Hemlock Veils (20 page)

He glanced at it. He’d once said that when someone makes trouble it follows them the rest of their life. That’s what he was ensuring for hers. “I want you to live with it. Know the things you enjoy come from betrayal.” He paused. “You
will
use it, Elizabeth.”

“And if I don’t…”

“I’ll know.” A silent exchange passed between them and she believed him. Somehow, he would know the whereabouts of every last cent. “And if I find out you haven’t, I won’t just have you thrown in prison for stealing, I’ll make sure you’re a part of your brother’s scandals. You’ll go to prison for illegal drug possession, conspiracy to murder—”

“Conspiracy to murder?”

Silence, just briefly. “As you’re aware, I know people. I could have you tied to the murder of your brother with a single phone call.”

Pain wracked her chest. “Please,” she whispered. “Just let me pay for what I’ve done.”

“But isn’t that what I’m doing?”

Words escaped her.

“Use your reward.”

“This is no reward,” she said, holding up the envelope.

“No, not for you, is it? For you, spending that blood money—on yourself no less—would be your greatest punishment. So enjoy it—with all its dark reminders. If not, I’ll see to it that your life is far more miserable than a guilty conscience.”

He turned and left, and the life of punishment she’d imagined for herself was replaced with a $100,000.00 reward.

Chapter 13

Neither Henry nor Arne said a word during the entire hour drive from Portland to Hemlock Veils. Henry because every ounce of his will had been depleted, and Arne because he knew how to read Henry better than anyone ever had. The day had been long and counterproductive, abnormal for the triple life he lived, and gave him more time to dwell on what he’d actually done that morning. What
had
he done, giving in to Elizabeth Ashton? Regardless of the way no one better deserved the old cottage and his mother’s bakery, he felt like a fool. He was Henry Clayton and hadn’t given in to anyone in Hemlock Veils in years.

He had been fifteen the last time, and Astrid had been the one to change it all. She was one year younger than he: a tan-skinned blond with blue eyes like the sky, and just like him, she came to Hemlock Veils every summer. He to vacation with his mother and father, and she to stay with her grandmother. She was his first love, the girl who led him to believe it actually existed, and though it had lasted only a summer, it had been enough to change everything. He hadn’t understood then how the following summer she could look at him with such indifference. She had another boy, she’d said, the third since Henry, and that very boy came to Hemlock most days after that. Henry had to watch them, walking through the same trees they had carved their initials into the summer before.

I thought you loved me
, he’d actually been foolish enough to say.

Henry
, she tittered, as though his very name was ridiculous,
it was just a fling.
And she walked away, back to the diner with the boy named Bishop. It was the last time Henry had ever spoken to her, and that was the last summer she’d visited Hemlock Veils, since her grandmother had passed away that same year.

And that was the last time Henry had been irrational enough to fall in love.

It was when he’d decided all females were the same, especially the pretty ones. And the rest of his life he’d been proven right. If they were going to be shallow enough to love him for his father’s money, then he would love them for their looks, and do it in the form of one-night stands. There was a time he had loved that lifestyle, and when that lifestyle was over—stolen from him—he’d even longed for it at first.

But now it held nothing of the Henry Clayton he knew. They were simply memories of someone else’s life, left to taunt him: red lips of every shade, painted eyes from across a room, the way the delicate zipper of a dress could rip in the heat of passion, the sound of his name in a satisfied moan.

Though Nicole didn’t have the class of those women from the past that wasn’t his, she reminded him every time she flaunted her assets. She reminded him of what he could still have, and even more, that it was the last thing he wanted. It reminded him life was no longer about satisfying every appetite.

But Ms. Ashton reminded him of things he’d always dismissed, things he was never willing to believe women possessed. Things that perhaps made a woman worth caring about.

She reminded him he could never be the man to do the caring.

Now, driving down Clayton Road, the low sun to his right, he wondered what repercussions might come of his weak decision to allow her to stay. Ahead, the black awning’s rounded flaps fluttered in the wind, as if waving to an old friend. In that instant, every time he’d approached it as a child flashed in his mind. The same excitement settled in his chest as it had then, ever so subtly. He could almost taste his mother’s cookies, could almost see her smile when he ran through the door, could almost smell the bread. Maybe now, with someone here to change it, someone else to make it their own, he wouldn’t be so haunted by memories from another life that was innocent and joyous and detrimental all at the same time. His mother, the one woman he knew who actually deserved to be put on a pedestal, and his father, the man least qualified for such a job; nothing had ever been more wrong.

But the closer to the bakery they came, the more that familiar awning didn’t look familiar at all. “Stop,” he said to Arne, the breath knocked from his chest. Arne did, and with the car at the bakery’s curb, his eyes narrowed. Ms. Ashton had already moved hastily to make it her own, which was annoying in itself, no matter how much he wanted to forget it. The awning flaunted its newly painted, white, cursive letters.
Jean’s
, it simply said, with a steaming, blithe cup of coffee above the name. If Ms. Ashton had been inside the bakery at that moment, he would have stormed inside and demanded she change it. But darkness blackened the windows.

“Henry…” Arne began in warning, as though he could hear Henry’s teeth grinding.

“What does she think she’s doing?”

“She’s making it her own. Maybe this is how she wants to do that. It’s hers now, to do what she wants with it.”

“Exactly. It’s
hers
. Not my mother’s.”

“You can’t make her change it.” Arne sighed, and with their eyes on the black-and-white awning, and Henry’s anxiety calming—out of mere exhaustion, probably—Arne pensively added, “It does look great revived like that, doesn’t it? She’s quite the artist, among other things.”

Henry sat back, too tired to stew. He only stared, his mind drifting to the way she may have looked standing atop a ladder and painting the letters so carefully they looked professional. The storm had passed just before lunch, and he would have bet as soon as it had, she was ready with the paint. In the beginning, he’d thought nothing good could come of her staying. Now all he could think was the opposite: good for the town, and bad for him. He felt something inside he hadn’t felt in a lifetime. And it was all so infuriating, how much he felt. It was infuriating how much she interfered with his plan. He wanted to shut her down and ban her from town, for simply being who she was.

Yet he found himself watching her at night, acting on what was initially just curiosity, but now a perplexing impulse to protect her. Would there ever come a time she would be afraid, as people were supposed to be? Sure her heart rate had been elevated like all the rest, but her eyes held no fear. He deserved fear, not acceptance. And now she had sore ribs to show for such acceptance. He hated himself for it, but mostly for the way it had begun to turn him over inside.

Arne was driving again, Henry realized, because now they neared the tiny cottage—the home that now belonged to Ms. Ashton. Regina was there too, and they chatted next to their cars, a mop bucket under Regina’s arm. They laughed and Ms. Ashton’s hair was in a ponytail, a few runaway strands dancing lightly in the breeze. In the setting sun, her brown hair owned a golden shine. Her smile, her laugh lines: she was exquisite, even in the way she infuriated him.

“Now’s your chance to tell her off,” Arne teased. “Go on, show her who’s boss. Demand she change it.”

Henry glared at the eyes in the mirror—the eyes that had remained the same over all these years. The eyes of an eighteen-year-old, garnishing the body of an elderly man. “Drive.”

Ms. Ashton’s eyes caught the car and she straightened. They held his, even though she couldn’t possibly see through his darkened window. He found himself straightening as well, regardless of the way he was hidden. Then she lifted a hand and smiled, giving a polite wave. Henry assumed that’s what neighbors were supposed to do.

***

The coffee grounds bloomed in Elizabeth’s French press, the one she’d bought herself in L.A. and just pulled from her box the night before. She skimmed the grounds away with a spoon, the task strangely satisfying. She’d learned years ago in her rigorous pursuit for the perfect brew that covering the press tended to yield an uneven extraction from the cake of the coffee. Leaving it exposed and allowing the grounds to “bloom,” then skimming them from the top, made an amazing difference in the consistency and taste.

After plunging the press, she poured the coffee into a thermos, inhaling every air molecule she could, and closed the lid immediately. The rich and robust aroma made this place home. She looked around, at the walls now hers. Someday soon, there would be things on them, decorations—even pictures—that would make it officially her own. For now, just one box sat on the floor, and on the tiniest kitchen counter she’d ever seen sat her French press. In her bedroom—the
only
bedroom—were two suitcases and a lumpy mattress, one Regina had loaned her.

Hot thermos in hand, she hung her purse on her shoulder and grabbed her keys. It was early, just after seven, but because of her excitement, she hadn’t been able to sleep from the moment the sun had risen. Her shop supplies, the ones she’d ordered online yesterday, were supposed to arrive today since she had paid extra for next-day delivery. She felt like a child on Christmas morning.

After exiting the house and locking the door behind her, she turned, slightly electrified at the sight of Mr. Clayton walking by. She shouldn’t have been surprised, since he did this every day. But it was a quarter after seven and, according to Regina, he usually arrived at the diner by seven sharp. He didn’t seem like a man who was ever late for anything.

He paused too upon noticing her, and she readjusted her purse. His suit was black today, as well as his tie, and the sight of him out here, with dew-covered leaves and a bird’s morning song, felt…fitting. He nodded at her, and she said, “Good morning, Mr. Clayton.”

“You said I would never know I had a neighbor and here you are, infringing on my morning walk again.”

The appealing image her mind had created of him deflated, but instead of despising him, she reminded herself of all he’d been generous enough to do for her. She backed away, closer to her door. “I’m sorry. I can wait before I—”

“It was a joke, Ms. Ashton.” He scratched his forehead. “I suppose it’s been a while. I’m a little rusty.” Was he actually trying for small talk?

She approached with hesitancy, but couldn’t help chuckling at the way he appeared uneasy with a social skill as simple as teasing. “I suppose you are,” she said.

They walked side-by-side, which surprised her since every other time they had walked in remotely the same direction he’d intentionally stayed ahead of her. But he stopped before her house could disappear from sight. “Ms. Ashton.” Something seemed to be bothering him.

“Yes?” For some reason, when looking into his eyes, her mind drew upon the night before, when she’d been unpacking her box in the kitchen and standing by the only window at the back of the house. She had felt the beast again, and looked out the window in time to see him emerge from the trees. He stayed mostly hidden, but in the small clearing around her back porch, moonlight bathed his tail and front paws. No matter how many times she’d seen him, a shiver still shot down her spine, simply from his horrifying yet majestic presence. She wanted to go outside, badly. But instead she stood at the window—where they exchanged the same understanding with their eyes as the night before—reminding herself of the deal she’d made with Mr. Clayton.

Perhaps that’s why she thought of the beast now, when stuck in Mr. Clayton’s captivating brown eyes (for the first time she admitted to herself they were
quite
captivating) because it was he who would deprive her of all interaction with the so-called monster.

“I want to know why you didn’t change the name.” He released a breath, one that suggested he’d been holding it since the night before.

Blinding yellow shards of sunlight broke through the towering branches of a fir at horizontal angles. The crisp morning nibbled at her nose. “It…felt wrong to.”

“I hope you didn’t do it on account of me, Ms. Ashton, because—”

“It’s not about you, Mr. Clayton. It’s about Jean, whoever she was. It was her bakery. It still is. I want to keep it alive. The only title that feels right is
Jean’s
.”

“But you didn’t know her.” He seemed frustrated by this fact.

“I know.” It was all she could say.

“I just don’t understand.” His soft voice became lost inside his mind, and his brow tensed, as though he was trying to figure out the deepest of mysteries. “What drives a person to show such respect to someone they’ve never met, to someone they know
nothing
about?”

“I guess I just feel her there. I feel the whole town there, and how it used to be. Why would I want to change that?” She shrugged. “It’s not just because of you I got this opportunity. It’s because of
her
. Without her bakery…I’d have nothing.”

Gradually, his eyes moved from hers to the asphalt. Was this man standing here even Henry Clayton—this vulnerable, brooding man?