The Best of Times: A Dicken's Inn Novel (6 page)

Chas looked at him then, but she didn’t know what to say. She’d shared more deeply personal conversation with this man in the last twenty-four hours than she’d shared with anyone else in years. And what they had in common was beginning to feel eery.

Jackson couldn’t help but ponder the coincidences stacking up between them. The conversations they’d shared felt as dreamlike and strange as his being in this house, buried in snow and at a safe distance from the realities of life. How could he not consider the similarities they shared? Feeling a little sorry for himself, he wondered how his life might have been if Julie had agreed to marry him. He found it easy to say, “It must have been very difficult for you to marry a military man and leave all of this.”

“I loved him,” she said with a forced smile. “I think it was harder on Granny than on me. I would have gone anywhere just to be with him.” She paused and tilted her head. “Is that an insensitive thing to say to a man like you?”

“No,” he said. “I like honesty, even when it’s brutal. If Julie’d married me, she probably would have eventually divorced me.”

“What makes you think so?”

“I don’t think I would be very easy to live with.”

“How could you know when you’ve always lived alone?” She felt a little alarmed to think that maybe she was being presumptuous. In today’s world, admitting he’d never been married didn’t mean he’d always lived alone.
“Have
you always lived alone?”

“Yes,” he said. “Since Julie left me, I’ve had only a few brief and meaningless relationships.”

“So your life is your work.”

“Pretty much. And the people I work with make it clear that they’re glad they don’t have to live with me.”

“Do you have anyone in your life beyond the people you work with?”

“Not really,” he said. “I found friends among my coworkers, but now . . . all of that’s become . . . awkward.”

“Since the shooting.”

“That’s right.”

Chas picked up her fork again and began to eat. “And what about family, Jackson? Where did you come from originally?”

Jackson let out a partly facetious groan. “Now you’re treading into taboo territory.”

Chas was surprised. “You can tell me about the woman who left you and a shooting that’s turned you inside out, but you can’t tell me about your family, your hometown?”

“That’s right,” he said again.

“Why not?” she demanded as if they’d known each other for years and she had a right to know. “You know practically
everything
about me.”

“To put it in less than a hundred words, Detective, my childhood was a nightmare. My grandparents were always arguing or drunk—or both. My father was a violent drunk, and my mother probably would have liked to keep him from beating us kids as much as it suited him. But he took it out on her, too. And she just passed it on. She smacked us around herself now and then. They gave me life and kept me fed—barely. I left the minute I turned eighteen, and I’ve never been back.”

“Not once?”

“Not once.”

“Do you call . . . write?”

“I send a Christmas card every year to let them know I’m still alive. I do
not
include a return address. I have no desire to hear from any of them, at all.”

“What about your siblings?” she asked with an astonishment that surprised him. He’d admitted to shooting a man, and it hadn’t phased her. But his avoidance of his family was apparently a felony.

“I have one sister who ran away from home before I did, with a guy who was way too much like our father. There’s no hope for her. Could we change the subject?”

“Why?”

“Because it’s none of your business.”

“Maybe not, but I would at least think you could call your own mother. At least you
have
a mother.”

Jackson leaned farther over the table. “You, who were raised by that amazing woman down the hall, have no right to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do. Your telling me that I should live my life differently than I live it sounds awfully judgmental to me.”

“Your telling me that I’m judgmental sounds judgmental,” she countered, then softened her voice. “I’m not judging your decision. I just think a mother—even a bad mother—deserves to hear from her son once in a while.”

“I send her Christmas cards.”

“Okay.” She put her hands up. “I surrender. Don’t shoot.”

“Not even a little bit funny.”

“Sorry,” she said, and he could see that she meant it. “I wasn’t intending that to be connected to anything you told me earlier.”

“Apology accepted. Now, can we change the subject to something a little less . . . volatile?”

“Okay,” she said, and neither of them said anything for several minutes. “Wow,” she finally interjected. “We’ve known each other for one day and we’re arguing.”

“You make it sound like that’s a good thing.”

“A little stimulating disagreement over matters of principle keeps people on their toes, don’t you think?” She didn’t add that she hadn’t shared any such stimulating disagreement with anyone but Martin. She
did
say, “Granny and I disagree on a lot of things, but we don’t talk about most of that stuff. We only argue over things like . . . what color to paint the walls . . . which Dickens book is the best . . . which American Idol should win. Stuff like that.”

“That sounds stimulating enough.”

“So, what are the possible outcomes of this investigation?”

Jackson sighed. “Is that your idea of a topic less volatile?”

“I just figured it was something you should be prepared for, right? And maybe you should talk about it.”

“Funny how you have everything figured out about me after twenty-four hours.”

Chas noticed that he looked very intense—even mildly angry—and she couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “We’re arguing again.”

“And you’re enjoying it.”

“Yes, actually.”

“You are a strange woman, Chas Henrie.”

“Yes, but since you’ll be gone in a week or two, you really don’t need to concern yourself with that.” Jackson wanted to contradict that comment, but just the thought of doing so was ludicrous. “So, what’s going to happen?” she asked, sounding genuinely concerned. “Tell me.”

Jackson sighed. “If they conclude that I did something wrong, I will be without a job. I think my record will work in my favor. I suspect they’ll just ask me to resign, and they’ll give me an early retirement.”

“And then what?”

“I don’t know what. That’s the problem, Chas. I’m too old to start over. I don’t know how to do anything else.”

“You’re not
old.”

“I didn’t say I was old; I said I was too old to start over.”

“Granny would disagree with you, and she’s ninety-three.”

“Really? She doesn’t seem that old.”

“She tells me she doesn’t feel that old, even though her body is failing her in many ways.”

“She’s lived a good life, which is more than I can say for me.”

“I’m sure you’ve done many good things in your life.” He looked skeptical, and she added, “But if you feel that way, then maybe this would be a good time to start over, and make a better one.”

Jackson let out a wry chuckle. “I’m pushing toward fifty.”

“Ooh. The ancient mariner. Oprah says that life begins at fifty; that’s when you finally get it all figured out and know what to do with what you’ve got.”

“Is that right? Well, I don’t have it figured out; not even close.”

“Maybe you should ask Granny’s advice on the matter. You might not get any sound advice, but it could be very entertaining.”

“Maybe I will.”

“She’ll probably tell you what Dickens would say.”

He chuckled. “And what would Dickens say?”

“Oh, he loathed getting older. His heart was too young for his aging body, it seems. I guess that gives him something in common with Granny. But he died at fifty-eight, and looked much older than that. I think he worked himself to death. You could take a lesson from that.”

“I’m sure I could.”

“How old are you really?”

“I’ll tell you if you tell me.”

“Okay, I’m thirty-two.” He looked surprised, and she added, “What? Do I look older than that?”

“No,” he said, “your eyes look older. The rest of you could pass for twenty-six, easily. I’m just surprised that a woman would admit so readily to her age.”

“Age is what it is. I’ve never understood this lying about your age thing. But then, I don’t lie about anything. I’m compulsively honest.” Her eyes showed enlightenment. “Oh, you admitted that you’re the same way earlier.”

“Yes, I did, didn’t I.”

“So, how old are you, Agent Honest?”

“Forty-four.”

“That’s not pushing fifty.”

“It’s getting there.”

“Granny would tell you that you have a whole lifetime still ahead of you.”

“I think I’ll ask Granny myself instead of taking your word for it.”

“You do that,” she said and went to the kitchen to get the dessert.

CHAPTER 5

The following morning, Jackson woke up to a dazzling brightness in the room. The snow had stopped, the sun had come out, and the effect was brilliant. He felt motivated to indulge in his usual morning habit of a good run and didn’t see anyone on his way out of the house. It felt good to get some exercise, even though it was cold. Given the temperature and the change in elevation, he wasn’t able to run as far or as fast as he would have at home, but it still helped clear his head and get his blood pumping. It also gave him a chance to get a look at this town in daylight. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to a town this small—at least since he’d left home more than twenty years ago—and then it had only been on business.

Jogging up the road toward the inn, he was able to see its full effect in sunlight. He was surprised by the way just seeing it made him smile. Once inside, he left his wet shoes near the back door and went upstairs to take a shower. When he went down to breakfast, Polly was in the kitchen. She explained that Chas had gone to do some errands and to keep an appointment.

“I don’t know when she’ll be back, but if you need anything, I’ll either be here or in the office.”

“Thank you, Polly,” he said. “I’m certain I’ll manage just fine.” He added to himself,
I’ve managed fine for decades without Chas, why not now?
He couldn’t come up with an answer that made any sense. Polly was kind, and they shared a few congenial words, mostly out of necessity. If nothing else, she proved that it was not just his desire for
any
company that kept him gravitating to Chas.

After he’d eaten, Jackson went to Granny’s room and found the door open, but she was sleeping in her chair. He decided to take that personal tour of the house Chas had suggested. He remembered her saying that a couple would be arriving today, but until then he was apparently still the only guest. He found the door to every room not only unlocked but open, and he enjoyed exploring them, examining the fine details of the decor and architecture. He noted how some rooms were designed more romantically, and some more practically. His was practical. She had known he was coming alone. The only room in the house he hadn’t seen that had a locked door was right next to Granny’s, and he logically concluded that it was Chas’s room.

Satisfied with his tour, he found himself some lunch in the guest refrigerator. While he was eating in the dining room, Charlotte came by with baked goods and sat to talk to him for a few minutes. He had to admit being more impressed with her than on their first meeting, and he could see why she and Chas were friends. He asked about her kids and got far more detail than he’d ever hoped to hear, but it wasn’t like he had anywhere to go. After she’d left, he got on the Internet to check his email. Most of it was junk. There was one from a coworker that simply said,
Are you okay?
And he answered,
I’m fine. Thanks for asking.
Another from a different coworker said,
Where are you? We’re worried about you.
He replied simply,
No need to worry. I’m fine.

Jackson went again to Granny’s room and found the door open and Chas reading a newspaper. She’d come back without his realizing it. Granny was reading from a Dickens novel.

“Oh, hello, Jackson,” Granny said, noticing him before Chas did. “Come sit down, sit down.”

“I don’t want to intrude,” he said and took a chair, noticing a quick glance and a smile from Chas as she set down the paper.

“I welcome intrusion, young man. Chas gets awfully boring.”

“Oh, thanks, Granny,” Chas said, mocking hurt feelings. Then to Jackson, “Did Polly take good care of you?”

“Polly gave me a lovely breakfast. Beyond that I’ve been taking very good care of myself. But thanks for asking.” He resisted the urge to ask her impertinent questions about her errands, and turned his attention to Granny. “So, how are you today?” Jackson asked her.

“I’m dandy. How are you, young man?”

“I’m managing well, thank you,” he said.

“Jackson has some questions for you, Granny,” Chas said, and the old woman’s eyes lit up. Even more so when she added, “He needs some advice about his life.”

“Chas is teasing us both,” Jackson said.

“Either that or you’re trying to avoid whatever it is you need advice about,” Granny said.

Jackson chuckled. “You’re a shrewd old woman.”

“I should have something to show for all these years,” she said. “So what do you want to know?”

Chas didn’t give him a chance to answer. “He wants to know if he’s too old to retire from his job and start something new.”

“Why don’t you let the man speak for himself?”

“Yeah, why don’t you let me speak for myself?” Jackson asked, sounding more facetious than annoyed.

“Because he was just going to keep skirting the issue.”

“You think you know me so well,” Jackson said.

“Weren’t you?”

“Probably.”

“There you have it, then. You’re transparent, Agent Leeds.”

“You’re not exactly opaque, Detective.”

They both stopped when it became evident that Granny was watching them as if she were waiting for the final point of a tennis match. Then she smiled. Jackson turned his attention to her and scooted his chair closer. “So, tell me, Granny. Give me some advice. Give me any advice you think I could use, and I’m sure I’ll come away more wise.”

“Oh, he’s very diplomatic, isn’t he,” Granny said to Chas.

“Not always,” Chas said with a mischievous smirk.

“I think,” Granny said, “that you’re never too old to make a fresh start and try something new.”

“What did I tell you?” Chas said smugly.

“And what new profession would you suggest I take up?” Jackson asked, just curious to see what she might say.

“What about innkeeping?” she asked without missing a beat. “You could take care of me and give Chas a vacation.”

“What a great idea!” Jackson said. “I’ll have to give that some thought.”

“Now,” Granny went on, “I believe Charles would tell you to travel. He really loved Niagara Falls. Have you seen Niagara Falls, young man?”

“I have,” he said. “Have you?”

“Oh, I have. Nothing like it! How about Mt. Vesuvius?”

“Can’t say I’ve been
there,”
Jackson said. “And you?”

“Never made it to Mt. Vesuvius. But Charles did. He was very impressed with that as well. Fire and water. Grand extremes. He was like that.”

Jackson knew her husband’s name had been Walter, so he asked, “Who is Charles? Your brother?” He saw Chas roll her eyes discreetly.

“Heavens, no!” Granny laughed. “Mr. Dickens, of course.”

“Of course,” Jackson said with some hesitance.

“You need to understand,” Chas said to him, “that Granny has trouble with the line between reality and fantasy. She’s spent so much of her life reading everything by and about this man that she’s lost touch with reality.”

“She’s joking,” Granny said.

“No, I am not!” Chas said, but she laughed when she said it. “I can assure you, Agent Leeds, that the ghost of Charles Dickens resides in this house—or at least he visits occasionally.”

“That’s
not boring,” Jackson said and turned to Granny. “So, what is it that Mr. Dickens would tell me to do?”

“When he was alive I think he would have told you to travel and take in the world. Now, I think he would tell you to follow your heart, and be true to it. I think he would tell you not to worry about silly things like money, but to find joy in the simple things of life. I think if he could do it over, that’s what he would do.”

“I’ll give that some thought as well,” Jackson said.

Chas left the room to check in with Polly and get her grandmother a cup of coffee. She knew she’d be asking for it soon. She returned to find Jackson and Granny still chatting. Chas handed Granny the coffee, and the old woman said to Jackson, “I like it with just a little cream and lots of sugar . . . to keep life sweet.”

“Granny likes sugar in lots of things,” Chas said. “I have to nag her to eat her vegetables . . . and her fiber.”

“Tell you what, Granny,” Jackson said, “if you promise to eat your vegetables and fiber, I promise to eat more sugar.”

“Good boy!” she said as if he’d just gotten an A on his math test. “You look like you could use a little sweetening up.”

“I’m sure I could,” Jackson said.

“He likes his coffee black,” Chas said to her grandmother. Then she reminded Granny that one of her favorite shows was on TV, and she told her that Jackson would come back later. He hovered in the doorway until Chas had Granny settled, then he followed her down the hall when she came out.

“Did Polly tell you that I’ll be having supper at the inn again tonight?”

“She did. Are you sure you can afford it?”

“I’m sure. Six again?”

“I’ll see you then,” she said, and he forced himself to go in a different direction.

Chas noticed Jackson leaving in his rented car, and she wondered where he might have gone. Probably just to explore the town a little. He probably had cabin fever. When she heard someone come in the door, she poked her head out of the office to see who it was, not entirely surprised to see Jackson. “Hi,” she said, pretending not to notice the brown paper bag he was carrying that obviously had a bottle of liquor in it.

“Hi,” he replied and went up to his room.

Jackson had enjoyed his little exploration of the town. Now he was actually glad to be alone for a few minutes and have a drink. He didn’t want to admit how it calmed his frazzled nerves that were sometimes difficult to keep in check when the echoes of gunshot were still ringing in his ears, and the associated images were always in his mind. He felt relaxed enough that he laid down on the beautiful Victorian bed and gazed at the intricate plaster moldings around the edge of the ceiling before he took a short nap and got up just in time for supper.

Chas served sirloin tips in a mushroom gravy with mashed potatoes. It was delicious, and he told her so.

“I hope Granny isn’t driving you crazy,” she said.

“Not at all,” he insisted. “I’m sure I could avoid her if I wanted to. She can’t very well chase me down.” They both chuckled. “I think your grandmother is a hoot.”

“Yes, she certainly is. I would bet that the only people on the planet who know more about Charles Dickens than her are the people who run those museums in England.”

“That’s not a bad thing, is it?”

“No, of course not.
He’s
not boring; that’s for sure.”

“But . . . Granny doesn’t really have trouble with the line between fantasy and reality, does she?”

“Granny is sharp as a tack. She knows exactly where she is and what’s going on.”

“So . . . this ghost of Charles Dickens thing is . . . what? A joke?”

“What do you think, Jackson Tobias Leeds?” Before he could answer, she added, “Do you believe in angels?”

“Angels? I thought we were talking about ghosts.”

“It’s all relative, isn’t it? Can’t ghosts be good and angels evil sometimes? Aren’t the two terms really synonymous?”

“As in they’re both the spirits of dead people?”

“Something like that.”

“Are you trying to tell me you think this house is haunted?”

“No,” she chuckled, “the house is not haunted.”

“But you believe in ghosts?”

“I believe in angels. I believe they’re all around us, even if we cannot see or hear them. And I believe that some people are more sensitive to such things than others.”

“You?”

“No, Granny. She talks to my mother and her husband all the time.”

“And Charles Dickens.”

“Yep.”

“But you’re convinced that she is
not
out of touch with reality.”

“I just say that to tease her,” Chas said, and Jackson looked at her as if he were considering a phone call to an asylum. She leaned over the table and said more softly, “Listen, I can’t tell you whether or not my grandmother just has a vivid imagination or a remarkable gift. Whether she simply wants to believe it, or knows it’s true, she’s happy and she’s well adjusted. For myself, I believe in angels, even if I’ve never seen or heard one personally. And if you want to get technical, who’s to say that Charles Dickens—dead as he is—wouldn’t pop by to check in on Granny once in a while, since she is probably one of his best friends still living on the planet?”

Jackson chuckled and shook his head. “I have no idea why, but I think that actually made sense to me.”

She smiled more widely than he’d ever seen, and he decided he liked her smile. “There may be hope for you yet. And while we’re on the subject . . .”

“Of hope for me?”

“That too, but I meant . . . the subject of angels. I believe in miracles too, Mr. Leeds. Do
you
believe in miracles?”

“Define
miracle.”

“An event that defies any logical explanation or coincidence; an event that blesses people’s lives.”

“Like the parting of the Red Sea? That kind of event?”

She chuckled. “That’s clearly one of
the
greatest miracles of all time. However—”

“You believe that really happened, then?”

“Of course it happened!” Chas said with vehemence. “It’s in the Bible. Don’t
you
believe it?”

“I’ve never thought about it, to be truthful.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Maybe I should.”

“However, as I was going to say, I believe there are little miracles that take place in the lives of everyday people . . . well, every day. Things that happen that are wonderful and precious, even though they may be simple and happen quietly. Those are the things that we should stop and take notice of, be grateful for.”

“Have you had such miracles in your life?”

“A few,” she said. “Nothing terribly grand, but enough to make it evident God’s hand is in my life. I’ve often found that gratitude to Him is one of the great sustaining factors in my life. It balances out the hard stuff.”

“So you’re saying that, in your mind, a miracle would only occur if God were responsible?”

“Can you think of any other reason an event would completely defy logic or coincidence?” He thought for a long moment and couldn’t answer. She pointed a finger at him and chuckled. “See, I got you there.”