Wild Man Creek
Page 4
Jillian had been fresh out of college with a brand-new marketing degree and a bunch of credits toward her MBA when Harry Benedict offered her a low-paying job in a start-up firm. His start-up capital was limited, but he needed a few key people—a CPA, a software engineer and someone to pull together marketing demographics for his software products. Jillian could be that marketing person if she was willing and able to take a gamble. Harry had a good track record; he’d successfully started several companies, all of which he subsequently sold. What he offered her was an opportunity—to learn from him, get in on the ground floor of a new, high-tech manufacturing business and grow professionally.
Kelly was right about her—she was impulsive. She’d jumped at the chance. She had not been in a hurry to land the biggest job on the planet but the one with the most challenge and excitement. Plus, she liked Harry; liked his gruff, no-nonsense ways; liked his confidence and experience. His drive was addictive. She remembered one late night when they were still working at four in the morning, he’d said, “When we stop having fun, we’re outta here, right?” She bet on him just as he bet on her. And she missed him so much.
There was nothing more fun than helping to build a company. She became close to the Benedict family, rose in Harry’s software development and manufacturing business and, in fact, helped to formulate the company from its start-up to the day it went public. At the age of twenty-nine she had been made the vice president of Corporate Communications with a full staff and had become one of Harry’s inner circle execs. Along the way she’d collected bonuses, stock options and her salary grew along with her responsibilities. Careful investments meant that she had a significant portfolio that was well diversified.
Over the past ten years the only vacations she was successfully able to indulge in were those with her sister and their two best friends from high school. They were four women of diverse occupational interests who were all hardworking, ambitious, competitive and single. They managed to get away once a year for a week to ten days. Other than those vacations, Jillian didn’t know what to do with time off.
The thing that had always worked for both Jill and Kelly was hard work to turn their big dreams into successful realities. Kelly’s plans had been more focused right from the beginning—culinary school to line cook, to line cook in better and better restaurants, to sous-chef, to head chef to her own restaurant one day. Jillian’s path had never really wavered. After college, she jumped into the first opportunity that felt right. But both their paths proved to work. Kelly was definitely going in the direction she’d always planned and Jill had a nice nest egg from her ten successful years at BSS.
But, for now, Jill’s days were pretty simple. She enjoyed fishing with Luke’s helper, Art, a man in his early thirties who had Down Syndrome. They didn’t even talk much but she could tell Art enjoyed it immensely. She napped every afternoon, read, or watched movies late into the night, walked along the river in the early morning or dusk and drove around Humboldt County, taking in the landscape, the towns and the people—the people so unlike those she’d been used to in Silicon Valley. Though she appreciated invitations for dinner from the owners, she declined Luke and Shelby’s offers and remained on her own.
It was hard to change patterns and habits that had been ten years in the making—she bought prepared dinners that were easy to warm and eat, as if she were still putting in those long days. She was so happy to have time to read again, to indulge a few real girlie novels, but the love scenes only made her cry.
By driving to an open area, Jill was able to talk to Kelly at least once a day.
“Are you doing all right?” Kelly asked. “Any idea what’s next?”
“I’m kicking around a few ideas,” Jillian said. Truth was she had absolutely no ideas. “I don’t want to say anything out loud until I’ve done some more thinking….”
“How about your poor battered heart?”
“Hah! My heart is fine. I hate him and I want to kill him.”
“Good for you!” Kelly said approvingly.
In fact, Jill’s heart was in shreds. She still couldn’t believe the same man had supported her, comforted her, praised her—then betrayed her. It had been so long since her heart had hurt like this—maybe since high school? College? She hadn’t been a total workaholic since joining BSS—she had dated a bit. But Kurt had the distinction of having really reeled her in.
And there was something else she was having real trouble dealing with—she wasn’t sure if she mourned more for the lost relationship or the lost job.
Ironically, it was that weird old house and the memories it invoked that had originally made her think of Virgin River as her escape. Yet it took her three days of fishing, walking, reading and just thinking before she recalled how it made her feel. She wanted to go back to see that house.
And, oh! The house had changed in the six months since she’d seen it last! It was now simply beautiful! So different from when she had last seen it. It was painted white with tan and brown trim; the shutters were dark, the trim lighter. The gables were decorated and the turrets at the front end of the structure stood as proud as those at any castle. The porch had been reinforced and painted tan and white; new doors and windows had been installed. It was a stunning, refurbished house that might be a hundred years old but that looked as fresh and new as the day it had been built.
And if the house wasn’t amazing in itself, the grounds were as fabulous as she remembered—manicured shrubs, flowers just coming up and lining the base of the house and walk, trees sprouting buds. She identified hydrangea and rhododendron along with some other bushes that would burst into flower in another month. She walked slowly around the house and lawn, taking it in, sighing and oohing and aahing. She went up onto the porch and peeked into the window, seeing that, as she suspected, the place was empty. No one lived here.
This was not really like the house she and Kelly had grown up in—her nana’s house was so much smaller, a little three-bedroom with the downstairs bedroom off the kitchen no bigger than a large closet. But it, too, had been an old Victorian clapboard with gables and a big yard, and front and back porches.
Jillian and Kelly had been on their own for several years now. When they were only five and six years old there had been a car accident; their father was killed and their mother was left an invalid. Their already-elderly great-grandmother took them on, along with their mother, who needed daily care. The girls grew up in that little house in an older neighborhood in Modesto, California. Because their mother was in a wheelchair and had very limited mobility even in that, she slept downstairs in an old-fashioned hospital bed while the girls shared one upstairs bedroom and Nana had the other one. Their mother was the first to go when the girls were in high school; their great-grandmother passed when they were in their twenties. She’d been in her early nineties.
Walking around the back porch, Jill realized that the last time she’d been here she’d sat in a rusty porch chair that the old woman who’d lived here had died in. Now she sat on the porch steps, leaned against the post and looked out at the huge yard—big as a football field up to the tree line. Most of the property was taken up by an enormous garden that needed weeding for spring planting.
It was so quiet here Jill could hear herself think. And what she thought was, How could he touch me the way he did when he knew he was going to steal my job, destroy my reputation and break my heart? How does one human being do that to another? And she began to cry again, something she only allowed herself to do when she was completely alone. How could he say the things he said? she wondered. Jillian, marry me. Jillian, you’re the best thing that ever happened to me. Jillian, I can’t live without you, and I mean that. You’re so much more important to me than any job.
It was the deliberateness of the premeditated lies that was incomprehensible to her. Oh, Jill knew how to tell small lies, how to tell a fat girl in a bright red dress that the color was good on her, that she was late because of traffic, that she’d only just gotten the message, that sort of thing. But how do you hold a n**ed person, whisper those loving things when all along your plan is to throw them under the bus? This was something she could never do to another human being.
Tears ran down her cheeks as she walked around the backyard, eventually gravitating to a large aluminum storage shed. Still sniffing, she pulled open the unlocked double doors and found a riding lawnmower along with all of the old woman’s gardening tools. She didn’t want to disturb things, but thought it was harmless enough to pull out a spade. She went to work on the huge backyard garden, turning soil in the muddy patch. The woman who had lived here was eighty-six when she died, Jill had been told. Yet she had gardened a small farm. That was just like her nana.
When they were little girls, Nana had Jill and Kelly working in the garden, the kitchen, and though Nana had never had much formal education, she taught them to read so they could take turns reading to their handicapped mother. They had garden, kitchen and house chores until they officially moved away. They worked hard through childhood, but it was good work. It probably set them up to never fear hard work. Nana used to say, “God blesses me with work.” And oh, was Nana blessed! She took in laundry, ironing, sold her canned vegetables, chutneys, sauces and relishes and helped her neighbors. There was some Social Security for herself and the girls who had lost their father. They worked to the bone and barely got by.
It was the absence of work and love that hurt Jill’s heart. She dug at the garden and cried, ignoring her tears and getting herself all muddy. When the spade didn’t pull out a weed, she was on her knees giving it a tug.
There were seeds and bulbs in the shed and judging by the new green growth all around, it was planting time. About three hours after she had arrived she had a large portion of the huge garden tilled, weeded, turned and had even pushed some old, stored bulbs of unknown type that she’d found in the shed into the ground. Instinctively she knelt and scooped up some soil, giving it a sniff—her nose was a little stuffy and rusty, but she couldn’t detect any chemicals. She hadn’t seen any pesticides in the shed; she suspected the old woman had been an organic gardener. She kept digging and weeding. And all the while she cried soft, silent, painful, cleansing tears.
“Um, excuse me,” a man said.
She was on her knees, mud up to her elbows. She gasped, sat back on her heels and wiped impatiently at the tears on her cheeks. She looked up at a very tall man; he looked somewhat familiar, but she couldn’t place him.
“Everything all right?” he asked her.
“Um, sure. I was just, um, remembering my great-grandmother’s garden and I—well I guess I got a little carried away here.” She stood up and brushed at her knees, but it did no good.
He smiled down at her. “Must have been quite the garden. Hope gardened like a wild woman every summer. She gave away almost all of her produce and complained about the wildlife giving her hell. But she must’a loved it, the way she went after it.” He tilted his head. “You miss your grandma or something?”
“Huh?”
“Well, if you’ll pardon me, seems like maybe you’re crying. Or something.”
“Oh!” she said, wiping at her eyes again. “Yes, I was missing her!”
“That isn’t going to help much, with your hands all dirty,” he said. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. “Here. Come on out of the mud. Wipe off your face before you get that dirt in your eyes.”
She sniffed and took the clean, white handkerchief. “This your house now?” she asked, wiping off her face, amazed by the amount of dirt that came off on the cloth.
He laughed. “Nah. I worked on it, that’s all.” He stuck out his hand, then lifted his eyebrows—her hand was caked in mud. He reconsidered and withdrew his hand. “Paul Haggerty. General Contractor. I build and rebuild and restore around here.”
Kelly was right about her—she was impulsive. She’d jumped at the chance. She had not been in a hurry to land the biggest job on the planet but the one with the most challenge and excitement. Plus, she liked Harry; liked his gruff, no-nonsense ways; liked his confidence and experience. His drive was addictive. She remembered one late night when they were still working at four in the morning, he’d said, “When we stop having fun, we’re outta here, right?” She bet on him just as he bet on her. And she missed him so much.
There was nothing more fun than helping to build a company. She became close to the Benedict family, rose in Harry’s software development and manufacturing business and, in fact, helped to formulate the company from its start-up to the day it went public. At the age of twenty-nine she had been made the vice president of Corporate Communications with a full staff and had become one of Harry’s inner circle execs. Along the way she’d collected bonuses, stock options and her salary grew along with her responsibilities. Careful investments meant that she had a significant portfolio that was well diversified.
Over the past ten years the only vacations she was successfully able to indulge in were those with her sister and their two best friends from high school. They were four women of diverse occupational interests who were all hardworking, ambitious, competitive and single. They managed to get away once a year for a week to ten days. Other than those vacations, Jillian didn’t know what to do with time off.
The thing that had always worked for both Jill and Kelly was hard work to turn their big dreams into successful realities. Kelly’s plans had been more focused right from the beginning—culinary school to line cook, to line cook in better and better restaurants, to sous-chef, to head chef to her own restaurant one day. Jillian’s path had never really wavered. After college, she jumped into the first opportunity that felt right. But both their paths proved to work. Kelly was definitely going in the direction she’d always planned and Jill had a nice nest egg from her ten successful years at BSS.
But, for now, Jill’s days were pretty simple. She enjoyed fishing with Luke’s helper, Art, a man in his early thirties who had Down Syndrome. They didn’t even talk much but she could tell Art enjoyed it immensely. She napped every afternoon, read, or watched movies late into the night, walked along the river in the early morning or dusk and drove around Humboldt County, taking in the landscape, the towns and the people—the people so unlike those she’d been used to in Silicon Valley. Though she appreciated invitations for dinner from the owners, she declined Luke and Shelby’s offers and remained on her own.
It was hard to change patterns and habits that had been ten years in the making—she bought prepared dinners that were easy to warm and eat, as if she were still putting in those long days. She was so happy to have time to read again, to indulge a few real girlie novels, but the love scenes only made her cry.
By driving to an open area, Jill was able to talk to Kelly at least once a day.
“Are you doing all right?” Kelly asked. “Any idea what’s next?”
“I’m kicking around a few ideas,” Jillian said. Truth was she had absolutely no ideas. “I don’t want to say anything out loud until I’ve done some more thinking….”
“How about your poor battered heart?”
“Hah! My heart is fine. I hate him and I want to kill him.”
“Good for you!” Kelly said approvingly.
In fact, Jill’s heart was in shreds. She still couldn’t believe the same man had supported her, comforted her, praised her—then betrayed her. It had been so long since her heart had hurt like this—maybe since high school? College? She hadn’t been a total workaholic since joining BSS—she had dated a bit. But Kurt had the distinction of having really reeled her in.
And there was something else she was having real trouble dealing with—she wasn’t sure if she mourned more for the lost relationship or the lost job.
Ironically, it was that weird old house and the memories it invoked that had originally made her think of Virgin River as her escape. Yet it took her three days of fishing, walking, reading and just thinking before she recalled how it made her feel. She wanted to go back to see that house.
And, oh! The house had changed in the six months since she’d seen it last! It was now simply beautiful! So different from when she had last seen it. It was painted white with tan and brown trim; the shutters were dark, the trim lighter. The gables were decorated and the turrets at the front end of the structure stood as proud as those at any castle. The porch had been reinforced and painted tan and white; new doors and windows had been installed. It was a stunning, refurbished house that might be a hundred years old but that looked as fresh and new as the day it had been built.
And if the house wasn’t amazing in itself, the grounds were as fabulous as she remembered—manicured shrubs, flowers just coming up and lining the base of the house and walk, trees sprouting buds. She identified hydrangea and rhododendron along with some other bushes that would burst into flower in another month. She walked slowly around the house and lawn, taking it in, sighing and oohing and aahing. She went up onto the porch and peeked into the window, seeing that, as she suspected, the place was empty. No one lived here.
This was not really like the house she and Kelly had grown up in—her nana’s house was so much smaller, a little three-bedroom with the downstairs bedroom off the kitchen no bigger than a large closet. But it, too, had been an old Victorian clapboard with gables and a big yard, and front and back porches.
Jillian and Kelly had been on their own for several years now. When they were only five and six years old there had been a car accident; their father was killed and their mother was left an invalid. Their already-elderly great-grandmother took them on, along with their mother, who needed daily care. The girls grew up in that little house in an older neighborhood in Modesto, California. Because their mother was in a wheelchair and had very limited mobility even in that, she slept downstairs in an old-fashioned hospital bed while the girls shared one upstairs bedroom and Nana had the other one. Their mother was the first to go when the girls were in high school; their great-grandmother passed when they were in their twenties. She’d been in her early nineties.
Walking around the back porch, Jill realized that the last time she’d been here she’d sat in a rusty porch chair that the old woman who’d lived here had died in. Now she sat on the porch steps, leaned against the post and looked out at the huge yard—big as a football field up to the tree line. Most of the property was taken up by an enormous garden that needed weeding for spring planting.
It was so quiet here Jill could hear herself think. And what she thought was, How could he touch me the way he did when he knew he was going to steal my job, destroy my reputation and break my heart? How does one human being do that to another? And she began to cry again, something she only allowed herself to do when she was completely alone. How could he say the things he said? she wondered. Jillian, marry me. Jillian, you’re the best thing that ever happened to me. Jillian, I can’t live without you, and I mean that. You’re so much more important to me than any job.
It was the deliberateness of the premeditated lies that was incomprehensible to her. Oh, Jill knew how to tell small lies, how to tell a fat girl in a bright red dress that the color was good on her, that she was late because of traffic, that she’d only just gotten the message, that sort of thing. But how do you hold a n**ed person, whisper those loving things when all along your plan is to throw them under the bus? This was something she could never do to another human being.
Tears ran down her cheeks as she walked around the backyard, eventually gravitating to a large aluminum storage shed. Still sniffing, she pulled open the unlocked double doors and found a riding lawnmower along with all of the old woman’s gardening tools. She didn’t want to disturb things, but thought it was harmless enough to pull out a spade. She went to work on the huge backyard garden, turning soil in the muddy patch. The woman who had lived here was eighty-six when she died, Jill had been told. Yet she had gardened a small farm. That was just like her nana.
When they were little girls, Nana had Jill and Kelly working in the garden, the kitchen, and though Nana had never had much formal education, she taught them to read so they could take turns reading to their handicapped mother. They had garden, kitchen and house chores until they officially moved away. They worked hard through childhood, but it was good work. It probably set them up to never fear hard work. Nana used to say, “God blesses me with work.” And oh, was Nana blessed! She took in laundry, ironing, sold her canned vegetables, chutneys, sauces and relishes and helped her neighbors. There was some Social Security for herself and the girls who had lost their father. They worked to the bone and barely got by.
It was the absence of work and love that hurt Jill’s heart. She dug at the garden and cried, ignoring her tears and getting herself all muddy. When the spade didn’t pull out a weed, she was on her knees giving it a tug.
There were seeds and bulbs in the shed and judging by the new green growth all around, it was planting time. About three hours after she had arrived she had a large portion of the huge garden tilled, weeded, turned and had even pushed some old, stored bulbs of unknown type that she’d found in the shed into the ground. Instinctively she knelt and scooped up some soil, giving it a sniff—her nose was a little stuffy and rusty, but she couldn’t detect any chemicals. She hadn’t seen any pesticides in the shed; she suspected the old woman had been an organic gardener. She kept digging and weeding. And all the while she cried soft, silent, painful, cleansing tears.
“Um, excuse me,” a man said.
She was on her knees, mud up to her elbows. She gasped, sat back on her heels and wiped impatiently at the tears on her cheeks. She looked up at a very tall man; he looked somewhat familiar, but she couldn’t place him.
“Everything all right?” he asked her.
“Um, sure. I was just, um, remembering my great-grandmother’s garden and I—well I guess I got a little carried away here.” She stood up and brushed at her knees, but it did no good.
He smiled down at her. “Must have been quite the garden. Hope gardened like a wild woman every summer. She gave away almost all of her produce and complained about the wildlife giving her hell. But she must’a loved it, the way she went after it.” He tilted his head. “You miss your grandma or something?”
“Huh?”
“Well, if you’ll pardon me, seems like maybe you’re crying. Or something.”
“Oh!” she said, wiping at her eyes again. “Yes, I was missing her!”
“That isn’t going to help much, with your hands all dirty,” he said. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. “Here. Come on out of the mud. Wipe off your face before you get that dirt in your eyes.”
She sniffed and took the clean, white handkerchief. “This your house now?” she asked, wiping off her face, amazed by the amount of dirt that came off on the cloth.
He laughed. “Nah. I worked on it, that’s all.” He stuck out his hand, then lifted his eyebrows—her hand was caked in mud. He reconsidered and withdrew his hand. “Paul Haggerty. General Contractor. I build and rebuild and restore around here.”
