“George?” I call as I let myself into the cottage. I turn toward the kitchen, expecting wonderful smells to be emanating from it. But there’s nothing. The light isn’t even on. The front door wasn’t locked, so my landlady has to be here. “George?” I call again.
“In here,” a voice replies. I follow it into the living room. Though the day is dark and dreary, there’s no light on in there either. George is lying on the couch.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t realize you were napping. I should have thought. After the bazaar, of course you’re tired.”
“Turn the light on, Dani.” She gestures to a floor lamp across the room. “I wish it was just that. Yes, I’m tired, but that’s not the issue. I’m afraid I’ve thrown my back out.” She winces as she pushes herself up into a sitting position.
“Oh, no.” I wince right along with her. “Is there anything I can do?”
She shakes her head. “It’ll fix itself — eventually.”
“What happened? Were you lifting something heavy?”
“No. Nothing like that. It was stupid, really. After I cleaned up my station at the bazaar and got everything put away at this end, I celebrated with a nice deep breath, which sent my back muscles into revolt.” She starts to chuckle and then winces again. “They can’t handle too much oxygen at one time anymore.” She grins and immediately grimaces again. “They can’t take a joke either.” She uses the arm of the couch to help her stand.
I hurry over. “Do you need something? Just tell me. I’ll get it.”
George continues to struggle to her feet. “That’s nice of you to offer, dear, but I need to pee, and I’m fairly certain you can’t help me with that. Besides, I have to make supper.”
“I can do that,” I say, as I take her arm. “You’re in a lot of pain, George. Maybe I should call a doctor.”
She slaps my hand. “Stop fussing. I’ll be fine. I already called my doctor. This back thing is nothing new. He’s phoned a prescription into the pharmacy in Merritt. I’ll pick it up tomorrow.”
“I can pick it up for you right now,” I say. “And you’re not going to talk me out of it, George, so don’t even try.”
“I appreciate the thought, Dani, but you won’t make it out of Farrow. When it rains, the dirt road leading to the highway becomes a quagmire. Unless your little car has four-wheel drive, you’ll never get through.”
Having just battled another of Farrow’s mud roads, I know George is right.
“Okay,” I concede. “But there’s no way you can drive in your condition. I’ll pick up your prescription first thing tomorrow. In the meantime, I’m making supper. You just take it easy.” When she opens her mouth to protest, I add, “Save your breath. You’re not the only one who can be stubborn.”
Sunday morning is nothing but blue sky, making Saturday’s deluge seem eons ago. It’s unbelievably warm too, and I drink my coffee on George’s front porch. When I’ve tidied up from breakfast and made George as comfortable as I can, I hop in my car and head off to the pharmacy in Merritt. I’m glad I didn’t tell my mother I was coming home, since I’m clearly not — at least not until George is feeling better.
I’m a bit uneasy about venturing onto the muddy road, but most of yesterday’s rain has either soaked in or run off, and aside from throwing mud all over the place (I wouldn’t want to be a pedestrian) my little Honda rolls right along. In a single day it’s gone from shiny silver to muck brown, but a good cleaning will fix that, so I resolve to spend the afternoon giving it a bath. The prospect lifts my spirits even more. It’s a nothing-can-go-wrong kind of a day. Only good things can happen.
Maybe that’s why I get sidetracked on the way back from Merritt. I’ve just turned off the highway and am squishing my way along the muddy road, window open, singing along with the radio, when I smell wood smoke. It reminds me of bonfires at Sam’s trailer and I inhale deeply, suddenly wrapped in warm memories. Up ahead I see a plume of grey spiralling into the sky, and off to the right a narrow driveway twists into the leafless trees, leading to an old cabin. It’s like being smacked in the face with a wet cloth. Something about that cabin says Sam. I don’t know what, but there’s something, and I can’t ignore it.
Without stopping to think what I’m doing, I turn into the driveway. I have no idea who lives here, but people in Farrow are so friendly, I’m sure it’ll be okay. I’ll ask about Sam. Who knows? I might even get some answers.
It isn’t until I get almost to the cabin that I see the truck, and my spirits fall like a deflated soufflé. This must be where the girl lives.
Now all I want to do is leave. But as I go to put the car in reverse, I notice the gloves on the passenger seat. Damn! Growling under my breath, I switch off the car and grab the gloves. I shake them crossly. If the girl so much as looks at me funny, I’m going to swat her with them.
I march up to the log cabin, past terracotta pots filled with last year’s shrivelled plants, a stone sun dial fringed with moss, and a rusty wagon wheel propped against a stack of firewood. Tattered cobwebs cling to the eaves and abandoned cocoons huddle in the chinks of the log walls. An old straw broom stands near the front door beside a jute mat with the greeting Go Away.
I’m tempted.
But I take a fortifying breath of spring air instead, and knock.
Chapter Thirteen
“One Mississippi, two Mississippi,” I mutter. If I get to ten and the door hasn’t opened, I’m dropping the gloves and leaving.
It cracks open on nine. With sleeves rolled up and muddy hands and arms held in front of her like a doctor preparing for surgery, the girl frowns at me. I mentally swat her with the gloves.
“You left these in my car,” I say, holding them out.
Her frown dissolves. She hip checks the door open all the way and nods to a table inside. “Could you put them over there?” Then she grabs a rag that’s already as muddy as her arms and attempts to clean herself.
I step inside. The cabin is a single room — a good size, though not huge, with sitting area, kitchen, bedroom, and some sort of workspace all rolled into one. The furniture is old, assorted discards from someone’s attic by the look of it. Nothing matches. Still, a patchwork quilt, dried flowers, a bowl of potpourri, plump cushions, and a crackling fire in a pot-bellied stove give it a cozy feel. “Peer Gynt” is playing softly in the background. The cabin is way too pleasant and friendly to belong to this girl.
A shrill whistle pierces the air, shattering the mood. The girl removes a kettle from a hotplate and the whistling stops.
“I’m making tea,” she says. “You can have some if you want.”
It’s not exactly a Martha Stewart invitation. In fact, it almost feels like the girl wants me to say no, but I’m not going to let her win at that game, so I tell her, “Sure,” and shut the door. That’s when I realize she and I don’t even know each other’s names. “By the way, I’m Dani Lancaster.”
She nods and goes back to her tea-making.
“And you are —?”
She looks up again. “You mean my name?”
No, your age in dog years, I think sarcastically, but I don’t so much as move my lips. I just nod.
“Alex,” she replies. “Alex Burke.”
I think of several things to say — all questions — but I don’t ask them. She’ll think I’m prying again. Thankfully, “Peer Gynt” fills the dead air.
“Do you take anything in your tea?” Alex says. “It’s chai green.”
“No. I’m good,” I say as I join her at the small wooden table where she’s placed our mugs.
The tea is scalding hot, but Alex drinks it without even flinching.
“How did you find me?” she asks.
“I was coming back from Merritt and saw the smoke.” I shrug. “It looked inviting so I turned into the driveway. When I realized it was your place, I figured it was as good a time as any to return your gloves. I see you got your truck back.”
She nods.
I glanc
e at her dirty hands. “And your mud.”
She rolls her eyes. “I told you — it’s not mud. It’s clay.” She gestures to the work area behind her. “I’m a potter.”
“Really?” A bell tinkles in my head, and I dig into my jacket pocket for the business card the girl at the bazaar gave me.
“Where’d you get that?” she asks when I pull it out.
“Alex Burke, Handcrafted Pottery,” I read. It’s followed by a website address and a cellphone number. I look up. “That’s you?”
She takes another sip of her tea. “According to my birth certificate.”
I strain to see over her shoulder into the work area. “I thought you were a guy. I mean, I thought Alex Burke was a guy. You made all that beautiful pottery at the bazaar?”
“You liked it?” She tries to sound cool and disinterested, but she can’t completely hide her pleasure at the compliment.
“Are you kidding? It was fabulous! But it was all sold by the time I got there. That’s why I picked up your card. I was hoping to buy some privately. Do you have any more pieces?” I’m still trying to see past her so she pushes herself away from the table and gestures for me to follow her.
“Not much right now. The bazaar more or less cleaned me out,” she says, leading the way into the studio part of the cabin. “I’m working on some new stuff, but it won’t be done for a few days. Are you looking for anything particular?”
“Not really. At the risk of giving you a swelled head, I pretty much loved everything I saw. My mom is an interior designer, and I wanted to buy some pieces for her.”
Alex stops and turns back to me. She seems genuinely interested. “Really?”
“Yeah. So what do you have?”
Alex digs around in a cupboard and through some boxes and comes up with a bowl, a platter, a Japanese-style teapot, and a couple of mugs. Then she pulls a binder down from a shelf and flips it open. It’s filled with photos of her work.
“These pieces are all I have on hand at the moment, but I have pictures of everything I’ve ever made — even the really bad stuff. Looking at those helps me remember where I started and how far I’ve come.” She smiles self-consciously.
I pull out my phone. “May I take some pictures of your pictures? To show my mom.”
She nods.
“And if these pieces are for sale, I’ll take this one,” I say, running a hand over the platter. I take photos of the pottery. “How much is it?”
She shakes her head. “No charge. You can have it.”
“No way,” I protest. “I know what you were selling your stuff for at the bazaar, and I also know that’s cheap compared to what they would retail for in Vancouver stores. You can’t give this away.”
“Consider it my way of apologizing,” she says.
“Apologizing? For what?”
She rolls her eyes. “How about for being a major bitch. I know how I’ve acted. I’ve been totally rude and nasty to you since the first time we met.”
I shrug. “True.” Then I add hastily, “But that doesn’t mean you have to give your pottery away. A simple I’m sorry would work too.”
“I am sorry. Really. I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m not usually so snarky. It’s just that my dad dropped a bomb on me the day I talked to you at the cemetery, and I was in panic mode.” She shrugs. “So I took it out on you.”
“Is everything okay now?”
She wanders back to the table and throws herself into her chair. “It’s not the end of the world or anything like that,” she says. “Well, not exactly, though it feels like it.”
I sit down across from her and sip my tea.
“Until last June, I lived in Merritt with my parents. Then out of the blue, my dad and mom decided to pick up and move to Ontario. My dad got offered some big promotion and he took it. Fine for them, but I’ve lived my whole life in Merritt. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to stay right where I’ve always been and do my pottery.” She sighs. “Well, that idea went over like a lead balloon. My father has no use for artsy-fartsy stuff, as he calls it. He wants me to go to university and become a teacher or lawyer or accountant — something with a degree and a regular salary. Ever since I graduated from high school last year, it’s been an ongoing war between us. If it weren’t for my mom, we probably would’ve killed each other by now. I don’t know how she managed it, but somehow she convinced my dad to let me stay. She even talked him into giving me a monthly allowance — not much, but enough to pay for my food and other basics.” She holds her hands out to take in the room. “The cabin belongs to my grandparents. It’s been in the family forever, and they let me stay in it rent-free. The truck I bought dirt cheap. It’s not much, but it gets me from here to there and gives me a way to get clay and to transport my pottery. It’s a pretty bare-bones existence, but I’m okay with it.”
I regard her over the top of my mug. “But —”
She sighs again. “But on Thursday morning my dad called to say that as of June 1st, he’s cutting off my allowance. If I agree to go to university in Toronto, he’ll pay my way east and even cover the cost of my classes, but if I decide to stay in B.C., I’m on my own. Pa-dum-pum! Talk about having the rug pulled out from under me. I’m not making a lot of money from my pottery — still not self-sufficient, but things are definitely moving in the right direction. Without my parents’ support, though, there’s no way I can continue.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know yet. But I’ll figure something out.” She points to my mug. “More tea?”
“Sure,” I say. “Thanks.”
She grabs both mugs and heads over to the counter. “So what brings you to Farrow?”
“I’m trying to find my father. Well, not him exactly. He’s dead. I’m trying to track down his roots. I want to know where I came from. But it’s tough. My dad was left on the doorstep of John and Hannah Swan when he was just a few days old. He never knew who his birth parents were. I came here hoping I could find out.”
“Any luck?”
“No. It’s just been one dead end after another.”
“So are you giving up?”
Her words catch me by surprise. They’re almost like an accusation or a dare. The truth is I was giving up. If George hadn’t hurt her back, I’d be on my way to Vancouver this very minute. But she did hurt her back, and that made me stay. Then I was pulled into Alex’s driveway by nothing more than woodsmoke. Maybe it’s just serendipity, but it looks like I’m not finished in Farrow after all.
With renewed determination, I shake my head. “Giving up? No. Are you?”
She doesn’t answer, but I didn’t expect her to. I change the subject.
“You’re lucky to live in Farrow. Small towns are great. The people are friendly. The pace is slower. There’s actually time to smell the roses.”
“Pretty soon all there’ll be is roses,” Alex snorts. “Farrow is on its last legs. People don’t want to leave, but they have no choice. There are lots of craftspeople here. You saw what it was like at the bazaar. So many talented artisans. But without a bigger population or at least steady traffic through the town, there’s no way for them to sell their wares. They’ve toughed it out as long as they can. It’s time to go.”
“But that just seems so wrong. What would make them stay?”
“Services, for one thing, like decent roads and clean water. And industry. People need jobs. When Farrow started out, it had mining and the railroad. But those are long gone. What industry is going to move into Farrow now?”
Without warning, Alex’s words ignite a fuse in my head, and my brain suddenly explodes like a fireworks display with ideas shooting in every direction.
Chapter Fourteen
My head is buzzing like a bee’s nest. Alex has stirred up so many ideas, I don’t know which one to act on first. All I know is that if I can convert my brain waves into actual plans, I might have the answers to a lot of people’s problems. As soon as I get back to The Apple T
ree and give George her medicine, I hole up in my bedroom to make some phone calls.
First my mother.
“Hey, Mom,” I say when she picks up, “did you get the photos I sent you?”
“On my phone?”
“Yes.” Obviously my mother hasn’t checked her messages. “I sent them a few minutes ago.”
“I was talking with a client. As soon as I hung up, you called. I haven’t had a chance to check for messages.”
“Do it now. Please,” I add before she can get on my case for being pushy or rude — maybe both. “Then call me back. This is important.”
I end the call before she can protest. If she wants to give me heck, she’ll have to return my call.
After two minutes, my phone is still quiet. I stare at it hard, willing it to ring. When it does, I pick up before it’s even finished its first chime.
“Well?” I blurt anxiously.
“Yes, I am well. Thanks for asking, Dani.”
“Mother!” I fume. “Don’t be funny. What did you think of the pictures? Isn’t the pottery fabulous?”
She laughs. “Good Lord, Dani. I can’t remember the last time you were this excited. What’s gotten into you? Does this have something to do with Sam?”
That takes a bit of the wind out of my sails. It also surprises me a little. I am excited, but it isn’t about Sam. In fact, for the last hour I haven’t thought about Sam at all. A wave of guilt washes over me, but I can’t let it douse my fire, so I push it from my mind. “No. It doesn’t. Every lead I’ve followed has fizzled out — so far. That doesn’t mean I’m giving up, though,” I add hastily. “I’m sure somebody around here knows something. I just haven’t found that person yet.
In Search of Sam Page 8
