Light the Hidden Things (3 page)

Her smile was wry as she turned away, but her shoulders were back.

Lila started down the porch stairs just in time to see headlights swing off the road. She recognized Van’s sleek sports car. It stopped between her and the defunct gas pump island.

Charles Vanderkirk unfolded from behind the wheel. In the glare at the front of the car, he loomed. Considerably over six feet tall and hugely broad-shouldered. The picture wasn’t lost on Lila. She reminded herself to keep her voice firm. Definitely noncommittal. “Evening, Van. What brings you out this way this late?”

He came closer. He had good features and a generous smile. “The construction business doesn’t have working hours, just deadlines,” he said. “I’m trying to make a deal with old man Tolbert for that property down the lake. Thought I’d stop and say hello. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No, I’m just on my way to town.”

He bantered with her. “Town? You? What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion. I don’t feel like cooking, that’s all.”

“Too bad. You’re good at it. I wish you’d do more of it for me.”

“Thanks. Part of the image. You know, cook, sweep, have babies - the regular.”

“I never said anything like that. Yeah, I still think you ought to sell.” His gesture and expression said more about the building behind Lila than any words. “Someone like you killing yourself so you can sell beer and worms to a bunch of slobs who can’t remember their last bath isn’t a good thing. Is that sexist?”

Lila smiled, aware she’d been sharper than she meant. “Not entirely. And you forgot to mention you’d like to tear this place down and build something - What did you call it? - decent.”

“It was the wrong word. All I meant was...”

“I know, I know. We’ve had this conversation. Anyhow, you said you’d talk to Lawson about my loan,”

Van was slow to answer. “He asked if I agreed with your business projection numbers. I didn’t tell him I don’t. I didn’t tell him a small resort here won’t have a chance when someone builds a fancier place - and that day’s coming. What I said was, if anyone can reconstruct this heap into what it used to be, it’s you.”

Lila took the last step to the ground. In spite of herself, she reacted to him, felt surrounded by - included in - an aura of power, whether she exactly wanted that or not. Something primal going on there, she told herself, and tried to shove aside the attraction-aversion combination that disturbed her so. It didn’t entirely work: The truth was, he was attractive in all regards. He was likable, even if occasionally his blunt honesty felt a touch domineering. He was attracted to her and she appreciated his willingness to indicate it without pushing too hard. Now she smiled up at him and said, “Thanks. It was good of you to step up for me. But I’m not doing reconstruction. What it is, it’s overdue maintenance.”

Shrugging, Van ignored her small joke to speak almost sadly. “I didn’t like my conversation with him, Lila. Edward Lawson’s not just my banker, he’s an old friend. Holding back the truth’s the worst kind of lie.”

“I’m sorry.” She put a hand on his sleeve. “I never meant to put you in a rough spot. It’s just that when you offered...”

His interruption was brusque. “I hate watching you waste your time. Look, sell this place to me. You know I’ll make you a generous deal. I’ll build something big and modern. You’ll manage it. Good salary, living quarters, the whole nine yards. Who better than a beautiful woman who loves the place? My friend.”

“Uncle Bake and Aunt Lila left their home and business to me to be mine the way it was theirs. That’s what I want. What I’ll have.”

“You didn’t even know you owned this until a year ago, and they’d both been dead for years before that. How do you know what they wanted?“ He was almost angry. “You’re letting sentiment dictate the answer to a business situation.”

In the face of his rising temper, she felt strangely reinforced. She told him, “I like sentiment. I like happy endings.”

Van opened and closed his mouth, clearly measuring his response. Finally, he said, “Happy endings don’t just come from soft music and wishing. They come from taking advantage of situations.”

Lila took her hand back. “I’ve seen a couple of situations.” It came out edgier than she meant, and she immediately softened her voice. “You’re a great guy. I’m glad I know you. You’re a tremendous help.”

“We could be better friends.” Again, he gestured at the building, acknowledging his rival. His smile was rueful. “I can’t seem to get past the competition.”

She said, “I’ve got to get my life in order before I think about anything else.”

“Right. Look, if you’re going into town, let me take you to dinner.”

“No, please. I need some time alone.” Her quick answer surprised her. She enjoyed his company. She didn’t really want to be alone.

“You’re here by yourself all the time. I worry about it.”

She fought past confusion, explaining to herself as much as to him, “And I appreciate it. I can take care of myself. It’s just that tonight I need to... I don’t know. Introspection, I guess. OK?”

Van stepped back. “I’ll follow you as far as Front Street. Make sure you don't get lost in the big city.”

They shared friendly laughter.

Front Street was old-town Lupine’s main street, a fitting introduction to a very individualist community. Only the western side had buildings. The sidewalk on the eastern side was merely a border for the park on the bank of the Fortymile River. Years ago the citizens watched thousands of logs rumble past in that current, headed for the Lake Connolly sawmill.

No one then gave much thought to the day when the timber companies would have scalped all the mountains within economic reach. The day came. The companies moved on to more accessible trees. The loggers who had survived the incredibly dangerous work packed up their families and chased after them, pursuing the only jobs they knew.

Lupine fell like one of its lumbered firs. Not with a similar awesome crash; more like an exhausted groan. The school closed a full year before the last saloon parched out. A local wit lamented that it was bad enough the few remaining kids would grow up uneducated; worse, they were doomed to sobriety until they were big enough to run away.

Nevertheless, the town clung to its narrow valley with the brazen tenacity of a weed. When the new highway bypassed them it was almost the finish. The locals barely mustered the clout for an exit/entrance ramp for their two-lane macadam umbilical cord. Those who stayed scratched for a living. They called themselves Lupinions, it being a source of great pride that each had a strong position on everything and a lofty disregard for any other. They arranged to bus children to school in the next town and kept their church alive so they could meet at least once a week in mutual commiseration and pray for something better.

Still, for every old timer who passed away or pilgrim who set out for the larger world, someone straggled in. After decades of relative balance, the old-timers were startled to realize that, while they weren’t looking, the population had actually grown. The hippies found the place, fumbled around for a while, and most drifted off. A second church appeared. Soon, craftsmen and a spattering of artists found the rustic environment tickled their muse. Others, as anxious to avoid the outer world as the original settlers, raised berries or goats or cattle or whatever they could eat or sell. A few commuted to city jobs in the greater Seattle area. The advent of electronics and instant communications created a spurt of immigrants with exotic talents and a taste for clean air; they worked at home. A daycare popped up. The town taxed itself for a K-to-six school, a library, and three man police department and chief. Outsiders came to hike, fish, hunt, and shop. Those practices sat well with Lupinions because the outsiders eventually went home but savory chunks of money remained.

Two who’d watched Lupine’s growth and change were in conversation when Crow stepped into Martha Short’s restaurant. Martha nudged her companion, Pastor Andy Richards. In a muttered aside she said, “Another fisherman. Want to bet?”

An elderly man of average height and build, Pastor Richards wasn’t one who’d draw attention to himself. His gray hair was short, conventional. He wore plain clothes and inexpensive hiking boots. His most obvious feature was a manner of inner peace and steady confidence. He laughed at Martha as easily as one would expect. He said, “My trade’s risky enough without betting money on people. Anyhow, I suspect you already know the man and you’re sandbagging me.”

Martha sneered and swept off. She greeted Crow with a professionally quick smile that didn’t detract from its genuine warmth. She asked, “By yourself this evening?”

At first Crow merely saw an older woman, small, with the assured air of one who’s accepted her years with pride in herself and her works. Behind her glasses lively dark eyes pierced like pins. One look into them and Crow knew he’d been measured, weighed, and evaluated. Probably far too accurately.

He smiled at her. “Yes, ma’am. Just passing through.”

Leading the way, talking over her shoulder, Martha said, “By yourself’s not good. We’ll have to spoil you a bit.” She gestured him to a seat at a candlelit table and put a menu in front of him. “My name’s Martha and this is my restaurant. We don’t serve strangers. Once you come through my door, you’re among friends. Something from the bar before you order?”

“Maker’s Mark and water side,” Crow said.

Eyebrows up, Martha turned just in time to speak to a passing waitress. “Estelle, this gentleman knows whiskey. Maker’s Mark, water side. He’s never been here before, and you know I’m partial to bourbon men, so be nice to him. Don’t water his drink. Not this time.”

Estelle grinned and left. Crow asked Martha, “What if I said I ate here three years ago?”

“You’d be fibbing.” Martha put her hands on her hips. “My hobby is knowing everything. I’m Lupine’s official nosy old biddy.”

“Unimaginable. Really?”

Martha winked at the sarcasm. “World class. If I was younger and prettier, I’d be a spy.”

“And if I was younger and prettier, I’d be all over you to join me for dinner.”

She made a face at the flattery and suddenly, Crow heard himself say, “My name’s Crow. Carter Crow.” Not entirely believing what was happening, he saw himself shaking her hand. He barely understood her to say something about “Pleased to meet you.” By then his hand was lying on the table and he was looking at it like it just flew in a window and attached itself to his wrist.

He stumbled into a lame-joke explanation. “If I’m going to be recognized every time I come here, I might as well have a name. I already know yours.”

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d told someone his name as a ploy to keep a conversation alive. Except - to be honest - at that rundown Bake’s. That made twice. In one day. He wondered if he was getting old.

As soon as Martha rejoined Pastor Richards at the hostess station, he said, “Interesting action between you two.” She continued to focus on Crow. Finally, the Pastor said, “Well?”

With a glare and a voice that snapped like a storm flag, Martha said, “Well what?”

“You spoke with him at least fifteen seconds.. That means you pried out his life story.”

“You calling me a gossip?”

The Pastor looked unconvincingly repentant. “’Against an elder receive not an accusation, but before two or three witnesses.’ Not that you’re an elder, of course. Nor would I ever call you a gossip. I think of you as our expediter of Lupine-centered information.”

Martha hid her giggle behind her hand and confessed. “You know, you’re right. I was bragging about how I poke into everyone’s business.”

“You keep important things secret and help anyone who needs it. We love you.”

“Oh, stop it. Go sing a hymn or something.” She brushed at him as she would a pesky fly.

Pastor Richards moved toward the door. “It’s a nice evening. I think I’ll just walk about a bit.”

“Come back soon.” She linked her arm with his, headed for the door. “I don’t get to spend enough time with you.”

He patted her hand. “It’s mutual, my friend. But why spend time with me? You already know everything about me.”

Fortunately for Martha there’s nothing in theology that forbids a lady burying her elbow in a pastor’s ribs. Nor any prohibition against said pastor yelping in respectable imitation of a small dog like Zasu.

*         *          *          *          *

While he waited for Estelle to return, Crow recovered enough to admire his surroundings. Martha’s place was an old home turned into a restaurant with tables and chairs from a long-gone era. Electric lighting was muted, candles graced the tables. Paintings and photographs on the wall added nostalgia. He was the only lone diner in a restaurant at capacity.

That wasn't an unusual event for a man who prided himself on his distance from others. This time was different, however. He heard things in the forest-wind sigh of people speaking softly, intimately. He didn't hear the words. He heard feelings that crossed between speakers as softly as moths chasing light, confirmations of togetherness.

As much as he determined to be separate, he resented being reminded of his loss. Patricia loved evenings out. To her, those other people were part of her experience. Because of her, it had been part of Crow's.