The Redemption Of Matthew Quinn

And, prominently displayed, a picture of a grinning Highland terrier that read simply, “Rob Roy ran away again. If you see him, call me. Theo.”

Apparently everyone knew who Theo was. Everyone but Matthew.

He felt strangely paralyzed, standing at the high end of Main Street, gazing down at the row of quaint, expensive shops. Red-white-and-blue flags flew. Yellow flowers bloomed. Windows sparkled in the summer sun.

It suddenly looked like a stage set, as if it had been painted on cardboard and could be rolled away at will, revealing the familiar dirty, weed-ridden prison yard behind.

He wondered if he had been kidding himself. Could he really ever fit into a place like this again? He had picked this destination three years ago, during his first month in prison. He’d spent long, sleepless hours looking at a map of New York State, imagining where he would go when he was free again.

He hadn’t even noticed Firefly Glen the first few times. It was that small. But once he’d seen it, it had become a kind of obsession. A symbol. You couldn’t imagine anything ugly happening in a place called Firefly Glen. You just knew there would be clean air, warm smiles, wholesome food, simple pleasures—all those decent things they made you empty out of your pockets when they processed you into prison.

But now that he was here—now that it was not just a symbol, but a reality—he felt as out of place as a lump of coal in a cabbage patch, as his grandfather used to say. Maybe prison had changed him too much. Maybe he didn’t believe in Norman Rockwell anymore.

“Hi, there. You look lost. Can I help?”

The voice was friendly, but, when Matthew looked up, he saw that the pleasant brown eyes of the stranger in front of him were careful and wary.

“I’m Harry Dunbar,” the man said. And then he added, pointing his thumb toward his shiny gold star with a smile, “I’m the sheriff of Firefly Glen.”

Suddenly Harry lurched, as another man came up behind, bumping into him rudely.

“Sorry, Harry,” the second man said, grinning. He seemed to be holding a third man up by the collar. “Boxer here is having a little trouble with a straight line this morning.”

“Of course he is,” the sheriff grumbled. “It’s Saturday, isn’t it?”

The second man noticed Matthew, and looked over, smiling. “Hi,” he said, putting out his free hand, briefly letting go of the bleary-eyed fellow he’d been guiding. “I’m Parker Tremaine.”

Was everyone in this town so compulsively friendly? Matthew, who had lived in New York City all his life, hadn’t really expected this. He wondered if this Parker guy was a sheriff’s deputy. Maybe he and the sheriff were both just trying to size Matthew up, trying to decide if he was a desirable or a threat to their idyllic little Rockwell paradise.

But as Matthew shook Parker’s hand, he caught more details, and he realized Parker was no public servant. He was a vastly different type. He wore a very expensive business suit. The suit was a statement. Elegant, understated, educated.

Yes, he knew Parker’s type. He had even been Parker’s type, once upon a time. Just three years ago, he’d worn suits like that, walked like that, smiled out on his world with comfortable confidence like that. Three short years. But it might as well have been a million.

“Are you trying to ticket this poor guy for leaving his car in a no-parking space?” The man smiled over at Matthew. “Harry takes his job very seriously. But don’t worry. I can get you off.”

Matthew flinched and his gaze flicked to the curb instinctively. He hadn’t noticed any signs. He didn’t break the smallest of laws anymore. He didn’t speed, didn’t change lanes without signaling. He didn’t even jaywalk.

But the sheriff was smiling crookedly. “Parker’s being funny,” he said to Matthew. “The restrictive paint’s been worn off that space for years. Can’t get maintenance to repaint, can’t get the town council to cough up money for a sign.” He turned back to the man in the suit. “Why don’t you take Boxer on home, Parker? He could use a shower. He’s getting a little ripe in this hot sun.”

Parker frowned and turned. “Oh, hell. Where is Boxer?” He scanned the area quickly, and then his gaze settled on the ground near the door to the sheriff’s department. “Great. He’s passed out again.”

He sighed, then turned back and smiled at Matthew. “Welcome to Firefly Glen. Never a dull moment. I’m the local lawyer, and that guy on the ground over there is just one of our many beloved eccentric millionaires.”

Matthew glanced at the heap of rumpled clothes propped up against the wall of the building. “Boxer” had begun to hum softly, leading an imaginary band with one finger. The guy sure didn’t look like a millionaire. He had a black eye, a bad haircut, and he did, indeed, stink.

“Well, get him out of here, or I’m going to lock him up again.” Sheriff Harry swiveled back to Matthew and his guarded look returned. “So, was I right? Are you lost? Anything I can help you with?”

Matthew considered asking him for directions to Blue Pine Trail, but at the last minute he decided against it. The two men seemed friendly enough, but in prison you didn’t tell anyone anything, just on principle. Apparently the habit was going to cling to him, the same way the odor of cheap stew and strong prison bleach seemed to cling to the inside of his nose.

“No, thanks,” he said, forcing himself to look Harry Dunbar straight in the eye. If he was going to stay here for the summer, he might as well make friends with the locals.

And then it hit him—his decision had been made. He was going to stay, assuming he could get a job. This wasn’t some imaginary Oz with streets of gold, some enchanted Eden from which people like him had been forever banished. It was just a rather ordinary small town. It had grumpy sheriffs, Friday night drunks, inefficient elected officials, slick lawyers and lost dogs, just like hundreds of small towns across New York State.

And its houses needed repair. Matthew knew how to do that. He’d spent every summer during college with a hammer in his hands, and he could spend this one the same way.

“I was just having a look around.” He steadied his gaze. “I’m here for the summer.”

The sheriff frowned, as if the explanation didn’t quite satisfy him, but suddenly Parker Tremaine let out a low curse.

“Harry, look at this,” Parker said, staring at the bulletin board. “I warned Natalie not to post her address on these ads, and she’s done it anyway.”

Matthew wondered what the lawyer would say if he knew one of those address slips was even now tucked away in Matthew’s pocket.

“She did?” The sheriff stalked over and read the notice. Then, with a grumble, he ripped it off the board and crumpled it in his fist. “Hell, now I’ll have to go all over town tearing the darn things down. I tell you, Parker, Granvilles have always been too naive to live, and Natalie Granville is the worst of the lot.”

A sudden commotion erupted from the direction of Boxer’s corner. “Natalie Granville is a hell of a sweet woman, and I’ll kick the ass of anyone who says she’s not,” the old man said, struggling to his feet. He glared at the sheriff. “In fact, I think I’ll kick your ass anyhow, Dunbar, just for saying her name in that tone of voice.”

“Parker—” the sheriff began tightly.

“I know, I know. I’ll get him out of here. Just give me a hand.”

And while the two civilized young professionals were wrestling the crusty old drunk to his feet, Matthew seized his chance.

No one saw him climb into his car and drive away. No one asked where he was going, and he wouldn’t have told them if they had.

Because he was going to find Natalie Granville. He was going to tell her the truth about himself, and he was going to ask her for a job. Maybe she was just naive enough to believe in things like fair play and second chances—concepts he was pretty sure the suspicious sheriff would consider foolish.

Matthew pressed harder on the gas, overcome by a sudden urgency. Maybe this was why he had chosen Firefly Glen. Silver haired and sweet, the despair of cynical sheriffs yet beloved by pugilistic drunks, Natalie Granville just might be the answer to prayers Matthew hadn’t even realized he was praying.

CHAPTER TWO

SUMMER HOUSE, the understated brass plaque embedded in the tall stone pillar said. But the plaque lied.

Summer House wasn’t a house. It was an Italian villa, a sumptuous estate fit for a decadent prince. A baroque fantasy of pink marble and red terra-cotta and gray pietra serena stone. An orgy of arches and ornamentation, loggias and sculptures and formal staircases descending into shadowy gardens.

Matthew left his car by the gate and walked up the long driveway, stunned. Summer House didn’t belong in Upstate New York, tucked into the dense birch and hemlock woods of the Adirondack Mountains. It belonged in the rolling hills of seventeenth century Italy, where lemon trees grew in huge clay pots, and silvery olive trees twinkled in the Tuscan sun.

And yet here it stood.

It was slightly crazy.

It was extremely beautiful.

And it was, quite literally, falling apart.

Matthew, who had finally reached the front door, was hardly an expert, but decay cried out even to the untrained eye. Half a dozen windows on both floors were cracked and taped. The stone walls were pitted in places, crumbling away to dust in others. Many of the statues had lost noses and fingers and other protruding body parts.

And Nature, which obviously had once been banished from these formal Italian gardens by an army of landscapers, was marching boldly back, reclaiming its territory inch by inch.