Harvest Moon (10 page)

“Give me a break, Buzz. I was a stupid teenager, looking for answers. I’m here to make amends. Get to know her better.”

Buzz cast a sideways glance, then cleared his throat. “Let me find out what’s taking her so long.” He flipped his hand toward the living room on his way up the stairs. “Take a seat.”

Trent walked to the living room, its décor strangely formal considering the house was a small cape. A gold crushed velvet sofa, flanked on both sides by end tables with scrolled legs, and brass pineapple based lamps carrying the desperation of faux wealth. He took a few steps to a collage of photos on the wall. They offered a study in the passing of time, photographs of Buzz and Marion, taken over many years.

Footsteps on the stairs and jingling keys made him turn to the hallway. Buzz stopped near the front door. “I’m heading down to the VFW Hall to watch the game. Remember what I said.”

Trent clenched his fist and counted to ten. No way would he let Buzz ruin this meeting. No way would he explode and find himself wishing he’d never returned to this town.

He inhaled a deep breath as Buzz slammed the door. As a distraction, he studied the photos on the wall, stopping at one from Buzz and Marion’s wedding, their wedding date engraved in the frame. A full white veil flowed from her long dark hair, curled at her shoulders. Her blue eyes sparkled, and when he took a closer look, he recognized the shape of his own mouth and profile of his face. Something he hadn’t seen the two times they’d met before.

Buzz had a bad early seventies hairstyle and stood close to his wife’s height. Marion’s beauty jumped off the photo paper, and Buzz grinned as if it was the best moment of his life. Trent counted in his head and realized Marion had given birth to him two years before the photo was taken.

His adoptive parents had raised him to believe Marion—then with the last name Price—and Elmer Tate had brought him to life. This year the real story had been uncovered when Duncan returned to Northbridge, a truth Trent had suspected in his teenage years… That his adoptive father was—in fact—his birth father.

Marion’s beautiful smile made him see why his father had defied the vows of his marriage to be with this woman. How he could’ve cheated on a generous person like Norma Jamieson and then agreed to the adoption of his own child didn’t speak well of his father.

“Hello.”

He turned around. “Marion. Good to see you.” Stepping toward her, he extended the flowers and put on his most amiable smile, hoping to ease the nervous expression on her face. “For you. From the farm.”

Marion took them and dipped her nose into the bouquet of pink, periwinkle, and white flowers, inhaling a long breath. “They’re lovely. Aren’t you sweet?”

Marion’s graying hair was still worn long. Today she’d tied it back with a sheer pink scarf. Her nice slacks and floral button-down blouse were far simpler than the smart tailored style of his mom’s expensive wardrobe. Yet he could see why a man like Buzz stood with pride at Marion’s side. How different would Trent’s life have been if Marion kept him and raised him?

“I’m glad you’re finally in town.” She motioned for him to follow her. “I made coffee.”

They entered a small kitchen with frilly curtains, dated appliances, and a clean, homey atmosphere. She poured coffee and put out a plate of cookies.

“Tell me about your job at the vineyards.”

While he talked, she took a seat across from him, listened intently as he described his duties as marketing and advertising manager. She talked about her job in the town parks and recreation department for the past twenty-two years. Conversation was easier than he’d expected and calmness greeted him for the first time all day. The topic shifted to hobbies and Trent shared his love of music.

She smiled, the most relaxed he’d seen her since his arrival. “Did you know I teach the piano?”

Trent laughed. “That finally explains my abilities. One of the great mysteries in the Jamieson household was how I got all the musical talent.”

She smiled, quietly and politely. “Buzz loves sports. Do you play anything?”

“In high school I played baseball. Oh, and last year I got my black belt in karate. It really helped—” He stopped, almost letting it slip out how the martial arts had given him focus after leaving rehab, but the topic wasn’t one he was sure he wanted to discuss with her right now. “It’s good exercise. I even assisted in teaching a class for the school a few times. A lot of fun.”

“The town has a self-defense class all set to start next week. Two days ago, the instructor quit. We’ve been looking all over for a replacement. Are you interested?”

“Me? Oh, I’m not sure I’m the guy you’re looking for.”

“Might be a good way to meet some people around town.” Marion smiled. “I’d put in a good word for you.”

“I can only do night classes. Would that work?”

“It’s what we need.”

Marion excitedly discussed the details. The active butterflies in his gut on the way over returned. He’d skipped over the bad parts of his life, but here Marion was, ready to put in a good word on his behalf for him to teach the class. She deserved his honesty.

When she finished talking about the class, Trent lowered his mug and folded his forearms on the table. “There were two things I wanted to say to you today. First…” He took a short breath. “First, I’m sorry about the day I barged into your house years ago and demanded answers about my birth father. I was a confused teenage boy.”

He flashed back to the incident. His demands for the truth. Marion crying. Buzz screaming for him to leave and pulling out a gun. The struggle and weapon’s sharp blast. Thank God nobody had been hurt and his father had found a way to erase the incident from the police records. If only he’d simply left when Buzz had asked.

“I regret not handling my questions better. When Buzz came in—”

Marion placed a gentle hand on his forearm. “Trent. I understand. It must have been very upsetting. Let’s forget about that day.”

He tried to store away Buzz’s attitude, since Marion seemed willing to let the past go. “Thank you. Second, I think you should know something. I wasn’t always a son you’d have been proud of.”

“Well, dear. Nobody’s perfect.”

He inhaled, slowly let the breath out. “For a time in my life, I turned to drugs and alcohol, mostly drugs. I did some very stupid things.”

A functioning addict. That’s what the doctors in the rehab facility called him. Someone who managed to get through the day, generally hold down a job and life. The quality of his day, though, and how he’d hurt so many people around him became the real problem.

Marion frowned. “But you’re not now?”

“No, I haven’t touched anything in over three years.” Pride echoed in his voice, suddenly quite obvious to him. Sometimes he downplayed the accomplishment, as if he never should’ve let life get out of hand in the first place.

“My father was an alcoholic. I understand.” Marion smiled, gently, some sadness hidden behind her eyes. “I’m proud of you. Three years is a long time. Will working at a vineyard be hard?”

“I feel strong these days. Stronger than ever. Taking this position offered a challenge. You know the saying… What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger.”

“Then I’m here if you need me. Nothing helped my father, but for my…” Her eyes glistened and she swallowed. “For my son, I’ll do anything I can.”

“Thank you.” He looked away, blinked back a few tears, suddenly overwhelmed by finally getting some answers to so many questions about his life.

“Your mother called me two weeks ago.”

He lifted his gaze. “Oh?”

She nodded. “To tell me how she hoped you and I would become friends. Back when I was pregnant, your mother’s offer to adopt you was so kind and so hard to turn down. I figured if you were with the Jamiesons…” Her lips twitched. “Maybe I told you this when Duncan arranged for us to meet in the winter, but I figured you’d at least be raised by one of your real parents.”

Old anger toward his father still smoldered, a fire that might never truly die. Marion’s intentions by allowing the Jamiesons to adopt him had been good. Why hurt her by letting her know how the man she’d once loved had ignored Trent most of his childhood, ashamed by the affair and taking it out on him.

“Your mother was quite kind when she called.” Marion folded her hands, but her thumb moved back and forth over the other, making him question her comfort with the topic. “I assume she still believes your real father is Elmer Tate.”

He nodded. “Duncan and I vowed to keep the truth quiet. At Dad’s request.”

Marion flinched. In a quiet voice, she asked, “How is your father?”

“Dad’s a semi-retired workaholic. He’s adjusting.”

Her face softened as a smile traced her lips. “He always was very ambitious.”

Her gaze drifted to the gas stove, but her eyes sparkled as if she were somewhere else. Did Marion sometimes wish her life were different?

She looked at Trent and the smile slipped. “Buzz knows the truth about Frank. I’m tired of keeping secrets.”

Buzz’s unexplained anger the day they met at the barbershop now had a basis. The idea his father’s actions had fueled some kind of misdirected anger at Trent wasn’t so far-fetched. “I don’t think Buzz likes me.”

She patted Trent’s hand. “Buzz is rough around the edges, so if he isn’t himself around you, just give him time.”

“Sure. I’ll give him time.” Trent forced a weak smile.

The relationship with Marion mattered to him. He vowed to pay heed to her words, not let Buzz get to him. “So, what do I need to do to get started with this self-defense class?”

* * * *

Veronica shut off the Pilates DVD and collapsed onto the sofa. A breeze from the window fan washed over her sweaty body, and she half considered flipping on the air conditioning.

The mahogany mantel clock chimed seven times, exactly twenty-four hours since she’d lip-locked with Trent Jamieson. Disgusted with herself, she tried to push—no shove—the image from her mind. What was wrong with her? A grown woman obsessing over one kiss was more tragic than Romeo and Juliet!

Yet despite the realization, she caved in to memories of Trent’s tender lips on hers. His sensuous exploration of her mouth, his confident hands on her waist and neck, and the way his touch ignited a blaze in her belly. How could one man’s kiss wallop her better senses, a single act?

Marc was the last man to kiss her with such thoroughness, such self-assurance. The night they’d met, she’d been with her graduate school friends at The Saloon, a popular Boston club. Entering the smoke-filled hangout, she and her friends joked about how they were “Library Science gals gone wild.” Bruce Springsteen had crooned from the speakers, nearly drowned out by the noisy crowd.

They’d found a table and, as she glanced around, the dark-eyed gaze of a guy seated nearby with his friends stopped her cold. For the next twenty minutes, she’d covertly taken in every detail about him—his thick dark hair, his strong chin, his lean body. While each one sipped their drinks and chatted with friends, the pair had played a rousing game of eye-tag.

At one point, all the guys at his table stood, and while they went to the stage, he’d headed her way.

He’d stopped, leaned close to her, and with an eye-sparkling smile said, “Any chance you have a map on you?”

Confused, she’d said, “No. Why?”

“Because, I keep getting lost in your eyes.”

She’d laughed. “You know, corny lines don’t usually work on me.”

“And I don’t usually use them, but I figured I might get you to smile, and it worked.”

She learned he was a member of the band performing there that night. At each subsequent break, they’d talked. Two days later, they went on their first date. Memories of the moment pinched a tender space in her heart; her love for him had been so strong even time couldn’t erase the sensation.

Marc had worked in a sporting goods store by day and played music at night. Two months before her graduation, the axis of her world had shifted. Marc’s band got an offer for a sixteen-month tour in Europe, his dream. He’d shared the news, along with his desire to leave town unencumbered by a relationship. She’d only heard from him once since he’d left, about ten years ago. A Christmas card from Amsterdam, where he now lived.

Veronica sighed and forced herself up from the sofa. Rather than reliving what could have been, a better use of her time would be to find some help for her niece’s problem.

She went to the computer, Boomer following. In the search engine, she typed “dealing with sexual assault,” and waited for the responses. Two support groups in nearby Fairfield County showed on top, one closer than the other. She added “Litchfield County” to the search and up popped an entry for the Northbridge Town and Recreation department. She went to the website and opened the flyer. Below entries for “Kite Flying Lessons” and “Raising Backyard Chickens,” she found a class called “Simple Self-Defense for Women.”

The course description detailed advice from what to do if someone tried to pull you into a car, to preventing sexual attacks.

The muscles in her body slackened, the mere topic leaving her weak. It might be difficult to sit through a class where they talked about assault in detail. On the other hand, if she’d been armed with some defensive techniques the night she met Gary Tishman, things might have ended differently. The class instructor came from a karate academy in New Milford with impressive credentials.

She started an e-mail to her niece and copied both links. As a side note, she asked Cassidy to get her mom’s permission to attend either event. Veronica swore she’d keep the reason behind going to the class quiet, but also suggested Cassidy consider telling her mother the truth—even invite her to join them. At Cassidy’s age, a parent might be squeamish about sexual assault discussions, the idea of such violence a tough topic for any young teenager girl to hear about. Veronica also didn’t want Emily to feel left out. As much as her sister loved the close bond between Veronica and Cassidy, there were moments of brief jealousy. Tomorrow morning she’d give her sister a call, make sure Cassidy had spoken to her.

One step from sending the e-mail, she hesitated. By making this move, she’d pretty much be removing herself from the frying pan of her past fears and flinging herself into the fire. Even after reading half of the self-help book, she wasn’t certain removing old baggage with such eagerness was smart.