Nick hadn’t had a chance to reflect upon, much less dispute, Clara’s assertion that he’d be able to see—or even sense—the presence or absence of love. But he heard himself say something astonishing. “It scares me for her, too.”
Four
In what should have been the final hour of Elizabeth’s seven-and-a-half-hour journey to Sarah’s Orchard, the drive became treacherous. The two-lane road from Medford was somewhat perilous in broad daylight when the pavement was dry. But in darkness, when rain fell…
Eight hours and forty-five minutes after she’d pulled away from the curb in San Francisco, Elizabeth reached the crest of a driveway down which—or so she’d been told—she’d scampered on a long-ago winter night.
It was almost ten. Would Gram be awake?
The glowing house lights told her yes.
The lights were blurry. The rain was drenching. The downpour was not, however, the only reason for the watery blur.
Since her glimpse into Matthew’s bedroom, Elizabeth had kept her emotions as tightly sequestered as a deliberating jury in a high-profile trial. But as she neared the safe haven of her grandmother’s home, those emotions escaped in a flood of tears.
“Now who could that be?” Clara wondered when the doorbell rang.
“No one you want to see,” Nick replied. “Not at this hour.”
Nick had personally installed the farmhouse’s burglar alarm. It was state-of-the-art—every window, all the doors, panic buttons at various locations throughout the home. He had an uneasy feeling that Clara hadn’t turned it on since Charles’s death.
Now, at 10:00 p.m., she had no qualms about opening the door to whoever happened by on what had become a soggy night.
“You’ve come over this late.”
“Not without a warning call.”
“This is Sarah’s Orchard, Nick.” She stood up from the kitchen table and gave Nick, who was washing dishes, a gentle pat. “I’ll scream if it’s anyone sinister.”
Nick wiped his soapy hands and followed. He stopped short of the door and off to the side, invisible to the visitor, but a step away from intervening if Clara needed him.
“Elizabeth!”
“Hi, Gram.”
“Come in, darling girl.” The hand that had patted Nick’s arm went to her granddaughter’s cheek. “Tears.”
“And rain.” Elizabeth lifted the rain-spattered box she’d taken from the trunk before dashing to the covered porch. “Lots of rain. Not that it matters if these get soaked.”
“What are they?” Clara asked as Elizabeth walked inside.
“My wedding invitations. I thought we could build a fire with them.”
“The design didn’t work out as well as you’d hoped?”
“The design’s fine. It’s the wedding that’s not so good.”
“Oh, Elizabeth.”
“How did you know, Gram? About Matthew?”
“What happened?”
“He was supposed to be in New York, on the business trip he told you about last weekend. I went to his house, to leave one of the invitations for him. He wasn’t in New York. And he wasn’t alone. He was with the woman he’d been involved with before he and I got together.”
“Is he still alive?” Nick stepped into her line of sight as he spoke.
“Oh!” You. Whoever you are.
She’d seen him twice, briefly—but memorably. The first time had been eighteen months ago, in the neurology ward at the Keeling Clinic, the day Granddad was admitted with his stroke. He’d been standing at the periphery of the crowded waiting room of friends who’d remained at the medical center until Clara’s family arrived. He’d disappeared shortly thereafter. But in the few moments before he’d vanished, and even though her focus had been on rushing to Gram’s side, she’d been acutely aware of him.
It felt as if he, too, was at Clara’s side. Despite how far away he stood. At Gram’s side, protecting her—and Granddad. Guarding them with his life.
The second time she’d seen him had been seven months ago, in late November, at Granddad’s funeral. He’d stood a distance away then, as well.
Now he was here. Whoever he was. And he was asking if Matthew Blaine had survived his faithlessness.
“I’m Nicholas Lawton.”
This—he—was Nicholas Lawton? Elizabeth knew of him, of course. Three years ago, he’d been the talk, and worry, of the MacKenzie clan. Granddad had been wanting to remodel Gram’s kitchen. Her “small” business, The Apple Butter Ladies, was becoming a force to be reckoned with.
Clara and her friend and business partner, Eve, needed more space not only for the batches of apple butter the marketplace was beginning to demand, but for the support staff that processed orders, packaged the jars, unloaded the crates of apples delivered from nearby orchards, and shipped off the cartons of apple butter.
Granddad knew what the new kitchen needed to be. His years as owner and manager of MacKenzie’s Market had made him a wizard at designing flow patterns conducive to happy shoppers. And workers. His sketches for Clara’s new kitchen were based on sitting in the midst of the Apple Butter Ladies’ operation during its busiest time of year—from harvest through the holidays. He’d observed the near-collisions, the conversations that took place over shoulders, not face-to-face, and other obstacles to what should have been as enjoyable and productive as a quilting bee.
The changes were major. Walls would have to be moved. The bids he’d gotten had been pricier than he’d imagined. But the cost hadn’t been the primary sticking point. The contractors didn’t “get” his vision. They’d suggested modifications Charles had known wouldn’t work. The idea of spending hard-earned money for the privilege of arguing over the placement of every cupboard and countertop wasn’t something Charles was eager to do.
He would, though, if he had to. For Clara.
He was on the verge of accepting a bid when, out of the blue, a man named Nicholas Lawton arrived in town. A “handyman,” Charles reported to his family. Who, he assured his concerned children—and grandchildren—was fully capable of handling the entire renovation. “Nick can do anything,” Clara cheerfully added…which alarmed the family all the more. Who was this stranger who’d bewitched Gram and Granddad so completely?
Two of Elizabeth’s six cousins, all of whom were male, made an immediate surprise visit to the farmhouse. No one was going to take advantage of their grandparents.
But they’d liked Nick. Proclaimed him to be a “great guy.” The assessment was affirmed within months by two additional cousins and, over time, by the entire family. Not that everyone met Nick. But they saw Gram’s kitchen and, after Granddad’s stroke, the railings Nick installed.
They heard, too, the affection for Nick in their grandparents’ voices. Gram’s fondness was easy and familiar. Her emotions were always effortlessly conveyed. With the exception of his family, however, Granddad had been reserved. But there was emotion in Charles’s voice when he talked about Nick. It was different from what one heard for his sons and grandsons. But no less important, or impassioned.
Like the rest of her family, Elizabeth spoke highly of Nicholas Lawton, and was grateful for Nicholas Lawton, although—as it happened—every time she was in town, he was involved with projects elsewhere and unable to drop by.
She’d be meeting him this summer, Gram had said. At the farmhouse. Assuming, of course, that Nick hadn’t finished the painting he planned to do before Elizabeth’s visit in late July.
Elizabeth knew very little about painting houses. But she felt certain she and Nick would meet. Ten years ago, when then-mayor Clara MacKenzie decided the “mayorly” thing to do in honor of Sarah’s Orchard’s centennial celebration would be to return James and Sarah Keeling’s farmhouse to its original teal and white, the painters Granddad hired were at it for three months.
There’d been a team of painters then, not a solitary one. And their task, to cover cream with teal, had to be far easier than what Nick would face when he did the reverse, restoring Charles and Clara’s farmhouse to the colors it had been ever since it had served as a beacon to welcome a soldier home.
“You’re going to paint the house.”
“I am.”
“Inside and out,” Clara said.
“Inside, too?”
“Why not?” Nick asked.
“It needs to be spiffed up, Nick says, all except the kitchen. We’ve been discussing color schemes,” Clara murmured, “Nick has all sorts of options and he wants me to decide. He says he’s showing up at dawn tomorrow with a zillion paint chips. I can’t make such decisions. Now that you’re here, Elizabeth, I won’t have to.”
“You don’t want me choosing colors!”
“Of course I do. But—and here’s what I was going to do—just agree with whatever Nick thinks will look best. He’s the artist.”
“Hardly,” Nick said. “I look forward to your input, Elizabeth.” He untied the daisy-print apron he wore. “Now, I think I’ll leave you ladies alone.”
“Why don’t you take my car?” Clara asked. “It’s pouring.”
Nick didn’t glance outside. “I’m fine.” He looked at Elizabeth. “What time’s good for you tomorrow?”
“Anytime. Including dawn. Wasn’t that what you and Gram had planned?”
“Only,” Clara said, “because Nick knows I’m an early riser when I don’t have my granddaughter to chat with through the night. We should be up by noon, though, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’d say so,” Elizabeth replied. “I’d also say I’ve never slept past eight in my life, Gram, and neither have you. So if you’d like to come by earlier, Nick…”
“Noon’s good,” he said. “I’ll see you then.”
The downpour was a suitable companion for Nick’s thoughts.
As he left the farmhouse, he headed away from Center Street, not toward it. He needed to walk for a while. Run for a while.
And think—for a while.
Clara and Charles hadn’t forgotten the boy who’d rescued their granddaughter. And Elizabeth’s vanishing act in pursuit of brightly lit apple trees was a cautionary tale remembered by every MacKenzie old enough to recall the terror of that evening.
All MacKenzies knew that a nameless youngster had carried their girl to safety. But Charles and Clara alone had been waiting for his return. They’d seemed to know he would return, and even when, since the kitchen Charles had designed for Clara was ready for Nick to build.
Nick had always known that the rescued girl would have no memory of her Yuletide misadventure. Much less of him.
Nick wouldn’t have recognized Elizabeth, either, if he hadn’t seen photographs of her in her grandparents’ home. Despite that, the Elizabeth who rushed into the Keeling Clinic on the evening of Charles’s stroke had been a surprise.
