The Forever Stone

by Gloria Repp

  When Kent’s Bronco drew up behind the house, no one sat in the passenger’s seat.

  He hadn’t taken her hint, had he?

  “Good morning!” Kent smiled, striding toward her. “Don’t you look pretty today! Like a woods elf, I think, with that brown jacket and your shiny dark hair.”

  “Pointy ears too?”

  His smile faded, and for an instant she felt sorry for him, but then he said, “No, your ears are as cute as the rest of you.”

  Best to ignore this. “Where’s Remi?”

  “Oh,” Kent looked uneasy. “He got held up. He’ll join us there.”

  Not likely.

  “The stepladder,” she said.

  He frowned. “What?”

  “The one you borrowed from Timothy for us to use—he needs it back. It’s over there.” She waved at the porch behind her.

  His brow cleared. “I’ll come get it sometime.”

  “Why don’t you put it into your car now? You can drop it off on your way through town. Timothy needs it.”

  He opened his mouth to protest, but something about the look on her face must have made him change his mind. “Whatever you say, elfin princess.”

  While he was getting the ladder, she slid into her car and started the engine. He stopped with the ladder halfway to the Bronco. “You don’t have to drive. Why don’t you ride with me?”

  “That’s kind of you, but I want to shop on the way back.” She waved her printout. “I’ve got directions.”

  He gave her a salute before climbing into his Bronco, and she followed his sedate progress down the driveway. He remembered to stop at Timothy’s store, and then they headed out to Route 532, past Chatsworth.

  Widow Bentley’s Attic turned out to be a restored Victorian, complete with gingerbread trim. In the parking lot, Remi was leaning against the fender of a dented black truck.

  Kent grinned at him. “I thought you’d be talking to that girl.”

  Remi made a face. “She’s not working today.”

  “Tough luck,’’ Kent said. “Now, Madeleine, we’ll show you around.”

  He stopped his elvish nonsense and became an entertaining tour guide. Each room in the building had a theme relating to the Pine Barrens, with displays on woodcraft, iron production, and glass blowing.

  In the early American room, a table was set with period linens and china, along with goblets, cruets, relish dishes, and a covered cake plate, all hand-blown glass.

  “This is fascinating,” Madeleine said.

  Kent looked smug. “Worth the trip?”

  “Yes, and me without my camera.”

  “Not to worry,” Kent said. “I’m sure Remi will take pictures of anything your heart desires.”

  “Sure thing.” Remi took out the camera. “What do you want?”

  “One or two shots of the whole table, from different angles, please, and then a few close-ups.”

  Remi circled the table, snapping one photo after another, while Madeleine wrote in her notebook. “Especially that relish dish,” she said. “I think I’ve seen one like it at the Manor.”

  Remi bent over the dish.

  A voice spoke from the shadows. “That will be close enough.”

  Remi straightened, his eyes wide.

  A skeleton of a man shuffled toward them. His hair and face were so white, they might have been powdered. “Beware, young man.” His voice cracked, as if dust lay thick on his vocal cords. “You don’t want to fall into all that expensive glass.” He wheezed out a laugh. “You’d spend the rest of your life paying for it.”

  “Yes sir, I’ll be careful,” Remi said.

  The old man tilted forward, watching as Remi took the picture.

  “Thanks,” Madeleine said in a low voice. “That’s plenty. Where’s the bookstore?”

  The man trailed after them. “He’s going to keep an eye on us,” Remi whispered. “Beware, don’t fall into the books.”

  Madeleine found the books she wanted, and as soon as they were out in the parking lot, she said, “Whew! Who was that?”

  For once Kent said something clever. “Must be the Widow Bentley’s husband.”

  “Vex not his ghost,” Remi said, throwing a glance at Madeleine, and she laughed with him. Macbeth again.

  “Time for lunch,” Kent said, “and I know just the place.” He took them to a nearby restaurant and insisted on treating them to thick meaty sandwiches that he called “genuine New Jersey subs.”

  Afterwards, she thanked them both and drove back to buy milk and eggs at Timothy’s store. Widow Bentley’s Attic had been more fun than she expected. Had she misjudged Kent? He’d been charming and generous. Why did she always have to be so critical? Give the guy a break.

  CHAPTER 9

  Timothy seems to have a gift of empathy.

  Wish I had it too.

  I don’t want to be critical—or judgmental—

  of people like Dan’l or Paula Castell.

  But where does compassion come from?

  ~Journal

  Hey-You ambled across the store, waving his tail, and escorted her into Timothy’s office. The table was covered with pieces of soft yellow fabric, and at the far end, behind a sewing machine, sat Timothy.

  “I apologize for not getting up,” he said. “Zippers give me trouble.”

  “I have to take a firm hand with them, myself,” she said. “What’s your project?”

  “A bunting.”

  She picked up the pattern from the table. A bunting always reminded her of a miniature snowsuit, but her friends said it was the coziest thing in the world for a baby.

  Timothy bent over his work, and the sewing machine whirred as he guided the fabric through it. He seemed to be concentrating, so she held back her questions.

  After a minute, the machine stopped and he said, “Too bad. I’ll have to rip it out again.”

  “You sound like me. I tried making a baguette last night, and it was terrible. I’ll keep it to beat off the burglars and try again.”

  He leaned back, smiling. “You look as if you’ve had a good morning.”

  “I did. We went to a place called Widow Bentley's Attic. It’s quite something.”

  “Indeed it is,” he said. “You went with your aunt?” He pulled himself to his feet, gathered a handful of yellow pieces, and took them to the ironing board.

  “No, she’s gone again. I went with Kent and Remi.”

  “I’m just going to press these sleeve pieces.” He pointed to a chair. “Stay a minute. Tell me what you saw.”

  She described the displays, and the books she’d bought, and the ghostly old man who waited on them. She hadn’t planned to say anything about Kent, but Timothy might give her some insights.

  “Sometimes Kent is a bit too . . . attentive,” she said, “and sometimes he’s irritating, but we had such a good time today, I might have to change my mind about him.”

  Timothy put down the yellow fleece and gazed at her.

  In case he thought she had romantic notions about Kent, she added quickly, “Not that it matters. One marriage was enough for me.”

  Too much, she could have said. But it was her own fault. She’d let herself be pushed into it by her family—marry a doctor, imagine that!—and Brenn had a knack for making himself irresistible.

  “No more entanglements.” She straightened in the chair, picked up a pincushion. “From now on, I’m going to be independent—strong and independent, no matter what. I don’t want to need anybody. Not ever again.”

  Two pins fell off the pincushion. She jabbed them back into place and looked up in time to see Timothy’s eyes darken with concern.

  But all he did was start sewing another seam. “And Remi went along today? I find him interesting.”

  “So do I.” A safer subject. “For someone who grew up in an orphanage, he seems to have had a remarkably good education.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  She arranged the blue pins into a circle while considering the
question. “In general, he’s more polished than I’d have expected. He has above-average research skills. And he’s acquainted with literature—Shakespeare, at least.”

  “He’s learning to play the guitar, too,” Timothy said. “Nathan’s teaching him. Did he tell you?”

  Madeleine shook her head, and Timothy went on. “Remi plays at our singing time—it’s good practice, he says—and I think he’d like to play during the song service at church, but he’s not ready yet.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Timothy finished pinning the sleeves onto the body section. “Besides knowing the right chords, his heart should be there too. God wants us to worship Him in spirit and in truth. Right now Remi cares nothing for God, so he can’t properly lead us in worship. But he may change. God has a way of doing marvels.”

  He fixed his bright eyes on her. “Have you heard about our little group that meets on Sunday mornings? Upstairs.” He nodded at the ceiling. “Eleven o’clock.”

  The unspoken invitation was there, but she’d try to get out of it, if she could. She had endured enough church services to last a lifetime. Her gaze fell on the dog. “And does Hey-You join in your worship?”

  Hearing his name, the dog rose to his feet, stretched, and laid his head in Timothy’s lap.

  He rubbed the torn brown ear. “I’m thinking that he worships in his own way.” He smiled down at the dog. “Speaking of our canine friend, would you like to have him visit for a few days?”

  “Oh!” She hadn’t expected such a gift. “But Aunt Lin will be back on Sunday.”

  “At least for tonight and tomorrow, if you wish.” He braced himself on the table and stood up. “Let me send along some dog food. Is there anything else you need?”

  “Milk and eggs. But first, tell me about your project.”

  “This?” He picked up a scrap of fleece. “Every once in a while I amuse myself by making something warm for a baby.”

  “Any particular baby?” She had to smile at the thought of Timothy with a baby.

  “For my friend—Charlotte Martinera. She’s a midwife, and many of her young mothers can’t afford the luxury of fleece. She’s had a busy fall, so I set myself a goal of making at least a dozen buntings before Thanksgiving.”

  “What a good idea,” Madeleine said.

  Timothy limped ahead of her into the store. “You mustn’t forget your groceries.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a small scale you could sell me?”

  “How small?”

  “Ounces, up to maybe three or four pounds. I’m supposed to weigh my flour.”

  “I’ve got an old one I used for weighing letters before we went digital.”

  He searched under the counter and found it. Dusty, but she could read the numbers, and it worked fine. “Perfect. How much?”

  “It’s used. Take it.”

  “I’ll pay you in . . . cookies? Or would you rather have a pie?”

  “I like pies, but you’ve got enough to do.”

  “What’s your favorite?”

  “Plain old blueberry, I’ve got to admit.”

  “Done.” She glanced at the handwritten signs all around them. “And I’d be glad to make some more signs for you.”

  He began to protest, and she said, “It’s only a fair trade for the professional protection I’m getting.” She leaned down to Hey-You, and he lifted his nose to hers. “You want to come home with me today?”

  His feathery tail moved slowly from side to side, and she straightened up. “Thank you again, Timothy. He’s good company.”

  She slept well and awoke early. Today, another try for the French bread. She had made baguettes again last night, and they’d risen correctly, but they’d been too dry.

  This time, the whole process seemed to go more smoothly, and the caramel-colored crust looked inviting. After she wrote out the criteria for Timothy, she and Hey-You could take a walk.

  She offered him one of the failed baguettes, and he carried it in his mouth for a long time. He liked to race, she discovered, and he usually won. For almost an hour, they hiked along a stream that was the color of root beer.

  Before turning back, she paused to look down the stream with its overhanging trees. Such a marvel, these so-called Barrens: serene and mysterious and lovely, with a vibrant undercurrent of life. What did they remind her of? Bach, that was it. Adagio. Oboe and violins.

  She called to the dog and he followed obediently, but as they neared the Manor, he streaked ahead of her.

  Jude was sitting on the porch steps with something wrapped in his jacket. Hey-You danced up to him, but the boy sent him off with a quick command. Closer now, Madeleine could see a tawny head, smeared with blood. A cat?

  Jude looked up, his dark eyes worried. “I think some dog got it. Can we take it to Timothy?”

  She nodded, concealing her reluctance. Take a bloody cat into the store? How did she get herself into situations like this? But she had planned to go over with the baguettes, anyway.

  She collected the bread and her purse, and then opened the car door for Jude. Hey-You jumped into the back seat, panting with excitement.

  As she drove, Jude told her how he’d found the cat beside a river. “I figure it swam across and collapsed,” he said. “It’s pretty beat-up.”

  They parked in front of Timothy’s store, and Jude said abruptly, “I’ll take the bread and Hey-You.” He handed her the bundled cat.

  Did he think she’d be a better spokesman? It might not matter, though. The cat looked as if it had died on the way.

  Timothy’s store was crowded with Saturday-morning customers, and she felt their stares as she walked in with an armful of fur wrapped in a dusty jacket. Beside her, Jude marched with his chin up as if he expected a fight, and Hey-You preceded them both, looking delighted.

  Timothy glanced up from a customer and nodded toward the storeroom. Jude darted ahead to push the swinging doors open, and Bria, coming out, gave them a startled glance. Madeleine heard Timothy ask her to take over the cash register.

  He was beside them a minute later. “Over here.” He led them to a laundry nook, saying “Put it on the counter.” He didn’t seem surprised. Did Jude often pick up vagrants?

  Under florescent lights, the cat looked more pitiful than ever. It was large, but so thin that its ribs showed through the spotted fur. Blood streaked its neck and back and clotted along one leg.

  Jude said, “The doctor?”

  “He’s here somewhere,” Timothy said. “I’ll go see.”

  Jude picked pine needles out of the cat’s fur and arranged its sprawled limbs into a sleeping position. He put a hand on the finely molded head and then took it away, as if he weren’t sure he should do that.

  He looked so anxious that she had to say something. “It’s nice that you have a vet around. I’m sure he’ll—”

  “He’s not a vet.”

  Timothy came back through the door, followed by Nathan Parnell. He was carrying his cell phone and looked hurried. “You’ve got a what back here?”

  Of course he’d think the whole thing ludicrous.

  He caught sight of her, nodded, pocketed his phone, and went to the sink. While he washed his hands, he asked, “Where’d you find it?” and Jude told him.

  The doctor put a hand on the cat’s chest, and after a minute, he nodded. “Still breathing, that’s good.” He gently parted the bloody fur on its ribs and neck, and took his time examining the torn leg.

  “Another abandoned pet. This one’s young, but it’s in bad shape.” He glanced at Jude, and she sensed his compassion for the boy. “It probably won’t last through the night.”

  His cell phone rang. Before answering, he said, “If it lives, keep it warm. Plenty of liquids.”

  He spoke into the phone. “Give her some oxygen. I’m coming.”

  He and Timothy left, and Jude huddled over the cat’s body. Should she try to discourage him? No. She could at least match the two men in their kindness.

 
; She ran water into the sink, dampened a handful of paper towels, and started wiping blood off the cat’s face. After watching for a minute, Jude did the same.

  Timothy must have returned because he spoke from behind them. “I’d suggest feeding it with an eye dropper. Something warm and sweet.” He reached supplies down from a cupboard. “Here’s some honey and a bottle of disinfectant for those cuts. Help yourself to a box and rags.”

  She picked up her bag of bread from where Jude had set it on the washing machine. “This is the latest attempt,” she said. “I put a check-list inside, for when you have time.”

  He smiled. “I’ll look forward to it.”

  They cleaned up the cat as well as they could, and Madeleine dribbled warm water with honey into its mouth. It swallowed, and she gave it some more.

  Yellow eyes blinked open. It moved its legs.

  “No.” Jude said. “Stay down.” He put a hand on its head and the cat grew still, its thin sides heaving. Soon after, its eyes closed.

  Jude spoke into one of the elegantly-pointed ears. “You cannot die,” he said, sounding both dubious and hopeful. “Just sleep.”

  He glanced at her. “Now what?”

  She’d been wondering that herself. “Put it in a box with some rags, like Timothy said. Then you can take it home with you.”

  He seemed to age before her eyes. “Can’t.”

  “Why not?” But she could guess.

  “My mother . . . she wouldn’t . . . you saw—” He swallowed and added more firmly, “Lockie would eat it alive.”

  “You could make him stay away like you did with Hey-You.”

  He shook his head. “Lockie was my father’s dog, and he doesn’t obey unless he feels like it.”

  His unspoken hope floated between them, and she couldn’t bear to puncture it. “I guess Aunt Lin won’t mind. Let’s take it to the Manor.”

  He drew a quick breath and she added, “For a few days anyway.” But Jude might not have heard. He was stroking the cat’s downy head, whispering into its ear, telling it the good news.

  At the Manor, they put the box on the kitchen table, and Jude studied the cat as if the disheveled bundle of fur were the most fascinating thing he’d seen. “Look at that tail,” he said. “What do you think happened?”