Forever Wife Read Online Free Page B

been on paint or siding. 
    “No need to get out of that fancy car, mister,” cackled an old voice. 
    Vidar looked up into the wrinkled face of the wizened old man.  He ran a quick mental calculation – Holcombe had appeared to be in his sixties back in the 1980’s when Vidar had first started coming to the lake.  He’d be in his nineties now.  Vidar straightened, humbled.  “Hello, Edgar,” he began.  “Do you remember me?”
    Edgar nodded, the action making him nearly lose his balance that he only maintained with the aid of the hand-carved cane at his side.  “I know what you are,” he said menacingly.
    Vidar didn’t move, clenching his fists as an ice-cold sense of dread ran down his spine.
    “You’re a vulture.  You hang around decent folk, ready to pounce on their corpses the minute life knocks ’em down.  You were their friend, you weasel, you!  And you stole that cabin right out from under ’ em.  About near killed ’em, it did.”
    “Sir, you are speaking on something you know nothing about,” Vidar said coolly.  “I assume you’re talking about the Shelburne’s Camp Birches.  I had no idea he was doing so poorly financially.  But when I saw that he was about to lose his beloved camp, I bought it from him and allowed him to live there for the rest of his life.  I would have done anything for that man – I loved him like a father.  But he was proud and would not take my help.”
    “And you think I ain’t got pride!”  The old man straightened and shook his cane at Vidar.  “I ain’t selling to you, and that’s that!”
    Vidar climbed the stairs and joined the old man on his porch.  He opened the door, gesturing for Holcombe to precede him inside.  “Let’s talk about this over a cup of coffee, shall we? Let me tell you what my plans are for the lake, and then if you still do not want to work with me, I will leave you in peace.”
    Holcombe seemed to sparkle beneath his crabby, weathered visage. Vidar realized that it wasn’t pride or money that made him hold out against the development of Scrimshaw Lake, but loneliness.  The old man had not one relative left in the world.  Yes, he had often talked about moving south and living in a retirement village, but that was no longer possible.  In his mind, he was simply too old to leave the only home he had ever known. 
    Vidar did not really need the old man’s property to build the elaborate casino.  He only wanted it so he could bulldoze it. It was ugly. It was the first thing people would see when they gazed out the window of his fancy resort.  They would see the clear, pristine water of the lake, the thick birches surrounding the water and often reflected upon its surface. They would see the rolling White Mountains of New Hampshire, and they would see old Holcombe’s tarpaper shack. 
    Vidar had an idea.  “We only wanted your property, sir, to take advantage of a government-subsidized improvement grant.  We wanted to fix up your place, give it a facelift. New siding, new roof, maybe new wiring.  Then we could turn around and sell it,” he lied, trying to entice the old man to his way of thinking.
    “Improvement grant,” Edgar mumbled, but his piercing blue eyes betrayed his assumed lack of interest.  “Well, dag nabbit.  If you can get a grant to fix up this old place, maybe I ought to apply for the same money.”
    “Why, Edgar, that’s perfect,” Vidar gushed, as though the old man had thought it up all on his own.  Vidar brought out official-looking papers that were completely bogus, and with a little more sweet-talking, convinced him to sign on the dotted line.  Vidar hated people who preyed upon the elderly, hated it when they tried to swindle them out of their meager savings.  But Vidar wasn’t doing that.  He was going to fix up the old man’s home and not charge him a cent, yet he’d saved the man his dignity by letting him think that the money was coming from the government, paid for by