Harmony (7 page)

Tom's brows thoughtfully lifted, and he exchanged glances with Shay, who'd been examining mailboxes.

“You aren't going to paint your side red knowing she's set on painting hers yellow?” Shay lifted the flap of a rectangular box. “You ought to get one of these. Then you won't have to go to the post office.”

“I can get one if I save money on the paint. Ninety cents compared to five forty. I'd be an idiot not to.”

“You're an idiot if you do.” Peering into the mailbox's interior, Shay said to the depths, “What do you think she'll do when she sees you slapping up red next to her yellow? I think you should get yellow, too.” The lid flapped into place, and he examined the price tag. “Sixty-five cents.”

“I think you've gone soft in the head. Ever since you made that redhead faint two days ago.”

“I felt bad about that.” He set the nickel mailbox on the purchasing counter with Tom's small order. “Never thought my face could cause a woman to swoon.”

“One whiff of ammonia, and she came around. Saw you standing over her,” Tom chuckled, “and she about went under again.”

“Yeah, figure that. I said I was sorry.” Shay fingered his stubble. “She was a good-looking woman when she wasn't fidgeting. That hair color of hers reminded me of desert sunrise after a night of rain.”

“You're turning poetic, Shay.” Tom picked up two gallons of red paint and carried them to the cash register. “Her father's the lawyer I saw.”

“Stykem?”

“Yep.” After retrieving one more gallon, Tom reached into his back pocket for his billfold. “She's his secretary.”

Shay's mouth lifted in appreciation. “Damn, a woman with a mind.”

“I wouldn't go that far. When I saw her, she was battling a typewriter—and losing.”

“Nobody's perfect.” Shay met him at the counter, and shot him a hard gaze. “You're really going to buy the red?”

“I really am,” Tom replied with a satisfied smile.

“You mud-snot,” Shay said, good-naturedly badgering him. “You're enjoying this.”

“As much as I can. Maybe I'll irritate her so much, she'll close up shop and go home, where a woman belongs.”

Although he hated to admit that if she did, he'd be sorry the game between them would end so soon—because he could pull a fast one just as easily as she. She'd made the first move today, an underhanded, sneaky double-cross—one that he'd thought of himself but discounted because it was extreme foul play.

The tip-off had been catching her and Ab Trussel in a suspicious huddle this morning on the boardwalk in front of his house. Tom held back behind the cover of a lilac bush across the street to see what was what. When they broke up, Trussel had a secret grin on his face, and Miss Huntington beamed with pleasure from beneath the netting of her hat. Waiting until she entered the hardware store, Tom then approached Trussel, who had begun to walk down Dogwood Place.

“Hey, Ab,” Tom said in greeting, falling into step with the carpenter.

Trussel's stride faltered a beat as soon as he gazed at Tom. The tools in his case rattled, and he gripped the strap tighter against his chest. “Mr. Wolcott, I'm on my way to the warehouse right now to do a rough-in on the wall with my chalk line.”

“I figured you were headed there. I saw you talking with Miss Huntington.” Tom casually slipped his hands into his pants pockets. “From the looks of it, she gave you some special instructions.”

“No,” the carpenter shot back quickly. “She didn't say a thing.”

Tom was going to have to use the back-door approach. “I was up near Baskin Falls last weekend. The lake is made for hunters. It has wide ditches around the perimeter, and they're grown in with willow and cattails. You should have seen the water. Damn thick with ducks. A man could do a lot of pass shooting if he had the
right decoys and calls. Get himself five hundred ducks in one day.”

“Five hundred ducks!”

“Mallards, canvasbacks, and some redheads. I saw all three.”

“Five hundred, you say?”

“With the right decoys and calls.” Tom absently fingered a matchstick in the lining of his pocket. “As I recall, you said you were a duck-hunting man.”

“Indeed I am. Haven't been out yet this year because of my workload—”

“Hell of a lot of ducks at Baskin Falls,” Tom said with enticing zeal. “You'd be up to your ass in them.”

“Meat packers back East pay seven dollars a pair for canvasbacks and even pick up the cold freight charge.” Trussel eyed him with an expression of gleeful calculation. “I could make over fifteen hundred dollars if I got lucky.”

“At least.”

Tom's hand came down on Ab's shoulder and stopped him dead in his tracks. “I tell you what. When I get the store opened, you come see me and I'll give you a few of the newest duck calls to take up to the lake. You tell me if they can perform like the manufacturer says.”

Ab's eyes widened with his musing. “Have you got that new super raspy model in? Or better yet, the double cluck? A man could lure himself a lot of canvasbacks with the double cluck. You know, I read they still blow when they're wet.”

“You're absolutely right. A hunter can't miss with either the Sure Shot or the Duck Master. And Ab, I've got them both.” Tom gave the man's back a few hearty pats. “So what's Miss Huntington up to?”

The light in Trussel's gaze dulled. Hesitation marked his facial features a moment, then he blurted out, “She promised me a case of Marvel-Anne's spiced plum preserves if I gave her side of the warehouse an extra foot. Being a bachelor, I don't have anyone to can fruit for
me. And I like plums, so the temptation . . . um . . . it was . . . there.”

Curses formed in Tom's mouth, but he didn't utter them. Instead, he feigned sympathy through gritted teeth. “I'm sorry she asked you to do that, Ab. You know that she paid Murphy fifty dollars more than I did, so she thinks she's entitled. But the fact of the matter is, the lawyer handling this case says it's unlawful to modify the property in favor of one or the other party. So you have to keep that line right down the middle—fifty-fifty.”

“That's what I told her, but she said you'd never notice—”

“I'd notice.”

“What do you think I should do?”

“Let her think you did what she asked.”

“But what if she measures the distance and finds out I didn't?”

“Women don't possess the common sense to measure the distance of anything. She'll take your word for it.” Reaching out to seal the deal with a handshake, Tom pumped Ab's arm.

Doubt furrowed the man's brows, so Tom had to go the extra mile. “As soon as you finish the job, I'll give you a dozen Reliable Bob decoys. Take the spiced plums if you want them, but keep your mind on those five hundred ducks. Seven dollars a pair? You're going to be a rich man.”

Trussel got a face-splitting grin on his lips. “I might just be at that.”

Tom had watched the carpenter continue on with a light step in his walk, his head obviously filled with canvasbacks and greenbacks.

Now standing in the hardware store and knowing what Edwina planned for the color of her exterior, Tom could play dirty, too. She'd started the war, but he'd win the first skirmish.

•  •  •

Great cumuli floated on a deeply blue sky. Yellowing leaves drifted from the oaks, falling on the expanse of property behind the warehouse and in the weedy ditches beyond where goldenrod was turning gray.

Inside the building, Edwina's side remained toasty from the heater she and Marvel-Anne had Mr. Trussel bring over. A pot of rich hot chocolate rested on the burner to stay warm. Extra mugs had been packed in a snack hamper with Mr. Trussel . . . and another . . . in mind. The carpenter had just finished framing the entryway for Edwina's school and needed only to hang the door. Already he'd marked off the dividing boundary. The white line, boldly imprinted on the floorboards, gave Edwina's stomach a pang of conscience rather than a sense of victory.

She hadn't liked resorting to trickery, but she'd had no choice. Since she'd paid more for the property, she should be entitled to more square feet. Her direct speech to Mr. Wolcott about how she felt had fallen on deaf ears, so now she had to handle the matter herself, guilty as she might feel. In any case, what was done was done. Mr. Trussel said he would begin constructing the wall tomorrow.

As the leaves sifted quietly to the ground, Edwina painted the exterior wall around the window. Careful not to drip the yellow, she made sure the brush dipped sparingly into the bucket on the ladder shelf. Standing several rungs up, she could see Tom Wolcott coming down the road from the livery. He carried the front half of a black bear mounted on a wall plaque. The two forelegs had been stuffed to give the appearance that the bear had been shot midattack; both limbs were raised high and had claws spread. Teeth were bared in the muzzle, the mouth open and tongue curled.

He saw her, and rather than go around his corner of the building, he strode across the back through the oak grove. To her displeasure, vanity bested her. The old duster she wore to keep the paint from damaging her shirtwaist and skirt was worn thin and transparent at the
elbows. An unadorned straw hat covered her hair, which she had plaited in two heavy braids down her back. She hadn't wanted to be bothered by the multitude of pins required to keep her pompadour in place—not to mention that the mass of hair piled high on her crown more often than not gave her a headache.

Stilling the brush in her hand, she bit back saying something cheeky about the dead bear in Mr. Wolcott's arms. After she and Marvel-Anne had brought Mr. Trussel the spiced plums in the cover of darkness following last night's supper, she vowed from that moment on to be an amiable business neighbor because she had fairness—by the measure of one foot—on her side.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Wolcott.”

“Miss Huntington.” His gaze lifted to hers, the bear shifting in his arms so that the bulk of it rested on his shoulder.

“I see you're moving in.”

“The trophy wall is.”

“How nice,” she replied, though she really thought a trophy wall nonsensical and bigheaded.

“You nail up the stretch of string down the back of the building?”

“No, Mr. Trussel did that for me. I didn't want to accidentally paint over the line on your side. He's strung a length down the front of the building as well.” She dabbed a little of the yellow beneath the eaves, incorporating a spider's threads in the paint. “You wouldn't be thinking about painting your side, too, would you, Mr. Wolcott?”

“Haven't given it any thought.”

“In case you do, this yellow is a lovely shade. It brightens up the entire area, don't you think?” He made no comment, so she proceeded in what she hoped was an inviting tone. “Mr. Kennison sells this color at the hardware store. Number two-oh-six.” Viewing the look of disinterest on his face, she hastily added, “It's reasonably priced.”

“I'll think about it.”

She wished he would think hard about the paint. Although the clapboards in their weathered state weren't altogether unappealing, with the ray of sunshine on her side and his still drab as a wet newspaper, the building took on a nonuniform appearance.

“Looks like you're doing a pretty good job. Painting sheets and everything.”

“You'll find, Mr. Wolcott, that I'm meticulously neat and organized.”

“I expect I may have to be subjected to that.”

She didn't like the dry tone in his reply, as if her tidiness were an offense rather than an admirable quality.

Since he wouldn't commit himself to purchasing the paint, she saw no reason to dally in conversation with him. Sinking the brush halfway into the bucket, then gingerly ridding the excess paint against the rim with a half-dozen neat passes, she proceeded with her task. He took the hint and went on his way.

Crouching slightly, she snagged a glimpse of him through the window as he entered the warehouse. Considering the expanse of the floorboards, the naked eye shouldn't have been able to tell anything was amiss. If he looked long and hard enough at the white chalk, he might detect the line was one foot in her favor. She, of course, had noticed the discrepancy immediately. But she had been pointedly looking for the difference.

Edwina straightened, then with tiny, even strokes, used up the paint on her brush. Dipping it into the nearly full can once again, she readied to smooth the bristles against the rim, when that odious bloodhound trotted up to her. Heedless of her painting sheets nicely draped over the ground, he trudged across them, leaving a track of mud prints and ruffling them away from the wall.

“Get away from here!” she shouted, forgetting that she held a wet brush in her hand. As she waved her arm at the dog, yellow splattered across the window. Horrified, she gazed at the globs of paint marring the fresh
white sashes and clean panes. In a slow drip, they began to run down the glass squares. “Look at what you made me do!”

A face other than her own reflected in the window. Tom Wolcott looked out from the inside with arms folded across his chest and a grin on his mouth that she wanted to slather with number two-oh-six.

“Mr. Wolcott,” she said loudly. “Your dog is out here.”

The grin turned into a comfortable curve. “He usually is.” Then the man had the audacity to walk away.

Twenty minutes later, she still fumed at him and at Barkly, who kept running through the surrounding leaves at a breakneck speed, chasing after squirrels and making a hideous baying sound. She hadn't thought a dog of his size could move so fast. At one point, he tried to climb a tree. She'd smiled to herself, thinking her precious Honey Tiger superior to him. Her beloved kitty could scale the branches with no problem. All Barkly managed to do was stir up the leaves. Then he rolled in their crispiness until that got tiring, too. Finally, he sprawled out, tongue lopped to the side, and began to gnaw on acorns.