Hemlock Veils

He glanced at it. He’d once said that when someone makes trouble it follows them the rest of their life. That’s what he was ensuring for hers. “I want you to live with it. Know the things you enjoy come from betrayal.” He paused. “You will use it, Elizabeth.”

“And if I don’t…”

“I’ll know.” A silent exchange passed between them and she believed him. Somehow, he would know the whereabouts of every last cent. “And if I find out you haven’t, I won’t just have you thrown in prison for stealing, I’ll make sure you’re a part of your brother’s scandals. You’ll go to prison for illegal drug possession, conspiracy to murder—”

“Conspiracy to murder?”

Silence, just briefly. “As you’re aware, I know people. I could have you tied to the murder of your brother with a single phone call.”

Pain wracked her chest. “Please,” she whispered. “Just let me pay for what I’ve done.”

“But isn’t that what I’m doing?”

Words escaped her.

“Use your reward.”

“This is no reward,” she said, holding up the envelope.

“No, not for you, is it? For you, spending that blood money—on yourself no less—would be your greatest punishment. So enjoy it—with all its dark reminders. If not, I’ll see to it that your life is far more miserable than a guilty conscience.”

He turned and left, and the life of punishment she’d imagined for herself was replaced with a $100,000.00 reward.

Chapter 13

Neither Henry nor Arne said a word during the entire hour drive from Portland to Hemlock Veils. Henry because every ounce of his will had been depleted, and Arne because he knew how to read Henry better than anyone ever had. The day had been long and counterproductive, abnormal for the triple life he lived, and gave him more time to dwell on what he’d actually done that morning. What had he done, giving in to Elizabeth Ashton? Regardless of the way no one better deserved the old cottage and his mother’s bakery, he felt like a fool. He was Henry Clayton and hadn’t given in to anyone in Hemlock Veils in years.

He had been fifteen the last time, and Astrid had been the one to change it all. She was one year younger than he: a tan-ski

I thought you loved me, he’d actually been foolish enough to say.

Henry, she tittered, as though his very name was ridiculous, it was just a fling. And she walked away, back to the diner with the boy named Bishop. It was the last time Henry had ever spoken to her, and that was the last summer she’d visited Hemlock Veils, since her grandmother had passed away that same year.

And that was the last time Henry had been irrational enough to fall in love.

It was when he’d decided all females were the same, especially the pretty ones. And the rest of his life he’d been proven right. If they were going to be shallow enough to love him for his father’s money, then he would love them for their looks, and do it in the form of one-night stands. There was a time he had loved that lifestyle, and when that lifestyle was over—stolen from him—he’d even longed for it at first.

But now it held nothing of the Henry Clayton he knew. They were simply memories of someone else’s life, left to taunt him: red lips of every shade, painted eyes from across a room, the way the delicate zipper of a dress could rip in the heat of passion, the sound of his name in a satisfied moan.

Though Nicole didn’t have the class of those women from the past that wasn’t his, she reminded him every time she flaunted her assets. She reminded him of what he could still have, and even more, that it was the last thing he wanted. It reminded him life was no longer about satisfying every appetite.

But Ms. Ashton reminded him of things he’d always dismissed, things he was never willing to believe women possessed. Things that perhaps made a woman worth caring about.

She reminded him he could never be the man to do the caring.

Now, driving down Clayton Road, the low sun to his right, he wondered what repercussions might come of his weak decision to allow her to stay. Ahead, the black awning’s rounded flaps fluttered in the wind, as if waving to an old friend. In that instant, every time he’d approached it as a child flashed in his mind. The same excitement settled in his chest as it had then, ever so subtly. He could almost taste his mother’s cookies, could almost see her smile when he ran through the door, could almost smell the bread. Maybe now, with someone here to change it, someone else to make it their own, he wouldn’t be so haunted by memories from another life that was i

But the closer to the bakery they came, the more that familiar awning didn’t look familiar at all. “Stop,” he said to Arne, the breath knocked from his chest. Arne did, and with the car at the bakery’s curb, his eyes narrowed. Ms. Ashton had already moved hastily to make it her own, which was a

“Henry…” Arne began in warning, as though he could hear Henry’s teeth grinding.

“What does she think she’s doing?”

“She’s making it her own. Maybe this is how she wants to do that. It’s hers now, to do what she wants with it.”

“Exactly. It’s hers. Not my mother’s.”

“You can’t make her change it.” Arne sighed, and with their eyes on the black-and-white awning, and Henry’s anxiety calming—out of mere exhaustion, probably—Arne pensively added, “It does look great revived like that, doesn’t it? She’s quite the artist, among other things.”

Henry sat back, too tired to stew. He only stared, his mind drifting to the way she may have looked standing atop a ladder and painting the letters so carefully they looked professional. The storm had passed just before lunch, and he would have bet as soon as it had, she was ready with the paint. In the begi

Yet he found himself watching her at night, acting on what was initially just curiosity, but now a perplexing impulse to protect her. Would there ever come a time she would be afraid, as people were supposed to be? Sure her heart rate had been elevated like all the rest, but her eyes held no fear. He deserved fear, not acceptance. And now she had sore ribs to show for such acceptance. He hated himself for it, but mostly for the way it had begun to turn him over inside.

Arne was driving again, Henry realized, because now they neared the tiny cottage—the home that now belonged to Ms. Ashton. Regina was there too, and they chatted next to their cars, a mop bucket under Regina’s arm. They laughed and Ms. Ashton’s hair was in a ponytail, a few runaway strands dancing lightly in the breeze. In the setting sun, her brown hair owned a golden shine. Her smile, her laugh lines: she was exquisite, even in the way she infuriated him.