Chapter 3
In theory, it was a great idea. Peter wanted me to show him around, so I’d show him around—starting with an extra-long, brisk hike through the late-afternoon wind, the salt-laden air and the bracken.
That would take the starch out of his pretty city shirt collar, I calculated. I felt smug in anticipation.
In practice, something went wrong. As soon as I suggested we walk into town, Peter retrieved his suitcase from the car and disappeared into the second of the two upstairs bedrooms, the spare one, the one I’d pointed him to when he’d said something about changing his shoes.
When he trotted back down the stairs less than five minutes later, he’d removed the shirt I’d hoped to take the starch from.
In fact, I was the one who felt unstarched.
Not only had he removed the shirt, sweater, slacks and loafers that had given him a semblance of urbanity, but he’d replaced them with clothes that might well have come from Down East Army and Navy ten years before.
His sneakers had been run long and hard.
Above them were a pair of basic Levi’s that had been blue many washings ago but were faded now, and the fading was real.
It was uneven, more so in spots that saw the most friction—the knees, the thighs and, oh Lord, the fly.
Above the jeans was a faded maroon sweatshirt, beneath the sweatshirt a gray turtleneck jersey.
Hooked on a finger over his shoulder was a venerable sherpa-lined jacket.
It wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d looked dirty, but he didn’t.
He just looked comfortable. He looked as much at ease in my kind of clothes as he did in his.
I wasn’t sure how it could be, given the number of hours he surely had to devote to his career to be as successful as he was, but he looked as though he spent a good part of his life in those jeans.
They fit him like a well-worn glove, conforming snugly to his rangy frame, yet allowing for the movement that was uniquely his.
The worst of it was that dressed this way, he was more devastating than ever. While he still didn’t look as rough as Cooper, the jeans and sweatshirt brought him close. They broadcast the fact of a hard male body beneath, and that fact did nothing at all to still my racing pulse.
I should have guessed he’d be the athletic type.
A man didn’t wear running shoes, a sweatshirt and jeans simply to be a paper pusher.
And sure enough, when I set a hardy pace away from the house, winding over the bluffs, then across and through the scrubby pines on the long way to town, he didn’t say a word.
After a while, my own breathing came a little faster—frustration, I told myself—but his was as even as ever.
That was when I knew I needed Swansy. I’d intended to stop in anyway to introduce her to Peter, though I’d originally planned to do it on the way home. Swansy was a calming force for me, and I knew I was going to need something before being shut in with Peter Hathaway for the night.
I needed calming now, though. I needed to see a familiar face, hear a familiar voice, share the problem of Peter Hathaway with someone who would understand and care. Swansy was just the one.
She lived in a small, wood-frame house near the end of Main Street, which was not only the town’s main street, but its only one.
I’d led Peter on the roundabout route, so we approached from the opposite direction and had to walk through town.
On the one hand, that worked out just fine; I talked as we walked and was able to give him a feel for the layout of the town.
The down side was that the selfconsciousness I’d felt after Adam had died was nothing compared to the way I felt walking along with Peter.
Klieg lights couldn’t have been worse.
But this was my town, these were my people, and I’d come a long, long way in six years.
So I told myself, as I held my chin high and walked along.
We passed a dozen simple frame houses on the south end of town, passed the grocery store, the hardware store, the post office and Sam’s Saloon, passed the lane that led to the docks, then a few shops and a dozen more houses on the north end of town.
When we reached Swansy’s, I led Peter up the gravel drive to the side door and pushed it open.
“Hi, Swansy,” I called in a voice loud enough to carry through the bottom floor of the house.
The scent that greeted me was wonderful, the atmosphere in the small kitchen warm and homey.
Though I’d been well dressed for the trek from my house and hadn’t been physically chilled, being with Peter was unbalancing.
Already, stepping into Swansy’s house, knowing that the safe and familiar was just down the hall, I felt better.
Tossing my jacket to a chair, I lifted the cover off a pot on the stove and stirred the stew inside. By the time I’d replaced the cover, a cool nose was nudging my hip.
“Hi, sweetheart,” I crooned to the gentle German shepherd who’d come to greet me.
Scratching her ears, I bent over to offer my cheek for a lick.
“Her name’s Rebecca,” I told Peter as I straightened.
Peter went down on his haunches to greet the dog at eye level.
He looked so serious about it that I nearly laughed.
Not wanting to offend him that way, I went on into the parlor.
Swansy was there, looking like a septuagenarian doll ensconced in the bentwood rocker I’d given her one Mother’s Day.
Little more than five feet tall, she was as slim as she was small.
Though she was wrinkled enough to attest to her age, her skin maintained a softness that I’d always attributed to her complexion.
Peaches and cream it was, with spots of high color on her cheeks that were as natural as the pure white hair on her head.
Her smile was every bit as natural as that, and always ready.
But she wasn’t smiling now. She was scowling in the direction of the television, which was tuned loud and clear to the last of the Friday afternoon soap operas. I had no sooner approached her chair when she started in.
“They do it to me every time,” she complained in her sweet, birdlike warble.
“Leave me hangin’ right up in the air for the weekend.
This time it’s Babette bein’ drunk and walkin’ out in front of that car.
We hear the squeal of brakes, and then they switch the scene.
Well, I don’t want to know that Mark is gettin’ fired from his job, ’cause he’ll have another one come Monday, and he doesn’t even need one, ’cause he’s rich as a shiek.
I want to know about Babette. She’s goin’ to be hurt bad, and—” her warble lowered to a conspiratorial whisper “—y’know who was drivin’ that car?
Gordon was drivin’ it. I’m tellin’ you, there’s goin’ to be trouble, and now I have to wait until Monday to find out how much. ”
I smiled. “That’s okay. The wondering will keep you busy.
” I leaned low to brush her cheek with a kiss, at the same time pressing the remote control in her lap to turn off the set.
“The stew looks divine. It smells divine. Bettina’s been up?
” Bettina Gregorian lived on the outskirts of town, south to my north.
She had five children under the age of nine and was not only a supermom but a supercook.
She was also a superfriend. At least one morning a week, she showed up at Swansy’s with the makings for something that would cook without tending and last for days.
While we all looked after Swansy in this way and others, Bettina’s stew took first prize.
“Stopped up first thing,” Swansy confirmed. A tiny frown drew on her wrinkles. “The littlest boys have chicken pox.”
“Daniel and Port? Oh, dear.”
“Three weeks to the day after Mim and Sally. She’s hopin’ the baby stays well. It’s no fun gettin’ that at six months.”
“For baby or for mother. I’ll stop by tomorrow and see how they’re doing.”
“Have you had ’em?”
I smiled. “When I was two, I’m told, though I don’t remember, myself. I caught it from Samantha, who caught it from Ian. The maid caught it somewhere in between, and the nanny didn’t know how to cook, so my mother was fit to be tied.”
“Didn’t your daddy help out?”
I felt my smile turn crooked. “His way of helping was to hire a temporary girl, who proceeded to scorch his best shirts. To this day, my family talks of that time as a dark one.”
Swansy knew enough about me and my family to understand the mockery in my voice. She raised a hand to my cheek, moved it lightly, open-palmed. The gesture was as comforting to me as it was informative to Swansy. “It’s gettin’ colder. Winter’ll be on us soon. You’ve been walkin’ over the hill?”
She could smell it, I knew. There was a special scent, a combination of salt air and pine mist that clung to my hair and my coat. It was a dead giveaway every time.
“And your lawyer is here.” Her hand returned to mine and held it tightly. “Please,” she whispered. “Introduce me to him.”
A quick glance over my shoulder told me that, indeed, Peter had joined us. Ironic that Swansy should know before me, blind as she was. But her hearing was incredible. She must have heard his step.
I continued to hold her hand as I stood by the side of her chair and watched Peter as he studied her.
He knew. He’d seen it right off. Whether it was Rebecca’s docility that had alerted him, or the harness lying close by the rocker, or the opaqueness of Swansy’s blue eyes, I didn’t know, but he took it in stride.
“Swansy, this is Peter Hathaway. Peter, Swansy Tabb.”
Coming forward Peter put his hand in the one Swansy offered. “How do you do?” he said with gentle formality.
“I’m doin’ just fine,” Swansy answered brightly. Freeing her other hand from mine, she closed it over his. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”