LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

a lot. Dawn would like him, too, if she were here. “Well, it’s up to you. I’m not pushing. And it would be tough on limited time. You’d have to be up for a challenge.”

      “English is my best subject. How much do you charge?”

      “What are you, kidding? You’re Maude’s great-grandson.”

      “I don’t want a free ride.”

      “Well, we can work something out, then. Maybe you could help me with a few chores?”

      He nodded. “Okay. Sounds good.”

      She smiled, pleasantly surprised. “You mean we’re on?”

      “We’re on,” he said, extending a hand.

      She shook on it, feeling buoyant and knowing why. She could help this kid. And he was going to let her. “We can start tomorrow. My place at noon. Maude can tell you where.”

      “Great. See you then.”

      “You’ll see me sooner.” She jogged down the driveway, turned left onto the lane, and fell into an easy rhythm.

      She didn’t think she liked the man. Then again, she didn’t like any man. She didn’t trust them. But she liked his son. Maybe that was because looking at all the grief and loss in the boy’s eyes was like looking into a mirror. Or maybe it was because she knew that no matter how much the people in his life would like him to “get over it” there was no such thing. He could deny it, defy it, or learn to live with it. But he couldn’t get over it.

      God knew she never had.

      

      Mordecai had set himself up in one of the seven perfect Victorian homes situated in a neighborhood halfway between the towns of Blackberry and Pinedale. The houses had been purchased by some brilliant entrepreneur twenty-odd years ago, according to Mordecai’s research—he didn’t believe in going anywhere without all the information. The houses were rented out to wealthy families as vacation homes in the summer and to foliage-seeking tourists in the fall. In the winter, the skiing enthusiasts took over, and from February through March, they were inhabited by folks in town for the maple syrup season, and all the festivals and events it brought. In April the houses were closed for upkeep.

      The others were all occupied. This one should have been, too—by Oliver Abercrombie, who’d made his reservations six months in advance. Unfortunately for the late Mr. Abercrombie, he was the only tenant without an immediate family, or anyone else close enough to miss him right away.

      Mordecai had also learned that the school districts of the two tiny towns had merged a decade back, when the population of students had outgrown their buildings and the cost of educating them had outgrown the towns’ respective tax bases. Now the Pinedale-Blackberry Central School System had its elementary building in Pinedale and its high school in Blackberry. The towns were eight miles apart, and this hamlet—which wasn’t a town at all, but was called Bonnie Brook by the locals—was halfway between the two.

      Lizzie was a teacher. He expected to find her working in one of the schools. So getting into the school system would be his first order of business.

      This town was too quiet, he thought as he drove. It gave the voices too much silence in which to operate. When Mordecai was surrounded by noise and activity and people, they mostly kept quiet. But here, where the only sounds at night were the creaking of the old house and the gentle rustling of the October wind in the drying leaves…here they almost never went silent.

      They were whispering now, in the background of his thoughts as he drove slowly along the winding, narrow roads, among the Day-Glo yellow of the poplar trees. Whispering…

      She’s here, somewhere.

      You’re close, Mordecai. You’re very close.

      She was supposed to burn in the fire, you know. Eighteen years ago, when the government raided your compound and all those young women died. She was supposed to die with them.

      He frowned, and said aloud, “Maybe I was supposed to die with them, too.”

      You know you can’t die without leaving an heir, Mordecai.

      You need a child, someone to carry on your gifts, your work.

      He sighed, disappointed anew that his own biological daughter, his and Lizzie’s, had not turned out to be the one. Spirit had rejected her. Still, he loved her, in his way. He had set her free because of that love. But he yearned for another, his heir. Perhaps he would find that heir here.

      He turned the car’s steering wheel, leaving the poplar-lined lane for one that wound and twisted between rolling meadows, dotted by fat, slow-chewing Holsteins with swollen udders and huge eyes.

      He saw a woman running, jogging, along the road’s shoulder.

      She wore maroon warmup pants with a thin white stripe up the sides, and a white tank top that fit her like a second skin. The jacket that matched the pants was knotted around her waist, and her blond ponytail bounced with every step she took.

      That hair…

      “Lizzie?” he whispered, slowing the car to a crawl so he could get a good look at her when he drove by. But there was something decidedly un-Lizzie-like about this woman. The squared shoulders. The pumping of her clenched fists. The way she held her head, chin high. Her stride was powerful, almost aggressive.

      Slowly, he eased the car past her, then looked into the side mirror so he could see her face. But she’d stopped, was bending now, tying her shoe.

      Go on, Mordecai. Keep driving. You have a date to keep. This one can wait.

      The guides were right, he thought with a sigh. Besides, this wasn’t his Lizzie. His Lizzie was insecure, cowering and needy. And he was here for more than just Lizzie. He was here, he suspected, because this was where the heir would be found.

      He drove the rest of the way to the high school, and waved to the woman who was waiting outside as he pulled into a vacant parking slot. Then he tipped the rearview mirror down to check his appearance.

      Coke-bottle-thick glasses made his eyes appear huge, and emphasized the green of the colored contacts. The toupee looked real enough, mostly because few people would wear a hairpiece that was thick, black and mussed. He’d had it custom made. His new jet-black goatee was trimmed to a point at his chin and accompanied by a matching moustache that connected to it, bracketing his mouth. The new Oliver Abercrombie didn’t resemble the Mordecai Young of eighteen years ago, with his long mink hair and thin layer of stubble. Back then he had looked the way most westerners imagined Jesus Christ had looked. He didn’t resemble his more recent persona, Nathan Z, who’d been utterly bald, with striking brown eyes and a clean shaven face, either. He didn’t think Beth herself would have recognized him today, even had she bumped into him on the streets of Blackberry.

      That was the way he wanted it. For now. She mustn’t know he had found her, not until he was ready.

      He got out of his car, and Nancy Stillwater came limping toward him from the school’s main entrance, smiling. The smile put creases into her plump face. “Hello, Oliver,” she said, pushing dull brown hair, with a few gray strands, behind her ears.

      “Ahh, Nancy. You are a vision. How is your day going?”

      “Not too badly, so far. The new textbooks I’ve been waiting for finally came in.”

      “Wonderful. Are they as good as you’d expected them to be?”

      “Better. Even my students approve. So where are we having lunch?” she asked, lifting the basket she had, no doubt, taken great pains to fill.

      “Anywhere you like,” he said, taking the basket from her. “It’s such a nice day for a picnic.”

      “It really is. We won’t have too many more like this.”

      “No, we won’t.”

      “There are picnic tables this way.” She actually took

Скачать книгу