by Katie Powner
She hesitated. She’d never told anyone about this place. Not even Kylee. But the man’s voice demanded the truth.
“It’s peaceful.” She slowly spun to face him. “For some reason, whenever I’m in the barn, I feel safe. And happy. Like that’s what it was made for, to make people happy.”
And when she was inside, she could be herself. She didn’t have to be the best. Didn’t have to have all the answers.
“I didn’t mean any harm.”
It was dark. The light from inside the barn shone on the man’s back, shrouding his face in shadow. She strained to see whether he was still angry.
He crossed his arms. “You take that cat everywhere?”
She half smiled. “Not to school.”
The air had cooled considerably since she first arrived, but Mr. Whiskers was like a heating pad in her arms. He nestled against her, his confidence apparently restored now that he was out of Daisy’s reach. Rae took one last longing look at the barn and exhaled sharply. She was sure going to miss it.
The man grunted and muttered something.
“Pardon me?” Rae asked.
“I said I guess it’s okay if you use it.” He waved an arm at the barn. “It’s just sitting there, after all.”
Rae suppressed a squeal. “Really?”
His arms hung at his sides. He didn’t seem so intimidating anymore. “Just for now. But you’ve got to stop moving stuff around.”
She bounced with delight. “I promise I won’t touch anything.”
He pressed a button on his watch and it lit up. “Don’t you have school tomorrow?”
It couldn’t be later than nine o’clock. She stifled a grin. “Yes.”
He waited expectantly. “Well? It’s late. Go on now.”
“Right.” She patted Daisy again on the head, then gave the man a salute. “See you later. And thanks.”
She slipped around the barn before he could change his mind. If she was careful, he would never even know she was there. She wouldn’t give him any reason to rescind his offer.
Once she was well into the trees, she paused and looked back. In the dark, there was no way the man could see her, but she could see him. He had turned off the light in the barn and now stood by the back door of the house, one hand on the doorknob. Daisy stood beside him, looking up at his face.
Rae waited. What was he doing? A minute marched by. He raised his chin and looked at the upstairs window above the door, then hung his head. Even from fifty feet away, the weight on his shoulders was visible.
Where had he come from? Was he married to the woman with the blond hair who sat at the table alone? Why had Rae never seen him before?
“He looks sad.”
Mr. Whiskers meowed.
“Shh. Let’s go home.”
The trail back to her neighborhood was black as pitch, but Rae knew it by heart. With every step she took closer to her house, the weight on her own shoulders grew. She was worried and scared about driving. That was true. But it was more than that. Something was going on with her parents. And something else had been bothering her more and more lately.
She knew where she was headed. The Plan was set. And everyone else in her life knew who she was and what she should do and how her future would turn out.
But what if she failed?
“God’s got big plans for you,” Papa Tom always used to say.
She reached her house and stole quietly into the garage. Mr. Whiskers fought to get down so she set him gently on his feet.
“What if He doesn’t, Mister?”
The old cat rubbed against her legs, his fur the color of thunderclouds in the dim light.
“What if He’s just got regular, ordinary plans for me?”
No. She couldn’t think like that. Couldn’t let Papa Tom down—the late, great Judge McDaniel.
Her throat tightened. She missed him. Missed the way he used to tug on her ear with a smile and say, “I’m praying for you,” even though she had no idea why he did that. Why he thought God had some kind of special purpose for her.
She just added it to the list of expectations she needed to meet. “God’s got big plans for you.” How do you live up to that? Somehow she would find a way. She thought of her parents’ standoff in the kitchen earlier and drew a determined breath. Yes, she would find a way.
Mr. Whiskers pawed at the door as if he suddenly remembered his food dish. She put her hand on the doorknob and pasted on a smile. She didn’t know how, but she would do it. For Mom and Dad. For Papa Tom.
“Okay, Mister.” She twisted the knob. “Time to shine.”
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Friday morning was dreary and wet. Gerrit could feel the damp chill in his aching bones.
He looked out the window and frowned. “Don’t forget your umbrella.”
Hannie rinsed her coffee mug in the sink. “My coat has a hood.”
Gerrit scoffed to himself. A hood could not compete with an umbrella for protection from the rain. She should keep an umbrella in her car at all times, in fact. He wanted to tell her so. The resolute look on her face as she punched her arms through the sleeves of her jacket and flipped the hood over her head dared him to tell her so.
He did not dare.
“About Memorial Day . . .”
She tensed. “You are welcome to call the kids and ask them about it if you like.”
It was the same overly polite tone of voice she used when someone from the shop called her after work hours. He wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but he was smart enough not to engage in that particular conversation.
“Maybe we can go see a movie tonight.” Surely this was a safer topic. “You know that one about the mailbox?”
She finished lacing up her shoes and stood to face him. “What?”
He swallowed hard. “That mailbox movie . . .”
Her crow’s feet appeared. “You want to go to a movie.”
It wasn’t a question, he knew that, yet her tone was indecipherable. She looked at him like he’d spoken Chinese. What did she have against the movies?
“It looks funny.”
She took a long moment to answer. “I’ll probably be home pretty late. I’ve got a gal out sick right now.”
He leaned against the wall, trying to act casual. “Oh. Okay.”
She threw the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “Is that the one with that Steven Douglas guy in it?”
He blinked. Who the heck was Steven Douglas? Aside from Clint Eastwood, Gerrit probably couldn’t name a single actor. But the mailbox movie did have a guy in it. He could easily be named Steven. “Um . . .”
“That guy’s annoying.” She opened the door and stepped into the rain. “See you tonight.”
Then she was gone.
Gerrit stared at the closed door for a minute or two. Did that mean she didn’t want to see the movie? The idea of going to the theater alone made his chest hurt.
Daisy grew impatient and wagged her tail for attention. It thumped against the blue-and-white suitcase propped against the wall. He ought to throw the stupid thing in the garbage, but he couldn’t touch it. He had no right. Daisy eyed the suitcase and rammed the top of her head against his leg.
He looked at the suitcase. Looked at the dog. “I don’t want to hear it.”
Well, she certainly hadn’t meant anything by it, if you could believe the innocent look on her face. Which he didn’t.
Back in the kitchen, he paused in front of the calendar hanging next to the fridge. April 12. He jabbed the calendar with his finger and counted. One, two. Flipped to May and continued. Three, four, five, six. Six weeks until Memorial Day weekend.
Hannie had not talked to Evi and Noah about coming, and he couldn’t blame her. She’d been busy with work, and the kids might not believe her if she told them it was his idea. Maybe calling them himself was the answer, after all. But what would he say? Would they even answer the phone if they saw his number?
Only six weeks. Plenty
of time to plan a feast, but was it enough time to convince his children to give him the time of day? Luke had always been good with kids. Knew how to talk to them, even when they were little. He’d been a good farmer and a good man, and he would’ve been a great father.
Gerrit needed to check in on Luisa. He had a responsibility to make sure she was okay. She and Luke had never had the chance to have children.
That was Gerrit’s fault.
He looked again at the calendar, the muscles in his neck tightening. “I can’t call them. They hate me.”
His words rippled through the empty house.
“Come on, Daisy.” His voice was gruff and lost and sounded like the past. “Let’s see what’s on TV.”
THE MAIL ARRIVED at 1:51. Gerrit studied the sky with the practiced eye of a farmer. The rain had downgraded to a drizzle.
He hobbled to the back door like a ninety-year-old man, his back stiff and painful. He’d hoped it would get better once he wasn’t working every day, but the opposite seemed to be true. What on earth had he retired for, then? He thought of the cows, the hay, the fields. The smell of iodine on udders and sawdust in pens. He had labored alongside hundreds of pregnant heifers, grunting his approval each time a calf slid headfirst into the world like it was supposed to, but all that life . . . well, he wasn’t sure how much it meant anymore. What kind of life did he have now?
He opened the back door and stuck his hand out to test the dismal gray sky, then turned to his canine shadow. “Might be as good as it gets today.”
Daisy took a step back.
Gerrit gaped. “Are you kidding me? It’s just a little water. Get over here.”
The furry creature refused.
“What’s wrong with you?” He wasn’t above the shaming approach. “Your mother doesn’t mind the rain. She didn’t even take an umbrella.”
At the word umbrella, Daisy perked up. Harrumph. As if she knew what an umbrella was.
She pranced over to the low dresser next to the coatrack and nudged the top drawer with her nose. Gerrit harrumphed again. He knew the umbrella was in there, but there was no way she knew that.
He threw on his coat and glared at her. “Fine. You can stay here.”
She whined at the drawer.
“No. It’s just the mailbox. We don’t need an umbrella. It’s hardly even raining anymore.”
Her eyes grew bigger as she waited.
“I said no.”
It required a certain amount of balance to hold the umbrella over the dog and not break his stride, but by the time they reached the end of the drive, Gerrit had gotten the hang of it. He opened the mailbox and blew out a huff at the three pieces of junk mail.
“What a waste.”
He tucked the mail in his coat pocket, repositioned the umbrella over Daisy, and turned to go back.
A voice stopped him. “Did you already give her a shampoo and shine this morning?”
Gerrit tensed and looked over at George’s place. “What are you talking about?”
George leaned on the fence between their properties and smirked. “Is that why she can’t get rained on?”
Gerrit’s eyes narrowed. He would not be cowed. Instead, he held his head high. “She prefers to remain dry.”
George laughed. “I didn’t know she was such a princess.”
Gerrit happened to believe it was rather ridiculous himself, yet he was loath to let on in front of George. The tips of his ears burned as he glanced up at the red-and-white polka-dotted umbrella, grasping for the last remaining fragment of his dignity. He turned up his nose and took a step toward the house, but George wasn’t finished.
“The gravel in your drive sure looks nice. Don’t know how you keep it so clean and smooth.”
The blood in Gerrit’s veins warmed considerably. What nerve, bringing that up. George’s payback would need to be soon.
“Same way you keep your bushes trimmed, I guess.”
The smile on George’s face never wavered. “How’s retirement treating you, by the way? You keeping busy? Other than dog sitting, I mean.”
“Yes. There’s plenty to do.” Gerrit shifted on his feet, his blood cooling in a hurry. “And I’m, uh, planning a big party.”
“Oh?”
Why had he said that? “For Memorial Day weekend.”
“I see.” George folded his arms. “Evi and Noah coming and everything?”
He did not like hearing their names launching from George’s lips in such a familiar way. Still, he gave a hesitant nod. Surely they would come.
“Well, that’s real nice.” George pushed off the fence. “And Jakob?”
Gerrit stiffened. It was a low blow, bringing up his brother. Especially when Gerrit had spent the last couple of weeks trying to forget he even existed. Trying not to imagine him walking around Greenville with fistfuls of Gerrit’s hard-earned money. “No.”
“I see.”
“No,” Gerrit growled. “You don’t.”
“I suppose you heard about Mallory?” George raised his eyebrows.
What? Gerrit scoured his mind for a clue about what he was supposed to have heard about George’s daughter. Hannie talked about her sometimes. She was the same age as Evi. But he didn’t know anything else.
He shrugged.
“I’m going to be a grandpa in June.” George grinned pointedly at Daisy. “To a child, not a puppy. Don’t that beat all?”
Gerrit’s blood now turned from cool to glacial. The word grandpa was like a heavy chunk of ice falling from the sky and pinning him to the ground. Would he be a grandpa someday? Even if Evi or Noah did have kids at some point, they probably wouldn’t want his influence in their lives. Him? A grandpa? His heart turned inside out, exposed.
“Con—uh—congratulations,” he stammered.
“Thanks, neighbor.” George turned and began strutting back to his house, calling over his shoulder, “Keep up the good work with that puppy.”
Gerrit’s grip on the umbrella tightened. His blood was warm again. Boiling, in fact. But he would not dignify George’s remark with a response. And any halfway intelligent person could see that Daisy was not a puppy. She was almost ten years old, for crying out loud.
He began walking back to the house, head down, plotting his next move. George needed to be put in his place. Taught a lesson. But how?
Daisy barked, and Gerrit jerked to a stop. “What is it?”
She appeared to be looking at the pony barn.
“Yes, we had a bit of an adventure out there the other night, didn’t we?”
He considered the barn for a moment. He never should’ve caved on giving that girl permission to come back here. He checked his watch. 2:19. She wouldn’t be out of school already, would she?
Not that he cared or anything. Made no difference to him. But maybe he should check in the barn and make sure she hadn’t caused any damage. He hadn’t had a good chance to look around the night he found her in there.
He changed course and headed toward the barn. He was not interested in finding out if the girl had been back. Definitely not. He just wanted to make sure he hadn’t unintentionally allowed a vandal to return to his property, that’s all.
It was dark and quiet inside the barn. Good. No one was here. He didn’t have time to deal with some kid, anyway. He had a lot of other—uh—important things to do.
Daisy sat as he searched for the pull-cord in the dim light and tugged on it, illuminating a large square room filled with boxes. The girl must have stacked them like that, because when he threw them in here all those years ago, he certainly hadn’t put them in neat piles. Unless Hannie had done it, though he doubted she would come in this place. There was enough baggage thudding around in their house without adding these boxes to it.
Speaking of their house, he should head back.
But . . .
Each step he took deeper into the barn felt like an affront to the sacredness of what could’ve been. What could never be. He stopped beside the shortest stack of
boxes and rested his hand on the top. The box read Luke, High School in hurried black letters. Had he written that? Or Luisa? That whole month was a blur. A hazy, swirling nightmare.
The cardboard seemed to heat up under his fingertips as memories turned up the dial on the anger always simmering in his heart. He’d taken all the blame for Luke’s death. Bore all the burden. Made all the arrangements and taken on all the work Luke’s absence left behind. And Jakob had shown up drunk to the funeral. Gerrit had wanted to lay him out, and he’d been mad enough to do it, but Hannie had known his thoughts and held his hand.
Had their father been upset at Jakob for his disrespect? No. No, he’d put his arm around Jakob’s shoulders and then turned to Gerrit and criticized him for failing to convince Luisa to have an open casket.
“So we could say good-bye,” he’d said.
The box grew warmer. Part of him longed to open it and drown himself in the past. Destroy himself with it. But a greater part of him resisted. He shouldn’t even be in here.
His finger traced Luke’s name, and he thought about what George had said about being a grandpa. Evi and Noah hardly knew what a grandpa was. Hannie’s father had died before Evi and Noah were born, and his own father? He’d been a dead man walking for decades until five years ago, when he collapsed from an aneurysm in the milking parlor and made it official. Right in the middle of cussing out a stubborn heifer.
Almost against his will, Gerrit’s hand pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his jacket. It was the old flip-style variety. No smartphone for him. Hannie had programmed in all their family’s important phone numbers. He pushed a couple of buttons, and there was Evi’s name on the screen.
The air in the barn grew oppressive. She wouldn’t want to talk to him. But it was only six weeks until Memorial Day.
He pushed the call button and jumped when the phone began to ring.
And ring.
“Hello?”
Her voice was bright and eager, full of hope.
His heart constricted. “Evi? Is that you?”
Silence.
“Dad?” The eagerness was gone. The hope deflated. “I—uh, didn’t recognize this number. I thought it was someone else.”
