She would definitely have to look into a new mattress.
Breakfast was coffee and two of Mrs. Colson's biscuits left over from the night before. She would have to drive into O'Hearn and do a little food shopping before lunch, she thought as she dribbled some of Hope's delicious apple butter onto first one, then the other biscuit, or lunch would be a repeat of breakfast.
Unlocking the back door, Georgia stepped outside and inhaled deeply, filling her lungs and sighing with the sheer pleasure of that first cool rush of fresh morning air. She sipped at her coffee as she strolled down the path leading from the back door, then stopped and frowned. The garden gate stood open again. She walked toward it tentatively, then peered over the fence. It startled her to see the plants that Laura had braced up with sticks only the day before lying broken and trampled on the ground.
The vandals had returned while she had slept alone in the farmhouse. The realization made the hairs on the back of her neck stand straight up.
She went back into the farmhouse and searched for the telephone book, which she found in a drawer in the front hall table. She called Chief Monroe, who promised he'd be around as soon as the morning rush hour was over. Georgia was tempted to ask how many cars constituted a traffic jam in O'Hearn, Maryland, but decided against it.
That someone had sneaked back onto the farm— maybe even walking beneath the windows of the very room she had slept in—had annoyed and puzzled her. How had someone managed to accomplish this without her having heard? Even if they had come on foot, she'd slept with the window partially open, and was a very light sleeper. Back in Baltimore, she'd often be awakened by the sound of the elevator landing on her floor, even though her apartment had been three doors down from the lobby and her bed was in the far back room.
Maybe Ben was right. Maybe she should think about getting a dog.
She refilled her cup with the last of the coffee and went outside to wait for Chief Monroe.
Early spring really was the best time of the year, she decided. There was a newness that had settled on everything at Pumpkin Hill, and it cheered her even as she paced the farmyard, waiting for the police to arrive.
Maybe it would be fun to have chickens, she thought as she wandered by the old chicken house. Maybe she would plant something in the big vegetable garden that Laura said her aunt always planted out behind the barn. Tomatoes, maybe, and maybe some green beans. Zucchini was a favorite. And cantaloupe…
She rounded the corner of the barn and stopped in horror. The devastation in the flower garden was nothing compared with the mess she found in the vegetable garden. Everything that had remained from last year's planting had been ripped out by the roots, and the flattened stalks of dried vegetation lay scattered everywhere. She could do little more than stand and stare. Why would someone do something like this?
Maybe, she rationalized, there were homeless people living in the woods. But then, wouldn't they have moved into the obviously vacant house? Or at least sought shelter in the barn?
The sound of the police cruiser's tires crunching on the stone drive drew her to the side of the barn, where she waited for Chief Monroe, wondering what he'd think of this latest bit of vandalism.
"Now, that does beat all." He scratched his head. "And no footprints that I can see. Must be some kind of animal. That'd be my guess. Maybe a raccoon, though I've never known one to make this sort of mess. Deer will raid a garden, but I've yet to see one open a gate. I'll ask around when I get back to town and see if anyone else has had a similar problem. And I'll check in with the kids we picked up the other night. They swear they went nowhere near the garden, but won't do harm if I ask again. Maybe see where they were last night, while I'm at it. In the meantime, just make sure you keep the doors locked and the phone handy. Don't hesitate to call me, now."
Chief Monroe patted her on the back as he walked toward his car, whose radio had begun to squawk. "A dog might be a good idea," he called over his shoulder.
"I'll think about it," she told him.
"County SPCA always has some nice ones," he added as he got in the car. "And don't forget to call Laura and let her know."
That would wait, she decided. Laura had enough to worry about. For now, Georgia would clean up the mess in the garden behind the barn, then she'd make that trip into O'Hearn for groceries. Then, if there was any time left, she'd relax in that wing chair in the living room and read the book on fortune-telling she'd found on one of the shelves before she went to bed last night. She'd been too tired to read through that marked section on reading tea leaves, but tonight she wouldn't be.
Georgia unlocked the barn using the padlock key that Laura had given her, and poked her head in just to make sure that no one lurked within. Satisfied that she was alone, she stepped in and took a sturdy rake down from the wall, where it hung alongside other implements used for turning over the earth. She knew what the hoe and the shovels were for, but some of the other implements looked more like weapons than garden tools. She locked the padlock behind her and set off for her first task of the day.
By the time she realized that she lacked the most important tool for the job at hand—a good pair of gloves—her palms were already red and chafed, her soft hands just about to erupt into the blisters she could feel working beneath the surface of her skin. She looked around to gauge the morning's accomplishment. She'd gathered up all of the tall dried stalks and piled them high for the trash, then raked up the lesser debris. Not quite pretty, but certainly much tidier than how she'd found it. Mentally she added trash bags onto her shopping list, and absently brushed the dirt from her hands onto the seat of her pants.
Not so bad for my first morning, she nodded, grateful for the feeling that for the first time in days, she had accomplished something useful.
Maybe just a quick tour of the farm, she thought. Laura said it was ninety-something acres, but so far I've only seen the area around the house and the barn.
In the field behind the barn, the ancient tree with the enormous canopy stood proudly. The wishing tree, Laura had called it. Georgia headed for the tree, picking her way through the furrows left in the dirt by the last plowing, wondering what had been the last crop Hope Evans had planted there, and wondering when these fields might be planted again.
The wishing tree was an impressive sight from far away, but even more so from directly under its sprawling, leafless branches. The bark was deep gray-brown and closely ridged, like a freeway design gone wild. At its base, roots twisted just slightly from the ground, and the first spring grass sprouted from the spaces between the gnarled elevations of tree root and earth. Georgia sat on one of these outcroppings of root, and gazed around at her new home.
The tree stood like an oasis in the middle of the field that spread back to woods on two sides. Off to her left, a pond lay nestled in the fuzzy remains of last year's cattails. Straight ahead were the farmhouse and its outbuildings, as dose to a living postcard as anything she'd ever seen. Laura had told her that by the end of the summer, the apple, peach, and cherry trees would be laden with fruit Maybe, she mused, she could find Hope's recipes and she could make jams to line the cupboard in the basement, to replace the ones Laura had taken back to the inn. Just for this one summer, she could learn to make apple butter and raise her own vegetables. She pictured herself at the end of the summer, tanned and lean from farm work, and she smiled.
Georgia leaned forward and hugged her knees, tingling with an unexpected flush of contentment. This is a good place, she told herself, the right place for me to be. A person could find herself here—could heal here—could learn and grow here.
Hopeful that she would, in fact, be able to do just that, she stood and brushed off the back of her jeans then headed toward the farmhouse. She'd make that trip into O'Hearn now, and when she got back, she'd make a list of things that she wanted to accomplish while she was here at Pumpkin Hill. A favorite Chopin piano concerto began to play in her head as she walked the narrow rows, and she began an extemporaneous dance. A
soubresault—a sudden leap straight upward and forward—followed a pirouette— no small accomplishment in running shoes—and she giggled at the very thought of how she must look in her jeans and flannel shirt as she danced across the field, choreographing her steps to the silent tune playing out in her head. Her arms reached upward in perfect form en haut—high above her head—while her feet found it difficult to glissade through the clumps of dirt. By the time she reached the edge of the field she was laughing out loud at her clumsy efforts.
Georgia walked through the back door of the farmhouse in search of her car keys and the cell phone, sobering as she sought to remember the last time dancing had been such fun.
Having spent several hours with his mother, Matt felt drained to his soul. It was all he could do to maintain a cheerful attitude while he was with her. Leaving her there in the care of strangers bothered him in ways he'd never been able to express. This was the same woman who had reached in and rescued him from hell; the woman who had taught him who he was, how to love. Every time he walked through the front doors of Riverview, he felt physically ill and depressed. How could he turn his back on her, abandon her to strangers, after all she had done for him?
On a strictly intellectual level, Matt recognized that neither he nor Laura was equipped to deal with their mother's special needs at this stage of her illness. Somehow, even that knowledge didn't make him feel better; did not, in his eyes, let either of them off the hook. All it did was to serve to confuse him even more. He drove back to Shawsburg with the windows of the pickup down, hoping that the March breezes would clear his head and let him forgive himself for leaving Charity behind. They did not. There was only one thing that would.
He stopped at his house only long enough to pick up Artie before making the drive to Pumpkin Hill.
The old farm never failed to restore him, and he figured he could use a little rejuvenation right now. He was tired and ornery and wanted nothing more than a few hours alone with his dog and the wind that would blow across the empty fields of his family home. Anxious to get there, he stepped on the gas, grateful that it was, after all, Sunday, and traffic would be light. He'd reach his destination in less than thirty minutes, and he'd have the entire day to himself.
Matt pulled the pickup all the way to the end of the drive, and turned off the engine. Eager to romp, Artie flew out of the cab and off into the fields, while Matt checked out the barn. Satisfied that the kids who had broken in had meant no real harm, he checked the padlock before going up the steps to his apartment. He paused on the landing and looked back down. The barn was quiet without the rustle of his aunt's pygmy goats. Someday soon, he hoped, they'd be able to bring them home. And someday, he'd set up his own veterinary clinic right here at Pumpkin Hill.
He closed his eyes and, for the thousandth time, pictured in his head the way the farm had been when his aunt was still alive, with animals in the barn and every field and garden alive with growth. There was something disturbing about a silent barn, about fallow fields, and gardens where weeds were taking over. Someday, he promised himself, Pumpkin Hill would once again bustle with life. Someday. He would see to it.
Unlocking the door to his apartment, Matt stepped into the quiet rooms beyond. He paused in the kitchen to open the window, then made a quick round to make sure that nothing was amiss. Grateful that this very private space—his since he had claimed it right out of high school, his all through college— had not been violated by strangers, he opened the bedroom windows to bring in fresh air, then stripped off the shirt he'd worn that morning and folded it neatly before placing it on the end of the bed. He opened a dresser drawer and pulled out an old sweatshirt, then changed from his khakis into a pair of well-worn jeans. Feeling better, he went down the steps, whistling for Artie.
Matt walked to the farmhouse and let himself in with his key. A faint scent of something led him into the kitchen, where he was surprised to find a half pot of coffee in the coffeemaker, and a cup on the counter. Frowning, he checked to make sure that the pot was turned off. It was. Without a second thought, he rinsed out the cup in the sink. His hands on his hips, he walked through the dining room, where boxes sat here and there on the floor, then into the living room, where more boxes were piled and several books had been left on the footrest near his favorite wing chair near the fireplace.
He frowned again. Laura had said that she'd found a tenant, but not that said tenant had moved in.
He picked the books up from the stool and idly glanced at the titles. Secrets of Gypsy Fortune-telling. Crystals and Card Reading. Aunt Hope's books.
The tenant was reading Matt's aunt's favorite books—while sitting in Matt's own favorite chair— and Matt didn't like it one bit.
He replaced the books on the shelves and walked to the bottom of the steps and called upstairs. "Hello? Is anyone here?" No reply.
"Is anyone up there?" Silence.
He wondered what room the tenant had claimed, and hoped it wasn't his. Or his aunt's. Or Laura's for that matter. Feeling foolish for caring, Matt took the steps in long strides and peered into each doorway until he found the room with the open suitcase on the foot of the unmade bed. Grateful that the tenant had at least had the good sense to choose the guest room and not sleep in someone else's bed, he almost forgave him—or her, he didn't know which, he realized—the fact that the quilt was hanging half off the bed. He was sorely tempted to make the bed, but he fought the urge and went back downstairs. The tenant was obviously elsewhere.
He locked the back door and whistled for Artie, who came flying around the corner of the barn, a happy grin on his big, silly dog-face.
"Ah, you're happy to be back too, aren't you boy?" Matt bent down on one knee and gave Artie a scratch behind one ear. "How 'bout if we take a walk down to the pond and see if the ducks are back?"
Artie was sniffing maniacally around the small fenced-in garden. Matt peered over the fence and sighed in disgust at the mess. He could have sworn that Chief Monroe had said that the kids hadn't gone near the house, but Aunt Hope's kitchen garden had clearly been the object of some kind of tear. He'd make sure he mentioned it to the Chief when he stopped down at the police station later on.
"Come on, boy." He called to Artie, who sped past him, nose to the ground as if on a scent, and set off across the field. Maybe he'd make a stop at the wishing tree, though he knew in his heart that the things he had wished for that day could never come true.
It would be enough, Matt reasoned, if a few hours at Pumpkin Hill would take the heaviness from his heart. More than enough, if he left later that day having found just a touch of that serenity that had always been there for him over the years. He whistled to Artie, who'd taken off toward the woods, and the dog ran back to him, chasing down to the pond where his sudden appearance startled the flock of Canada geese that had wintered over at Pumpkin Hill. Artie scolded them for trespassing, barking fiercely. When the geese had all sought sanctuary at the opposite side of the pond, Artie lay down on the muddy bank, pleased with his success, and rolled onto his back so that Matt could rub his stomach.
"Oh, you are so proud of yourself, aren't you?" Matt laughed. "Scared those birds clear across the pond. You're some fierce guy, you are."
Ragged fronds of last year's cattails lined one side of the pond, and it was there, Matt suspected, that the ducks hid from Artie. Too early in the season for frogs, he knew, and too soon for the turtles to have emerged from hibernation beneath the warming mud. Before too long there would be both, along with minnows and all manner of pond life. As a boy. Matt had spent endless hours here, sifting through the layers of life that gathered in, on, or near a country pond, from tadpoles and water-skimmers to dragonflies and the occasional heron, raccoons, and deer. Over the years, he'd come to know them all. His love for the wildlife that populated Pumpkin Hill had been influential in his decision to become a veterinarian.
"Come on, Artie." Matt leaned down and patted his dog on the back to get his attention. "Let's take a walk."
He missed Hope, just as he missed his father, and his mother. Dr. Espey wouldn't be around forever, either, and Laura… well, he was losing her in a different way. The thought that sometimes life seemed like little more than a series of losses swept over him and pinched him around the heart. He was still thinking about life and loss as he wandered toward the old tree. Without thinking twice, he sat down and leaned back against the trunk, trying to focus more on the many happy days he'd spent right here in this spot. It relaxed him a little, and he braced his hands behind his head, entwining his fingers, and closed his eyes. He smiled to himself, recalling how Laura had always repeated the local legend about how if you fell asleep under the wishing tree, you'd see the face of your one true love when you woke up.
"Not hardly," Matt mused. "Unless we count Artie…"
Artie found his master fast asleep and lay down beside him, his head on Matt's lap. And there Artie stayed, until he heard the tires of the Jeep crunch on the stone drive. He sped off to investigate the intruder.
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