Harvest Moon (4 page)

“He didn’t. One day I happened to stumble on his blog.”

“His blog?” She opened her eyes wide and her jaw unhinged. “Okay, that right there sounds dirty.”

“A blog is a webpage on the Internet. Where you write regularly about topics and readers can leave comments about what you’ve written. He writes about music. His blog is called ‘Eclectic Expressions in Music.’”

“Music? And you found him how?”

“I was searching on the Internet one day for some music info for my chorus director and stumbled on the blog. I signed up and started to read his posts regularly, even left comments sometimes. He’d respond to them. Then one day he wanted my opinion on a song he wrote so we exchanged e-mail addresses.”

“Why not just hand him your house key, too?”

“It’s not like that at all. We decided to keep our personal lives private, so we didn’t exchange our real names or other details. I gave him an e-mail address I use for anything not personal, like signing up for newsletters and what not. He had a blog e-mail address.”

Emily made a throaty sound of displeasure. “I don’t approve of these computer meeting things.”

“When did you become such a judgmental worrywart?”

“When my kids asked for Facebook accounts.” She lifted the wine glass. “The Internet is creepy.”

“Don’t you see commercials for online dating sites? People
can
meet that way.”

“But they’re usually predators on
Dateline.
” She paused, the glass inches from her lips. “Thank God Jack the Ripper isn’t alive today. You’d probably be his first victim.”

“He was British. There’s a whole ocean keeping me safe.”

“You know what I mean. Don’t you want to meet a real man? And by ‘real’”—Emily made air quotes with her hands—“I mean one with flesh and bones, not the Brawny paper towel guy. There’s a new sales rep at Walt’s office. He’s in his early forties, recently divorced, loves to kayak and hike—like you. Oh, and Walt says he’s pretty nice looking.”

“Oh well, if he’s Walt’s type then—”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m fine. I don’t need a fix up.”

“No, but maybe you’re still caught up in the past. It’s been a long time since you and Marc split up and…”

The breakup with Marc after dating for almost two years had been the reason her family believed she’d returned from graduate school “not herself.” Words they’d used on her more times than Veronica could count.

Emily reached out, rested her hand on Veronica’s forearm. “Don’t you think it’s time to let go of the hurt?”

Yes, sometimes she did. But what she needed to let go of wasn’t about Marc. Three weeks after the breakup, when she chose to leave a party with Gary, the axis of her world had spun out of control.

Her twenty-year-old secret. Now might be a perfect time to set the record straight and tell someone the truth about Gary, a man she had met at a campus party, who’d walked her home and raped her.

The same pyramid of emotions always present when the word crept into her head toiled inside her, a mixture of rage, remorse, fear, and shame. Veronica worked hard to hide it from Emily.

Her sister removed her hand, leaned back, and folded her arms. “Ronnie, I don’t want you to wake up one day and wonder why you passed up so many chances in life.”

Too late. Veronica looked past her sister and stared at the blue striped kitchen wallpaper, a pattern reminding her of the prison she’d locked herself in for twenty years. Only lately, thanks to the conversations with Ry, did she recall how she used to sometimes feel around a man she really liked a lot. The way her first love, Marc, had made her feel. The way she’d first felt when she met Gary, although the idea he could solicit the sensation now made her nauseous.

Veronica swallowed her pain and met her sister’s gaze. “I’m fine, Em. And I don’t like blind dates.”

Emily offered a sad, closed-lip smile. “Okay, hon.”

No, she definitely wouldn’t tell Emily about the rape because she’d tell their mother. Then they’d ask questions, probe for details. Maybe even discuss the incident behind her back, albeit with good intentions. Then her mother would insist they shove her pain under a rug, like Mom did with most things capable of making others talk. Neither of them would understand the scars of shame Veronica wore after the attack, or how she had worried the campus authorities or other students might call her a liar. The same way they had when another girl was raped on campus the year before, making Veronica stay silent not only to the university, but to the police as well.

The front door opened and snapped her from the horrible past. Boomer barked and scrambled up the steps behind Emily’s husband.

Walt walked into the kitchen, a tie hanging loose around the opened neck of his dress shirt and his reddish-blond hair curling around his ears. “Smells good. What’s cookin’ good lookin’?” He leaned over and kissed Emily.

“Your favorite. Pasta.”

He pecked Veronica on the cheek. “Good to see you, Ronnie. And of course it’s always good to see my best buddy.” He turned to Boomer and leaned over to rub his neck with both hands. Walt muttered strange little cooing sounds, so unlike him. Boomer’s swishing tail suggested he enjoyed the small talk.

Walt stood upright. “Can I change before we eat?”

“Yup. It’ll be out when you get down.”

He walked off. The happy family image Veronica had forfeited many years back, along with notions of romantic love, remained embedded in her mind. If only Marc hadn’t ended things… If only she’d never met Gary….

Veronica forced a smile. “Walt loves dogs. You guys should get one.”

Emily shared a long list of reasons why she wasn’t ready for one yet, but Veronica only half listened. Lately, more than ever before, a part of her wished to shed scars from the horror she’d been through in grad school. The problem was she had no clue how to start.

* * * *

The black forest chalet clock in Veronica’s kitchen cuckooed eight times, then played “Edelweiss.” The clock had been a gift from her mother and stepfather when they’d returned from their ten-year anniversary trip to Germany. She only remembered the timeframe because she’d received the gift close to her thirty-fifth birthday, a time when her mother liked to tease about Veronica’s biological clock. Mom no longer joked about the topic, a true blessing.

Veronica knuckled the sleep from her eyes, then followed the mesmerizing spin of her ceiling fan. Moving forward. Two simple words that sounded so easy. In a way, she had moved forward after Gary’s attack. She’d shut off the valve to her sexual desires, which had allowed her to resume dating. Choices were men who, she believed, would hand her the cord of control in the bedroom. The way she chose her romantic interests, even to this day. Yet, it had worked and left her moderately satisfied. At least until recently.

The PartyTime invitation had come at her like a curve ball. Carin’s image, with Gary at her side, stayed imprinted in her mind, popping up at random times. For the past few days, she and Gail had played phone tag. A demand for answers seemed to matter less and less. Gary had returned to Veronica’s orbit—did it matter why? Besides, avoidance had always been an easier pill for her to swallow.

Veronica rolled onto her side, flipped her legs to the floor, and slipped on her cotton bathrobe, tightening the belt.

“Morning, Boomer.”

The dog stood from his thick, pillow-like bed, stretched his butt in the air, and followed her into the kitchen. She started coffee, then opened the sliding glass doors. Boomer crossed the deck and pranced down the steps, wandering the yard for his morning constitutional. Veronica went to the kitchen table, where her laptop was left running from last night.

While she signed into her e-mail account, anticipation ambushed her, the same feeling she’d always get over these past six months whenever hoping to find a few treasured words from Ry. Emily’s cautionary reminders echoed in her mind. Everything about her contact with Ry always seemed like the real deal. A logical part of her understood, though, it wasn’t even close.

The day she’d first sent him her e-mail address, he’d written back right away, asking if Musetta was her real name. Musetta, a French name meaning “ballad,” had also been a musical fairy in a book she’d loved as a child. When Ry gave her the nickname Etta, the gesture brought a strange intimacy to their relationship.

Ry’s blog told readers the story of his nickname. A musical mentor he’d found in his first guitar teacher had given it to him. As a student, Ry’s musical tastes had ranged from rock to classical and everything in between. The mentor/teacher had shared the story of Ryland Cooder, one of the best guitarists of all time, who’d played a variety of music with great skill. The nickname “Ry” stuck with his teacher and musical friends from that day foreword.

After they’d talked via e-mail a few times, she’d poked around the site for more on him. His bio said, “Ry works hard by day so he can pursue his love for music at night.” Not too revealing. As time passed, her curiosity about him grew.

Boomer barked at the screened door. She quickly scanned her e-mail account. Nothing new from Ry. She let the dog inside and went into the kitchen.

As she poured her coffee, disappointment settled in her chest. She toyed with the idea of sending a message to ask him where he lived and, if close, suggest they meet for coffee. As quickly as it occurred, she pushed it aside, mindful that Ry could really be just about anybody.

“All we need is your John Hancock on the dotted line and the car is yours.” Don Peroni handed Trent a pen, and a large Rolex, or knock-off of one, peeked out from beneath his suit jacket.

“Just sign my life away, huh?” Trent grinned, even though the statement carried a grain of truth.

“Trust me. In mid-January, you’ll be glad you made the trade.”

The decision to switch his Audi was an attempt to start his new life without flaunting the excesses of his former one and get a more sensible car for winter weather. Outsiders drove around Northbridge in fancy sports cars and expensive SUV’s. This two-year-old Jeep Cherokee fit in, far less flashy than his red Audi.

Trent scribbled his signature. “I suppose you want my keys for the trade-in?”

“Whenever you’re ready.”

Trent reached into the pocket of his Levis and quickly handed them over before he changed his mind. “Find a good home for her.”

“Oh, this baby’ll sell fast. Don’t you worry.” Don smiled, flashing his coffee-stained teeth.

Five minutes later, Trent pulled from the car lot and headed east on the lake road into downtown Northbridge. He imagined Duncan’s surprise at seeing the new wheels, but even if Trent explained how he’d simply wanted to blend in with others, Duncan wouldn’t quite understand. Confidence had always come easily to his brother.

A mile from the center of town, Trent’s cell phone vibrated on the passenger’s seat. He glanced at the caller ID, hesitated, then pulled to the curbside and answered.

He pressed the “talk” button. “Hi, Mom.”

“Are you in Northbridge yet?”

“You caught me on my way.”

“Then I won’t keep you, but…” She hesitated, a far cry from her usual certainty with most matters. “I believe I owe you an apology.”

“What for?”

“When you first told us about your plans, I may have acted…” She paused. “…unsupportive, I suppose. Maybe you’ll finally be happy there.”

Three years into his recovery, everyone still worried he’d slip back into old habits. A little confidence in him would go a long way. Long-term resentment pulsed beneath his skin, but he bit back any snide remarks. She’d never understand how his adoption into the Jamieson family made him feel like an outsider peering through the window of a world where he didn’t belong. Combined with his father’s constant disregard, Trent had learned to turn to other places for happiness—at least he had up until three years ago.

“I
have
been happy, Mom.” He instantly regretted the snap and softened his approach. “You’re coming to Sophie’s birthday party, right?”

“Of course we are. Duncan insisted. We’re going to use the time in Connecticut to visit some other friends in Litchfield the next day. Remember Ham and Nora Ellsworth?”

“I do. So then I’ll see you tomorrow night. Jay’s expecting me at the farm, so I need to run.”

Trent ended the call and drove into town. The noon sun hung high in the sky. People hurried along the sidewalks, popping in and out of pre-W.W.I. storefronts on the busy main drag. He was about to pull into a space in front of Sunny Side Up to grab some lunch, but a blue, white, and red striped barber pole a few blocks down caught his attention. He parked halfway between the two shops and headed to the barbershop for a trim.

At an old windowed door, a sign overhead read, “Kenny’s Kuts and Shaves.” A bell tinkled when he pushed it open.

Walls covered with dated paneling and faded newspapers, shouting dramatic headlines such as “Nixon Resigns” and one with a photo of President Kennedy, hung like relics of an era gone. An American flag had been stationed near an old campaign poster for Eisenhower. Trent’s gaze landed on a taxidermy stuffed raccoon mounted high on the wall, giving him second thoughts about staying.

“Can I help you?” An older man with thick white hair and wearing a dark blue smock with “Kenny” written on the pocket continued to clip his customer’s hair.

“Any chance I can get a trim?”

“Sure. Gimme a few.” He tipped his head toward a lineup of chairs. “Have a seat. He’s not waiting. You’re next.”

Trent tried not to flinch when Northbridge First Selectman Buzz Harris stared back at him from one of the chairs. His suit jacket lay over the chair beside him, and a crumbled sandwich wrapper next to a nearly finished Snapple littered the seat.

“Hello, Buzz. I haven’t seen you since RGI pulled their bid.” He inwardly cringed, wanting to slap a hand over his own big mouth. The large-scale resort plans, which had brought the Jamiesons back to Northbridge nine months ago, may have been the wrong subject to open with.

Buzz cleared his throat. “Your brother told me he’d offered you a job at the vineyards.”