I knocked on 1D, the number on the note. It took three tries for the landlord to answer, and when she did, the look she gave me said I should have taken the hint after the first two.
She was at least as old as her cousin in Chicago. Steel gray hair pulled back in a severe bun. Sharp nose. Sharp chin. Even sharper gaze.
"What?"
"Are you Grace?" I handed her the note without waiting for a reply. "Your cousin Jack in Chicago--"
An abrupt wave, silencing me as she snatched the paper. As she read it, her frown deepened, until she wouldn't have been out of place perched on top of her building.
"Got one apartment," she said. "Three hundred a month."
"Could I see--?"
"No. Wasn't expecting to be showing apartments today."
"Is it one bedroom?"
"You need more? Too bad. It's one."
"One is fine. Separate kitchen and living area?"
"It's five hundred square feet, girl. You won't be doing much living in there. But if you're asking if it's all one room, like one of those bachelor pads, no, it's a proper apartment. Kitchen, living room, bedroom, bath."
"Furnished?"
"If you call a fridge, stove, twin bed, and sofa 'furnished.' Might not be up to your standards, though. Got them at a yard sale." A pause. "Twenty years ago."
"Could I replace them if I wanted?"
"Can do anything you want. Replace the furniture, paint, carpet. Hell, you can even clean the place. Might need it. Haven't opened the door since the tenant moved out last year."
Lovely ...
"Okay, so three hundred a month," I said. "First and last's makes that six--"
"Did I say you could stay two months? You pay one. Then I decide if you can have it for another."
Renting a place unseen was ridiculous. But three hundred was a steal, especially with no second month's rent or damage deposit.
I took another look down the hall. I wouldn't even want to think what I'd pay in a place like this in Chicago.
"I'll take it."
A grunt that might have been "good" but probably wasn't. She held out her hand, and it took me a second to realize she wanted her money. Now. I peeled three hundred from my wad and handed them over.
She took a key ring from inside her doorway, then strode along the hall so fast I had to scamper to keep up. No arthritic knees or hips here, despite her age. As we walked, she didn't say a word, just worked on getting a key off the ring.
We went up the stairs to the top floor. She walked to one of the front apartments and swung the door open. Left unoccupied and unlocked for a year?
The stink of must hit me as soon as the door opened. Nothing worse, though. A few hours--okay, a few days--with the windows open, and it would be fine.
As I followed her in, I realized she wasn't kidding about the cleaning. There were newspapers and empty boxes littering a floor so thick with dust that I kicked up clouds with every step.
Still, as with the rest of the building, the apartment was in good shape. Pretty even, with worn wood floors and plenty of decorative flourishes. It just needed a thorough scrubbing. The mauve painted walls would have to go before they gave me a headache.
Grace handed me the key. Then, without a word, she walked out.
If it hadn't been for the smell, I think I'd have collapsed on the bed and called it a day. But that stink got me out--with the windows left open.
Grace was on the front stoop, in a ratty lawn chair, surveying the street as if expecting an invasion of Mongols. I offered a cheery "Have a good morning!" as I started down the steps.
"Where you off to already?" she said.
"Job hunting."
"You just got here."
"I need a job."
"Well, you won't get one here. Not this fast."
I walked back up the stairs. "The town doesn't look like it's hurting too badly. There must be jobs for someone willing to take what she can get, which I am."
"Oh, there are jobs. But folks don't know you yet. Not going to hire you until they do. Only ones who'll take you so fast are other new people." A dismissive wave at a young woman herding two preschoolers toward Main Street. "They'll hire you to clean their houses and look after their brats."
"Then that's what I'll do."
She snorted and shook her head as I went back down the steps.
"Waste of time," she called after me. "But if you insist on going out, might as well stop by the diner."
I turned. "Do they have an opening?"
"No. I want a scone. One of those cranberry orange ones. If Larry says he's out, you tell him Grace says he's full of shit and he'd better find one."
Chapter Seventeen
Grace was right. I hit every shop on Main Street. Some people said they weren't hiring. Others peered at me and asked me who my folks were.
My parents, they meant. I definitely wasn't answering that. But what they were really asking was whether I was local, maybe gone off to college and come back and they didn't recognize me. When I told them I was new in Cainsville, they said they didn't have any openings, but I should come back in a week or two. In other words, once people around here got to know me.
I'd just left the last store when I passed a sign for the library. It was in the community center, which was an amazing building. It looked like a small version of Altgeld's castles, the Gothic Revival halls built at five Illinois universities. When Altgeld was governor in the late nineteenth century, he'd expressed concern about the ugliness of public buildings and suggested a style that would be both functional and attractive. The result was those five buildings.
The Cainsville community center was clearly modeled after them. It was a long, gray stone building, complete with turrets, battlements, a front tower, and of course, gargoyles. It should have looked horribly out of place, but it fit right in.
I walked through the front doors. There were lots of postings on the community board for local activities, everything from book clubs to karate lessons. None for jobs. Oddly, none for commuting partners, either--I'd considered whether I could carpool to a job in Chicago. Before I left, I popped into the library to check out the computers. They had a row of them, all with free Internet. It might look like a sleepy town, but the computers were relatively new. Very nice.
I considered sending a message to James. I could create a new e-mail account--that would be safe, wouldn't it?
Um, no. The guy owned a tech company, and I was seriously thinking he didn't have someone on staff who could track the e-mail's originating IP address? And after he tracked it to the library, how long would it take to find someone who would tell him that, yes, there was a new young woman in town.
Did I want him to find me? Or did I want to test him, see if he'd bother? Or test him another way, see if he'd respect my privacy and my ability to take care of myself?
If I truly intended to make it on my own, I had to send him a message the next time I was in Chicago, not from here.
I finished my job hunt in the Corner Diner, which looked like someone had transported it from the fifties. Red vinyl seats. Gleaming chrome. The smell of fresh coffee and apple pie. A cool air-conditioned breeze, just enough to lift the heat from the midday sun streaming through the windows.
There were plenty of windows. As the name proclaimed, the diner was on the corner, so glass wrapped around both sides, giving a street-side view to as many patrons as possible.
The worn linoleum floor squeaked under my shoes, and people glanced up at me. A few curious looks. A few smiles, not overly friendly but warm enough.
There were a couple of people eating a late lunch, but most seemed to be on a coffee break. Three tables of postretirement couples. Two of construction workers. Two more of shopkeepers, all of whom I'd met earlier in the day, and all of whom greeted me with a nod and a smile. And, finally, one table occupied by the obligatory "guy working on his novel."
As I crossed the diner, the would-be novelist looked up from his laptop. He was in h
is early twenties, with a lean face, dark eyes, and darker hair tumbling over those eyes. I'd have thought he was seriously cute if I were five years younger. And if I went for the tortured artistic types. As it was, I smiled and continued to the counter.
"Margie?" called a rich tenor voice behind me. "I need a refill."
I glanced back to see the novelist holding out his mug. The server--a wide-hipped woman in her early thirties--picked up the coffeepot ... and headed for a patron on the other side of the restaurant. I walked to the counter, where a beefy man with prison tats frowned as he watched the server.
"Excuse me," I said. "Is the manager in?"
"That'd be me." He extended a thick hand. "Larry Knight. Owner, proprietor, and chief cook."
"Only cook," said a reedy male voice behind me.
"Which is just the way we like it," a woman chimed in. "Best in the state."
As Larry blushed, I turned to see the elderly couple that'd greeted me this morning when I'd gotten out of the taxi. We exchanged smiles.
I asked Larry if he was hiring.
"Mmm, no," he said with what sounded like genuine regret. "This is a small operation, miss. Me at the grill, Margie and two other ladies sharing serving duty. Have you tried the--?"
One of the construction workers started coughing, his face screwed up as he spat on the floor. He lifted his coffee mug, peered in, and let out a roar.
"Margie! The cream's turned. That's the second time this week."
"Count yourself lucky," one of the shop owners said. "Three times for me, plus once with salt in the sugar container."
Larry scrambled from behind the counter, cream carton in one hand, fresh coffee mug in the other, sputtering apologies.
"Not your fault, Larry," the construction worker said. "We all know who's responsible for condiments around here." A glare at Margie, who squawked that she checked the creamers every day and those ones weren't due for another week.
"Then you'd better check the fridge," Larry said. "Make sure it's working right."
"Any chance on that refill?" called the writer. "I don't even take cream."
Larry apologized some more, took the pot from Margie, and hurried over. The old folks nearest me watched Margie disappear into the back, then one murmured, "Larry really has to let that gal go."
"He's too softhearted," the other replied.
They both nodded, half approvingly, half not, then checked their tea before sipping it.
"Sorry 'bout that," Larry said to me as he returned to his place behind the counter. "And sorry about the hiring situation. Can I get you something to eat? On the house? My way of saying welcome to Cainsville."
I took him up on the freebie, but ordered the cheapest thing on the menu--a grilled cheese sandwich. "And I need to buy a cranberry orange scone for Grace over on Rowan, please."
"We're all out of--"
"Don't even try it, Larry," one of the old ladies cackled. "Not with Grace. You should know better by now."
Larry sighed. "I'll bake up a batch from the freezer."
When he went into the kitchen, the elderly couple waved me over to squeeze into the booth with them. They introduced themselves as Ida and Walter. As I waited for my lunch, they gave me--unprompted--Larry's life story, at least as it pertained to Cainsville. To them, that was the only part that mattered, despite the fact that he'd only been here a few years. Before that, all they'd say was that he'd spent some time traveling the wrong road, which I could have guessed by the prison tats.
"Got mixed up with a bad crowd," Walter said.
"He's too trusting. People take advantage. Like her." A poisonous glower in Margie's direction as she took an order.
My sandwich arrived, and as I ate Ida and Walter filled me in on the town's inhabitants, an endless litany of names I'd never remember. When I finished, I got Grace's scone from Larry. As I was heading out, the would-be writer was trying to get another refill from Margie and, again, being ignored. He glanced at me as I passed the coffee station, then lifted his mug and eyebrows simultaneously.
I looked at Margie. She was on her cell phone. Well, as long as I was trying to make a good impression...
I took the coffeepot over and refilled his mug. He thanked me and said, "Now I bet you expect a tip."
"Um, no. I was just--"
"Being nice?" The smile that tweaked his lips was mischievous, but with a twist that was more devilish than boyish. "Didn't your momma ever tell you never to give something unless you can get something in return?"
"That wasn't how I was raised."
"Then you were raised wrong. As for that tip..." He lowered his voice. "If you want to work here, I'd suggest you come back for breakfast tomorrow. Then maybe for coffee in the afternoon. Repeat as needed. I have a feeling that opportunity will knock." A pointed look at Margie. "Sooner rather than later."
"Thanks."
"No need to thank me." He lifted his full mug. "It was a fair exchange of services."
He gave me that same unsettling smile, and I had to check my pace so I didn't hurry away.
When I stepped out of the diner, I noticed a black cat grooming itself on the diner windowsill. As I watched it, a voice whispered in my ear. Black cat, black cat, bring me some luck.
I spun. There was no one there. I rubbed my ear and made a face. Another forgotten ditty, resurfacing from my subconscious. I guess it was a testament to my mental state. I could act like I was motoring forward, doing fine, but something inside me had fractured, and this was what came bubbling up.
"Superstitious nonsense," I muttered.
The cat gave me a baleful look, then rubbed its paw over its head, flattening both ears with one swipe.
"Storm's coming," I whispered.
"Is it?" said a voice behind me.
I turned to see Ida and Walter exiting the diner. Ida peered up at the sky.
"Figures," she muttered. "Just when I decide it's safe to put the laundry out."
"No, I didn't mean--"
"Move those old legs," she said to her husband. "Or you'll have wet drawers waiting at home." She smiled over at me. "Thank you, dear."
I tried again to protest that I'd only been mumbling to myself. The sky was bright and clear. Rain wasn't coming anytime soon. But neither seemed to hear me, and only hurried off to get their laundry in before the skies opened.
Chapter Eighteen
All these years of hiding my superstitious side, and suddenly I was blurting weather omens to strangers. A cat washing its ears meant rain? I'd never heard of that before, no more than I remembered hearing that killing spiders was bad luck or that a black cat was good luck. Even people without a superstitious bone in their body knew that black cats were supposed to be bad luck.
Was this the first sign of a breakdown? Where other people would begin triple-checking locks and refusing to leave the house, I started babbling omens?
My apartment was only about a quarter mile from the diner. I'd seen a tiny park behind the bank that seemed like it could be a shorter route. It was on a half acre of land, cut by cobbled paths that ran between the surrounding houses and buildings, providing direct access to each street--including Rowan.
The park was beyond adorable, bounded by a gated wrought-iron fence. Every third post was a thick stone pillar topped with a chimera--fantastical hounds and birds and mythical mixtures. Many of them were shiny with wear, as if local children had each adopted their own, rubbing it for luck when they came to play.
Inside there were benches and a tiny burbling fountain, the fountainhead another chimera. The water came not out of its mouth, but from both ears, which made me smile. The park wasn't big enough for a full-blown playground, but there were swings, two for older kids and one basket type for little ones. The basket swayed gently, as if recently vacated, and I imagined a child in it, shrieking with delight, chubby arms and legs pumping.
"High, Daddy. Go high!"
A man's laugh. "I think that's high enough."
"High! Go high!" r />
"Okay. But hold on tight. If I bring you home with skinned knees again, Mommy will kill me. Are you holding on, Eden?"
I tore my gaze from the swing and hurried across the park to the rear gate. My fingers trembled as I unlatched it. It swung open with a squeal loud enough to make me jump. I turned to close it properly. As I did, I noticed patterns of stones in the garden. I bent over one. White stones arranged against black soil.
I jerked up, blinking. A deep breath, then I looked down again. It didn't look anything like the patterns from my dream. Just a child at play, arranging stones in the dirt.
I gave one last look at the swing, still twisting slightly in the breeze. I clutched the bag with Grace's scone, still warm, the comforting smell wafting out. I turned from the park and headed down the pathway toward Rowan.
As I hurried along, the sky grayed so fast I looked up in alarm. Rain? I shook my head. Wishful thinking, as if having my weather omen come true would somehow prove I was perfectly sane. Because "storm-prediction-by-cat" was sane.
Yet when the sun disappeared, it seemed to suck the spring warmth from the air. I shivered and pulled my jacket tighter. As I did, I caught sight of a shadow on the wall beside me. I looked over sharply. No shadow.
How could there be a shadow when the sun was gone? Damn, I really was losing it.
Yet I couldn't shake that sense of something creeping along behind me. Finally I spun. There was something there--a black shape crouched on the fence of the now-distant park. A chill crept up my spine and I squinted. The shape lengthened, stretching until it became the black cat, languidly arching its back, then settling in on the fence post to watch me.
The urge to run tingled down my legs. Instead, I forced myself back toward the cat. It just sat there, watching me.
"If you're looking for handouts, this"--I waggled Grace's bag--"is not kitty food."
The cat yawned and stretched again before settling back on its perch. Something passed overhead and the cat sprang up so fast I stumbled back. It gave me a scornful glare, then looked up into the sky. I followed its gaze to see what looked like a crow, soaring high overhead.