Wind Over Marshdale (2 page)

 

Thomas checked his watch and stretched his long legs out in front of him. He was sitting on one of two padded chairs in the small waiting room—if it could actually be called a room—right beside the receptionist's desk. The town office was a nondescript square box on Main Street right between the local credit union and the insurance agent. Some attempt had been made to beautify the place—there were a couple of standing planters outside whose geraniums and petunias still stubbornly bloomed. But other than that, nothing really set it apart as the town's main administrative building. Inside, it wasn't much better. The cramped quarters ensured that privacy was not a priority. At present, Thomas was trying hard not to listen in on the conversation the receptionist was having over the phone.

It wouldn't take long before his own interests in coming to Marshdale were common knowledge. Not that it was a bad thing. In fact, he was almost certain that many of the townsfolk already knew about his intentions. Hopefully, most of them would be in favor. Thomas, however, was a realist. He knew how emotions, combined with a sense of territorialism, could taint people's views.

A man's head popped out from behind the half-open doorway leading into the mayor's inner sanctum. “Ah, Mr. Wolf. You're still here, I see. Sorry about that wait. Sometimes it's hard to get off the phone, you know what I mean? Come on in and we'll talk.” The mayor, Mr. Frank Gesler, gestured for Thomas to enter his office. Mayor Gesler was a man of about fifty, red-faced and well-scrubbed with sandy hair the color of the wheat fields. Thomas unfolded his considerable height from the chair. “Thank you. And the name is Lone Wolf, not just Wolf.” Thomas smiled, watching the other man closely for any reaction. He wasn't in the business of trying to intimidate people, but sometimes folks reacted all too predictably. The white shirt and jeans he wore accentuated his dark complexion and solid build and his hair was contained in a neat ponytail at the nape of his neck. There was no mistaking his heritage, with or without his distinctive name. Thomas allowed himself to be ushered into the office. Mayor Gesler shut the door behind them with a click. “Have a seat Mr.—” he seemed to hesitate uncomfortably, “Lone Wolf.”

“Thanks.” Thomas took the proffered chair. As predicted, Gesler seemed to be having some difficulty with his last name. Nothing new. Some whites were funny that way.

“So, I've had a chance to review your initial proposal and I think it has merit. Could end up being beneficial for everyone.”

“Yes. I agree.”

“Of course, there may be some—factions—who are a little uncomfortable at first. Fear of the unknown and all that,” Gesler commented, waving his hand dismissively.

“Which is why I'm interested in working closely with town administration. Try to eliminate some of the ‘fear factor,' as you say.”

“The Heritage committee might have something to say,” Gesler cautioned.

“Good. I'd like to meet with them,” Thomas countered.

“There are a few tough cookies on that committee,” Gesler warned. “You'll have to make sure your proposal is tight.”

“As you know, we've already secured funding from Indian and Northern Affairs for this project, and we've got permission from all but one local land owner to continue our surveys of the area.”

“Good, good. How's that coming, anyway?” Gesler asked. He was busy scanning some papers on his desk.

“Fine. We've had a team out there all summer,” Thomas explained. “Hope to have another good month on site at least before winter. Then it will be a matter of following up—cataloguing, editing film, mapping, and paperwork. That sort of thing. And of course if we get the go-ahead from Town Council, we'll start making plans for building the cultural center.”

“Well, that's just it, see?” Gesler interjected, looking up. “The grand scale of the whole thing is what might be your downfall. It's all well and good to go digging up some old bones and artifacts and call it a heritage site. Nothing wrong with trying to preserve your culture, so to speak, but…building an actual cultural center? You might run into some opposition there. I'm not sure the people of Marshdale are ready for that.”

“Tourism would be a natural way to boost the economy of the area. Diversification,” Thomas reasoned. “It seems to me this is Marshdale's golden opportunity—and at very little expense to you or the citizens.”

“True, but…”

“The whole idea of a cultural center was to encompass the rich archeological findings we've made near here at Old Man's Lake. If we don't build something here, the findings will simply go into an already existing museum. As you know, we've had considerable success with similar projects around the province. They've become tourist attractions that generate a lot of revenue.”

“That's in the city. Things are a bit different out here.”

“I thought you were interested,” Thomas commented, frowning slightly. “At least that was the impression.”

“You don't need to convince me,” Gesler blustered, holding up his hands as if in surrender. “I'm all for it. But some people aren't sure they want the kind of influx into the town that building such a—a cultural center might bring.”

“You mean, they're afraid of who might frequent such a place,” Thomas stated. He caught Gesler's eye and held it.

“Well,” Gesler hedged, “people aren't really used to, you know, a lot of native folks in these parts.”

Thomas didn't respond right away, but kept holding onto Gesler's gaze until the other man looked down, uncomfortable. “I see,” he said, his voice barely audible. It wasn't the first time he'd run into this kind of opposition.

“It's not like folks are prejudiced or anything,” Gesler was quick to point out. “It's just, you know. We don't have any reservations nearby. It might take some getting used to, that's all.”

“Well then,” Thomas responded, straightening in his seat, “it sounds like a perfect opportunity to enrich the cultural awareness of the community.”

“I hear you've decided to move out here for the winter.” Gesler changed the subject.

“Yes. We're renting the Taylor place for now.”

“We?” Gesler queried.

Thomas nodded. “Yes. My kids and I.”

“Kids. No ‘Mrs. Wolf'?” Gesler raised prying eyebrows in question.

“That's Lone Wolf. And no.”

“Won't the kids miss their friends?” Gesler asked.

“I think the change of pace will be good for them.”

“You'd have access to more high-tech equipment back in Regina instead of parking out here in the boonies,” Gesler reasoned.

“I can do practically everything via internet these days,” Thomas said, surveying the older man closely. “I almost get the idea you're trying to discourage me.”

“Hmm,” Gesler grunted. “As long as folks don't get the wrong idea.”

“What do you mean?”

Gesler hesitated for a moment, weighing his words. “Now don't get me wrong; I'm not prejudiced myself or anything like that. But unfortunately, there are some folks who, even though they're good people at heart, don't see things so progressively, so to speak.”

“I'm still not understanding.” He wasn't about to let the other man off that easily. Let him say what he really meant.

“You know how people think. First one Native family moves in, then they build a cultural center, one thing leads to another…” Gesler shrugged, as if it made perfect sense.

“I'm not planning a hostile takeover,” Thomas replied tightly.

“Of course not,” Gesler said. “But you know how people are.”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

****

“Yes, Miss Hyde. I understand perfectly that the choir could use additional gowns before the Christmas concert.” There was a pause as Pastor Todd Bryant held the receiver slightly aloft for the next onslaught. Miss Marni Hyde, although one of the most faithful congregants was also one of the most trying.

The high-pitched voice coming from the receiver was almost comical. Pastor Todd couldn't help but smirk as he half-heartedly tried to take in what she was saying. He glanced over at his wife, Carol, who had also allowed a slight smile to play about her lips.

“Indeed. Yes…mm-hm…You think someone should set up a committee?” He rolled his eyes at Carol. She pointed to her wristwatch. “Um…actually, I really must cut this short, Miss Hyde. I've an emergency. Someone needs—prayer!” He hung up the receiver and collapsed onto the sofa.

“Hardly the Christian thing for the pastor to do, now is it?” Carol teased. “Lie to the flock. Poor, poor Miss Hyde.”

“Poor Miss Hyde, nothing.” Pastor Todd sighed. “I can't even have a peaceful lunch hour at home without her calling about one thing or another. I don't understand how she can be so—so particular about every detail and miss out on the fact that her own sister is a practicing witch! Why doesn't she do something about that, huh?”

“What would you suggest?” Carol asked. “Another Salem?”

“Hmm, might not be a bad idea,” he mused with a grin.

“I think prayer is more appropriate.”

“Right. We wouldn't want to ruffle any feathers, especially not on an old bird like Marni Hyde.”

“In any case, you still told a lie,” Carol noted with a raised brow.

“No I didn't,” Todd objected. “Someone does need prayer—me! ‘Oh Lord! Help me tolerate Miss Hyde!'”

“Poor dear,” Carol laughed. “So hard done by.”

“Glad someone has some sympathy for my plight!” Todd reached for his wife's hand and pulled her down onto the couch beside him. “What are your plans for this afternoon?” He raised a suggestive eyebrow. “I might be able to spare a few minutes before I head back to the church…”

“Sorry. I have a ladies' meeting in fifteen minutes.”

“Fifteen minutes should do it,” Todd grinned.

“Later,” Carol said, disentangling herself from his embrace. She gave him a good swat before exiting the room.

Later. It was always later. The last year and a half had been nothing but a series of “laters.” Sure, he could understand her resistance to his sexual advances when the whole scandal had erupted at their last post, but that was a long time ago and he had proven his innocence. It was time for her to get over it and start trusting him again.

It was his fault, really. He'd set himself up for it. One of the deacon's daughters, in an attempt to hurt her father, had accused him of sexually molesting her. It wasn't true, of course. He'd broken his own protocol when the girl in question had called and sounded desperate. She said her boyfriend had just raped her and she needed to talk to someone. What was a good pastor supposed to do? Carol had been out at one of her ladies' meetings, and he'd agreed to meet the girl at the church, all alone. He'd listened attentively to every gory detail of her sexual exploits, concluding in the end that it was less about being sexually molested and more about seeking attention. He figured most of it was a product of an overactive imagination. He didn't tell her that, though.

Unfortunately, her imagination turned to another object—him. If attention was what she was after, attention was what she got. It didn't take long for her story to fall apart, but by that time the damage had already been done. Even though she finally confessed she'd been lying, it left a bitter taste in the mouths of the congregation. Gossip had done its evil work and his reputation in the town would be forever tainted with suspicion. Coming to Marshdale was supposed to be their way of starting over.

Except that his wife couldn't get past the blockade that those initial accusations had erected in her psyche. If she hadn't been running off to so many of her precious ladies' meetings, maybe none of this would have happened in the first place.

“You're still here,” Carol stated the obvious, coming back into the living room.

“Um, yeah,” Todd said, stretching. “I'm on my way, though.”

“I'm worried about you,” Carol said. “You've changed. It's scaring me.”

A sharp laugh escaped Todd's lips. “I've changed? Now that's a good one.”

“What is that supposed to mean? Because I don't want to have sex in the middle of the afternoon?” Carol clipped. “Besides, the kids would hear.”

There was always some excuse. “Forget it. You're right. I'm sorry.” Todd shook his head, feeling like a beaten and weary man. “Speaking of the kids, are you taking them or are they coming with me?”

“I'm taking them.”

“Fine.” He watched her exit the room one more time. What had become of his marriage? What had become of his life, his calling, his zeal for the things of God?

With a sigh he headed for the door himself.
Just keep putting one foot in front of the other, Bryant. Take it one day at a time.

****

The late afternoon sun slanted in through the classroom windows, creating a bright grid on the gray tile floor. The room was decked with lively images, brightly colored charts and large letters of the alphabet, all to welcome a new crop of kindergarten students.

Rachel sat behind her desk, staring at the list of names on the register. Was she really up for this? It had been a grueling few days of preparation and right now she felt like turning tail and running back home to Toronto. At least there, it was familiar, if not safe.

She sighed heavily and closed the register. In truth, her head ached with a dull pounding throb, and she could feel the cords of tension creeping up her neck into the base of her brain.

A tapping at the door interrupted Rachel's thoughts. She sat up straight and tried to force a smile to her lips. She was greeted by a well-muscled man of about six foot four inches. Built like a football player, his neck was practically as thick around as his head, accentuated by his closely cropped hair. Although he actually wasn't bad to look at, there was something about him that immediately set her on edge.

“Good afternoon Miss Bosworth,” he said in a sing song voice, mimicking the children that would fill the classroom tomorrow. He sauntered toward the desk and rested his backside against it, rumpling some papers in the process. “Wish I was one of your students,” he said in a more suggestive tone.

“Excuse me?” Rachel asked, her ire rising. Who was this guy and what did he want? She reached for the disturbed paperwork and straightened it into a neat pile.

“The name's Steve. Steve Friest.” He stuck out his hand. “Phys. Ed.”

“Hello, Mr. Friest,” Rachel said, trying to sound professional. She shook his hand but disengaged her own as quickly as possible.

“Mr. Friest? Come on! You can call me Steve.” He smiled widely, showing his teeth.

“Of course," she replied, purposely not repeating his name.

“I thought I better come and check out the new teacher.” He winked. “I'm sure we'll be seeing lots of each other.”

“Oh? And what makes you say that?” Her head was really starting to throb now.

“Just a feeling,” he shrugged. “Looks like you're all ready," he continued, pushing his frame off the desk. A couple of papers floated to the floor.

“Not quite,” Rachel replied, bending to pick up the misplaced papers. “I still have a few things left to do.” She stood up and felt suddenly dizzy. She put one hand up to her head as she steadied herself against the desk with the other.

“Hey, are you okay?” Steve asked with real concern. He moved to Rachel's side.

“I'm fine. I just felt dizzy for a second. I probably just stood up too fast.”

“Are you sure?” Steve asked as he helped her back into her chair.

“Well, I do have a bit of a headache,” Rachel confessed.

Steve seemed to have lost his macho act for the moment. “Can I get you something? A glass of water?”

“No, thanks. I'm fine. Really,” Rachel tried to smile. “I just need to get back to work now.”

“What? What you need is to get out of here. Relax.”

Rachel considered the advice as Steve continued to hover around her desk. She was feeling too weary to argue. “You're probably right. I was actually planning to come in early tomorrow.” Slowly gaining her feet, she gathered up a few belongings and zipped them neatly into her book bag.

“You're not taking work home, are you?” Steve clucked his tongue.

“Well, I—”

Steve cut her off in mid-sentence. “Here, let me at least carry that for you. You're putting way too much pressure on yourself. It's only kindergarten.”

That was the last straw. She clung stubbornly to the heavy bag as Steve tried to extract it from her shoulder. “I can carry my own bag, thanks,” she said coolly.

“Whoa! No need to be a martyr, too.”

She let out a weary sigh. “Okay. Fine.” She released the bag. “Thanks,” she added a little more pleasantly as he swung the heavy bag over his shoulder with little effort. “I'll be fine once I get outside. I wouldn't expect you to carry it all the way home for me, though, since I am walking.” They left the classroom and Rachel locked the door behind her.

“No problem. Mrs. Beatry's is right around the corner. It's on my way,” Steve replied.

Rachel frowned. Oh, great! He knew where she lived. Did this mean he would expect to walk with her every day? She might have to start ducking behind power poles in order to avoid him. The thought brought a slight smile to her lips.

“Good to see you smiling,” Steve noted. “Anyone ever tell you that you have a really terrific smile?”

Rachel kept her mouth clamped shut and her gaze straight ahead. Although they looked nothing alike, this Steve fellow was beginning to remind her of a certain someone she was trying to put out of her mind. What they did have in common, apparently, was the fact that they were full of themselves.

They made their way down the short corridor and emerged from the building. The sun's rays still felt very warm against her skin and Rachel inhaled deeply of the pure air.

“Old Beatry's quite the gossip,” Steve continued to banter. “You'll have to watch it, if you know what I mean. She takes pride in knowing everybody's business. I lived there myself my first six months here. But I got sick of her keeping tabs on who was leaving my place in the mornings, if you get my drift.” He winked and shifted the book bag. “My new place is much more private.”

“Oh. How nice for you.”

“You're welcome to come and check it out yourself anytime.”

That wasn't likely to happen anytime soon. She scowled. Thankfully, they arrived at Mrs. Beatry's house.

“I'll bring your bag in for you,” Steve offered.

“That won't be necessary,” Rachel replied, jerking the bag from Steve's hands before he could say anything else. “I can manage it quite well, now, thank you.” She turned and practically ran up the walk before he had a chance to reply. She'd had quite enough of Steve Friest for one day. The fact that she actually had to work in the same building with him was enough to make her want to cry.

After she took several headache pills, Rachel headed straight for the bathroom and a relaxing hot bath. She refilled the tub several times, allowing the warm bubbles to leech away the tension. She had just emerged from the tub, wrinkled but feeling considerably better, when there was a light tapping on the door of her apartment. Rachel froze for a moment, thinking it might be Steve back with more torment.

“Hello, dear. Are you in there?” a melodic elderly woman's voice called. Mrs. Beatry. She should have guessed.

Apparently, for several generations now, Mrs. Beatry had been letting out her basement suite to the “new” teacher. If she had known Mrs. Beatry was also the town's biggest gossip, she might have upset the apple cart and gone elsewhere. As it was, she'd been happy to accept the furnished suite, found by the school board, without any questions asked. Live and learn.

Rachel wrapped her robe more firmly around her body and crossed to answer the door. “Hello, Mrs. Beatry. How are you this evening?”

The woman on the other side of the door was tiny, even in comparison to Rachel. But she stood straight and poised, and there was a perceptive gleam in her eyes from behind her wire-rimmed glasses. She nodded her blue-white head. “Oh, I'm just fine thank you. I hope I'm not interrupting anything?”

“No, of course not. Won't you come in?” Rachel offered.

“Thank you dear,” Mrs. Beatry said, surveying the room as she entered. “My, what a lovely picture!” she exclaimed, stopping in front of the one painting that Rachel had managed to squeeze into the back of her car. It was an abstract done by Rachel's sister Tiffany; a swirl of effervescent color and light. Her sister had a great talent, despite her other faults.

“Thank you. My sister painted it.”

“My, my,” the older woman clucked. “Very lovely, indeed, but…what is it supposed to be?”

“Well, I'm not really sure,” Rachel hesitated. “I don't think it's supposed to be anything in particular.”

“Hmm. Modern art. Never did understand it,” Mrs. Beatry mused.

“I was just about to have some tea. Would you like some?” Rachel offered.

“How lovely!” exclaimed Mrs. Beatry. “I love a good cup of tea.”

“Would you like herbal or regular?” Rachel asked.

“Oh, regular for me, please, deary. I'm not much for that herbal stuff. It's not real tea, now is it? We Brits like our real tea, we do. There's nothing like a good strong cuppa, I always say. I'm from the UK, you know. Followed my dear husband here, I did. He's dead now, of course.”

Rachel busied herself getting the tea ready while Mrs. Beatry prattled on. “Now, I don't normally pop in on my tenants uninvited.”

Yeah, right.
Rachel just smiled.

“And of course, I'm still teaching a few wee ones on the piano, so I hope that won't be a bother to you,” Mrs. Beatry continued. “I'm not taking as many pupils as I used to. I find it hard to keep up. I'm the only ‘certified' piano instructor in town, you know. Chances are I've taught at least one person from every family over the years. I can fill you in on anything you need to know.”

I'll just bet
…

“I'll be starting the lessons again next week, so there will be some coming and going. But it never has caused any trouble before, with any of the others. Well, except for that one young man. Speaking of which, I noticed a young man carrying your valise earlier.”

“Um, yes. Mr. Friest.”

“Oh, yes. I knew I recognized him. I did mention the ‘no male visitors' rule, didn't I?”

“Yes. Yes you did,” Rachel replied.

“I had some problems with another young woman once, years ago. But then she was from the city and was finding it hard to adjust to our country way of life. I'm sure you won't have that problem.”

“I certainly hope not.”

“But then you're from the big city, too, aren't you? Toronto, was it?”

“Yes, that's right.”

“Oh, no matter. I'm sure you'll adjust ever so nicely. I just have a feeling about you, and I'm rarely wrong about these things. I remember the first time I was in Toronto. I was just a new bride, then, on my way west to my new home. I imagine it has changed quite a bit since then.”

“Yes, I imagine.”

“It was quite an adjustment for me when I first came to the prairies. So much space! So little culture! My, my!” She clucked her tongue. “I started the first lending library in Marshdale. Did I tell you that? I would get a new shipment of books from Regina every six weeks and keep them right on a little shelf in my living room so that others could get something to read other than the Farmer's Almanac. Those were the days. She sighed nostalgically. “People stuck together then. Not like now. Just like a family. Do you have family back in Toronto?”

“Yes, my two sisters and my parents all live there.”

“Oh, that's lovely!” exclaimed Mrs. Beatry. “You'll miss them, I'm sure.”

Rachel had her doubts, but smiled her agreement.

“Oh how I missed my own dear mother when I went and followed my husband around the world! I was quite independent, though, for that day and age. Not like you young girls these days. It seems young people these days just hop about from one town to the next, one relationship to the next. Did I mention that there are no male visitors without a chaperone?”

“Yes, I believe you did.”

“Good. One can't be too cautious these days. Just wait until all the unattached young men start coming around vying for your attention!”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, surely you must realize that in a town such as Marshdale, there aren't a lot of available young women to be found. Whenever a pretty new face comes to town there's always quite a rush to see who can win the young lady's affections. It's why I've had to lay out such strict guidelines for my tenants.”