A january chill, p.7
A January Chill, page 7
Finally, unable to bear the silence any longer, Joni put down her fork.
"It's wrong, Mom, Witt hating Hardy all these years. He didn't kill Karen."
"Mmm." Hannah said no more.
Feeling almost desperate, Joni said, "Witt's never going to heal if he keeps on hating Hardy."
"Really." It wasn't a question and carried the weight of disapproval.
"Have you considered that Witt is grieving in his own way?"
"It's been twelve years!"
Hannah's dark eyes fixed her. "Joni, do you think I miss your father any less because it's been nearly fifteen years? Do you?"
"I..."
Joni's voice trailed off, and her eyes began to bum.
"I think," Hannah'continued, "that you've been arrogant. You have no right to decide when someone else's grief should end."
"But..." Again words escaped her. "Grief isn't measured by calendars.
And I thought you understood people better than that, anyway. Witt's anger at Hardy is the way he keeps himself from being torn up inside."
Joni looked down, her throat tight and her chest aching. "Karen wouldn't like it, Mom."
"No, she probably wouldn't. But Karen isn't here, and that's the whole problem."
Joni couldn't even bring herself to raise her head. She was suddenly hurting so deep inside that she didn't know if she could bear it. "We all miss her, Mom," she said thickly. "Including Hardy."
Hannah sighed. "Yes," she said presently. "We do. But opening up the wounds this way isn't good for anyone, Joni. Not for anyone."
She felt like a stupid child who should have known better, and somehow she couldn't reach into herself and find the force that had compelled her to rush headlong into this situation. Couldn't feel again the fire that had pushed her. And that left her feeling defenseless.
But still, despite that, she felt that the situation was wrong, that Wilt's anger was a poison not a cure. And that Hardy was being treated unfairly.
"Hardy was my friend, Mom," she said finally. "He was my best friend, next to Karen. And when she died, I shouldn't have had to lose him, too." Then, having said all she could, she went up to her room and sat in the quiet, staring out the window at freshly falling snow.
It hurt, she thought. It still hurt like hell. And maybe that was what had compelled her to reach out to Hardy.
Because, dear God, even after twelve years, something inside her was still bleeding.
A couple of days later, Witt ran into Hardy at the hardware store. It wasn't unusual for that to happen; in a town the size of Whisper Creek, where there was only one hardware store, one pharmacy, one bank and one auto-parts store, such encounters on a Saturday were inevitable.
Usually they both just turned away and pretended the other didn't exist.
But today Witt was in a different mood. When he saw Hardy buying some screws, he didn't walk away. Instead, he approached.
"What the hell" he said bluntly, "did you think you were doing bidding on my hotel?"
Hardy dropped a dozen screws into a small paper bag. He didn't reply immediately, as if trying to decide how much he should say. Finally he shrugged. "I'd like to build your hotel." "In your dreams."
Hardy raised his gaze slowly and met Witt's angry stare. "Exactly. In my dreams." Then he went back to counting another dozen screws.
Witt didn't like being ignored. And he didn't like being made to feel as if he was behaving badly. Hardy's calm just annoyed him more. "You have some nerve, boy." "I'm not a boy anymore, Witt. Maybe you'd better keep that in mind." "Oh, I do keep that in mind, just like I keep it in mind that my daughter would be a woman now--but for you."
Hardy dumped more screws into the bag, then folded the top of it carefully. Only then did he look at Witt.
"Yes, she would," he said quietly. Brushing past Witt, he headed for the checkout.
Leaving Witt feeling like an angry ass. What had he expected? That they were going to duke it out in the aisle?
Still disgruntled, he went to get the epoxy he'd come for. Fact was, he'd been gnawing on his anger like an old bone since he'd learned that Hardy had bid on the hotel. It was an anger he never entirely got over, but it had been a long time since it had been this fresh and hot.
Mostly, he kept it buried as long as Hardy Wingate stayed out of his way.
But Hardy had just gotten very much in his way, and his anger was like the volcano was erupting again, consuming him with its red-hot heat.
After all these years, it was unresolved.
Nobody had paid for Karen's death except him. The drunk driver hadn't even lived long enough to be arrested. And Hardy . Hardy, who hadn't taken good care of Karen, who'd been indirectly responsible for her death, was still walking around whole and healthy.
That stuck in Witt's craw like a boulder.
Out on the street, with his bag of screws in his hand, Hardy hurried away from the hardware store. He should never have let Joni tempt him with the prospect of building that hotel. All he'd managed to do was push Witt to the brink again.
He didn't want to do that. And it struck him that he must have been harboring some kind of hope that Witt would get over his bitterness or he never would have placed that bid. Stupid fool. After twelve years, Witt wasn't likely to change his mind about anything.
Trying to sidestep a dark feeling that was threatening to overwhelm him, he forced himself to consider why it was he cared about Witt's opinion. The man had never liked him. Never. So why should it matter so much that he was angry with Hardy?
Because, Hardy realized with a sense of shock that seemed to rock him to his very soul, he was never going to be able to forgive himself unless Witt forgave him. Christ.
"Hardy?"
He looked up and saw Joni hurrying toward him down the snow-packed sidewalk. Instinctively, he glanced over his shoulder to make sure Witt wasn't standing in front of the hardware store watching. He wasn't.
"Are you crazy?" he asked Joni. Reaching for her arm, he urged her a little way down a side street in case Witt emerged from the store.
"Your uncle's in the hardware store."
"Oh." She looked up at him, blinking those huge blue eyes of hers, making him wonder if something about her was going to remain eternally a child. Because right now. He shook his head. Joni was no child, and he wasn't going to patronize her by thinking of her as one.
"He's hopping mad about that bid of mine," Hardy told her. "He was trying awful hard to pick a fight with me."
"I'm sorry."
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that she invariably apologized too late. She always had. Joni had always been inclined to follow her impulses and to regret many of them later. But he bit back the criticism and said only, "That's okay. I should have known better than to bid." Then he summoned a wry smile. "Sometimes this town just isn't big enough for both Witt and me."
He'd hoped to get a flicker of a smile in return, but all he got was a sigh. She kicked the toe of her boot against the snowbank beside the walk and finally looked up at him again. "It was stupid." she said.
"My mother figured it out."
"Figured out that you gave me the request package?"
"Yes. She asked me why T'd done it."
"And?"
Another sigh. "And all those good reasons I had just kind of evaporated. I couldn't even remember them, I just know this situation isn't right."
"To tell you the truth, I don't remember the reasons you gave me, either." He was actually beginning to feel some sympathy for her. "I do remember that your intentions were good."
"The road to hell and all that." She looked so downcast. "Well, I just wanted you to know that my mom figured it out, so it probably won't be long before Witt does, as well. I guess that won't make any difference in how they feel about you. But it's going to make my life miserable for a while. Which I guess I deserve."
There was a small coffee shop down the street, a place frequented mostly by some old hippies who had migrated here to live a more rural life and spent small fortunes on organic foods. The cafe was part of the Earth Mother Co-op, but anyone could shop there. He took her hand.
"Let's go get something hot to drink. That wind is cutting right through my jacket." Mainly because he'd been in a hurry and had grabbed the nearest jacket at hand, one that was better suited to the fall than the winter around here. He hadn't planned on standing outside having a conversation.
"Okay," she said. The circles that moved through the Earth Mother Co-op and the circles in which Witt moved almost never intersected.
Small town or not, there were a few social boundaries over which gossip seldom passed. Witt would never hear about the two of them having coffee.
The co-op was warm, heated by a Franklin stove that was always well fueled. The floorboards creaked beneath their feet, and the aromas of grains stocked in open barrels filled the air, along with the delicious scent of fresh coffee and baked goods.
"Man," Hardy remarked, "I'm going to have to buy a loaf of bread."
Joni was apparently of like mind. She ordered a cinnamon roll with her coffee.
"Have you ever noticed," Hardy asked, "that many of life's most important conversations take place over food?"
Some of the sadness lifted from her eyes. "It's true. Mom and I always have our conversations over coffee or dinner."
"Yeah. Seems more sociable, somehow." But his mind wasn't really on the coffee the waiter put in front of him, or on the aroma of Joni's cinnamon roll.
"Okay," he said after a few moments. "If Witt asks me if you gave me the bid package, I'll tell him no."
"You don't have to lie for me."
"No, I don't. But I will. There's no point in having that ugliness fall on your head. I'm a grown man. I didn't have to bid."
"No," Joni said firmly. "I'll take my licks. I deserve them."
"You don't want this kind of trouble with your uncle."
"Why not? Maybe it'll clear the air."
Hardy shook his head. "Nothing's going to clear the air, not after all this time."
Sitting back, he sipped his coffee and wondered what the hell he was doing sitting here with Joni Matlock. Then he wondered, as he always did, if he would have been sitting here with Joni under better circumstances if he'd broken up with Karen when he'd first noticed his attraction to Joni.
Probably not, he told himself. None of them had been old enough to sustain a long-term relationship. If Karen hadn't died, he would have broken up with her. Joni might have agreed to date him, but probably wouldn't--out of loyalty to her cousin. And except for the possibility that Karen would still be alive, nothing would have changed. Not really.
But what good did it do to ask himself these questions? All he could do was wish Karen hadn't been in the car with him that night. And wishes were worthless.
Joni's mood seemed to be rising as the sugar in her roll began to hit her system. She looked less worried and tired, and more like her old self. Finally she even smiled at him and said, "Okay, it was a stupid idea."
While he would be the first to admit that Joni too often acted on impulse, and that sometimes her reasons weren't the most sensible, he didn't like to hear her put herself down that way. Casting his mind back over the years, he could remember dozens, maybe hundreds, of times when she'd put herself down. It was kind of strange coming from a woman who, as far as he could tell, ought to be spoiled rotten. Witt and Hannah both doted on her to an extreme degree. Maybe that was why she was so impulsive.
But it didn't explain why she was so quick to call herself stupid. A woman who had a graduate degree in pharmacy shouldn't be thinking of herself that way.
He shifted in his chair and leaned over the table a little, on an impulse of his own asking her, "Why do you always call yourself stupid?
You're not stupid at all."
Her eyes were strangely haunted as they met his. "Maybe not," she said finally. "But I'm not the world's brightest bulb or I wouldn't keep getting into fixes like this. Well, I'll take what's coming to me.
Maybe it was a stupid idea, but I was trying to make things better. I guess I ought to be smart enough to realize that if twelve years isn't making it better, nothing else is likely to."
She pushed her roll aside and stared into her coffee cup. When she spoke again, her voice was muffled. "I hate to see people I care about hurting."
"We all do, Joni. But sometimes we've just got to let them hurt because there's nothing we can do. There's no way to make Witt stop hurting."
"But what about you?" she asked.
His heart turned over, and that was exactly what he didn't want to happen. Feeling a pull toward Joni was bad enough given the situation, but feeling any more was suicidal. Rising suddenly, he tossed a few bills on the table to cover their check. He picked up his coffee and looked down at her. "Been nice talking to you, Joni. But let's not make a practice of this. It's not good for anyone. Thanks for trying with Witt."
Then he turned and walked out, feeling her eyes on him every step of the way.
Born to hurt, that was what he was, he thought. Born to hurt everyone he knew.
He didn't make it but half a block before he ran into Sam Canfield.
They'd gotten friendly after Sam had moved to Whisper Creek a few years back to take a job as a deputy. Sam's wife had died a couple of years ago in a skiing accident, leaving Sam looking haggard and haunted.
Sam was a tall man, far leaner than he used to be, and since his wife's death, he seemed to have hunched in on himself. His face had taken on deep lines, and his gray eyes had lost their sparkle. Although he was only thirty-five, his dark hair had begun to show streaks of gray.
"Hey, buddy," Sam said, his voice dragging Hardy's head up from his gloomy study of the slippery sidewalk. "You look like the world's coming to an end."
"Nan." It was Hardy's usual response. He wasn't comfortable admitting that sometimes he would like to cut his own throat, or find a hole in reality that would allow him to just slip out, like the fire door in a theater. The idea sounded stupid even to him.
"Right," said Sam, who'd been around the block of life often enough to recognize that for what it was. "Got some time? I'm thinking about stopping at the cafe for lunch, and I don't mind telling you, I'm tired to death of eating alone."
Hardy was agreeable. He didn't have anything that pressing today, and his mother, who was feeling a little better, had begun to insist she could make her own lunches, thank you very much.
They sat facing each other in a corner booth. Sam ordered a turkey sandwich and salad. Hardy went for a burger and fries.
"I try to eat healthy," Sam remarked. "The problem is, it's a lot harder to do when you're living alone."
Hardy nodded, leaning back to let the waitress put mugs of coffee in front of the two of them. Sam, he thought, was looking better than he had a while back. Some of the gauntness that had appeared after his wife's death had filled out. But there was still a haunted look in his eyes from time to time. Hardy decided not to mention it. He was never quite sure how to deal with grief. Mention it? Ignore it so as not to reawaken it?
"I hear you bid on Witt's hotel."
Hardy's head snapped up. "You know, the grapevine in this town is unbelievable. Where'd you hear that?"
"From one of Witt's cronies. My guess would be he's been sounding off a little."
"Probably." Hardy shook his head and decided to drink some coffee before he answered. But with the cup halfway to his mouth, he paused.
"You know, this town is the damnedest place."
"That's one of the things I like about it," Sam remarked. He cradled his cup as if his hands were cold. "Something happens around here, damn near everyone knows who did it. Makes my job easy. On the other hand, everyone's going to know you were hanging out with Joni."
"I bet." Hardy flashed a smile, then sighed and sipped his coffee. "I thought going into the coop would be safe."
Sam shrugged. "I dunno. How many people saw you and Joni head in there?"
"Well, you did, apparently."
"I'm not saying a word about that anywhere. Soon as I measured the gossip rate around here, I figured a closed mouth was my best protection."
"Other folks don't feel the same." "Little enough to occupy them.
Work and talking about the neighbors is it. Most of it's not meanspirited, though. Just interested."
"Witt would have a cow."
Sam grinned. "Now, that's something you don't see every day."
