Thistle stopped short. “Mavis. Your given name is Mavis, and you lived one block away toward the setting sun and two blocks on the uphill road. There’s a spindly stand of lilacs separating your yard from the neighbor’s across the back.”
“Those lilacs ain’t so spindly no more. They growed so big my son has to whack ’em back almost by half at the end of every summer. How’d you know that? You ain’t but twenty-five or so. Why, I’ll eat that god-awful mess of a lunch if you’re a day over twenty-six.”
Thistle plunked the tray back on the walker. “Actually, I’m twenty-seven. Or I will be at the Equinox,” she half lied.
Her chin trembled with sadness, and moisture gathered at the corners of her eyes.
Pixies could live forever if angry little girls didn’t put them in jars with wolf spiders, or cars squished them, or someone cut down their tribal territory.
Humans grew old and cranky like Mrs. Jennings. Any joy Thistle might find with Dick would be short. He’d never fly up to the top of the Patriarch Oak with her. They’d never be able to . . .
“Do you need anything else, Mrs. Jennings? I think the heat is getting to me. I have a headache. I need to go home now.” Home to Pixie before her heart broke so completely she’d never recover.
Dick whistled a jaunty little tune he almost remembered the words to. Something about chiming bells and little Pixies. Dum dee dee do dum dum.
Pixies. Like Thistle.
He stopped short in the middle of the sidewalk between his car and a group of medical offices.
Thistle and that amazing kiss. For a few minutes this morning he felt like he’d been transported to heaven floating on a sparkling cloud of many wondrous colors.
A cloud of Pixie dust. If Thistle could shoot Pixie dust into a lock, then she was still a Pixie. She’d never be fully human.
He wavered over to a bench beside a tree that overhung the office building, shading it from the glare of a too bright, too hot sun.
“You look the same today as you did sixteen years ago when you kissed me the first time, Thistle. You haven’t aged a day. Do Pixies ever grow old and die?”
His bright daydreams of marrying Thistle, having children with her, growing old together, crumbled to dull, gray ashes.
Twenty-four
THISTLE WANDERED AIMLESSLY toward Dick and Dusty’s house. Somehow she didn’t have the heart or the will to return to the old house that held so many good memories.
Her tummy growled with hunger and her throat ached from thirst. And from crying.
Somehow, without knowing quite how, she found herself on the block behind Mabel’s house. A narrow footpath ran between two old houses, small ones. The space between the immaculate dwellings looked wider than normal and the path appeared well used. She followed it idly into a long strip of wild land that ran between the houses on Mabel’s street and the one at the beginning of the path.
She stepped onto the pounded dirt where thistles encroached. The jagged leaves left her alone, but a creeping blackberry vine snagged her leg. As she bent to gently untangle it, soft male voices reached her.
She froze in place.
“You did good, bringing down that cell phone tower,” Haywood Wheatland chuckled.
“That was awesome!” a younger voice replied. It cracked on the last syllable, climbing upward into a child’s range.
Young, just beginning to reach for manhood.
She crept forward, one small step in front of the other until the path opened up into a meadow dotted with goldenrod and Lamb’s Tail shrubs. Across the open space, beside the iron gate that led from Mabel’s backyard into the wild strip sat Haywood Wheatland on an overgrown park bench. Five youths leaned against the bench or stumps or sprawled on the ground in a semicircle around him.
“And here’s your reward for bringing down the eyesore of poisonous steel,” Haywood said. He held out his hand, revealing five brown lumps. The scent of chocolate rose from the warmth of his skin.
“Eeww! Looks like cat poop. I’m not going to eat that crap,” one of the boys said. He looked to be the largest of the group, taller by half a head and broader in the shoulder with just a hint of beard shadow on his chin and upper lip. His voice remained deep and secure.
“These are different chocolates. Special chocolates. Once you’ve tasted these, you won’t settle for what your mother puts into cookies,” Hay replied in a soothing voice. A bit of gold began to glow around his head. “These will take you on a wilder ride than when we went inside the computer and played your war games for real.” He smiled secretly.
“Cool, man!” a boy from the middle of the pack and the age group said, reaching eagerly for his treat.
“And when the chocolate and mushroom are fully into your mind, you and I will try something new. Maybe we’ll stop all the carnival rides at the same time, and make the Ferris wheel topple.”
“More awesome than the cell tower coming down right on top of all those bulldozers?” the leader asked.
Thistle gasped. She needed to stop this. She needed to warn Dusty.
Quickly, she turned to run away.
The pesky blackberry snaked out across the path and tripped her.
Her face met the ground. With an aching groan, she tried to get up, only to find herself trapped by more prickly vines and a rock bigger than her fist flying through the air directly toward her head.
Two hours later she staggered back to her bed, too dazed and sore to remember what she needed to do, or why.
“Do you see the curving pile of rotting lumber?” Dusty pointed to one of the biggest disappointments in her life. The dissolving artifact rested on an island in the middle of the river, just below the main waterfall. The sun was close to sinking behind the ridge, and only a few shafts of light made the wood look like anything more than a shadowy lump.
As thick and undissolving as the lump of hot dog and white bread bun she’d eaten half of while they walked the promenade. She couldn’t tell him that, though. He’d been so proud of ordering from the colorful food wagons that sprang up along Main Street during Festival week.
“I think I see it. My distance vision isn’t wonderful,” Hay said, squinting in the direction she pointed. He put his arm around Dusty and snugged her up against his side as if that would help him see.
Her awareness of the few people out walking the promenade faded. As the sun sank, fewer and fewer people ventured this far away from the lights on Main Street. The explosion on the hill that had delayed not only completion of the cell tower, but the beginning of construction on the discount store, had them spooked. They weren’t willing to risk the dark just to catch a bit of cool, moist air after the long, hot day.
“There’s not a lot left, but that’s the original water wheel that powered the woolen mill,” Dusty said, concentrating on what she knew, the history that she was passionate about.
“The mill that employs half the town?”
“Yes. The wheel was built in 1846, before Oregon became a territory of the U.S. As part of my Master’s degree, I wrote a grant to dismantle the wheel and rebuild and restore it up at the museum. I actually got the grant, but the current owners of the mill, who have corporate offices in Louisiana, wouldn’t give permission for structural engineers to go in and assess the wheel and the plans to dismantle it. They prefer to allow an important artifact of our heritage to rot.”
“Too bad. It would have made a nice addition to the exhibits,” he said. But he wasn’t gazing at the wheel any more. He was looking at her.
She returned his gaze, amazed that she could talk so freely with him. She’d never met anyone who made her feel as comfortable as he did.
They were alone, with only the muted rush of water over the thirty-foot drop in the river, an occasional sleepy chirp of a bird and the hum of evening insects.
“Dusty, I . . . I should tell you that our mothers were roommates in college. They asked me to call you, ask you to the Masque Ball.”
“Oh.” Her world fell fl
at.
“I didn’t want to call you. I’ve had some pretty disastrous blind dates and didn’t want a repeat. But then I met you, and I knew we could have something special. I’m glad we got to know each other without the false expectations of our mothers hanging over us.”
“I’m glad, too. If I’d known about our mothers’ connection, I probably would have turned you down.
“And now?”
“Now? If the offer is still open, I’d like to go to the Ball with you.”
He lowered his mouth to hers, capturing a tentative kiss.
Startled, she drew back, still within the circle of his arm around her waist.
“I’m sorry. Did I frighten you?” he breathed.
“No, I . . .” She bit her lip. What did she say? She had only the one experience with Joe. Hay’s kiss was different, exciting, and scary.
Wonderfully scary, indeed.
“Dusty, I had no intention of falling in love with you.”
“Silly, we’ve only known each other a couple of days.”
“I feel like I’ve known you all my life. Or maybe you are the one I’ve been searching for since the beginning of time.”
“I . . . I’ve never met anyone like you before.” She bit her lip in indecision.
“Do you believe in love at first sight?”
“I believe in lust at first sight that can grow into love.” At least that’s what she’d always told herself when she outgrew the teen romance books she devoured when she was sixteen. She’d repeated the mantra with each failed date arranged by her family when the total lack of passion, or even interest guaranteed there would be no second date.
“Then believe in this.” He captured her mouth again with his, enticing her into a response with gentle flicks of his tongue.
Dusty became malleable clay under his brilliant ministrations. She experienced new flares from belly to head that left her dizzy. Simmers of longing from his mobile mouth on hers glowed deep within her. Her arms crept around his neck, and she rose on tiptoe to bring them closer together.
Her knees turned to pudding. She clung to him even as she pulled her mouth free long enough to breathe.
“Relax, my darling. Trust me,” he whispered. “I’ll never hurt you.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.” He kissed her again.
Her world exploded into myriad bright colors rivaling the last rays of the sun shooting above the ridge and sparkling across the river.
Chase scrubbed his eyes free of grit and looked up from his concentrated, fine-print reading. The little digital display on the bottom right of his computer screen read ten fifty two PM. God, he’d been searching and tracing link to link for the whole day and half the night.
But he’d found what he needed. There it was, in black and white, the incorporation papers for Pixel, Industries, Ltd. Signed by none other than Phelma Jo Nelson herself as CEO and sole stockholder. The date beside her signature was less than a week old.
The job order for the independent logger was dated three days later.
“Someone’s in a hurry,” he muttered. “Looks to me like she’s timed it deliberately to interfere with the Masque Ball.”
He stretched his back and arms, grateful for the release and cracking after so many hours hunched over his desk.
He saved the screen and printed out a copy. Then he stood and popped the kinks out of his knees.
“I need a walk. Or better yet an hour in the gym.” He felt flabby and weak. “The price of getting promoted to sergeant. Too much paperwork and not enough exercise.”
He walked a few steps, checked on the printer. It spat out the third of fifteen pages. He paced once around the desk, then out the door to the main corridor of the station. All the doors were closed. The gentle hum of powered-down technology greeted him. Nothing else. Not even the murmur of voices.
His route took him out to the lobby and past the dispatch desk.
“Don’t you ever go home, Mabel?” he asked as he came abreast of her.
She shrugged and shook her tightly permed gray hair that had hints of blue and pink streaked through it.
Sort of like Thistle’s black hair had deep purple highlights.
Then he remembered the pink bug flitting around Mabel’s front yard that paused and talked to first Thistle and then Haywood. Or rather Thistle and Haywood conversed with the bug. Chase hadn’t heard any replies. Maybe he’d watched from too far away.
Maybe he’d imagined the entire episode.
He didn’t think so.
“All the officers and my relief watch are out on patrol. Had three fistfights outside the liquor store and two inside the Old Mill Bar. I’m needed here to help process the paperwork,” she said.
“How many in lockup?” Chase asked, feeling guilty. He should have been out on the streets enforcing calm when the unrelenting heat stretched nerves taut and frayed tempers.
“Only the three who were too drunk to walk home.” She chuckled. “Del Payton hosed down the others to cool them off and sober them up.”
“So why don’t you go home now that the excitement is over?”
“What’s to go home for?” Mabel asked. She sounded a bit sleepy, her words almost slurred.
“You need to go home and tend to your army of Pixies who spy around town for you.” He threw back the line she’d given him about her source of gossip.
That hit home. Mabel reared back in her chair startled. Her mouth gaped. “How’d you know?”
She must be tired not to have a fast comeback cloaked in endearments.
“You told me.”
“But no one believes. Not anymore.”
“I didn’t used to. But I saw some things that have no other explanation. And I believe.” He did. Strangely he did.
A huge weight seemed to lift from his shoulders, leaving him light and free and full of renewed energy.
“Bless you, boy. I’m glad. So, when I die, you can have the house and the yard and the Pixies. Someone needs to take care of them. Don’t trust the Parks Department since the hullabaloo over The Ten Acre Wood.” Her words came slower and sort of blended into each other.
“You’re never going to die, Mabel. I don’t think this town can run on its own without you.” He scanned her for signs of illness. Skin a little pale but not gray, no blue tinge on her lips or fingernails, so her heart still beat strongly. Her curls were crisp and freshly washed. Maybe she was just a little tired.
“You’d be surprised.” Mabel yawned hugely. “I’m going to switch everything over to the county dispatch now. They’ll ring me at home, as well as the chief, if anything important goes down between now and the morning crew.”
“Want me to drive you home, Mabel?” Chase didn’t like the way she gave in to the idea of going home so easily.
“That would be lovely, sweetheart. Mind if I play with the radio on the drive? I’ve got this annoyingly vague tune running through my head, and I’m trying to figure out what it is.” She hummed a phrase. Dum dee dee do, dum dum. It was the same tune he had been hearing. Now it ran through his head louder and more persistent than ever. Something about honey sweeter than wine? No, that was something else. Similar, not the same. Spring flowers and May wine. That was it.
“It sounds sort of like the tune you get from one of those musical jewelry boxes; you know, the kind with the twirling ballerina,” Mabel mused, still slurring her words a bit.
That thought almost stabbed Chase in the heart.
Dusty’s music box, the one he’d broken so long ago. The doctors had made her give up the ballet lessons she loved. She’d had to miss her first solo in the dance recital, never got to wear the silly little pink tutu and tiara. She played the music box over and over and over until it near drove him crazy.
And he broke it.
Dick said she still had the box.
That tune, something with delicate chimes? Dum dee dee do dum dum,” he hummed the phrase again. “I can almost hear tiny voices singing in the dist
ance . . .”
Maybe Dusty had never quite forgiven him for the broken music box. Maybe that was why she was dating Haywood Wheatland. She couldn’t see Chase as anything but the bully who’d broken her favorite treasure.
“Let me grab some papers out of my office. Then I’ll drive you home,” he said, urging Mabel to close down her desk. He had an idea and wanted to get started immediately.
“Papers that print out might make it easier to request an injunction against the loggers?” Mabel gathered her purse and sweater. “Heard the mayor stonewalled Joe Newberry’s request.”
“Yeah.” If he saved Dusty’s Masque Ball, the first one she’d organized by herself and, in doing so, saved The Ten Acre Wood and Thistle’s homeland, maybe Dusty would forgive him for that damn music box. What if he bought her a new one?
Nope. He needed to do something better to prove he had always been Dusty’s friend and wanted to be more.
“I’ve also got to find a way to right some old wrongs.”
“Here’s Judge Pepperidge’s home phone number. My spies tell me he’s a night owl and never goes to bed before midnight.” Mabel handed him a small piece of paper she’d already written out.
“I’m looking forward to meeting your spies.”
“Oh, you will, sooner than you think. Bring honey to my little tea party Saturday afternoon before the Ball. They’ll love you forever, and that’s an honor and a tremendous responsibility.”
“The responsibility of friendship.”
“Glad to know you recognize that. Not everyone does these days.”
Twenty-five
CHASE SAT STIFFLY in a straight-backed maple chair at Mabel’s kitchen table. “Are you sure this is the right thing to do?” he asked nervously.
“It was your idea. Run with your first instinct,” she replied, keeping her gaze fixed on pouring two fingers of scotch into a cut-glass tumbler. No more, no less. She lifted the glass to the light and gazed into the amber liquid with fondness, or admiration, or possibly lust. While the scotch captured her attention, Chase examined the label on the bottle.
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