The Road to Testament

by Eva Marie Everson

  My search turned up empty until I spied an oversized ceramic bowl on top of the refrigerator. “Here we go. Probably meant for decoration only, but it’ll do, don’t you think?”

  I ran water from the tap into the bowl. The dogs bumped into my legs in eager anticipation. I placed the bowl on the floor and watched as they lapped in unison. When they were done, they gave me grateful stares before meandering back to the door. I opened it, giving both a swift pat on the head, then watched them depart down the hill toward the Deckers’ home. “Sorry you have to drink and run,” I called out as though, if they heard me, they’d get the joke.

  I closed the storm door, followed by the heavy inner door, then walked to the sofa, fell across it, and burst into tears.

  Could I only get dogs to accept me? Okay, there’d been Alma. She seemed to be nonjudgmental. And Bobbie and Shelton. And Garrison. And Brianna and the Flannerys.

  But Will Decker left giant question marks. And the three women from advertising! Contending with people like them . . . how would I survive six months in Testament? How could I return to Winter Park to be rewarded with a new job—the job I’d worked for since graduating college? And, if today was just Day One, what would the other approximately one hundred and eighty be like?

  I wasn’t sure I even wanted to guess.

  I woke the next morning, still lying on the sofa. I hadn’t eaten, I hadn’t showered, and I hadn’t changed my clothes. I eased up, propping on my elbows halfway, then straightened and stood. I stretched, first reaching my fingers toward the ceiling and then to the floor.

  Feeling less stiff, I walked into the kitchen to prepare tea, glancing at the stove’s digital clock. 6:24.

  Good, I thought. At least today I had a little time to get ready before facing The Testament Tribune. While the Keurig coffeemaker did its thing, I did mine, stripping out of my clothes on my way to the upstairs shower. I tossed them on the bed on my way to the bathroom. I let the hot water pelt against my body, feeling the sting and, at the same time, the release of tight muscles. I washed my hair, breathing in the wild ginger scent. When I’d conditioned and rinsed thoroughly, I soaked a natural sea sponge with water and added a lavender-and-vanilla body gel polish. I took my time, washing away yesterday’s pain. Its questions. Especially as they dealt with Will Decker.

  He’s had a hard time of it . . . Bobbie Decker’s words slipped around the shower curtain and into the tub, playing with my emotions. What had she meant? What kind of a hard time? As I stepped under the water a final time, I remembered Alma’s words as well.

  He went to work in Chicago after he graduated college and then, after a few years, he came back here. I don’t know if it’s because his grandfather needed him to and he’s bitter about that, or because things just didn’t work out.

  By the time I wrapped myself in a thick body towel, I had determined to find out just what this hard time of it was and when he’d come back from Chicago. And why. But more than that. I wanted to know, as far deep as the cowboy’s roots seemed to be in Testament, why he ever left in the first place.

  One of my favorite clothing designers is Kate Spade. Her style simply fits me. So, for my second day on the job, I chose one of her silk flare dresses—black with white polka dots—and a pair of sassy black flats. I drank my tea, poured a bowl of cornflakes (something I’d not had since childhood, but it was the only cereal in the pantry), and walked into the small first-floor bedroom where I’d previously noticed a bookshelf stacked with books.

  My eyes were drawn to a book lying flat on one of the middle shelves.

  The cover of Live Life to the Fullest, a thin gift-style book, was identical to the tiles of the mirror in the downstairs bathroom. Placing my tea on the nearby bedside table, I flipped through its glossy pages. The left pages displayed a photograph of each of the tiles. The right, Scripture verses and short sayings.

  I took the book, my tea, and myself out to the rock garden. I draped one of the Adirondack chairs with one of the sofa throws from the living room. For a moment, I drank in my surroundings. Red-tipped bushes grew high enough to block my view of the Decker home, the road leading to the highway, and the mountains beyond. But I knew they were out there and the thought brought sweet comfort. Above me, the morning breeze tickled the leaves of several hearty maples. Squirrels darted along their branches and wrens sang messages back and forth among them. Periodically, a leaf spiraled to the ground in anticipation of an early fall.

  After taking a sip of tea and placing the mug on the small table next to my chair, I opened the first page.

  Take long walks, the picture instructed.

  The words on the right page read:

  You’ve let me walk fast and safe,

  without even twisting an ankle.

  —Psalm 18:36

  Therefore we were buried together with him through baptism into his death, so that just as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, we too can walk in newness of life.

  —Romans 6:4

  And then, alone at the bottom right of the page, the words WALK IN LOVE appeared in block letters.

  I took in a deep breath, allowing the words to inspire me as to my personal walk with God, then contemplated more the picture to the left.

  Take long walks.

  It had been awhile since I’d taken a long walk. Or any walk, other than the treadmill at the gym. If ever a place was picturesque enough to do so, it was here in Testament. When I got to the office, I’d ask Will about the best places for such an adventure.

  Hopefully, his answer wouldn’t include a dangerously high cliff.

  Will met me halfway down the hall leading to our office, hat in hand and obviously in a hurry. “There you are,” he said.

  I looked at my watch. “I’m on time today,” I declared. “In fact I’m three minutes early.”

  “We’ve got a story.” He looked me up and down. “Do you not have anything less . . . snazzy to wear?”

  I returned the glare. “Don’t you own anything but denim and cotton?” Even as I said the words, I gave myself a mental kick. How is it that Will Decker brings out all the worst in me?

  “Seriously. You’ll need something less dressy for this one.”

  “This one? I thought I’d start working on the magazine today. I played with some ideas on the way over—” I stopped talking as Will shook his head.

  “Not now. Not today. I’m going to need you and”—he clasped his hand under my elbow and turned me around—“you’re not dressed right.”

  I held my hands up in surrender. “I didn’t know. You could have called.” By now we were halfway out the door, dashing to his truck. “And I parked in the right place today, I’ll have you notice.”

  “Good girl.” He opened the passenger door for me and I hopped in, once again catching a whiff of his cologne. HiM by Hanae Mori. Wow.

  “We’ll drive out to my grandparents’ first so you can change,” Will said after he’d joined me in the truck’s cab.

  “Why do I need to change?” I pulled the seat belt over, ready to place my Rebecca Minkoff hobo purse between me and it. But the belt had been scrubbed clean. I started to say something, but Will spoke instead.

  “Great-granny, girl. Believe me. You wouldn’t want that . . . what is that? Kate Spade?”

  I nearly fell to the floorboard. “You know Kate Spade?”

  His eyes flashed. “You’re not the only fashionista I’ve known.”

  “I see.” Chicago, I thought. I bet this has something to do with Chicago . . .

  “So, you have something you can change into?”

  “Why don’t you first tell me where we’re going and then I’ll know if I have anything appropriate.”

  “A man out on the highway—Robert Matthews is his name—owns about twenty-five acres he’s been clearing away for two years now.”

  “Okay.”

  “Built himself a nice log cabin, planted some vegetables, a few muscadine grape vines, prettiest roses you
’ve ever seen . . .”

  Sounded nice, but so far I wasn’t hearing a story. “Okay.”

  He shot another look my way—one I’d already grown accustomed to and learned how to read—just as the front passenger wheel hit a pothole, jarring me up from the bench seat and back down again.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Wasn’t done on purpose, I can assure you.”

  “So, where’s the story here? Muscadine grapes and roses and . . . what?”

  “Recently,” Will shot back, “Rob decided to start clearing out an area that’s close to the old Revolutionary War road.”

  “The old . . . as in the Revolutionary War?”

  “Was there more than one?”

  “Well, no. But . . .”

  “You like history?” he asked.

  “I do. I’m always interested in learning new things. I told you that.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Yes, I—never mind. So, the guy, Robert Matthews, started clearing . . .” I waved my hand in a “get on with it” motion.

  “Yeah, so Rob’s clearing out this tract of heavily wooded area and he starts noticing these stones sticking up out of the ground. First one, then another, and another until he comes up on one that looks more like a tombstone. Short, flat, and with a jutting topside. He squats down, takes in the long view, and that’s when he realizes, these stones had been placed at the tops of graves.”

  “Unmarked?”

  “Unmarked.”

  “Where are they from? I mean . . . whose could they be?”

  “That’s what we’re going to look into. See if we can’t figure it out. Of course, we’ll want to get the historical society in on it, which by the way is a group you’ll want to get to know when you start working on the magazine.”

  Whenever that was.

  Will swung the truck into his grandparents’ driveway, floored the accelerator, and bounced the truck along until we reached the cottage. Once he had stopped, he grinned at me again. “Kind of makes your teeth rattle, doesn’t it?”

  I jerked the door handle in response. “So, what you’re telling me is that I need something for walking in the woods?”

  “Got anything like that?”

  Probably not. “I’ll see what I can find,” I said. “Just give me a few minutes.”

  Will looked at his watch. “Garrison is meeting us there with one of his fancy cameras at 9:00. It’s 8:45 now. I’ll give you five minutes.”

  “Piece of cake.”

  Pants, I wasn’t worried about. I had brought one pair of jeans with me. Straight-leg. Too expensive to be traipsing out in the woods while wearing, but they were my only choice. My biggest problem was going to be footwear.

  I quickly changed into the jeans, adding a simple pink tee, then scanned my boxes of shoes until I found as casual a pair of flats as I owned. They weren’t overly sturdy, but at least I could keep my feet on the ground, more or less.

  As one last act before returning to the truck, I swept my long hair into a thick ponytail.

  I ran back to the truck and jumped in. Will looked at me as if my choice of jeans-tee-flats ensemble had been completely wrong. “Those are the only jeans you have?”

  “As a matter of fact, they are. The only ones with me, at least. I didn’t realize I’d need to bring my entire wardrobe.” Which, of course, was an impossibility. Pressing my hands into my thighs and running them to my knees, I added, “And what’s wrong with these? They’re jeans. They’re denim.”

  “They’re purple.”

  “They most certainly are not. They’re elderberry.”

  He shook his head and chuckled. “Lady, you won’t do.” Will pulled the gearshift to drive, drove around the cottage, and back down the driveway.

  I didn’t know whether to be amused or wounded, but the day was young and I had a fresh determination to make this work. I figured a change of subject would do us good. “How far is Robert Matthews’ house?”

  “Just up the road a piece. It won’t take us two minutes to get there.”

  I looked at my watch. “Do you think Garrison is already there?”

  “He’s there. He just sent me a text.”

  “What did it say?”

  He answered by handing me his phone where the text was still displayed. You won’t believe this, it read. Excitement rushed over me. I felt like I was on a treasure hunt. An adventure. The thing that felt most like my wheelhouse, but something I hardly got to even dig into for Parks & Avenues. “I feel a little like Indiana Jones,” I said. “We don’t usually go in search of unmarked graves, or any graves, for the magazine.”

  Will chuckled good-naturedly. “I would imagine not. Not that magazine, anyway.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means this kind of story would be perfect for the magazine here.” He turned the truck onto a driveway much like that of his grandparents’. “Here we go,” he said with a wink, which sent an odd flurry of chills along the backs of my legs. “You ready?”

  10

  Will parked his truck alongside a fairly beat-up Jeep Cherokee, which he told me belonged to Garrison. I opened the door and hopped down to thick, green grass, pulling my purse over my shoulder at the same time. I stepped to the front of both cars and looked up at the structure before me. “This is your idea of a log cabin?”

  Will joined me. “Impressive, isn’t it?” He looked at me, cocking his head. “Let me make a suggestion. Put that purse back in the car. You don’t need it.”

  “It has my notebook.” I widened my eyes. “Or do you have your phone again?”

  “Grab the notebook, ditch the pocketbook.”

  I complied, but not before sending my eyes skyward, which made him chuckle. After rejoining him, I looked up at the house stretching high into the blue sky and asked, “How big would you say the house is?”

  We started walking the path leading to the house.

  “Right around four thousand.”

  “And you know because . . . ?”

  “Because Rob is a good friend and he told me.”

  “Does he live here with his wife? Children?”

  “No wife. No children.” Will stopped walking and pressed a few numbers on his cell. I looked around. Will had been correct when he’d said Robert Matthews could grow pretty roses. Those framing both sides of the walkway to the front steps were exquisite.

  “What are we doing?” I asked, anxious to see the graves.

  “I’m trying to reach—Garrison? Will. Where are you guys?”

  I heard Garrison’s muffled voice, followed by Will’s, “All right. All right. Be back there in a minute.” Will pointed to the right corner of the house. “Over here.”

  “Where are they?”

  “He said if we walk several hundred yards directly behind the large ditch pipes and the Bobcat, we’ll find them. Probably hear them before we see them, these woods are so thick.”

  My heart skipped. “A bobcat?”

  Will eyed me quizzically. Then, as understanding registered, he said, “Not the cat, bobcat. The tractor, Bobcat.”

  Even with the explanation, I had no idea what he meant. But a few seconds later, after we rounded the corner of the house, I spied something that looked like small farm equipment with the name BOBCAT painted across its side. Two long metal pipes stretched out on the ground beside it. Though the day was still young, the August heat beat down on me, forcing a question: “Are there . . . will there be . . . snakes of any kind?”

  “We have a few rattlers around here, but with all the noise we’ll be making, I kinda doubt they’ll join us. Just watch where you step.”

  “Wouldn’t now be a good time to have that gun?” I asked, sincere as I’d ever been.

  Will just snickered and shook his head.

  We made it from the clearing around Robert Matthews’ cabin to a white tractor caked with dried red mud. On the ground, several dead branches lay haphazardly where thick brambles and brush ran about knee-high. �
�Careful now,” Will said, just as his hand cupped my elbow.

  I looked at him, swallowing hard, wondering if he felt the same anxiousness as I. But his eyes were focused straight ahead, as though planning the path we’d take in advance. I looked back to my feet, carefully stepping over fallen tree trunks and broken limbs. Will’s hand grew tighter on my elbow. “I—uh. I think I can walk okay . . . without . . .”

  “Oh, sure,” he said, releasing me, but his eyes stared straight ahead. “We’re going to have to weave our way back over there.” His chin rose. “There they are,” he said. “See them?”

  I saw two men, but they were both far enough away that I couldn’t swear either of them was Garrison. But, to be affable, I said, “Yes,” at the same time as I swatted at a mosquito. Or some such insect.

  About that time, Garrison yelled, “Hey, Will! Over here!”

  “Coming!” Will shouted back. He pulled at several low-lying branches, snapping them in his hand. He tossed them aside, sending them several feet off the path.

  The trees towered over us, blocking out most of the sunlight, which at least brought relief from the moist heat. As they grew denser, the way became less obvious. “There sure are a lot of different kinds of trees out here,” I said, even though my thoughts were more on things like spiders. Ticks. Dead people. And while the trees were an obvious and safe subject—walking through them was an entirely different story. Still, Will Decker seemed to have no trouble at all.

  “Let’s see what’s going on back here,” William said after a few seconds, as though he’d finally heard me, “and I’ll tell you more about the trees later.”

  Will had been—for the most part since 8:30 that morning—friendly. Still, his simple words left me all the more confused—did he not want to talk to me? Or did he not want to talk about the trees? I hadn’t mentioned the trees for a lesson, but if telling me more about them meant building a relationship that would or could make my next six months easier, I supposed I could live with it.

  We neared where Garrison stood alongside a man I presumed to be Robert Matthews. He was tall, slender, deeply tanned, and sporting a five o’clock shadow before 10:00 in the morning. Dark hair tousled around his head as though he’d just gotten out of bed. In spite of the heat, he wore a long-sleeved white tee stained by red mud and dirt, jeans, and hiking boots. “Will,” he said. He approached us with his hand out.