Chapter Two

September 2010

Abbotsford, Pennsylvania

 The Brass Buckle was a full service establishment.  By day it offered endless cups of coffee to the locals, thick scrapple sandwiches, and shoofly pie imported from Janie’s Cakes, one of the town’s most successful businesses.  People rotated in and out of the restaurant looking for life support: a spark of fuel, conversation, a place to pool their troubles.  At night, the Brass Buckle did more of the same, substituting alcohol for coffee, coming full circle to the place where conversation turned to gossip and trouble got its start.  Most people didn’t make the connection, which wasn’t unlike Abbotsford itself—a town where life might begin and end on the very same barstool.

Bess Hillenbrandt was more than a quarter into that ride, being one of the few who got it, understood that the only way out of Abbotsford was to walk away, if not run.  She had tried that, coming back as a seasoned social worker, the stitched together pieces of her own heart hidden from view.  While Bess was savvy to the quirks in Abbotsford, she wasn’t aware that the rest of world might have worse habits, a world that happened to include Bryce Kinney.  He was a doctor who dabbled in altruistic causes, volunteering at a shelter where Bess saw some of her clients.  He had made promises that he ultimately could not keep—a streak of duplicity and male hormones.  Although it wouldn’t have stung as much if Bess hadn’t caught him directly, in bed, with her roommate.  So she ran, fast as she could, back to the place that she’d run away from.  It worked out.  Bess’s heart healed with a minor crack, discovering that Abbotsford, for all its flaws and natural beauty, was not only where she belonged but a place that truly needed her.  Here she knew the people, understood that while most towns operated on a steady tick, Abbotsford moved with the tock.

It seemed wildly apparent this particular morning as she sat in a booth with a second cup of coffee, a state provided day-planner open to her left, and a personal planner on her right.  Both bore a sea of filled to capacity September boxes, each day lined with places to be and appointments to keep.  Bess bought an old farmhouse on Alpine Street the month before having made the down payment with her share of the life insurance her father had left.  Divided five ways it wasn’t much, but it was enough to right a few wrongs.  Sipping coffee she stared at the planners, going back-and-forth, trying to coordinate the plumber, who kept banker’s hours, and a scheduled court date for the Thompson family.  But Bess’s concentration kept slipping, ruffled by gossip that normally would have been relegated to white noise.  The dialect was common, though unique to Abbotsford’s German ancestry.  Here every consonant came suspended from a pair of lederhosen, stretched to twice its natural length, the drawl of each sentence connecting to the next without pause.  It was a tool for townies, a distinct lilt that identified strangers at hello.  These native voices belonged to Ginny Tisdale and Suzanne Crieger, their conversation wafting over the plastic divider, more pungent than a Brass Buckle cup of coffee.  

“I’m telling you, Rex Hillenbrandt’s last missus won’t be collecting any pension from the state.  He may have been chief of police, out on a scheduled dinner break.  But dying on the banks of Lake Wannalacka, while picnicking with Melanie Mullins, ain’t exactly in the line of duty.”  

“I don’t think that matters, Ginny.  I think his last wife gets the pension either way.”

“Maybe so, but if you ask me, all his ex’s should be splittin’ it, considering what they had to put up with—five kids, four wives, one dad,” she rattled, Bess listening to words as synonymous with her father as chief of police.  As the eldest of Rex’s patchwork brood, she’d heard every variation on the theme.  “Everybody knows, the better the cop, the worse the husband—Rex is livin’ proof of that.  Abbotsford’s got one of the lowest crime rates in the state.”

Bess rose tall on her knees, peering over the top of the divider.  “Was,” she corrected, since there was no chance of disputing anything else they said.  “Rex was living proof of that.”  In fact, upon hearing the sordid details from Sergeant Eisenguard, Bess guessed that the dinner break portion of the story was a professional courtesy.  Both women’s eyes drew full moon wide, Suzanne’s cherry turnover dropping onto her lap. 

“Bess, honey, we didn’t see you there,” she said, scurrying to right the turnover that instantly adhered to her plaid slacks.  “I’m so sorry!”   

Ginny Tisdale, who Bess suspected wouldn’t have minded being counted among Rex’s women, was less apologetic.  “It’s a natural curiosity, wouldn’t you say?  Rex was a very public person in a very small place.  He was married to Vicki Reed for less than a year before he was caught dead with another woman.  People talked about Rex when he was alive, can’t expect that would change much just because he’s dead.”

“Ginny!” Suzanne scolded, trying to wipe crumbs and squished cherries from her hands.

Bess was prepared to defend her father.  It was an effort that had faded to lackluster attempts over the years, being as Rex never felt the need to defend himself.  But with the passing of time, not to mention Rex, Bess’s willingness to come to his aid had reenergized.  Her knees dug harder into the lumpy vinyl covered booth, fingers gripping the plastic divider.  “He… Rex never… There might have been a lot of wo—”   Bess pursed her lips, meeting the Ginny’s stare.  Even postmortem Rex’s reputation preceded him.  “Divorce, ladies, is as common in Abbotsford as a July drought and twelve feet of snow in January,” she said, lumping the town’s dismal statistic into something you might read in an almanac. 

“True.  But four wives?” Ginny countered.  “And that’s not counting the women who broke up the marriages in the first place.” 

“My father… well, he… ” Bess’s hands dropped from the divider, settling onto the curve of her hips.   “Listen, Rex Hillenbrandt was the best chief of police this town’s ever had!”  Her chin tipped just a tad higher than Ginny Tisdale’s, arms bending into a curt fold. 

“Exactly what we were just saying,” she replied, a smug smile curving around the rim of her coffee cup.

Bess was willing to take another run at it, but her cell rang and she snatched it up, silently glad for the reprieve.  Glancing at the caller ID, she saw that it was Collin.  Along with their half-sister, Candi, he was one of three half-brothers, the one with an identical twin, Cole, making both a remarkable copy of Rex.  Coifed dark hair and tall, rugged good looks complemented with a natural swagger, the boys had provided the latest Brass Buckle buzz.  Townspeople swore they’d seen Rex walking down Main Street, buying a six-pack at the Clover, or heading toward the dam with a fishing pole.  “Collin, what’s my little brother up to this morning?”  There was a ring of solidarity in Bess’s voice, loud enough to resonate with Ginny and Suzanne.  In return, there was an unexpected bark of irritation from him.  Bess moved away from the two women, sure that the entire Brass Buckle could hear.  

“No, you told me tomorrow.  The carpenter is coming tomorrow, the fifteenth.  I have it right here… in ink,” Bess insisted, edging back to the table, spinning around her personal planner.  In the block for the fifteenth were the words, Handyman 8:00 a.m.!!, the exclamation points reminding Bess that in addition to a plumber, a good carpenter was imperative.  Then she noticed a faint squiggly arrow.  It looped back around the plumber’s hours and a note about her first mortgage payment, snaking onto today’s date, the fourteenth.  “Oh, I didn’t see… my mistake.  Is he still waiting?”  Gathering her belongings, Bess listened as Collin vented, in detail, about how the carpenter was doing him a favor as he did not know him all that well, but had convinced the man to take a look at his sister’s farmhouse, and how Bess was making Collin look like an ass for not being home when he rang the front door bell—thirty minutes ago.  “Collin, I am so sorry.  But the longer you keep talking, the longer it’s going to take me to drive home.  Call him back and tell him I’m on my way.”

                                                      ***  

            Anticipating an annoyed carpenter on her front porch, Bess was surprised to find it empty.  The only sign of a handyman was a beat-up pickup truck parked at the road, a gun rack strapped across the back like a badge of honor.  There was that and the bumper sticker that she couldn’t help but read: Find one with a Big Rack and Mount It.  Wriggling her nose at the local humor, which could be considered more common than the native dialect, Bess was amazed there wasn’t a freshly killed buck hanging out the back.  It was a standard issue, rural Pennsylvania man-mobile but no man to be found.  She peered past the edge of the old farmhouse, walking around to a similar side porch.  Jiggling the key in the lock of the Dutch door, Bess shrugged.  She guessed that he’d gone into the woods to pee or to hunt something, the image conveying with his vehicle.  Collin, who worked at Hancock’s Building Supply, had a whole other perspective.  He had considered it a coup when the supposedly skilled carpenter agreed to take a look at her farmhouse.  Bess stepped inside the kitchen, guessing that either way she wasn’t off to a good start.  In addition to her tardiness she also couldn’t recall the man’s name, though she surmised a clear profile: a product of his environment, single minded, bound to his wife but married to his hobbies.  It was an occupational hazard, a social worker’s need to categorize a population.  And it was easy enough to do.  In her life, in her line of work, Bess had already met him a million times.  Before she could assign a name, coming up with Mac, or Rusty, or Jerry, all plausible options, there was sharp knock at the door. 

She flung it open.  Looking through the shadow of a screened door, a nod of confirmation picked up pace.  Filling the blanks of her assumptions was an unkempt appearance, coarse stubble and wild waves of hair.  It stuck out from the edges of a baseball cap that looked as worn as… well, as worn as him.  “Oh, there you are,” she said, snatching a list of carpentry related concerns off the counter.  She pushed open the screened door and stepped onto to the porch.

“Here I am?”

“Right… sorry I was late,” she offered.  “My work calendar and my house calendar aren’t exactly in sync yet.  I’m kind of new at the whole homeowner thing.” 

Brushing dirt from an equally worn work jacket a slow stare canvassed the porch.  “Yeah, I guessed as much from your choice of house.”

For the first time Bess felt self-conscious about the peeling paint and tapered stone pillars that were missing half the stones.  “It just needs a little TLC, it’s a wonderful house,” she defended, looking harder at him, realizing how dirt covered he was.  While it matched the pickup truck, it didn’t equal Collin’s description of a gifted craftsman.  But for her brother’s sake, Bess started over. “Again, I apologize for being late, Mr.… I’m sorry,” she admitted, “I don’t know your name.”

“Ethan.” He extended a hand and she shook it, a layer of grit notwithstanding.  “Ethan Dacey.” 

 “Bess… Hillenbrandt.”  She found herself nodding again, not letting go of his hand, agreeing somewhere in her head that he wasn’t a Rusty or a Jerry—the timbre of his voice not matching anything she could readily identify.  His eyes were set solidly on her, wary though, the color of spent autumn.  It cornered her attention and Bess released his hand fast, as though she was touching too much of him.  He was younger than her mental profile, seeing that there weren’t any real lines in his face, just and air of hardness—or hardship.  It caused Bess to stare, registering like radar.  It was another occupational tripwire, and Bess reminded herself that he was there for hire, not in need of her professional services.  She forced the nod to a halt, eyes anywhere but on him, reeling in her habit of mental note taking.  He busied himself with his jacket, brushing the last of some caked mud onto her freshly swept porch.  It renewed her first impression, telltale signs like the gun slinging pickup truck parked at the curb.  “Interesting, I would have thought most carpenters at least started their day clean and dry.”

“I do.  But my day started over an hour ago,” he said, his gaze edging up from the clumps of dirt, “while I was waiting for you.”  Folding her arms, Bess decided that if he was waiting for another apology, well, he could just wait all day.  He took the hint, moving on, “When I realized that no one was here, I took a look around the crawlspace.”  Bess looked toward the open cellar door, unsure if she liked the idea of this mostly stranger poking around her house, maybe looking for a way in.  He shook his head.  “I was just trying to get a good look at the foundation, see if any exterior problems went beyond cosmetic… if maybe you needed a contractor, not a carpenter.”  She said nothing, replying with a cagey glance.  “Look, you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to see that the house has some, um… issues.  And I…” 

He hesitated.  It was just long enough for Bess to assume he’d forgotten his train of thought.  “You…?” she prompted, her hand sweeping past him.

“I happen to know a little something about construction.”

“So my brother said.  And?”

“And it looks okay to me… for a vintage property.”

“You have something against old farmhouses?”

“Farmhouse?” he said, his gaze jerking around the porch.  “First of all, it’s not a farm—”  Bess could see him hit the brakes about something, not unlike her own habit of categorizing people.  He shrugged.  “Whatever.  No, I don’t have anything against old farmhouses.  They keep me in business.  Listen, Collin said you had some things that need repairing.”

Bess handed him the list, suddenly wishing it were a whole lot shorter.  “I don’t think anything on it is too major, except maybe the sag in the kitchen floor.”  A hum of agreement grunted from him as he scanned the items that continued onto a second column.  “Maybe a few of the interior doors, they either stick… or won’t close at all.  And the leak in the dining room ceiling, that only happens when it rains for more than four hours—hard,” she added, as if it somehow diminished the problem.  “Of course, it’s supposed to rain later this week. I wouldn’t mind getting that fixed before then.” 

“A leak can do some serious damage,” he agreed, turning the paper over.  He adjusted his ball cap, running his fingers through a directionless thatch of hair.  “Add one more thing to this list and I’ll have to invoke the buy ten, get one free rule.” 

Watching him exhale a breath, Bess suddenly felt the enormity of what she’d taken on.  She began to nibble on a thumbnail, trying to read his sober expression.  She considered interrupting, telling him that despite its flaws the house was everything she ever wanted—the long awaited anchor in a sandy-bottomed life.  But she suspected that an arduous personal history wasn’t anything to which he could relate.  “Well?”

“Well, I need to take a look, see what’s what.”

“I suppose you do,” she said, turning to open the screened door. “Maybe we can start with the dining room ceiling.”  Before he could reply the rickety door offered one last creak, slipping hard from its hinge.  It nearly knocked Bess over, Ethan grabbing the edge of the frame and trapping her between him and the door. 

An inch or so from her ear he whispered, “I guess that one’s the freebie.”  There was a rough silence, only outdone by the awkwardness of having a man she barely knew pressed against her.  Bess stared at his dirt-covered left hand, the daily wear and tear obvious.  While his presence was overwhelming, it was the only part of him that she could see: His hand wrapped around the doorframe, hers caught securely beneath it.  “I’ve got the door, slide under,” he instructed.  Ethan eased his hold and she wiggled her hand out, her body ducking under the loop of his arm.  He said nothing else, moving the broken door aside and securing it against the house with a milk box that hadn’t served a purpose in thirty years.

Leaning against the opposite side of the doorway, Bess poked at a rotted piece of porch with her shoe.  “It is a wonderful house.” Then in a whisper, “Though I suppose it has some…  issues.”  

“You think?” he said, shoring up the door.

And rather than contracting a carpenter to make a few repairs, Bess felt at the mercy of his expertise—which, she guessed, suited him fine.  “Come on inside,” she sighed, “I’ll give you the tour.”

“That’s what I was about to say.  I can’t, not right now.”

“Because?” she asked, surprised he wasn’t already combing through the interior, tallying what was sure to be a hefty estimate.  But she had little choice.  If it was to rain hard enough, she might have to serve umbrellas along with her usual Friday night dinner.       

“Because I don’t have time to properly evaluate everything,” he said, handing her back the piece of paper.  “It’ll take at least a couple of hours to get through that list.”

Bess found herself nodding, mostly at her original assumptions.  “Ah, I get it.  Figures,” she huffed. Money.  It was often the bottom line with men like him.  “Perhaps if I paid you for your time to do the estimate?”   Now that she thought about it, Collin never was the best judge of character, always showing up to Friday night dinners with some girl who was thinking about getting her GED, or who drank more beer than all her brothers combined.

 “It’s not that,” he insisted.  “Vintage charm aside, it’s more work than I was anticipating.  Though that’s to be expected with an old… farmhouse.”

“Maybe, but I don’t think character is something you can build from nothing; it’s inherent,” she said, brushing a hand along a column.  “Besides, Pennsylvania farmhouses are known for their rock solid foundations.  Most of them have been standing a lot longer than this one.”

“I’m sure that’s true —for Pennsylvania farmhouses… ”  He stopped, those rough dirty hands drawing firm to his hips as he looked from the tapered pillars to the low sloping edge of the porch ceiling.  “Look, I can come back another day.”  He sucked in a sigh, mumbling, “God knows this’ll be a steady paycheck.”

“Is that right?” said Bess, taking it as a testament to his character, or lack there of.  “And a job like this one, I suppose it might take you right through the slow winter season?”

He looked, surveying his surroundings.  “I don’t know about the winter, fall maybe.  Couldn’t say for sure until I look at—wait,” he said, his gaze darting to back to hers.  “What are you implying?”

“Nothing that isn’t obvious,” she said.  “You can spare me the dog and pony show—I get that the house needs work.  But you’re here now; can’t you just take a look?”

 “I have somewhere else to be.”  For the first time, he glanced at his watch—which from the tattered look said it was time for new one. 

 “Is that right?”   She maximized the stretch of her five foot three frame, standing tall against what she considered a lame negotiating tactic.

“Yes, a doctor’s appointment.  And unlike blue collar workers, I’m sure you can appreciate the value of a doctor’s time.”

“Ah, we’re back to that.  Tell me, does he charge for an estimate, too?” she said, shooting him a curt smile.   

“Actually, he does.  But they call it an office visit.  So if you don’t mind, I’ll stop by later in the week.”

He turned away as Bess murmured, “Filing for workmen’s comp, no doubt.”  She didn’t mean for him to hear, or maybe she did, and he spun back around.

“The appointment is for my son,” he said tightly.  “And let’s remember which one of us was late in the first place.  Otherwise, I might have had a chance to figure a no-charge estimate for your… tinderbox.”

            “Tin—” Bess’s mouth dropped open, closing it in time to reply with the first thing that popped into her head, “Don’t you have a wife who can take him?” 

            “Excuse me?”

            She shrugged, guessing that negotiations were over. “It’s just that in my line of work, I deal with a lot of families.  Men like yourself,” she said, her gaze jutting over him.  “I hate to stereotype, but they tend to view life in a rather patriarchal manner.”  Ethan leaned forward, narrowing his eyes to a squint as if he didn’t have a clue.  It caused Bess to speak louder, assuming she’d exceeded his intellectual scope.  “Isn’t it your wife’s job to take him to the doctor?”

            “I see,” Ethan snorted.  “Afraid not, we gave up traditional family roles with the traditional family divorce.  No longer finding herself in the sub-servant position of my wife, she was forced to get a job, which she can’t take off from this morning.”

Bess huffed and rolled her eyes; he was such a statistic.  “Abbotsford native?” she asked, though she wasn’t sure why. 

“Not really.” He cleared his throat, staring. “No,” he said more firmly. 

“What does that mean?”   

“I… we moved here a couple of months ago.  But no, I’m not from Abbotsford.”

“From Wilkes-Barre then, Scranton, maybe?”

“No—why do you ask?”  

Had the answer been either, she would have been satisfied, but his evasiveness spurred her on.  That and the idea that someone would purposely move lock, stock, and ex-wife to Abbotsford was curious.  “Habit,” she admitted.  “It’s my job to be nosy.”  It was an acknowledgement, though it hardly allowed Ethan to bypass her question.

He nodded, his lips pursed in a tight line of informational deadlock.  But Bess was good at her job, knowing how to extract pieces of peoples’ lives with little more than silence and a hard stare.  “I’m originally from Philadelphia,” he offered.  “My grandfather was from Ithaca—New York.”

“I see.” This tiny piece of information, it struck her as a fact that he was willing to share.

“We used to visit in the summer when I was a kid.  We’d stop at the Brass Buckle for lunch.  I remembered it as being fun, colorful... safe.”

 “Funny—I like to think of it as the center of a three ring circus.  So you moved here from Philly?”  She watched his jaw lock, shoulders tighten.

“Illinois,” he answered.  “We moved here from Illinois. Why?  Were you only interested in hiring a native carpenter?” 

“No, of course not.  It’s just odd… interesting,” she corrected.  “People generally don’t migrate to Abbotsford—even for a happy childhood memory.”

“Go figure.”  It was his only response, shutting down the verbal exchange, though his body language chatted on.  Bess watched the uneasy shift of his muddy boots, the deep bob of his Adam’s apple in response to every common question.  “Like I said, I have somewhere to be.  Then I’m booked for the rest of the day.”  

“All right,” she said, curiosity extending him the benefit of a doubt.  “When can you fit me into your schedule?  I had no idea carpenters were in such demand.”

“Somebody has to keep first time buyers from falling victim to their farmhouses.”  Ethan stepped away from the covered porch but turned back, as if regretting the cutting remark.  “I’ll call you when I have a free couple of hours.”

“Fine, you have my work number.”

  He hesitated, gazing at the house.  “Just so you know.  Most period Pennsylvania farmhouses date back to the mid 1800s, if not earlier.”

“So?” Bess grabbed a broom, sweeping up the mess he’d left. 

“Your deed.  I’m guessing it says circa 1900, probably 1905.”

She stopped sweeping, giving her own wide glance before settling on Ethan.  “1906,” she said.  “How did you know—”

“It was the height of the C. Rennie Mackintosh era of the Arts & Crafts movement.”  He took off his ball cap, wiping his brow.  Staring at the house, Bess could see a sigh so deep it looked as if it pained him to share the information.  “Your house, it’s classic Arts & Crafts.  The low sloping roofline, tapered pillars, that touch of stained glass in the front windows—like you said, lots of built-in character.” He shrugged.  “Farmhouses are more function, less charm. The interior millwork, I’m sure it’s textbook, simplistic in nature, geometric in design with a fireplace that takes up half the room, maybe squared interior columns, rich wood tones—unless somebody painted over it, which would be a shame.  Anyway, Arts & Crafts was particularly prevalent in this part of Pennsylvania, eradicating standard farmhouse designs for more than a decade—from about 1895 to 1910.”

Eyes drawing wide with each fact, Bess was amazed at the authority with which he articulated the details, challenging that predetermined profile.  “So you’re an expert in architecture?” she questioned.

Adjusting the ball cap onto his head, Ethan turned toward the driveway, glancing over his shoulder.  “In another life,” he answered.  “I’m a carpenter.”