Wife for Hire (6 page)

Hank mentally reviewed all the old men in town. “Is this Ed Garber?”

“Yup. That's him. Said he was the postmaster until he retired, and that his wife had died three years ago.”

“Better watch out,” Hank said. “I hear he only has one thing on his mind.”

“Lord bless him, and he likes to play bingo too. Life don't get much better than that.”

Elsie took her apron off and put it in a drawer. “I saw that Linda Sue at the supermarket today. She was checking out groceries, and I tell you she could put a newspaper right out of business. Everywhere I went in town people were talking about you getting married to a dirty book writer. I wouldn't hold my breath for that loan. Your reputation's about as good as snake spit.”

“She's not a dirty book writer. She's writing about her Aunt Kitty.”

Elsie looked skeptical. “Don't get me wrong. I like Maggie. She's got something to her. And if I were you and had to make a choice, I'd take Maggie over an apple press any day of the year.”

Hank smiled at her. “You're a pretty smart lady.”

“You'd better believe it, and I'm in good shape for being so old too.”

She took her purse from the counter when Ed Garber knocked at the front door.

“You'd better go pull Maggie's nose out of
that computer and get her down here while the corn bread's hot. And it wouldn't hurt to do something with her after supper. It isn't natural for a body to sit that long. All her insides will get cramped up. I once knew someone who sat all day like that and nature never could take its course. Before you know it, you're taking prunes and milk of magnesia when all you ever needed in the first place was to go for a walk once in a while.”

Ed Garber looked in at Hank. “Howdy,” he said. “Nice day.”

“Yup. Good weather for growing apples.”

“You still growing them organic? Don't you have more than your share of rot?”

“I have to work at it, but so far they look fine,” Hank said.

“I should stop around sometime and see how you do it. I've got an apple tree in my backyard that's plain pitiful.”

Hank closed the screen door on Elsie and Ed, and went upstairs after Maggie.

“Elsie says you have to come down to supper while the corn bread's hot,” he told her. “And she says your insides will cramp up if you sit here much more. Then nature won't
be able to take its course, and you'll have to eat prunes.”

Maggie finished typing a sentence and saved her file. “You sound skeptical, but she's probably right.”

“I'm supposed to make sure you get exercise.”

Maggie shut the computer down. “I could use some exercise. We could go for a walk after supper.”

“That was my second choice.”

She wasn't going to ask him about choice number one. “Would it hurt the apple trees if we walked through the orchard?”

“Nope. It's crisscrossed with truck paths.”

In the kitchen Maggie ladled out the soup and took the corn bread from the oven. They sat across from each other in companionable silence while they ate.

“This is nice,” she finally said. “I always hated eating supper alone. Sometimes I'd set the table and fuss with a meal, but most of the time I stuck a frozen burrito in the micro wave and ate standing up.”

He grinned at her. “Does your mother know that?”

She laughed. “My mother is afraid to ask. And if my mother's neighbor Mrs. Ciak ever found out…” Maggie shook her head. “My mother would be disgraced forever.” She buttered another piece of corn bread.

“At night, in my parents' neighborhood, no one draws the shades downstairs. It would mean that you didn't want anyone to see in. People would speculate that your house wasn't clean. And all the women have dryers, but they still hang sheets outdoors because if you don't someone might think your sheets weren't white enough to be seen. I know it sounds silly, but it makes me feel claustrophobic. All those unwritten rules. All those comparisons. And as much as I tried, I could never fit my square peg into Riverside's round hole. I guess I was too stubborn.”

“I notice you're using that in the past tense.”

Maggie chewed her corn bread. “I'm better now.” Hank raised his eyebrows and Maggie laughed. “You're right, I'm still stubborn. But being stubborn can be good when you're an adult. Now I like to think of myself as having tenacity, strength of conviction, and character.”

Hank pushed away from the table. He went to the refrigerator, took out two puddings, and gave one to Maggie. “Is that why you wanted to
come to Vermont? To get away from the white sheets and open windows?”

“I wanted to make a new beginning. I needed to be anonymous.”

Hank averted his eyes and dipped his spoon into his pudding. It sounded to him like she'd jumped from the frying pan into the fire. Skogen was the gossip capital of the free world. He was sure every person in town knew what Maggie had worn last night, what she'd eaten, and what she'd said. And they were judging her. Riverside wasn't the only town where sheets were hung out to dry. It wasn't something he wanted to tell her right now. She'd find out soon enough for herself. And if she gave the town half a chance, she'd find out it had some redeeming qualities too.

They cleaned the kitchen and set out for their walk with Horatio trotting close on their heels. There was still plenty of sunlight so Hank headed south, taking a truck path that crossed the longest stretch of his property. It was July and the trees were thick with immature apples.

“What will happen to these apples if you don't get the loan?” Maggie wanted to know. “Will they just rot?”

“No. It's not really that drastic. I belong to a
coop. I can put them in controlled atmosphere storage, or I can wholesale them.”

“Oh.” There was a blank look to her face that told him she didn't know much about the apple market.

“There are three ways you can market an apple,” he told her. “Direct marketing means that you sell your own product at your doorstep. Regional marketing is selling your product locally, like I do at Big Irma's. And the third alternative is wholesale when you go through an apple broker and sell your apples in bulk. You make the least profit and run the greatest risk when you wholesale. I want to develop my direct and regional marketing. I want to cater to the visiting skiers and the affluent, nutrition-conscious yuppies that migrate here from Boston and New York. I'm not at full production yet. It will take another seven years before all my trees reach maturity, but already I'm producing the apples I need to diversify.”

“So you won't go broke if you don't get the loan.”

He picked up a stone and skimmed it across the dusty road. “It's not entirely a matter of money. If I have a good crop, I won't go broke,
but I won't make any progress either. I don't need to be a millionaire, but I need to have something of my own. Some success that I made happen.” He looked over at her to see if she understood.

“I was the kid that almost got an A in school. I almost made it to big-time hockey. I almost graduated from college. It's important to me to see this through to the end. Just once I need to reach the goal I've set for myself. It's not an unrealistic goal. I should be able to achieve it.”

“How soon do you need the money?”

He looked at the apples hanging on the trees all around him. “Yesterday would have been good. Last week would have been better.” He watched her brows knit together, and he ruffled her hair. They were supposed to be walking to get her intestines uncramped, not to discuss his business.

“Don't pay any attention to me. I'm too impatient. Sooner or later I'll get the loan, and everything will work out. There's always another apple crop. I know exactly what equipment I need. I have the ground set aside and all the utilities are in for a small bottling plant and a bakery.”

“Where are you going to build?”

“At the westernmost tip of my property. I could set the buildings back far enough from the road, behind a stand of Paula Reds, so they wouldn't be an eyesore. The ground is level, and there's a good water source.”

“How about labor?”

“To work in the bakery? Skogen is stable, but it isn't flourishing. It could use the taxes and jobs I'd generate.”

“Hard to believe your father isn't willing to invest in this.”

“My father
never
takes chances. He doesn't even own a paisley tie—only stripes in subdued colors. He orders his shoes through a cata log and has worn the same style for thirty-five years. Every morning he has six ounces of orange juice, oatmeal, and a cup of black coffee. He wouldn't consider a strip of bacon or a glass of cran-grape.”

“I probably shouldn't have told him about Aunt Kitty.”

Hank took her hand and kissed a fingertip. “You were right to tell him. It wouldn't do to start out a marriage with secrets, would it?”

Maggie groaned. She'd groaned partly because it was such a ridiculous thing for him to say, but
mostly she'd groaned when his lips touched her skin. She snatched her hand away and stuffed it into the pocket of her shorts for safekeeping. “Were you really the scourge of Skogen?”

“I never thought of myself in exactly those terms, but I suppose I put fear into the hearts of a few mothers.”

Maggie had no trouble believing that.

“Physically I was one of those early maturers,” he told her with a grin. “Emotional maturity took a little longer. About fifteen years longer.”

“So, you think you've finally achieved it, huh?”

“Definitely. Look at me; I'm married and everything.”

“I don't mean to burst your bubble, but you're not married. You're pretending to be married. Most people wouldn't consider that to be a sign of mental health. And there is no
everything
. There isn't even
something.
”

“You're wrong,” he said nudging against her. “There's
something.
”

She raised a haughty eyebrow.

His thumb brushed across the nape of her neck. “Go ahead, admit it. There's
something
, isn't there?”

A delicious shiver traveled the length of her spine. “There might be something.”

“Damn right,” he said, whirling her around, pulling her into the circle of his arms. His hands roamed over her back, pressing her closer, his mouth lowered to hers, and his tongue swept away what little resistance she'd been able to muster. He heard her small gasp of delight, felt her yield to him, and was immediately uncomfortable with the fit of his jeans. It was like being sent back to puberty, he thought. He was out of control. He was in love. And he was hurting. He pushed her away, holding her at arm's length, and took a deep breath. “We could actually get married, you know.”

If he'd been serious, she would have been furious. As it was, she attributed his proposal to his awful sense of humor and his forced abstinence.

He pressed his lips together, feeling like a fool. “I can see that took you by surprise.”

“I'm getting used to being surprised. Besides, it wasn't such a surprise. It was testosterone talking.”

He couldn't deny it. Still, he'd lived with testosterone attacks for a lot of years, and he'd
never before asked a woman to marry him. “So, what's the answer?”

Maggie rolled her eyes.

“I suppose that's a no.”

“Are you relieved?”

A small smile curved at the corners of his mouth. “Maybe a little.” He slid his hands down to her hips. “But not entirely. I like having you in my house.”

Maggie backed away. Smooth, she thought. He had good moves. Moves that were undoubtedly designed to throw her off guard. Disarming one minute, and then charming the next. He was clever all right, but she was cleverer. She didn't trust him for a second.

“I think you're just trying to get out of walking,” she said. “I think you're lazy.”

The grin widened. “No, you don't. You think I'm only out for one thing, and I'm sweet-talking you.”

She felt the flush creep into her cheeks. “Well, you are the scourge of Skogen.”

“True. But I've changed. All that's behind me. It's been years since I've been worth anything as a scourge.”

“What about Linda Sue and Holly?”

Linda Sue and Holly felt like part of his
extended family. He'd grown up with them. They made girlfriend noises, but it had been a long time since he'd found them exciting. Not since high school, in fact. And anything in a skirt had been exciting when he was in high school. “Linda Sue and Holly are my friends.”

“Have you explained that to them lately?”

“Linda Sue and Holly are good at talking, short on listening.”

“Tell me about apples,” Maggie said, following the rutted road. “I want to know about your orchard.”

“I grow five varieties of apples. The original orchard was all McIntosh, but I've put in Paula Reds, Empire, Red Delicious, and Northern Spy. It's extended my growing season, and I think the blend of apples makes a more interesting cider.” He picked a small green apple. “This is a Northern Spy. It's the apple I intend to build my pie business around. It's a hard baking apple. Matures late in the season. Keeps well.” He threw the apple down the road and Horatio took off after it.

So, he had to prove himself, she thought. She could relate to that. Her life wasn't exactly filled with stellar accomplishments. She'd barely graduated from college, barely hung on to her
teaching job, barely kept her sanity in Riverside. She was one of those women who put their sheets in the dryer because she knew damn well they wouldn't mea sure up.

It was kind of funny that she and Hank had come together. Two misfits aiming for their first real success. And how were they doing it? He wanted to bake pies, and she was writing about a madam. They were outrageous.

They walked until they came to a stream. “Goose Creek,” Hank said. “My land ends here. When I was a kid, I spent a lot of time fishing and swimming in Goose Creek. If you follow it downstream, it fans out into a nice deep pool.”

Maggie stood on the grassy bank and stared at the water. The colors of the land were muted, the sky was brilliant with a sunset, and Goose Creek gurgled as it rushed over rocks. She thought this would be a nice place to be a little boy. Goose Creek and cows and row after row of apple trees. It was the American Dream.

When Aunt Kitty was a little girl there had been farms like this surrounding Riverside. Now there were shopping malls and highways and houses. Lots and lots of houses. And lots and lots of people. The people spilled out of the houses, clogging the roads and the supermarket
aisles. Maggie'd had to stand in line to go to a movie, cash a check, buy a loaf of bread. And now here she was—just her and Hank and Goose Creek. It felt a little odd. All she could hear was Goose Creek and a cow, mooing in the distance. A cow, for crying out loud. Who would believe it.

“I think I'm experiencing culture shock,” she told Hank.

“What's the matter, don't they have cows in Riverside?” He moved closer, draping an arm around her shoulders. He felt her stiffen and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Don't worry. This is a friendly gesture. I've decided not to put any big moves on you until your opinion of me changes.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“I'm not even going to repeat my proposal of marriage for a while. I mean, after all, who would want to marry the scourge of Skogen?”

She could hear a hint of laughter in his voice. It pulled at her, causing her to shake her head and smile with him. He was a man who could laugh at himself. That was nice. She suspected he was also a man who knew how to manipulate a situation. So she was still going to be careful. “Seems to me there are a number of
women in town who would be more than happy to marry you.”

“Yeah,” he said, “but they only want me for my apples.”

Before they returned to the house, total blackness had descended on the orchard. Without benefit of a moon, they slowly, blindly picked their way along the dirt road.

“You sure you know where you're going?” Maggie asked.

“Of course I know where I'm going. This is my apple orchard.”

“There aren't any bears around here, are there?”

“The closest thing we have to a bear is Bubba, and he's pretty much harmless. Of course, if you're afraid you can come cuddle up to me, and I'll protect you.”

“I thought you weren't making any more moves.”

“If I'm not breathing heavy, it doesn't count as a move.” He groped for her hand in the darkness. “Give me your hand, and I'll make sure you get home safe and sound.”

She slid her hand into his, not because she was afraid, but because, even though his reputation left something to be desired, she
liked him enormously. He was fun and he was comfortable. And she liked the way her hand felt in his. It felt like it belonged there. She was feeling a little homesick for all of the things she used to hate about Riverside, and it was good to know that at least her hand was in the right place.

They crested a small hill and were greeted by a single dot of light. Elsie had put the porch light on before she'd gone off on her date. Hank guided Maggie to the front porch and opened the screen door.

“We forgot to lock up the house,” Maggie said. “We didn't even close the door.”

“I can't remember the last time I locked this house. I don't even know if I have a key.”

“My Lord, anyone could walk right in.”

“I guess that's true, but no one ever has. Except Bubba, of course. And Bubba wouldn't care if the door was locked. He'd just give it a good kick and that would be the end of that.”

“Don't you have any crime in Skogen?”

He switched the light on in the foyer. “Not since I promised to behave myself. And that was a good while ago.” He went into the kitchen and looked into the refrigerator. “I could use a pudding. How about you?”

Maggie got two spoons from the silverware drawer. “A pudding sounds great.” She sat across from him at the table and dug into her pudding. “What sort of crimes did you commit before going straight?”

“The usual teenage stuff. I borrowed a couple cars.”

“Borrowed?”

“Technically I guess I stole them. But they were my father's. And I always returned them with a full tank of gas.”

“Anything else?”

“Got a few speeding tickets. Got caught buying beer with a forged ID a couple times.”

“I know you're saving something good for last.”

“There was this thing about Bucky Weaver's barn, but it really wasn't my fault.”

Maggie cocked an eyebrow. “Am I going to need another pudding to see me through this?”

“Wouldn't hurt.”

She took the last two puddings out of the refrigerator and gave one to Hank.

“It was a deciding factor in whether or not I should try pro hockey,” he said. “Actually I had my choice of hockey or the army.”

“Uh-huh.”

A splash of color appeared on his cheeks. He really wasn't enjoying this, but he wanted to tell her before she heard it somewhere else. His whole childhood had been a struggle for in dependence. In fact, looking back, he thought his childhood had been a struggle for survival. There'd been no room in his father's rigid lifestyle for a little boy with chocolate on his face. His father had no patience with a seven-year-old who couldn't color inside the lines, or a fourteen-year-old who couldn't tie a perfect Windsor knot, or a seventeen-year-old who was put into remedial reading because it was finally discovered he had dyslexia.

Every time Hank failed by his father's standards, the rules and restrictions grew tighter. And the more rules his father imposed, the more Hank had rebelled. If he wasn't going to get approval, then he sure as hell was going to get attention.

After a couple of years on his own knocking around the hockey circuit he'd grown up, thank heaven. Now he set his own moral standards and imposed his own rules of conduct. The only approval he needed was his own. Until Maggie. Falling in love, he discovered, brought with it a whole new set of needs and responsibilities.

He looked at Maggie sitting across from him and took a deep breath. “One night, about a week before graduation, I persuaded Bucky's daughter, Jenny, to meet me in the barn behind her house. We had a six-pack of beer. We were up in the loft and it was dark, so I lit the kerosene lantern. Bucky saw the light go on and thought he had a thief in his barn. I don't know what he thought the thief was stealing, because the barn was empty except for about twelve years' worth of pigeon droppings. Anyway, he got his old bear gun down from the mantel and blasted the hell out of his barn.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

Hank grinned. “No. But he hit the lantern and burned his barn down.”

Maggie clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. “It must have been terrible,” she finally managed.

He was relieved she could see the humor in it. It hadn't been too funny at the time, and years later, when he'd returned to Skogen, people were still telling the story about the time Bucky Weaver burned his barn down. “It was a turning point in my life,” he told her. “I had to leave Skogen, and it was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“But you came back.”

He shrugged. “It's home.”

Maggie wasn't sure she felt the same way about Riverside. She'd been born and raised there, and she felt a flurry of homesickness from time to time, but she wasn't sure it was home.

“Couldn't home be somewhere else? Isn't there any place else you'd like to live?”

He stared at the four empty pudding dishes on the table. He hadn't really given it much thought. At least not in a long time. Home had always been his granny's house, even when he was a kid. This was where he'd laughed and played and felt safe. After his granny had died and he'd moved into her house, he'd realized it wasn't the house that had made it a home. It had been his granny. Now Maggie made it a home. Home was with Maggie, and he supposed it could be anywhere in the world. He found it astonishing that he could feel that way about a woman he'd known less than a week.

“I guess one place would be as good as another,” he told her, “but it's hard to move a hundred and ten acres of apple trees. They don't pack well.”

 

It was dark in Maggie's room. The window was open, but there was no breeze to stir the curtains, no moon to splash silvery light across her floor. She'd come awake fast with her heart pounding in her chest, her throat tight with fear. She was afraid to open her eyes. Afraid to move. Afraid the intruder would notice her altered breathing pattern. She tried to think, but her mind was a blind alley that had no outlet for her panic.

Someone was in her room. She could feel it. She
knew
he was there. Clothing rustled. A board creaked in the floor. Her eyes flew open in time to see a shadow move toward the door. It was a man, and her first thought was of Hank. Let it be Hank, she prayed.

The shadow hurried into the dark hall and Maggie heard Horatio growl. The sound came from deep in the dog's throat, low and threatening. He was moving slowly and stealthily across the floor, stalking the man. Maggie felt as if the house were holding its breath, and then all hell broke loose as Horatio bolted out of the bedroom. The intruder thundered down the stairs; his only concern to escape from the dog.
Maggie was out of bed. She ran into the hall and saw Hank disappear down the stairwell after Horatio. A bloodcurdling scream carried from the front lawn, and then there was the sound of a car door slamming and a car being gunned down the driveway.

Maggie met Hank in the foyer. She reached out for him with a shaking hand, and found nothing but warm skin to hang on to. He'd only taken the time to pull on a pair of jeans. She flattened against him in her cotton nightshirt, and, to her own disgust, began to cry.

“He was in my room! I woke up, and he was moving around in my room! I don't know what he was doing, or how long he'd been in there—”

She was babbling, but she couldn't help it. It was the first time in her life she'd ever felt truly frightened. The first time she'd felt endangered and helpless.

Now that it was over, she was shaking from the inside out. She clamped her teeth together to keep them from chattering and pressed her forehead against Hank's chest. She was hysterical, she thought…and she hated it. She stiffened her spine, pulled away from him, and took several deep breaths.

“Okay,” she said. “I'm better now.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “You must think I'm an idiot, bursting into tears like some wimp.”

Hank eased her back to him. “If I'd known you'd turn to me in terror like that, I'd have hired someone to break into your room last night.”

He kissed her hair and smoothed his hands along the curve of her spine, feeling her warmth creep through the thin cotton. His arms wrapped around her, bringing her closer until she was snug against him. He'd given her a glib answer, but he didn't feel so casual inside. He was furious that someone had violated his house, and he was horrified that the intruder had been in Maggie's room.

Maggie splayed her hand flat to his chest. “Your heart is racing.”

“It's your nightie.”

She gave him a playful slap, but he held tight. “I'm not ready to let go yet,” he told her. “If you want to know the truth, I'm probably more scared than you are. The thought of some
slime
bug crawling around in your room has my stomach churning.”

He buried his face in her hair and swore to
himself that this wouldn't happen again. As soon as the sun came up, he'd install locks on the doors, and from now on Horatio would sleep with Maggie.

Elsie came grumbling into the foyer. She was wearing big blue fuzzy slippers and a long blue house coat, and her short, steel-gray hair was standing on end in crazy, electrified-looking tufts.

“What the devil's going on out here? Sounded like someone was dropping bowling balls down the stairs. Men screaming outside, dogs barking. I'm an old lady. I need my sleep.”

“Someone broke into the house,” Maggie said. “He was sneaking around in my room, and then Horatio chased him down the stairs.”

Elsie's mouth dropped open. “If that don't beat all.” Her eyes narrowed and her lips thinned in a tight smile. “Well, I'd like to see him try that again. I'll be waiting for him from now on. I know how to protect myself, you know.”

“Where's Horatio?” Maggie asked. “Is he okay?”