Harvest Moon (12 page)

Trent studied the hand-scratched sheet music, overwhelmed to be holding something created by a grandfather he’d never know. “Wow, thanks. I’m really touched.”

Marion’s eyes watered, but she blinked away the wetness. “It’s not much.”

Trent hugged her, an act that came easily with her gesture, and left to go meet Jay.

He’d never dreamed by moving here at the age of forty-five, the missing chunks of his life might come together so quickly. On his way back to the truck, his mind remained cloudy with thoughts of what might have been if he’d never been adopted.

The blaring horn of a passing car made Trent look across the street. While watching the angry driver gesture at another car, Trent’s peripheral vision caught the hurried gait of a person on the sidewalk.

Veronica Sussingham walked fast and with purpose toward the old white colonial with a sign reading “Northbridge Public Library.” Her flowing white skirt hugged her lean frame at the hips but blossomed like petals at her knees. A sleeveless top revealed beautiful long arms; arms she’d looped around his neck on Saturday night.

Caught up in a whirlpool of emotion, he stopped, suddenly thankful he and Angie had discussed keeping things casual between them going forward.

A long strand of pearls jiggled against her chest. Pearls. He liked the nickname, even though she didn’t seem to. The gem name suited her. Classy. Tough on the outside, yet on the inside… Who knew what was on the inside? Her soft lips had cast a magic spell on him and their one dance ended too quickly.

A passing minivan beeped. She smiled, raised her arm to wave to the driver as it flew past. As she lowered her arm, she slowed her pace, then stopped. From across the street, she stared back at Trent. Her smile for the driver of the car vanished, making him freeze in place, his usual certainty with woman disabled.

She hurried to the library and disappeared through the doors, without even a short greeting.

“Hey!” Jay yelled. He headed in Trent’s direction. “Ready to go?”

A wave of disappointment ambushed Trent. “Sure.”

From the driver’s seat of Gabby’s sedan, the feisty reporter—whose petite frame and sweet demeanor belied her unyielding gumption—debated with Charlotte. Veronica sat in the passenger seat and tuned out the discussion about the correct tempo for a new number their choral director had selected for the upcoming Harvest Festival.

Tonight’s chorus practice had gone well, especially solo try-outs. She felt positive she’d get the part. Her cell phone vibrated inside her purse, and she dug through until locating the slim edges in the bottom of the bag. A text from Cassidy read,
What do I wear for class?
Veronica replied,
Comfortable, like for exercise
.

Tomorrow night’s self-defense class had stirred all kinds of emotions, one minute threatening to undo the tightly secured ends of Veronica’s calm exterior, the next offering some welcome relief. Confessing to Ry was a first slip of the secret. Ry’s judgment-free response left her with no regrets at what she’d shared. For the first time in twenty years, the statement “confession is good for the soul” held some truth—even if she’d spoken through the Internet veil that kept her safe. She almost believed this class might not only boost Cassidy’s confidence, but her own.

“Oh, guess what I heard at the station this week?” Charlotte’s head appeared between the front bucket seats, her blond layers falling forward. “I mean, it’s pure gossip, so maybe I shouldn’t—”

“Don’t you dare clam up now.” Gabby glanced into the rearview mirror. “Now I’m way too curious.”

“This won’t end up in the
Gazette
, right, Miss Senior Staff Reporter? It’s off the record.”

Gabby chuckled. “Char, all our conversations are off the record.”

“So you say. But I’ll tell anyway.” She inched closer to the front seat. “Buzz Harris came to the station to talk to the chief the other day. He said some new guy in town who works at the vineyard is a troublemaker.” She turned to Veronica. “Didn’t Duncan just hire his brother?”

She nodded. “He did. Shouldn’t you be wearing your seat belt?”

Charlotte rolled her eyes and leaned back.

Gabby glanced at Veronica. “Was he the tall, nice-looking guy with the va-va-voom sexpot at his side at Sophie’s party? The one my husband kept gawking at until I finally asked him to stop.”

“That’s the guy. She was quite a sight, wasn’t she?”

Charlotte’s seatbelt clicked in the backseat, and Veronica turned around. “You know Char, just because Buzz doesn’t like someone, doesn’t mean what he says about them is true. Did he give any concrete reasons?”

“No, and you’re right. Buzz has been grouchier than usual lately. Last week he was in there complaining about the Tate’s land deal falling through. Said the original resort plan was better than a vineyard. More tax revenues, blah, blah, blah. I mean, move on, right?”

Veronica nodded. The rest of the ride, she stared out the car window, her thoughts her own. Buzz had supported the land deal. However, his disdain toward Trent couldn’t be related. Something didn’t fit. Veronica considered Trent’s confident persona, the way he’d tossed out a nickname for her in a heartbeat or how he assumed they’d dance so intimately—despite how they barely knew each other. Yet nowhere did “troublemaker” jump out at her.

* * * *

Large fans spun feverishly from the gym corners inside the Northbridge Municipal Building, casting a warm breeze across the room. Trent dumped his satchel on a small folding table against the wall and removed handouts he’d printed earlier. While stacking them, he glanced at an updated attendance list Marion must’ve left. A few names were scribbled on the bottom, the last minute signups.

He moved four thick blue floor mats stacked against the wall to the bleacher front, kicked off his flip-flops, and stretched to warm up.

“Is this the self-defense class?”

Trent stopped mid-lunge and turned to the door. A short, white-haired woman, who wore a T-shirt reading, “I Love Connecticut,” moved toward him with another woman at her side.

“Yes, welcome. I’m Trent Jamieson. The instructor.”

He walked to the table and removed blank stick-on nametags and a marker. “Could I ask you ladies to fill these out?”

The other woman squinted at him through small eyes, giving him a thorough once-over. “Funny. Marion said you were that developer’s brother, but you two don’t look anything alike.”

Trent smiled. “No, we don’t. How do you know Marion?”

“We work in the town clerk’s office,” they said together, pointing at each other.

“Hey there, Trent.” A tall woman with a long neck and blunt haircut walked into their small group and extended a hand. “Wanda McCann, Buzz’s secretary. We met once.”

“I remember. Nice to see you again. I’m asking everyone to wear nametags.”

A few more ladies of varying ages came in. Over the next five minutes, he crossed names off the roster and made small talk. As he crossed off a name at the bottom, he took a closer look at the two additions Marion had handwritten onto the list. He caught his breath. Veronica Sussingham had signed up for this class?

Before he could digest the information, he glanced to the doors and saw she’d just walked into the gym. A teenage girl, who bore a striking resemblance to Veronica, followed at her side. She had a daughter? He checked the name below hers. Cassidy Turner. Did she have her father’s last name?

His breath shortened as she neared. Even dressed in yoga pants and a baggy T-shirt, she made him stumble. A short strand of pearls touched the collar of her shirt, and he almost laughed, but the serious expression on her face made him refrain from any sudden moves.

She neared, eyeing him with obvious skepticism. “Are you here for the class?”

“In a manner of speaking. I’m the instructor.”

She stopped in front of him, an odd mixture of confusion and anger crossing her face. “The brochure listed someone from New Milford.”

“He canceled.” Trent shrugged. “Parks and rec offered me the class. I’m qualified.” Trent pretended to be studying the roster for a second, then met her gaze and grinned. “Strange. There’s nobody by the name of Pearls on this sheet.”

Her expression didn’t budge. He was striking out tonight.

“Pearls?” The young girl giggled. “That’s a perfect name for you, Aunt Ronnie.”

“Are you Cassidy?”

She nodded. “You know my aunt?”

“Sure. We go way back—”

“We met at Sophie’s party,” Veronica said to the girl. “He’s Pat Jamieson’s uncle. You met Pat when we visited the farm after the baby goats were born.” She turned back to Trent, still no smile.

His next strike, deflating his usually unflappable approach with women.

“Do we need to sign in?” she asked.

“I’ll cross you off. Go ahead and fill out a nametag over there on the table, then join the others.”

He checked off their names. As he walked over to close the gym doors, he gathered his fallen confidence. What was it with her? She carried suspicion the way most women carried a handbag.

He stepped toward the bleachers. “Welcome. My name—”

The gym doors burst open.

“I told you we were late, Mom.” A teenager with straight brown hair held the door open, impatiently waiting for someone, as her voice floated across the open gym space.

Bernadette Felton walked through them. “All right, Katie. Chill out.” She spotted Trent and her face brightened. “You’re our instructor?”

“I am.”

She tipped her head toward her daughter. “Got any self-defense tips for mothers to use against teenagers?”

He laughed. “Sadly, no. Grab a nametag and join the others.”

When they finished, he stood on the mat and faced the group. “Again. Welcome and I’m Trent Jamieson. The original instructor canceled so I’m your man for the next few weeks.”

He paused for a few seconds, scanned the group. “If someone attacked you, would you be able to defend yourself?”

The uneasiness of the question settled in the room. “It’s a hard question, one most of us don’t want to think about, but you never know if you’ll find yourself in a violent situation. With a little preparation, though, anyone can learn some self-defense techniques, no matter what your strength or size. Prevention is the best self-defense. Attackers try to find vulnerable targets, people in dark parking lots, those not paying attention to their surroundings. So a little awareness of what’s going on around you can help.”

Wanda raised her hand. “Is it okay to try to talk to someone if they want to hurt you? Like try to reason with them?”

“Absolutely.”

Trent’s gaze drifted over to Veronica. She sat more rigid than the others, her jaw set firm, same as the rest of her body.

“If words can stop someone from physically assaulting you, then by all means, give it a try. Offer your wallet or purse. Maybe all they want is money and they’ll take it and leave.”

Wanda seemed satisfied with the response.

“Back to awareness. What do I mean by being aware? Say you have to return to your parked car at night after a class. First, try to remember to park in well-lit areas. This preventative step alone might keep you safe. An attacker doesn’t want to be in a place where they’d be noticed.”

Many women nodded and scribbled down notes.

“Second, if you are walking to your car alone at night, keep your keys in hand as you approach your door or car. A key is a handy weapon if someone tries something. While I’m going to show you methods to fend off an attack, keep this in mind; I truly believe if physical contact is avoidable, then do so. Nothing is worth risking your life.”

He went over to the table and picked up a handout, one showing body parts, which, when struck, could do the most damage: the eyes, nose, ears, neck, groin, knee, and legs. Splitting the pile in two, he let the class distribute them.

For several minutes, he discussed the handout. Every so often, he’d glance at Veronica, who studied the paper with great concern and never once lifted her gaze in his direction.

“Tonight I’ll show you some basic moves to get away from someone. Remember, before an attacker has gained full control of you, you must do everything you can do to inflict injury, even hurt him. That said, while we practice, let’s try to remember not to hurt anybody.”

Most class members chuckled or smiled. Not Veronica, though. She chewed on her lower lip and stared off into the distance. The lines of her expression twisted into something resembling pain.

Was her angst because of him or something else?

* * * *

Bernadette leaned close to Veronica and whispered, “He’s the last person I expected to see here.”

Veronica tuned out Trent. “Yeah, me too.”

One worry had consumed her since signing up for this class; the subject might bring all the horrible details to the surface. Now Trent’s comments threatened the safe cocoon where she’d been sheltered. Worse, she’d never have signed up for this if she’d known he was the instructor. Marion should’ve told her there’d been a change.

Every time Trent glanced her way, something inside her weakened. He faced the class with his arms folded across his broad chest, long legs spread apart in a firm stance and bare feet firm on the mat.

Bernadette appeared at her ear again, a reminder of her incessant whispers during every movie they’d ever attended together. “Come to think of it, so are you.”

Veronica glanced over her shoulder. “What?”

“You’re the second to the last person I expected to see here tonight.”

“Cass wanted to take it and asked me to go, too.” Veronica pressed her index finger to her lips and turned away.

Trent’s voice rose. “Okay, if you’re a victim of an assault, you have about thirty seconds to show the attacker he may have selected the wrong person. That you’re not an easy target.”

A tight ball grew inside Veronica’s gut, increasing in size every single time Trent used the words assault or attack. She tried not to listen, and instead, studied his tall frame and nicely muscular arms—not overdone. When they’d danced at the party, his hold felt safe, and his body fit perfectly with hers.