Out in the Country (9 page)

“I know so,” John said firmly. “We can get a town meeting together to discuss it. We want to be here for you, Lynne.” He paused, and Lynne felt a tremor of awareness ripple through her as he added, “
I
want to be here for you.”

CHAPTER FOUR

“So when should I expect some competition?”

Jessica looked up from her cup of coffee and the recipe ideas she’d been doodling on the back of her napkin. Mark Sheehan stood by her table at the Mountain Café, a coffee pot in hand, smiling easily. “Competition?” she repeated rather blankly, and he chuckled.

“This bed and breakfast of yours.”

“It’s Lynne’s--”

“You’re doing the cooking, right? So at least the breakfast part is yours. Fifty percent.”

Jess smiled ruefully. She hadn’t thought of it that way, had barely begun to get her head round the fact that she was staying at all. “Yes, I suppose...”

Mark’s eyes twinkled as he refreshed her coffee. Jess glanced at him as he poured. He was friendly and attractive in a a self-assured way that was so similar to Rob. Jess knew Mark was a city transplant, and it showed. Even after several years in Hardiwick, he hadn’t lost that urban edge. Now he gave her a sidelong glance, making her blush because she’d been so obviously studying him.

“So what made you decide to up sticks and move out here, anyway?” he asked. Jess’s fingers tightened around her mug and she took a fortifying--and stalling--sip.

“I suppose I could ask the same question of you.”

Mark shrugged. “I got tired of the city’s rat race. I had a restaurant there and it did fairly well. I didn’t exactly take Manhattan by storm, but it was a thriving business.” He lapsed into silence for a moment, and Jess wondered if she should ask. Press. She didn’t want people nosing into her life, her failures and mistakes, so why should Mark? Yet the intimacy of the nearly deserted restaurant--it was in the slow period between breakfast and lunch when the only sound was the rattle of the window panes in a sudden gust of October wind--compelled conversation.

“And?” she finally asked, keeping her voice light. Mark shrugged again.

“A failed marriage made me wake up a bit. I didn’t want to keep doing the same thing for twenty more years, and Linda and I had come up here for holiday a few times. I saw this space was for sale, and there was a niche in Hardiwick’s bustling economy...” His rueful grin didn’t quite cover the pain of loss in his eyes. “So I sold my restaurant in New York, and it was enough to get going with this place and buy a house for myself. Start over.”

Jess nodded slowly. So Mark had a Linda, and she had a Rob. And they were both starting over.

“Your turn.” Mark straddled the chair opposite her, resting his elbows on its back, the coffee pot forgotten on the sideboard. “Why did you decide to move here, Jessica?”

“I haven’t moved yet,” she protested instinctively.

Mark raised his eyebrows. “Is it still in question?”

Jess shrugged. She could feel a blush creeping up her neck and staining her cheeks. She wasn’t ready to answer these kinds of questions. There hadn’t been enough time to develop Mark’s careless insouciance to cover the pain. “Same as you, really,” she finally said, inwardly wincing at how brittle her voice sounded. “Except for the marriage bit. We never got that far.”

“Ah.” Mark was silent, and Jess kept her eyes on her coffee, turning the colourful mug round and round in her hands. She didn’t want to look at Mark; she knew she couldn’t bear to see sympathy, or worse pity, on his face. “Well, how about we do a deal?” he asked after a moment, his voice brisk. Jess looked up in surprise.

“A deal?”

“Yes. I’ll recommend customers to your b&b for a weekend, if you’ll refer them here for dinner. I won’t even attempt to lure your breakfast customers away.”

Jess managed a small smile. “Very generous of you.”

“Isn’t it? Are you having business cards made up?”

“I suppose.” For a moment Jess pictured the glossy cards she’d helped design for the hotel in Perthshire. She’d never picked them up from the printer’s, and she imagined them lying on some dusty shelf, abandoned, forgotten. Unneeded. “To tell the truth, it’s early days yet,” she said to Mark. “We’re still working out the zoning laws and all that.”

Mark waved a hand. “You’ll get round that. And in the meantime, perhaps we could get together to exchange recipes?” His eyes glinted with that knowing twinkle Jess couldn’t decide if she liked or not. “Not the super secret ones, just a few new ideas to keep us both fresh?” His voice was light with an inviting lilt that made Jess blush again. She was forty-six and acting like a schoolgirl.

“I’m sure that would be lovely,” she said. Her voice was sounding brittle again. She rose from the table, taking out her purse to pay her bill. “I need to get back--” actually she didn’t-- “but perhaps we can arrange a time at a later date?”

“Lovely,” Mark agreed, echoing her, and from the deepening twinkle in his eyes Jess had a feeling he was teasing her. Gently. He took out his pad of paper from his apron and scrawled a few words. “Consider this one on the house, as a welcome to Hardiwick.”

“I couldn’t--”

“But I can.” He ripped off the paper and handed it to her. “See you soon, Jessica.”

It wasn’t until she was outside that Jess looked at what she’d supposed to be a bill. Instead she saw with an uneasy thrill it was Mark’s phone number.

“Miss?”

Molly looked up from the papers she’d been grading to see one of her tenth graders standing uncertainly, even shyly, by her desk. She glanced at the clock above the classroom door and saw school had let out ten minutes ago. She’d been so busy--or perhaps just so tired--that she hadn’t even been aware of
the bell ringing or the steady stream of restless humanity streaming towards the exit.

“Yes...” Her weary mind groped for a name and finally came up with one. “Tonya?”

“I was wondering if you had any more poems by the guy who wrote about the raisin?”

“The raisin,” Molly repeated blankly before her mind caught up and she smiled. “You mean Langston Hughes. Yes, I have a whole book of his poetry.” She reached down to dig in the leather bag by her feet, her fingers curling around a slim, battered volume of poetry. “Did you like that poem?”

“Uh-huh.” Tonya nodded. “I think I’m like the last, though.” She blushed, scuffing her trainer along the tiled floor.

“The last,” Molly repeated, thinking of the poem:
What happens to a dream deferred?/Does it dry up /like a raisin in the sun? /Or fester like a sore-- /And then run? /Does it stink like rotten meat? /Or crust and sugar over-- /like a syrupy sweet?/Maybe it just sags like a heavy load/Or does it explode?
“Explode?” she guessed softly. Tonya nodded.

“Do you ever feel that way? Like everything inside you is going to... pop out? And there’s nothing you can do about it?”

Molly gazed at the fifteen year old girl with her intricately braided hair and gold hoop earrings, her faded sweatshirt and torn jeans and her now-bright eyes as she searched for understanding. Something caught at her heart and penetrated through the fog of tiredness she’d
enveloped herself in.
“Sometimes,” she agreed, although at the moment she felt like the second to last line in the poem, sagging with a heavy load. She’d never been this tired before, mind and body.
She smiled at Tonya. “Sometimes it feels like there’s nowhere for all those feelings to go.”

Tonya nodded eagerly. “That’s why I like that poem--I feel like he gets it, you know?”

Molly nodded. “I know. That’s the wonderful thing about poetry.”

“Does that guy have any other poems like that?”

Molly flipped through the little book. “Why don’t you borrow this and find out for yourself? You might like another of his poems about dreams--and not letting them go.” She held the book out, and after a moment Tonya took it shyly.

“Thanks, Miss Marshall.”

“You’re welcome, Tonya.” Molly smiled, feeling for a moment as if that heavy load had been lifted, or at least lightened. “Let me know if you’d ever like to borrow any other books, or even just talk about the poems. I love Langston Hughes.”

“Okay.” Tonya nodded, smiling shyly. “I’ll do that.”

Molly watched her go, the book clutched to her chest. She was still gazing into space, going over the conversation, when Luke appeared in the doorway.

“Still here, newbie? Surely there’s a more comfortable place to grade papers.”

“Only if I want to lug them all home.” Molly couldn’t quite keep from smiling; she was glad to see Luke, and that realisation was tinged with a little guilt. Surely she shouldn’t be quite so glad if he was just a friend?

Luke sauntered over and glanced at her pile of papers, many of them covered in red pen. “My, you are thorough. You could just write ‘Nice try’ on the top and be done with it.”

Molly arched one eyebrow. “And is that what you do?” Despite Luke’s indifferent attitude, she’d begun to suspect that he cared about his students more than anyone could ever know.

Luke grinned. “Only sometimes.” He rifled through the pile before putting it into a neat stack. “It looks like you’re over halfway through. Give yourself a break and let me buy you a cup of coffee.”

“All right,” Molly agreed, the prospect brightening an already improving afternoon. She slid the papers into her bag and grabbed her coat from her chair.

“No boyfriend visiting this weekend?” Luke asked casually as they left Cooper High and headed down the street, dry leaves swirling along the pavement.

Molly tensed, but she kept her voice light. “I’m not sure, actually. We haven’t spoken in a few days. He’s planning on coming sometime soon, though.”

Luke slid her a thoughtful glance. “Problems?”

“None of your business,” Molly shot back, but she smiled to take the sting from her words. They bounced off Luke anyway, as she knew they would; he just grinned
lazily.

“No, it isn’t, but I imagine you’re having quite different experiences.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s in--where? Vermont?”

“New Hampshire, actually,” Molly replied, ignoring the little sting of uneasy guilt just the mention of Vermont caused within her. Her mother wanted her to visit, too.

“Wherever.” Luke waved a hand in dismissal. “He’s probably got a research grant and is spending his days poring over dusty old books in the back room of a college library before he heads out to the local for a drink with his pals, and he as no idea of what you’re having to deal with on a daily basis.”

Molly shifted her bag to her other shoulder, not wanting to acknowledge how Luke’s summary so matched her own often resentful thoughts. “Maybe so, but we’re both living our dreams.” Not deferring them, like in the poem. Yet what happened when dreams didn’t turn out the way you expected them to, Molly wondered a little bleakly. Did they sag or explode then? Or just quietly fade away, leaving you with nothing?

“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” Luke replied. He slung a friendly arm around her shoulders, and Molly was conscious of its heavy, comforting weight. “You had a good day today, then?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. A student came to see me right before you did,” Molly said, and then told him all about Tonya’s visit.

“Tonya Foster?” Luke frowned.
“She’s got into trouble more than once. Shoplifting, nicking things from other students--”

“Maybe that’s because she’s frustrated,” Molly returned robustly. “She obviously connected with the poem--”

Luke gave her a shoulder a squeeze that managed to send shivers straight down her arm. “Good for her, Molly. And good for you--it’s those moments that make it worth it, isn’t it? But,” he added with a glimmer of a smile, “watch your bag.”

“So.” John sat across from Lynne, a packet of papers spread out on the kitchen table before them. “I’ve organised a town meeting to go over the zoning laws this Friday. Will you be able to make it?”

Lynne smiled, a cautious optimism checking the fatigue of the last few days. “I’d better be, hadn’t I?”

“That’s the spirit.” John smiled and lightly touched Lynne’s hand, removing it before she even had time to properly register the gesture. “You look tired.”

“I feel tired. There’s just so much to do, to think about--”

“You don’t have to tackle it all at once,” John said gently and Lynne smiled in rueful acknowledgment.

“I know. But it’s hard to keep my mind from buzzing.” She rose from the table, conscious of the strange, new intimacy of being alone in a sun-dappled kitchen with a man. It was silly to feel this way, she told herself as she bustled around the room, putting mugs in the dishwasher and turning off the coffeemaker. John was just being a good friend, for Adam’s sake. Not necessarily for hers. Yet as she wiped the kitchen counter for a second time, taking slow, careful swipes, she was conscious of his considering gaze on her.

“How is Graham?” John asked after a moment, his voice mild and easy.

“Doing better than anyone could have expected.” Lynne turned back to John and tried to match his tone. “He came home yesterday, as you know, and it’s hard to keep him down. I think he’d be over here if he could, with a hammer and a hard hat.”