The Tree Keeper's Promise: A Novel (A Shafer Farm Romance Book 2) Page 9

  “My what? Oh, you mean Willard? We are so done. Divorce final—like almost a year. Okay, like three months. But we separated long before that. I am so over him. Over all of it.”

  Angela wasn’t sure what that meant, but this concerned her even more. If that ring was from someone new, that would mean it would be all she’d hear about over lunch. Lunch! Did she, like seriously, have to survive lunch with Ashley?

  I’m already sounding like her!

  “Sorry to hear that,” Angela said as she fiddled with her purse. “It’s almost lunchtime. Did you want to go grab a bite to eat?”

  “I’m so glad you asked. Yes, I’m starved. Did you keep a mini fridge in the office here? I couldn’t find one, so I thought maybe you had one but took it with you, which I could totally understand if it was stainless or maybe special order. So I’ll need to know where the POs are, right? Purchase orders—I’ve learned that. I’ll fill one of those out pronto for a fridge and probably a microwave. I don’t see why they couldn’t put a wall up over there and create like a mini kitchen, you know? I could stock it with protein bars and maybe some acai berries. I’ve heard Oprah used those to lose weight. That will need to be project number one.”

  They were in the restaurant, seated and halfway through their salads before Ashley stopped midsentence and announced how inconsiderate she’d been to not ask Angela what was happening in her life.

  “I know you have Caroline, but you do get out, right? I mean, there has to be some kind of a social life in Sutton. How long have you lived here?”

  Was she kidding? That had been one of the things Angela liked about Sutton—the lack of social life or, rather, the lack of socialites.

  “It’s been a couple years now. I was looking for something that wasn’t Providence. I hang out in the country.” Angela held in a smirk. “Some of the best people I’ve ever met live here.”

  “The country? I hadn’t thought of that. I mean, I know we’re not in Providence anymore, but I was hoping you and I, well, you could introduce me to some friends. You know, help me get settled. I can’t be all about the apartments. We know the tenants won’t be my friends.”

  Angela clanged her fork inadvertently—or not. “I can introduce you to one of my good friends.” She ate another bite of spinach and chewed slowly. “Her name is Dorothy Shaw. She may be getting engaged soon.”

  “She sounds like my kind of girl. I mean, that’s exactly what I mean. Don’t let this ring fool you. I’m sure it didn’t. You knew I was divorced, right? I only wear it to fend off the non-salaried. Believe me, I take this off faster than my cucumber-facial scrub when there are suits in the room under forty.”

  Same old Ashley.

  “Let’s see. Dorothy—she’s in her late sixties. I’ve never asked her, but she has grandchildren. And her boyfriend, he’s in his seventies and helps run a farm. Don’t see him wearing a suit much. But you’ll probably meet her soon enough. She lives in 312. Always pays her rent on time, if not a day early.”

  Ashley’s jaw hung agape. “I’ll ... keep my eye out.”

  Sometime during their lunch, Ashley’s chatter ranged from shallow to probing to awkwardly intimate. There were moments where Angela glimpsed a few emotions flit across her face. She was always trying to be someone she wasn’t, though who she was—pretty and energetic with a knack for detail—could have been enough. Aside from trying to be more, better, best, she seemed to have a kind of ache, an aura of loneliness. She had friends to fit her shopping and gossip habits but not even one friend to turn to when life stopped moving along to the snap of her fingers. Building a façade for a life to impress one’s closest friends made it hard to turn to them when that façade came crashing down.

  It was beginning to make sense why she’d chosen a job in Sutton. And why she wore a place-holder ring.

  Angela ignored the pointed though unintended insults. She waded through the verbal debris and passed up the too-numerous opportunities to pass judgment or point out the girl’s mistakes. Ashley may have been a master of pretense and an expert of image-making, but pain was pain, and Angela knew that no amount of claiming she was “over all of it” could hide it. At least not from Angela.

  And that may have been the reason she heard herself agree to bring Ashley to the farm.

  Angela paced by the fireplace at the front of the farmhouse, her eyes darting to the bay window and back to the clock. Inviting Ashley to visit Shafer Farm seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Maybe not the right thing, but maybe the compassionate thing. Problem was, now Angela couldn’t find a compassionate bone in her body.

  What was I thinking?

  All Ashley will see is Donna’s barn and holiday crafts, not Gucci. Trees were the main attraction, not men in suits. The farm did have the Shafer family, namely Mark. But that was sort of the last thing Angela wanted to show Ashley.

  What could she do about it now? One more look at the clock and it was too late. She saw her pull up, close the door—and what was that? A Mazda Miata? She was wearing boots, high-heeled boots. Leggings and a skirt? Could it even be called a skirt?

  I’ve had bigger dinner napkins.

  Angela sighed and checked the side door. No sign of Mark. That was a good thing. She could greet Ashley and talk for a bit, let her adjust to what would surely feel like a foreign country.

  Another minute went by but no knock on the door. Angela stepped to the window and couldn’t find her at first. How odd. How could she get lost from the car to the door?

  Then she saw the corner of Ashley’s shoulder off to the east side of the porch and then her hair flip. Twice. Angela craned her neck a little farther toward the edge of the window.

  Who was she talking to?

  “Any closer and you might fall in,” Papa said as he entered the room.

  She’s not talking to Papa.

  “Watcha lookin’ at?” he asked as he moseyed over to the window.

  “Waiting for my friend.”

  “You mean the one with the fancy shoes out there talking to Mark?”

  Now Angela could see them in full view, Mark walking casually toward the door listening to Ashley, who was talking and bobbing and flipping her hair. If she meant it as a subtle flirtation, it was fast becoming a nervous tick.

  Angela scanned Mark’s face and his body language for clues. Was he put off? Surprised? Interested? No, of course not. But there were no clues. He looked like his genuine self, listening, walking, with an easy smile on his face.

  Knots formed in Angela’s stomach. What have I done?

  She moved quickly from the window as they approached the porch, though she didn’t have quite enough time to get involved in something other than straightening pictures on the fireplace mantel. Great.

  Mark opened the door, allowing Ashley to enter ahead of him.

  “Angela! There you are.” She moved directly to Angela for a hug, or cheek kiss, or whatever it was that she did, her heeled boots clacking against the floor as she walked.

  Angela caught Mark’s eye over Ashley’s shoulder. He wore a smile punctuated by raised eyebrows. All Angela could do was plead with her eyes.

  “You didn’t tell me the farm was so quaint, Angela. Or that it was this far out of the way. I mean where is the nearest drugstore? What do you do if you run out of mascara? Not that I buy mine there, of course, but in a pinch I can grab some Revlon and no one knows the difference. But seriously. I thought it would be a little bit country. You didn’t tell me you were roughing it.”

  There may have been an awkward pause while Angela figured out a response to not ever needing emergency mascara, but Ashley continued.

  “And you also didn’t tell me I’d be meeting the owner of the farm.” With those words, her attention shifted deliberately to Mark with another signature flip of her hair.

  Angela acted quickly at that move, working her way to Mark’s side. She stopped short of resting her hand on his arm, mainly to appear much calmer than she was.

  “So sorry
. I thought for sure I told you,” she offered, though as she said the words she knew she hadn’t had the chance. “Mark, this is my friend from Providence, Ashley.” She hesitated a moment at the last name, not sure which name Ashley was using.

  “Oh, we’ve met. I even got a little tour from the parking lot to the porch. The hand-carved door is exquisite. Mark is going to find the name of the craftsman for me.”

  Met and started a research project together. In less than thirty yards.

  “I’m sure we have a file somewhere. All I know is that it wasn’t mass produced. My mother loved originals.”

  Ashley had locked eyes with Mark and stood there as if she were soaking up every word he spoke. Had Angela not been standing so close to him, she may have felt like she wasn’t even in the room.

  Say something, anything, to break the spell.

  “Couldn’t you call your mom and ask? I mean, a woman never forgets a good designer,” Ashley rattled off, now glancing about the room, seeing it for the first time.

  Mark looked at Angela. An “I’m-sorry” expression was all she could offer. This was going from bad to worse. And they weren’t even through the introductions.

  “My mother passed away when I was ten.” He said it reverently but also unaffectedly. Angela recognized the kindness in his eyes, always present when he spoke of his mother.

  “Oh, I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.”

  “Why don’t I show you the rest of the house,” Angela said. Turning to Mark, she added, “Maybe we could catch up with you by Donna’s barn in a half an hour?”

  “Sounds good.”

  Angela waited for Mark to leave, but he paused for a moment, perhaps only recognizable to her. Then, without warning, he put his arm around Angela’s waist, pulled her against him, and kissed her cheek—ever so close to her lips. Brief but deliberate. And conveniently on the side facing Ashley.

  As Mark left the room, Angela rode the wave of momentary thrill and turned to face Ashley, bracing herself for the inquisition.

  “What was that? No, don’t tell me. Seriously, that was a kiss. Okay, more than a kiss because I saw his arm go around your waist. Like ... are you two ... ? Don’t tell me. I mean, you didn’t tell me you’re ... you’re dating him! Dating, right? How long has this been going on? And by going on I mean—”

  “Let me stop you right there.” Angela took a breath deep enough for the two of them. “We’re not engaged.” Angela held up her hand, and an anticlimactic quiet settled over them.

  Ashley appeared both disappointed and somewhat pleased in a single facial expression.

  “Yet. We’re not engaged yet,” Angela added. She might have been imagining the pleased look, but just in case she wasn’t.

  Ashley and her heeled boots clacked over to the dining room, and she offered a little laugh.

  “Now I know why you wanted me to come to the farm. This is going to be your home.” She said it simply enough, but Angela wasn’t sure if there were an edge in there somewhere.

  “No, remember you asked about Sutton. Meeting people.”

  “Uh-huh. This is lovely Angela, it is.” At this, her tone shifted noticeably. As she walked to the kitchen, leading a kind of self-tour, she pointed to the area walled off with plastic. “What’s happening there?” she asked.

  “Mark is expanding,” Angela said, hoping that would satisfy her since she didn’t know more than that. When Mark had started the construction, he’d declared it a surprise until it was done.

  “Nice. Maybe a modern master bedroom suite for the two of you?”

  Before Angela could admit to not knowing, Ashley expertly changed the subject, or at least breathlessly. Now in the kitchen, she commented on everything from the cabinets to the angle of light from the windows. “At least your future, uh, late mother-in-law had good taste. What about your father-in-law? Does he still own the house?”

  Tact. Did she have any?

  “He died in a fire with Mark’s mom,” Angela said. Before Ashley could reply, Angela changed the subject and stammered out some words. “How about we head outside. The trees are spectacular,” Angela said while motioning to the window. She saw a bit of wistfulness on Ashley’s face. “This time of day,” she continued, “the angle of the light, like you were mentioning. It’s gorgeous here.”

  As they approached Donna’s craft barn, Mark was waiting. Angela loved how tall he stood near the door with his square shoulders and tousled brown hair against the red of the barn wall, the white of the door trim. A familiar emotion flitted through her, that longing to be in his arms.

  Then she remembered Ashley and how this was her first time at the farm. Was it her first time on any farm? Not that Angela wanted to read her mind. The thought of that was exhausting, but what was she thinking?

  Angela looked again at the trees, at the barn, and at Mark. Did the barn need a new coat of paint? Was the fading sunlight doing the trees justice?

  Was Mark as rugged-looking as she thought? Or just rough around the edges?

  Angela pushed the thoughts aside as Mark greeted them.

  “Hi, Mark. Angela didn’t tell me she had her very own Tarzan.”

  Angela cringed—Tarzan? This isn’t the jungle!

  Ashley spoke full speed ahead. Angela hoped Mark had missed the reference completely. She should have warned Mark about her, the inadvertent put-downs, but they were always reserved for her, she’d thought. Angela didn’t think she’d aim any at Mark.

  Ashley couldn’t have meant it the way it sounded, could she? She was already commenting on the slant of the ground and how had she known she’d be hiking she would have worn her Stuart Weitzmans.

  “I’ve never had a reason to take them out of the box, and I promised myself I would, you know, go hiking one day so I wouldn’t be haunted by the $500 price tag. I mean I could have waited for a sale, but Weitzmans are ridiculous that way. I would have never found my size. You’d think five and a half would be so easy to find. It’s the half size—I mean why did my feet have to grow just enough to take half the joy out of shoe shopping?”

  Whatever compassion Angela may have felt at their now-too-distant lunch, she was losing over Ashley’s great trial in life—that of an impractical shoe size.

  There were no designer hiking boots for sale in the barn. Though that didn’t stop Ashley from suggesting it.

  “Donna’s barn, what a nice touch. You know, though, everyone can see it’s a barn. Add the word boutique and voilà, you can sell to an entirely new market.”

  Donna’s Barn Boutique?

  Angela would have to think about that one.

  Mark ventured a word or two. “Can’t say that Donna was much of a boutique woman.”

  After Ashley left, Mark and Angela walked through the back lot of trees from the barn to the front lot. The setting sun glowed over the western horizon. The trees stood as darkened sentinels.

  Angela sighed, displaying obvious relief. Not that she didn’t still worry what Mark might have thought of Hurricane Ashley having just moved through the farm. Could she declare how she didn’t want to think, look, or act like Ashley in any way without being a miserable friend? Had Mark gotten to know her well enough over these last eight or nine months to know the difference?

  “So you and Ashley—friends?

  “High school friends, and in the loosest meaning of that word.”

  “And now?” Mark asked guardedly.

  “She’s the new manager of Blackstone. But my time there is done. I only invited her here because she’s new to Sutton, and she says she’s over her divorce, but I don’t know. She may be needier than ever.”

  “And?”

  “And what? That’s all.”

  “You don’t think she’ll be wanting to hang out, do some girls’ nights?”

  At this, Angela felt even more relieved. If all Mark was worried about was Angela spending time with Ashley—well, that was not going to happen.

  “She may want to, but I don’t have the wallet or stomach
for the kind of shopping she does.”

  Mark reached for Angela’s hand. The warmth of his touch distracted her for a moment and left her unprepared for what he would say next.

  “It’s not too late to tell me if this isn’t going to work out. I saw the way Ashley looked at the trees and the house. I get it. I’ve seen it before. If it hadn’t been for the hand-carved door, she might have made up a reason to leave before we even made it to the porch.”

  Angela continued walking, speechless, her mind replaying the last hour.

  “I always worried it would be a stretch. Us ... you ... the farm,” he said next.

  His tone of defeat tugged at Angela’s heart. No, it pierced it. She wanted to protest but shock choked her words.

  Mark continued. “This isn’t Providence. And I’m not Tarzan.”

  What did he mean, “It would be a stretch”?

  Angela could hardly see the road for all her indignation.

  The nerve he has to say such a thing.

  She tried taking a deep breath or two but felt far too hypocritical doing it. I don’t want to cool down. I want to stay mad. At least until I can figure out why his oh-so-considerate offer makes me so angry.

  At that, she thought of his words again. “It’s not too late to tell me if this isn’t going to work out.”

  Why isn’t it too late? Do you feel so little for me?

  The road curved before her exit. She narrowly missed another car while changing lanes. She forced another breath for her own safety’s sake.

  “I always worried it would be a stretch,” he’d said. “Us ... you ... the farm.”

  He’d included farm like it was part of the “us” he talked about. Of course it was a part of them. The lack of confidence in his voice, the sound of resignation she heard—like he was less surprised and mostly deflated. If he’d been that skeptical, why let it go on this long?