Home Another Way (3 page)

“Is this town that small?” I mumbled. Everyone was listening.

“Yes, but that’s not how I know your name.” Beth laughed. “You’re staying with us. At the inn.”

I looked at the girl again. She had Maggie’s bird-thin frame.

“Can I take your order?”

“Cheeseburger, rare, with lettuce, onion, and tomato. And onion rings.”

“Great,” Beth said, and flitted away to the kitchen, humming. She moved like a bird, too, light and full of song.

I leaned my head back against the padded red seat and closed my eyes. Pieces of conversation floated through the French-fried air. By the time my food arrived, I’d learned that Mr. Winchell lost three goats yesterday, the diner’s hash was too dry, and Ima-Louise Saltzman’s youngest daughter had eyes for the town’s pastor, but he wouldn’t look twice at her.

“Here you go,” Beth said, sliding a plate in front of me. “You can keep the Tylenol.”

“Thanks.”

I drenched the meat with ketchup and bit into the rarest burger I’d ever eaten, seared brown on each side, with an angry red center. The first few bites were coppery and slick, but I kept the food down despite the dripping grease, and the pickles, which I hadn’t ordered.

Swallowing one mushy onion ring after another without tasting them, I mulled over my father’s last request. He shouldn’t have had anything, after what he took from me. He had phoned me once, after he was released from prison, asking to see me. At my request, Aunt Ruth told him I wasn’t interested. That was partly true. I didn’t want to meet and make small talk. I wanted to scream for a while, throw something at him and walk away forever.

I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of getting his own way now.

I needed that money, though. I had emptied my savings for the divorce. If David fought me, I’d owe my lawyer thousands more. And there were those nasty collection agents that kept calling, before the cellular phone company turned off my service for nonpayment.

Perhaps Rich the Mushroom was lonely and, with some strategically bared skin, I could persuade him to be a bit lenient with the terms of the will. I’d be happy with half, or even a third. I looked at my watch. Rich would have left the office. I’d go back tomorrow morning.

At the register I ordered a hot chocolate to go, and asked the cashier, “Where can a girl have some fun around here?”

The woman frowned. “Not sure what you’re looking for.”

“A mall? A movie theater? Anything?”

She gave me the change and the lidded Styrofoam cup, her knuckles cracked with eczema. “The closest mall is a couple hours down the mountain. But Westville is a little less than an hour from here, and they have a Super –Wal-Mart.”

“How about a bar?”

“You’ll have to go to Gloverstown for that,” she nipped.

“The good folks of Jonah don’t drink their money away.”

Yeah, right.
“And Gloverstown is where?” I asked.

“Half hour south on 22.”

I spun to leave and bumped into someone behind me.

The hot chocolate squashed between us, spilling onto my bare hand. “Ow,” I said, dropping the cup. The rest of the liquid splashed on my jeans and shoes.

“Oh, no, I’m so sorry,” the someone said, a tall man partly hidden in a wooly hat. The part I could see—chewed lips, dark eyebrows—did not impress me. In fact, I grew more annoyed because the guy’s eyelashes were so long. What a waste.

“Your hand is red,” he continued.

“Yeah, well, you just dumped twelve ounces of scalding liquid on it.”

“Beth, get some ice,” he said, and then reached for my hand. “Let me see.”

“Thanks, you’ve done enough,” I said, shoving past him and a few nosy onlookers.

“You need to get something cold on that burn.”

“I’ll stick it in the snow. There’s plenty in this place.”

I threw open the door, careful not to slip down the frozen diner steps. Getting into my car, I checked my hand. No blisters.

I drove back to the inn. Maggie had left the lights on for me and taped a note to my bedroom door. She was at Bible study, and if I was hungry I could help myself to anything in the guest kitchen, at the bottom of the stairs and down the hall on the right.

I dumped the contents of my duffel bag onto the now-made bed and picked through the clothes with the task of finding an outfit that both kept me warm and looked hot. Tossing my cocoa-stained windbreaker on the floor, I settled on gray trousers and a sheer blouse.

I left the clothes strewn over the bed. I had no plans of coming back tonight.

chapter FOUR

The pub was mostly empty, except for a few of the six o’clock people—those soggy, desperate types who have no place to go or no desire to go to the places they belong. I was one of them. But I wasn’t there to get drunk, capable as I was of pounding back a few. Men were my diversion of choice.

Like mother, like daughter, I suppose.

I hoped I would have a better selection in an hour or so. Then again, I had no idea what would crawl in from the mountain. Not that I’d ever been picky. They did need to have showered in the last twenty-four hours, though, and have all their teeth.

I ordered a beer at the bar, a cheap domestic brew, and noticed an older man sitting there with a club soda, talking to a slouched waitress. He saw me, too, and I didn’t like the odd way his mouth twitched as he pretended he wasn’t looking.

“Hey,” I said to the bartender, jerking my head toward the man. “He okay?”

“Who, Doc?” The woman wore three shades of purple eye shadow. “He’s harmless.”

I sat against the far wall, near two scraggly-haired men smoking and arguing across the billiards table. Another man hunched under a stuffed moose head, his table littered with empty shot glasses. The décor went past rustic; antlers jutted from the walls and the chandeliers.

I needed a second drink. Before I could signal the waitress, however, the man from the bar came toward my table.

“Can I join you?” he asked.

“No.”

He hesitated for a moment, wiry eyebrows sinking slightly. I stressed my point, saying, “I’m not interested, old man.”

“You’re Luke Petersen’s daughter,” he said, sticking his hand out toward my face. “Crandall White.”

I feigned disinterest. “The bartender called you Doc. Are you a real doctor?”

His hand fell. “If I answer yes, do I get to sit down?”

Kicking an empty chair toward him, I shrugged. “Whatever.”

He sat, and motioned to the waitress. “Two more of whatever Sarah is drinking,” he said.

It didn’t surprise me he knew my name. He said nothing else until our drinks came, the waitress dropping them on the table. Beer sloshed onto my pants. Doc watched as I muttered a couple of obscenities and chugged half the glass.

“You look like him,” he said.

“People always say I look like my mother.”

“Do you?” Doc asked.

“No. But I guess they consider it bad form to say I look like a murderer.” Like Rich the Mushroom, Doc didn’t react to my words. “So, does the whole mountain know? About my father, I mean.”

“Not the whole mountain,” he said, taking a small sip of his beer, “but all of Jonah. News travels fast in a place like that. From what I gather, Luke was quite open about what happened before he moved here. Told the whole church, which is just about everyone in town, except me. But I caught bits and pieces of the story from time to time.”

I waited. Doc didn’t offer any more, so I asked, “What exactly have you heard?”

“That Luke was in prison for a while. That he was convicted of killing his wife.”

We fell silent. What more could be said about my father’s sordid, not-so-secret past? Call me foolish, but I’d always thought uxoricide was something to be ashamed of, like beating your kid or drowning a sack of puppies. Luke appeared to treat it as if he had indigestion, a bit irritating but gone after a couple of Rolaids and a good night’s sleep.

Shoving the mostly empty glass around the table with my thumbs, I asked, “You live there, then, in Jonah?”

Doc nodded.

“Why?”

“Doctors are scarce in this area of the mountain. I see patients in a dozen towns, and Jonah is fairly central.”

So, he was really a doctor. I looked at him, in his threadbare sweater and outdated plastic-rimmed glasses, his middle-aged jowls drooping along a once-strong jaw. I could recognize a bleeding heart, having seen enough of them while living in New York City, in those save-the-world-hug-a-tree types. If it weren’t snowing, Doc would probably be wearing leather-free sandals with organic cotton socks.

The noise in the small building distracted me, and I glanced up. The bar was filling, but not with the type of people I’d expected. These patrons wore expensive ski jackets and designer shoes. They laughed casually, drinking eight-dollar microbrews and mixed drinks with chic names like Pink Squirrel and Berry Mojito.

“Where are the mullets?” I asked, motioning to the growing crowd.

“Tourists,” Doc said. “Skiers, actually. They’re trying to experience the local flavor. Don’t worry, they don’t venture much past here.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not sticking around Jonah too much longer. I should be gone by the weekend. Monday at the latest.”

Doc’s mouth twitched again. He tossed a few dollars on the table. “Well, good-bye, since I won’t see you again,” he said, then handed me a business card with his address and phone number. “Just in case.”

I watched Doc go, and then gulped the rest of his now-warm beer. Someone started the jukebox and ’70s rock ripped through the room. Coats were tossed aside as women in tight jeans and tighter sweaters gyrated in bunches of three and four. I scanned the room, noticing some frat boys checking me out. I gave a long look at the group, flicked my hair, and pouted while holding my empty glass. One of the guys popped to his feet and came to my table carrying two full drinks.

His name was Brad. Or Brian. I couldn’t understand most of what he shouted through the music, but he was good-looking with fresh-smelling breath, great muscles, and a tan.

We danced a bit and forced some half-heard small talk over a few more drinks. He just got back from Aruba, he told me. I said I was in town on business. He invited me back to his hotel room, college buddies giving him thumbs-up signs as we left.

I woke early, the sun low and orange. Brad-or-Brian snored, his back to me. I felt around the floor for my clothes, tugging them on without standing, and found my watch in my shoe: 6:57.

Outside, I remembered I left my car at the bar. I jogged there to keep warm, deciding I would head back to the inn for a bath and a nap before attempting to beguile Rich the Mushroom.

“What the—” I swore, coming to a halt in the parking lot. My car was gone. I didn’t see any signs threatening towing but found scattered glass shards where it had been parked.

Raking my fingers through my hair, I headed down the road toward a lighted gas station. The clerk slept with his face in a textbook but bolted up when I opened the door. “I need to make a call,” I said.

“Behind the building. Jiggle the cord if you don’t get a dial tone,” he said, wiping drool from his chin.

The clerk’s advice worked, and my quarters disappeared with a hollow plunk. The telephone company had stuck a label with important emergency numbers to the receiver. I dialed the local police and told the answering Officer Davis my car had been stolen.

“Dark blue Toyota Corolla?” he asked.

“Yes. Have you found it?”

“Nope.” I heard Davis munching something on the other end of the line—a donut, no doubt. “Someone reported seeing a bunch of hooligans break into it and speed off. Give me your name and number. We’ll add it to the report and call you with any news.”

“Sarah Graham. I’m from out of town, and I’m staying at the Jonah Inn. I don’t know the number.”

Davis assured me the inn was listed in the phone book and hung up.

I slammed the phone into the cradle, then picked it up and slammed it down again, and again. I pounded it until the clerk came out and told me to stop or he’d call the police.

Now what? I’d left my purse in the car. Not that it mattered. My credit cards were overdrawn, and I’d spent all my cash, except for—I fished through my pockets—three dollars and twenty-nine cents. And Doc’s phone number.

I put in another quarter and called him. He answered after half a ring, and I calmly explained my situation.

“I’ll be there in forty minutes,” Doc said.

I went back into the gas station to defrost. The clerk eyed me cautiously as I bought a coffee and held my face over the open cup. Soon I could wriggle my nose again. I rubbed my cheeks briskly with my coffee-warmed hands. There was no place to sit inside the small convenience store—how convenient was that?—so I sank to the floor in a corner away from the front register, between loaves of Wonder Bread and diapers.

The clerk spotted me. “Miss, you can’t just sit here. Is there some sort of problem?”

“Yes, there is a problem,” I snapped. “I’m broke, I have hypothermia, my car was stolen, and I hate my father. Can’t you have some compassion and leave me alone until my ride gets here?”

Apparently, the kid wasn’t paid enough to deal with crazy out-of-towners. He went back to his book, looking up to check on me every few minutes. I didn’t move. People came in for newspapers and bagels; they stepped over me.