Page 82 of The Coppersmith Farmhouse (Jamison Valley 1)
“You’re a good mother,” Noelle said.
“Uh . . . thanks.”
Her comment took me off guard. I appreciated the compliment but I wasn’t sure what had brought it on.
“You know, Ben Coppersmith used to call me every week,” she said. “On Tuesdays. He never missed a Tuesday. Not in nineteen years. I knew he’d passed when he didn’t call.”
“He died on a Saturday night,” I said. “In his sleep.”
“He was always there for Jess. Even after he moved. Practically gave him that house. Except of course when he actually gave it to you. That house has been the pride and joy of my son’s life. Good of Ben to give him that. Good of him to keep in touch too. Checking in with me to make sure Jess was doing okay.”
The doorbell rang again and I jumped up to answer it, glad to have a reprieve from the strange conversation.
“I never remembered Halloween,” Noelle said when I sat back down. “I don’t think the kids ever had costumes until they were old enough to get them on their own.”
I didn’t know what to say to that so I kept quiet.
“I wasn’t much of a mother to my kids. I tried, but . . .”
My heart ached for her. She clearly loved her children, but she just wasn’t mentally equipped to care for them properly. It made me sad for Jess and his sister. But it made me sad for Noelle too.
Being Rowen’s mother was the greatest gift in my life. Going all out at Halloween, cooking her favorite dinners, painting her room just the right color. All those things brought me immeasurable joy. Noelle had missed out on that.
I leaned forward and gently patted her knee.
“I don’t know your daughter, but I’ve spent the better part of three months getting to know your son. And he’s a wonderful man. I’d give yourself a little more credit,” I said.
She gave me a small, reluctant smile. “Thanks, Gigi.”
We had just dropped off Noelle and were making our way to the farmhouse. Roe was wired. Beyond wired. She was bouncing up and down and kicking her legs frantically back and forth in her car seat.
Not only had Jess taken her through his neighborhood to collect more candy, but he’d also let her eat it along the way. A four-year-old stuffing her face with candy. For over an hour.
We were almost to my gravel drive when Jess’s phone rang. He listened for a minute before veering to the side of the road, shutting off the car lights and shoving it in park.
“Jess, what’s going on?”
“One sec,” he mouthed, holding up a finger.
Roe was babbling in the back and I turned around to tell her to shush. When I turned back to Jess, he was off the call.
“Dispatch says there’s a gang of punk kids going around vandalizing country houses. They’re taking advantage of people being in town. Spinning donuts in the yards, smashing pumpkins, spray-painting doors.”
“What?” I gasped. “Oh no. Did they get the farmhouse?”
“I don’t know yet. You two stay here. I’m gonna walk down and check it out. Got your phone?”
I nodded.
“Keep it close. I’ll call if you can come down. You see anything other than me coming down the drive, call 9-1-1 immediately and drive back to my house. Got it?”
I nodded again. “Be careful.”
I was totally freaked out that he was leaving me in a dark car with my daughter while he wandered out into the black night alone.
He reached over and pulled his badge and a set of handcuffs out of the glove compartment. After he tucked them into his pocket, he patted my hand quickly and climbed out the door.
He had his gun on him already. If we were heading into town, he almost always brought it. It was on his belt when he was in uniform. If he was in plain clothes, it was tucked away, hidden under his clothes. Tonight, it was holstered under his arm at his side, beneath his sweater and coat.
