The Forever Stone (25 page)

“We don’t know.”

“What’s her name?”

“We don’t know.”

He frowned, looking up at her. “Why is that?”

“She’s hardly said a word since she got here.”

The girl stirred and cried out, as if the sound of his voice had roused her. Madeleine knelt and put a hand on her arm as she had so many times during the night. The girl reached for her and quieted.

“I’m going to give her an antibiotic and leave some pills. Make sure she takes them all.” He was preparing a needle as he spoke. “But what she needs is lots of liquids—whatever she wants to drink—and some good nursing care.”

“I can do that,” Madeleine said.

He smiled for the first time. “I’m sure you can.”

She watched as he packed up his bag. He was unshaven, and he had that gray look to his face. Had he been out already this morning?

They walked side by side down the hall. Quite civil, they both were. Nothing at all had happened Sunday night.

“There’s coffee. Would you like some?”

“I think so.” He followed her into the kitchen. “Black, please.” He dropped into a chair at the table and closed his eyes. “Sorry, I’m not very presentable.” He scrubbed at the reddish bristles on his chin. “Been up all night.”

She turned to look at him. “What happened?”

“Sick child. High fever. I would’ve put her in the hospital, but they don’t have insurance.” He stared out at the dark trees. “When you called, I thought it was the mother.”

“Let me make you some breakfast, Nathan.”

A tired smile. “I know your idea of breakfast—fried eggs and sausages and pancakes and toast.” He propped his head on one hand. “Scrambled eggs would be fine. I think I’ll take a nap if you don’t mind.”

He pillowed his head in his arms, and the tense line of his shoulders eased.

She let him sleep for as long as possible. She checked on the girl, rummaged through the pantry to find homemade jam, sliced plenty of bread for toast, and set out the eggs. He slept.

What time did the clinic open? Early, that’s all she knew.

She poured herself a cup of coffee, arranged the table with sugar and cream and napkins, added knives, forks, and spoons. He didn’t stir.

Might as well scramble the eggs.

She put his plate of eggs on the table and stayed there, looking down at him. Reddish-brown hair with ends that curled. A slender tanned neck.

She touched his shoulder, lightly. Nothing personal.

His head came up, his arm went round her waist, and he drew her close. He leaned his head against her. “Mollie.”

Warmth stirred, flowed into her cold bones. She put out a hand, and his hair under her fingers was thick and springy. Chestnut, that was the color. She slid her hand down the side of his face, smoothing the lines, the puckered scar, the stubble of his beard, and all she wanted to do was hold him in her arms.

Not for her. Not now, not ever.

“Your eggs,” she said, stepping back. “Would you like toast?”

He sat up with a faint smile. “I would like . . .” He let the sentence hang, and she turned away. “Toast would be excellent,” he said, “I’m probably late already.”

He ate rapidly and took another piece of toast with him. “Great toast,” he said. “That’s a good color on you. Wake the girl up every few hours, and give her plenty to drink and a little to eat. Soon as I get a chance, I’ll stop by.”

After his Jeep disappeared into the trees, she returned to the girl. Still sleeping. She spread her blankets beside the sofa and snuggled into them. A smile escaped. Almost calm and controlled.

The next thing she knew, Bria was at the door.

She told her what the doctor had said, and Bria smiled. “My brother will be so glad.”

A thump from the Blue Room startled them, but when they got there, the girl was picking herself up off the floor. She held onto the back of a chair. “I’m okay, I’m okay,” she said. “Where’s the restroom?”

Madeleine let her stagger alone to the bathroom, since that was the way she wanted it. Meanwhile, she’d get a snack ready.  

The girl ate and drank without saying anything, and then went back to sleep. Madeleine and Bria cleared the rest of the boxes out of the dining room, and when Jude came, he helped them move all but two of the cabinets into the parlor.

They stopped for a rest, and Madeleine, trying not to wonder about the girl, studied the changed face of the dining room. The green walls were patchy, as if someone had pulled down most of the wallpaper and painted over whatever was left.  

“This room could use a coat of paint. We’d have to do some prep work, but it might make a big difference.”

“I agree,” Bria said. “When I stay in here for too long, I begin to feel seasick.”

“Let’s start with a good cleaning. I’ll ask Aunt Lin about paint.”

They were still working when the phone rang. She picked it up, rehearsing an explanation about the girl for her aunt, but it was Kent.

He seemed in good spirits—just wanted to say hello.

He must have recovered from his tantrum.

And, he said, he’d called to tell her about a wonderful place he’d found to eat, over in Tabernacle.

He apologized for such short notice, but they were having an Earlybird Special, tonight only—their Pine Barrens Beef Filet. “They put crabmeat on it,” he said, “and hollandaise sauce. It’s a package deal, with their signature blueberry pie for dessert.”

His voice softened. “I didn’t mean to make you mad the other day. Will you go with me?”

“Tabernacle?” Her mind raced. She could ask him about the decoys. Was the Lord opening this door?

If she insisted on driving her own car, it should be safe enough.

“It’s a nice restaurant,” he said. “Please come?”

“I think so,” she said. “But I’d like to drive my car. I could meet you there.”

“Whatever you wish, elfin princess.” He made it sound like a gift. “Tell you what: I’ll come over, and you can follow me.” They agreed on five o’clock.

A snake, Gemma had said. Be careful, Timothy had warned. Yes.

After Bria and Jude left, Madeleine took the girl some juice and another sandwich, but she was lying with her back to the room, still sleeping. She had refused to talk to anyone, even Jude.

Time to get dressed. Where was the cat?

She leaned out her window, pushing aside the juniper branches to look at the dainty cat-tracks that disappeared into the trees. “Wish you were here, Mac,” she said. “I should take you along for protection, but you wouldn’t like the car. I should have invited Hey-You to this dinner party.”

She gave herself a mental scolding. The Lord
knew about tonight. She could trust Him, whatever happened.

While she dressed, she reminded herself that she’d be driving her own car and they’d be in a restaurant full of people. No need to worry about the girl, either. She’d probably sleep the whole time.

Kent drove in precisely at five, looking handsome in his leather jacket and brimming with charm. He helped her brush the snow off her car and returned to his Bronco. “Follow me,” he called. “I’ll wait if you get stuck in traffic.”

Not likely around here, but it was a considerate thought. She pushed in the clutch, turned the key, and the engine raced but didn’t start. She tried again. How about some gas? No, that didn’t help.

Kent was sitting in his car, exhaust billowing into the air, waiting. She tried once more. What could be the matter? She
had
to have a car, especially tonight.

Kent was out of his Bronco now, walking over to her. “Car problem?”

“I can’t imagine—it just had a tune-up. Could you check?”

“Sorry! I only know where the gas tank is.” He shrugged, lifting his hands palms up, giving her a sympathetic smile. “Look. Why don’t you just hop into my car? It’s probably safer, anyway, with snow on the roads. We’ve got reservations and I wouldn’t want someone else to get our table.”

He stood patiently in the twilight, his manner helpful and concerned.

Maybe she could talk to him here. She put on a smile. “I wanted to ask you about something.”

“Sure, when you look at me like that, I might even tell you the truth.” He laughed, as if it were a tremendous joke. “But let’s talk over supper. You know what they say,
Don’t rile a hungry man.
”

It was too late to back out, especially if she wanted to change his mind.

“Okay,” she said, hoping it would be. “I guess I’ll have to phone someone about my car.”

His Bronco was pleasantly warm, and the paved road, when they reached it, was clear of snow. Kent made small talk, and she began to relax in the cushioned seat. He turned on the radio, but after a few minutes of listening to business news, punched it off. “Not the right ambience,” he said, giving her a smile.

Ambience? Whatever he had in mind, it was going to suffer a drastic change when she confronted him about those decoys. Should she? If the Lord wanted her to do it, He’d give her an opening. Wouldn’t He?

The Tabernacle Grille looked familiar, and she remembered seeing its gabled roof when she’d first driven past. Inside, wooden beams and the abundance of wide windows, lamps, and hanging plants gave it an upscale-rustic look. Kent took her to a table beside a planter strung with tiny lights.

“That special does look good,” she said, after studying the menu.

“You’re so pretty when you smile,” he said.

And at other times, she was an old hag, right?

But she smiled again. Keep the
ambience
happy.

The beef was excellent, topped with crabmeat, as he’d said, and the hollandaise sauce was freshly made. He ordered grilled asparagus for them both.

She ate slowly as he expounded on the benefits of forest fires.

“This area is unique in regards to fires,” he added. “There are only three kinds of pines that send out sprouts after a fire, and two of them are right here—the pitch pine and the short leaf pine. Almost every woody species around here has the ability to sprout again after fire.”

She ate another piece of asparagus and wished that this evening were over. “No wonder there’s so many pines, if the fires don’t kill them.”

“Exactly.” He smiled as if she’d made a remark of startling brilliance. “What we have here is a biological inertia: the cycles of fires and sprouting over the years has resulted in a preponderance of species that are highly flammable and yet will rejuvenate themselves quickly.”

He talked on and on, about his college days at UCLA and his work with the Forestry Department, and he spoke at length on the advantages of prescribed burning.

Not once did he mention the Castells or anything she could construe as an opening for her to talk about the decoys.

Maybe the Lord didn’t want her to ask.

But she had a growing sense that He did. Maybe He wasn’t going to make it easy.

She waited until they had eaten mountainous pieces of the famous blueberry pie—sparked with lemon zest, like hers—and were drinking their coffee. He looked relaxed and good humored.

“Tell me,” she said, “about the decoys you’re selling for Paula Castell.”

His smile didn’t change. “She told you about that, did she? Poor thing. I sell a few of them for her.” He glanced at the slender blonde arriving at the next table.

“I saw one of Paula’s decoys the other day,” she said. “At a store down near Millville. It looked a lot older, and it was being sold as an antique. Very expensive.”

Now she had his full attention. Say it. “Someone had burned the initials PC on the base.”

“Really?” he said, in a how-’bout-that tone of voice.

She watched his eyes. “I learned that it’s considered valuable because PC was well-known in South Jersey, about forty years ago.”

“Oh?” Kent took a drink of his coffee, and wiped a droplet of sweat from the side of his face. “But how do you know the one you saw was Paula’s? She doesn’t sign her work.”

“Hers have a rather distinctive eye groove. Dan’l has a genuine PC, and I noticed a few other small differences.”

She didn’t give him a chance to object. “The decoy in that store was selling for an inflated price, compared to the ones in Timothy’s store. What do you know about that?”

“Okay, Madeleine, don’t sit there looking like an outraged mother hen. You know how it is. If a decoy looks old, it’ll sell for more. And if they assume that it’s Clampton’s, I can’t help it. They have the same initials.”

She gazed steadily at him, and he shrugged. “Just wanted to make a little extra money for Paula. She’s family, after all. And PC was her teacher as well as her grandfather, so, artistically speaking, they’re his work.”

She’d let that go. “And how much does dear Paula get out of this scheme?”

He smiled, the blue eyes opaque. “I give her seventy-five for each one.”

Did he expect her to pat him on the back?

“Aren’t you getting a rather huge margin of profit?”

“Perhaps. But it’s not easy to process those things. And if I didn’t do some creative marketing, they’d have practically no income. At least this way she gets a little something, I get a decent profit, and we’re all happy.”