Fruit of All Evil (3 page)

Don was literally pulling Herb by his arm.

“Becca,” Don said, “you just have to use Herb.”

“Use him for what?”

“The music at the wedding ceremony, of course. He plays the violin beautifully. You won't regret it,” Don said, still holding tight to Herb.

“Really? You do?” I asked. If he really did play, I was more than thrilled. Allison had been right—Linda would be well taken care of.

Herb looked sheepish, his bald head blushing slightly.

“Oh, don't be modest,” I said. “If you can play, you've got the job. Do you know that tune they play when brides walk down the aisle?”

“The Wedding March?” Herb asked, his eyebrows rising to his nonexistent hairline.

“Yes, that's the one,” I said. I'd never paid attention to the name of the tune, but it did make sense.

“Of course,” he said confidently. Don let go of his arm.

“Terrific. Okay, today's Friday, the wedding will be Wednesday. We'll have a rehearsal early Tuesday morning. Bring your violin.”

Herb looked at Don and then back at me. “Don't you want to hear me play beforehand? To make sure, you know, that I can play?”

“It's either you or something I download off the Internet and put on my iPod. Will you be better than that?”

“Uh, yes, I think so.”

“Great. The job is yours.”

I wasn't being lazy. I knew that if Don said Herb could play beautifully, he could play beautifully. First of all, Don wouldn't lie about such a thing, and second, no one would offer to do something that would risk Linda's wedding. Again, I noted to myself how right Allison had been. This was probably going to be the easiest wedding to plan in the history of all weddings.

I hadn't written “music” on my list quite yet, but as Herb and Don walked away, I added the word just so I could feel the satisfaction of putting a check mark by it.

“How's it going?”

“Hey, you,” I said as I smiled and put down the paper and pencil.

Ian Cartwright, ten years my junior, was my adorable boyfriend, although Allison said he was more exotic than adorable. He was about five-feet-ten, thin but muscled; he had a total of eight tattoos on his body, my favorite one being the sun on the back of his right hand. He wore his long, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail most of the time, and his dark eyes still made me swoon, even after dating him for seven months.

Unfortunately, our otherwise perfect relationship had hit a small snag. Ian wanted me to travel with him back to his home in Iowa to meet his family. When he first asked me, my answer had been a firm “Uhhhh,” but the look on my face must have given away my true feelings.

I'd tried to explain to him a number of times that having gone through two divorces made me wary not only of marriage but also of the normal steps one takes on the way to being married, like meeting the family.

I'd tried to explain that though I felt more for him than I'd ever felt for anyone else, our relationship was still new enough that I wasn't sure I was ready to take such a big step.

He said he understood, but I knew he didn't, really. We were still together, but I could feel the strain between us. I didn't want that strain, but I also didn't want to do something that felt like the wrong thing to do, like meet a family I wasn't ready to meet. I hadn't given him a firm answer yet, but said I would soon. I knew he was becoming increasingly impatient.

“I did something,” he said with a genuine smile.

I smiled back. There was no strain at the moment, and that was good.

“What did you do?”

Ian rubbed a finger under his nose. “Well, you might not be pleased.”

I continued to smile, ignoring the small thread of dread building in my chest. Uh-oh, surely he hadn't invited his family here?

“Okay, tell me,” I said.

“You know that coffee shop we love—Maytabee's?”

“Sure. Great coffee.”

“And pastries,” Ian added.

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, the manager of the one by my apartment is also the owner. She's from Monson, but she has four other locations in Charleston.”

“She sounds successful,” I said. I had no idea what he was leading up to, but the dread was disappearing.

“Anyway, I took some of your strawberry jam to her a week ago.”

“You did? Why?”

“To see if she might be interested in selling it in her stores.”

My mouth dropped open. “Really? What did she say?”

“She wants you to do a presentation to her other managers. She loved the jam, but she likes to let her managers have a say in the products they carry.”

“Wow, Ian, that was unbelievably . . . helpful of you.”

Ian laughed. “I wondered if you'd have that reaction. You don't know quite what to make of it, do you? You don't like people messing with your business, but you realize this might be a good opportunity. Don't worry, you'll catch up soon enough.”

I nodded slowly. Then I did catch up, and realized how kind it had been for Ian to talk to the owner of Maytabee's. I'd been wanting to find ways to expand my business, and this was a perfect start. “Ian, thank you. You're right.” I leaned over the display table and kissed him quickly, in front of the entire farmers' market world.

“You're very welcome, but unfortunately there's some bad news to go along with my great and fantastic news. She just called, and she'd like you to do the presentation Monday morning, when her other managers will be in town for their monthly meeting. What with the wedding announcement yesterday, I think your next few days, Monday included, have become very full.”

“True.” I put my hands on my hips. I'd already decided I wouldn't have much time to work at the market over the next week. Because I'd already committed myself to not working full-time, I thought I could probably fit in a quick presentation. “I'll make it work. Hey, you want to come to the presentation with me?”

“Sure. Let me know what I can do to help you prepare. I'm good with PowerPoint.” Ian smiled. In fact, he was good with anything that had anything to do with computers.

“That's a deal. I'd appreciate it.” We smiled at each other, and though I knew he didn't want me to know he was still perturbed about my continued indecision about visiting his family, I saw it in his eyes. “So, how about dinner tonight? You available?”

“I am. Thanks for the invite. I presume we're going to Madeline Forsyth's?”

“Yes. How about that show she put on?” I asked.

“She's . . . interesting.”

“Poor Linda.”

“I agree.”

We made arrangements to meet at Ian's apartment at about four thirty. I'd promised Linda I wouldn't be late. We estimated that it would take about fifteen minutes to get to Madeline's from Ian's, so four thirty would make us slightly early.

Of course, had we known Madeline's fate, we probably wouldn't have been overly concerned about being on time.

My farm was west of Monson. There were lots of farms, some
small and some big, west of Monson. The countryside east of Monson was populated with bigger, more commercial farms as well as big houses on large lots. The people in the big houses hired people to take care of their land/lawns. The country east of Monson was where the big money was, so it was no surprise that that was where Madeline Forsyth lived.

Ian lived in Monson, his studio and apartment in the garage of one of the cleverest old men I'd ever met. George McKinney couldn't see well, but he could tell a story better than anyone I knew—that was if the story was full of blood and violence. I drove into Monson, dropped my dog and favorite “person” in the world, Hobbit, off with George, and Ian and I took his truck to Madeline's house. Our trucks were both about twenty years old, but mine was bright orange and his, a dark navy blue. When we wanted to look respectable, we took his more understated vehicle.

“Boy, Madeline Forsyth is something else, isn't she?” I repeated part of our earlier conversation as I twisted the dial on the truck's radio.

“Yeah,” Ian said. “She made an impression. Did you talk to Linda about it?”

“Just a little before she left. She checked and double-checked her phone. She couldn't understand why Madeline said she'd called when there seemed to be no way she had.”

“Did Linda talk to Drew about it?”

“Yep. He said he knew nothing about the dinner. Nothing at all. He knew one of his cousins—the one who will be his best man, apparently—was in town from Spartanburg. He told her that if other cousins were attending the dinner, it was a surprise to him.”

“Why do you suppose Madeline made it such a big deal?”

“Probably just to make a scene and cause more heartburn for Linda,” I answered.

“That's too bad.”

“This could be an interesting evening,” I said.

Hesitantly, Ian reached over and grabbed my fingers with his tattooed hand. I looked down at the sun that I'd looked at and held on to probably almost a million times by now. I knew where every tattoo on his body was located and what they were. A couple of weeks earlier, before he asked me to go to Iowa with him, his reach wouldn't have been so hesitant.

“You know, unlike Linda's circumstances,” he said, a smile in his voice, “my family is very middle-class, very normal, and thrilled that you and I are dating.”

“You might have mentioned that once or twice.”

“Oh, when? The times I ask if you'll come to Iowa with me to meet them?”

“Yeah.”

“Anything new on that front?”

“Still thinking,” I said. My throat tightened around the words. I was on the verge of being downright rude, and he deserved better than that. “Just give me a little longer, Ian. I'm sorry.”

He smiled patiently, his dark eyes framed in the shallowest twenty-five-year-old laugh lines. His black ponytail was smooth and perfect, and he'd put a casual sports jacket on over his normal T-shirt and jeans. I found him fetching, and when he pulled my fingers to his lips, I almost gave in and said I'd go anywhere with him, but a big lump of commitment phobia clogged my throat and kept me from speaking.

“No hurry,” he lied as he lowered both our hands to the middle of the truck's bench seat.

He might not have meant it, but telling me not to hurry was the only response that wouldn't make me defensive or angry. He knew me well.

It wasn't that I didn't care for him more than I'd ever cared for either of my two ex-husbands. I was head-overheels in love with the man who held my hand. But I'd had a version, lesser though it might have been, of this feeling often enough in my life that some time had to pass before I recognized it as valid and lasting. Before I met someone's family, I wanted to be sure my feelings were one hundred percent real. I still needed some time, which was a lousy thing to tell him, I knew. Ian, however, claimed he was already certain how he felt, and a by-product of his feelings was that he wanted me to meet his family.

Fortunately, the conversation had to be further delayed because Ian was turning onto Madeline Forsyth's circular driveway. A tall fountain artistically moved water in the middle of the circle, and a large redbrick mansion sat on the far side of the driveway.

Ian, being an artist of yard art things, was more interested in the fountain than in the house.

“I bet I could re-create that entire thing in metal,” he said.

“That would be amazing.”

The fountain consisted of three simple concrete bowls and a spout that sprayed water in the shape of an umbrella into the top small bowl. From there the water flowed over edges into the middle, mid-sized bowl, and then into the bottom large bowl. The effect gave the impression of a layered wedding cake.

“I wonder if Ms. Forsyth would mind if I came out later and inspected her fountain.” There was a smile of sarcasm in his voice, but I knew he'd like the opportunity.

“I bet she wouldn't mind. Or we could do it and not tell her.”

Ian pulled his truck to the side of the house where Drew's gray Honda and two other sedans with South Carolina license plates were lined up at forty-degree angles. He picked an open space and continued the pattern. Linda's truck wasn't anywhere to be seen, so I assumed that Drew had picked her up.

“Okay, what can I carry?” Ian asked as he turned off the ignition.

“I think I got it,” I said, lifting a huge basket from the truck's floor, where my feet had been keeping it stable. I'd filled the basket with lots of my homemade preserves and jams, some of my famous strawberry as well as other fruits. I'd stocked my freezer with barely enough to get me through the winter months. People liked my preserves and jams, but the unexpected winter demand had caught me off guard. And if I got the okay to sell product at Maytabee's, I'd have to bump up storage and production even more, to be prepared for next winter.