Authors: Carolyne Aarsen
He and his patient uncle worked well together. Soon Clint helped with other jobs. Together he and Uncle Dory finished renovating the comfortable story-and-a-half home, and Clint took as much pride in it then as he did now.
Clint slammed the door of the car and strode up the gravel path to the house. He skirted the bushes nestled against the front entrance and unlocked the
heavy wooden door, then shed his suit jacket and loosened his tie as he ran up the carpeted stairs to his bedroom. He turned to his cupboard to dig out more suitable clothes for a trip to the harvest project.
Jeans, T-shirt and an old corduroy shirt that was a carryover from his backpacking days. He slipped on the worn clothes, feeling as if he was going back in time. He generally favored suits and a more formal look for work, completely opposite to his uncle. It was his way of making a statement. Ties and crisp monochrome shirts as opposed to the worn sweaters and corduroy pants of his uncle. Tight writing with newsworthy stories instead of breezy, loosely written articles that meandered all over the map.
And Clint had begun to put his own stamp on the newspaper. It took time to clean out the deadwood and make the changes, but on the whole things were going well. His biggest problem was also his biggest asset.
Nadine Laidlaw. His editor and, it seemed, constant critic.
He wished he could understand his changing feelings for her. He reminded himself that she had a boyfriend. Trace Bennet.
But for some reason that Clint couldn’t pin down, he didn’t quite trust Mr. Bennet. Jealousy, perhaps. Certainly a smoothness on Trace’s part that he couldn’t see Nadine being attracted to.
He wondered if he should just give up. But in his heart he knew he simply couldn’t.
He dug through the cupboard for his own camera
and bag. Even though Nadine would be taking most of the pictures, he liked to keep his own skills up. He checked through it, making sure it was loaded, packed up some extra lenses, then slung it over his shoulder. He walked down the stairs, pausing at the bottom as he wondered once again, what had made him offer to help.
Was it her obvious frustration as she stood contemplating a sick reporter? The fact that she had been working extra hard the past few weeks covering for a reporter who had suddenly quit?
Or the notion of spending a morning with her away from the office and the politics of manager and editor?
Clint shook his head. It didn’t matter. He had offered and now he was committed. If he had learned anything from his newfound faith, it was that there were times to work, times to pray and times to let things flow on their own.
Five combines lumbered down the field, the roar of the large diesel engines thundering through the peace of the surrounding countryside. Chopped straw spewed out of the back of the machines. Choking grain dust swirled upward and the sun shone like a benediction in a promising blue sky.
Nadine glanced once more over her shoulder at the gravel road, mentally calculating how long it would take Clint to get here.
The combines had already made one full round
and she was itching to go. She couldn’t wait for him, and didn’t want to admit that she was.
Finally she grabbed her camera bag and jumped out of her car, jogging over to one of the grain trucks that stood ready to relieve the combines of the harvest.
The driver was leaning against the truck. “You’re from the paper, aren’t you?” he asked, pulling on the bill of his cap.
Nadine nodded as she pulled her camera and light meter out. “And I’m going to take your picture.” She took a quick reading, adjusted the settings on her camera, focused on the driver and snapped her first picture. Nadine guessed from the bright logo emblazoned on his obviously new cap that the hat had been a freebie from one of the various implement dealers in the area.
Trace’s competition, she thought. Once more she wondered what had happened last night. Or for that matter, Sunday. He hadn’t called to explain and she wasn’t about to chase him down.
A small red car pulled in behind hers. She couldn’t stop the gentle lift of her heart, and when Clint stepped out of the vehicle, it was as if time had turned back.
He wore a brown corduroy shirt that hung open over a plain white T-shirt. Jeans hugged his long legs and sneakers finished the look totally at odds with his usual tucked-in shirt and tie.
Nadine felt her heart slow, then begin a dangerous
thumping. He looked like the old Clint Fletcher she used to dream about.
He sauntered over, notebook and pen in one hand, his camera slung over his shoulder. The wind lifted his hair, softening it and making it fall carelessly over his forehead.
Nadine couldn’t keep her eyes off him.
He stopped beside her. “How long ago did they begin?”
Nadine swallowed and returned her attention to her camera, fiddling uselessly with the lens. “Just started,” she muttered.
She looked at the camera slung over his shoulder by its strap, and her discomfort made her take refuge in her usual caustic comments. “Took your own camera in case I muck up?”
Clint shook his head “It’s just for myself.”
Nadine opened her mouth to apologize, then looked up at his handsome features. A soft smile played around the corners of his mouth, making him even more attractive than usual, and she changed her mind. Her sarcasm was her only defense against him.
“I should get going. I just got here, and need to get some pictures. Haven’t taken any yet…” And now you’re babbling, you ninny, she reprimanded herself. Just because he shows up dressed in jeans looking like the old Clint Fletcher doesn’t mean you need to make a fool of yourself.
“Talk to you later,” she said, then turned and ran down the field toward the combines, her heart banging
against her chest. You idiot, she fumed, he’s just Clint Fletcher, the man you love to torment. You don’t need to torture yourself by falling for him all over again.
Nadine took a steadying breath and lifted the camera to her face. Five combines crested the hill, their bulky shapes silhouetted against the sharp blue sky. The thunder of their engines gave Nadine a thrill
The combines roared toward her, gobbling up the thick, fragrant swaths that lay in readiness on the golden stubble. The grains of wheat spun through various screens inside the combines. The straw was spewed out the back, mulch for next year’s crop. The wheat was stored in temporary bins inside the combine. Once they were full, the trucks would pull up alongside and the hopper of the combine would spill out its bounty in a fountain of grain destined for people who had so much less.
Behind the combine, the field looked swept clean. All that was left was stubble strewn with finely chopped straw, looking like a buzz cut on a young boy.
“He will clear his threshing floor, gathering his wheat…” The quote from Matthew came to mind as Nadine walked, staying just ahead of the massive machines lumbering down the field.
She had done a lot of harvest pictures over the past couple of weeks, but this particular annual harvest held a special place in her heart. The Foodgrains Bank Project was a cooperative effort of the
community. A large map of the quarter section or sections was displayed in the local co-op store and divided into parcels. Anyone who wished could purchase a parcel to help pay for the costs of seeding and fertilizing. The use of the land was donated, then the land was planted, sprayed for weeds and harvested by volunteers.
The grain went to Third World countries, where it was “paid” out in exchange for work from the people of the country they were assisting.
Nadine had done a piece on it each year since she first heard about it and felt as much a part of it as any of the organizers. She always bought her own acre and helped keep track of the progress of the combines, cheering when “her” part was done.
The Foodgrains Bank Project always had an air of celebration about it. Local implement dealers donated combines, members of the local church prepared a lunch for the volunteers. And some people came just to be spectators. The project became a way of recognizing the good things God had given the farming community around Derwin and a vehicle for farmers to share their harvest with much needier people.
One by one the five combines mowed down wide swaths of grain. Once filled, they spilled out the wheat, filling the huge truck. The truck pulled away and the combines returned to their swaths.
Nadine took many shots of the entire process. Then she glanced over at the group of people standing around the huge map of the quarter section. Clint
was talking to a few of the volunteers, smiling, nodding. He held a cup of coffee, his notebook stuffed in his pocket, camera now hanging around his neck. Someone spoke. He laughed, his eyes bright, the deep timbre of his voice warming her soul like sunlight.
Nadine felt time still, pause and turn back. She hadn’t seen this side of Clint since he had returned to Derwin a couple of months ago. Always he insisted on a measure of aloofness, always he held his emotions in reserve. But the Clint who mingled and mixed with the group of people on the edge of the field was so much like the Clint who had lived in Derwin those many years ago that her step faltered in reaction.
She was falling for him all over again.
She knew that as a Christian woman she could find contentment in service, in the myriad of things the church offered. She knew that serving the Lord should be her first priority.
But now, as she saw Clint, she realized yet again that a gaping emptiness in her life remained. It didn’t matter how many lectures on the joys of single life she attended, or how many times she read the apostle Paul’s passage on being unmarried, she still struggled with a need for human contact—and affection. For someone’s eyes to light up when they saw her, for someone to miss her when she was gone. A parting kiss in the morning, a hand to take her own as she walked down the street.
Nadine squinted at the men standing against the
white grain box of the truck, their multicolored hats a bright contrast. It would be a tricky shot with the sun glaring off the white background. She raised the camera, analyzing the composition with one part of her mind even as the other tried to analyze her own life.
It was self-preservation that kept Trace at a distance, she concluded, snapping a few pictures, zooming in closer. It was the same thing that kept her sniping at Clint Fletcher. Trace she let get a bit close because she knew she could deal with him.
Clint was another story.
Nadine repressed her thoughts, concentrating on her job. She moved the camera along the group of men. They were the implement dealers and would appreciate having their picture in the paper, so she got a few more frames of them.
Then she stopped as Clint’s face came into view. Nadine held her camera steady, unable to move it on. She adjusted the zoom, pulling the picture in, adjusting the focus. Clint’s mouth was curved in a crooked smile, his eyes squinting against the bright sun. A soft breeze teased his hair, softened its usual crisp style. Unable to stop herself, Nadine snapped a few pictures. Then he turned her way and through the eye of the camera she saw him look at her, his gaze so intent, it seemed as if he was directly in front of her instead of fifty feet away.
Nadine felt her breath slow. She lowered the camera, still looking at him. Then she turned away and
with shaking hands wound the film, wondering if the pictures would even turn out.
Nadine had intended to spend about an hour there, but was chivied by the organizers into staying for lunch.
“There’s more than enough,” said Freda Harper, wife of one of the implement dealers. She almost pulled Nadine over to the table that was set up in the shade of a grain truck. “Besides, I understand elk burgers are on the menu.”
“Sounds intriguing.” Nadine felt her stomach clench with hunger as she caught a whiff of the food on the barbecue. She glanced over the table spread with salads, buns, a few vegetable platters and squares. “And it sure looks good.”
“Well, dish up.” Freda smiled at Nadine as she helped herself to some potato salad. “We’ve had such a beautiful fall,” Freda continued as she worked her way down the table. “I’m so glad the weatherman co-operated today, too.”
“It sure has been a blessing for all the farmers,” replied Nadine with a smile.
Freda nodded, her red hair glinting in the sun, a bright contrast to the yellow sweatshirt she wore, then leaned closer. “You know, I’ve always meant to write you a letter, but I’m not much for doing that.” She smiled apologetically. “But I’ve always wanted to say that I sure appreciate all the support you give this project. Douglas, my husband, got involved because of an article you wrote. How it’s a chance for us, who have so much, to share.” Freda
scooped up a spoonful of salad and paused a moment. “But even more than that, I appreciate the way you always bring your faith out in the editorials you write. It’s very encouraging to other Christians.” Freda stopped, as if slightly embarrassed by her admission. “Anyhow, thanks.”
Nadine felt a spiral of warmth curl up her heart. “Thank you,” she said. Freda Harper’s encouraging words were a gentle reminder to Nadine that her job was important and that it was used by God. “That’s good to know. I guess it’s one of the few places that I express my own faith.”
Freda grinned back at her. “I imagine it’s a little harder to show it in volleyball scores and hockey summaries.”
“Your daughter plays volleyball, doesn’t she?”
Freda nodded, and the talk moved to sports and children. Nadine found out that Freda had two girls in volleyball, one in senior high, one in junior high. They also had one foster child and one adopted child. The Harpers were a giving, loving family and Nadine had lots of questions for Freda.
By the time they got to the end of the line, they were chatting as if they had known each other much longer than the ten minutes they had spent together, and Nadine’s busy reporter’s mind had another idea for a feature article.
“S
orry Nadine, but I told you I was stuck in a meeting….”
Nadine tried to smile. “You have quite a few meetings, Trace.”
“It’s this new business. It’s a lot of work to set up.”
“Whatever.” Nadine tucked the phone under her ear and squatted by her filing cabinet. She tugged it open with an angry jerk.
“Really, Nadine. I’m not trying to put you on. I’m going to be in town in the morning. Can I come then?”
“No. I’ve got to interview a reporter for the opening here.”
“What about Thursday night?” She hesitated, not entirely sure she wanted to chance another date with Trace.
“C’mon,” he said, his voice wheedling. “Don’t make me suffer.”
“Why do I have such a hard time believing you?”
“Nadine. I really wanted to come last night.”
Still she hesitated, unable to shake the feeling that he had been avoiding her.
“Once things slow down, I’ll have way more time. I’ve got a few loose ends to tie up, and once that happens, I’m all yours. You have to believe me.”
Nadine didn’t know if she was imagining the pleading tone of his voice, but he sounded genuinely upset. She thought of Clint and the time they had spent together today. Going out with Trace would give her the emotional distance she needed from Clint. Trace was becoming less important to her, while she knew what she felt for Clint could hurt her more in the long run. “We’ll aim for tomorrow night,” she said with a sigh. Would she regret this? she wondered.
“Great, that’s just great,” he enthused. “I’ll pick you up at five o’clock. I can hardly wait to see you.”
She fiddled with the phone cord, frustrated with herself for her wavering attitude. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Trace.”
“For sure, Nadine. I won’t let you down.”
“I hope not,” Nadine said. She ended the call and dropped the phone in the cradle, pulling a face at it as she did so. My life and welcome to it, she thought.
With a shake of her head, Nadine picked up some papers from the desk and shoved them into the appropriate folder in the file cabinet. She was acting in such a typically feminine fashion, even if she didn’t dress the part. She glanced down at the blue jeans she wore today—and most every day. Running her finger over them, she remembered Clint’s reaction when she’d worn a skirt. Remembered the surprised look on his face, the way his eyes had seemed to linger.
So different from his usual penetrating look. When he dropped that aloof manner, his eyes could sparkle, his usually firm mouth would soften and he was suddenly charming, infinitely appealing.
She called back this morning, how the wind had teased the groomed line of his hair, how his eyes had crinkled up as he smiled. Her hands dangled uselessly between the file folders as she relived each time their gazes had locked, each time they’d seemed to make a connection.
The tinny ring of the phone broke into her thoughts and Nadine pulled herself up short, mentally giving herself a shake. What in the world was wrong with her? she wondered. Getting all dreamy over Clint Fletcher.
She was losing it, she thought as she got up and picked up the phone. “Hello,” she said curtly, pushing shut the door of the filing cabinet with her foot.
“Is this Nadine Laidlaw?” a harsh voice asked on the other end of the phone.
“Yes.” Nadine frowned as she tried to place the caller.
“I sent you a letter. The one about Skyline. Did you get it?”
Nadine felt her own breath leave her as she fumbled behind her for a chair. “Okay. I remember now. You said you knew something and wanted to talk to me.”
“I can’t tell you over the phone. I want to meet you somewhere. Are you going to be at the volleyball tournament next week?”
Nadine hoped a new reporter would be hired by then and the new person would cover the game. But she couldn’t chance this. Not after all this time. She had to meet this woman wherever and whenever she asked. “If you are talking about the one at the high school, the answer is yes.” She scribbled a note on a pad, her hands shaking.
“Good. I have a son on the team. I’ll be there.”
“And who is this?”
“It doesn’t matter.” The woman sighed. “It doesn’t matter who I am. I’ll be wearing a green sweatshirt and gray pants.” A pause. “I don’t want to do this, but I really have to.”
Nadine swallowed, her own heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and fear. “I’m glad. I’m glad you’re willing to talk to me.” Nadine wiped a damp hand on the leg of her jeans. “I’ll see you at the tournament, then.”
A sharp click in her ear signaled the end of the conversation. Nadine slowly replaced the handset,
her heart refusing to slow down, her thoughts spinning. Six years she had speculated on the circumstances surrounding her father’s death. Six years she had asked questions and received no answers.
And now.
Now she was so close, so close.
Thank you, Lord,
she prayed, clasping her hands in front of her mouth to stop the trembling of her lips.
Thank you for keeping faith. Thank you that I will finally be able to bring that company to justice.
The thought might be premature, but she felt a deep conviction that now, finally, she would find out the truth.
“And the truth shall make you free.”
It was what Nadine had been striving for. She longed to be finished with the struggle. While as her grandmother and Donna chided her for her near obsession with Skyline, a small part of her knew they were correct. She had prayed, grappled with the comfort offered her in the Bible. Even while her mother was alive there were many times she had been tempted to quit, let it all go and realize there were going to be questions that would just not be answered. Then she would come home or visit her mother in the hospital. Brenda would be lying in her bed, barely able to speak, but always able to make it understood that she wouldn’t have peace until Skyline was exposed.
Once she talked to her mysterious tipper, she might discover something she could work into an article. She knew Clint would hit the roof. She
didn’t want to deliberately antagonize him, but she knew this letter and the new information was a chance for her to assuage the guilt that clung at each thought of her mother’s death.
But for now, she had pictures to develop and a few articles to write up.
Nadine reached over and unzipped her camera bag, pulling out the rolls of exposed film. If she didn’t develop the pictures now, her time would get eaten up with phone calls and paperwork. She gathered up the film and walked down the hallway.
She knocked on the darkroom door. No one replied, so she pushed the heavy door open. Stepping inside, she closed it right away, giving her eyes a chance to adjust to the darkness. It was supposed to be absolute, but she was blessed with good night vision and could make out the vague outline of the workbench and sinks. She had spent countless hours in here when she first started, fascinated with the procedure of developing film. Thankfully this was one place Clint had not changed. Things were in exactly the same place they always had been. She walked slowly over to the bench and found the equipment she needed. With quick, sure movements she laid out her rolls of film and pried up the tops of the canisters with an old can opener, careful not to dent them too much. They were reusable and could be filled again. Using her memory of the room, she easily located the plastic developing reels and with quick movements worked the exposed film onto the reels and readied the graduates that would
hold the film and developing liquid. These she filled with developer and then carefully lowered the reels into the containers. Snapping the lid on, she began slowly agitating them, inverting them repeatedly for the first thirty seconds.
She had about ten seconds to go on this stage of the developing when she heard a hesitant tap at the door.
“It’s okay to come in, but do it quickly,” Nadine called over her shoulder. She agitated the graduates one last time, wondering who else wanted to use the darkroom. The door opened and was quickly shut again. “Be warned,” she said. “You’re stuck in here until I’m done.” She poured the developer into the sink, rinsed the graduates and snapped the lid back on. She switched on the red light above the counter and measured the stop bath into the container.
“That’s okay,” an all-too-familiar voice replied.
Clint.
Nadine swallowed and clutched the containers to stop the sudden trembling of her fingers. “What…” She swallowed and started again. “What do you want?”
“I had some film to develop.”
With a flick of her hand Nadine switched off the red light. She opened the graduates and poured the stop bath over the negatives and snapped the lid on. She felt, more than heard, Clint walk over to the sink beside her. In the dark her other senses became heightened. She could hear his breathing, sense his
presence. His proximity gave her a sudden jitter. Her heart beat heavily at the base of her throat. She agitated the containers, reminding herself to move slowly. After dumping out the stop bath, she poured the fixative onto the film and reached for the timer again. As she did so her arm brushed against Clint’s.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, finding the timer, only to drop it on the floor. Chiding herself for her clumsiness, she bent over trying to find it.
She felt the timer, but as she reached to pick it up, she felt other fingers encircle hers. Startled, she almost dropped the mechanism again, but Clint’s hand held hers and the metal clock.
Nadine’s hand refused to respond. She felt the warmth of Clint’s fingers covering hers as his other hand gently took the clock away from her.
“How long should I set it for?” he asked.
Nadine told him, then took a hurried step away from him and the feelings he generated in her. She didn’t want to be so aware of him. She didn’t want Clint, of all people, to have that kind of control over her.
I don’t want this to happen, Lord,
she prayed fervently. One deep breath, then another and thankfully, she felt her equilibrium returning.
But she could stay in the one small corner of the darkroom for only a couple of minutes. She had to finish the last stage.
Thankfully Clint had moved and she could grab the canister and retreat to the opposite counter.
The silence in the room grew with each minute the timer ticked off, each “swish” of the developing
tank. Nadine felt she should say something, anything, but it was as if her mind had shut off.
She could hear by his movements that Clint was finished rolling his film onto the developing reels. He would have to wait until the timer was finished to immerse his film in solution, and Nadine mentally hurried the minutes on.
“I thought today went well,” Clint said, breaking the silence that seemed even more intense in the small, dark space.
“Yes, it did.”
“You’re keeping quite late hours today, aren’t you?”
“Have to.” Her voice sounded small in the darkness; his seemed to take it over.
“I imagine your grandma will be waiting.”
“Yes.” Brilliant conversation, Nadine, she scolded herself, trying to come up with anything that she could say to him.
“She’s quite the go-getter.”
“She can be a little overwhelming.”
“She was always really friendly when I came over,” Clint said quietly.
“Yes, she was.” Nadine almost groaned at her lame response, resisting the urge to smack herself on the forehead. What’s the matter? she thought. You spend the morning with him, then he corners you in the darkroom, tosses a few lame questions at you and you freeze up.
But even as she formulated the thought, she knew why. It had to do with the daydreaming she had
indulged in a few moments ago in her office, with seeing him all morning. It had to do with a sudden and unwelcome awareness of Clint as an attractive man. It had to do with old emotions and old feelings. With new emotions, too. And she didn’t like it.
The silence lengthened. Then Clint cleared his throat. “I never did give you proper condolences with the death of your mother. I can tell it’s been hard for you.”
Once again Nadine felt her chest tighten as stillpainful emotions clenched her heart. She nodded, then, realizing he couldn’t see the movement of her head, said softly, “Yes it has.” She sniffed and reached into her pocket for a tissue, but her pocket was empty.
“Are you okay?” Clint’s voice was a soft, rich sound, disembodied in the darkness.
“Yes.” She wrapped her arms around her stomach, simply allowing the tears to fall unheeded down her cheeks. She ceased caring. Clint couldn’t see her, anyway.
Through the darkness, she could make out Clint’s tall figure taking a step closer. His hand reached out as if to find her. Nadine couldn’t move, didn’t want to. Then warm fingers lightly touched her cheek. A rustling sound, and once again he was carefully wiping her eyes with a handkerchief.
Nadine felt her stomach drop, her heart slow. She could feel his breath on her hair, the warmth of his fingers through the thin material of his handkerchief. She wanted him to stop. She wanted him to continue.
She felt herself swaying toward him, was aware of every movement he made. It was as if an uncontrolled magnetism slowly drew them closer…closer. His breath was on her face now, her mouth. She tilted her head up toward him, feeling more than seeing his presence, and slowly their lips touched with tender hesitancy.
The clang of the timer shattered the moment. Nadine jumped and pulled back.
“I’ve got to get my film out of the solution. It’s…ready….” Nadine turned away from him, her heart pounding. Fumbling with the containers, she yanked the tops off. She rinsed the negatives, her hands shaking, and soon had the strips of film hanging up to dry from the line strung along one end of the darkroom. Then she whisked the residual moisture off them with her fingers, not bothering to get a squeegee. All she wanted now was to finish and get out. After rinsing her hands under the tap, she quickly stepped to the door.
“Let me know when I can open the door, please,” she asked Clint, her voice breathless.
“Sure,” he answered, his tone brusque.
Nadine could hardly wait until he told her she could go, unable to speculate on what he had done— and her response. When he finally gave her leave, she tugged on the doorknob, and when she was out into the bright light of the office, she felt like a prisoner escaping. For a moment she stood by the darkroom door, catching her breath. Don’t be silly, she chided herself. Clint was her boss. All he did was…
Touch her face with his hard, strong fingers. Wipe her tears…