Hemlock Veils (17 page)

This angered him, his furry brow turning severe. The low rumble began deep in his throat, making his wolf-like lips quiver as he again bared his fangs. He
wanted
her to be afraid. And the way he seemed so disturbed by her presence here made random thoughts of Mr. Clayton float to her mind. The pressure of his claws increased against her, compressing her diaphragm.
She would go down as the fool
, the pessimist in her thought. The naïve fool from California who thought she could tame the beast. The one who’d been warned by every resident to stay away.

But she wouldn’t go down, and he would let her live like he did a few nights before. Just like he let everyone else live. The knowledge wound itself around her brain with a physical force. “It’s all right,” she said with a constricted breath. His pressure slackened ever so slightly. “It’s all right.” His eyes penetrated hers for an unmeasured period of time, telling her he understood. Through their silent exchange, he grasped her message: that while she didn’t need to fear, neither did he.

He appeared troubled, as much as a beast could, with a memorable weight in his rich brown eyes. His groan said he’d given up, and with a gentleness she hadn’t expected, he eased off of her, lowering her until her feet hit the ground. Without his claws compressing her, she could finally breathe, and the deep inhalation she took was painful. So were the ones after.

He sat on his haunches, studying her warily, his tail fanned out on the street behind him. So much for not exiting the forest. So much for the assumed treaty.

A shaky flashlight beam shone around the corner, bouncing with its owner’s steps. Both she and the beast turned in that direction, the beast rising on all fours. He met her eyes again, as though conflicted, and she whispered, “Go. Now.”

He did, darting into the trees so fast her mind questioned whether or not she’d seen him leave. It was just in time too, since Eustace appeared around the bend, shotgun at his side.

“For Pete’s sake, Beth, what are you doing out here?”

“I’m not allowed to walk to my motel, Old Man?”

“The way I hear, you won’t be needing this motel after tomorrow.”

“If I’m lucky. I don’t want to jinx it.” She tried not to cringe, since breathing brought pain.

He placed a hand on his hip. “You couldn’t have Regina take you, could you? You just had to walk.”

“Something wrong?”

“Nothing really, just that Sheppy claims he saw the monster out and about around here an hour ago. Said it was behind the motel.”

She folded her arms, lifting an amused eyebrow. “What, you think he’s waiting for me?”

“Maybe,” he said, his eyes—always glazed from age—shooting to hers. “You never know.”

“You think it’s as opposed to me being here as Mr. Clayton?”

“It’s no joke. Besides, I think if Mr. Clayton was
that
opposed, he wouldn’t have agreed.”

“I don’t know. I think he sees there’s something in it for him.”

“Mm,” he nodded. “I heard about your coffee. I’m anxious to try it.” He sighed, again sweeping his flashlight through the forest—the forest that appeared empty, even when it wasn’t. He still lingered out there somewhere, close. “Anyway, you better get on inside. I just had to make sure you got back okay.”

“Well…thank you. That’s sweet of you.”

He shook his head. “Bloody hell, Beth. You’re going to make me lose my hair with worry, you know that? And my hair’s all I got left. I don’t even have my real teeth anymore.”

She chuckled.

“Just be careful. I can’t say it enough.” He stuck out his hand, surprising her. “But all that aside…welcome to Hemlock Veils, officially.” He smiled beneath his long, scraggly beard, and she took his hand. “I mean it when I say I’m really pleased you’re staying. Really pleased.”

“Thanks, Eustace.” She couldn’t stop smiling on account of that even though Mr. Clayton and Nicole (she didn’t quite know where Taggart now stood in all of this) fought against her, Regina and Eustace were on her side.

And as of a minute ago, perhaps even the beast.

Chapter 12

The downpour began before Elizabeth could reach Center Street—harsh and cold and without the slightest warning. An April morning in Oregon should have been warning enough, but she would scold herself later. Instead, she ran the rest of the way to Jean’s Bakery, her three-inch heels clopping on the wet cement and her ribs sore. When she reached the bakery, with windows still dark, she stood beneath the black awning. It protected her only halfway, and she rubbed at her arms, getting as close to the glass door as possible. Her reflection disappointed her. All the time she’d put into looking crisp and professional had been a waste; now soaked hair and black smudges under her eyes dominated her look.

She shook excess water from her hair, then dried her face with the ends of her scarf. One of the things she’d learned from Mr. Vanderzee was how to look and act professional for any kind of business meeting, and so far, she’d failed. The night before, she’d rescued her black, high-waist trousers from the bottom of her suitcase, as well as her violet, silk blouse with a pleated front. She doubted she needed to go through all the trouble of making a good impression, since Mr. Clayton already had his mind made up about her, but it couldn’t hurt. She’d even tried straightening out the wrinkled, water-damaged money and putting it in a less-conspicuous envelope.

Now it burned a hole in the purse tucked under her arm. She hadn’t allowed herself to second-guess her decision thus far, but five minutes before leaving the motel, while putting the finishing touches on her hair, she’d almost called it off. Anxiety had risen in her chest, taking her breath, and she had to sit on the bed to calm her heart. In that moment, all she’d wanted to do was curl up in bed and skip the meeting, leaving Mr. Clayton thinking he’d been right about her the whole time.

It was the recollection of Mr. Vanderzee’s words that had motivated her to get up. His threats. Then it had been the image of the little house, and of the way it would feel to be behind the counter of her very own coffeehouse.

Waiting by the darkened bakery door, she touched the locket around her neck, attempting to draw courage from it. Instead it reminded her of all she’d done to get here. Of why even though she
had
to do this, she deserved none of it.

In the door’s reflection, the Maybach rolled to the curb with a grace unfitting for the storm. Its wipers glided frantically over the windshield but made no sound, and Arne stepped out, instantly opening a black umbrella over his head. His suit was also black today, unlike the gray ones he usually wore. While he walked to the other side of the car, she turned, and they smiled at each other simultaneously. “Beautiful morning, isn’t it, Elizabeth?”

She wanted to throw up. Instead, she nodded.

He opened the back door, holding the umbrella over the opening, and Mr. Clayton stepped out beneath it, buttoning his suit jacket. She felt insignificant, showing up with no umbrella and completely soaked through, while he walked with a suave stride to meet her, never a single drop of rain staining his expensive, midnight-blue, silk suit. Every time she saw him, he walked with a hurried purpose, as though not even the sidewalk deserved his time. He hardly looked at her, keeping his eyes on the ground and nodded. “Ms. Ashton,” he said.

“Hello, Mr. Clayton.” She used her professional voice, but kept warmth in her tone. He deserved a hint of warmth, since he was giving her this chance.

He removed a set of silver keys from his pocket and unlocked the door and ushered her inside, meeting her eyes for the first time. She tried not to shrink at the way they started at her head and moved to her feet, judging her, no doubt.

“No umbrella?” he asked, closing the door behind him and returning the keys to his pocket. Arne closed the umbrella, sending water droplets to the tiled floor.

She tried to smile. “I guess I’m still getting used to the Oregon lifestyle.”

Arne un-stacked four chairs and started scooting a table toward them. She rushed over to help. Mr. Clayton only stood with apathy, glancing at his watch. He walked to them just in time for Arne to take a rag to the chair closest to him, wiping it free of dust, but Mr. Clayton didn’t sit. Instead, he held the back of the chair with one brow raised, and it wasn’t until he motioned to it with impatience that she realized he was offering her the chair.

“Thank you,” she said, sitting slowly since the movement hurt.

His eyes seemed wary as he sat across from her, especially when she removed her jacket and scarf, attempting it with as little stiffness as possible. Somehow, regardless of her emotionless face, he recognized her internal cringes. Either he was the most intuitive man alive, or a mind-reader. The latter seemed more probable. “Are you…all right, Ms. Ashton?” It seemed as though he cared more than he was willing to show, but she was sure she was wrong about that, too.

“Of course.” She met his eyes only briefly. Briefly because there was something new in them she didn’t have the heart to analyze. They’d been vulnerable before, when she’d called him out, but this time was different. It wasn’t a wounded vulnerability but a soft exposure, perhaps of a man he used to be, or one he usually tried to hide.

Mr. Clayton still scrutinized her, while Arne took her jacket. She nodded in gratitude to Arne before looking back to Mr. Clayton. “I’m fine, Mr. Clayton. Really.”

“All right then.” He sat back, straightening. His eyes found the table. “Let’s get down to it then, shall we?” Arne handed him a briefcase; Mr. Clayton opened it and retrieved a stack of papers. He took a pair of reading glasses from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and put them on, keeping his eyes on the paper. The black, thick frames were handsome, unsurprisingly. “I took the liberty of having these contracts made up. If there’s something you don’t agree with, we’ll make other arrangements, and I’ll have new ones made by tomorrow. But may I remind you, this isn’t the time to be picky, Ms. Ashton.” He still wouldn’t meet her eyes, keeping his own on the stack of contracts that looked too lengthy. Her head spun and she took a deep breath, as subtly as she could.

Mr. Clayton looked at his watch impatiently. As though he and Arne shared a brain, Arne said, “He was on his way an hour ago. He should be here any minute.”

Mr. Clayton nodded, not bothering to hide his irritation, and before she could wonder, he said, “My attorney, Tony Collins, will be here shortly to mediate on both our behalves—to answer any legal questions you may have and act as a notary should we sign the agreements this morning.” He sighed, looking back at Arne. “For Hell’s sake, Arne, sit. You know how anxious I get when you stand behind me.”

Arne sat, leaving one empty chair for Tony Collins. She didn’t have time to wonder if he was as callous as Mr. Clayton because just then a short, round, bald man ran to the door, umbrella over his head. He shook it beneath the awning, closed it, and then opened the door, shivering inside his expensive-looking trench coat. He eyed Mr. Clayton, then Elizabeth as he closed the door. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. Though he spoke to Mr. Clayton, his eyes remained on Elizabeth. “This is quite a town you have here, Henry.”

Mr. Clayton appeared annoyed as he interlaced his hands on the table. “I’m not paying you to sightsee, Tony.” The subtle exchange between the two men’s eyes hinted at his double meaning.

Tony took the seat next to him, half-smiling. “You can’t expect me not to look. It’s taken me fifteen years to convince you I was worthy to see this town.”

“There was no convincing on your part. I needed you here.”

Tony waved it off, as though he was used to Mr. Clayton’s arrogance. He met Elizabeth’s eyes again, offering his hand. “You must be Elizabeth Ashton.”

She gave it a solid shake. “How do you do?”

“Been better, honestly. You’ve met my client.” He threw a sidelong glance at Mr. Clayton and Elizabeth smiled, even though she tried not to.

Mr. Clayton ignored them both, passing the first few pieces of paper to her. They were thick and heavy, the same expensive kind of paper Mr. Vanderzee used to use. At the top of the first paper were the words “Oregon Seller’s Property Disclosure Statement” and below it, heaps of small, black print. That print continued on the next five pages, where Mr. Clayton had checked some boxes in a checklist.

“This is the real estate disclosure statement, where I’m required by law to tell you everything I know about the condition of the house, as honestly as I know. And honestly, Ms. Ashton, there’s not much I know about it anymore.” He was right. In most sections, about the plumbing, the roof, etc., he’d marked the “unknown” box. “In most cases—and I’d support your decision to, since it’s your right as the buyer—you would hire someone to do a professional home inspection, to resolve any underlying issues that may change your mind—”

“I won’t change my mind.”

His mouth was still open, since she’d foolishly interrupted him. “I didn’t think you would.” He threw her a warning look beneath his severe brow, the condescending stare she hated. “Anyway, the home inspection, and/or appraisal, would make a difference on the asking price. However, if you agree to take it as is, sign this disclosure that verifies you are aware of the unknown condition of the home, and decide to forgo the inspection, my asking price will stay low and reasonable. You are free to make counter offers, Ms. Ashton, but the longer—”

“How much?” She’d done it again, interrupted, and she wanted to shrink.

“Twenty thousand.” Her brow lifted. She had expected he would mark it up at least twice what it was worth, and a daunting battle would ensue. But apparently Mr. Clayton was full of surprises. “Let me assure you, even for a measly five-hundred-square-foot home, that price is a steal.”

“I don’t doubt it, Mr. Clayton. For the sake of saving time, though, do you mind explaining briefly what’s in the disclosure statement—why you’re asking such a low price?”

“The last time I set foot in that house was ten years ago. Back then the pipes were fully functional and the wiring top-notch. I’m asking a low price because I simply don’t know its condition anymore, Ms. Ashton, and honestly, I don’t care enough to find out. I’m asking a low price because the shorter we can make this meeting the better. The lower the price, the more likely you are to accept, and the more—”