Forgotten Boxes (12 page)

None of those thoughts entered Charity’s besotted brain. The
only thing even remotely in danger was her heart. It might pump out of her chest
at any moment.

They turned away from the gift shop, toward the tree line. Leaves
had already begun to fall, crunching beneath their feet as Tarn guided her up the
gently sloping hillside.

“Tell me about your trees,” she said. Even she recognized the
majority of the trees they traipsed through were maples.

“Have about fifteen thousand mature maple trees, most of them
sugar maples. Need to be about forty years old, ten or so inches around at chest
level, to harvest. On a good year, have about eight thousand taps running.”

“That sounds like a huge number.”

“Decent size operation,” he shrugged with modesty. “We’re fortunate
to have an old growth forest, with plenty of king pines and ash trees mixed in with
the maples. Spend a fair amount of time, pulling ash leaves up around the base of
the maples to help hold in the moisture. As water draws up through the roots of
the trees, it comes through the maple fibers, which is what creates the sap.”

“And you have to go around and hang those little buckets off
all of them?” she asked in amazement.

His rich laughter poured over her like dark, sweet syrup. “Not
anymore,” he assured her. “We use the easier, more sanitary method of plastic tubing.”

“Tubing?”

“Connects together like a giant spider web, one tube flowing
into another on a down-hill grade. Gravity keeps it flowing, all the way to the
collection vats. Stainless steel holding tanks are scattered through the woods,
but the big vats are down by the sugarhouse.”

She could listen to him talk all day. She found everything he
said fascinating, partly because of the content, partly because of his voice. Caught
up in the beauty of the sound, she gazed over at him. She didn’t see the stick protruding
from the ground and stumbled clumsily over it, almost falling.

“Careful there,” he warned, immediately putting a hand to her
back to steady her. It felt so right, he kept it there as they started to walk again.
“You don’t want to turn your ankle and have to be carried down.”

“Then we’d both be crippled!” she quipped.

“A little thing like you?” he frowned in confusion.

Little? The man called her
little
? Her heart warmed, right
along with her face.

“I’ve packed a moose out of these woods before!” he went on to
say. He glanced over at her and saw the expression on her face. “I-I didn’t mean…”
he stammered in mortification.

Instead of being offended, Charity was amused. “Not the most
flattering thing a man has ever said to me, comparing me to a moose, but I’ll let
it slide. This time,” she teased.

“Honestly, I didn’t…”

“I’m teasing, Tarn. I know you didn’t mean anything by it. Now
tell me more about your forest.”

“Bossy little thing, aren’t you?” he said.

He called her little again. He could accuse her of being a drill
sergeant for all she cared, especially when his voice turned into smooth maple cream
as he returned her teasing.

He told her more about his trees and the age-old process involved
in gathering sap, modernized by only a few technological advances.

“But you have to drill all those holes by hand?”

“We use a small gas-powered drill, but yes, we still have to
manually select the tree and the best spot to drill.”

“You don’t just use the same holes, over and over?”

“Can’t. Have to drill a new hole every year so they won’t draw
air. Drill in about an inch and a half, then put the tap in about an inch deep,
leaving a reservoir in the back.”

The path grew steeper and Charity was a bit out of shape, her
breathing becoming a bit labored. Tarn noticed and asked in concern, “You okay?”

“I’m good. I may or may not have eaten most of that jar of maple
cream in the past week,” she admitted sheepishly. “I might have added five or ten
pounds since I got here.”

His eyes slid over her in silent appreciation. When he realized
what he was doing, he was clearly embarrassed. He paused as they reached a large
tree some two feet in diameter. “See this?” he said, his voice a bit gruff as he
diverted the subject. “This is an old tap hole. So is this. And around here, you’ll
see another.”

He fingered each scar as he pointed them out. Their hands collided
on the third hole as she reached out to feel the spot for herself. She gasped lightly,
while he pulled in a sharp breath. The air zinged with awareness as their fingers
lingered.

“Charity,” he began, his voice low. “About the other day… I don’t
normally…”

“Neither do I.” She broke in, eager to reassure him of her own
ethics.

“It was just so…” He tried to think of the word to describe what
he felt that day, what he was feeling right now. There were no words.

“I know,” she whispered. She stared into his eyes, studying the
dark limbal ring and tiny flecks of brown, feeling as if she were falling into their
depths. If his eyes truly were a mountain tarn, she would be drowning right this
minute.

His gaze dropped to her mouth. His eyes traced the nervous path
of her pink tongue as she moistened her lips. “This is crazy,” he mumbled hoarsely.

“Insane,” she agreed.

He stepped closer. She watched his mouth move beneath the mustache,
loving the rumble of his voice as he said, “We barely know each other.”

“You’re the most interesting man I’ve ever met in my life.” She
wished he would stop staring at her mouth, so that she could gaze into his eyes.

“You’re the easiest woman to talk to I’ve ever known.”

“I want to know more about you. About your mountain. About your
sugarworks.” Charity placed her hand on his chest, loving the strong thump of his
heartbeat and the way it quickened beneath her touch. “About you,” she said softly.

She thought he might have even growled. It was the deep, satisfied
sound of surrender, of accepting — and welcoming — the inevitable. He reached for
her then, and beneath his large hands, her waist felt small.

The kiss in the parking lot had been sweet but brief. This kiss
was longer, deeper. Sweeter. So sweet, in fact, that Charity heard herself whimper
as he pulled her close to his solid form and wrapped her in a warm, tender, strong
embrace. She felt herself melting, oozing into the chest to which she clung.

They stood beneath a two-hundred-year-old tree, in the middle
of a forest, swaddled in one another’s embrace as they lost themselves to the taste
and feel of the other. Everything about the moment, everything about the day, was
exhilarating. The sun beamed warm upon her back. The arms holding her were solid
and oh-so-strong. The air was alive and vibrant, and full of promise. Charity wanted
the moment to last forever.

Tarn was the first to pull away. Having no shame, Charity made
a weak protest, deep in her throat. She kept her eyes tightly closed, wanting to
savor the moment, even as it ended.

He touched her cheek with thick, gentle fingers. Suddenly embarrassed,
she refused to look at him, bowing her head instead.

“Look at me,” he commanded gently. He smiled when she did so.
“I didn’t bring you here to ravish you. I brought you here to show you something.”

“O-Okay,” was all she could think to say.

Tarn couldn’t resist one more kiss, this one pressed gently into
her forehead. Then he took her hand in his large paw and pulled her on up the hill.

“Come on, Charity Gannon. Let me show you my kingdom.”

January 1984

Snow days were the worst.

Harold knew how to drive through the thick white powder. He never
minded peering through the white curtain as snowflakes fell, fat and thick, upon
the windshield of the delivery truck. He did not mind the cold that whipped in around
the loose seals of the truck’s folding door. He never dreaded trudging up mountain
roads with snowbanks piled high on either side, tall as the truck itself. He did
not mind sliding around treacherous curves and skidding on snow-slick pavement.
He prided himself on being an excellent driver, even in the worst of conditions.

It was not the snow itself that Harold hated. It was the time
it whittled from his schedule each day.

It had been days now since he had gotten off in time to swing
by Big G’s. Even with the holiday rush behind them, business had picked up at Kingdom
Parcel. More and more boxes appeared in the warehouse, literally overnight, already
loaded onto his truck and waiting by the time he arrived each morning. To keep up
with the progress, Debarge split the worker bees into two crews and hired a new
girl part-time in the office. He was looking for a second truck to buy, to take
some of the load off Harry. No president should have to work this hard, he told
Harry, but that was the price of success, after all. According to his partners,
Harold Tillman was such a brilliant businessman, he suffered from his own success.

Harry was not feeling so successful, though, as he wearily pulled
his truck beneath the detached awning at the side of the building and killed the
engine. A successful man, he grumbled to himself, would at least get to park in
the warmth of the warehouse, not brave the snow and elements to go inside. Driving
through the snow was one thing; walking through it was quite another.

It was already dark, already closer to Nell’s extended dinnertime
than Big G’s happy hour. He would be lucky to get home in time to have his meal
served hot and fresh. Even fine cooking like Nell’s suffered when it sat too long
on a burner.

Harry pushed open the side door to the warehouse, stomping the
snow from his boots as he stepped inside. He didn’t worry about making too much
noise. He had the place to himself. The first shift of worker bees had gone home
for the day, the late crew not yet arrived. Brenda and Evelyn would have gone home
long ago, and Debarge usually left around six. Galano made his own crazy schedule,
too erratic for Harry to keep up with, but his shiny new Mercedes wasn’t parked
out front.

As Harry started down the hall, he considered buying a new car
himself. Not that he would have much time to drive it, he thought with a grunt.
Not only did he work late most evenings, but he had also worked the past two Saturdays,
for crying out loud. Saturdays! What other company president worked Saturdays? According
to Galano’s glowing speech, this too had been his suggestion, another sign of his
innovation and hard work, but Harry was pretty sure such a horrible idea had never
entered his brain. What man in his right mind would willingly work on Saturday?

The whiskey bottle in his desk was woefully light as he pulled
it from the bottom drawer. A pathetic little trickle emptied into his glass, then
choked down to a scant drip. Not enough to warm a man through, Harry sneered, not
when he still had to get back on the roads and fight the snow.

Galano kept a fully stocked bar in his office. His door was normally
locked, but Harry was willing to check it out. Even if it required the aid of a
straightened paper clip, the lock might just give with the right persuasion. And
Harry sure was cold. He sure could use that drink.

Sure enough, a little jiggle of the paper clip, a little rattle
on the handle, and the door opened right up. Harry made a beeline for the liquor
cabinet. He even brought his own glass, so that he left no trace of ‘borrowing’
some of Galano’s fine stock. Might as well help himself to the good stuff, the top-quality
brandy Pascal favored.

He hadn’t intended to snoop. His only purpose was to pilfer enough
liquid warmth to make the cold trek home. But Galano’s chair looked so inviting.
It was new, one of those cushy leather ‘executive’ chairs; twice as large and padded
as the cheap rolling chair behind Harry’s desk. What would it hurt, trying it out?
Might as well drink the man’s liquor while sitting in his chair.

His desk was so much nicer, too, Harry noted. Big and heavy,
and full of drawers. To his surprise, most of them were locked. He discovered this
not because he was snooping; he just wondered if the drawers slid as smoothly as
he suspected. One of the drawers on his own desk hung something terrible, but he
imagined these traveled on their runners like a well-oiled machine. The only one
not locked was the top drawer. And just as he suspected, it slid out with the slightest
of tugs.

“Hells bells, what is that?” Harry said in surprise. A thick
wad of bills lay there in plain sight, banded together with a rubber band. Harry
lifted the bundle out and ran his thumb over the ends, enough to fan the crisp edges.
A random assortment of tens, twenties, and even hundreds, all mixed up in no particular
order. At least a thousand dollars or so, tossed casually inside the drawer. Galano
probably didn’t even know the exact amount, or else he would have stacked the bills
in order. Meaning he would never know if it came up short twenty dollars.

Did he dare? Harry hesitantly put the bundle back. Taking the
man’s liquor was one thing; taking his cash was another.

It was probably the company’s money, wasn’t it? Galano was most
likely planning to make a deposit, first thing in the morning. There was no deposit
slip made out, probably because he had not counted it yet. So taking a twenty would
make no difference. And Harry
had
worked Saturday.

Maybe he should take two twenties, one for each of the days he
worked extra.

The bills slipped easily enough from the bundle. They were still
crisp and new. Harry loved the feel of new money. Loved the promise of hope it still
held. Loved the smell of new pleasure, new adventure the bill could buy. He brought
the money to his nose, sniffing deeply. Okay, so these didn’t smell. But that bottle
of whiskey a bill would buy should be plenty aromatic. And the other one? Harry
stuffed the money into his pocket, already thinking how to spend it. He would have
to pass Dan’s Market on the way home, and they always stocked a small selection
of liquor. He might just part with one of these little darlings tonight.

What was that they said?
Harry wondered, careful to leave
the desk and the chair in the same position he found them. He locked the door behind
him, emptying his glass with one last gulp as he stepped into the hall.
Easy
come, easy go.

He chuckled to himself as he returned to the front office and
tucked his glass away in the bottom drawer. Pascal always did say he was a man of
great quotes, and this one might be his best yet.

Easy come, easy go
. Especially when it involved a pilfered
twenty and a bottle of Jack.

***

“You have to work again
this
Saturday?” Nell wailed in
disappointment. “That’s three in a row!”

“I know, I know. Believe me, I’d much rather take you shopping
today, but we have some overnight deliveries that have to go out.”

“But I need to go to the market, and you know I don’t like driving
into Saint Jay, especially in the snow.”

“Can you get what you need at Dan’s?” Harry suggested, shrugging
into his coat. “If you can save the rest of it until next week, I’ll tell Galano
flat-out that I can’t work.”

“I suppose Dan’s could tide me over until next week,” she agreed
reluctantly. “They’ve added more to their meats and produce section, and of course
they’ve always had milk and bread.”

“There you go,” Harry smiled.
They also added to their liquor
line. Business must be good for the grocery industry, too.

Nell confirmed his thought when she said, “I heard Dan’s was
expanding, adding another store.”

“That’s good.”

“I also heard they took in a counterfeit bill last week.”

Harry wasn’t paying much attention. He pulled a cap onto his
head, snapping it under his chin, cocooning his long, thin face in warm fleece.
“Gotta watch out for things like that,” he mumbled, adjusting the fit to his liking.
“Not sure what time I’ll be in tonight. Might take a while.” Especially if he stopped
by Big G’s and spent that other twenty tucked away in his wallet.

“Who in the world does all this business on Saturday, anyway?
Can’t they wait until Monday like the rest of us?”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t pay attention to the names on the labels.
I just deliver the packages.”

“And you’re doing a fine job, Harry, a fine job. Have I told
you how proud I am of you, being such a successful businessman these days?” Nell
beamed up at her husband, straightening the wool scarf she looped around his neck.

“Ah, Nellie, you tell me that all the time,” he said, but his
chest swelled with pride.

“It’s true. Everyone in town is talking about it, saying how
often they see your truck zipping around the roads. They never mention your partners.
It seems everyone knows exactly who runs that entire operation, practically by himself.
You.” She pressed the word into his chest with her finger.

Maybe he should skip Big G’s, Harry thought, even if he got off
in time to stop by for a drink and a quick game of poker. Maybe he should take Nellie
out for supper. When was the last time they had gone out, anyway?

“I’m doing this for you, Nellie. For us.”

Nell beamed up at him. She had aged in the twelve years they
had been married, but when she smiled, he still saw traces of the young woman who
had turned his head. At times, he feared Nell could have done better for a
mate. Times when he thought she
deserved
better.

The thought followed him to the warehouse. Nell had been a real
trooper these past four months, never once complaining when he came in late. If
she noticed the whiskey on his breath, if she smelled the smoke that lingered on
his clothes when he had the rare chance to stop by Big G’s, she never said a word.
When one of her dinners burned from staying warm too long, when she waited dinner
on him only to discover he had picked up something in town, when he came in tired
and out of sorts, she never complained. Today was the most she had ever said, and
it was barely more than a grumble. Nellie was a champ, that was for sure.

The warehouse was almost deserted when Harry got there. Debarge
was in his office and the new girl Evelyn was at her tiny little desk in the front
room. As Harry climbed into his truck, he glanced over the list of delivery addresses,
thinking about Nell’s words. Exactly who did need their boxes in such a hurry?

He ran a long, thin finger down the list.

Dunn’s Garage, same as last week. And the week before, too, if
he wasn’t mistaken. The garage must have a booming business, Harry mused. That,
or a lot of impatient customers.

One box was going to an individual in a neighborhood Harry knew
to be rough and tumble. Why did a person from that part of town need an overnight
delivery? He shrugged, moving on down the list.

Five boxes were headed to Beecher Auto Parts. Harry seemed to
make deliveries to them on almost a daily basis. Before he started driving the truck,
he had never even heard of them, but he had seen for himself what a hopping business
they had. Cars and trucks zipped in and out of there every day. Harry was proud
to have a small part in their success, keeping them supplied with parts from…
who?
he wondered. Who sent all these parts, anyway? The Ford Company? Mitsubishi? General
Motors?

To satisfy his own curiosity, Harry crawled into the back of
the truck and looked at a few of the boxes. Several were shipped from M. Ash, right
here in the county. Several came from H.T. Motors, one county over. The other two
had a return address with the name Rose & Company. Now that Harry thought about
it, he had seen all three names on numerous packages in the past. Apparently, these
were some of their best customers. What was that he had dubbed them?
Oh, yeah,
Preferred Customers. Huh.

He crawled back into the driver’s seat and adjusted his mirrors.
As he fastened his seatbelt across his bulky coat and scarf, he saw Evelyn hurrying
down the steps, waving a fistful of letters to flag his attention.

“Mr. Tillman!” she called. “Please, sir, wait!”

Harry jerked the folding door open and waited for her to step
into the moderate warmth of the vehicle. “Mr. Debarge wanted you to drop these off
at the post office, sir, if you don’t mind.” Cheeks rosy with the cold, the dark-haired
young woman thrust the letters toward him.

“What are they?” Harry asked. He really knew very little about
the daily business of Kingdom Parcel, even less about their billing practices.

“Monthly bills, sir, for our customers with accounts.”

“I ‘magine there’s a hefty one in here for H.T. Motors,” he murmured,
thumbing through the stack idly.

“Who?”

“H.T. Motors. They’re one of our Preferred Customers.” He added
the last with an air of authority.

“I’m not familiar with them, sir,” Evelyn admitted.

Harry frowned. “I thought you worked in bookkeeping.”

“I do, sir,” the woman acknowledged. “I handle Accounts Receivable.”

“So you ought to know our best customers!” Harry chided.

The woman blushed. “Yes, sir, I’m trying. I’m quite familiar
with Jim’s Drug Store, The Book Club, and Kay’s Cosmetics. They are some of our
best repeat customers. But I don’t recognize H.T. Motors.” She offered a hopeful
suggestion to explain her lack of familiarity. “Perhaps they’re new? Or haven’t
shipped with us recently?”