by Jeff High
“The horse or the boyfriend?”
“Hmm . . . I’m guessing both.” She rubbed Aragon’s long neck for a few more moments. “Come on, Luke, I want you to meet someone.”
We walked to the dairy barn, where the black-and-white Holsteins had been gathered into a narrow fenced area awaiting their turn in the milk parlor. All, that is, except for one. Standing in a small enclosure on a modest lot near the barn was a single Holstein whose straddled legs held up a bulbous, sagging frame. She stood munching on some dangling hay and for all practical purposes looked like a fixed statue, as if the apparatus of bones and muscle was no longer capable of movement.
“This is Princess Bess, the oldest milk cow on the farm. She’s almost twenty years old now and produced milk for over eleven years. But she’s no longer a milker.”
“I’m not sure I understand. I thought being a milk cow was like being in the Mafia. You know, once you’re in, you’re always in.”
“No, silly. Of course she’s still a milk cow. I meant she no longer milks since she no longer has calves. Normally after they are not milking anymore, the best farming practice is to sell them. But we keep her around because she was my dad’s favorite.”
I nodded thoughtfully. We leaned against the wooden fence. Eventually, the old cow turned her head in our direction.
I spoke diplomatically. “She’s kind of a tough read. Do you think she likes me?”
She whispered in return, “Too soon to tell.”
“Well. It’s understandable. I mean, after all, she is a princess. She has to be a little discerning.”
“Give her time. She may come around.”
Christine cut her eyes at me with a delighted smile half hidden behind the long dark hair that framed her face. After a short moment she bumped my shoulder with hers and laughed, shaking her head. “Has this been okay? Just, you know, walking around out here.”
“Absolutely. I hope to be on a first-name basis with every single Holstein before spring.”
Christine turned around, leaning her back against the fence. “When I lived in Atlanta, I really missed this place. Sometimes I wonder why I stayed away so long.”
I also turned my back to the fence and gazed at the wide expanse of farm, absorbing all of it.
“Why wouldn’t you miss it? It’s beautiful,” I said.
Christine turned and studied my face for a moment. “Do you really think so?”
At first I remained focused on the distant landscape. “Yes, beautiful.” But then I turned and looked squarely at her. “Absolutely beautiful.”
Christine’s eyes seemed to be full of tenderness, of slow surprise as she absorbed the intended double meaning of my response. An embarrassed grin spread across her face. She gazed down toward the mud and grass.
“All right, Doctor. You’re making me blush.”
“I want you to blush.”
But she said nothing more and simply continued to look down. My confidence wavered and I retreated to more familiar ground.
“Anyway, I guess I should be focusing my charms on Bess over there. After all, you’re just a lowly farm girl. She’s a princess. A guy’s gotta maintain his standards, you know.”
Christine looked up and smiled warmly at me. She rested her arms over the top fence rail, joining me in my casual admiration of Princess Bess. Then she closed her eyes, breathed in luxuriously of the crisp December day, and seemed deeply happy.
A cooler air began to tumble down from the high hills.
As we stood in the silence, I realized what had been happening all afternoon. Christine had been introducing me to the places and things she loved best. It was her way of showing me who she was.
It gave me an idea.
CHAPTER 17
An Evening with Old Friends
“Come with me,” I said. “It will be getting dark soon and I want you to meet some friends of mine.”
We walked back to the house, where we hopped in the Corolla and drove back to Fleming Street. Rhett met us at the door and I introduced him to Christine, beginning what would no doubt become a long-lasting love affair. I gave Christine a quick tour of the downstairs and put some food in a bowl for Rhett, who promptly ignored it in favor of Christine’s adoring attention. I told her I was making some quick dinner plans but needed a minute to gather a few things. She shrugged and agreed without further question.
“Rhett, keep our guest company. I know she’s pretty, but try not to drool.”
Christine bent down, held his big shaggy face between her hands, and rubbed behind his ears. She looked into his brown eyes as she spoke.
“That’s right, Rhett. Don’t be like your big brother Luke, wagging his tongue all slobbery-like.”
“You do know I’m still in the room, don’t you?”
Christine winked at me. Rhett probably needed to go to the backyard and do his business, but now he seemed content to hold it till he popped. Meanwhile, I went outside to the firewood stacked alongside the house and loaded some split logs into the trunk of the Corolla. I phoned the Depot Diner and ordered a large pizza to go, then gathered some other items, including a couple of folding canvas chairs from the utility room, and returned to the kitchen.
Rhett was looking at Christine intently, making small whimpering sounds like he desperately wanted to speak.
“I’ve got some outdoor dinner plans in the works. Do you mind if he comes along?”
Christine’s look told me it was a stupid question.
I snatched a few beers from the fridge and we loaded up the Corolla. On more than one occasion I had to remind Rhett that his place was in the backseat and not in Christine’s lap. We stopped by the Depot, where I grabbed the pizza and placed it on the floor at Christine’s feet, keeping it away from Rhett, who clearly had issues with impulse control.
The sun was beginning to fall below the western hills, setting the sky ablaze in deep hues of orange that fingered across the far reaches of the valley. After driving for several miles, I pulled off the highway onto a secondary road known as Gallivant’s Crossing. Thus far, Christine had been a good sport, not asking any questions about where we were going. But as we headed farther into the countryside, her curiosity got the better of her.
“So, you mentioned earlier you wanted me to meet some of your friends. Can you give me a hint?”
“Patience is a virtue, you know.”
“Oh, c’mon. At least narrow it down a little.”
“Here’s the deal. I’ve adopted a pack of wolves that love pizza. It’s a Twilight thing.”
“I’m going to go with a no on that one. Wolves don’t eat pizza.”
“Sure they do.”
“And you know this how?”
“Hmm, I read it in an article somewhere.”
“And would that be an article in I Just Made This Up magazine?”
“Rhett eats pizza.”
“Rhett’s not a wolf.”
“Minor technicality.”
“Quit stalling.”
“Okay, okay, okay. Since you insist . . . we are going to Moon Lake.”
Christine looked at me in disbelief. “No, we’re not.”
I hesitated, somewhat surprised by her answer. “Yeah, we really are.”
“How did you manage that? I grew up here and I’ve never seen Moon Lake. The access road has been padlocked for years. Luther Whitmore has always owned it and he’s never let anyone get near the place.”
“Well, he gave me a key. Said I could go up anytime.”
“Gee, Luke Bradford. I am impressed. Luther Whitmore is a pretty difficult character.”
“You mean he’s a horse’s ass?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“I’ll spare you the finer details, but several months ago he came to me with a chronic medical problem and I was able to cure h
im. Nancy Orman had always talked dreamily about seeing Moon Lake when she was a little girl. She said it was one of the most beautiful places she had ever seen. So, I asked him about it, and I guess in a moment of weakness he gave me a key.”
“So, the lake, have you seen it? Have you been up to it before?”
“Yeah, several times actually. It’s pretty incredible. We’re almost there.”
Moon Lake was a deep pool of about five acres that sat on a high, open grassy knoll. The lake got its name from the incredible way the moon reflected off the water because there were no trees to obscure the view. The surrounding land had belonged to the Whitmore family, who owned the local newspaper, with the idea that one day they would build a house here. But that had never happened and Luther had had the entire area closed off with a high fence and a heavy steel gate. Over the months I had occasionally come to the lake to clear my head, but I had never told anyone about it, partly out of respect for Luther’s quixotic generosity.
We pulled onto a narrow lane and drove for half a mile. As I got out and unlocked the heavy gate, the sun’s last rays were all but vanishing along the far hills. I drove the remaining hundred yards up the grassy lane to the lake and parked next to a small fire pit I had built on a previous visit. Christine got out and walked the few steps toward the shore, taking in the incredible beauty of the last glimmer of sunlight on the water. I let Rhett out and began to toss some of the firewood into the small stone ring.
“This is incredible!” Christine’s voice rang crisp and clear against the vast silence of the broad sky and open hills. A three-quarter moon was already visible in the east. I finished unloading the wood and walked up beside her. She seemed quietly consumed, absorbed by the play of sunset and moonlight.
“I love this place,” she said.
I smiled. It had been a good decision to come here. “I do too.”
In the faint light of dusk Christine’s face seemed transformed. She breathed in a deep draft of the fresh, cool air and exhaled slowly. Then she turned to me with a face full of sharp curiosity.
“You said you wanted me to meet some of your friends?”
“That I did.”
By now the first flicker of stars was appearing in the large bowl of the night sky. I stepped behind Christine and conformed my body to hers. “This may seem a little corny, but just go with me on it.”
Taking her right hand in mine, I lifted it toward the deep black of the northern sky, using her forefinger as a pointer. “See that? It’s the North Star. And if you follow in this direction, these two stars always point to it. They’re part of Ursa Major, also known as the Big Dipper.”
Christine studied them for a moment. Then she leaned back against me, letting her head settle against my cheek.
“Show me more.”
I moved her arm gently. “That’s Ursa Minor, the Little Dipper. There’s Orion. And there’s Canis Major, the big dog. That’s Rhett’s favorite.”
Christine brought my arm down, wrapping it tightly around herself. “So, these are your friends?”
“When I was a little boy living in north Georgia, there was a large field out behind our house. After sunset I would lie in the grass and look at the stars. When I moved to Atlanta, the city lights masked them. But out here there’s not a light for miles. So the first night I came to Moon Lake, I saw all of those stars again. There they were, like old friends. Like I said, it’s a little corny, but it’s very real for me.”
Christine slid around to face me. Still holding my hand, she pulled my arm around behind her. Her face was solemn in the spreading moonlight. We were only inches apart.
“Luke, I don’t think there’s anything corny about it.”
Instinctively I reached up and began to slide my hand around the soft sweep of her face, pushing my fingers into her thick, glossy hair. She looked up at me with parted lips. I began to pull her closer.
Just then Rhett unleashed a ferocious bark. We both jumped back.
“Oh, my gosh,” Christine exclaimed through a gasp of laughter. “That scared me to death.”
I knelt and held Rhett’s face in my hand, petting him affectionately. “Thanks, buddy. Great timing.”
“I think someone wants pizza.”
I continued rubbing Rhett’s shaggy coat. “I think someone wants to be taken to the pound.”
Christine reached over to where I was kneeling and lightly tousled my hair. “Come on, stargazer, let’s get a fire going.”
As I walked back to the fire pit, I responded in a low mumble, “That’s what I thought I was doing.”
We built a huge blaze that burned savagely, throwing bright folds of flames ten feet high into the night sky. It warmed us and cast a solitary light into the vast and solemn darkness of the open knoll. We devoured the pizza and sipped the beers. It seemed we talked for hours, about childhood years and college days; about family, and friendships, and favorite pets; about beautiful places, and travel, and about the chance moments of life. Christine talked and laughed, sometimes with a face of great animation and excitement, sometimes in a voice that was low and sweet and reflective.
Occasionally I would poke the coals with a shovel, making sparks fly toward the stars, giving new life to the flames. The glow of the firelight illuminated Christine’s face, shadowed only by her long dark hair, which she would occasionally pull back with her hand. God, she was beautiful. But as the hours and the words flowed by, I saw in her much more. I saw a fascinating blend of a tender and confident woman mixed with a whimsical schoolgirl who could laugh, and listen, and fearlessly show her emotions, her vulnerability. I was falling deeper under her spell.
Late in the night the last of the firewood had smoldered down to ash and glowing coals. The cold was overtaking us again. The eternal night sky that had been a vast universe of brilliant stars had given way to a hazy cover of low clouds. Snow was whispering from beyond the hills. It was time to go home.
As we made the long drive back, I reached over and took Christine’s hand, holding it gently in mine. Rhett must have thought this was a grand idea. He crawled slightly forward between the seats and placed his paw on top of our folded hands.
“Great, buddy. Thanks. I make my big move and you think it’s time for some comic relief.”
Soon we were within the faint glow of the downtown streetlights. As we circled Courthouse Square, we passed the old Hatcher Building, reminding me of the story of Oscar Fox. I told Christine about the autopsy report and asked what she knew about the whole business.
“It’s always been a big mystery,” she replied. “We used to tell ghost stories about it when we were kids. We tried to scare each other, saying that Oscar Fox would come get you in the night and stab you with a knife. When I had slumber parties, we would sneak out in the middle of the night and walk down to his grave. He’s buried in a cemetery just down the road from the farm.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. It’s back off the road a bit, kind of hidden away. It’s the old Taylor family cemetery. That’s my grandmamma Chambers’s people. She was a Taylor.”
“And Oscar Fox is buried there?”
“Yeah, he was pretty good friends with my grandmother’s dad, Great-grandpapa Taylor. You should ask her about him. I think she knows a lot of stories.”
I pondered this option in silence, not wanting to stir up any discord at the end of such a splendid day. But I was energized, fascinated by the relationship of Christine’s family to this story. We arrived at the farm, got out of the car, and walked to the front porch.
“So, you’re pretty consumed with this whole Oscar Fox mystery, aren’t you?” she said.
I hadn’t thought about the murder mystery all day, but now it seemed I was obsessed by it. I began talking about it nonstop. “Yeah, it’s just . . . I don’t know. There I was in my office cleaning out some old cabinets and I came across this file. And
then something really strange happened.”
Christine whispered softly, “Luke.”
“There was a sudden chill in the air . . . not in a creepy way but in a strange, uplifting way . . . like one of those trances you go into when you hear an old song on the radio and in your head you’re trying to remember what you were doing the first time you heard that song.”
“Luke?”
“So I thought the whole thing was coming to a dead end and then Lida Wilkins told me she has this box of old evidence up in her attic that her dad, Frank Sanderson, compiled. So I’m thinking I should call Sheriff Thurman and—”
“Luke!”
“Oh, sorry. What is it?”
“Shut up and kiss me.”
She didn’t have to tell me twice.
CHAPTER 18
Fools Who Came to Scoff
I slept late Sunday morning—that is, if eight thirty can be considered late. I was in dreamland with only my hand exposed from under the covers, extending slightly off the bed. It was found by a big sloppy tongue and a very cold nose, not the sort of stuff that dreams are made of.
I took Rhett downstairs and let him outside while I made coffee. At nine o’clock, the first of the downtown church bells began to ring, the age-old call to Sunday worship. Since my arrival in town, I had not participated in the business of Sunday morning. I had wanted to keep my distance, not to engage in the larger life here. To their credit, despite how their faith permeated their lives in both word and deed, the people of Watervalley had not pressed me on this matter. Early on, polite invitations had been offered, but then the subject had been left alone. It spoke of a respect and perhaps a deeper understanding of what they believed. Their faith had patience.
This Sunday morning something stirred in me. I could honestly say it was a blend of motivations. I knew Christine would be in the choir, but that alone was not the draw. I had known of her presence there for months. There was something of the devout in the mix, as well as a desire to connect with others in my small world. It seemed the time had come.
