Share the Moon Page 9

  The older woman smiled and a smudged spot of ruby lipstick showed on her teeth. “Hi, Sophie. Thank you for the help.”

  The brown curls she’d worn years ago had made way for white, thinned waves showing glimpses of her pink scalp.

  “You’re welcome. I’m wondering if you can help me. I have a microfiche printout and hoped you might remember who asked for the Gazette fiche for nineteen eighty-one last week.” She offered the paper and pointed to the date.

  Mrs. Payne studied the print off and blinked. “Yes.” Her head bobbed. “Oh, what’s her name?” She folded her hands in front of her bright red sweater, the same way she used to do in class. “Oh my. I can’t remember.”

  Sophie considered offering a quick dose of ginkgo biloba to jar the volunteer’s memory. Heck, she was almost half her old teacher’s age and there were days when her recollection was challenged.

  “Heavens. I can picture her. Round face. Glasses.”

  Sophie waited, the description too generic to even take a guess.

  “Fiddlesticks, the name just escapes me.”

  Sophie patted her shoulder. “Thanks anyway. If you remember after I leave, can you tell Veronica?”

  “Certainly, dear.”

  Sophie returned to Veronica’s office “I asked her to let you know if the name comes back to her.”

  “Let me see that article again.” Veronica held out her hand. Sophie stood quietly while she reread it. “That gunshot at Buzz’s is news to me. Do you remember this?”

  “No. Perhaps a visit to the selectman’s office is in order.” Sophie returned the papers to her bag. “How exactly do I ask Buzz if he knew the Jamiesons back then?”

  “Carefully.” Veronica’s mouth pinched. “Remember his temper at this year’s town budget meeting when I went to the microphone to complain over cut library funds.”

  “Yeah. He needs anger management classes.” The large clock on the wall told her she had an hour before picking up Tia at the high school band practice. The town’s municipal offices were only a short walk from here. Maybe she could catch him before town offices closed for the Thanksgiving holiday. “Zoning might pass RGI’s request any day now. If there’s dirt on the Jamieson clan, I plan to find it. Let’s hope Buzz is available.”

  Veronica flashed the thumbs-up sign. “Godspeed, my friend.”

  Chapter 9

  December

  “Hope to see you around town.” Duncan hung up and tried not to let his dissatisfaction drag him down. He turned the page of the environmental report on his desk, but the words blurred.

  After a week of phone tag with Sophie due to the Thanksgiving holiday, they’d finally caught up. He complimented her piece on their interview, a ruse for the actual reason behind his call. When he mentioned he’d become an official Northbridge resident this past Saturday, she replied, “Yes. Meg told me.”

  His real motive behind the call, to ask her out on a date, disappeared with the lukewarm response. Even though they’d parted at his office on what he thought a warmer note, maybe he’d read her wrong.

  Given their history, he wasn’t shocked. At the kayaks, he’d broken the seal of trust. He wished he’d never lied about his name. She’d probably still hate his firm for outbidding on the land, but he’d have a fighting chance on the personal front.

  He picked up the environmental impact study and reached for his reading glasses. The door creaked open.

  Carl stuck his upper body inside. “Ready?”

  Duncan closed the report. “Come on in.”

  Carl entered carrying a large stainless steel travel mug. Duncan had hired his executive assistant not knowing both men were early risers. They often found themselves in the quiet office before normal business hours to plan the day ahead.

  “How’d the move to Northbridge go this weekend?” Carl settled into the chair opposite him, suit jacket still on.

  Suit jackets were always too stiff and formal for Duncan’s tastes. The second he arrived at the office each day, Duncan removed his jacket, unbuttoned his sleeves, and folded them to his elbows. An employee once said he looked like he’d rather be sailing. A true statement.

  “A few minor bumps. I’m not sure why I thought doing it over this holiday weekend was a good idea.”

  “Because when you set your sights on something, you aim straight for the goal and shift into fifth gear before the rest of us hit second.” Carl tossed out a perfected smile, an asset in dealing with clients. “One of the reasons I like working for you.”

  Duncan recalled his wife saying something similar about his drive, although not with the tone of admiration found in Carl’s statement. Disdain laced her comment, one suggesting his strong-willed attitude and certainty had overpowered their marriage.

  He forced aside the past. “I’m getting too old for fifth gear these days.”

  “You old? You keep this place humming.”

  “Have you read this yet?” Duncan motioned to the thick packet he’d just put down.

  “Cover to cover.” Carl rested his mug on the edge of the desk and slung his bent arm over the chair back.

  “What’d you think?”

  “Unfortunately, the report makes a better case for those who oppose the project. Let’s get a second opinion. Expert testimony can vary, depending on who you ask.”

  “Exactly what I thought.”

  Five years ago, Duncan met Carl at a trade conference. Carl had impressed the hell out of him with his knowledge in the field. After their chance conversation and dinner that same night, Duncan stole the eager thirty-three year old employee from one of his major competitors, a real corporate touchdown.

  Duncan stroked his chin. “I figured with the slope of the property, runoff on the lake could pose some problems, but not nearly to the extent this study suggests.”

  “Me, too. Has Trent seen this?” Carl cocked a judgment-filled brow.

  “I asked him to take a look. He hasn’t gotten back to me.” He’d sent his brother out of town on some site visits. “Can you follow-up with him? He returns from a site visit later today.”

  “Sure. I have a contact from my old job that does these studies. Want me to give him a call and explain what we need? He’ll rush the report through if I ask him.”

  Sophie’s pyramid comment replayed in his mind, like a subtle public service warning reminding you of the risks of secondhand smoke. Damn her! He wanted to tell Carl yes, but the way Sophie’s beautiful gaze clung to him during that short moment still unraveled him, nearly as much as her clever observation. She was right. He’d been drawn to the lake’s simple beauty, in the same way he’d been drawn to hers.

  Carl waited, forehead furrowed and most likely wondering why Duncan didn’t say yes, as he normally would.

  “Make the call, but with one caveat. Tell the Northbridge officials we’re doing this. I don’t want news to surface later we completed multiple studies and only handed over the one with the most desirable results.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “This is different.” The statement annoyed Duncan, but he couldn’t pinpoint why. “Shoot off a copy of this report to Adli Zimmerman on the Northbridge Zoning Board.”

  “Will do.” Carl stood. “I’ll ask him to keep the information under wraps until we can meet so we’re consistent in how we spin this. By the way, nice article from the local paper. I worried about the reporter. One of the guys I talked to in Northbridge told me she’s the one we outbid. At the hearing, she kept talking to that S.O.L.E. spokesperson.”

  He shrugged a shoulder. “She’s harmless and seems fair. It’s more important to me we don’t appear to be hiding anything.”

  Carl covered two more items then left. Duncan lifted his newest Monte Blanc fountain pen and started a to-do list.

  He tried to ignore an internal tug shifting his confidence askew, instead noting the pen’s smooth cylinder in his fingertips. High-end pens had interested him ever since
his Uncle Stan gave him one as a graduation gift. Whenever he tested the feel of one to purchase, he knew in an instant if it possessed the ideal combination of nib and barrel size for his needs. The selection of properties came from an intuitive place inside him too. When he stood on a site, the land’s potential spoke to him. He’d never purchased the wrong fountain pen or the wrong property.

  The idea to buy Tate Farm, though, stemmed from an altogether different place. Otis Tate had called Duncan’s mother in late October to report their property was for sale. He’d shared that he knew his brother Elmer was on record as being Trent Jamieson’s birth father, before the Jamiesons adopted him. While Trent wasn’t a legal heir, he was the closest either of the elderly brothers had come to having an offspring. Otis had offered her a chance to bid on the property. A way to keep the land with relatives, at least as far as bloodlines went.

  Duncan recalled the glee in his mother’s voice at the prospect of acquiring this land for her favorite son. When Frank Jamieson had refused to get involved, she’d asked for Duncan’s help and he jumped on board, ashamed right afterward that he’d only helped her in the hopes she might show him a little appreciation.

  The unusual motivation behind this purchase had made him uneasy from the start, however, he’d ignored his gut for the sake of family. What choice did he have? Much like a fly stuck in a spider’s web, Duncan could only wait and watch the purchase play out.

  * * * *

  Not now, please. Sophie pushed away a tear then shut off the car. Sitting in the dark school parking lot, she took several deep breaths. An image of Tia’s excitement while getting ready for tonight’s band concert, wearing her new black pleated skirt and starched white shirt, caused more tears to spill.

  She retrieved a tissue from her purse and wiped her nose. Tonight the similarities between Henry and Tia reared their ugly head in the most unsettling ways. Their personalities were alike. They looked similar, with Sophie’s dark hair and fair skin. They shared a love of music.

  Tonight, thanks to Tia’s first high school concert, she’d be in the same room with Henry’s music teacher for the first time since her son’s funeral. A dark day where she had gone through the motions of greeting those who came to pay their respects, her body present but her soul lifeless. Responses to condolences had been robotic, very few of the conversations remembered. In the long line of guests, though, Mr. Fisher, the music teacher, had stood out. The aging hippy had stood before her, red-eyed and sniffling as he took Sophie’s hands in his. He’d quietly offered how her son was one of his brightest students, how his selection into a county-wide regional performance the prior December had filled him with pride. Sophie had burst with pride over his accomplishments, too. On the drive home from Henry’s last concert, he’d announced to her and Mike his plans to major in music in college.

  What would his life have been like if he’d lived?

  She closed her eyes and tipped her head onto the headrest. Her stomach flipped, weightless, as if she’d been pushed off a cliff. Instead of hitting bottom where her misery would end, she hovered in space surrounded by the silent horror of waiting to slam to the ground. Exactly the way she’d felt for so long after Henry died. More tears escaped down her cheek. If only the appointment with her old therapist were tomorrow instead of next week.

  Sophie inhaled deeply, counted to ten, and opened her moist eyes. With no choice but to follow her daughter’s path in life, she wiped the wetness off her face, stepped out, and marched inside with her chin held high.

  Inside the auditorium, she stayed in back and scanned the room. The stage held rows of chairs formed into a semi-circle with the band teacher’s metal stand in the open center. She spotted her ex-husband up front, leaning over an empty seat, talking to an old high school buddy. Besides her fury with Mike over the date for the Florida trip, sitting with him tonight would be too much like old times. She’d find a seat and watch this alone.

  Noisy band members clamored down the side aisle toward the stage so she plopped in the nearest seat, happily hidden in the back from the thick crowd of parents up front. Across the aisle from Mike, Ken Hollingsworth stared in her direction while he flagged down his wife, who’d entered right behind her. He caught Sophie’s eye and waved.

  The Dick Clark look-alike and her producer at the local cable program Northbridge in Focus had called her yesterday about next month’s show, where she’d served as co-host for the past three years. He wanted their next topic to focus on RGI’s offer and the proposed zoning changes.

  The topic created a surge in her investigative pulse and an increased sense of urgency to the cryptic finger-pointing note about the Jamiesons and their corruption. When she’d been alone in Duncan’s office during their interview, the executive’s nearness threatened to sway her better senses. On a live TV program, he’d be forced to keep a respectable distance from her, where she could concentrate on the real issues at hand.

  Chairs scraped on the wooden stage floor followed by a stray toot from a clarinet. She snapped out of her thoughts and she searched for Tia in the crowd of kids.

  “Is this seat taken?”

  Sophie looked up. Duncan watched her with a closed-lip smile, one that made his eyes soften and shine with hope. Empty seats surrounded her and after several seconds, she realized he wanted to join her.

  “No. No. Please join me.” She took her purse off the seat, but her mind raced. When he told her on the phone he’d moved in, she never dreamed she’d run into him so soon. She casually smoothed her gauze skirt and brushed a hand against her tear-swollen cheeks. “What brings you here? Taking in the cultural highlights of Northbridge?”

  He chuckled. “You might say that. My son plays the trumpet.” He motioned to the stage on the right. “I think I see him over there.”

  “Same here. Clarinet section. My daughter.”

  “Mr. Fisher is a good guy.” He removed his wool coat and tossed it over her onto an empty seat. “He sent Patrick the music two weeks ago, so he could practice and participate tonight.”

  The memory of Henry’s funeral once again threatened her composure and she worked hard not to flinch. “Yes. Mr. Fisher is a good man.”

  Duncan was dressed in his work clothes, the tie loosened, top button undone, and suit jacket probably shed in the car. He settled in next to her and their arms brushed on the armrest. She shifted in her seat.

  After a second, she dared to peek his way. “So, everything unpacked from your move?”

  “Getting there.” He moved his large frame and their shoulders bumped. He turned his head, studied her face as if he’d never seen her before, the power of his gaze easing back the rusty hinges of her heart. “We have some projects to be done. I may need advice on a handyman or carpenter.” The loud chatter in the auditorium died down as the band teacher walked on stage. Duncan tipped his head closer to her. “Maybe we can talk later?”

  She nodded, catching a whiff of the cologne she’d admired during his kayak rescue. She focused on the stage, but an invisible impression of his closeness left her skin warm, about a hundred times more intense than that lowlife lawyer, Ryan Malarkey had ever made her feel. Caution would be prudent. What did Duncan really want from her? Good press, most likely. Guilt pinged against her chest, like radar offering a beep of warning over her lie of omission to Cliff over her first encounter with Duncan.

  The sensation eased as the band launched into their first number, Rossini’s “William Tell Overture,” also known as the theme to the Lone Ranger. Yup, the race was on, but which way should she run, toward this man or away?

  * * * *

  The second Sophie got home from the concert, Matt ran into the kitchen and almost slammed into her. “Okay, Mom. This is your last chance to say yes.”

  “Yes.” She went the refrigerator and got out two water bottles, handing one to Tia.

  “Not funny.” He frowned.

  “I thought so.” She chuckled and twisted the cap. Tia grinned
too.

  “Seriously. Connor Johnson said his older brother can drive us to the concert. He’s twenty-five and Connor’s parents said it’s cool. He’d even stay with us in our hotel room.”

  “That’s supposed to make this better?” She started to leave the kitchen. “Come on. Drop this, Matt.”

  “You’re neurotic!” Matt spoke louder than she’d normally accept, but she didn’t yell back. “Even Grandpa said so.”

  “Grandpa? When did you talk to him?”

  Matt ran a hand through his blond hair, his gaze scooting to the floor. “He called me the day you went to pick up the kayaks…to make sure I’d go help you. I figured as long as he was on the phone, I’d get another opinion.”

  His admission that he’d tried to gain his grandfather’s support raised the bar of her irritation. There were moments she hated single parenthood. At least Dad possessed the good sense not to try to persuade her to have sympathy for Matt’s side. Last time he caved to Matt’s manipulations, she’d had a rare fight with her father.

  “I doubt Grandpa would call me neurotic. You’d better stop running to him when I say no to something. Trust me, as a father, he was tougher than me.”

  Matt’s fair skin turned pink. “You’re so unfair!”

  “Stop it.” Tia’s soft voice squeaked from the other side of the room. “Mom’s fair. If she says no, she has her reasons.”

  “Thank you, honey, but this is between your brother and me.” Sophie gave her a slight nod of thanks and recognized a bit of herself in her sensible daughter. She turned to Matt. “Moms are allowed to be cautious.”

  “You’re just afraid.” Matt’s voice escalated further. “You think something bad will happen. Like what happened to Henry.”

  The blow struck like an unexpected slap across the cheek, leaving her too stunned to reply. He’d never spoken to her that way before.

  “Dad even thinks I should go.” Matt raised his chin, satisfied, as if he’d one upped her. The expression reeked of his father. “He said you’re being unreasonable. He thinks you’re afraid too.”