Goldenrod

by Ann McMan

  But then, Byron hated stock car racing, and he was the first registered Democrat ever elected sheriff in this part of the state.

  Still, she knew he probably enjoyed hunting and likely had a big chest freezer stuffed to the gills with venison, humming away in some remote corner of his back porch.

  Wrong again.

  Byron was a vegetarian. Correction. Byron was a pescatarian. He’d eaten fish at Celine’s several times now. It never occurred to her that they’d never had meat—so there wasn’t a reason for him to share this dietary detail with her.

  He didn’t have a chest freezer, either.

  Or a back porch.

  He was proving to be a man of many contradictions.

  None of that made navigating her predicament any easier. She knew she was clumsily blundering from encounter to encounter with him, trying to keep her bearings and maintain a steady heading. But every time she thought she had a handle on the contours of the landscape and had plotted a safe way through it, something would change. Dramatically.

  Like right now.

  Byron had told her to take the Fairwood Road turnoff, just after she passed through “downtown” Troutdale. The apartment over Junior’s garage was dark. The rest of the town looked deserted, too—probably because everyone was at the Methodist Church playing bingo. The church parking lot was overflowing with cars, and a dozen or so more lined the roadway out front. She was certain she recognized Bert and Sonny’s pickup trucks parked nearest the entrance—which meant they’d arrived early enough to command the premier spaces. She wondered if Buddy played Bingo, too . . .

  Doubtful.

  This part of the county didn’t have many residents, but the people who did choose to live out here on the fringes seemed to be overflowing with gratitude. No matter how humble the dwelling, every scrap of yard sported a sign proclaiming, “Thank you Jesus!”

  She didn’t have any trouble finding Byron’s lane—it was set off by a large mailbox that looked like it had been used for target practice. It sagged from its mounting post and the reflective letters that spelled out MARTIN were neatly ringed with bullet holes.

  Byron’s small house sat atop a narrow ridge that afforded an unobstructed view of Mount Rogers, the highest peak in Virginia. His acre of land was nestled along one of the many switchbacks that once had been part of the old Marion and Rye Valley Railroad. Back when the area’s large stands of virgin timber seemed limitless, Shay-powered steam locomotives hauled logs that had been cleared from thousands of acres across this remote part of the Virginia mountains to sawmills in Marion and Fairwood. The trains had stopped running more than eighty-five years ago, and all that remained of the legendary railway were a few abandoned grades, and the occasional rusty spike that somehow managed to push its way back out of the earth. The old-timers who remembered the railroad were mostly gone now. But Byron said that sometimes, late at night, if you listened through the wind, you could still hear echoes of the big trains rumbling over Iron Mountain.

  Celine parked her car and Byron met her on his front porch, which connected to a catwalk that ran the length of the house. A floppy-eared yellow dog danced around their feet. This was Django, a stray Labrador and—something—mix that had managed to survive a fire that consumed the abandoned house he’d been living in. His front left paw had been badly singed and he’d lost two toes. No one wanted to claim the castoff pup, and the local veterinarian said it didn’t make much sense to try and save the dog’s foot if he was destined for euthanizing by animal control. Byron supposed that was true, so he wrapped the wounded creature in his jacket and placed him on the front seat of his cruiser for the short ride to the county shelter. At some point along the way, though, the dog had managed to drag itself across the big bench seat and rest its chin on Byron’s thigh.

  Django didn’t go to the shelter that night. And veterinary surgeons at Virginia Tech had managed to save most of his left foot. If you hadn’t known about his rocky start, you’d never have guessed at what all he endured to be where he was today.

  Byron had explained to Celine that he named his furry companion after his favorite jazz guitarist, Django Reinhardt—who’d suffered a similar physical loss after barely escaping a Gypsy caravan fire.

  “They have a lot in common,” he explained. “Reinhardt learned how to compensate—with a vengeance. And this little guy,” he patted the dog’s head, “can tree a squirrel faster than I can swat a fly.”

  Celine had never spent much time around dogs, until she got to know Maddie and Syd’s dog, Pete. It had been a surprise to her to learn how profoundly human dogs were—along with sensitive, intuitive and forgiving. In fact, they were more human than most humans. She regretted that she’d lived so much of her life without making time or space for pets. It was something she intended to change as soon as the renovations on her house were complete.

  In the meantime, she supposed keeping company with Pete and Django would have to tide her over.

  The view from Byron’s catwalk took her breath away. The sun was setting over the Blue Ridge and everything was alive with color. Endless ranges of mountains were painted in broad swaths of indigo, purple and pale lavender. She tried to count them all but gave up. They were too numerous—and they were on a collision course with the advancing night, which now was gaining steam on an evening sky exploding in last gasps of pink and orange.

  She didn’t realize that Byron had gone into the house until he reappeared, carrying two glasses of dark red wine. Whatever he was cooking smelled divine. The scent of it followed him back to where she stood, watching the light drain from the landscape.

  “I could look at this view forever,” she said.

  “So could I,” he replied.

  Byron was standing with his back against the wood and cable wire railing, and he wasn’t watching the sunset. He was watching her watch the sunset.

  “Don’t say things like that,” she demurred.

  “Why not?” He handed her one of the glasses. “It’s true.”

  She decided to change the subject. “What are you cooking? It smells wonderful.”

  “It’s a tagine. Please tell me you like Moroccan food?”

  She nodded.

  “Thank god. This one is eggplant and chickpea. I got some fresh mint and cilantro at the farmer’s market this morning.” He rolled his eyes. “I had to serve some papers on one of the vendors and he was being a bit—elusive. So, I had to track him down at the actual farm. I took advantage of being out that way and got some eggplant, too. It looked pretty nice—even though it’s a bit early in the season. I guess it’s all this warm weather we’ve been having.”

  “How did you learn to cook Moroccan food?”

  “Oh, that’s easy. I spent four years in North Africa while I was in the army.”

  Celine was surprised by his answer. And even more surprised to realize how little she actually knew about his history.

  “I didn’t know you were in the army,” she said.

  “Oh, yeah. A lifer. Twenty-two years.”

  “Really? I thought this area was home to you.”

  “It is. I just ran away from it for a while—kind of like you did.”

  Celine had to smile at his comparison. “I guess I did run away. Funny. I never really thought about it like that.”

  “See? We’re just a couple of renegades. No wonder we fit together so well.”

  Celine tried the wine. It was wonderfully complex. Big and rich with a soft smooth finish.

  Just like Byron.

  The thought flustered her. Thank god it was nearly dark. She hoped that would help conceal her discomfort.

  “What is this wine? It’s lovely.”

  “You like it?” He held up his glass and tried to examine the wine in the fading light. “I do, too. It’s a Super Tuscan. They’re a real bargain these days. You get a lot of bang for the buck.”

  “It’s very like a Chianti.”

  “Good nose.” He smiled at her. “Would you like to co
me inside? I need to tend to the food a bit.”

  “I’d love to.”

  She and Django both followed him through the big atrium doors that led inside.

  Byron’s house was small—just four rooms and a bump-out space that contained his home office. But the kitchen and main living area were open, spacious, and very comfortable-looking. A large stone fireplace took up most of one wall. He also had a lot of books. She didn’t want to be too nosey, but she was extremely interested in finding out what he liked to read. That he liked to read at all was a delightful enough surprise—and she was certain that his tastes were likely to be more varied than her own. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d read something that wasn’t a dissertation abstract or some unremittingly dull article in the JAMA.

  There was no television—at least not in this room. She found that refreshing.

  The whole place was modest, efficient and tidy. It was also uncluttered, although he did have some interesting pieces of rustic-looking pottery and faded kilim rugs scattered about—probably all artifacts from his years in the service. She wanted to ask more questions about that.

  Stacked beside the door that led to his small office was an impressive tower of boxes. They were all the same size—except for one—and they were all emblazoned with the Amazon.com logo. Celine was intrigued.

  “Doing some early Christmas shopping?” She gestured toward the tower.

  Byron chuckled. “Nope. They’re mailboxes.”

  “Mailboxes?”

  “Yeah. I’m sure you noticed the condition of mine when you drove in.”

  “Well. Yes.”

  “Being the county sheriff earns me a lot of the kind of attention I’d rather avoid. Fortunately, most of my detractors are satisfied to take their dislike out on my mailbox.” He laughed again. “I have to replace it five or six times a year.” He waved a hand toward the pile of cartons. “God bless Amazon Prime.”

  Celine was incredulous. “You buy them in bulk? Why not just get a box in town, at the post office?”

  “Nah. That’d take all the fun out of it.”

  “Fun?”

  “Sure. I get to laugh at what lousy shots they all are.”

  Celine shook her head. There was still a lot about life in this county that she did not understand.

  “What’s in the smaller box?”

  Byron smiled at her. “Car tape.”

  “Car tape?” Recognition dawned. “Let me guess . . . Buddy?”

  “Yep. He makes all the reflective letters for me.”

  “Of course he does. He also used it to rewrap all the handles on my gardening tools.”

  “He’s a genius with that stuff.”

  Byron walked into the kitchen and began fussing over the tagine.

  She noticed that he had a small table set with two places. And there was music playing. Jazz. Brubeck, maybe? She wasn’t sure. She’d have to brush up on the genre. Maddie’s father had loved jazz. She recalled how Davis and his best friend, Arthur Leavitt, would drag her with them to a succession of ratty, smoke-filled clubs down on Bleecker Street. She was pursuing her medical degree at Columbia then, and Davis would come up to New York from Penn on the weekends. He and Art were both in med school there—and they were inseparable.

  That all seemed like a lifetime ago. It was a lifetime ago.

  Let the dead remain buried. Didn’t that idiom also apply to dwelling in the past?

  Django wandered over to a plush-looking corduroy dog bed and flopped down on it with a grunt.

  Yes. It was very comfortable here. Not in the least like the man-cave she had feared.

  “You’re pretty quiet.” Byron’s voice startled her. “Rethinking your decision to come out here?”

  Celine watched him ladle two generous servings of the fragrant vegetable stew over bowls of couscous. Then he topped them with rough-chopped cilantro and slivered almonds.

  No. She wasn’t rethinking her decision to come here tonight.

  She was rethinking the forty years it took to get her here . . .

  Chapter 9

  So far, Maddie’s plan was coming together without a hitch. She had everything in place for tomorrow.

  Michael and Nadine were going to take care of the food—there was no way she was risking a repeat of that Valentine’s Day fiasco. She was picking up flowers in town today—dozens of tulips in every color. Syd’s favorite flowers were tricky to come by this late in the season—but Gladys Pitzer told the new shop owner, Ryan, where to get them.

  “I want to make sure he gets real ones,” she confided to Maddie. “Not them hothouse kind that never seen the outside of a Walmart.” She cut her beady eyes at Ryan, who was busy fluffing an arrangement of dyed carnations and fat, glittered marshmallows skewered on long reeds. “These gay boys get up to some strange approaches when you ain’t watching them.”

  Yep. Everything was in place. Now she just needed tomorrow to come.

  And she needed Syd to say “yes,” too. The good news was that she was less worried about that part.

  Rosebud jumped up onto her workbench. Again.

  Her target was undoubtedly Maddie’s open bag of Cheetos. Maddie had been “working” in the barn since breakfast, trying to make some headway on her passion for repairing broken appliances. The Cheetos? Well. They were just part of another kind of passion—one that involved her unrequited love for junk food and sometimes paid other kinds of dividends.

  She put the protesting cat back on the floor, then reached behind some boxes of screws to retrieve Oma’s ring so she could examine it for about the four-hundredth time. She’d polished it to within an inch of its life. But even with all of that, the unique patina of the tiny gold ring carried inside it reminders of the life her Oma had lived. The Hebrew inscription inside the band was faint, but still readable. Ahava. I give love. She smiled.

  That part was right, too.

  Her grandparents had met as children in their native Salzburg. When Hitler annexed Austria in 1938, the Heller and Weisz families had wealth and connection sufficient to secure safe passage to England for their children, as part of a Kindertransport convoy that allowed children under age seventeen to enter Great Britain on temporary travel visas. Josef Heller and Madeleine Weisz, each permitted to carry one suitcase of belongings and their beloved violins, said their somber farewells under cover of darkness outside the Vien Westbahnhof railway station, because their parents were not permitted to accompany them to the platform. “Be good children,” Papa Weisz said, as he blessed them. “Study hard and be obedient. We will write to you, and we will come to be with you soon.” Surrounded by Nazi soldiers, Josef and Madeleine boarded the night train with other dazed and terrified-looking children. The doors were sealed shut for the long journey to a port in Belgium, where they boarded a ship bound for Harwich, England and a “temporary” home with distant relations.

  They never saw their families again.

  Josef and Madeleine were never separated from each other until the day death claimed him at age seventy-six. They both entered music conservatory at London’s Guildhall before emigrating to the United States in 1952, where they raised their daughter, Celine, and enjoyed distinguished performance and teaching careers in New York City.

  Maddie recognized the telltale sound of crunching before she realized that Rosebud had climbed back onto her workbench.

  “Seriously?”

  When she reached over to grab the cat, her sleeve caught on the edge of a tray containing half a dozen tiny set screws she’d removed from the outer housing of an old GE chrome and Bakelite toaster. The tray went flying and so did Rosebud, who quickly managed to nab another Cheeto before jumping down on her own.

  “Great.” Maddie glowered in disgust as she watched the tuxedo cat’s ample backside disappear beneath her Jeep. “Thanks, a lot, ass . . . cat.”

  She’d never remember to quit calling Rosebud by her nickname.

  She set the ring down on the workbench next to the bag of Cheetos an
d got to her knees to search for the screws. She found the first four right away, but the remaining two took forever to find because they’d somehow managed to fall into Henry’s tin bucket, which still held a few garlic bulbs.

  When she stood up she was amazed to discover that the wily Rosebud had contrived to slink past her and was enjoying unobstructed access to a world of cheesy delights.

  “Good god,” she muttered. “What is it with you and these things?”

  Rosebud seemed completely at ease. She just blinked up at Maddie and continued crunching away on her treasures.

  A fine ring of orange dust ornamented the cat’s muzzle.

  Maddie reclaimed her seat and dropped the handful of screws onto the tray.

  “I should just give you your own damn bag,” she said.

  Then she realized the ring was no longer where she’d left it.

  With an increasing sense of dread, she searched the entire surface of the workbench—and the floor beneath it.

  No ring.

  Nothing but the scattered parts of a toaster, and a surly, overfed tuxedo cat, now calmly licking cheese powder off her paws.

  Oh, dear god . . . do not even tell me this just happened . . .

  Instinct took over before it could be replaced by panic.

  She raced to the door and shut it so Rosebud couldn’t escape.

  Okay. Okay. I need to call somebody. But who? It’s Saturday.

  “Tom!” she cried. “Of course.”

  Syd’s brother was in vet school. Perfect. He could tell her what to do.

  She fumbled for her cell phone and found his number. He answered on the third ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Tom?” she said. “It’s Maddie.”

  “Hey, Maddie. I’m glad you called. I’ve been wanting to talk with you.”

  “Oh. Um. Yeah.” Maddie felt like a schmuck. She hadn’t talked with Syd’s brother since Lizzy’s miscarriage. “How’ve you been doing?”

  “Not too good, to tell the truth. I was hoping you could help me out.”

  “Um. Help you out?” Maddie was doing her best to keep an eye on Rosebud.