Immortal Mine, Page 2

  “What took ya, pokey?” she asks, as if it hasn’t been, like, three seconds since she honked.

  “Just try not to kill us with speeding, okay?”

  She rolls her eyes at me as she jams it into reverse. Bob comes running around the house, probably thinking he’s coming with. When he sees that it’s Stacy behind the wheel, he turns tail and heads the other way.

  Smart dog. He learns lessons the first time.

  We can avoid Main Street between my place and the Stanton place. It’s pretty much all dirt, though, and Stacy leaves a cloud behind as she pushes the old beast to its limit on the bumpy road.

  “If you cause damage to the pie, you’re not my friend anymore,” I threaten. I might think she didn’t hear me from her deafening silence, if it weren’t for the fact that she immediately swerves to hit a particularly bad rut. I hold the pie aloft, letting it bounce with the motion. Stacy’s revenge can be vicious.

  When we pull out onto the paved street, Stacy slows down. Officer Hill told her that if he has to write her one more speeding ticket, she’s going to lose her license. Officer Hill is a fair man, and honest. So that means if he catches you breaking the law, you’re going to be fined or ticketed. Stacy knows he means business. Therefore, after running only one stop sign and a left turn that I think we made on the two outside tires, we arrive at the Stanton place.

  Chapter 2

  Niahm

  We pass most of the Stanton’s acreage, grass beginning to brown from the early chill of September nights, before actually coming to the house. One of the reasons the Stanton place hasn’t sold is because it has two-thousand acres, and the Stanton heirs all live in New York City. They priced the land as if it were in a thriving region—like, the Hamptons, or something—rather than here, in no man’s land. The land is overgrown. It wouldn’t be good for farming without a couple years of good, hard work. Then it would take another twenty or thirty years to recoup the money for the purchase and cleanup before it would turn a profit. No one ever thought it would sell. The new people—Coleman’s, I think Stacy called them—must have negotiated a better deal.

  We reach the main house—a traditional farm house, large and roomy with dormers and a large wrap-around porch. It even has a three-car garage; the only one in Goshen, I believe. A falling-down barn and two rusty silos are visible not far behind the house. I notice with chagrin that there are several cars, pick-up trucks and ATV’s already there. I hoped, foolishly, that most of the crowd would have died down by now.

  My pie is miraculously unscathed as we climb out of the car. Stacy’s mother already brought their offering, leaving her empty handed. Crowds of people mill about in the front porch. I wonder if the house is just too full to admit anymore, but gather rapidly from the murmurs that no one has been invited in.

  I realize there is a cluster of people on the far end of the porch, and I get my first glimpse of the infamous Shane Coleman. Busybody was right—he’s movie-star good-looking. Of course he’s an old guy…well, not so old. He looks about thirty or so, but definitely old for my seventeen-year-old self.

  “He’s dreamy,” Stacy sighs. I glance at her and see that she, too, has spotted Shane Coleman.

  “Dreamy?” I scoff. “What, have we been transported back to the fifties?”

  She scowls at me, bringing us firmly back into the present.

  “What would you call him?” she demands.

  “He’s pretty cute,” I admit. At her snarl, I laugh. “He’s extremely cute,” I amend. “But, seriously, Stace, the guy’s like, old enough to be our dad.”

  “No, he’s not,” she refutes, punching me in the shoulder.

  “Ow,” I complain, rubbing the spot, even though it was little more than a tap.

  “Wuss,” she utters, her response rote. “He is gourgeois.”

  “That’s not a word, and you’re not French. Besides, it’d be illegal if he looked at you as anything other than a kid.”

  “Only for the next three months, my young friend. Then I’m a legal-eagle.”

  “You’re sick,” I tell her—or rather, I tell the back of her head since she’s walking away, pushing through the crowd toward her dream man.

  A table under a large window seems to be the collecting place for the array of food items being pressed upon the Coleman’s. With a smirk, I add my pie to the pile that couldn’t be eaten by a family of twelve in a month’s time, let alone by this little family of two. Poor Coleman’s. I don’t even know where they’ll put everything, unless they brought five refrigerators and freezers with them. There are no charities in town where they can share their wealth of victuals, either.

  “You’re adding to the pile, when you should be taking away,” a voice from my right informs me.

  I turn and catch my breath. This has to be the nephew. He’s someone I’ve never seen before. Actually, I’ve never seen anyone like him before. He stands easily six feet tall. His skin is clear and smooth. This might seem a strange observation, unless you take into account his red hair. It’s an amazing shade of red, not bright, not dark, more of a copper. Straight, shagged, sweeping just above his clear green eyes, curling just slightly over his ears and collar. Despite the red hair, there are no freckles to be found. Just a strong jaw with great cheek bones, beautifully shaped eyes fringed with dark red lashes, full lips that are smiling at me.

  He doesn’t seem real in his beauty.

  “I’m just kidding,” he offers, leaning slightly toward me when I remain silent, staring.

  I start, “Oh, sorry. You... you took me by surprise,” I say, inanely. I sweep my hand toward the table. “I hope you’re hungry. Actually, I hope you’re ravenous.”

  He laughs and my belly does a little flip-flop. Even his laugh is beautiful. I mentally shake myself; I don’t intend to become one of the simpering, giggling females who will surely be fawning over him in no time.

  “What’s that smell?” he asks, wrinkling his nose.

  I take a little step backward, hoping he won’t realize it’s my chicken feed/Febreeze/perfume concoction.

  “So, which one is yours?” he questions, moving closer. I have to look up at him, and revise my opinion of his height. He must be six-three, at least.

  “The, um… the pie,” I stutter.

  “This one?” he points to another pie, one that looks like it’s cherry or blueberry by the dark jelly oozing out of the top. It’s sloppily put together, without an embellishment to be seen.

  “Of course not,” my indignation is clear in my voice. I know it’s not fair; he can’t know how much pride I take in my pies. “This one,” I say, pointing to my beautiful pie (if I do say so myself).

  “Wow,” he says, leaning closer to get a look at it. He traces one of the leaf shapes I hand cut and baked on top of the shell. “Where did you get it?”

  I bristle at his words.

  “Out of my oven,” I tell him, annoyed by his assumption that I could not have made such a thing myself.

  His eyebrows shoot up, lost behind the copper hair, and I have an overwhelming urge to brush the hair back. Then I remember that he’s offending my pie, and the urge vanishes.

  “Really? You made this?”

  “Don’t sound so incredulous. I’m not a complete imbecile.”

  My tone finally registers with him, and he glances at me sideways, frozen in the act of reaching for the pie in question.

  “I’m sorry,” he sounds perplexed. “Did I offend you?”

  “Of course not. Who would be offended over a pie?” My voice is dripping with affront.

  “I just meant it looks too beautiful to eat.”

  “So don’t eat it,” I say, crossly.

  His grin disarms me. “Oh, but now I must try it,” he purrs. I almost fall for his charm, until he dips two fingers into the pie, pulling a large bite up to his mouth. My mouth drops open in shock.

  He closes his eyes in ecstasy. “Delicious,” he mumbles around the large bite of pie shoved in his mouth, looking at me wit
h hooded eyes.

  I stamp my foot—yes, I mean that literally. Immediately I glean the childishness of the act, but can’t take it back. I can’t even pretend he didn’t notice, since his eyes widen and he freezes in the motion of licking his fingers. I’m embarrassed, but jut my chin up, daring him to say anything.

  “You must be Samuel.” A feminine hand extends past me. I turn to see Stacy next to me, trying to signal that I should introduce her.

  “Uh, yeah, I am. Just Sam, though.” He wipes his fingers clean on his jeans, reaching for her hand and enclosing it in his.

  “Oh... Sam, then. I thought it was Sam, but your uncle was calling you Samuel, so I thought maybe you preferred that. Or maybe, that we had just heard wrong.” Stacy is babbling, trying to fill the obviously awkward silence.

  “Yeah, well, he’s a little formal. I prefer Sam.”

  “Hm.” Stacy glances at me again, but my mouth is clamped. I can feel my temper just below the surface, experience has taught me that the best way to control it is to pretend my mouth is made of stone and can’t be opened.

  “You are…?” he asks, withdrawing his hand from hers. She seems to realize she’d been holding on for longer than was necessary, and she smiles.

  “Oh, um, yeah, my name is Stacy. Stacy Bowen.” She glances at me again in concern. “Vee, are you okay?”

  “I’m afraid she and I may have gotten off on the wrong foot,” Sam informs her, pointing to the destroyed pie. I feel my ire rise to flaming heights at his words. The wrong foot? I want to scream.

  Stacy looks at the pie, at my face that I can feel heating up—which I’m all too aware is visible—and then at Sam. Understanding dawns, and she links her arm firmly through mine, and drags me away from a stunned Sam.

  “Okay, well, it was nice to meet you Sam. We have to be going now. Welcome, and I guess we’ll see you at school.”

  Her words shock me out of my self-imposed stupor.

  “School?” I screech, and Stacy tugs me even harder, until we’re actually running for her car. “I have to go to school with that arrogant, insensitive, unfeeling…” I’m searching for the proper adjective as she shoves me in and slams the door.

  “…Jerk!” I explode as she climbs in her side.

  Stacy drives silently, letting me vent, not even attempting to stop me.

  “The nerve! Seriously, who does he think he is? He thinks he can offend me; insinuate that my pie is store bought,” I spit the offensive words. “Thinks he can just sidle up to me, ooze charm and I’ll just let him drive his fingers into it, as if it’s of no consequence, as if I can just churn them out in minutes—”

  “You kind of can,” Stacy interjects quietly.

  “He doesn’t know that! Does he think he can do anything he wants just because he’s…” I trail off, a thousand adjectives running through my head.

  “Cute? Gorgeous? Stunning? Good-looking? Beautiful?”

  My head snaps toward Stacy when she uses the very word I had been thinking of him earlier.

  “No excuse!” I fume.

  After a few minutes of silence, Stacy looks my way.

  “Done, now?”

  I fold my arms petulantly.

  “Yes,” I grumble.

  “The Coleman’s are new, Vee. He doesn’t know you or your pies, right?”

  “So?” I grouse.

  “So, give him a break. Seriously, girl, you need to relax a little. It’s just—”

  She cuts herself off, and I shoot her a sharp glance.

  “Don’t you dare say it, Stace. Don’t you dare say it’s just a pie.”

  “Okay, I won’t.” Silence. Then, “But it is, Vee.”

  I blow out a heavy breath.

  “Yeah, I know.” I look at her and smile, embarrassment lighting my cheeks. “I really lost it, didn’t I?”

  Stacy shrugs. “Could have been worse.” We burst out laughing.

  “I’m such an idiot,” I moan.

  “I’m almost afraid to ask; what did you say to him? Was it bad?”

  I don’t answer for a few long minutes, while Stacy fiddles with the radio—kind of pointless since we are only able to receive about five different stations with any kind of clarity.

  “Nothing he didn’t deserve,” I finally say. Stacy, true friend that she is, groans, punches me, then bursts out laughing again.

  Chapter 3

  Niahm

  Someone should do something about the lukewarm, stale water that spouts from the water fountains in the school, I muse, as I fill my mouth with the less-than-appealing liquid.

  “Niahm?” I hear my name from nearby, the tone questioning and almost... disbelieving.

  “That’s my name, don’t wear it—” I turn, snapping my mouth closed as I see a coppery head turning my way, from where he’d been reading the names of the school officers off the information board, astonishment in every line of his face.

  “You? You’re Niahm?” he questions, incredulity coloring his words.

  “I suppose a girl who can’t bake pies can’t have a name either?” I turn and walk away, rolling my eyes at my inane response. I’m usually better at returning insults than that.

  “Wait,” Sam calls, jogging to catch up with me. “I just... I thought your name was Evie. That’s what Stacy called you yesterday.”

  I stop and his momentum carries him past me. He swings back, moving to stand in front of me, forcing me to look up. I decide he must be more like six-two. I glance away, not liking this weird... pull... I feel when I look at him.

  “Not Evie; she called me Vee. It’s her nickname for me, short for Niahm. Want to insult that also?”

  He opens and closes his mouth twice, then blows out a breath.

  “I didn’t mean to insult you again. I was just surprised, that’s all. It’s an unusual name. I’ll bet there’s not another person in America who has that name—spelled that way, anyway. At least, I’ve never heard it.”

  “And I suppose you’re some big world traveler?”

  “I get around,” he says, an odd look on his face. “I’m just saying, it’s very unique.”

  “And someone as common as me is hardly worthy of such a unique name, right?”

  “I’m… no… that’s not—” he stammers.

  “Wait a minute—how did you know how to pronounce it?” I interrupt, swinging my eyes back up to his face. I’m awed and a little suspicious. No one ever knows how to say it when they see it.

  “Um, I…” he trails off, looking distinctly nervous, suddenly interested is something over my shoulder.

  “Sam! There you are,” the double-H come around the corner, immediately honing in on Sam. “You know Niamh?” Hilary asks.

  “I… we—”

  “No,” I interrupt, “he doesn’t know anything about me.”

  I stalk away, feeling as if he’s staring after me—though that’s probably my egotistical imagination. Or rather, I try to stalk away. I’m trying to maintain my angry walk, but it’s difficult. I curse Stacy for convincing me to wear her high-heeled red shoes just because they match my red shirt perfectly. I’m not really a high-heels kind of girl under the best of circumstances. After a slight stumble, I glance back and see Sam watching me. With a grimace in his direction, I kick the shoes off, scooping them up in my hand. Now I can stalk.

  “I better get to class,” I hear Sam tell them.

  “We’ll walk with you,” Heather tells him.

  “Small school; most of us share most of our classes,” Hilary confirms.

  I groan as I realize the truth of their words. There are a total of ninety-three kids in our school—and that’s grades K-12. In our senior class we have eight.

  Nine, now.

  We share classes with kids of a variety of ages and abilities. Our teachers have to be extremely flexible in their teaching methods. Sam, Hilary and Heather follow me into the English classroom.

  “Sit here, by us,” Heather tells Sam, scooting an empty desk a little closer to her own.
<
br />   “Thanks,” he says, sliding in and sliding a smile over her at the same time.

  I roll my eyes in disgust and turn back toward Stacy, who’s idly doodling in her notebook.

  “What a jerk,” I mutter. No response. I lean toward her, reaching out to tap her arm, get her attention so she can listen to me complain. But my hand never quite reaches its destination; my close proximity brings her doodling into view.

  “Are you crazy?” I murmur fiercely under my breath, snatching her notebook from under her pen, slamming it closed.

  “What?” She’s all innocence.

  “You cannot write Shane Coleman’s name, all decorated with hearts!”

  “Why not? He’s so—”

  “Stace! Stop.” She grins at me, unrepentant. I sigh, giving up. I throw a glance over my shoulder at the nephew of Stacy’s obsession, and see him completely engaged in conversation with the double-H, as well as a couple of the juniors.

  Show off.

  

  “Guys, we really need to decide what play we want to do,” I interrupt… well, pretty much everyone at the table. We’re sitting at lunch, at our definitely more crowded than usual table. Kids here tend to sit with their age group. Usually we have eight at our table. Today we have fifteen.

  The reason isn’t hard to divine. In fact, that particular reason is leaning his coppery head toward two giggling juniors, who are interlopers at our table. I sigh in disgust, earning me a warning look from Stacy.

  “What?” I demand. “If we don’t get going on it, we won’t be prepared.”

  “You’re right,” Hilary pipes up. “That means anyone who’s not a senior needs to leave the table.” Not only is Hilary probably the most pumped up about the production, she doesn’t look too happy about the attention the other girls are getting from Sam.

  The two juniors throw her a regretful look, but that’s another great thing about my great little town; no need to explain the importance of our discussion, or why they need to make themselves scarce. The only one who looks confused is a certain beautiful jerk—and he’s staring right at me, like the whole thing is my fault.