The Bears of Blackrock, Books 1 - 3: The Fenn Clan (4 page)

John nodded, padded his pillow on the mattress and plopped down onto it, making a point of fluffing it up as he kicked off his boots. With that, he crossed his arms and closed his eyes.

They lay there in silence a moment, Catherine watching his familiar face. “How’d – how did you know?”

John Fenn cracked an eyelid to look at her and smirked. “You never had a great poker face, Calhoun.”

CHAPTER THREE

“Storm’s coming.”

No one believed her when the winds kicked up that morning, turning every leaf on the trees upside down.

“Naw, weather said clear skies all weekend,” Paul Merlotte assured her.

Yet, Catherine stared up at the trees as another gust picked up. This was one of the many lessons she learned from her father, Philip, before he passed when she was twelve years old – if the wind turns up the leaves, the weather’s about to shift. Sometimes you have a day to prepare, other times, the sky rips open and gives you what for.

This was one of those days.

She didn’t even have a chance to say a proper goodbye to John as their camp disbanded and Bennett piled her into his truck to head for home.

John called to her as they pulled out. “Don’t be a stranger, alright?”

She’d smiled wider than she would have liked at this.

Catherine sat in the passenger seat of Bennett’s truck, soaked to the bone from the deluge that instantly put out their fire and soaked their breakfast. She’d scrambled to tuck in the tent poles, but the storm kicked up quick.

“What are you smiling about, girl? You look like a drowned rat.”

Bennett was in a bit of a sour mood. Not only had Jean decided on a wild night with Jason and Paul, she’d also opted to catch a ride with them that afternoon, heading down to Bangor to hit the casino before heading further south.

Catherine couldn’t help, but smile. She’d woken up feeling warm and safe, her body wrapped in blankets and sleeping bags and the smell of cedar and fir. She’d also opened her eyes to find her cheek pressed into the chest of John Fenn. She’d pulled from him the instant she realized - she’d been asleep in his arms.

They’d driven much of the way in silence, coming into Porter Split Road as the storm broke, giving way to a constant rain.

“Glad somebody got some action, last night.”

Catherine startled at the comment. “Oh god, it’s not like that. He’s not like that.”

Bennett scoffed. “Bull shit. All men are like that.”

“Not John,” she said, and she knew it to be true. She and John had spent hundreds of hours together when they were young; holding hands, talking about their dreams and their crazy ideas – despite the raging thunder of hormones they were both suffering from, never once had John tried to have sex with her. In fact, he only finally kissed her the day they drove to Canada together.

She never found out if it would lead to more. That trip to Canada was the last straw. Her stepdad wouldn’t have her running off to other countries with a Fenn.

“You’re lucky he didn’t kill you,” had been her mother’s comment.

Bennett thrummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Well, that might be a good thing. I’ve heard some crazy shit from the few girls he’s dated.”

“What?”

Yet, Bennett didn’t have time to answer her question as they rounded the last corner into the Calhoun family driveway.

Bennett took a deep breath, blowing out through pursed lips. “Alright, cuz. I’m gonna let you do the talking in here.”

“What? Why?”

Bennett shook his head. “You know my Dad.”

Catherine frowned. Though she’d never had any trouble with Uncle Bodie, she knew Bennett’s experience to be far different. Bodie was known for his temper, something even her mother mentioned from time to time. He apparently wasn’t the nicest big brother, either.

“You think he’s going to be mad?”

Bennett shrugged. “Let’s find out, yeah? In the end, it is Grampy’s house, right?”

Catherine turned to look at the old house she’d once known so well. Despite over ten years since last she laid eyes on the old homestead, it was just as she remembered it – save for the landscaping Armageddon. The old shed was now overgrown with raspberry briars and high grasses, only slightly less so where the doors opened at the front side. She could already guess what was within its confines – an ATV, a kayak, a snowblower, and some Lobster traps. She’d bet her life on it.

Clearly, her grandmother’s absence was felt dearly in the gardening department.

Bennett shut down the truck, glanced her way, then gave her knee a squeeze. “Come on, cuz. It won’t be so bad.”

They walked into the kitchen to the familiar smells of woodstove fires and seaspray, long settled into every board and window frame. Catherine followed Bennett through the kitchen into the living room, where they were greeted by the two older gentlemen, legs up, feet clad in leather L.L. Bean slippers, fully ensconced in the football game.

“Pops. Gramps. Look who I brought in from the cold.”

Uncle Bodie glanced over his shoulder, laying eyes on her and then returning his attention to the TV. Not the friendliest of welcomes from the heavyset fellow that used to throw her and her brother into Parkhurst Lake when she was a kid. She hustled across the room, stepping over the folded over edge of an old braided rug her grandmother made. She bent down to her grandfather. “Hey Grampy. It’s nice to see you.”

Henry Calhoun startled at the sudden appearance of a person at his side. Then his eyes went wide, one of his shaking hands reaching for hers, squeezing it with a bit more fervor than she’d ever expected from her grumpy relative.

“Who – what are you doing here?” He asked as she kissed his cheek.

“Thought I’d come escape in the middle of nowhere for a bit,” she said smiling down at him. His seeming pleasure at her presence was so strange, she began to wonder what they’d done with her grandfather. He wasn’t a cruel man in his life – not ever. Still, he wasn’t a warm creature, either. Not until now.

He turned around, pinning his finger into his hearing aid to turn it up and look at her. “Well, give us a proper hug, then. Christ’s sake, you haven’t been here in ten years, I think I deserve that, at least.”

Catherine bent down, wrapping her arms around her huge Grandfather. Henry Calhoun, or Hank as most of Blackrock called him, was a giant of a man. He stood 6’6,” and was built like a fire truck, with a face just as red. His thumb alone was the size of all Catherine’s fingers combined. He was in his seventies now, but still sporting a bushy full head of hair, now accompanied by matching salt and pepper beard.

“What brings you here?” He asked.

Her grandfather’s Maine accent turned the word ‘here’ into ‘heeyuh,’ and she smiled to hear it again after all this time.

“Yeah, what brings you here?”

Catherine glanced at Uncle Bodie. Apparently he did recognize her.

“I was actually hoping to come up and stay for a little while, if I could. Wanted to get away.”

“What? Of course you can! You’re always welcome, ain’t she, Bode?” Grampy was still squeezing her hand, shaking it excitedly.

Uncle Bodie didn’t speak.

“We got an extra bedroom,” Grampy Calhoun said, his voice booming with both a welcome excitement, and his hearing aid being set too low. He shifted in his chair, groaning as he hoisted his huge frame onto his feet. He stood over her to give her another proper hug. It felt like being hugged by a bear.

Grampy sauntered into the kitchen. “It’ll be nice havin a woman around again. Haven’t had a proper meal in this house since your grandmother died.”

He was looking a little thinner than she remembered. Bennett and Catherine shared a glance. It was common knowledge that Grampy Calhoun was still living in the fifties when it came to political correctness.

“Bodie, you want another beer?”

Bodie grunted his approval, something Catherine was sure Grampy couldn’t hear, but he appeared with another bottle, nonetheless.

“Hey, Catie. Why don’t you tell him why you’re looking to get away,” Bodie said, sipping at his Corona.

She swallowed.

“What’s this now?” Grampy asked, his lazy eye searching the window as he looked her over.

Bodie smiled. “Oh, I bet he’d love to hear all about it.”

Bennett appeared at her shoulder, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“You want to tell him, Catie? Should I tell him?” Bodie asked.

Grampy couldn’t hear a word of this, and was already ensconced in the episode of Gunsmoke they had on television, again.

Bodie turned toward her. “You know they have a warrant out for you down there?”

“What? Holy shit, Catie. What’d you do?”

Catherine closed her eyes. “They dropped the charges. The warrant’s been removed.”

Bodie ignored her comment. “Yeah, Catie. What’d you do? Let us all know. You know, before you settle in for a long stay and all.”

She took a deep breath, exhaled, then turned for the door.

Catherine arrived in Falkirk’s Seat twenty minutes later. It had taken only a moment’s cajoling and a promise that she would spill the beans as soon as she returned for Bennett to let her take his truck. Now, she was pulling up to the old dirt road that led to what many in the area called ‘The Fenn Compound.’

The dirt road, a route she’d walked down a hundred times as a kid, was now blocked off by a massive metal gate. She pulled the pickup along the shoulder of the main road and hopped over the gate.

Two miles. That’s how long the Fenn ‘driveway’ was. Two miles of winding dirt road, riddled with divots and massive pot holes, as much due to lack of upkeep as a desire to keep people from careening into the Fenn property at high speeds. It was early still and though the skies remained gray, the rain had let up. She’d be at John’s old house within forty minutes, maybe less if she hauled some ass.

She couldn’t bring herself to stay at the Calhoun house a minute longer. Sure, she’d done some things she wasn’t proud of back in New Hampshire – or maybe she was, the bastard deserved it – but Uncle Bodie’s holier than thou attitude was just too much.

The Fenn property consisted of an entire peninsula of land that jutted out into the Atlantic, bordered on two sides by the Indian Reservation. Patrick Fenn owned this land when she was young, but from what Bennett said, he now owned the woods on the opposite side of the main road as well – hundreds and hundreds of acres. What the hell was he doing with all of it?

From the looks of that dirt road, Catherine was pretty sure he wasn’t doing a damn thing with it.

Forty minutes into her walk and the Atlantic Ocean came into view between the trees. A few yards later, so did Janice Fenn.

Catherine recognized her instantly, despite the silver hair. Janice shot her a sideways glance, clearly startled to see someone coming up the path. Catherine waved and the woman’s face brightened.

“Catherine Calhoun? Are you kidding me?”

John and Deacon’s mother came storming out of her garden toward Catherine, arms wide. She wore a floral coat and gardening gloves to match, her gold and silver hair covered by a wide brimmed hat.

“Look at you. God, I haven’t seen you in so long! Does John know you’re here? Oh he’ll be over the moon.”

Catherine couldn’t help but smile at this as the woman hugged her tight. “He does. I saw him last night, actually.”

“Come inside, come inside. Do you want some lemonade?”

She couldn’t help but smile at this. It was nice to know that some good things in this world would never change. Catherine smiled and nodded.

“Is John coming by today, Mrs. Fenn?” Catherine asked as she followed the silver haired woman into her home.

“Janice, honey. He is. Should be here any minute, actually. Your timing is uncanny.”

Mrs. Fenn’s questions began in earnest. Catherine smiled and sipped at her lemonade.

How’s your mother?

Is Jacob still causing trouble?

Tell me you’re still playing violin.

Catherine answered politely as she took in the still familiar space of John’s childhood home. There were more doilies now, and a considerably larger collection of China in cabinets along the walls, but otherwise, the same photographs smiled down at her, the same smells of cooking Mussels on the stove, and baked cookies waiting in a cookie jar on the top of the fridge.

Janice caught her glancing up there, and wordlessly pulled the cookie jar from the fridge, setting it on the table before Catherine, lid open. Catherine laughed to herself softly. She was startled by how warm the familiar smell of those cookies made her feel.

“So what brings you back up to our neck of the woods then, lady?”

The front door to the house opened and Catherine turned, her face burning in sudden nerves at the thought of John finding her there. Despite her nerves, she startled to find it wasn’t John standing there.

“Who the hell is this?”

Patrick Fenn filled the doorway like a bulldozer, his shoulders nearly touching on either side. He ducked his gray haired head as he came through the door, and Catherine was on her feet, backing away from just the feel of his presence.

“Dad, this is Catherine Calhoun. John’s old -”

“I don’t know about you, Catherine Calhoun, but where I come from, it’s considered polite to call before you decide to show up on someone’s doorstep.”