The Promise of Home (8 page)

In the quiet of the barn, Michael realized that even if his father hadn't been hundreds of miles away, there would be no way he could confide what he'd done and ask for guidance. Both his mother and grandmother had made it clear that what had happened with the hobo was not to be revealed to Niall. He wouldn't disobey them.

He remained on the milking stool for several more minutes, until his breathing steadied and his trembling stopped. Tabby made her way down from the loft and, purring loudly, began rubbing the length of her body back and forth against his shins. He reached down and picked up the cat, holding her gently as he scratched behind her ears and under her chin. Her thick, soft fur against his cheek and the low, monotonous rumble of her purring relaxed him further. If only life were as simple for him as it was for Tabby. With a bed of hay, daily rations of mice and milk, and an occasional bit of affection, she was perfectly content.

Michael's second attempt at skinning and gutting the squirrels was successful. Once the carcasses were completely dressed out, he dropped the livers on the floor for Tabby and collected the pelts and entrails in the old bucket. The frozen ground was too hard for him to bury them, so he disposed of them on the manure pile behind the barn before he went back to the house.

The kitchen smelled much better when he brought the cleaned squirrels inside. His grandmother had mixed up a bucket of borax cleaner and was on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor. The blood spatters on the cabinets and countertop were gone. His mother had cleaned herself up as well. Wearing a fresh dress and apron, she stood in front of the stove, stirring a pot of simmering vegetables.

“These just need rinsing,” he told her as he left the squirrels in the sink basin and pumped some water to wash his hands. “They're young ones. The skins came off easily.” The cold water running over his fingers and palms was tinged pink as it carried away the last traces of his squirrel cleaning. He focused on lathering the soap and tried not to think about the body on the back porch.

“Good.” His mother came to the sink to finish preparing the squirrels for cooking. “If they're tender, they cook faster.”

“Well, that's about the best I can do,” his grandmother said as she slowly straightened up. She placed her hands on her waist and arched her back. “No trace of anything left, as far as I can see. Michael, would you mind getting rid of this water for me? My back's had about all it can take for one night.”

“Sure thing, Grandma.” He glanced down into the borax bucket. That water, too, was colored pink. Although his stomach was empty and supper would be much later than usual, he doubted he'd feel like eating anything even when the food was on the table.

“Not inside, though,” his mother said quickly. “You can leave the scrub brush on the porch, but I don't want that filthy water anywhere in the house. Why don't you dump it behind the barn? With any luck, it'll help keep the mice away.”

Michael nodded. He picked up the mop bucket and went out the back door again, past the covered, lifeless mass that lay in the corner. As he emerged from the darkness behind the barn with an empty bucket, he heard the drone of a car engine coming up the driveway. He came around to the front, where the porch light glowed in anticipation, as a sedan with a cross and
ST. JOSEPH'S CHURCH
printed on the door was pulling up to the house.

His uncle Frank had arrived.

O
nce Karen had left the hardware store and Emily was alone again, she pulled a peanut butter sandwich and a bottle of water from her purse and sat down on a chair in the back office. Her thoughts wandered as she ate—she was worried about Karen and what might have happened to her husband. The radical fighters who had recently overrun parts of Syria and Iraq were shockingly brutal in their treatment of both civilians and prisoners, and they openly sought to kidnap Westerners.

Thinking about Karen's missing husband made her feel more and more disturbed, so she redirected her thoughts to the briefcase. As her curiosity grew, she kept looking at her watch, counting the minutes that passed before Matt returned with his lock-pick set. When she heard the bell on the front door ring to signal the entrance of a customer, she left what remained of her sandwich on the desk and hurried to see who had come in.

“Sorry it took me a little while,” Matt said as he placed a small leather case on the counter. “I would've been back sooner, but the pup was more interested in playing than doing her business.”

“Oh, that's okay. I totally understand,” Emily said with a smile. “It's so nice of you to offer to help me.” She grabbed the briefcase and slid it down in front of him. “Do you really think you can open this?”

“Oh, sure. Just gotta find the right tool. These keyholes are tiny.” Matt unzipped the lock-pick case. Inside, several thin, oddly shaped metal instruments were held in place by tiny elastic straps.

“They look kind of like things a dentist might use,” Emily said. “Especially that one—it looks exactly like that nasty little hook they use to scrape your teeth.”

Matt laughed. “Yeah, I thought the same thing when I first saw them.” He selected one of the tools and carefully removed it from the case.

“So, how did you learn how to pick locks? You're the first person I've met who owns an actual lock-pick kit.”

“It was part of some specialized training I went through,” he said. “ ‘Covert entry training' is what the Marines call it. It's not as easy as some people think, but it's a good skill to have. You never know when you might be locked in or out of some place.”

“Or some
thing
.”

“Exactly.” Matt grinned. “May I?” he asked, gesturing toward the briefcase. When she nodded, he held it up and squinted into the tiny keyholes. Then he carefully set it back on the table. “The locking mechanisms inside are probably pretty old, but if they're not rusted shut, I'll definitely be able to open this.”

He paused and looked squarely at her. Emily wasn't sure why he was hesitating.

“That's great! Go right ahead.”

Matt continued to regard her, but the look on his face was strange. His smile—his whole demeanor, really—exuded kindness and confidence, but his eyes gleamed with mischief. Though she didn't know what scheme Matt was attempting to perpetrate, it was apparent to her that he was up to something.

“Before I do, maybe we should talk about what I'll get in return,” he said.

“What do you mean, what you'll ‘get in return'?” Emily asked slowly. She put her hands on her hips and took a step back. “I thought you were doing me a favor.”

“Oh, I am,” Matt said. “I was just thinking that maybe, in return, you'd be willing to let me buy you dinner sometime. Or lunch or coffee. Whatever you'd prefer. It doesn't have to be anything big…I'd like to get to know you better.”

Emily studied Matt's face. His expression was relaxed but serious. There was no hint of a smile. Although his eyes still shone with a cheeky glimmer, she decided that this wasn't a joke. “That's sort of underhanded, don't you think? Offering to help and then putting a condition on it? Especially a condition like that?” Emily struggled to keep her voice steady as she seesawed between feeling delighted by Matt's interest and annoyed by his proposition. “Look, I'm not like most women. I'm very straightforward. I don't like being manipulated or pressured into something. I don't play games with people. And, I'm good with tools. The only reason I haven't opened this briefcase myself is because I didn't have what I needed. But now that I know what tools to get”—she glanced down at his kit—“I can easily order a set like that and open the damn thing myself.”

“I didn't mean to upset you,” Matt said quietly, still with the sparkle in his eyes. “The only reason I asked you out is because I suspected you
are
different than most women. And I'm sure you'll be able to open this by yourself…eventually. It'll take a little time for you to get a set of tools like these, though, and while you're waiting for them to get here, you'll be wondering what's inside the case. I can tell you're really curious about it. And even when you have the tools, like I said, the locks on this briefcase are old. You could break them easily if you don't have experience opening locks. I'd hate for that to happen, since it belongs to your friend.”

Matt's tone was playful but sincere and not patronizing. Emily was torn. He was cute, definitely, but acknowledging that fact brought with it a huge wave of guilt and uncertainty. Plus, she hated having her prowess with tools called into question, and she had been completely caught off guard by his approach. Finally, her instinct to throw up a defensive wall won out.

“I might've been interested in hanging out if you'd asked me straight up, without trying to coerce me. So, thanks, but no thanks. You can keep your sharp little tools. I can think of a few places they'd fit quite nicely.” She gently closed the case on his kit and pushed it toward him with a smile. “Have a nice day.”

Before he could react, she picked up the briefcase and escaped to the back room. After a few moments, once she'd heard the bell on the door jingle, she peeked out to be sure that Matt had left. One of the store's business cards was facedown on the counter with something written on the back. Grudgingly, Emily went to the register and picked up the card. There was a phone number scrawled on it, along with a short note:
In case you change your mind.

Less than an hour after Kyle had dropped her off at her house, Claudia was headed out again. She carefully laid her plastic-covered wedding gown on the backseat of her car and drove the short distance to another house in town. Pauline Albury lived six blocks away, on the other side of Main Street. Claudia parked in the driveway of the neat two-story house. A colorful needlepoint sign in one of the windows read
THE STITCHERY
, and beneath that, a neon sign glowed in the shape of a scissor and the words
TAILOR AND ALTERATIONS
. She had just reached the porch with her gown draped across her arms and a bag containing her shoes looped over one wrist when the seamstress hurried out the front door to meet her.

“Hello there, I'm Pauline. You must be Claudia. Here, let me help you with that.” Pauline held open the door and swooped an arm beneath the lower part of the gown to support it as Claudia carried it inside.

“Thank you,” Claudia said once she was through the door. “It's pretty bulky.”

“Most of them are, dear. Let's bring it over here, into the sewing room, that way,” Pauline said as she gestured toward a door leading from the foyer. “There's a tall rack just inside here where we can hang it.”

They entered a large carpeted room that looked like a newer addition to the house. Once Claudia had heaved the dress up onto the rack Pauline had mentioned, she took a look around the room and smiled. It was a cozy sewing heaven.

The rack was to her left and positioned next to a good-sized fitting booth with a curtain that could be pulled across for privacy. Beyond that, in the corner of the room, were some steps leading up to a small platform and a three-way mirror. Shelves filled with bolts of fabric and packages of quilt batting took up the other corner. A plush-looking sofa was pushed up against the wall opposite her, beneath a window that was slightly raised to allow in some fresh air. To her right were a long quilting machine and a sturdy-looking sewing machine. On the wall above the sewing machine, a rack held dozens of spools of thread in every color imaginable.

Pauline's friendly demeanor and comfortable appearance coordinated perfectly with her work environment. She had a kind, smiling face and gray hair that she wore pulled back in a loose bun. A full work apron was looped around her neck and tied in back at her waist, and a pair of reading glasses hung from a silver chain against the top of the apron.

“What a nice place you have here,” Claudia said. “It doesn't look too big from the outside, but once you're in here, wow. It seems like you've got everything you need to sew anything.”

“You're right, I do,” Pauline said with a proud little grin. “You said on the phone that Josie DiSanti told you about me?”

“Yes. She's my landlady, and as soon as she heard I was getting married, she mentioned you and how your work was always perfect.”

A little color crept into Pauline's cheeks at the compliment. “How sweet of her! I've done tailoring for Josie for a long time. And I've done lots and lots of wedding dresses for young ladies in town. Now, let's get you into your gown, and we'll see what needs to be done.”

When Claudia emerged from the dressing room, Pauline clasped her hands and sighed. “That is a gorgeous dress. Where did you buy it?” She stepped forward to help Claudia fasten the row of buttons that ran up the back of the bodice.

“You might not believe it,” Claudia said. She was holding up the long skirt, looking down at the low-heeled dress shoes she wore. “I found a place online that had some gowns on final clearance, and they had this one in my size. Except it's too long, and it's a little saggy around my shoulders.”

“It's loose here in back, too. But all those things are easily fixed. Could you come up here for me?”

Claudia stepped carefully up on the platform in front of the three-way mirror. “How long have you had your shop here?”

“Oh, about fifteen years,” Pauline said. “Just stand nice and straight, now, so I can measure for the hem.” She was crouched down at Claudia's feet, moving slowly around the bottom of the skirt and pinning it so that it ended just above the floor. Pauline looked as though she was in her midsixties, at least, and Claudia was impressed at how lithe she was and how quickly her nimble hands placed silver pins in the shimmering satin. “I've always worked out of my home—lots of people in Mill River do. You know how it is in a small town like this. If your stove is broken or your pipes are leaking, there's always someone who knows how to take care of it, even if they don't have an actual storefront. You've just got to ask around to find out whom to call.”

“Yes, or you hear about the person from somebody else in town.”

“That's right. I didn't always have such a nice setup. I had to build up my business and save until I had enough to add on this sewing studio. It took a while, but it was worth it.”

“Well, I'm glad I found you. I figured I'd need alterations for this dress, since I ordered it without trying it on. The price was great, though, and Kyle and I are trying to stick to a budget. We feel like we should pay for our wedding ourselves, but teachers and police officers don't make all that much.”

“Oh, I know,” Pauline said. “It's just not fair, if you ask me. Teachers and police and so many others with important jobs should make a lot more than they do. Your fiancé's Kyle Hansen, you said? He's only lived in Mill River a few years. How did you two meet?”

“He came to my classroom to talk to my students about what police officers do,” Claudia replied. “And I chatted with him afterward, since his daughter was in my class at the time.”

“Um-hmm, just a little meeting like that's all it takes sometimes. He's quite a catch, that fellow. Everybody in town knows he's a real gentleman. All right, let me see if it's even.”

Pauline had finished a complete circle around the skirt. The seamstress got to her feet and stepped back to inspect the future hemline. Tickled by her praise of Kyle, Claudia was about to gush something else about him, but when she looked at Pauline, she forgot what she was going to say.

There were at least half a dozen silver pins protruding from the part of the apron covering Pauline's left breast.

“That's pretty good,” Pauline muttered as she walked around Claudia, staring down at the pinned skirt. “Could you turn slowly in a circle?” When Claudia didn't respond, she glanced up. “Honey, are you okay? You look like you've seen something awful.”

“Pauline,” Claudia gasped, “your…pins. Doesn't that hurt?”

The seamstress followed her gaze. When Pauline realized what had alarmed Claudia, she let out a cackle and reached out to lay a hand on her arm. “Oh! I'm so sorry. I'm used to everyone already knowing…I don't have a real bosom on this side anymore, just a foam falsie. See?” She poked the area surrounding the pins to demonstrate its softness. “I had breast cancer and a mastectomy twenty-two years ago. I could've had a reconstruction, but it seemed like such a grueling process. Plus, the implants back then weren't great. The saline ones leaked, and I didn't want anything with that silicone chemical going into my body. So, I decided to stay with my falsie. Bob…my husband…always told me he'd love me the same whether I had one boob or two, or none, and he has, for all these years. Besides, it makes a real handy pincushion.”

Claudia relaxed. Even though she was astounded by Pauline's candor, she couldn't help but laugh. “Obviously. Sounds like your Bob is a pretty good catch, too. How long have you been married?”

“Going on forty-seven years. We were high school sweethearts. We got married at St. John's a few years after we graduated. Father O'Brien said our wedding Mass all those years ago.”