The Forever Stone

by Gloria Repp

  CHAPTER 1

  Today I walked the woods path

  for the first time in months.

  The brook is nothing more than

  a trickle and some mud . . . like me.

  ~Journal

  The woman was following her. Madeleine stepped past a bucket of dahlias and just missed the butternut squash—look as if you’re in a hurry—but the woman was catching up. She wore a police uniform and a helmet of sleek gray hair.

  What was her name? Rondell, that was it. Frances Rondell.

  The policewoman loomed beside her. “Madeleine! Wonderful to see you again.” She gestured across the Roanoke Farmer’s Market. “Quite a spread, isn’t it? Best in Virginia.”

  Madeleine nodded in greeting and summoned up a smile. After all, Frances Rondell had worked with Dad at the station.

  The woman was studying her, so she bent to inspect the green apples.

  Please don’t tell me what a good friend he was. Don’t tell me you miss him too. Don’t tell me I’m doing fine.

  “Heard you got married,” Frances said. “How’s that husband of yours?”

  Madeleine took a quivering breath and tried to compose her face.

  “Oh, my, did something happen?”

  “Brenn died. A year ago. You couldn’t have known.”

  “I’m so sorry . . .” The woman’s gaze shifted to the pyramids of gleaming apples. “I see you’re checking out those Granny Smiths.”

  “Yes.”

  “I remember the cookies your dad brought to the station. He’d have that big smile of his—always told us you’re the best cook in the world.”

  Madeleine’s throat closed up.

  Frances didn’t seem to expect a reply. She chose a reddish-black apple and polished it on her sleeve. “These Black Gilliflowers are my favorite for pie. With plenty of cinnamon and nutmeg, mmm! Want to try a few?”

  The woman kept talking as she put apples into a paper bag. “Teaching school must keep you on your toes. A little thing like you! How do you handle those kids?”

  “Teens are always a challenge.” How could she tell this competent woman that she hadn’t renewed her contract?

  “But worthwhile! The right teacher can make such a difference in a kid’s life.” Frances filled another bag with apples, paid the vendor, and handed Madeleine one of the bags. Her eyes softened. “Your dad would be so proud of you.”

  Madeleine took the bag, nodded her thanks, and backed away.

  “Gotta run!” Frances threw her a hang-in-there smile, and Madeleine hurried in the opposite direction.

  She bumped into a table piled with vegetables and made herself stop, trying to ignore the clamor of her thoughts.

  Just look at those beets—plump little globes, weren’t they? Such an appetizing dark red! And the leafy tops still crisp and green . . .

  It was no use. Frances Rondell’s words had opened a locked door in her mind. Dad. The kind of person he was. Had been.

  Slowly she hoisted a clump of the beets. What . . . what would they be like, pickled with little white onions? What . . . what would Dad have thought of her husband and the business her mother ran?

  She paid for the beets and trudged past glossy bell peppers, tomatoes, and summer squash. At a table of baked goods, she paused. Something for dessert, that’s what she was supposed to get. Mother had invited George again, the promising young stockbroker. She chose the nearest cake and kept going.

  . . . so proud of you . . .

  She stepped out from under the Market’s awnings and blinked in the fall sunlight.

  I’ve got to do something.

  The thought tiptoed past before she could examine it and faded while she drove home, only to begin whispering urgently as she pulled into the driveway.

  Do something? What?

  The kitchen was empty, but a murmur of voices came from the living room. A conference, no doubt. The cousins would be enjoying their discussion about “poor Madeleine.” The pompous voice would be Uncle Ashton’s.

  The living room door opened and her mother swept into the room, shaking her blonde curls. “There you are. What happened?”

  “Sorry. I ran into someone at the Farmer’s Market.” Change the subject. “See these apples?” she said. “They’re supposed to be good for pies.”

  Wrong subject. She knew it as soon as she spoke.

  Her mother looked up from pouring a diet soda. “And who’s going to make a pie around here? Not you, Miss Pastry-Chef wannabe! Not for months and months.”

  Madeleine eased the cake out of its bag and set it on the counter. If she could just stay quiet, in a few minutes she’d be safe upstairs.

  Her mother’s voice rose. “Pumpkin cake? I told you to get coconut. That’s what George likes. And beets? Why beets, of all things? Really, Madeleine—you’ve got to pull yourself together.”

  Pull herself together? She could hardly pull herself out of bed in the morning.

  “If teaching school’s too hard, try something else.” Mother tasted her soda and made a face. “It wouldn’t hurt you to take a little interest in my business.”

  Madeleine’s hands went cold, and she resisted the urge to rub them together like a character out of Dickens. Instead, she warmed them at a tiny flame of rebellion. “The business of taking money from unsuspecting people?”

  “You have it all wrong. They get a nice letter telling them about the information packet—”

  “—and asking for $24.99.”

  “But they get something in return.”

  Madeleine stacked cans of pineapple in the cupboard. She’d seen too many of those hopeful, hand-written letters. Indignation sharpened her voice. “All they get for their money is advice on how to set up a scam like yours.”

  “I don’t see it that way.” Her mother thumped her glass down onto the counter. “My goodness, we’re critical today, aren’t we? It’s perfectly legal. If they don’t act on the information I send, it’s not my fault.”

  A soft voice wafted from the doorway. “Sylvia, don’t be too hard on her.”

  It was Cousin Willa, the plump, fluffy one, who thought the world of George. True, he was an improvement on Henry the Dull and Francis the Smooth, but the guy didn’t have an original thought in his head.

  Cousin Willa edged closer. “Madeleine dear, we think—Vera and I—that rather than join the business, it would be much more sensible for you to marry George. He’s a fine young man, so very handsome, and he has excellent prospects.”

  Behind her, white-haired Cousin Vera was nodding, but Uncle Ashton stepped past them both.

  “I can’t say I agree.” He threw a sharp glance at the cousins and spoke to Madeleine in his I-AM-THE-DOCTOR voice. “You’re not ready for another marriage, but it’s time for you to buck up. Get moving. That’s what I tell my patients, and they always thank me.”

  He smoothed back his silver mane, as if preparing to accept yet another accolade. “I just became a partner in your mother’s business, and I’ll be managing it for her. I could use some assistance.”

  Madeleine shook her head, trying to think of a safe way to say she’d rather starve.

  The benevolence leaked out of his smile. “If you can’t handle your overly sensitive scruples, perhaps you should get out and find yourself a job. At least teaching was something useful.”

  “Useful,” her mother said. “Keep that word in mind. The way you’ve been moping around here makes me sick. Thirty-three years old! We’re going to have to—”

  Madeleine’s cell phone rang, and her mother gave it an irritated glance. “It’s that New York aunt of yours, isn’t it? Call her back. We’ve got to get this settled.”

  Madeleine’s fingers tightened on the phone, but she let it ring. Next would
come the wilderness lectures.

  Her mother frowned. “I wish she’d stop filling your mind with tales about that monstrosity she inherited, way out there in the wilderness. It’s not a suitable occupation for you.”

  “That’s right,” Cousin Willa said, with Vera nodding behind her. “We are all dreadfully concerned about you, dearie. And we’re your family. We’d miss you terribly if you went off to bury yourself in such a wild place.”

  Of course Uncle Ashton had an opinion. “The next thing you know, your aunt will be taking pictures in Alaska or someplace, and you’ll be left alone. With those natives, those Pineys.”

  Madeleine opened the bag of apples and placed them, one by one, in a fluted white dish. Black Gilliflowers. They gave off a faint fragrance, something like pears. This shiny one—Frances Rondell had polished it for her. She cradled it in both hands.

  “Madeleine!” Her mother again. “That project’s going to be another dead end, like working at Hillary’s antique store. And all those art courses you took! Are you listening?”

  “I’m listening, Mother.” In a moment of clarity, she saw herself as George’s wife, discussing stock averages or the latest game won by their local team, the Hokies. She’d go shopping every day and to the beauty salon once a week, and in the evenings she would stuff envelopes.

  . . . so proud of you . . .

  She held onto the apple and turned to face them. “No,” she said. “I will not help with the business. And I will not marry George. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going upstairs so I can talk to Aunt Lin.”

  Shocked silence met her words, but she left the kitchen with her head up. They could have another conference.

  As soon as she reached her bedroom, she returned her aunt’s call. “Hi, Aunt Lin.”

  “I’m so glad you called back. Is this a good time?”

  “This is fine.” She never knew when her lively aunt would phone, and talking to her was always a treat.

  “My Great Adventure. The Pine Barrens house, you know?”

  “Right.” The best thing about the last few weeks had been her aunt’s enthusiastic e-mails.

  “I feel like I’ve inherited a castle filled with treasures. In disguise.” Her aunt’s laugh was rueful. “I just moved in, and I need your help more than ever. Ready for adventure?”

  CHAPTER 2

  Packing: take COOKBOOKS!

  I don’t have much room,

  but I’ve got to remember

  my small bit of courage

  —and the Black Gilliflowers.

  ~Journal

  The wipers swished back and forth across her windshield, clearing portholes in the sluicing rain.

  Runn-ing a-way. Runn-ing a-way.

  Madeleine gripped the steering wheel. No, she was hurrying towards a new life. She was going to share her aunt’s Great Adventure and find one of her own. Did she have the courage to make it happen?

  She shifted gears and sent her red Grand Am past a lumbering truck.

  First, get rid of the emotional baggage—the grief and the fearful memories. Leave them behind. She had to.

  Second, do a fantastic job for Aunt Lin and save every penny she earned. The time she’d spent studying art and working at the antique store would come in handy.

  Third, take one of those baking courses she’d been dreaming about.

  The rain became a fine mist, and veils of fog rolled down from the Virginia hills. She changed lanes to join the slower traffic, watching for tail lights ahead of her.

  Had it been like this for Brenn when he’d driven off the road into the fog? Why had her husband been up on the Parkway at that time of night, anyway? No one knew, and she hadn’t wanted to find out.

  The trunk of a glistening white Cadillac—an older model—appeared directly in front of her. No lights. Foolhardy.

  Just as she had been, to marry Brenn in the first place.

  Jettison those regrets. She’d always savored that word, with its Anglo-French roots. It implied a difficult action: heart-breaking, perhaps, but needful to save your life.

  The Cadillac’s lights flashed red, and she slammed on her brakes.

  Her car slid forward, tires squealing, ricocheted off the Cadillac’s bumper, screeched along the guard rail, and stopped.

  Warning lights glared on the dashboard. The engine had died.

  She bent over the steering wheel, pounded it. Not this. Not now.

  The Cadillac had disappeared—such a massive car wouldn’t have felt much—and she was enclosed in the fog with her dread. She ran a quick internal check. Nothing hurt. She opened her door, cautiously because of the cars streaming past, gingerly because of her legs. They were shaking.

  She edged around to the front of the car, her cute little red car that gave her such delight.

  The bumper was mangled, of course. Fender dented. Paint badly scratched. A strip of trim scuffed into fragments.

  She stepped to the guard rail, shuddered at the red streaks along its dull gray length, and turned again to her car. The big question: could she still drive it?

  A car was backing along the shoulder, a white whale in the sea of fog.

  Her jaw clenched. He hadn’t come to help.

  She scurried to her car and reached inside for her purse. He’d want insurance information and who knows what else. She should stand in front, make sure he saw the damage.

  The man marched toward her, suit coat flapping, gray hair bristling. Didn’t even glance at her car. “What’s your problem, lady?” The snarl was worse than shouting.

  His gaze raked across her, from the loose dark hair to the T-shirt and jeans she’d worn for comfort. “Little girl like you shouldn’t even be driving this highway. If you were my daughter, I’d take you over my knee.”

  He licked his lips, and she knew his thoughts weren’t the least bit fatherly.

  Anger pulled her spine rigid, lifting her chin high.

  He stepped closer. She pulled out her cell phone. “I can call the police. You didn’t have your lights on.”

  His face hardened. “No witnesses,” he said in a clipped voice that was very sure of itself. “And I don’t intend to wait around for the Commonwealth of Virginia to send out the troops. Call a tow truck and thank your lucky stars I didn’t report you.”

  He swung back to his car, and she watched him go with relief and hatred, wishing for something to throw at the expensively tailored back. She memorized his license plate—New York—but knew she wouldn’t use it. She didn’t want to wait around either, not here in the fog with predators afoot and cars racing past.

  Stiffly, she climbed back inside. Please, not a tow truck. Maybe . . . maybe . . . She eased the car forward, winced at a scraping sound, and edged away from the guard rail. Something was dragging.

  As soon as she was free of the rail, she got out to check. Part of the red trim hung askew. Ruined. She kicked at it, reached down, and ripped it off the car. She stared at the torn, wet, dirty piece of plastic, and her anger drained away, leaving a sickly residue of weakness.

  She threw the strip over the rail, and the fog swallowed it up. She climbed into the car, drank from her water bottle, and tried to collect her thoughts.

  No thoughts? Fine.

  Now she drove with single-minded caution, every sense alert for the tiniest noise from her car. As the miles passed, her tension seeped away, and the scene began to replay in her mind. Thank your lucky stars, he’d said.

  Such arrogance. Most likely a lawyer or a doctor.

  Cousin Willa, who believed in signs and portents, would have taken his comment to heart. A warning, Madeleine! Rethink your rash decision. Turn back!

  Even before this happened, she’d left late, missed an exit, and almost run out of gas.

  She let the car coast. Okay, think about it. Running-away. Buck-up. Marry-George. So-proud-of-you . . . One thing for sure: she wasn’t going back.

  The fog lifted, and she set the cruise control with hands that still shook.

  “P
ull yourself together.” She said it aloud, her voice stern and hopeful, realized that she was quoting her mother, and frowned. Jettison that too. Leave it all behind.

  She steadied her hands on the wheel, consciously relaxing her shoulders.

  Better pay attention: Baltimore coming up. Still a long way to “that Jersey wilderness” as her mother called it. But Aunt Lin’s castle was waiting for her. She could see it now—one of those mansions filled with history and lovely old furniture and perhaps a few valuable antiques.

  Dusk was beginning to settle over the trees by the time she could start looking for Tabernacle, the town her aunt had mentioned. This must be it, judging from a brightly-lit restaurant that called itself the Tabernacle Grille.

  Once past Tabernacle, pine trees that were thin as flag poles crowded close to the highway with nothing but darkness behind them. Her aunt had said to turn off as soon as she passed a lake—this one? Okay. What about that sign? Pritchard’s Gun Club. Not on the map.

  Go past an old cranberry bog, and when the road forked . . . Where was the cranberry bog?

  She slowed to a crawl. What did a cranberry bog look like?

  The trees bordering the road had become impenetrable shadows, and the road itself gleamed white. Sand? This couldn’t be right. She swung into a U-turn.

  Should she have waited until tomorrow and made an earlier start? No, she might have lost her nerve. Besides, Aunt Lin wanted her to come right away because of a crisis with her magazine, something about a photo shoot.

  Back again, same road, same trees, but darker now. No cranberry bogs. Then the highway. Chatsworth coming up. “If you get to Chatsworth,” Aunt Lin said, “you’ve gone too far.”

  How was she going to start this Great Adventure if she couldn’t even find the place? She pulled off the road and opened her cell phone.

  Her aunt’s laugh was sympathetic. “I wondered. It’s easy to get lost around here.” She paused. “Let’s try something else. You found Tabernacle okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Go back to Tabernacle, and at the cross road, turn left. It goes on for a ways—quite a long ways—and then you come to Whitton Road. Turn left again, and you’ll see a store in an old house. That’s where I’ll meet you.”