The Unknown Malone. Anne Eames
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the door. The plump, elderly woman waiting outside gasped. Her eyes traveled the length of the young woman in front of her before her lips settled into a firm, straight line. She brushed passed Nicole with a disgusted humph and there was a resounding twist of the lock behind her.
A feeling of dread spread across Nicole’s shoulders and neck and she fought a sudden urge to cry. Obviously she had just convinced somebody’s grandma that she was a worldly woman, but could she trick the owner of the Purple Palace?
Yet all she had to do was fit in, she reminded herself. A helper, the ad had said. Yesterday she’d decided she couldn’t go to a place like that looking like Manan the Librarian, her normally mousy brown hair tied in its familiar ponytail. No, she had to look as though the occupants’ shenanigans were nothing out of the ordinary, that they weren’t the least bit offensive to her sensibilities.
Now, with hands on hips, she looked to the sky and shook her head. High school drama classes hadn’t prepared her for this gig. But what choice did she have? She said a quick prayer, filled her lungs and then strode toward the gas pump, trying not to wobble on her Salvation Army high heels.
The hood was up on her rusted green Chevy. The mechanic wiped his hands on a greasy rag and did a double take in her direction. When he closed his mouth, he sauntered over, pretending he hadn’t noticed her transformation in the rest room.
“A couple belts are pretty old and cracked. Don’t think they’ll make it much longer.” He was staring at her chest and she wanted to smack him upside the head. Instead, she practiced a confident voice.
“Will they make it another forty miles?”
“Hard to say. Maybe yes, maybe no.”
She looked at the pump: $14.78. She didn’t have to check her purse to know. Inside was a ten, a five and some change.
“Guess I’ll take my chances.”
He cocked his head to one side and continued wiping his filthy hands, his lopsided grin making it pretty clear he’d consider a trade. Fingers shaking, she retrieved the bills from her purse and slapped them in his blackened palm.
“Suit yourself, ma’am.” He shrugged and walked back to the front of the car and slammed the hood down.
She was tempted to leave without the change, but twenty-two cents was twenty-two cents. When he returned with it, she flashed him a smile and drove off—stomach growling, engine knocking and nerve dwindling by the second.
Michael Phillips chuckled under his breath, riding atop his first and only mare—an old workhorse named Mae. Her slow waddle up the hillside and across the ridge was adding an extra half hour to the trip to his sister’s neighboring farm, but the delay would be well worth it.
He couldn’t wait to see the expression on Taylor’s face when she saw him...here...in Montana...and heard what he had done. If he’d driven his van she might have seen him coming. After months of planning and secrecy, he wanted to milk the moment for all it was worth.
He stopped where the trail cut to the west and let Mae nibble at low-hanging brush while his eyes scanned the rolling countryside below.
And there she was. On her knees in the flower beds in front of the old blue farm house, one he hadn’t seen in seven years. The only notable change were the two little ones who played close by. His heart was in his throat. He’d missed his niece’s and nephew’s early years, but now he was here, and he planned to make up for it. He tugged on Mae’s reins and she loped on.
He rode closer until Mae started nickering, then he tethered her to a tree and hiked the rest of the way, excitement building with every step. Finally he broke into an easy jog, darting behind trees until he came alongside the old familiar house. He paused a moment, caught his breath and then ambled around the corner, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, his grin no longer controllable.
Two-year-old Emily spotted him first and ran to her mother, peeking shyly from the far side. Soon-to-be-six John stopped playing with his truck and stood. “Mama?”
Taylor rocked back on her knees, swiped a muddy glove across her forehead and then nearly toppled over as she let out a yelp. “Michael!”
He ran to her and swooped her up, spinning her around. “Hi, sis.” When he set her down they were both laughing and crying at the same time.
“When did you—” She glanced around. “How did you—” She flung her arms around his neck again. “Oh, Michael. It’s so good to see you. How long can you stay?”
Emily and John stood a safe distance behind their mother, not knowing what to make of it all. He smiled and gave them a conspiratorial wink.
“Hmm...with a little luck...oh, I’d say another sixty years or so.”
She fell back a step, her mouth agape—just the reaction he’d hoped for.
“I bought the Purple Palace.”
Her eyes widened. “You what?”
“Yep. Lock, stock and ol’ Mae.”
“Mae?”
“Their only horse.”
“Let me get this straight. You sold the family business.” He nodded. “And you bought the Purple Palace.” He nodded again. “And you plan to—” She rolled her hand in a fast-forward motion.
“Work the place.”
“Work the place. As in—” She glanced over her shoulder at the children and didn’t finish, her sudden frown saying it all.
It was time to end the ruse. “As in restoring it. It’s a grand old lady—old enough to become a historical landmark.”
“And the...girls?”
“Bought them out. They’ve all moved on to greener pastures.”
Taylor’s smile turned into a large grin, and then the sounds of their laughter echoed across the valley.
When the adults composed themselves, the children came forward one at a time and met Uncle Mike, their little smiles exposing various stages of teeth, their eyes wide with excitement. They walked hand in hand inside for lemonade and for as much catching up as the clock would allow. Michael was expecting a load of lumber and drywall, and he didn’t want to miss the truck. And there was the possibility that someone would answer his ad for a helper, too. After an hour he left, promising to return for supper at six.
The pink exterior and the purple trim were peeling in places, but Nicole had to admit the big old place had a lot of charm. If only it weren’t—
On a nervous sigh, she bracketed her hands around her eyes and peered into a window, seeing no signs of life on the other side. She’d knocked hard enough to wake the dead, but no one came to the ornate oval oak door. Were they all upstairs sleeping—getting ready for a busy night? Or could Tuesday be a day off?
Her stomach lurched, and she didn’t think it was from hunger. How could she ever work at a place like this? Again she reminded herself she had no choice. Besides, she was only applying for “helper”—whatever that meant. Hostess, maybe? Clean ashtrays? Freshen drinks? Wash lingerie? She wrinkled her nose.
It didn’t matter. She’d do whatever it took. She had to.
If only she’d learned more about the job. The little she knew about it she’d overheard yesterday. Dire straits and creative problem solving had driven her to a local doughnut shop where she’d ordered one doughnut hole and a glass of water, and waited for someone to discard a newspaper so that she could scour the employment section. Before it came to that, a pair of old-timers sitting next to her started laughing about the Purple Palace’s ad: Helper. No experience needed.
“Wonder what a helper would do there?” one had asked. The other hunched his shoulders, then started laughing louder.
It