Necessary Evil (4 page)

“I’m making tea. Want some?” she called
over her shoulder.

“Sure, after I bed the tenants,” I said.

I made a habit of checking all the
occupied stables every evening before turning in. I pulled on my boots, called
for our dog Trusty, and went out.

It was a beautiful night. Above my head,
the trees were rustling as a September breeze brushed by with its touch of
frost. There was already a hint of red and gold about the green, although they
wouldn’t fully turn until the beginning of October, when busloads of ‘Leaf
Peepers’ would make their annual foliage pilgrimage. I took a deep breath as
Trusty ran ahead of me, her ears flying behind her.

Fall is my favorite time of year. Clean,
cool air replaces summer’s humidity, we exchange salads for thick, warm soups,
and the fiery leaves set the stage for the holiday season. There is something
refreshing and reviving about the autumn, something as promising as the new
books we used to start the school year with. As I checked the horses and found
all peaceful and undisturbed, a wave of contentment swept over me.

Despite it all
, I thought,
we’ll
be okay
.
It’ll be tight, but Aunt Susanna will get better. The bills
will come and only two thirds of our stalls are used right now, but we will get
more tenants, more clients, and more students. My desk job will keep groceries
on the table and the bank from repossessing the farm, at least for a little
while.

I marveled at my own optimism and it
wasn’t until I walked back to the house that I realized one reason: Joe was back
in town. Further, I hadn’t seen one trespasser or abandoned hole in weeks.

We’ve done it,
I thought, my
spirits rising.
We’ve beaten the curse!

Thanks to Professor Maddox and the
Beaumont letter, we’d finally convinced the gold-seeking public that there was
nothing to find on Chase Farm. The siege was over – recovery could begin.

I felt so good, I wanted to call Joe right
then and there and tell him, but I remembered and I restrained myself.

No matter,
I thought.
It’s
going to be tough for a little while, but we’re going to make it after all.

I looked up at the sky and grinned.
“Thanks,” I said and went into the house with Trusty, feeling confident for the
first time in years.

                                                                 
***

The next day was Monday and I was late for
work. It had taken me the better part of an hour to fill in and disguise the
prospector’s hole I’d discovered on my morning run.

My celebration had been premature.

Authenticated by Professor Anthony Maddox

Dear Mrs. Chase – ma’am:

I have recently received your kind letter
of April 19
^th
, it having followed me from my former apartments to
where I am currently living. I am in good health and am in want of nothing, unless
it is a restoration of my liberties. I am, however, content to serve my
sentence.

You asked for particulars regarding Alex’s
death – I am sorry to say that I was not present at his passing. We did meet
when his regiment passed through where I was working, and he was in good health
and spirits, despite missing home and family as any man would. He encouraged me
to follow his example and take up arms against the rebels, but pressing
personal obligations kept me from following his honorable example and I learned
of his passing from mutual friends.

No doubt you have heard disturbing rumors
regarding the circumstances of our departure from Mr. McInnis’ employment in
Charleston, just before the Declaration of War. That Mr. McInnis was robbed is
not in doubt – whether the goods are still intact is a matter of some dispute,
even while the wisest and most knowledgeable of men know that it is likely the
items would have been lost on the gaming tables, as thieves and brigands are
not adept in husbandry. Even the sad passing of your son is not enough to lay
to rest the vicious rumors about his noble character.

Thinking on your widowhood, I regret that
there is nothing of Alex’s that I can send to you. While noble in character, we
nevertheless indulged in an occasional gaming. Even what little we had was lost
and is irretrievable, including the Kirk spoons, which you mentioned in your
letter.

I hope to join the army upon my release,
though I am torn in loyalties – my heart belongs to Georgia, while my wit
believes in the Union. I trust I shall be guided in the right. Should I learn
anything more regarding my friend, Alexander, I will be sure to contact you. I
am grateful for your concern and care, and remain,

Yours faithfully,

J. Beaumont

Early May

The months slipped by. I said nothing to
Aunt Susanna about the hole I’d discovered in September, nor about the ones I
continued to find, but there was no keeping the secret from Lindsay. In the
course of her workweek, she covered almost as much of the farm as I did, and it
was she who discovered the third hole back in October.

I was out in one of the near paddocks,
working one of the new mares, an old thoroughbred I’d bought as a favor off an
old friend, hoping that I could train her as a teaching horse. We’d been
working for a short time, Lucy going through her paces with the eagerness of a
former show horse, and I was feeling pretty good about the purchase when
Lindsay came to the gate.

“I have to show you something,” she said.

I reined up so sharply that Lucy
complained, tossing her head and dancing to one side. I barely paid attention,
just slipped off her back and tugged her along with us.

Lindsay led us to one of the back paddocks,
which - if Obadiah Chase’s careful record-keeping is to be believed – was used
for wheat and later for corn. Level and neglected-looking, it suffers from
occasional flooding when the Exeter runs high. It was here that the treasure
hunters left their mark.

The hole was shallow and wide, with the
rocky soil thrown up in a tidy pile beside it. It was at the far side of the
paddock, partially concealed by a barrel that we used for turning training.
Lucy munched on the remaining grass while Lindsay and I filled the hole, patted
it down, stomped on it, and rolled the barrel over it until the ground was safe
enough to ride on.

“Are you going to call the police?”
Lindsay asked when we were finished.

Calling the police meant publicity and I
couldn’t afford that. I shook my head grimly. “It won’t do any good. We’ll just
have to keep watch, see if we can catch whoever is doing this. Hopefully,
they’ll get tired of looking and move on. Don’t tell Susanna.”

“Right, boss.” She wiped her hands on her
jeans, surveying our work. Then she shook her head.

“What?” I asked.

“I was just thinking – I’d never look here
for the treasure. That Alexander Chase guy would have known about the flooding
and, if I were him, I’d assume the soil would be washed away.”

“You wouldn’t be looking for the treasure
anyway,” I said, as we shouldered our shovels and led Lucy back to the barn.
“You are smart enough to accept that there isn’t any.”

We came across two more holes before the
ground froze for good at the end of November.

“This is such a pain,” Lindsay complained,
as we filled the last one. “I hope we find this guy.”

“You and me both,” I muttered, although I
didn’t really share the sentiment. Experience had taught me that others would
come to replace him.

With the onset of snow, life went on in
its dull, rhythmic routine. My job was going well enough, but even I was
surprised at how quickly the weekly paycheck was eaten up by bills. We had a
simple Christmas celebration, squeezed enough out of the checkbook to give
Lindsay a decent Christmas bonus, then began making plans for the upcoming
spring and summer season, our busiest of the year.

Aunt Susanna recovered enough from her hip
surgery to have her knee operation. Physically recovered, I should say.
Hobbling around like an elderly cripple for weeks on end left invisible scars,
and she seemed to age even as she healed. The temporary downstairs bedroom
slowly took on permanence, a sign of her surrender - and if it weren’t for
Darlene’s caustic wit and sisterly bullying, I think she would have spent most
of her winter inside.

It was a rough winter. Several of the
mares became sick. In February, an ice storm damaged some of the detached
stalls, and the barn roof showed signs of weakening. In March, I started
negotiations with the bank to take out a second mortgage. In April, I was
refused.

“What will we do?” Aunt Susanna asked,
when she found out.

I shrugged. “We’ll think of something
else,” I said. But I was fresh out of ideas. The best I could offer at that
moment was the pathetic reassurance, “
Summer’s
coming.
We’ll have plenty of work then.”

Summer is easily our busiest and most
profitable season. Aside from the usual lessons, arranging to have the fields
planted and harvested, and the gardens, we always offer four riding camps: two
in July, and two in August. The farm sees an increase in visitors as well.
Riders prefer the trails to using the indoor ring, of course, and longer days
encourage longer rides. They train more often, too - summer is prep-season for
the fall shows.

This year, besides the lessons and the
camps, we had two other major events. One was the annual August Chase Farm
Horse Show, a tradition since the early 1960s, when it was open to only the
farm riders and boarders. When Uncle Michael took over, he opened it up to everyone
and turned it into one of the most popular and profitable events of the year.

Since his passing, attendance had dropped
considerably, so I agreed to allow a wedding to take place on the grounds. It’s
a risk and an inconvenience, but the bride was an old friend of mine and the
fee she offered for the privilege was an amount I couldn’t, in good conscience,
turn away.

“Maybe weddings will end up being a
regular thing,” I mused to Lindsay, as we discussed the schedule.

To my surprise, she was less than
enthused.

“They are nothing but a huge pain,” she
pointed out. “My sister got married last year and the whole thing was a
headache, start to finish. You’ll make some money, sure, but you’ll be lucky if
it’s worth the work.”

She wasn’t the only one who thought so.
Joe Tremonti was of the same mind.

“Have you ever had to deal with a woman on
her wedding day?” he asked me later that week, over a cup of coffee at our
usual place in Salem. “Do you know what it’s like?”

“What?” I asked reluctantly. I didn’t like
to be reminded that he had firsthand knowledge. “What’s it like?”

He took a sip of his coffee, watching me
over the rim of his mug, his eyebrows raised,
his
hazel eyes shifting colors. I thought again,
What
did I do to deserve this?

It was a happy thought, one that
engendered others, and I had nearly forgotten the question when he answered it:

“You’ve read
Carrie
, right?”

I threw my napkin at him and he ducked,
laughing - a rich, deep sound that made me shiver.
I could get used to this,
I thought; but as I looked at Joe, I couldn’t help repeating the thought,
this time with genuine confusion:

What did I do to deserve this?

For Joe had come back into my life, and it
had been he who’d done the outreach, contacting me through social media. For a
month or so, that’s where it stayed – a message here and there, a joke picture
passed back and forth. Then he invited me to a guest lecture.

“I remember how much you like local history,”
he’d explained in his message. “This woman really knows her stuff – I think
you’ll like her.”

I went and I liked both the woman and the
lecture, but it was the coffee afterwards, in a little Boston coffee shop, that
I enjoyed most of all. Joe Tremonti was as handsome as ever, and he hadn’t lost
the knack of making you feel like you were the only person on the planet. But
even as I reveled in the attention, I had to remind myself,
Married,
married, married.

It wasn’t until he was walking me back to
my car that he’d dropped the bomb. I asked him what made him accept the guest
lecturing position. He was going through the usual reasons: prestige, time to
write, new opportunities - when he broke off suddenly and stopped walking, his
shoulders slumping.

The parking garage was nearly deserted,
not a place I’d normally feel comfortable hanging around at night. The light
from exit sign partially lit his face. His eyes, lost in the shadows, looked
like hollow caverns and, for the first time since I’d known him, Joe Tremonti
looked tired and beaten.

“Oh, what’s the use?” he said. “There’s no
point in hiding it, not from you. Amber asked me to go. She wanted a divorce,
but
I
… I convinced her to try separation. Give her
time to think, to work things out.”

He turned, leaving me with a curious,
awkward feeling. I wanted to take his hand to make him feel better, but I knew
better than to offer comfort.

“Has it helped?” I asked. It was all I
could think to say.

“It did,” he said. “She filed for divorce
on Monday.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

He turned and his weak grin was
heartbreaking. “All I could think when she told me was, ‘I’m so glad I’m here,
near my friends.’ You don’t know how much you rely on them… Until something
like this happens.” He took my hand and squeezed it. “Thanks, Maddie.”

I squeezed it back, feeling like a small
child who’d just unwrapped the very present she’d asked for.

Aunt Susanna was sympathetic for his
plight; but after Christmas, when we started meeting on a semi-regular basis,
she was not happy.

“You need to be careful,” she scolded.
“The man is barely out of one relationship. He shouldn’t be moving on this
fast.”

“Nothing like that is going on,” I said,
even while I blushed. “He’s in need of a friend, that’s all. He doesn’t really
know anyone at the college.”

“He hardly knows you, either,” she said.
“If he’s looking for a rebound relationship, let it be with one of his
colleagues, not my niece.”

I turned on her with a fury that surprised
both of us. “We are
not
in a relationship!” I snapped. “We are
friends
and that’s it! And I’m not going to stop – if it weren’t for Joe, I
wouldn’t even
have
a social life right now.”

As soon as I said it, I wished I could
take it back. Aunt Susanna didn’t need to be reminded that I was working two
full time jobs essentially, just trying to keep the place running. I didn’t
need her slipping into guilt-induced depression. 

Aunt Susanna never brought her concerns up
again, even after I apologized. I was glad, because she was not exactly wrong
about the situation – she just had it backwards. Joe never acted like anything
more than a friend to me, but the more time I spent with him, the harder I
fell. I hadn’t realized how lonely I was, how much I’d longed for some
attention, until I started spending time with him.

Joe knew how to treat a woman. He was the
type who could hold the door open for you without looking like he was trying
too hard, who knew just the right way to tease, when to compliment you on your
hair, and when to ask, “How are
you
doing today?” And he worried about
me, which made me feel special.

He was worried about me the day I
mentioned the wedding plans.

“All those people running around,
trampling on the grass,” he said. His tone was doubtful.

“They can’t be worse on it than we already
are,” I said, more cheerfully than I was feeling. I didn’t really like the idea
of turning our place into a wedding venue, but it was better than selling the
farm, as my co-workers suggested. “It’s not that big a deal. It’ll be over in a
week.”

“If you’re lucky,” he said, and I had to
laugh at his dire tone.

The days were stretching out longer,
bringing with them the usual increased workload. Lindsay and I spent hours
preparing lessons for the riding camps, organizing schedules, and planning the
usual vet appointments and summer maintenance.

Lindsay loved the summer. Besides her
passion for horses and the outdoors, she really connected with the children we
work for. Which was a good thing, because between my aunt’s slow recovery and
my work schedule, the bulk of the training was going to fall on her slim
shoulders.

“You feeling up to being Headmaster?” I
had asked, as we ended a meeting.

“Oh, yeah.” She grinned. “This is going to
be a blast. I’ll put them through their paces – they’ll be
equestrians
par excellence
by the end of August, you’ll see.”

Lindsay’s enthusiasm was infectious, and I
couldn’t help but think how lucky I was to have her. I still didn’t know what I
was going to do when she went to college.

Even with Lindsay taking over most of the
lessons, there was plenty for me to do: the advertising, the paperwork, the
task of providing lunches and snacks every day for anywhere from five to
fifteen finicky little girls, and scheduling the ever-increasing number of
lessons. I couldn’t afford to turn people away. By the end of May, I was
putting in fourteen hour days and seriously considering hiring two more
part-time helpers.

Added to this were the usual daily
irritations. Despite the letter’s authentication, we were still getting
requests from people to use the farm for everything ranging from filming horror
movies to excavating on the off chance that there actually was treasure. By
this point, I was immune to their passionate pleas and annoyed by their
persistence. I had ordered Aunt Susanna to deny any requests that came by
phone, and I deleted the email requests without replying. When Professor
Randall’s email came in, I must have followed the usual procedure and trashed
it right away. I don’t remember ever seeing it.