Carolina Mist Read online

  “ ’Morning.” He smiled, wiping his hands on a light blue towel tucked into his waist. “What can I getcha?”

  “Fill the tank, please.” She smiled at his open friendliness.

  “Check your oil?” He pronounced it “earl,” and she smiled again, unconsciously this time.

  “You still do that down here?” she asked.

  He nodded and went about his business.

  “You kin to Belle Matthews?” He watched Abby pull two five-dollar bills and three ones from her purse.

  “No,” she replied, puzzled.

  “Thought maybe you might be, since you were parked there”—he nodded up Cove Road—“early this morning.”

  “Actually, my great-aunt owned that house.” Abby grinned, reminding herself that in a town the size of Primrose, there were no secrets.

  “You the one she left it to? The niece from up north or someplace?”

  “Well, yes.” She nodded.

  “Welcome to Primrose, then.” He pocketed the money. “Guess you’ll be working on the place now. You planning on fixing it up and living there?”

  “I haven’t decided yet what I’m going to do.”

  No need for anyone else to know before she could break the news to Belle that the house would be going on the market as soon as possible.

  “You might want to talk to Pete Phelps down at the hardware store. His son’s a good carpenter—you’ll be needing one for that front porch. Seems to me I heard that the building inspector was out there a few weeks ago looking around.”

  “Looking around at what?”

  “That one chimney on the side is leanin’ a little farther to the right than it should be. And the porch around that big turret looks like it’s about to detach. Guess they’ll”—he nodded toward town—“be glad to see you. They didn’t know what to do, what with Miz Matthews livin’ there and not ownin’ the place. You might want to stop at the town hall and let someone know you’re here.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” she muttered sourly as she rolled up the window and drove toward the center of town.

  Great. Not in Primrose twenty-four hours, and the building inspector’s after me. Guess I better take a closer look at the house when I get back.

  Abby parked along the sidewalk in front of the Primrose Cafe, where some of the locals lingered over their coffee to discuss the latest news. As she walked across the street to Foster’s General Store, she was not unaware that curious eyes from the window of the cafe followed her as she opened the door to the one food market in Primrose. She smiled to herself, knowing that as quickly as she closed the door behind her, the folks across the street would be speculating on everything from her identity to her shoe size.

  Housed in one storefront that was part of a row of shops in a two-story white clapboard building, Foster’s was clean and bright, if limited in its selections. Rows of canned and packaged goods lined three aisles down the center of the store. A butcher’s counter ran across the back, and along the left side, crates of fruits and vegetables sat in wooden bins. She wandered up and down the aisles, trying to decide what to buy.

  “Need a basket, young lady?” a voice called to her from behind the butcher’s counter.

  “I guess I could use one, thanks.” She moved toward the back of the store, trying not to dislodge the items she’d stacked in her arms.

  The short, balding man in the white apron—“Young Foster,” she guessed, though he had to be in his fifties—held out a red plastic basket, and she tried to drop the cans of soup one by one inside, but they rolled down her front avalanche-style. He lunged to hold on to the metal handles.

  “Oops…”

  “That's okay, miss, I’ve got it.” He held the basket out to her. “Anything I can help you with?”

  “Where would I find sugar?”

  “Aisle two. Right there with the baked goods.”

  She put a five-pound bag into the basket, then paused in front of the flour. Maybe she could bake something… good, the package had a recipe for biscuits on the back. She grabbed a box of chocolate cake mix and a container of prepared frosting. She’d bake a little treat for Belle.

  Eggs, butter, yogurt, milk from the dairy case filled a second basket. Orange juice from the small frozen-food section, carrots, potatoes, green beans, apples, bananas, and grapes from produce. She was on her third red basket when she arrived back at the meat counter.

  Having proved herself a serious shopper, she had the full attention of the man in the white apron, who held out two whole chickens for her inspection.

  “That one looks fine.” She nodded, indicating the one in his left hand.

  “That be all?” he asked.

  “Ummm… blackberry jam.” She recalled Belle’s request. “Do you have some that’s made locally?”

  Young Foster held up a jar with a hand-printed label.

  “Yes, that’s it… and some breakfast sausage. Oh, and tea.”

  Belle’s supply of tea was low. Abby had noticed that she used the one bag several times over. The last cup had been barely yellow in color.

  “And coffee.” She poked down the nearest aisle and found a can of already ground beans and returned with it to the counter.

  “So,” the grocer said as he tallied up her purchases. “You buy the old Landers place?”

  “What? Oh, no.” She shook her head as she scanned the front page of the local paper in the wire rack on the side of the counter.

  “One of them new apartments out by the highway, then?” He never took his eyes off his work.

  “No, actually, I inherited a property in town,” she said vaguely.

  “Oh, then you must be Miz Cassidy’s grand-niece.” He smiled in recognition.

  “Why, yes, I am.” She nodded her head.

  “Fine lady, Miz Cassidy was. Best teacher I ever had.”

  “You were one of her students?” Abby fished in her purse for her wallet.

  “Miz…”

  “McKenna. Abby McKenna,” she told him.

  “Miz McKenna, everyone who grew up in Primrose and went to school here had Miz Cassidy for fifth grade. Why, she taught here for better’n forty years. Whole town came out when she retired. And again when she was buried. She was one of a kind.” He shook his head fondly. “Wonderful woman, she was. A real lady, I might add. Not many left like her, that’s for sure. She was like someone from another time.”

  Abby nodded slowly. She could not have described Leila better herself, she thought, as she loaded the bags into the car with Young Foster’s help. Leila, with her elegant, soft clothes and her courtly grace, her strict observance of afternoon tea, her penchant for white gloves and hats in all seasons. Someone from another time, indeed.

  After driving slowly into the narrow lane that ran next to Leila’s house, Abby came to a stop and peered out the passenger-side window. The gas station attendant had been absolutely correct, she noted with a sinking heart. The porch was pulling away from the turret. What else was ready to take a tumble? She would make a thorough inspection this afternoon. Right now, she was going to prepare a proper lunch for Belle.

  The old woman was like a child on Christmas morning, peeking into bags and exclaiming her delight upon finding something of particular preference.

  “Seedless grapes… and bananas! I haven’t had them in… well, who could recall?” She withdrew the favored items from the bag. “And you bought chicken, and, oh my… pork chops! And sugar. I’ve sorely missed sugar in my tea, the truth be told.”

  Good Lord, Abby thought, her face turning slightly red at the woman’s unbounded joy. This poor lady must be on the brink of abject poverty, if she can't afford a bag of sugar once or twice a year. Her family should be ashamed, letting her live like this. Alone in this big old house, no money, little food.

  She recalled Belle’s comment about having been afraid she’d not have heat this winter. If I hadn’t come when I did, she might have frozen to death.

  Abby slammed the refrigerator door. Wa
it till I get my hands on them. Krista and Alex and Josie, their mother. I have a few very choice words for all of them.

  The ringing telephone startled her. She followed the sound into the front hall, where Belle had picked it up.

  “Why, yes, I am quite well. Thank you for inquiring,” she was saying. “Yes, indeed, she is. Would you like to speak with her?”

  Belle held the receiver out to Abby. “It’s Mr. Tillman, Leila’s attorney.”

  Word does travel. Abby grinned as she took the phone. “Mr. Tillman, I was going to give you a call this afternoon… Yes, I had a good trip… Yes, it is good to be back in Primrose after all these years… Well, I think we need to talk about that… Yes, that would be fine. Ten tomorrow. I’ll see you then.”

  Abby went back to the kitchen, thinking about what she might tell the lawyer. He’d asked if she was planning on keeping the house and making her home here. The answer was a definite no, but first she had to figure out what to do about Belle.

  The woman has a family, she reminded herself. She is their responsibility, not mine.

  Except that Aunt Leila had made Belle a promise and had bequeathed that promise to Abby along with the house.

  6

  Belle all but hung over Abby’s shoulder as she prepared a lunch of chicken noodle soup and tuna salad. The woman ate slowly, savoring each bite, her eyes dancing with the sheer happiness of having a simple meal that was something other than tea and toast. For dessert, Abby presented her with a bowl of fruit and a few slices of cheese. Belle was in heaven.

  “It must have been difficult to sell your house,” Abby said over tea when the meal had finished. “I know it was terrible for me when my home—my parents’ house, that is—was sold.”

  “Well, yes.” Belle dabbed daintily at her mouth with a napkin. “I’d had better days. At least Granger wasn’t alive to see it. Would have killed him, I think. He always set such store by that house, you know. Proud as a peacock, he was, the day he carried me over the threshold as a bride. Always romantic, my Granger was.” Belle’s eyes glazed, remembering.

  “Couldn’t Josie and her husband have helped?” Abby thought perhaps to turn the conversation to the absent family.

  “Josie and Jack divorced about ten years ago,” Belle told her. “Then Josie died—heart failure, they said—about two years later. If her heart failed, it was because that scoundrel of a husband of hers had taken off with his secretary. Little older than my granddaughter, she was.” Belle shook her head sharply, her voice filled with bitterness.

  “I had no idea.” Abby felt stunned. “But surely her children could have helped you.”

  “Krista has about as much sense now as she had when she was nine. Probably less. Married some fool who can barely support her and the children. Four of them, she had, one right after another.”

  “And Alex?” It had been years since Abby had spoken his name aloud.

  “Alexander is a lawyer.” Her chin jutted out slightly. “The only one left in this family who’ll ever live up to the Matthews name.”

  “Where is he living now?”

  “Boston.” Belle put down her cup and faced off with Abby. “But I’ve no mind to go running to that boy with my problems, missy. Alexander has had things tough enough, what with that fool father of his running off just when he was about to enter college, and his mother dying. He worked his way through school, law school, too. I imagine he’s still paying back his loans. All those years, I thought I’d be able to do that for him.” Her voice softened, almost as if she spoke only to herself. “I thought I’d be able to help him through school. All that boy ever asked of life was to study law and go fishing. No.” Belle shook her head vehemently. “I’d not ask him for help. Not that I ever dreamed I’d be dependent on anyone.”

  “But you and Leila helped each other. That’s not the same as being dependent.”

  “True enough. But now Leila’s gone.” She met Abby’s eyes but did not add the obvious, and I am dependent on you.

  Abby sensed Belle was waiting for some assurance from her, some words that would put her at ease, that would promise this home was still hers, now and always. It was a promise Abby could not, in good conscience, make, and so she said nothing.

  Belle watched through narrow eyes that held questions they both wished to avoid as Abby cleared the table and carried Aunt Leila’s equivalent of everyday dishes—some lovely old porcelain—into the kitchen.

  “If Aunt Leila had fallen on hard times, why is there a new refrigerator? And a new stove?” Abby asked as she filled the sink.

  “When things wore out, she replaced them.”

  “Where did the money come from?”

  “She sold some things, when she had to,” Belle told her.

  “What did she sell?”

  “Your great-grandmother’s pearls went for the appliances, I don’t recall what else, over the years. Some garnets, I think. And a diamond watch.”

  Abby searched her memory, trying to recall what jewelry there had been. Nothing specific came to mind except the garnets, a pin and a ring, which Aunt Leila had prized. It must have broken her heart to sell them.

  “What do you do, Abigail?” Belle asked.

  “What do you mean? What do I do for a living?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, right now, I’m unemployed, I used to work for a financial consulting firm.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Advising people how to invest their money.”

  “People still have money to invest?” Belle asked wryly.

  “Some do.” Abby smiled.

  “You left your job to come here?”

  “Actually, it was the other way around.” Abby let the water out of the sink, then searched for a towel to dry the dishes that stood in the drainer. “My job—and some others—were… eliminated.”

  Belle pondered for a moment, her eyes darting to Abby’s face. “You don’t expect to find a job like that here, do you? ’Cause there aren’t any, I’d venture. Nobody I know around here has anything to invest.”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do.” True, but vague.

  “I see,” Belle said softly.

  “I think I’ll take a look at that front porch, where it’s sagging away from the house.” Abby shoved her hands in her pockets, not wanting the conversation to drift further into her own plans. Not yet. She had far too many questions of her own, and far too few answers. She did not want to alarm Belle. There’d be time enough in the days to follow to face reality.

  “You do that.” Belle’s eyes followed Abby as she went out the back door. “I think I’ll take a nap. I feel very tired, all of a sudden.”

  The man at the gas station had not exaggerated. The chimney listed at an odd angle. It appeared that mortar was washing out from the bricks on one side. Abby wondered how it could be repaired, and at what price. She stepped back away from the house to study it.

  When she was a child, she had believed this house to be enchanted. A wide turret rose three stories on the left, and the porches were trimmed with fancy woodwork. Gingerbread, Aunt Leila had called it. From the street, it did look like an oversized gingerbread house. Now, the paint peeled from the clapboard siding and several shutters hung loosely. The only thing that looked good was the roof, which Belle said Leila had replaced. With Belle’s money.

  Money, Abby reminded herself, that she would be obligated to repay.

  She sat on the front porch and pondered the situation. She had an enormous house that was falling apart from every angle, an old woman to support, and debts she hadn’t even known about. To pay Belle back, Abby would have to sell the house. If she sold the house, Belle would have nowhere to go. Even the money from the roof wouldn’t take the old woman far, assuming she would agree to go. But go where? Abby could think of no option that would not inflict certain pain on Belle, whom Aunt Leila had trusted Abby to care for.

  Damn Alex Kane, anyway. He screwed up my life when I was sixteen, and he’s doing it
again. Belle doesn’t want to impose on him, doesn’t want to disrupt his life. What about my life? I’ve worked every bit as hard as Alex has, and I’ve had my share of hardships, too.

  She ambled around the back of the house and pushed open the old garden gate, which protested loudly having been forced from its long-inactive state. The pachysandra had spread to the drive, all the way back to the old carriage house which stood alongside the fence and overlooked the river. An ancient pine tree she’d climbed as a girl stood watch over the grounds. From where she stood, she could see the initials carved halfway up the trunk. A.K. & A.M. Alex had carved them that last summer, where Abby could see them from her bedroom window at the back of the house.

  Without thinking, she had walked toward the pine, and now she ran her fingers over the rough bark. She had stood right here, in this spot, when he had kissed her good-bye the night before she left for Chicago. It had been an agonizing good-bye, Abby crying and unable to speak. Alex had done all the talking, between deep kisses they were still learning how to negotiate, in spite of all their practice that summer.

  “It’ll be okay, Ab, I promise,” he had whispered. “I’ll write every day, you will, too, okay? And I’ll call you when I can. And before you know it, summer will be here again, and we’ll both be back. It won’t be so bad. Look, Ab, a shooting star… right there… quick, make a wish.”

  What had she wished for that night so long ago? That she and Alex would live happily ever after, here in Primrose. She hadn’t asked him what he had wished for. He’d held her close and whispered his undying, never-ending love for her.

  “I’ll never love anyone but you, Abby,” he’d said. “I just never could.”

  And the next summer, he’d stayed away. Job or no job, she’d childishly insisted, he should have come. She had never forgiven him, but neither had she ever forgotten him.

  7

  The bells in the tower that rose sixty feet above the town hall were just chiming ten o’clock as Abby opened the door to the law offices of Tillman, Dodd, and Readinger. Mr. Tillman was waiting for her, the perky young receptionist drawled as she summoned the attorney’s secretary. The latter, a buxom blonde whose heavily perfumed self and swaying hips seemed out of place in the dignified suite of offices, beckoned Abby down a hushed hallway that dead- ended at a large oak door which stood open.