by Vicki Lane
The persistent grind of blade on whetstone ceased. Phillip looked up, his face somber. “How did Miss Barrett seem when you saw her—whenever it was you last went over there?”
“It was the day before Thanksgiving—not quite two weeks ago. I was taking her some pumpkin bread. And she was perfectly fine—as rational and in control as…as…anyone.”
Suddenly restless, Elizabeth pulled her address book and the heap of envelopes to her. “If I hadn’t been there to see it happen, I never would have believed it—that elegant, intelligent woman turned into a suicidal dementia case. What the hell could have caused such a sudden change?”
The clouds had lifted by late afternoon but the teak table on the deck beneath the dining room windows still bore a thick mantling of clean snow, untouched but for the spiky embroidery of sharp bird tracks circling its icy perimeter. Elizabeth watched the juncos and sparrows jostling for space at the nearby feeder, then gazed at the wintry landscape beyond, struggling with her Christmas letter to her younger sister Gloria.
Dear Glory,
That was the easy part. Everything else required diplomatic finesse—Ben must be mentioned without dwelling on the fact that Gloria’s only child had rejected his mother’s way of life in favor of managing Elizabeth’s small farm…. No need to talk about the farm…Gloria’s lack of interest in the growing and marketing of herbs and edible flowers was equaled only by Elizabeth’s lack of appreciation for her sister’s ruling passions: designer clothing and pricy resorts with esoteric beauty treatments. And do I mention—god, what’s the current husband’s name anyway? Ben said they were separated…maybe I’ll just avoid that topic.
Phillip. Would she avoid that topic too? Elizabeth’s pen spiraled a doodle on the notepaper just below the salutation.
For over a year now, Phillip Hawkins had been—what? My boyfriend? No, I don’t think so. I’m a little past the boyfriend stage. Lover? Well, yes, but I wouldn’t exactly be comfortable introducing him that way. Significant other? Yuck. What’s the word for a man I love, a man I share my bed with—on weekends and holidays?
Phillip had served in the Navy with Sam Goodweather during the Vietnam War. Though the two had remained in touch, it wasn’t until Sam’s untimely death six years ago, seven years on the twenty-first that Elizabeth had met the man her husband had called his best friend.
The bleak memorial service had been the scene of her first encounter with the burly police detective from Beaufort—Bow-furt, not Bew-furt—on the North Carolina coast. Phillip had made the long drive across the wearisome breadth of the state just to attend the brief ceremony. He had introduced himself, one of many during that interminable day, had offered choked condolences, and had disappeared immediately after the service. Elizabeth, deep in her grief, had thought no more about him. Then, two years ago, ex-detective Phillip Hawkins had called to say that he had just moved to Asheville and would like her advice about a place to live.
And I tried my best to brush him off.
She looked into the living room where Phillip, deeply immersed in a paperback mystery, sprawled on the sofa in front of the fire, feet propped up on the old chest that served as a coffee table. James was pressed against his side, looking more than ever like a plump sausage that had suddenly sprouted short little legs and a pointed nose. Phillip turned a page; reached down to rub behind the little dog’s ears; then looked up, his deep brown eyes meeting hers, his face breaking into an answering smile.
“What?”
“Nothing—just trying to write my yearly letter to my sister.”
With a deep sigh, she crumpled up the paper before her, now completely covered with spirals, took a clean sheet of stationery, and began again.
Dear Glory,
We’re enjoying a beautiful early snow—just right for getting into the holiday spirit. Ben’s thrilled—he and Amanda have been sledding every chance they get.
Amanda Lucas—the quietly enigmatic daughter of Gloria’s best friend. Over a year ago Ben had left the farm to spend time with his mother in Florida—and to recover from an unhappy entanglement. During the three months he had been there, Gloria had done her best to entice him to stay, producing one dazzling beauty after another—the cream of the debutante crowd—for his inspection. Judging from Gloria’s remarks in an almost hourlong, late night phone call back in January, Ben, like a picky young pasha faced with a substandard lot of concubines, had rejected not only Ashley and Avery, but Madison, Meredith, Morrison, and Sidney as well, informing his mother that he wasn’t interested in airheads who spent more on shoes than books.
“Lizzy, you don’t think he’s…well, you know …gay? Now don’t jump all over me; I don’t have anything against gay people. I’ve told you how I just adore Zachary who does my hair, but still…”
And then, not a week later, a second call from an indignant Gloria. “Well, Lizzy, I hope you’re happy. Ben’s just told me that he’s leaving this weekend to go back to your place. I swear I don’t see the attraction. He says he’s bored down here. Bored! Heaven knows, I’ve done my best to make sure he’s met the right people…Woody—you remember Haywood Carlton, don’t you? He was in your graduating class—well, Woody has even offered to take Ben on as a trainee at his brokerage firm—in spite of the fact that Ben’s degree is only in philosophy, not business. Philosophy!” Somehow Gloria had managed to make the word sound obscene. “But, oh no, Ben wants to go back and play farmer and drive a tractor and utterly waste his life. Well, I give up. If he’d rather spend his time with illiterate hillbillies and Mexican laborers and…and dirty hippies instead of really nice people from good families…”
Ben had returned to Full Circle Farm, happy to be back in the mountains and his little cabin just a stone’s throw from Elizabeth’s house. He had embarked on an unprecedented flurry of cleaning and refurbishing that had been explained when, a few weeks later, a fresh-faced young woman in hiking boots had arrived—Amanda.
“I met her when I was down in Tampa,” Ben had explained one morning over coffee. “She was the only person down there I could actually have a conversation with. Anyway, Amanda’s really interested in finding out more about the mountains and this area and she was fascinated by the idea of the herb and flower farm. She asked about an internship and I told her I thought we could work something out.”
Elizabeth smiled. It’s a different generation. She just moved in with Ben and that was it. Unlike me with Phillip—two years of telling myself I didn’t want to get involved with anyone.
She looked back at the letter and the vast expanse of virgin paper. Her pen began to move again.
You know, Glory, Amanda’s been really good for Ben; he’s happier than I’ve ever seen him. And she’s developing a nice little business of her own: designing, planting, and maintaining gardens—especially herb gardens. She was busy all during the season—so many of the summer residents in the area want more garden than they’re actually able or willing to maintain. Anyway, she’s got plenty of customers.
My girls are fine—Rosemary will be home as soon as Chapel Hill goes on Christmas break. She loves the classes she’s teaching—and she’s found an agent for that novel she’s been incubating for ages. Keep your fingers crossed for her.
Laurel’s still in Asheville—bartending and making art. Her latest series of paintings are oils—lovely large landscapes that have gotten some awards and, even better, are beginning to attract buyers. The paintings are almost traditional but as you look at them you realize there’s a different sensibility at work—I don’t know how to explain it; they’re a little unsettling, but really good.
Everything is much the same with me—yes, Phillip and I continue to be “an item,” as you put it. He’s a good man, Glory—funny, kind, undemanding. He’s still teaching criminal justice classes at the community college in Asheville. I hope someday you’ll make up your mind to come visit and meet him.
Elizabeth paused and stared out the window at the snow-covered peaks of the Blue Ridge Mountai
ns far to the east. It was late afternoon and though Full Circle Farm and the river valley below were in shadow, those distant peaks were gilded golden-pink with the last rays of the sun, just now beginning its plunge behind Pinnacle Mountain.
This is the first time Phillip will be here at Christmas—be part of all the family carrying-on. I wonder how he’ll like it.
For the past two years, as soon as AB Tech had let out for winter break, Phillip Hawkins had returned with his daughter Janie, a sometime student at UNCA, to the Carolina coast, where his son was in grad school. “I rent a little cottage on the beach for a week and the kids stay with me part of the time. Seth and I do some fishing and Janie runs around catching up with all her friends from high school. They have Christmas dinner with their mom and her husband….”
But this year, both Seth and Janie were in Australia: Seth working with a research team studying the Great Barrier Reef, and Janie doing a semester abroad in whatever major she’s switched to now. I hope he won’t miss his trip to the beach. I wonder if—
A bark at the front door broke into Elizabeth’s reverie. She stared blankly at the unfinished letter before her, then scrawled a few more lines, ending with a quick Merry Christmas and Happy New Year with love from Elizabeth, folded the letter, and shoved it into the waiting envelope.
She started for the entryway but Phillip was already there, pulling open the blue-painted front door to admit a blast of frosty air along with Molly and Ursa, both wagging joyously and shaking the dusting of flakes from their backs. Bits of snow traced their progress across the terracotta tile of the mudroom and on to the wide oak planks of the living room. Ursa was particularly charming, sporting small globlets of ice dangling from the feathery black fur on her legs. The little ice clumps were beginning to melt and drip in the warmth of the room, and the big dog stopped, waiting patiently for the towel that Elizabeth was already going to fetch. As usual, Molly’s sleek red coat had remained pristine. The elegant hound headed at once for the hearthrug, where she composed herself to attend to cleaning the last evidences of the out-of-doors from her paws.
The telephone rang again just as Elizabeth knelt to deal with Ursa’s wet fur. Phillip picked up the instrument and handed it to her. “You get it, Lizabeth. I’ll take over with the Abominable Snowbear here.”
“Hey there, honey. I’m not interruptin’ anything, am I?” Sallie Kate’s chuckle was rich with lewd suggestion. “A nice snowy evening like this…a cozy fire…a good-lookin’ guy like Phillip, even if he is mostly bald…Lordy, I wish Harley hadn’t gone out of town this weekend…a snow like this always makes me feel romantic.”
Elizabeth grinned. “I think I can spare you a minute or two. So, what’s up with the real estate queen of Marshall County?”
“Empress, honey, I’m goin’ to be the real estate empress— if nothing don’t happen, as we say around here!”
Chapter 5
The Carrion Crow
Sunday, December 3, and Monday, December 4
Phillip finished toweling Ursa and swiped at the wet tracks for good measure. He looked across the room at Elizabeth, seated once more at the dining table and listening intently to the voice at the other end of the line. Apparently Sallie Kate was in full flow; a nod and a brief “uh-humm” now and then seemed to be all that was required of Elizabeth. Her face, which had blossomed into a wide smile at the beginning of the conversation, had grown troubled, and her strong dark eyebrows were drawn into a small frown.
Phillip put another log on the fire, found his book, and settled back on the sofa. Covertly he studied her—this woman in his life. “And a fine figger of a woman,” his aunt Omie had pronounced. “No nonsense to her and not afraid to turn her hand to anything a-tall, I’ll wager.”
Almost too true, he thought. Give her a problem and she won’t let go of it.
Elizabeth seemed to feel his gaze and turned her deep blue eyes on him. The frown softened and she winked.
As happened often these days, he was suddenly bathed in a warm glow of immense and, it seemed to him, undeserved happiness—a glow that was instantly quenched by an icy chill that whispered of the fragility of life and love.
“Okay, Sallie Kate.” Elizabeth was standing now and fidgeting as if ready to end the call. “I’ll go over there tomorrow morning, if we don’t have a lot more snow.” She glanced out the window where the light was rapidly fading. “The snow’s quit and it’s clear as far as I can see…Okay, ten o’clock, unless I hear otherwise.”
She put the telephone down and came to sit beside him. Phillip laid his book aside and put his arm around her. He drew her closer, feeling the hidden strength of her tall, firm body.
“Problem?” He breathed in the clean, slightly herbal smell—shampoo?—that seemed to be an integral part of her. “You were frowning. What does Sallie Kate want you to do?”
Elizabeth leaned against him and stared into the fire. “Nola Barrett’s niece—Tracy—has been in touch with Sallie Kate. Evidently Tracy has been told that Nola’s going to require long-term care because of her mental condition. So Tracy’s hoping she can sell Nola’s house in Dewell Hill quickly to provide some ready cash until the ownership of the property at Gudger’s Stand gets sorted out. Decent care is horrendously expensive and—”
“Wait a minute—how can this niece do all that without a power of attorney or—”
“The niece says she has a power of attorney. Sallie Kate’ll check it out tomorrow before going any further, but she seems to think the woman’s legitimate. She’s already fantasizing about the fat commission from the sale of the stand property. Anyway, Sallie Kate said that the niece was starting to go through Miss Barrett’s things and—”
She broke off and he could feel her stiffen as she fought to hold back the tears so rarely allowed to fall.
“I just can’t believe it, Phillip. Three weeks ago Nola and I were talking about the novel she was working on. Her mind was sharp; her organization and her memory were phenomenal. And now…now that Nola’s gone! It’s almost worse than if she’d died.”
She pulled free of his arm and stood, her face turned away. “I need to go start supper.”
He gave her a few minutes alone in the kitchen. There was the sound of running water, a paper towel being ripped from the roll, a discreet nose-blowing. When he heard the clank of the iron skillet on the stovetop and the opening of the refrigerator door, Phillip nudged James from his lap and went to join her.
Olive oil was heating in the black iron skillet and Elizabeth, her eyes dry but slightly reddened, was chopping onions with manic determination. She looked up and smiled.
“I thought I’d do some shrimp and pasta—quick and easy. And I never answered your question, did I?” She swept the onion into the skillet and began to break cloves off a head of garlic. “What Sallie Kate wants me to do is to go see Nola’s niece tomorrow. Evidently this Tracy knows that I was interested in Nola’s quilts—she wants to find out where to sell them and what sort of prices to ask.”
In rapid succession six cloves of garlic were minced on the scarred cutting board and added to the sautéing onions.
“I hate it, Phillip. It’s like crows picking over a carcass. But in this case…” He watched as Elizabeth turned her attention to a bulbous section of gingerroot, quickly and carefully peeling away pale brown skin from the knobby surface. An enticing smell wafted through the kitchen as she cut off chunks, fitted them into a garlic press, and squeezed the pulp into the pan. “…in this case, the carcass is still alive.”
Phillip took wineglasses from the Hoosier cabinet and uncorked the bottle of red wine that waited there on the cabinet’s pull-out metal shelf. He filled the glasses, handed one to Elizabeth, then seated himself on the cushioned bench in the corner of the kitchen. Put there so that people can lend moral support to the cook—without getting in her way, Elizabeth had told him.
“Maybe you can suggest to the niece that she’s moving a little too quickly—that her aunt may recover.” He foun
d himself starting to run his free hand over his smooth bald scalp—a gesture Elizabeth had teased him about more than once. I can always tell when you’re worried: up comes that hand—and revised the movement to a quick tug at his earlobe. “Who knows, this may be a passing…aberration.”
She didn’t seem to hear him as she gave the contents of the frying pan a savage stir, reduced the heat, and moved on to the salad preparation, the untasted glass of wine on the counter before her. A few scallions were washed free of grit, shaken dry, and slapped down on the chopping block. Over the staccato tap of the knife, he could hear her saying to herself, “It’s that damn house—Nola said it was evil. What was it she told me? It was like a line from that old song—‘It’s been the downfall of many poor girls…’ or something like that. Nola hated that awful place—why would she go there?”
Poor Phillip! What abject nonsense I was thinking and talking last night!
The menacing clouds and dreary atmosphere of the day before had been replaced by a clear blue sky. Playful sunlight sparkled on the river and winked from the melting snow.
As Elizabeth drove across the bridge at Gudger’s Stand, she looked up at the empty house that had always appeared so ominous. Suddenly it seemed different—innocuous, even helpless—a pathetic, moldering hulk in need of vigorous refurbishment.
Good god! There I was going on to Phillip about it being an evil place. Was I channeling Stephen King or what? It’s just a house, for heaven’s sake. It’s nothing to do with what happened to Nola. There must be some physiological explanation—a brain tumor or…I don’t know, maybe an aneurism or something. Surely they’ll do some testing. And then they’ll find what’s wrong and fix it. This niece or whatever she is can’t just write Nola off like that.
