Hemlock Veils (21 page)

“The question is, Mr. Clayton, what drives a person to be so skeptical of such respect? You’ve been wronged a lot in your life, haven’t you?”

He recoiled, and began to walk.

“Is it all right I keep it
Jean’s
?” she asked, making him slow. “I can change it if—”

“No. It’s…it’s fine, Ms. Ashton. It’s what she would have wanted.”

They walked at a leisurely pace, and his mind still seemed far from him. She swallowed deeply before her next question, hoping she wouldn’t make his dark side emerge. “Who was she?”

He looked at her, then back at the street. “Jean was…” He hesitated. “My grandmother.” She had suspected so, since the boy in the picture she found last night looked so much like him. That silly, boyish smile, arms wrapped around a slender, well-manicured woman wearing an apron: it had to be Mr. Clayton’s father, whom Regina said he looked so much like. The boy even had the same dimples that appeared in the rare instances Mr. Clayton smiled.

She allowed him a moment to drift. The soles of their shoes ground rhythmically against the wet, gritty road—a most relaxing sound. After a moment, she said, “Mr. Clayton, if you also don’t mind me asking…who lived in the house before me?”

Then it happened: the Mr. Clayton she knew emerged. He became rigid, placing his hands in his pockets and eyeing her with that same annoyance she saw only when he looked at
her
. “Do you want me to have Arne type you up a historical report, Ms. Ashton?” Ah, that clipped, impatient tone.

“Yes,” she answered matter-of-factly.

His eyes shot to her in a mix of surprise and repulsion. He had no words.

“It’s a joke, Mr. Clayton. I suppose I’m a little rusty myself.” She smiled at him, regardless of the way he stared with a harsh brow.

However, he relaxed after a second. “
I
did, if you must know. My mother and I lived there, every summer from the time I was a baby to the time I was eighteen. And my mother lived there every summer thereafter, until she passed away ten years later.”

“But…you didn’t live at the mansion with your father?”

He laughed, just a short burst, and his smile grew famously condescending. “And intrude on my father’s lifestyle?” He shook his head. “We weren’t to interfere, ever—especially in the summer months. Summer was
his
time, to fly in business clients and mistresses. Imagine what a damper that would put on things if my mother walked in on him and his harem. That would just be awkward, wouldn’t it?”

She looked down sheepishly. “I’m sorry.”

“Well, it’s no matter. I’d rather have boarded-up in a tiny shack with my mother than share a mansion with that man. He put us out like animals. Worse, in fact, since his dogs stayed with him. At least he allowed her to pick paint colors at the cottage, though. Red
was
her favorite.” He paused, and she dared to glance up at him, his temples pulsating from the clenching of his teeth. She actually felt true and genuine compassion toward him, for the first time. He didn’t notice her observance, though, since his eyes were suddenly distant again. “You know why I hate that house, Ms. Ashton?”

She didn’t answer.

“I have nothing but fond memories there, since my mother and I made a good team. The house always smelled of bread or cookies, of course. It was all she did, bake. But not just at the bakery. She did in the cottage, too, in that tiny kitchen. Always trying new recipes, or trying to perfect the ones she already had. There I lived by my
mother’s
rules, not my father’s. The kitchen was her playground, and that forest mine.”

His eyes met hers, the sadness in them startling. And in that moment she forgot about her question—about the way she found it strange that his mother baked at his grandmother’s shop.

“But to me,” he added, finally answering his question, “it’ll always be the dog house. It will always represent just how my father felt about us.”

They stood before the doors of the newly renamed Jean’s. And now, the name fit with the special fondness she felt for it. “Mr. Clayton…”

“Ms. Ashton, I want to make something clear. I didn’t tell you these things to get sympathy. It was a very long time ago and I’m certainly over it. This doesn’t change anything about the professional relationship we have, nor does it mean we can start sharing juicy secrets.” She narrowed her eyes, picturing ever so briefly the way it would feel to wring his neck. “I told you so you would get your curiosity out of the way and move on. I told you so you would know I don’t want to hear anything about that cottage again, do you understand?”

“I understand very clearly, Mr. Clayton.” He turned, walking toward the diner. “Mr. Clayton?” she said, making him turn back with that same expression that said he didn’t have time for her nonsense. “Will you come inside with me for just a minute?” He began to sigh. “It won’t be long, I promise. There’s something I want to show you.”

He shifted his jaw. She took his stillness as an answer, since he would be walking away if he’d refused. She put her key in the lock and jiggled it, but it didn’t give. It had stuck yesterday, too. Mr. Clayton moved behind her now, his sigh close to her hair. A sigh of impatience, probably. He reached around her and took the keys from her hand.

“There’s a trick to it,” he said, his voice surprisingly genuine and close to her ear. It gave her chills—good or bad, she didn’t know. She’d never known anyone to switch moods so quickly. Not even a high Willem.

He slid the key in then pulled it out, just slightly. “It catches.” He inserted it all the way again. “Here.” He brought her hand to the key, and this caught her off guard, his touching her. Instantly, her chest filled with a heat comparable to the one radiating from his hand—radiating from his entire body. “You can feel it, right…” He guided her hand, pulling the key back ever so slightly, and she felt the subtle click, almost indecipherable. “There,” he finished, then did it again. “That’s when you turn it.” He did, and the door successfully unlocked.

He seemed to forget he hated her in that moment, or perhaps he’d just forgotten it was her altogether, since he actually touched her without the slightest trace of abhorrence. She seemed to forget too, because the man who spoke so closely to her sounded nothing like the cold Mr. Clayton she knew. It was almost as though he’d forgotten who
he
was, dropping a life-long act. She twisted her neck and looked up at him, just to make sure he hadn’t been replaced by some imposter. He stared down on her, and it was beyond annoying that someone she despised so much could also make her heart feel faint. That she could feel so magnetized to the mysterious beauty in his eyes and the ruggedness of every attractive feature. Despite the way his arrogance poisoned whatever brewed between them, he was still one of the most attractive men she’d seen, leaving her opposition to him worthless.

That was when he seemed to realize the same thing she had: that this was out of character and he was too close. He cleared his throat and backed away, ushering her inside. She walked right to the counter, wanting to get this over and done with so she could be alone and work through all the confusion with which Mr. Clayton’s presence filled her.

Antique frames, ivory in color with fancy vine trim, encased the eight-by-ten black-and-white photos. She’d found them yesterday when cleaning, in a box behind the counter, and hadn’t been able to make out a single face until she’d wiped away the thick layer of dust. There were three grayscale pictures in all: one of the bakery from the outside, a street view; one from the inside, every table full of happy customers in vintage clothing; and one of the dark-haired, elegant Jean and the little boy that was a spitting image of Mr. Clayton. Perhaps one day she may be lucky enough to see that boyish smile on Mr. Clayton himself, though she doubted it. She’d studied the pictures for unmeasured minutes the day before, absorbing the memories. This place
was
special. And now she knew it was special to him, too.

She handed him the first one and his eyes doubled in size. He stared at it, taking it as though it might harm him. “I found these last night. I thought maybe you’d like to have them.”

He met her eyes after studying the picture of his father and grandmother, his brows pulling together. “I don’t want them.” He handed it back. He seemed wounded. And again, even with how well she could read people, Mr. Clayton was impossible to understand. “They were left here for a reason.”

“Then…would you mind if I hung them up here?”

He walked to the door, but from over his shoulder said, “That would be fine, Ms. Ashton.”

Chapter 14

The moving van had arrived hours ago, making it two days later than she had expected; but the timing couldn’t have been better. She’d been busy with Jean’s the past two days, setting up supplies. Most of her time had been spent tinkering with the commercial burr grinder and two French presses, the top models for commercial use. She even owned a top-of-the-line, all-in-one espresso grinder/maker, along with all the syrups and nozzles. Cups, baking trays, new chairs, a cash register, etcetera. The shop was finally ready, and now she could focus on readying her home.

She had spent the past hour showing the movers where to place her belongings. She made sure they took extra care with her father’s cuckoo clock, the one she and Willem used to watch as kids—waiting to get surprised by the little bird that would pop out faithfully on the hour and give three bird calls. It hadn’t worked in years, but still she hung it. She would wait until the movers were gone to unroll her rugs, since they managed to walk the entire forest’s mud through her small living space. One of the rugs was an antique Persian carpet with red, black, blue, and gold designs, intricate and eye-catching; the other was a woven wool rug Mr. Vanderzee had bought her on his trip to China two years ago, the fibers fine and silky. They would both look spectacular in this place with rich hardwood floors.

Regardless of how horrible Mr. Clayton’s father had been, he’d had good taste when building his “dog house.” The interior was spectacular: elaborate crown molding and hand-carved arched doorways (only two in the house, belonging to the bathroom and bedroom). She loved it here, and her love had deepened when she watched her belongings—her
father’s
belongings—move inside. Now she could call it home. Now, when she enters the narrow living room from the front door and sees the cherry-wood rocking chair and antique bookshelf and Persian rug, it will be
hers
. Not the dog house.

Before they had finished, Arne surprised her with a visit. He’d popped his head in the door when she’d been helping one of the movers—Jerry, who was short and covered in lots of body hair—position her hutch. Caught by surprise that Arne was home on a Sunday afternoon, rather than in Portland with Mr. Clayton, her first response had been,
Arne, what are you doing home?
He’d chuckled, telling her even Mr. Clayton took weekends sometimes.

Even more surprising was Arne’s casual slacks and Polo shirt. He’d even assisted where the movers would let him, and after they’d left, twenty minutes ago, he’d helped her rearrange things they hadn’t gotten right. It was hot now, the day bright and warm, and not only did she sweat, but Arne’s forehead glistened. She offered him some water, since she hadn’t bought anything else to drink yet, and together they went outside on her back porch, sitting in the two chairs that had been stacked under a cover. She loved the porch, the way it was hidden from the front of the house but almost the same size as the house itself. A raised, wooden deck, with four steps and a large shingled covering, perfect for the rainy days when she might want to sit outside.

In the shade, they drank their water, and Elizabeth admired her forest of a backyard, the way the bottom step of the deck was only two feet from a hemlock. Behind it grew the rest of the forest, dense and gigantic, and coated in moss. She closed her eyes, accepting the breeze against her warmed face and listening to the sounds of wildlife. The birds sang to her, and she imagined it was a welcome song.

“So how is it, working for a man like Mr. Clayton?” she asked, opening her eyes.

He chuckled, keeping his eyes low. He wiped a hand over his shiny, bald forehead. “I could ask you the same thing, working for a man like Mr. Vanderzee.”

“No one is like Mr. Vanderzee.”

“Well, let me assure you,
no
one is like Mr. Clayton. And
nothing
can compare to working for him.”

“How long have you?”

“I started working for his father when I was only eighteen. We were very good friends.”

“I hear Mr. Clayton is a lot like his father.”

“In looks, certainly.” He shook his head, his eyes distant, and chuckled to himself. “Most certainly in looks.” Her thoughts drifted again to the picture of Mr. Clayton’s father as a boy, the one that resembled him to a T. “But the old Mr. Clayton was quite a different person than the Mr. Clayton you know.”

“When did you come to Hemlock Veils?”

He sighed a relaxing sigh, reclining. “In 1965. His father, Joseph—Mr. Clayton’s grandfather—settled this town in 1920. It was simply meant to be a summer getaway, and was for quite some time. Then people began moving in, building upon it. Joseph died in the late nineteen-fifties, and Henry Senior and I moved here permanently in sixty-five. We’ve been here ever since, me with the Claytons, I mean.”

“You say you and Mr. Clayton Senior were good friends?”

“We were very close. We relied on each other’s support and advice, and…I miss that man.” He met her eyes. “You seem surprised by this, Elizabeth.”

“I just…from what Mr. Clayton said of his father, it’s hard to believe.”

His brow pulled together and he hesitated. “Mr. Clayton mentioned his father?”

“Briefly. Just this house and the reason his father had it built—to shun him and his mother. He’s bitter, whether he admits it or not.”

“And he should be.” Arne sighed. “It’s a complicated matter with the Clayton family. Put simply, the man I’m referring to is different than the man Henry speaks of. That’s all I can say.”