to keep her voice flat. “It’s good. So they’re here illegally?”
“Yeah. Matthew got them set up with new identities.”
Meaghan nodded. “John never really recovered from what happened to him, did he.” It was a statement, not a question.
Russ sighed. “No. I guess he didn’t. He drinks. A lot. How did you figure out he was Jamie’s father?”
“The eyes,” she said. “They have the same eyes.”
Chapter 9
H er storage pod arrived Wednesday afternoon. Meaghan could tell the delivery driver didn’t want to be there. He got the pod off the back of the flatbed truck and into the driveway as fast as he could, thrust a clipboard at her with shaking hands, and told her to sign it. His impatience and anger couldn’t mask the body language betraying his fear.
She remembered her mother, in that stupid dream, warning her to trust her gut. Fine, she thought. The moving company probably let the pod fall off the side of the truck somewhere along I-80, all her stuff was broken, and they knew she was a lawyer. That would explain his fear.
Meaghan took her time reading the form, signed it, and handed the clipboard back, grateful she’d had the foresight to pay extra for damage insurance. He ran to the truck, scrambled in, and roared off with screeching tires. Yeah, they’d smashed up her stuff. That had to be it.
She spent the next few days unpacking and, despite her prediction, everything was intact. After three days she was almost moved in, except for a few boxes. They weren’t anything critical, merely artwork, photos, that sort of stuff. But she couldn’t bring herself to unpack them. If she still had unpacked boxes in the corner, then she could convince herself the move was temporary.
On Saturday, Jamie came by and picked up Matthew to take him fishing for a few hours. Matthew didn’t fish any longer, he merely watched Jamie, but he seemed to enjoy it and their fishing trips gave Russ a badly needed respite. Russ used the time to escort Meaghan around Eldrich, which to Russ consisted of the weekly farmers’ market in the town square and the food co-op. A shiny new supermarket sat on the edge of town, but Russ avoided it unless absolutely necessary.
“But the co-op’s gotta cost more, right?” Meaghan asked. “What’s the difference?”
Even as the question came out of her mouth, Meaghan regretted it. For the fifteen minutes it took them to drive downtown, he lectured her about the “food-industrial” complex and the evils it wrought upon the world and how nobody should eat stuff produced farther than ten miles from home.
“Fine, I get it,” she finally said. “Local good, distant bad. I will never question your hunter-gatherer creds again. Can we stop for coffee? Or is coffee evil too? I know they don’t grow that within ten miles of our house.”
“Um,” Russ said. “Well, you have to make some allowances for certain things . . .”
“Like coffee,” Meaghan said.
“Yes, but I buy only fair-trade organic—”
She cut him off. “I don’t care. I want caffeine. They can grow it in crude oil in a lab for all I care.”
Russ wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Pathetic. You have so much to learn about food. There’s a great little place next to the co-op if you can wait a couple of minutes.”
Car parked, a cup of coffee in hand from Eldrich Brew, the funky little coffee shop next to the co-op, Meaghan followed Russ across the street to the farmer’s market in the town square. Russ planned to hit the co-op on their way back to the car.
Unlike some of the farmers’ markets she’d been to in Phoenix, which were mostly craft fairs with the token produce table for the look of things, the Eldrich farmers’ market was the real deal. Pickup trucks surrounded the square, fronted by stands laden with produce, fresh bread, cheese, eggs, and all sorts of jams, jellies, and preserves. She saw several signs for organic meat.
“Does John Smith sell his honey here?” Meaghan asked
“Yeah. Matthew got them set up with new identities.”
Meaghan nodded. “John never really recovered from what happened to him, did he.” It was a statement, not a question.
Russ sighed. “No. I guess he didn’t. He drinks. A lot. How did you figure out he was Jamie’s father?”
“The eyes,” she said. “They have the same eyes.”
Chapter 9
H er storage pod arrived Wednesday afternoon. Meaghan could tell the delivery driver didn’t want to be there. He got the pod off the back of the flatbed truck and into the driveway as fast as he could, thrust a clipboard at her with shaking hands, and told her to sign it. His impatience and anger couldn’t mask the body language betraying his fear.
She remembered her mother, in that stupid dream, warning her to trust her gut. Fine, she thought. The moving company probably let the pod fall off the side of the truck somewhere along I-80, all her stuff was broken, and they knew she was a lawyer. That would explain his fear.
Meaghan took her time reading the form, signed it, and handed the clipboard back, grateful she’d had the foresight to pay extra for damage insurance. He ran to the truck, scrambled in, and roared off with screeching tires. Yeah, they’d smashed up her stuff. That had to be it.
She spent the next few days unpacking and, despite her prediction, everything was intact. After three days she was almost moved in, except for a few boxes. They weren’t anything critical, merely artwork, photos, that sort of stuff. But she couldn’t bring herself to unpack them. If she still had unpacked boxes in the corner, then she could convince herself the move was temporary.
On Saturday, Jamie came by and picked up Matthew to take him fishing for a few hours. Matthew didn’t fish any longer, he merely watched Jamie, but he seemed to enjoy it and their fishing trips gave Russ a badly needed respite. Russ used the time to escort Meaghan around Eldrich, which to Russ consisted of the weekly farmers’ market in the town square and the food co-op. A shiny new supermarket sat on the edge of town, but Russ avoided it unless absolutely necessary.
“But the co-op’s gotta cost more, right?” Meaghan asked. “What’s the difference?”
Even as the question came out of her mouth, Meaghan regretted it. For the fifteen minutes it took them to drive downtown, he lectured her about the “food-industrial” complex and the evils it wrought upon the world and how nobody should eat stuff produced farther than ten miles from home.
“Fine, I get it,” she finally said. “Local good, distant bad. I will never question your hunter-gatherer creds again. Can we stop for coffee? Or is coffee evil too? I know they don’t grow that within ten miles of our house.”
“Um,” Russ said. “Well, you have to make some allowances for certain things . . .”
“Like coffee,” Meaghan said.
“Yes, but I buy only fair-trade organic—”
She cut him off. “I don’t care. I want caffeine. They can grow it in crude oil in a lab for all I care.”
Russ wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Pathetic. You have so much to learn about food. There’s a great little place next to the co-op if you can wait a couple of minutes.”
Car parked, a cup of coffee in hand from Eldrich Brew, the funky little coffee shop next to the co-op, Meaghan followed Russ across the street to the farmer’s market in the town square. Russ planned to hit the co-op on their way back to the car.
Unlike some of the farmers’ markets she’d been to in Phoenix, which were mostly craft fairs with the token produce table for the look of things, the Eldrich farmers’ market was the real deal. Pickup trucks surrounded the square, fronted by stands laden with produce, fresh bread, cheese, eggs, and all sorts of jams, jellies, and preserves. She saw several signs for organic meat.
“Does John Smith sell his honey here?” Meaghan asked
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