Sunrise Point

  She was just the cutest damn thing, he found himself thinking. He wondered what she’d think of stuffed grape leaves… .

  It was a few hours later, the morning fog and mist beginning to give way to a bright morning sun, when Tom heard the bell from the back porch. He had asked Maxie to ring it when Darla was ready to have her luggage carried downstairs. The bell had almost never been used. Tom’s grandfather had installed that bell when Maxie was very, very pregnant. It was one of those old-fashioned things with a strip of rawhide attached to the clapper. He wanted her to use it if she needed him for anything rather than walking up and down a couple of acres of trees looking for him. And what had Maxie done? She had walked through the entire orchard to find Grandpa to tell him, “I didn’t want to bother you, but I’ve been in labor all day and now I think I have to call the midwife. Can you get her for me?”

  Tom laughed to himself. He’d heard the story so many times while growing up. His grandpa had swept his grandmother up in his arms, carried her to the house, up the stairs to the bedroom and sent someone for the midwife. The midwife was from another town, of course—that long ago Virgin River wasn’t much but a few farms. And the midwife didn’t make it, which at the end of the day had been something of a tragedy because Maxie had a few complications that left her unable to have more children. Of course there was no guarantee that getting the midwife there on time would have mattered.

  Even though his grandparents, dead in love till the day Grandpa passed away, said they’d love to have had a baker’s dozen, they were also quick to say they were grateful for the bounty God gave: a son, an orchard and a woman who could bake a decent pie.

  He trudged across the yard to the house. For some reason he had a picture in his head of Nora tromping through an entire orchard rather than just ringing the bell. And then, unsummoned, an image of Darla being carried on a litter by a group of Nubian slaves… .

  He found himself ridiculous—stuck in a box of his own making, rejecting the one who appealed and spending every weekend with the one who was not right for him, though he had desperately wished she could have been. But it was hopeless. She was hopeless.

  She was waiting in the kitchen. “Going to get an early start?” he asked Darla.

  “Since you’ll be busy all day, I’ll get the drive behind me. I look forward to next weekend. It sounds like such fun.”

  Tom mentally tried to calculate how many more weeks she’d be in Davis, close enough to spend every freaking weekend at the orchard. “Let me go up and grab your bags,” he said. “Have you eaten breakfast?”

  “Long ago,” she said with a smile. She turned to Maxie, who was stirring a giant pot on the stove. “Thank you once again, Maxie. Your hospitality is unsurpassed.”

  “Always a pleasure, dear,” she said. “Oh, by the way, the next two weekends? There will be lots of company. I hope you love a crowd.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said.

  “Staying over,” Maxie stressed. “Some of my girlfriends from around the mountains are coming. We’ll be packed in here.”

  “It sounds like fun!”

  “Good, then.”

  Tom, chuckling and shaking his head, headed up the stairs. He managed the four designer bags in two trips, loading up her trunk. He drove her to the gate, opened it while she transferred herself to the driver’s side. She slipped her arms around his neck, stood on the toes of yet another pair of boots to give him a brief kiss. He was planning his email in his head—Darla, rethink this idea of spending the weekend during the apple festival. If Maxie’s friends are coming, you might end up on a cot in the cider works. And if you pick at your food, they might tie you down and feed you. They’re old, but they’re strong and bossy.

  He went back to the house, to the kitchen, having been called by wonderful smells that he hoped weren’t being prepared for dinner.

  “Whatcha got going there, Max?” he asked.

  “Chili,” she said. “It’s getting so cold, so wet, I thought maybe I’d put it in the break room on a warming tray along with some disposable bowls. What do you think?”

  “I think I’ll do that for you, after I’ve had a couple of bowls right now. Crackers? Shredded cheese?”

  She lifted one thin brow. “Side of beef to go with that?”

  “Make it a big bowl,” he said. “Then I’ll see if I can go pick the rest of your apples for you.” He waited patiently while she fished around in the cupboard for a large bowl, grabbed a bag of shredded cheddar out of the refrigerator and a box of crackers from the pantry. “I’m going to make corn bread to go with this but I sense you can’t wait for that.” She placed it in front of him with a spoon.

  “Can’t wait,” he confirmed. “So? Company’s coming? Who?”

  “I’m not entirely sure yet,” she said, sitting down at the table with him. “I never have any trouble rounding up friends.”

  “I see,” he said, crumpling crackers on top of his cheddar-laced chili. “You haven’t invited them yet.”

  “I’m going to do that straight away.”

  “Why? We’re usually awful busy on apple festival weekends.”

  “They’ll come early, help with baking, all that stuff.”

  “That’s not why,” he said. “Damn, this is good, Maxie.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So? Why?”

  “I’m getting tired of Miss Picky Pants. If you marry her I’m going to kill myself.”

  His smile fought hard to get out, but he held it in. “What if I’m completely in love with her?”

  She rolled her eyes and clasped her hands together as if praying for strength. “I’ve had a good life…”

  He couldn’t help it, he laughed. He leaned toward her. “Maxie, do you ever think about retirement?”

  “Of course. This is my retirement. I don’t work nearly as hard as I used to—Junior manages almost everything. At least he did until you came home.”

  “Ever thought about selling the orchard?” he asked.

  “No, I thought about you selling it after I was dead. I felt kind of bad for Junior and the others, but by the time I’m dead, they’ll be near dead anyway and I just can’t manage from the grave.”

  “No doubt you’ll try,” he mumbled.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “My hearing is perfect,” she informed him.

  “So,” he asked, deliberately speaking very quietly. “Have you ever considered one of those homes for seniors? When you’re, you know, senior?”

  “I’m seventy-four,” she said. “How much more senior do you expect I’ll get?”

  “I think some of your girlfriends live in fancy-dancy senior communities. Don’t they? Where they can have the lawn taken care of for them, the cooking pretty much done every day, a little housekeeping? Some fun and games?”

  “Lorna is the karaoke queen at hers… . Ever hear of such a thing?”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” he said. “You ever lust after one of those places?”

  “You need a little more privacy, Tom? Because I have places to go if you want a weekend alone or something.”

  He shook his head. “Darla mentioned they put her grandmother in one of those assisted-living places and she didn’t want to go at first, but now she’s happy about it. Loving it.”

  Maxie’s face contorted into a very mean grimace. “Is that so?”

  “So it seems.”

  “You might want to tell Miss Picky Pants I have a shotgun and I’m a right fine shot.” She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back.

  Tom roared with laughter. “Maybe I’ll just let you handle this whole thing your way.”

  “What whole thing?” she asked. “Is she already putting me out to pasture?”

  “Uh-huh. And selling the orchard and investing the money and getting me started in a new career,” he admitted. He thought about telli
ng his grandmother what Darla had paid for her red boots, but then Maxie might stroke out and he was afraid Darla would move in to help him cope.

  “For the love of God,” she said.

  Tom put down his spoon. His eyes became serious. “Listen, we have a situation. Her husband was one of my men, killed while he served in my command. She’s lonely. She’s nearby. She wants to come here… Why, I’m not entirely sure. It’s not like she eats apples or wants to bake pies. But she wants to come. Maybe the service is too good… .”

  “I could get out the lumpy pillows and scratchy toilet paper… .”

  “I tried to discourage the next couple of weekends but she’s planning to come even though I warned her she won’t get any attention. It’ll be apple-picking time. You told her you were going to fill the house up with old women and she still wants to come. I think, at least until she finishes this course in Davis, we’re stuck with her.”

  “You’re not mad in love with her?” Maxie asked.

  He shook his head. “I want to be,” he admitted. “She’s very pretty.” Sexy. “She seems smart and I gather she has a solid, functional family background, but…” But I haven’t had sex in so long I can’t even remember how…and I still can’t get excited about her coming for another visit… If she sprawled naked on my bed, I probably wouldn’t be able to…

  “Tom, can I say something about that? About that solid, functional family background? I don’t know where you got that judgmental streak or your almighty standards—maybe from your great-grandfather. Your great-grandmother was so open to possibilities, so nonjudgmental. When I stumbled into this orchard looking for work, I had come from a really rugged family—dirt-poor, had nothing, uneducated, didn’t know what the term emotional support meant—and your grandfather took an instant liking to me anyway. I’m sure because of that your great-grandfather refused to hire me on. But your great-grandmother did hire me—brought me into the house, into the kitchen to help with jam, ciders, pies and housework. Tom, I had a lot of what you young people call baggage, but your grandpa didn’t care. He said he loved me and wanted me no matter what my past had been like, no matter what load I was bringing along. That’s never been a secret in our family—that I had burdens. Your grandpa had to take on a lot to take me. Most people have a load to carry, Tom. So do you—look at your family history! You have some amazing family history and some of it kind of strange—like the disappearing mother. You know.”

  “I know. You never heard from her again, did you?”

  Maxie shook her head. “I would’ve told you. I’ve always told you everything.”

  “Many family stories,” he said, very seriously.

  They were both silent for a moment. Finally Maxie said, “You aren’t mad in love with Miss Picky Pants?”

  He shook his head.

  “Then stop kissing her!” Maxie demanded.

  Tom grinned. “You don’t miss anything, do you?”

  “You think I raised a decorated marine and made money on apples by missing things?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  It wasn’t unusual for busy married couples who had both children and careers that took more than the usual forty hours per week to do more communicating through phone calls, emails and during short breaks in the workday than at other times. So it was with Jack Sheridan and his wife, Mel. What was unusual was for Preacher to call Mel and ask her to drop in to the bar when things were quiet to have a chat with her husband.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked when she got there.

  “Nothing,” Jack answered. “Why?”

  “Because Preacher asked me to come over if I wasn’t busy. He said you needed counseling.”

  Jack grumbled and poured himself a cup of coffee. “He’s getting worse than an old woman.”

  Mel stared him down for a minute, then she went to the door to the kitchen, pushed it open and said, “Preach, help me out here. I have a patient in a half hour and Jack doesn’t want to talk right now.” Then she went back to her stool.

  Momentarily Preacher was standing beside Jack. “So,” the cook said. “You haven’t told her what’s wrong?”

  “I don’t have anything to say!” he said with attitude.

  Preacher faced Mel, and about that time Paige came into the bar, standing beside her husband. “About a week ago Luke brought a friend in for a beer. Old friend of Luke’s from Army days—an old Black Hawk pilot. Well, it turns out Jack and Coop, the friend, knew each other way back when. Some woman accused Coop of beating her up, Jack called the MP’s and Coop was locked up. But it turned out to be some kind of misunderstanding, Coop got out, Jack shipped out, the woman disappeared long ago and now what we have, with holidays and town parties coming up, is a little bad blood between the Riordans and Jack. A Riordan-Sheridan standoff over something that happened a long time ago with a lot of mixed-up details and facts.”

  Mel was stunned silent for a moment. Her mouth hung open, her blue eyes were wide. Finally she said, “Huh?”

  Preacher took a deep breath. Then he began again. “About a week ago…”

  Paige put a hand on her husband’s forearm. She shook her head. “Not from the beginning, John,” she said. Paige looked at her friend. “Mel, about fifteen years ago a marine and a soldier were both at the same place at the same time. Your marine was friendly with a waitress who confided she had a bad relationship. Abusive, she said. You know Jack—he offered to help if needed. He gave her a phone number and a couple of days later, she called that number and left Jack a message that she needed help.”

  “And I went,” Jack said. “She was banged up pretty bad and crying. I tried to take her to the hospital, but she wouldn’t go. So I called the police and stayed with her until they came.”

  Mel looked at him. “What did she want, Jack?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “Moral support, I guess. I suggested she get herself away from whoever would do that to her and she said she’d go anywhere I’d take her, just to get her out of there. But I couldn’t do any more—I was scheduled out on a military transport with a squad of marines. And our destination was privileged. So she told the MP’s who beat her up and then, wouldn’t you know, he stumbled in, half drunk, knuckles bruised, denying he’d ever touched her…”

  “And Jack,” Mel asked. “Who told the military police that he was the one? Was it you? Did you say, that’s him?”

  “He could hardly stand up! He’d been passed out and looked guilty as all hell.”

  Preacher made a sound. “Fortunately that sort of thing never happened to you.”

  “That’s how I got to read his tattoos,” Mel said. “Remember that, Preach? He was completely toasted, face down on the floor and I sat up with him all night.”

  “All right, all right,” Jack said. “Did I need an alibi? Did I have bruised knuckles?”

  Mel shook her head. “My Jack,” she said. “A hundred women have loved him, wanted him, been willing to lie or kill to get him… .”

  “Come on,” he said impatiently. “She just needed some help!”

  “Possibly,” Mel said. “Okay, probably,” she amended. “It does sound like there might be more to it, like maybe why the waitress couldn’t get charges against the soldier to stick, or maybe he had an alibi besides being crocked or something. If they arrested him but let him out and he stayed in the Army, there’s a piece of the puzzle missing. Don’t you want to know what that piece is? On the highly improbable chance you could be wrong?”

  “I heard sarcasm there,” Jack said.

  “Sorry,” Mel said. “We have a little problem in the marriage,” she said to Paige. “Two people with an overwhelming need to be right.”

  “I did nothing wrong,” Jack insisted. “When a woman is battered and names her assailant, you call the cops.”

  “It’s not about right or wrong, Jack—you did nothing wrong. It’s about the details. Don’t be
so stubborn.”

  “That’s just you,” Jack accused his wife. “I’m flexible.”

  “Right,” Preacher said. “I’ve seen a lot of that, just not lately.”

  “Look, he doesn’t want to explain the circumstances to me any more than I want to hear them from him,” Jack said in a sulk.

  “Ducky,” Mel said. “Listen, Jack, it probably doesn’t matter whether you and this soldier kiss and make up. He’s just a visitor. But you should work things out with Luke because he’s permanent. And he’s a good friend of yours.”

  “I haven’t heard from him in a week,” Jack said. “I didn’t do this, you know. What would you do if you had a patient, beat up? Would you tell her not to make so much noise with all that crying?”

  “Try not to be such a jackass,” Paige said. He shot her a surprised look. He was at once shocked and not; Paige had been in a very scary, abusive relationship before she met John. But Paige wouldn’t say shit if she had a mouthful. “Just saying,” Paige added.

  “I suggest you get his story and see if you can check it out for accuracy,” Mel said. “Really, I tend to lean the other way—the man is always lying.”

  “And always guilty,” Jack muttered. When he saw his wife’s slow smile he actually flushed.

  “Since I’ve been in this town, I’ve come up against a couple of situations with really naughty women who faked being abused by men who were the gentlest angels alive. Remember that ex-wife of Aiden Riordan’s? Pretending he beat her up when he was actually with Erin in San Francisco for days? Lord help us all! So if you won’t talk to the guy, why don’t you ask Luke for some details? Preacher here will be happy to do a background check for you, see if the guy has any kind of record. And there’s always Walt Booth if you need some Army brass on your side to find out what really happened back then.”