can chat out here.” The deck was bare of seating, toys, or any indication it was used in December.
“I don’t want to leave a baby out here in the cold!”
Yes. One point for bringing Ethan. “Maybe we can come in, then? Just for a few minutes.”
“Yes, okay, but you should leave before Cal gets back.” Tiny opened the rickety storm door and led Clare inside.
The Marches’ home was considerably prettier indoors; the walls and peaked ceiling were paneled in shiny pine, and a woodstove radiated heat from a corner.
A sofa, a stuffed chair, a TV console, and a playpen filled the small space.
Tiny’s daughter was pulling herself up to stare at the visitors.
“Hi, there,” Clare said to the baby. “I didn’t get her name when we met.”
“Rose.” Tiny’s face softened into a smile as she hoisted the baby from the playpen. “My absolute favorite movie of all time is Titanic, and I always wanted my own little Rose.”
Clare set the carrier down. “We could let them play, but I’m afraid the car ride’s conked Ethan out cold.” She took off her coat and looked expectantly at the sofa.
Tiny pushed a pile of fabric scraps into a basket. Her hand twitched; either an invitation to sit, or a nervous reflex.
Clare sat. “What are you working on?”
“I make rugs.” Tiny perched on the edge of the sofa, sitting Rose on her knee.
“Are these yours?” The floor was layered with colorful braided and rag rugs. “They’re beautiful. I thought making handmade ones was a lost art.”
“My grandma taught me how.” She ducked her head. “I get the scraps from the transfer station. Lots of people drop off clothes and stuff, you know?”
“How on earth do you go from old clothes to this?”
Tiny scooted back and set Rose on the cushion beside her.
She picked up the basket. “See, I pick fabric that’s good to work with—it’s got to be real cotton for the woven rugs and real wool for the braided ones.
I cut ’em into strips.” She lifted a pair of long silver sewing scissors from the basket.
“Sometimes I sew the strips together, sometimes I knot ’em, it all depends on how I want it to look in the end.
Then I, you know, braid ’em or weave ’em. ”
“That’s amazing. You’re a real artist. You could sell these.”
Tiny giggled, then covered her mouth. “I do! There’s a lady volunteers at the library. She runs a shop. It’s how I get my spending money.”
“So you do have a job.”
“Oh, no, this is just my hobby. It lets me get things for the baby, or Cal’s Christmas presents, stuff I don’t want to ask him for.”
“Does Cal know about you earning money from these gorgeous rugs?”
“Well … it wouldn’t be a present if it wasn’t a surprise, would it?” Tiny had a look Clare could only describe as sly.
“No. No, it wouldn’t.” She tried to think of a way to talk about Tiny’s husband without causing the woman to shrink down again. She glanced around the room. “I like your stove. Do you buy your wood, or does your husband split it?”
“Oh, Cal cuts and splits it. We’ve got fourteen acres here, it’s a good size for a wood lot. He works real hard on it.”
“That’s a good thing in a husband.”
“Isn’t it?” Tiny pushed a strand of muddy brown hair behind her ear. “My dad couldn’t hold a job. He drank. Blamed everybody else for his own messes. That’s one of the things attracted me to Cal at first. He’s a hard worker. And he does what he says. You know where you stand with him.”
“Mmm.” Clare held out a finger toward Rose. The baby grabbed it and squeezed. “Seems like he has a temper. At least, he did when I saw him.”
“Oh, yeah, it’s true. But like I said, he lays down the law and as long as I stick to it, everything’s fine.
” She looked around. “This ain’t a big house, but it’s all ours, and he likes how I keep it.
And we’re saving up to get a bigger place in a few years.
We want room for more kids.” Her voice was cheery, but her shoulders sagged.
“Hmmm. So what’s Cal do?”
“He’s got his own truck company,” she said proudly. “Not the big eighteen-wheelers, but the smaller kind. He drives, and he’s got some guys who work for him on and off.”
“Like Rick Smith?”
Tiny giggled. “Oh, no. He and Rick are kind of friends. They’re in the same group, talking politics and stuff. Tell the truth, he thinks Rick’s kinda weedy. More interested in his toys than, you know, doing important work. Plus, he says Rick’s,” she dropped her voice to a whisper, “pussy-whipped.”
Clare exaggerated her O of shock before smiling. “But if he has his group to hang around with, you should have some girlfriends you can see as well.”
Tiny shifted. “I don’t … I don’t really need girlfriends. Rose and me go to the library. And the Y has a free mommy-baby exercise thing once a week. It’s really yoga, but Cal says that’s just the Indians taking over our culture, so I call it exercise.”