The Sign of Seven Trilogy (16 page)

“Yes, but only to show my impeccable manners.” Quinn hesitated a moment, then jumped in. “I'm going to ask you, and if you want this off-limits while I'm enjoying your hospitality, just tell me to back off. Is it hard for you to nurture this normal life, to hold your family, yourself, your home together when you know all of it will be threatened?”

“It's very hard.” Frannie turned to her pies while the coffee brewed. “Just as it's very necessary. I wanted Cal to go, and if he had I would have convinced Jim to leave. I could do that, I could turn my back on it all. But Cal couldn't. And I'm so proud of him for staying, for not giving up.”

“Will you tell me what happened when he came home that morning, the morning of his tenth birthday?”

“I was in the yard.” Frannie walked over to the window that faced the back. She could see it all, every detail. How green the grass was, how blue the sky. Her hydrangeas were headed up and beginning to pop, her delphiniums towering spears of exotic blue.

Deadheading her roses, and some of the coreopsis that had bloomed off. She could even hear the busy
snip
,
snip
of her shears, and the hum of the neighbor's—it had been the Petersons, Jack and Lois, then—lawn mower. She remembered, too, she'd been thinking about Cal, and his birthday party. She'd had his cake in the oven.

A double-chocolate sour cream cake, she remembered. She'd intended to do a white frosting to simulate the ice planet from one of the
Star Wars
movies. Cal had loved
Star Wars
for years and years. She'd had the little action figures to arrange on it, the ten candles all ready in the kitchen.

Had she heard him or sensed him—probably some of both—but she'd looked around as he'd come barreling up on his bike, pale, filthy, sweaty. Her first thought had been accident, there'd been an accident. And she'd been on her feet and rushing to him before she'd noticed he wasn't wearing his glasses.

“The part of me that registered that was ready to give him a good tongue-lashing. But the rest of me was still running when he climbed off his bike, and ran to me. He ran to me and he grabbed on so tight. He was shaking—my little boy—shaking like a leaf. I went down on my knees, pulling him back so I could check for blood or broken bones.”

What is it, what happened, are you hurt?
All of that, Frannie remembered had flooded out of her, so fast it was like one word.
In the woods,
he'd said.
Mom. Mom. In the woods.

“There was that part of me again, the part that thought what were you doing in the woods, Caleb Hawkins? It all came pouring out of him, how he and Fox and Gage planned this adventure, what they'd done, where they'd gone. And that same part was coldly devising the punishment to fit the crime, even while the rest of me was terrified, and relieved, so pitifully relieved I was holding my dirty, sweaty boy. Then he told me the rest.”

“You believed him?”

“I didn't want to. I wanted to believe he'd had a nightmare, which he richly deserved, that he'd stuffed himself on sweets and junk food and had a nightmare. Even, that someone had gone after them in the woods. But I couldn't look at his face and believe that. I couldn't believe the easy that, the fixable that. And then, of course, there were his eyes. He could see a bee hovering over the delphiniums across the yard. And under the dirt and sweat, there wasn't a bruise on him. The nine-year-old I'd sent off the day before had scraped knees and bruised shins. The one who came back to me hadn't a mark on him, but for the thin white scar across his wrist he hadn't had when he left.”

“Even with that, a lot of adults, even mothers, wouldn't have believed a kid who came home with a story like that.”

“I won't say Cal never lied to me, because obviously he did. He had. But I knew he wasn't lying. I knew he was telling me the truth, all the truth he knew.”

“What did you do?”

“I took him inside, told him to clean up, change his clothes. I called his father, and got his sisters home. I burned his birthday cake—completely forgot about it, never heard the timer. Might've burned the house down if Cal himself hadn't smelled the burning. So he never got his ice planet or his ten candles. I hate remembering that. I burned his cake and he never got to blow out his birthday candles. Isn't that silly?”

“No, ma'am. No,” Quinn said with feeling when Frannie looked at her, “it's not.”

“He was never really, not wholly, a little boy again.” Frannie sighed. “We went straight over to the O'Dells, because Fox and Gage were already there. We had what I guess you could call our first summit meeting.”

“What did—”

“We need to take in the dessert and coffee. Can you handle that tray?”

Understanding the subject was closed for now, Quinn stepped over. “Sure. It looks terrific, Mrs. Hawkins.”

In between moans and tears of joy over the pie, Quinn aimed her charm at Jim Hawkins. Cal, she was sure, had been dodging and weaving, avoiding and evading her since their hike to the Pagan Stone.

“Mr. Hawkins, you've lived in the Hollow all your life.”

“Born and raised. Hawkinses have been here since the town was a couple of stone cabins.”

“I met your grandmother, and she seems to know town history.”

“Nobody knows more.”

“People say you're the one who knows real estate, business, local politics.”

“I guess I do.”

“Then you may be able to point me in the right direction.” She slid a look at Cal, then beamed back at his father. “I'm looking to rent a house, something in town or close to it. Nothing fancy, but I'd like room. I have a friend coming in soon, and I've nearly talked Layla into staying longer. I think we'd be more comfortable, and it would be more efficient, for the three of us to have a house instead of using the hotel.”

“How long are you looking for?”

“Six months.” She saw it register on his face, just as she noticed the frown form on Cal's. “I'm going to stay through July, Mr. Hawkins, and I'm hoping to find a house that would accommodate three women—potentially three—” she said with a glance at Layla.

“I guess you've thought that over.”

“I have. I'm going to write this book, and part of the angle I'm after is the fact that the town remains, the people—a lot of them—stay. They stay and they make apple pie and have people over to Sunday dinner. They bowl, and they shop. They fight and they make love. They live. If I'm going to do this right, I want to be here, before, during, and after. So I'd like to rent a house.”

Jim scooped up some pie, chased it with coffee. “It happens I know a place on High Street, just a block off Main. It's old, main part went up before the Civil War. It's got four bedrooms, three baths. Nice porches, front and back. Had a new roof on her two years ago. Kitchen's eat-in size, though there's a little dining room off it. Appliances aren't fancy, but they've only got five years on them. Just been painted. Tenants moved out just a month ago.”

“It sounds perfect. You seem to know it well.”

“Should. We own it. Cal, you should take Quinn by. Maybe run her and Layla over there on the way home. You know where the keys are.”

“Yeah,” he said when Quinn gave him a big, bright smile. “I know where the keys are.”

 

A
S IT MADE THE MOST SENSE, QUINN HITCHED A
ride with Cal, and left Fox and Layla to follow. She stretched out her legs, let out a sigh.

“Let me start off by saying your parents are terrific, and you're lucky to have grown up in such a warm, inviting home.”

“I agree.”

“Your dad's got that Ward Cleaver meets Jimmy Stewart thing going. I could've eaten him up like your mother's—Martha Stewart meets Grace Kelly by way of Julia Child—apple pie.”

His lips twitched. “They'd both like those descriptions.”

“You knew about the High Street house.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“You knew about the High Street house, and avoided telling me about it.”

“That's right. You found out about it, too, before dinner, which is why you did the end-run around me to my father.”

“Correct.” She tapped her finger on his shoulder. “I figured he'd point me there. He likes me. Did you avoid telling me because you're not comfortable with what I might write about Hawkins Hollow?”

“Some of that. More, I was hoping you'd change your mind and leave. Because I like you, too.”

“You like me, so you want me gone?”

“I like you, Quinn, so I want you safe.” He looked at her again, longer. “But some of the things you said about the Hollow over apple pie echoed pretty closely some of the things my mother said to me today. It all but eliminates any discomfort with what you may decide to write. But it makes me like you more, and that's a problem.”

“You had to know, after what happened to us in the woods, I wouldn't be leaving.”

“I guess I did.” He pulled off into a short, steep driveway.

“Is this the house? It
is
perfect! Look at the stonework, and the big porch, the windows have shutters.”

They were painted a deep blue that stood out well against the gray stone. The little front yard was bisected by a trio of concrete steps and the narrow walkway. A trim tree Quinn thought might be a dogwood highlighted the left square of front yard.

As Fox's truck pulled in behind, Quinn popped out to stand, hands on hips. “Pretty damned adorable. Don't you think, Layla?”

“Yes, but—”

“No buts, not yet. Let's take a look inside.” She cocked her head at Cal. “Okay, landlord?”

As they trooped up to the porch, Cal took out the keys he'd grabbed off their hook from his father's home office. The ring was clearly labeled with the High Street address.

The fact that the door opened without a creak told Quinn the landlords were vigilant in the maintenance department.

The door opened straight into the living area that stood twice as long as it was wide, with the steps to the second floor a couple of strides in on the left. The wood floors showed wear, but were spotlessly clean. The air was chilly and carried the light sting of fresh paint.

The small brick fireplace delighted her.

“Could use your mother's eye in the paint department,” Quinn commented.

“Rental properties get eggshell, through and through. It's the Hawkins's way. Tenants want to play around with that, it's their deal.”

“Reasonable. I want to start at the top, work down. Layla, do you want to go up and fight over who gets which bedroom?”

“No.” Cal thought there was mutiny, as well as frustration on her face. “I
have
a bedroom. In New York.”

“You're not in New York,” Quinn said simply, then dashed up the steps.

“She's not listening to me,” Layla muttered. “I don't seem to be listening to me either about going back.”

“We're here.” Fox gave a shrug. “Might as well poke around. I really dig empty houses.”

“I'll be up.” Cal started up the stairs.

He found her in one of the bedrooms, one that faced the tiny backyard. She stood at the long, narrow window, the fingertips of her right hand pressed to the glass. “I thought I'd go for one of the rooms facing the street, catch the who's going where when and with who. I usually go for that. Just have to know what's going on. But this is the one for me. I bet, in the daylight, you can stand here, see backyards, other houses, and wow, right on to the mountains.”

“Do you always make up your mind so fast?”

“Yeah, usually. Even when I surprise myself like now. Bathroom's nice, too.” She turned enough to gesture to the door on the side of the room. “And since it's girls, if any of us share that one, it won't be too weird having it link up the two bedrooms on this side.”

“You're sure everyone will fall in line.”

Now she turned to him, fully. “Confidence is the first step to getting what you want, or need. But we'll say I'm hoping Layla and Cyb will agree it's efficient, practical, and would be more comfortable to share the house for a few months than to bunk at the hotel. Especially considering the fact that both Layla and I are pretty well put off of the dining room there after Slugfest.”

“You don't have any furniture.”

“Flea markets. We'll pick up the essentials. Cal, I've stayed in less stellar accommodations and done it for one thing. A story. This is more. Somehow or other I'm connected to this story, this place. I can't turn that off and walk away.”

He wished she could, and knew if she could his feelings for her wouldn't be as strong or as complex. “Okay, but let's agree, here and now, that if you change your mind and do just that, no explanations needed.”

“That's a deal. Now, let's talk rent. What's this place going to run us?”

“You pay the utilities—heat, electric, phone, cable.”

“Naturally. And?”

“That's it.”

“What do you mean, that's it?”

“I'm not going to charge you rent, not when you're staying here, at least in part, because of me. My family, my friends, my town. We're not going to make a profit off that.”

“Straight arrow, aren't you, Caleb?”

“About most.”

“I'll make a profit—she says optimistically—from the book I intend to write.”

“If we get through July and you write a book, you'll have earned it.”

“Well, you drive a hard bargain, but it looks like we have a deal.” She stepped forward, offered a hand.

He took it, then cupped his other at the back of her neck. Surprise danced in her eyes, but she didn't resist as he eased her toward him.

He moved slow, the closing together of bodies, the meeting of lips, the testing slide of tongues. There was no explosion of need as there had been in that moment in the clearing. No sudden, almost painful shock of desire. Instead, it was a long and gradual glide from interest to pleasure to ache while her head went light and her blood warmed. It seemed everything inside her went quiet so that she heard, very clearly, the low hum in her own throat as he changed the angle of the kiss.