Chime and Punishment Page 2

  The Winding Ceremony was set for June 21, and I knew all too well that the timing was tight. Really tight. The last of the clock pieces had been finished and assembly was set to begin on Monday. My hands ached to hold the tools and to get started. I’d maintained clock towers, and wound them, but I’d never assembled one before. I was thrilled at the opportunity.

  Our clock tower wasn’t just a clock tower, though. I’d seen only pictures of what it had looked like in its full glory. During World War II, the clock workings had been taken out and melted down to help with the war effort. When they were being put back in the tower in 1953, a spark had caused a fire. The old stone building had survived, but the old wooden clockface had been destroyed, and the clock parts all collapsed in on themselves. When we’d talked about rebuilding it we’d considered just fixing the clock for a minute. But only for a minute.

  The rest of the clock tower—the hourly bell, and the figures that came out of the doors one level down from the clockface, on the street side of the tower, welcoming the new hour—were what made our clock tower so special. The craftsmanship of that tower was more European and had been designed by my great-great-grandfather Simon Clagan, one of the founding fathers of Orchard. His son, Harry, hadn’t inherited his father’s skill as a clockmaker. For some reason, that seemed to skip generations. My father was proof of that. But my great-grandfather Harry had been a good salesman and had convinced the town elders that putting the community to work building the tower was a public good and that it would bring in tourists. He’d been right on both counts. The loss of the tower, less than a generation after it had been completed, had become less painful as time went by, since so few people remembered it in operation, but my family always remembered. Rebuilding it had been an obsession that my grandfather had passed down to me.

  Now, here I was, trying to pull it off in six months. Fortunately, I wasn’t working alone. Far from it. I had two other clockmakers on the case. My stepgrandmother, Caroline Adler, was working in the shop, keeping up with repairs and inventory. Her mentor and friend, Zane Phillips, had moved down to Orchard to recuperate after a difficult December, and he’d stayed on to help. In fact, he’d moved into the guest quarters G.T. had put in his workshop out at the cottage where Caroline lived.

  I worried that Zane was working too hard, but Caroline assured me that she hadn’t seen him so happy in years. Not only was Zane helpful in getting the clock workings ready to go, he had taken on the responsibility for manufacturing the figurines that would come out on the hour. He’d been carving them based on old schematics, and on my grandfather’s drawings. He wouldn’t let me see what they looked like, though today was going to be the unveiling of a model of one of them.

  “Good morning, G.T.,” I said softly, looking up at the top of the tower. “We’re almost there.”

  So many folks thought I was being altruistic in my efforts to rebuild the clock tower, but they were wrong. I was being selfish. Working on this made me feel closer to my grandfather and helped me feel like he was still here, supporting me. I took a deep breath, a little ragged this time, and stepped down the front stairs onto the sidewalk.

  chapter 2

  I strolled toward the Sleeping Latte, slowing down in front of the barbershop and peering through the window. I wasn’t surprised to see the building empty, but I was still disappointed. Not that I needed a haircut. Far from it. Flo made it her business to keep my curls somewhat at bay. No, it was Flo’s nephew, Ben Clover, whom I hoped to see. The tall, handsome barber had become the de facto general contractor on the clock tower project after his aunt had decided to start cutting hair again, and he wasn’t needed in his shop as often. Well, that wasn’t the only reason he’d been helping me with the clock tower.

  Ben and I had shared a New Year’s kiss that had started the year off right, if unexpectedly. We went public with our relationship on Valentine’s Day, when Ben kissed me in front of the clock tower, a bouquet of wildflowers he gave me pressed between us. Since Nancy Reed, Pat’s wife, was walking by at the time, it was all over Orchard within the hour. By now it was old news.

  Old news for Orchard. Not for me. Not for Ben. Both of us had been divorced and had come back to Orchard to recover and regroup. Neither of us talked about our exes except in the broadest terms. We focused on getting to know each other for who we were in the present, undefined by those old relationships.

  “Isn’t that weird?” Moira Reed had said after she’d asked about his ex-wife, and I had no new details to offer her. Moira and I had been friends since we were kids, when I’d spent summers in Orchard with my grandparents. Moira and I had a shorthand for conversations that I didn’t have with anyone else.

  “Weird?”

  “Anytime I date someone, I want to know all the details of his past,” she’d said, breaking off a piece of the cookie on my plate and swallowing it before I could protest.

  “Why? What does it really matter? My husband left me for someone else. Ben doesn’t need to know every detail of our marriage to know that hurt me deeply.”

  “Don’t you want to know why his wife left him?”

  “It doesn’t really have anything to do with me,” I’d said, taking a pious sip of my tea.

  I’d been lying, of course. I wanted to know more about Ben’s ex-wife. Beyond the fact that her name was Martha Esme and she lived in New York. But he’d been reticent to talk about his past, and his mood had gotten dark when I’d probed. So, I’d stopped, too happy to risk ruining our time together. Even when I saw her name on the return address of a birthday card to Ben two days ago, I’d brushed it off. Especially since it had arrived three weeks after the big day. Yesterday, when Ben said he had to make a trip overnight, surely that was a coincidence? He’d texted me three times and promised he’d be back this morning. I believed him.

  I needed to believe him if this was going to work.

  • • •

  “Ruthie, give me a hand, would you?” Flo’s hybrid SUV pulled in along the curb.

  She turned on the flashers and jumped out, going around the back of the car. Flo’s outfit today was subdued. Well, subdued for Flo. Black leggings, yellow and black tunic, purple scarf in her hair. Her hot pink sneakers were the final clue—this wasn’t the outfit Flo was going to wear this afternoon. Public events warranted at least three-inch platforms. Despite the early-morning hour, it was busy enough in Orchard that a double-parked car on a two-lane street was challenging. I looked over at Been There, Read That convinced I’d see Beckett peering out, cell phone in hand. Double-parking was one of Beckett’s favorite reasons for speed-dialing the Orchard Police Department. So very neighborly of him.

  Flo had spared no expense on her car, and the back hatch rose slowly at the push of a button. I walked over and peered in the back. Bundles of towels, a couple of boxes of supplies for the shop.

  “I was going to drive around back and unload, but then I saw you.”

  “Beckett would have a fit,” I chided gently, reaching in and grabbing one of the boxes.

  “Beckett can suck an egg,” Flo said, picking up a pile of towels. “Pile it up by the front door. Don’t look at me like that. He’s a pill of the first order—you know that. Anyway, I need help. I’m an old woman.”

  “You’re an old woman.” I laughed. Flo was anywhere between fifty and eighty, but I’d never call her old. “Puh-leeze.” I picked up another box and carried it over to the front door. The boxes were heavy, and I was glad Flo had asked for help. I walked back and picked up the third box. Flo didn’t try and stop me. As soon as I cleared the hatch, she lowered it.

  “Do me a favor—stay with this stuff while I go park the car and open up the shop,” Flo said, pulling out without waiting for an answer.

  I looked down at one of the bundles of towels, which were deep purple. The transformation was complete. Flo had retired over a year ago, leaving Ben to run the shop. As I’d recently learned, i
t was as much to give Ben something to focus on after his marriage broke up as it was because Flo was ready to move on. Ben had renovated the shop and opened for business. Problem was that he’d renovated the charm right out of the shop, and Flo’s client base stopped visiting. It was just a little too hip for Orchard.

  When she came back last fall, she made noises about running a drugstore on the other side of the shop and leaving the haircuts completely to Ben, but that didn’t last long. She started cutting a few of her old clients, and by March she was taking care of most of the hair appointments. The black and gray décor in the barbershop didn’t last long either. She’d painted the walls right after the New Year, and moved the furniture around. Slowly but surely color was creeping back in. I noticed the other bundle of towels was a celadon green. Maybe color was doing more than creeping.

  I looked over at the shop next door, Flo’s Emporium, named for Flo but run by Ben, theoretically. They’d hired Jason Scott to help out, and he’d taken over the day-to-day operations, including hiring part-time staff. Not that the shop was that busy. Flo and Ben were careful not to overlap with the Corner Market or Been There, Read That, which meant that the shop carried a variety of over-the-counter medications, crafts, greeting cards, office supplies, and hair care supplies. Jason had a relationship with a pharmacy in Marytown, and he’d bring over prescriptions for pickup—a service that meant a lot to the older residents in town. He offered advice on alternative remedies as well, and provided advice and a friendly ear for the residents. Though he’d been in town for only two months, he was starting to rival Nancy Reed for the position of town gossip.

  I saw the lights in the barbershop start to come on, and I picked up one of the boxes. I stood as Flo opened the door.

  “By the sinks is fine,” Flo said, picking up a bundle of towels and carrying them toward the back of the shop. “I’m going to run these through the washer before the day starts. New towels always have a bit of lint on them. Just doesn’t do to add lint to a wash and set.”

  “I like the colors. Was pink sold out?”

  “Oh, you. Green and purple are very hip. You taught me that. The gray ones have seen better days.”

  “Can you give us some of the old ones for the clock tower project? They’d be helpful to have around.”

  “Already thought of that. Ben grabbed a couple of stacks. He’s recycling the rest.”

  “Ben’s here?”

  “Of course. Got back early evening. Stayed out at the house with me, since I needed his help picking out tiles for the new bathroom. We had plenty of time, since he was home so early. He was barely gone, come to think of it.”

  Subtlety was not a core value for Flo. Part of me wanted to jump in. Did he visit his ex-wife? What was she like? Did Flo think he still loved her? But I stopped myself. If I wanted to have these questions answered, I needed to ask Ben myself.

  If I asked him, though, it meant that I needed to be willing to answer questions about my ex-husband. The fact that he’d left me for another woman was known around town, thanks to Nancy Reed, so people didn’t pry about more of the details. Thinking back over the last six months, since Ben and I officially starting dating, it was odd that we’d never talked about the what-went-wrong angle of our marriages. I’d been so careful not to talk about Eric that I’d stomped down my curiosity about Ben’s ex-wife.

  Eric Evan. Eight years ago I’d promised to stay with him for better or for worse. As it turned out, Eric ended up being the very definition of the worst. When he left me for his graduate student, I’d been devastated. But now we were closing in on a year since our divorce was final, and thinking about Eric no longer hurt. In fact, I’d realized recently that what I mostly felt about my divorce was relief. I’d thought I was happy being a faculty wife, living on campus, working on clocks as an avocation that was tolerated, but not fully supported, by my husband. I’d learned the art of small talk, wore a uniform of tasteful, well-fitted clothes, tamed my hair into a bun every day, and plastered a smile on my face. Dinner was ready every night we were home, and my social life was worked around his schedule. I’d made some friends, but Eric got most of them in the divorce.

  The few friends I had retained were nothing but supportive of my new life. I wore leggings and dresses. My Doc Marten boots had been upcycled by Moira, who stenciled cogs on them in soft silver. Sometimes I ate crackers and cheese for dinner and didn’t feel even a little guilty. But most meals were shared with my new hometown folks: Ben, Caroline, the Reed family. Or I ate at the Sleeping Latte, where you are never really alone. Recently I’d decided to get rid of my old faculty-wife wardrobe. Partly out of necessity and partly as a symbolic final act of shutting the door on my previous life. If I am honest with myself though, few things from my past life fit me anymore.

  “Ruth, could you hand me that bundle of towels?” Flo said, standing in the door of the laundry area.

  “Sure, sorry,” I said, shaking myself back to the present and picking up the bundle and bringing it over.

  “Since there’s still room, I may as well run a full load,” she said, adding the towels into the front loader. “This high-capacity washer is really something, isn’t it? I never would have sprung for one this nice, but I’m glad Ben did. Saves water in the long run.”

  “Will you need all these towels?” I asked.

  “It’s Saturday. Busy all around, but since we’re closing at noon for a couple of hours, we’ve got an extra busy morning. Ben is even coming in to give a hand.”

  “You’re closing for the Signing Ceremony? That is so sweet,” I said, touched.

  “Ruthie, by now you know me well enough. Nothing about me is sweet. I wouldn’t miss the Signing Ceremony. I can’t wait to get my name on one of those clock weights. I also wouldn’t miss seeing Kim Gray’s face for anything in the world.”

  “So, you think she’ll really show up this time?” I asked. Kim Gray, the town manager, had somehow avoided coming to any events hosted by the Cog & Sprocket.

  “She’s an idiot if she doesn’t. Course, she is an idiot, so maybe she won’t show her face. Don’t look shocked—you think she’s an idiot too. Time she came around and realized that she’s been outplayed. Everyone in town wants the clock tower to get operating. You’ve made it a symbol of Orchard. She needs to get on board and enjoy the ride.” Flo closed the door of the washer and walked over to get the laundry detergent. Low phosphate, earth friendly. No doubt Ben’s handiwork, trying to make a beauty shop as green as possible.

  “Well, if it’s the symbol of Orchard, that’s Nadia’s work, not mine. She has been social media–ing every step of the way. We have people who come into the shop to see the model in person, because all she shows on Instagram and Facebook are parts.”

  “She may be good at marketing, but she’s got something to market, and that makes all the difference. You’ve made folks care about something good.” Flo closed the detergent door and hit a few buttons.

  I walked over and gave her a hug. “What would I do without you, Flo?” I said.

  She gave me a quick squeeze and then pushed me back, holding on to my shoulders.

  “You’ll never need to know, because I’m here for good. Now, let me take a look at that hair. I’ve got a few minutes, so let’s get it tamed. No buts about it. We need you to look your best today.”

  chapter 3

  My walk to the Sleeping Latte had a spring in my step. As much as I resisted Flo’s fussing with my hair, I loved the way it looked after she was done. Instead of the barely tamed mop I now had an artfully designed do that looked like I’d pulled it back and casually pinned it up. She’d added enough hairspray to ensure it would last through the rest of the day. After I promised twice and crossed my heart that I would wear more makeup than normal, Flo let me go, taking only another hug as payment.

  Flo, and others, gave me credit for pulling Orchard together, but I didn’t deserve it.
Orchard had always been a place with a lot of heart. The Clagan Clock Tower project was something we could all focus on. Besides that, it was fun for people to think about. A lot of work for those of us in the trenches, but a lot of fun. Fun was underrated. I hadn’t had a lot of fun in my twenties. Turning thirty started a new adventure, and I’d found out that fun was a big part of that.

  “What have I said to you about always carrying your water bottle with you?” Jason Scott stepped out of the doorway of Flo’s Emporium.

  “Jason, you’re going to give me a heart attack one of these days!”

  “Sorry about that. First time I’ve ever been accused of being stealthy. Maybe I should thank you for the compliment?” Jason was a big man. Solid and broad shouldered, with a graying goatee and shaved head. He was a fitness freak and was thrilled when Beckett offered free “Been There, Read That” water bottles after the town banned the sale of bottled water. They were nice bottles, so we all used them. Jason was the water cheering squad, reminding us to refill our bottles three times a day.

  I knew that Flo and Ben thought the world of Jason, but I didn’t share their enthusiasm. Something about him reminded me of my ex-husband. Lovely to talk to in person, but guaranteed to start up the gossip mill the minute you were out of earshot. Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. I didn’t trust that much charm in a man. When he wasn’t wearing his uniform of flat-front khakis and button-down shirts he was wearing athletic tights and cycling shirts that put his heavily muscled frame on neon display. I was grateful he was wearing a button-down—the shirt of the day was lavender and white striped—since the image of Jason in his skintight cycling clothes was something I didn’t need to see this early in the morning.

  “Earth to Ruth. You were a million miles away. Usually are.”

  “Am I?” I said, determined not to get defensive. Were I to be completely honest, I’d have to admit Jason was right. Daydreaming was my special skill. I preferred calling it “unencumbered thinking.” I found that not grounding my thoughts let me come up with unexpected solutions, a useful trait in a clockmaker with high aspirations.