Chapter 9 #2
I head out to the road, deciding to walk a little farther before going into town.
Sunny crosses her arms and stands on the porch, watching.
I square my shoulders. I won’t let Sunny send me packing, which is what she seems hell-bent on doing.
I’ve waited all my life to find my father. I’m not giving up now.
I see Ruth coming out of her front door carrying a box. “How are you holding up this morning, Ruth?” I ask.
She drops the box on the porch, and swipes away a tress that has fallen over her eyes.
“All right. Thanks for asking.” She glances over her shoulder.
“Jeffrey is helping me sort some of Simon’s things.
The man accumulated a lot over the years.
I should probably wait awhile, take some time before I do this, but I just can’t sit still. ”
We all grieve in our own way. I remember that from my mother’s death. I also got busy cleaning out the house soon after she was gone as if going through her things brought her closer to me somehow. “Let me know if you need anything,” I say. “I was just going for a walk.”
“Thank you, Emma. Be careful,” she says, and her eyes shift toward the lonely road ahead. Then she retreats back into the house.
Her words unsettle me. Is there a murderer here someplace among the trees? Maybe a walk along the lake road, even a short one, isn’t such a good idea. I pivot and head back toward the house.
It’s still too early to head into town. The shops won’t be open for another hour or two, but I don’t feel like going back inside and dealing with Sunny, so I walk over to Noah’s house. There’s a car in the driveway, so I head up his porch steps and ring the bell.
“Hi,” he says, swinging the door wide. “You out for a walk?”
“Well, I thought about it, but …” I glance back at the road.
“Changed your mind? Don’t blame you. Come on in. I just made coffee.”
Noah’s house is similar to the Spencers’ place.
Big rooms, lots of glistening dark woodwork.
Stained-glass window over the front door.
While the house is definitely old, historic, the furniture is more modern than at Alex’s, as if Spencer House is stuck in the past. The walls here are painted off-white, giving the place a more airy, cheerful, up-to-date look.
We head back to the kitchen, where there’s a small nook looking out on the side yard with a little round table nestled there. Newspapers are stacked on the top, nearly covering the white tablecloth. It seems strange to see actual newspapers nowadays. It’s as if Noah has collected antiques.
“Have a seat,” he says, picking up the papers. Noah brings over two mugs of coffee and goes back for cream and sugar.
“How’s everyone doing over at your place?” he asks.
“Fine. Sunny and Alex are busy. He has a radio interview for his new book, so I thought I’d get out for a while.”
Noah nods as he sits across from me. “How are things with Sunny?” He smirks.
“Do you know her well?”
“Well enough. She’s younger than I am. When I was a teenager, she was a little kid. A spoiled little kid.”
“I’ve gotten that impression,” I say, then I instantly regret it. How well do I know this man, after all? “But she’s fine. I wish the circumstances had been different when I met everyone for the first time.”
“Yeah. It’s awful about Simon. Poor Ruth.”
We fall silent, each sipping coffee.
Noah gives me a long look. “Ruth said you were a distant relative, but you’ve never met this branch of the family before?”
“No.” I clear my throat. “I lived with my mom, and we kept to ourselves. I didn’t know about Alex and his family until just recently.”
“Huh. Interesting. Instant family then?”
“Yes, something like that.” I glance around at the small but updated kitchen, wanting to change the subject. “So, the houses were all built a long time ago?”
“Yes. Late 1800s. The original owners, Robert Cole, Harold Harwood, and William Spencer, graduated from Harvard and went into business together. Made a fortune in various enterprises. I’m still researching all of that, actually.
I’m thinking of a book or an article anyway, at some point.
The three were best friends, I’ve been told, and made a fortune.
They wanted to stick together. They were all avid sportsmen, hunted, fished, hiked, so they bought the Cheshire Lake property.
” He glances over his shoulder. “There’s a picture of them hanging in the hall.
Anyway, they avoided the Boston and New York society scenes preferring country living. ”
“And the families have lived here ever since? Generation after generation?”
Noah smirks. “A little incestuous, I’m afraid. But yes. And there’s been a son in each generation to carry on the family names—until now.”
“Simon?”
“Yeah. He and Ruth never had children, boy or girl.”
“So, what happens then when Ruth passes?”
Noah shrugs. “We’ll see. That’s why the Thompsons are so eager to get their hands on her property. They think they can wheedle a better price out of Ruth than if they wait until she’s gone and other interested parties come sniffing around.”
I lean back in my chair. “Maybe Alex or your father might buy her out.”
“The question has been raised. Lots of history entwined in the three families, not all of it pleasant beneath the veneer of friendship.”
There’s always something beneath, that’s what I’ve always thought.
People have a way of hiding their true selves, their intentions.
My mind flips back to my husband. I had no clue what Ben was up to with his office manager, and I found out afterward that it had been going on for some time.
Stupid me, I think to myself. I glance up at Noah, eager to take the conversation in a new direction. “What do you do, for a living I mean?”
“I’m a journalist.”
“A writer then. That’s why you’re thinking of a book about Cheshire Lake and its history?”
“That’s a side project really. One of those things I’ve thought more about than actually done anything about.”
“A lot of writers for one small community. That’s interesting.”
“I suppose it is.” He stands. “Get you a refill?”
“No, I’m good. Who do you write for?”
“Freelance. I sell my articles to different outlets. I’ve been lucky. After college, I didn’t have to find full-time employment because of my family. Trust fund baby,” he adds sheepishly.
“Nice.”
He sighs. “Yeah. I’m grateful. I can write what I want, but I try to focus on issues that highlight the struggles of people who don’t have the privileges I’ve had.”
“That’s a good thing.”
“I hope it is.” His back to me, Noah rinses his mug at the sink.
“What do you think happened to Simon?” I ask, and see his shoulders tense. He pauses a moment before turning in my direction.
“I don’t know. Probably a combination of his dementia and heart problems.”
I doubt he really believes that. He’s a journalist. He saw the blood on the back of Simon’s head.
“The cops seem to think otherwise.”
“They have to look at everything, Emma, be thorough. I just don’t know why anyone would harm Simon. It doesn’t make sense. It’s possible somebody got into the neighborhood. I guess we’ll see.”
“Yeah.” I glance out the window where thick woods stand. “I’m going to take a ride into town and look around.”
Noah walks to the window and peers out. “Good idea. Get out of here for a while.”
“Any suggestions where I should go? I’ve been to the grocery store, but that’s as far as I’ve gotten.”
“Evansport has a lot of interesting shops, a nice bookstore, a café, and several other restaurants. Then there’s always the waterfront. If you drive up the coast a bit, there’s a lighthouse that’s really spectacular, but it might be a little chilly to go out there today.”
“Sounds nice.”
“I’d join you, show you around, but I’ve got a deadline I’m fighting, so I should get to work.”
I stand. “Another time then?”
“Absolutely.”