Town Square, The (8 page)

Her head jerked up, and she dashed a hand at the tears streaming down her face. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m almost finished.”

He walked forward, his hesitance making him drag his feet. Being nice to her was the last thing he should do, wanted to do. Yet, here he was, fishing out his handkerchief and handing it to her. “It’s clean. So, what box are you on?”

The dainty way she wiped her nose reminded him what a city girl she was. “Eighteen,” she whispered and extended the file she was holding to him.

Ah, God
, he thought. The medical reports on the babies who’d died. He’d gotten drunk after reading through those the first time.

“He lied,” she said in that soft tone. “My father
lied.”

He sat on one of the boxes encircling her, the cardboard giving a bit. He’d been wondering when this moment would come. Part of him had dreaded it.

Her father had fallen off his pedestal.

“Yes,” he said, wanting to reach out and stroke the lock of fiery hair that had come loose from her bun.

The file fell to the floor. “Those poor babies,” she said. “I keep reading the mothers’ statements about how healthy they were, and how they sickened and died so quickly after drinking the formula.”

He hung his head. Interviewing the four mothers who had agreed to speak to him had been the hardest experience of his life. The other women had been too inconsolable to talk to him, and their husbands too angry.

“Let’s get you a cup of coffee, and when Maybelline gets back from her walk, you can go home.”

He pulled her up and helped her step over the boxes. She leaned against him for a moment when she stumbled. Putting his arm around her, he waited until she found her footing, trying to ignore the thrill of touching her. Once she steadied herself, he stepped back. Like he’d been doing since he discovered who she was and why she was here.

She followed him to the kitchen and sat at his farmer’s table. Since he drank coffee throughout the day, there was already a pot of it on the stove. He grabbed mugs from the cabinet and poured them both a cup. She didn’t reach for hers when he set it in front of her. She just stared unblinkingly at the table, which he’d covered with one of his mother’s old plaid green tablecloths.

“Arthur,” she said, shaking her head like she was shaking off a daze. “I owe you an apology. I came here…thinking…” Her fingers feathered her brow. “I don’t know what…”

“Let’s leave it at that.” Knowing she was sorry did a lot to abate the anger he felt, but he still didn’t want to see her suffer.

“You’re letting me off too easy,” she murmured, reaching for the cup.

Probably, and he didn’t want to think about that either. His mouth quirked up, likely his first smile in days. “What do you want me to do? Tie you to ol’ Bessie in the barn and have her drag you down Main Street?”

Her mouth changed and then fell flat again. “They used to do that around here, right?”

“My granddad told tales.” He took a sip of coffee. “So what are you going to do now?”

He hoped she wouldn’t go through the rest of the boxes. It only got worse from there.

Her finger traced the plaid squares on the tablecloth. “I don’t know. I’d hoped to restore my father’s reputation, if not his sanity, but now… Our family is in disgrace. We don’t have anything to go back to. I couldn’t find a job back home, and Maybelline was asked to leave college.”

Jeez, he hadn’t imagined anyone other than their father reaping the consequences of his actions, and he hated that Harriet and Maybelline were paying for his mistakes. It was unjust. “Why don’t you stay here?” he heard himself say. “You already have a house. Give yourself some time to figure out a long–term plan.”

She laid her palms flat on the table and then patted it, like she was trying to play the piano, searching for the right notes. “You surprise me. Just a few days ago, I tried to ruin your reputation in your hometown.”

Like he could forget. The memory of her in that black slip kept running through his mind. “And yourself. Since you brought it up, would you really have gone through with it?”

Her hands flexed, and she lowered her eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m more like my father than I thought.” Her scoff didn’t quite come off. It was more like a soft sob.

He took her hand when she patted the table again. “Maybe it will help you forgive him.”

“Forgive him?” she said, her voice breaking. “He killed seven babies and lied about it.”

When she tried to yank her hand free, he held firm. “He didn’t intentionally kill those babies, and while that doesn’t bring them back, it
does
make a difference. I won’t excuse his lies about the faulty batch of formula, but I’m a bit more cynical after living in New York. The lies change as often as the headlines out there.”

“Whereas the people out here are pretty much what you see is what you get.”

“Yes,” he responded. “Another reason I’m glad to be home.”

Her fingers pressed against her temples like she had a headache. “I should go find Maybelline and get out of your way. We’ve encroached for too long as it is.” She stood, leaving her coffee untouched. “Thank you for letting me go through…”

“You’re welcome.” My God, how could she drag out pleasantries when her whole world had been destroyed? “If you want to keep working for me until you figure out your next steps, you’re welcome to do so.” He still needed a secretary, right?

Her mouth parted in shock.

“It might keep the talk down,” he reasoned. “People are already wondering what’s going on between us. Two days to fix a water leak after a late–night visit to your attic? Well, folks around here aren’t stupid, and we’re pushing the limit, even with your sister acting as chaperone.”

“A water leak?” she asked. “I hadn’t realized you’d created…a cover story. Thank you, Arthur.”

Well, he’d done it to protect himself, and maybe her a little, too. He didn’t like thinking about that. But if she thanked him one more time, looking like a white bed sheet, he was going to lose his temper.

She wandered to the front of the house and went out the door without putting on her coat. Grinding his teeth, he grabbed her navy wool coat and rushed after her. The wind was brisk and had already loosened more strands of red hair from her bun. She was weaving in place like she was lost.

“For God’s sake, get into the house where it’s warm. I’ll go find your sister.”

Why her sister loved walking outside in the winter still baffled him, but he’d learned that the Wentworth sisters marched to the beat of their own drum.

After depositing her inside, he grabbed his own coat and headed out to find her equally feckless sister.

The Wentworth sisters were more trouble than they were worth. Hah. Terrible pun, he realized.

And if he didn’t feel a little guilty—and dammit, still attracted to Harriet—he would have never suggested they stick around Dare Valley.

They weren’t done complicating his life.

Chapter 9

T
he
chik–chik–cha–chik–chik–chika–chik–cha–chik–Ding–ziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip
of Arthur’s typewriter greeted Harriet when she arrived in the office the next morning. As usual, he’d started working before she arrived. People had commented that he was still keeping city hours, but deep down she knew he was a man who liked his work.

Like her father had.

The very thought made her unbearably sad and angry, so she firmed her shoulders and walked over to his office, pausing in the doorway to watch him work.

His back was to her, and she watched with fascination as the muscles in his back shifted as he went through the rhythm of typing. Arthur demonstrated beauty and grace as he swept his hands across the machine and started again. With every press of the keys, it was like he was imprinting his vision of the newspaper story he was writing, one letter, one word at a time. So focused on telling the truth. Sharing what his senses had detected.

The back of his neck gleamed, likely from a trip to Dave at the Barber Shop. The faint aroma of his cologne permeated his office, all forest and spice. Powerful shoulders filled out the open–collared navy shirt he was wearing.

She could finally admit to herself that she was attracted to him. It might not sit well, but she was tired of the lies. The ones she’d told others. And the ones she’d told herself. It was time to turn over a new leaf.

After talking it over with Maybelline last night, they’d agreed to stay in Dare for a while and sort out what to do next. Both of them were too tired to try and start over again somewhere else right now. Plus, Harriet felt like she owed Arthur a debt of gratitude. Staying to help him start up his newspaper was the least she could do.

“I brought you a jelly donut,” she finally said, walking into his office. “Alice at Kemstead’s said you like the apricot ones best.”

He finished the current section of his news symphony and then swung around in his chair. The smile he normally gave her didn’t appear.

Funny how she missed it.

“There’s been a cave–in at the mine in Blisswater Canyon. Twenty–one miners are trapped. I was just finishing up the initial story and was going to call it in before heading to the site.”

“I can do that,” she replied, setting his coffee and pastry on his desk.

He grabbed the pastry and devoured it in three bites, took a gulp of coffee from the cup on his desk, and then sat back down. “Thanks,” he muttered before turning to resume his typing.

She busied herself with some filing, but her mind was elsewhere. The tension between her and Arthur could be cut with a knife.

Fifteen minutes later, Arthur dropped the story on her desk. “Some of the townspeople are heading up to help. A few local women have volunteered to cook for the Rescue Team and families keeping vigil. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone—”

“I want to come,” she interrupted, standing up, realizing she wanted to help. She’d ignored the tragedy of the families who’d lost their children to the defective formula to protect herself, her family. Perhaps this was her chance to make amends.

He scratched his cheek. “There won’t be much for you to do. I’ll be interviewing people, taking pictures.”

Picking up her white gloves, she tugged them on, smoothing out the wrinkles. “I can take photos for you, or cook, or take care of any children who are there.”

“Trust me, there won’t be any children there. It’s not a place for anyone with a soft stomach.”

“I can take it,” she said, infusing her voice with steel even though part of her knew he was right. She had no idea what she was getting herself into.

His blue eyes studied her. “You’ll need to dress warmly. Perhaps change into something you don’t mind getting dirty. If they have to blow part of the mine to clear out the rubble, we’ll be covered in dirt.”

Her nod was crisp, a contrast to her wobbling stomach. “Fine. I’ll call in your story and then drop by the library to tell Maybelline. I can be back here in twenty minutes.”

“Great. I’ll have Alice over at the bakery make us up some lunch. These things often take a while.”

“You’ve been to a cave–in before?” she asked, a little breathless in the face of his intensity and the thought of what she’d agreed to do.

“Yes,” he replied, putting his hands on his hips.

“What is it like?”

His eyes narrowed. “Gut–wrenching chaos.”

***

If there was one thing about Arthur she’d come to appreciate, it was that he never exaggerated.

So when he told her to expect gut–wrenching chaos, he meant it.

Harriet surveyed the cluster of about a hundred people in what had been deemed the safe area or the Rescue Camp, as Arthur called it. The miners’ wives and mothers were being comforted by a scattering of older men, probably the miners’ fathers. The women were inconsolable, and she found herself brushing aside her own tears.

She couldn’t imagine what they were feeling right now, with their men either dead or trapped in the mine that had put food on the table for their families. How horrible it must be to fear your children would never see their father again. And part of her realized she knew exactly how that felt, even if their situations were different.

Staring at the entrance to the mine was ghastly, but she couldn’t seem to look away. A pile of rubble and dirt had slid out of the man–made hole, and men were digging to make a path into the heart of the mine.

Arthur kept her close to him, introducing her with her fake name, saying she worked at
The Western Independent
with him. He asked each interviewee the same general set of questions, adding in a few new ones when the person went off on a useful tangent.

As the day progressed, they learned more about the men who were trapped in the mine. How Bill Powers was only twenty–three, the father of three girls, and helped out at his church. How Mathias Baconey was thirty–four, the father of five kids, and the best third baseman on the community baseball team. How Irving Walters was fifty–eight, the oldest miner in the group, the father of six kids, and the grandfather to twenty.

The stories were told in halting voices, the interviewees’ fear–glazed eyes never looking directly at their faces, but always at the entrance to the mine where the Rescue Team was frantically working.

The effort to dig the men out was slow and tedious because the rubble had frozen and was as hard as concrete.

Her nose ran from the blistering cold. Up this high on the mountain, the wind was brisk and icy. Her teeth chattered a few times, prompting Arthur to nudge her toward the coffee station that had been set up by a handful of women.

The coffee was stronger and more bitter than any she’d ever drunk, but she thanked the women and asked who they knew in the mine.

Arthur was teaching her how to talk to people in these situations.

And making her realize that sometimes the only comfort left to a person was to share his or her story and have someone listen.

She brought him a cup of coffee too, the white cup nicked at the top from use.

“Thanks,” he said, resting his notepad against his leg and drinking deep. “It sounds like it’s going to be a long one. Why don’t you take my car and head back to Dare? I can hitch a ride home with someone.”