Immortal Mine (2 page)

“It’s a guy named Shane Coleman, and his
nephew, Sam.”

“That’s weird,” I say, leaning against the
counter, crossing my feet and settling in for the details as I pick
up an apple (from my own apple tree) and bite into it. “Where’s the
rest of the family?”

“No one knows,” Stacy says, her words
shocking me into a straight posture.

“What? Hasn’t Busybody Bradley been there
yet?”

“She has.” Stacy’s tone is rife with
intrigue.

“Okay, Stace, spit it out. I need
details.”

“That’s the weird thing, Vee. There aren’t
any details. They bought the place some time ago, but Glisten”—our
nickname for Ms. Glissmeyer, partly because of her name and partly
because she covers herself with glitter powder—“is being all tight
lipped. She says she’s sworn to silence. All she would ‘fess up is
that they bought the place, paid some cleaning company to come in
and get it ready. She claims she wasn’t even sure of the exact
move-in date.”

“No!” This is the best gossip we’ve had
since Melissa Stratton gave birth to a purportedly two-month
premature baby—that weighed nine pounds, two ounces.

“Yes, but that isn’t all. Busybody Bradley
claims that the uncle is beyond gorgeous, which has been verified
by nearly every other woman who’s seen him. They say he’s nice
enough, but doesn’t seem interested in turning in his single status
any time soon.”

“Oh, yeah?” I place my forgotten apple
absent-mindedly on the counter, where it’s immediately snatched up
by Bob. I vaguely notice the mess he’s making on the floor as he
chomps noisily on it. Oh well, what’s a little more mess? “Bet that
ticks off all the single oldies.”

“I get the idea he’s not that old. And it’s
being said that his gorgeousness is surpassed only by that of his
nephew,” Stacy pauses dramatically. “His
seventeen-year-old
nephew!”

“No way!” I exclaim. “Who told you
that?”

“Ashley heard it from Heather
and
Hilary.”

“Wow,” I breathe. If the double-H—the two
most popular girls in the school, and thereby the foremost experts
on what can be considered gorgeous—claim it, well, that’s something
of weight.

“How soon can you go?” I don’t need to ask
what she means. A lifetime of friendship has created enough of a
short-hand between us that she doesn’t need to expound. I still
have chores to do, animals to feed, stalls to muck, and no one to
help me.

That all can wait, I decide in an
instant.

“I’m going to need thirty,” I say, knowing
that I’ll have to rush. I have to get the farm smell off me, put on
some make-up and try to do something with my hair. All this in
order to be presented to someone the double-H has given a stamp of
approval to in thirty short minutes, someone our own age—a
boy
our own age.

“
Thirty
?” Stacy moans. “No way. I
can’t wait that long. I’ll give you fifteen.”

“Fifteen! I can’t—”

“I’ll pick you up. Bye.” Stacy cuts me off,
and I know that means I really only have, like, ten minutes. I look
at the mess on the floor—that really shouldn’t wait. My parents
won’t be home from their latest work excursion to Egypt until
Friday, three days from now. That gives me time—I always have time
before they’ll be home again, it seems. It too can wait, I
decide.

“Outside, Bob,” I command. He gives me a
forlorn look, so I grab another apple and toss it out the door. He
happily bounds after it, tail wagging and tongue lolling. I shut
the door behind him—no need to lock up. I don’t think anyone in
Goshen could actually tell you where the key to their house is.
Locks are pretty much archaic around here.

I hop around, quickly shedding my boots.
Running up the stairs, I pull off clothes as I go, leaving a trail
behind me. I don’t have time for a full-on make-up job, so I pull
the mascara wand across my pale blonde but thankfully thick lashes.
A couple of swipes with the blush-brush, gloss slid across my lips
and I have to call it good.

What to do about the stench? I can’t go over
smelling like old MacDonald. Looking around, I have sudden
inspiration. I grab a can of Febreeze, spray a curtain of it in
front of me and step into it. The chemicals can’t be especially
good for me, but it proclaims the ability to rid odors. Then,
afraid that might not be quite enough, I douse myself in perfume. I
gag and cough a little at the smell. A glance at my watch confirms
I don’t have time to wash it off. Oh well, I’ll just have to hope
for the best.

I pull on some jeans—what else does anyone
around here wear, except a skirt to church—and waste three precious
minutes pulling top after top from my closet in indecision. I
finally settle on a dark blue peasant blouse that makes my gold
eyes look more blue than their unusual color, pulling it over my
head.

A brush pulled through the tangles of my
long, dark blonde hair make it clear that it’s beyond hope. I
hurriedly twist a couple of thin braids into the front, then twist
the whole, heavy disordered length up into hair band, leaving
pieces dangling. A dark blue silk flower pinned into place
completes the masterpiece—okay, so it’s more like a masterpiece
created by Picasso than by…well, almost anyone else. I’m going to
try to pull it off as one of those hairdo’s that are artfully
disarrayed that really take hours to do, rather than one which is
just plain disarray.

I leap back down the stairs—a game from when
I was a child that I only do if I’m alone, which is often—and pull
one of my famous apple pies from the fridge. I made it with my own
home-grown apples. Frantic honking from the direction of the front
of the house confirms my suspicions about the ten minutes.

Stacy is waiting for me in her old
Mustang—which bespeaks of the urgency for speed that we’re taking a
car rather than our ATV’s—applying gloss to her own lips as I climb
into her car.

“What took ya, pokey?” she asks, as if it
hasn’t been, like, three seconds since she honked.

“Just try not to kill us with speeding,
okay?”

She rolls her eyes at me as she jams it into
reverse. Bob comes running around the house, probably thinking he’s
coming with. When he sees that it’s Stacy behind the wheel, he
turns tail and heads the other way.

Smart dog. He learns lessons the first
time.

We can avoid Main Street between my place
and the Stanton place. It’s pretty much all dirt, though, and Stacy
leaves a cloud behind as she pushes the old beast to its limit on
the bumpy road.

“If you cause damage to the pie, you’re not
my friend anymore,” I threaten. I might think she didn’t hear me
from her deafening silence, if it weren’t for the fact that she
immediately swerves to hit a particularly bad rut. I hold the pie
aloft, letting it bounce with the motion. Stacy’s revenge can be
vicious.

When we pull out onto the paved street,
Stacy slows down. Officer Hill told her that if he has to write her
one more speeding ticket, she’s going to lose her license. Officer
Hill is a fair man, and honest. So that means if he catches you
breaking the law, you’re going to be fined or ticketed. Stacy knows
he means business. Therefore, after running only
one
stop
sign and a left turn that I think we made on the two outside tires,
we arrive at the Stanton place.

We pass most of the Stanton’s acreage, grass
beginning to brown from the early chill of September nights, before
actually coming to the house. One of the reasons the Stanton place
hasn’t sold is because it has two-thousand acres, and the Stanton
heirs all live in New York City. They priced the land as if it were
in a thriving region—like, the Hamptons, or something—rather than
here, in no man’s land. The land is overgrown. It wouldn’t be good
for farming without a couple years of good, hard work. Then it
would take another twenty or thirty years to recoup the money for
the purchase and cleanup before it would turn a profit. No one ever
thought it would sell. The new people—Coleman’s, I think Stacy
called them—must have negotiated a better deal.

We reach the main house—a traditional farm
house, large and roomy with dormers and a large wrap-around porch.
It even has a three-car garage; the only one in Goshen, I believe.
A falling-down barn and two rusty silos are visible not far behind
the house. I notice with chagrin that there are several cars,
pick-up trucks and ATV’s already there. I hoped, foolishly, that
most of the crowd would have died down by now.

My pie is miraculously unscathed as we climb
out of the car. Stacy’s mother already brought their offering,
leaving her empty handed. Crowds of people mill about in the front
porch. I wonder if the house is just too full to admit anymore, but
gather rapidly from the murmurs that no one has been invited
in.

I realize there is a cluster of people on
the far end of the porch, and I get my first glimpse of the
infamous Shane Coleman. Busybody was right—he’s movie-star
good-looking. Of course he’s an old guy…well, not so old. He looks
about thirty or so, but definitely old for my seventeen-year-old
self.

“He’s dreamy,” Stacy sighs. I glance at her
and see that she, too, has spotted Shane Coleman.

“Dreamy?” I scoff. “What, have we been
transported back to the fifties?”

She scowls at me, bringing us firmly back
into the present.

“What would you call him?” she demands.

“He’s pretty cute,” I admit. At her snarl, I
laugh. “He’s
extremely
cute,” I amend. “But, seriously,
Stace, the guy’s like, old enough to be our dad.”

“No, he’s not,” she refutes, punching me in
the shoulder.

“Ow,” I complain, rubbing the spot, even
though it was little more than a tap.

“Wuss,” she utters, her response rote. “He
is
gourgeois
.”

“That’s not a word, and you’re not French.
Besides, it’d be illegal if he looked at you as anything other than
a kid.”

“Only for the next three months, my young
friend. Then I’m a legal-eagle.”

“You’re sick,” I tell her—or rather, I tell
the back of her head since she’s walking away, pushing through the
crowd toward her dream man.

A table under a large window seems to be the
collecting place for the array of food items being pressed upon the
Coleman’s. With a smirk, I add my pie to the pile that couldn’t be
eaten by a family of twelve in a month’s time, let alone by this
little family of two. Poor Coleman’s. I don’t even know where
they’ll put everything, unless they brought five refrigerators and
freezers with them. There are no charities in town where they can
share their wealth of victuals, either.

“You’re adding to the pile, when you should
be taking away,” a voice from my right informs me.

I turn and catch my breath. This has to be
the nephew. He’s someone I’ve never seen before. Actually, I’ve
never seen anyone
like
him before. He stands easily six feet
tall. His skin is clear and smooth. This might seem a strange
observation, unless you take into account his red hair. It’s an
amazing shade of red, not bright, not dark, more of a copper.
Straight, shagged, sweeping just above his clear green eyes,
curling just slightly over his ears and collar. Despite the red
hair, there are no freckles to be found. Just a strong jaw with
great cheek bones, beautifully shaped eyes fringed with dark red
lashes, full lips that are smiling at me.

He doesn’t seem real in his beauty.

“I’m just kidding,” he offers, leaning
slightly toward me when I remain silent, staring.

I start, “Oh, sorry. You... you took me by
surprise,” I say, inanely. I sweep my hand toward the table. “I
hope you’re hungry. Actually, I hope you’re ravenous.”

He laughs and my belly does a little
flip-flop. Even his laugh is beautiful. I mentally shake myself; I
don’t intend to become one of the simpering, giggling females who
will surely be fawning over him in no time.

“What’s that smell?” he asks, wrinkling his
nose.

I take a little step backward, hoping he
won’t realize it’s my chicken feed/Febreeze/perfume concoction.

“So, which one is yours?” he questions,
moving closer. I have to look up at him, and revise my opinion of
his height. He must be six-three, at least.

“The, um… the pie,” I stutter.

“This one?” he points to another pie, one
that looks like it’s cherry or blueberry by the dark jelly oozing
out of the top. It’s sloppily put together, without an
embellishment to be seen.

“Of course not,” my indignation is clear in
my voice. I know it’s not fair; he can’t know how much pride I take
in my pies. “This one,” I say, pointing to my beautiful pie (if I
do say so myself).

“Wow,” he says, leaning closer to get a look
at it. He traces one of the leaf shapes I hand cut and baked on top
of the shell. “Where did you get it?”