Hemlock Veils

“Now’s your chance to tell her off,” Arne teased. “Go on, show her who’s boss. Demand she change it.”

Henry glared at the eyes in the mirror—the eyes that had remained the same over all these years. The eyes of an eighteen-year-old, garnishing the body of an elderly man. “Drive.”

Ms. Ashton’s eyes caught the car and she straightened. They held his, even though she couldn’t possibly see through his darkened window. He found himself straightening as well, regardless of the way he was hidden. Then she lifted a hand and smiled, giving a polite wave. Henry assumed that’s what neighbors were supposed to do.

***

The coffee grounds bloomed in Elizabeth’s French press, the one she’d bought herself in L.A. and just pulled from her box the night before. She skimmed the grounds away with a spoon, the task strangely satisfying. She’d learned years ago in her rigorous pursuit for the perfect brew that covering the press tended to yield an uneven extraction from the cake of the coffee. Leaving it exposed and allowing the grounds to “bloom,” then skimming them from the top, made an amazing difference in the consistency and taste.

After plunging the press, she poured the coffee into a thermos, inhaling every air molecule she could, and closed the lid immediately. The rich and robust aroma made this place home. She looked around, at the walls now hers. Someday soon, there would be things on them, decorations—even pictures—that would make it officially her own. For now, just one box sat on the floor, and on the tiniest kitchen counter she’d ever seen sat her French press. In her bedroom—the only bedroom—were two suitcases and a lumpy mattress, one Regina had loaned her.

Hot thermos in hand, she hung her purse on her shoulder and grabbed her keys. It was early, just after seven, but because of her excitement, she hadn’t been able to sleep from the moment the sun had risen. Her shop supplies, the ones she’d ordered online yesterday, were supposed to arrive today since she had paid extra for next-day delivery. She felt like a child on Christmas morning.

After exiting the house and locking the door behind her, she turned, slightly electrified at the sight of Mr. Clayton walking by. She shouldn’t have been surprised, since he did this every day. But it was a quarter after seven and, according to Regina, he usually arrived at the diner by seven sharp. He didn’t seem like a man who was ever late for anything.

He paused too upon noticing her, and she readjusted her purse. His suit was black today, as well as his tie, and the sight of him out here, with dew-covered leaves and a bird’s morning song, felt…fitting. He nodded at her, and she said, “Good morning, Mr. Clayton.”

“You said I would never know I had a neighbor and here you are, infringing on my morning walk again.”

The appealing image her mind had created of him deflated, but instead of despising him, she reminded herself of all he’d been generous enough to do for her. She backed away, closer to her door. “I’m sorry. I can wait before I—”

“It was a joke, Ms. Ashton.” He scratched his forehead. “I suppose it’s been a while. I’m a little rusty.” Was he actually trying for small talk?

She approached with hesitancy, but couldn’t help chuckling at the way he appeared uneasy with a social skill as simple as teasing. “I suppose you are,” she said.

They walked side-by-side, which surprised her since every other time they had walked in remotely the same direction he’d intentionally stayed ahead of her. But he stopped before her house could disappear from sight. “Ms. Ashton.” Something seemed to be bothering him.

“Yes?” For some reason, when looking into his eyes, her mind drew upon the night before, when she’d been unpacking her box in the kitchen and standing by the only window at the back of the house. She had felt the beast again, and looked out the window in time to see him emerge from the trees. He stayed mostly hidden, but in the small clearing around her back porch, moonlight bathed his tail and front paws. No matter how many times she’d seen him, a shiver still shot down her spine, simply from his horrifying yet majestic presence. She wanted to go outside, badly. But instead she stood at the window—where they exchanged the same understanding with their eyes as the night before—reminding herself of the deal she’d made with Mr. Clayton.

Perhaps that’s why she thought of the beast now, when stuck in Mr. Clayton’s captivating brown eyes (for the first time she admitted to herself they were quite captivating) because it was he who would deprive her of all interaction with the so-called monster.

“I want to know why you didn’t change the name.” He released a breath, one that suggested he’d been holding it since the night before.

Blinding yellow shards of sunlight broke through the towering branches of a fir at horizontal angles. The crisp morning nibbled at her nose. “It…felt wrong to.”

“I hope you didn’t do it on account of me, Ms. Ashton, because—”

“It’s not about you, Mr. Clayton. It’s about Jean, whoever she was. It was her bakery. It still is. I want to keep it alive. The only title that feels right is Jean’s.”

“But you didn’t know her.” He seemed frustrated by this fact.

“I know.” It was all she could say.

“I just don’t understand.” His soft voice became lost inside his mind, and his brow tensed, as though he was trying to figure out the deepest of mysteries. “What drives a person to show such respect to someone they’ve never met, to someone they know nothing about?”

“I guess I just feel her there. I feel the whole town there, and how it used to be. Why would I want to change that?” She shrugged. “It’s not just because of you I got this opportunity. It’s because of her. Without her bakery…I’d have nothing.”

Gradually, his eyes moved from hers to the asphalt. Was this man standing here even Henry Clayton—this vulnerable, brooding man?

“The question is, Mr. Clayton, what drives a person to be so skeptical of such respect? You’ve been wronged a lot in your life, haven’t you?”

He recoiled, and began to walk.

“Is it all right I keep it Jean’s?” she asked, making him slow. “I can change it if—”

“No. It’s…it’s fine, Ms. Ashton. It’s what she would have wanted.”

They walked at a leisurely pace, and his mind still seemed far from him. She swallowed deeply before her next question, hoping she wouldn’t make his dark side emerge. “Who was she?”

He looked at her, then back at the street. “Jean was…” He hesitated. “My grandmother.” She had suspected so, since the boy in the picture she found last night looked so much like him. That silly, boyish smile, arms wrapped around a slender, well-manicured woman wearing an apron: it had to be Mr. Clayton’s father, whom Regina said he looked so much like. The boy even had the same dimples that appeared in the rare instances Mr. Clayton smiled.

She allowed him a moment to drift. The soles of their shoes ground rhythmically against the wet, gritty road—a most relaxing sound. After a moment, she said, “Mr. Clayton, if you also don’t mind me asking…who lived in the house before me?”

Then it happened: the Mr. Clayton she knew emerged. He became rigid, placing his hands in his pockets and eyeing her with that same a

“Yes,” she answered matter-of-factly.

His eyes shot to her in a mix of surprise and repulsion. He had no words.

“It’s a joke, Mr. Clayton. I suppose I’m a little rusty myself.” She smiled at him, regardless of the way he stared with a harsh brow.

However, he relaxed after a second. “I did, if you must know. My mother and I lived there, every summer from the time I was a baby to the time I was eighteen. And my mother lived there every summer thereafter, until she passed away ten years later.”