The Unforgiven (3 page)

Jess finished reading and ran his hand rapidly through his thick hair. “How about that? The old man never said a thing to me about you, never mentioned it.”

Maggie felt herself vibrating with anger and alarm. “Well, you can see for yourself I’m expected.”

Jess nodded, watching Maggie’s stricken face with concern. “Evy,” he said finally, “get Miss Fraser a glass of water.”

Intent on their exchange, the girl did not seem to notice right away that she was being addressed. “Oh,” she said as if she had been suddenly awakened. “Sure.”
She went to the sink in the corner and filled a paper cup. At an arm’s-length she offered the cup to Maggie.

Maggie took a sip and steadied herself. She looked directly into the kind, worried gaze of the editor. “It seems to me,” she said, “that you could just call him and check.”

Jess sighed. “I’m afraid we can’t do that. He went away rather abruptly and left word that he was going off island to do some business. We’re not even sure when to expect him back. We could try his Boston office, I guess.…” Jess’s voice trailed off.

“Well, she can’t just walk in here and take my job,” Grace protested.

“Look. I don’t know what the problem is here,” Maggie said grimly, “but I have come a long way for this job.”

“Where did you say you came from?” asked Jess.

Maggie was instantly on her guard. “Pennsylvania,” she lied.

“Oh, did you work on Emmett’s old paper down there in Harrisburg?” Jess inquired.

“Harrisburg? No.” Their eyes felt like bright lamps trained on her face.

“I don’t know.” Jess sighed again and shook his head. “Who knows what Bill had in mind. He’s a little forgetful these days.”

Maggie stared at him. Her thoughts would not arrange themselves into the words she needed.

“Maybe you should just start,” Jess continued, “and we’ll see what he wants to do when he gets back.”

“She can’t take my job,” Grace repeated adamantly.

“Don’t worry, Grace,” Jess reassured her. “No one’s
going to take your job from you. There’s plenty of work around here to be done.”

Grace glared at him, unconvinced.

“Besides,” he laughed, “we could always do with another pretty face. I think Miss Fraser would really brighten up the place.”

Evy turned and looked sharply at him. For a second her eyes flared. Then she looked down at her shoes.

Maggie let her breath out slowly. She could feel the color returning to her face. “That’s fine,” she said. “Thank you. What shall I do?”

Jess waved her off. “Go get yourself settled,” he said. “Do you have a place to live?”

“Not yet,” Maggie admitted.

“Well, take care of that. Then come in when you’re all set.”

“Fine,” said Maggie awkwardly, backing out. “I’ll do that.”

“Don’t forget your coat on the way out,” said Grace sarcastically. “You’ll freeze to death in that dress.”

There were only a few customers in the dank, oak-paneled dining room of the Four Winds Inn. Maggie took a table by the window, far from the others who were scattered around the room. She asked for a muffin and tea from the waitress, a girl with a crown of braided hair, who took her order and glided away.

From where she sat, Maggie could see the few lights of the stores that were open on Main Street. She brooded over the scene in the newspaper office. Somehow, things had so quickly gone wrong. The
older woman, Grace, already resented her arrival. She would probably give her no end of hassle. If only Mr. Emmett had told them she was coming. She had asked him to keep her past a secret, but she hadn’t expected him to leave her in such an awkward position. She could also sense that the young girl did not like the way the editor greeted her.
She must have a crush on him,
Maggie thought.
Great. Well, he is good-looking.
Immediately she stopped the thought. That was absolutely the last thing she wanted.

Despite all her planning, it had gone awry. She had wanted to slip in, unobtrusively, like a diver slipping into a lake, with the surface closing up tranquilly around her, leaving no ripple where she had entered. Instead, she had drawn unwanted attention to herself.

Maggie looked out toward the dock. A few lights winked on around it in the gathering dusk, but otherwise it was deserted. She wondered where the boys were who had played their vicious game there this afternoon. Home eating cookies, no doubt, their wind-burned faces angelic in the fluorescent glow of television cartoons. The thought of them made Maggie shudder.

The waitress returned and put Maggie’s order down in front of her. Maggie stared at the plate with no appetite.

Maybe you should get out now,
she thought.
Run, before things get any more complicated.
The realization stabbed through her that she had nowhere else to go. This was her only option, and she had come this far. She had to face the fact that she was bound to feel ill at ease around normal people. She would have to
learn to adjust.
Anywhere you go,
she scolded herself,
there are going to be some problems.
“You have to try,” Maggie said aloud, then looked around, embarrassed. This was not the kind of place where you could talk out loud to yourself and not be noticed. This was not prison.

Maggie closed her eyes and rested her face in her hands. Wearily she massaged her temples with her fingertips. They had all looked at her so suspiciously. As if they could sense something wrong about her.

“Pardon me.”

Maggie bolted upright.

Evy, the pale girl from the office, stood beside the table, holding a bundle of books and papers. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t,” Maggie lied.

“Figured you’d be over here. It’s really the only hotel in town that’s open, now that the season’s over.”

“Do you want to sit down?” Maggie asked.

“Can’t,” said Evy.

Maggie could not imagine what the girl wanted with her, but her stare made Maggie feel awkward. She wished the girl would go away.

“Jess sent me over,” explained Evy, as if in answer to Maggie’s unspoken question.

Maggie picked up her knife and began buttering her muffin. “Oh?”

“He thought you might want to look at these. Some back issues, books about the island and stuff.”

“Thank you. That’s very nice,” said Maggie, reaching
for the papers and placing them on the chair beside her. “I’ll enjoy looking at them.” Maggie cringed inwardly at the hollowness with which the words came out.

“You’re welcome.” Maggie looked up at Evy to see if she could read any sarcasm in the girl’s face, but Evy had delivered her message expressionlessly.

“I hope it won’t be a problem, my being there, at the paper,” Maggie stammered on, in the face of the girl’s silence.

“No,” said Evy surprised. “Why should it?”

Maggie forced a smile. “I got the feeling that Grace wasn’t too happy to see me.”

A ghost of a smile hovered on Evy’s lips and deep in her eyes. “Oh. Grace. She can be a drag sometimes.”

For a moment Maggie felt absurdly grateful to the girl for her remark. “Why don’t you have some tea?” she asked.

Evy hesitated, as if considering the invitation. Then she shook her head. “No. I have to go back.” Still, she did not move. Maggie looked in confusion at the pale, oval face.

“What’s wrong?” said Evy.

“Nothing,” said Maggie, looking away. “Thank you for the books. I appreciate your bringing them to me.”

The girl fixed Maggie with her curious, appraising gaze and then, quite unexpectedly, she smiled. “I thought you would.”

Maggie drew back, surprised by the smile. But as suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone.

2

Bells tinkled faintly as Maggie opened the door of the real estate office and stepped inside. The narrow, stuffy office was filled to bursting with oversize chairs, a sofa, and an assortment of end tables. On one table was a vase filled with dusty plastic geraniums and tulips. At the end of the room was a large desk, piled high with papers and folders. Behind the desk an old man in a sea captain’s cap sat eating a sandwich and studying a chart. He looked up at the sound of the bell and peered at Maggie over his bifocals, wiping yellow mustard off his white mustache with the back of his hand.

Maggie glanced down at the signs that rested on the edge of his desk. One read, Plan Ahead with the letters dribbling down the margin of the plaque. The other read, Henry Blair.

“Mr. Blair?” she asked.

“At your service,” replied the old man jauntily, placing the half-eaten cheese sandwich atop a pile of papers.

“I’m interrupting your lunch,” she apologized.

“No problem,” he insisted. “What can I do for you? Sit down, Miss…?”

“Fraser,” Maggie said, taking a seat. “I’m looking for
a place to rent. An apartment. Or a small cottage, here in town.”

“How long do you want it for?” asked the old man in a gravelly voice.

Maggie shrugged. “Indefinitely.”

“You moving here, to the island?” asked Henry Blair.

“I have a job at the paper,” Maggie admitted.

“Well, well, okay,” said the realtor, shifting some of his papers around and knocking over his sandwich in the process. “Where you staying now?” he asked.

“Well, I spent the night at the Four Winds.”

“So, you need something right away.”

“As soon as possible,” Maggie replied.

“Can’t stay in hotels. Too expensive. You need a place.”

Maggie smiled wanly in agreement.

The old man stood up and shuffled over to an army green file cabinet in the corner. “You know the island?” he asked.

Maggie shook her head.

“Mmmmm,” he murmured, extracting a folder, then resuming his seat. He drummed on the desk top as he squinted at the papers inside. “I haven’t got too much right here in town. Nothing that’s really comfortable, you know.”

“Nothing?” she asked worriedly.

The old man made a clicking noise. “Not much. There’s a little apartment above the luncheonette, but that’s not very nice for a lady like you.”

Maggie glanced mournfully out the front window at the rain, which the wind was sweeping down Main Street. “It might be all right,” she said.

“You’d do a lot better out of town,” the old man advised her. “Lots of houses sitting empty. There’s folks with homes here who have two or three houses around the country. Only spend a week or two here in the summer. You can rent one of them for a song. Just take your vacation somewhere the same time these folks come back to their houses. Works out perfect. We’ve got a lot of folks here who do that.”

Maggie sighed. “It sounds very nice, but I imagine you need a car to live out there. I can’t. I don’t have a car.”

“No car. That’s a problem,” the old man muttered. “You don’t drive, you say?”

“Oh, I can drive,” Maggie said, wondering to herself how soon the license she had applied for would come through. She also wondered if she still would remember how. “I just don’t have a car.”

“Wait a minute,” said the old man, tugging on his mustache, “I might just have something for you.” He stood up and shuffled back to the file cabinet, replacing the folder he had and pulling out another. “Just one darn minute here. Aha!” He smiled cheerfully at her, revealing two missing lower teeth.

“What is it?” Maggie worked her hands in her lap.

“The Thornhill place,” Blair exulted. “It’s way out there. On Liberty Road. Out past the cemetery. Nice house. Very nice. Not too big, but very comfortable. A lot of property around it, so it’s private. And,” he paused for effect, “there’s an old Buick in the garage which they let with the place.”

“It sounds good,” Maggie said doubtfully.

“You want to see it?” Blair asked. “We’ll take a run
out there.” He was already wrestling his pea coat off a hanger in the closet.

Maggie stood up. “What about the people who own it? Do they come in the summer?”

“The Thornhills? Maybe a week or two. They’re off on a cruise now. We’ll figure it out when they get back, if you like the place.”

“I’d like to see it,” Maggie ventured.

The old man had already opened the door of the real estate office and stepped out on the porch. “Rain’s letting up a bit,” he observed. “It’s just misting now.”

Maggie joined him on the porch.

“My car’s over there,” he said, pointing to a battered old station wagon parked by the curb. “You don’t want that apartment,” he said, jerking his chin toward the luncheonette up the block. “This’ll suit you much better.”

Silently hoping that he was right, Maggie followed the realtor down the steps to the car.

The Thornhill place was set far back from the road. Its weathered clapboards were barely visible through the fir trees as Henry Blair turned up the driveway. The nearest neighbors were not even in sight of the house, Maggie noted with satisfaction. It was away from any other people. It was just what she wanted.

“This is it,” Blair announced, pulling his car up in front of the garage. Maggie looked over toward the house. The outside of it looked worn, but it still retained a kind of stark charm with its gray siding and black trim. Skeletons of rose bushes twined around the front door.

Blair got out of the car and motioned for Maggie to follow. “I’d better see if this car still runs, before we even look inside. No point in looking if the car don’t work, right?” He grinned pleasantly at Maggie, who nodded in agreement.

The old realtor began tugging on the iron handle that opened the garage. “Have a look around the place,” he suggested, “while I fiddle with this.”

Maggie did as she was bidden, passing by the back porch steps and looking up at the screen door and the darkened windows. The quietness of the house seemed oddly comforting, as if it stood ready to protect her solitude. Maggie continued on around to the back of the house and looked out.

It was a rugged, disorderly piece of property. Directly behind the house was a field of long grass, now turning silver, and a thick grove of pine trees hedged the left perimeter of the land. The weak, gray light of the day was not strong enough to penetrate the grove and illuminate its dark recesses. The faint rustle of pine needles and waving grass softened the hardy landscape.