by Неизвестно
I returned to the house, opened her medicine cabinet, and threw everything that looked feminine into the trash can. When the bedroom seemed clear, I walked out into the common room to look for more. A ceramic vase caught my eye, and the impulse to fling it to the tile floor was strong. But I fought it. This was Mitchell’s house, not Sheila’s. And none of this was his fault.
When I could find nothing else that appeared to have been hers, I allowed myself to slump into the chair by the roll-top desk, lay my head down on my arm, and give in to the tears I had suppressed all day. I hadn’t cried since discovering the torn picture of myself as a toddler, and I hoped not to cry over Sheila ever again.
My birth mother had been a convicted criminal. It was reality, and somehow or other, I had to learn to live with it.
The pieces fit all too well. Sheila’s rootlessness, her lack of friends. The fact that she had, at least according to Estelle, been living out of a car. She had been an ex-con, with no family and no support system. She would have had trouble finding employment. She would have had trouble finding a place to live.
What do you do for a living?
I had asked the question innocently that day at the coffee shop. I had wondered if she shared my interests: writing, acting, children’s education. I had thought her answer vague even at the time, though I had no reason, then, to be suspicious.
I’m between jobs right now, she had said with a smile. But I’ve done a variety of things. What about you?
She had turned the question back onto me, as she had done on numerous other occasions during that interview. She had seemed interested in everything about me, and I had been happy to oblige. Only afterwards did I realize how little I had learned about her.
When the worst of my sobs had subsided, I grabbed a tissue from the desktop and dried my raw cheeks. The Black family portrait caught my eye, and I reached up and pulled it from the wall, touching the glass beside Mitchell’s face lightly with my finger.
"I’m sorry," I whispered. "I’m sorry this had to happen." I thought about how differently things might have turned out had he and Sheila never met, and the image of his sunny, open smile haunted me. He looked so sweet. So vulnerable. Sheila had taken away his loneliness for a while. But being with her had cost him everything.
Another round of tears threatened, but the bulk of the pressure had lifted. I replaced the picture and stood up. "What Sheila did to you is not my fault, Mitchell," I whispered, remembering resolution #2. "But I am sorry that it happened. And there is something I can do now to help make it right."
My eyes moved down toward the young images of Fletcher and Tia, and I set my jaw with determination. They had worried about their inheritance long enough. Today had been my deadline. No other potential heirs of Sheila’s had come forward, and any stragglers were out of luck. I would not have Sheila’s ill-gotten gains on my conscience any longer.
I leaned down, picked up the phone, and called my home number. Last chance for heirs from the woodwork, I thought to myself ruefully, listening for the waiting-message tone. My nerves were taut, and I despised the now-familiar feeling. The revelations about Sheila had been bouncing my emotions up and down like a yo-yo, and it was time I steadied myself by gaining some distance. If I didn’t, I would never get rid of the crushing fear that another bigger, and even more horrible, bomb was set to drop.
"Meara," the message began, "it’s Alex. I know you’re not at the house, but give me a call when you can, okay? I did find out something for you—about land values in the Laurel Mountains. I think you’ll want to hear it."
There were no more messages. Both relieved and disappointed, I hung up the phone. I had asked Alex several days ago why real estate in this area might be valuable. Now that I knew I had no claim to it, I wasn’t certain I still wanted the answer.
My fingers dialed his number anyway.
"Meara!" he exclaimed, answering on the second ring. "So glad you got the message. Hey, about what you asked me—I did find something. Word has it that a major developer has been looking into that area for one of those all-inclusive ski resort complexes. The upscale kind, gargantuan, with its own spa and outlet mall. Year-round activities. You get the idea. Meara? You there?"
My heart fell. "I’m here."
"The problem is that they need a huge tract of land," Alex continued, "and that means negotiating with multiple sellers. My understanding is that so far they haven’t been able to get what they want, even though the real estate agencies out there are practically tripping over each other to get the locals to cooperate.
"So tell me," he finished, his voice turning playful. "Why did you ask? Please say there’s money in this for me. You know how much I want that PT Cruiser—"
"Thanks, Alex," I interrupted. I glossed over the question of my interest in the topic, diverting him back to the abatement and more mundane issues. Then I thanked him again and hung up.
I glared at the young Fletcher in the picture, my pride in my character-judging abilities temporarily quashed. "Well, that explains that," I muttered. No wonder he had been rushing me—he wanted my signature before I found out how much the land was really worth. "You don’t care what happens to this place, do you?" I accused the boy in the photograph. "All you want is to take your money and run. Of all the horrible, selfish, short-sighted…"
I bolted out of the chair and paced the common room, my wrath increasing. Mitchell’s body was barely cold, and his children were already plotting to sell their family heritage? How could anyone grow up in the midst of such natural beauty—such a rare, unspoiled parcel of wilderness as this—and appreciate it so little? How could they sleep at night knowing that for the sake of a few lousy bucks they would be handing a death sentence to this entire area of the ridge?
"I don’t care if it is your land, Fletcher Black," I hissed, turning on my heels and stomping toward the door. "I will not let you destroy it."
***
This time, I had come prepared. Not only did my car contain everything I would need to survive in a motel during the mold abatement, but I had also included a few extras in case I decided to tarry in the Laurel Mountains. And tarry I would—starting right now. My hiking boots were on, I was decked out in comfortable jeans, and I even had a backpack complete with compass and flashlight. No mountain man was going to evade me now.
I had thought, after the funeral, that Fletcher might accompany me back to the inn. He had not. When I had finished my conversation with Stephie he was nowhere to be seen, and I assumed that he had returned to his cabin. I was assuming now that he would still be there.
I headed off over the meadow, anger fueling my every step. I was not the sort of person who angered either easily or often, but when it came to an issue I felt passionate about, all bets were off. And defending the environment—unfortunately for the Black children—was one of my greatest passions.
I crossed the meadow with resolve, though when I passed in front of the white frame house, the same curious sense of familiarity that had accosted me the last time I passed it reasserted itself, breaking my focus.
"What?" I said out loud, irritated. I stopped and allowed myself to stare. Architecturally unimpressive, the two-story clapboard house was a mish-mash of original farmhouse and amateurish additions, with three different colors of roofing, at least two kinds of siding, and a host of areas in which raw wood appeared to be rotting. It might have been comfortable once upon a time, but at present "uninhabitable" was generous.
And yet it seems so warm. So happy.
I frowned. There was nothing enticing about what I was seeing. Absolutely nothing. If anything, it was downright spooky.
Crawling up into the porch swing…
I felt a coldness in the pit of my stomach, and shook myself. No. I put my eyes back on the ground and marched on. There was no giant porch swing here, and I would not allow myself to be distracted. I was on a mission. I had to confront Fletcher, and I had to do it before he slunk off to the West Coast again. True—I hadn
’t a clue where his cabin was. The only directions I had were David Falcon’s words: just over the hill. But they would have to do.
I headed up the same trail I had taken the other day, but with the proper gear, I moved more quickly. An outlet mall, I thought bitterly as I climbed. With the beauty of the forest’s mature canopy hitting me square in the face at every step, the very thought of developers flashing their fat wallets at Mitchell’s children sickened me.
So why was Fletcher still in Pennsylvania, and why had he come to the funeral? If he was trying to win me over with charm, he was in desperate need of some tutelage. More likely, he was as interested as I was in seeing who else from Sheila’s past might turn up. He would love to find out about another burned ex-husband or two, wouldn’t he? It would be very helpful in shoring up his case when he contested the inheritance.
I reached the clearing where I had encountered him a few days ago and tried to find the path he had taken when he left. But the only visible trails were the one on which I had come up and another at the opposite pole, both of which swept back down the hillside.
No trail, eh? I scowled, but my determination only grew. Of course there wouldn’t be an obvious trail to his cabin. He was probably the only one who made the trek, and he wouldn’t want any old guest of the inn to wander over. "Tough," I grumbled as I climbed.
I moved slowly but doggedly upward for some time, and when at last I reached the summit of the hill, I exhaled with satisfaction. The view was breathtaking. I had no idea how much of the land stretching before me had belonged to Mitchell Black, but owning even a portion of it must feel like having a piece of heaven. My lungs pulled in pure breaths of mountain air while my eyes delighted in the contrast of blue sky and brilliant green. I could see the inn, with its parking lot in front and meadow behind, as well as part of the white house. There didn’t appear to be any other buildings on that slope, and while I could see a few other roofs on outlying hills, for the most part, the natural splendor of the view was intact.
Musing about how much good such a hike would do my fifth-graders, I turned and looked out over the hill’s far side. Where was Fletcher’s cabin? I had not thought, in my angry haze, that a small, one-story structure might be difficult to see amidst the leaves. Still, if a vehicle of any sort could manage to reach it, there must be a narrow lane snaking up toward it from somewhere.
I walked back and forth on the hill’s crest, but quickly became frustrated. The slope on this side was more gentle and irregular, and large portions of it were blocked from my view.
Think, Meara, I demanded, having no intention of giving up. If you owned this land, where would you put a cabin?
I looked over what I could see of the terrain with a critical eye. I would want a good view of the mountains, so my cabin would have to be somewhere near the top, in a small clearing. But I wouldn’t want it too exposed, either, if I valued my privacy when hikers were about. Perhaps I would set it back into a natural plateau…
My eyes fell upon what could be just such a site, almost directly below me, and I smiled. It was certainly worth a try.
I had moved only a few hundred feet before I was stopped short by a sound that first startled, then delighted me. It was the buzzing of some sort of power tool, and it was fairly close by. I grinned. It was possible that someone else could be up here, collecting firewood. But the odds were that it was Fletcher himself—giving his location away as surely as with a flare gun.
Shortly after, I spied the cabin. It was exactly where I had thought it might be, resting atop a small plateau, nestled snugly into the hillside with hardly a tree sacrificed on either side. But its location was one of the few things I was right about.
I had been expecting a rustic hunting cabin—a one- or two-room shanty, perhaps without plumbing. But the structure I approached was hardly a hovel. Though small, it was relatively new and smartly built, with thick log walls and a high-pitched, sturdy roof. Large windows and skylights ensured a bright interior, and the stone chimney arising from its center bespoke year-round coziness. A mud-covered pickup truck was parked on a smaller plateau below, out of sight of the front windows.
The buzzing sound stopped, and for a moment I thought my presence had been discovered. But I saw no one. The noise had been coming from the opposite side of the cabin, and as I walked around the front porch I could see a large stone patio, adjacent to a glass-walled sunroom, that served as an outdoor workshop. A four-foot stretch of log stood up on sawhorses; a chain saw rested on the ground beside it.
My brow wrinkled. How could any man who appreciated this natural setting enough to build such a perfect cabin—which I had to admit showed distinct shades of Frank Lloyd Wright—even consider selling it, knowing it would be destroyed?
My hackles rose again.
So where was he? My eyes were drawn farther into the trees, and I noted an outbuilding I couldn’t immediately classify. It was some sort of pavilion, but instead of hosting picnic tables, this shelter hosted logs. Row after row of tree trunks of all sizes were stacked from its floor to its ceiling, carefully separated by wooden pallets. Between the rows of timber I could see a flash of red, and in the next moment, Fletcher walked out beside it, a short section of log in hand.
It was several seconds before he saw me standing quietly next to his sawhorses. When he did, the expression of shock on his face could not have been greater had I been wearing pink spandex and aiming at him with a semi-automatic weapon.
"Meara," he gasped, setting down the log with a thump and narrowly missing his own foot in the process. "How did you get here?"
He was back in his customary getup again—faded red tee shirt, even more faded jeans, and work boots, and the unpretentious ensemble was such a natural fit it seemed impossible that I had just seen the same man in a thousand-dollar suit. Had his face not still been clean shaven, I might have suspected I hadn’t. But he was the same man. The same, spoiled rich man who held what must be a very lucrative job in California, yet who came out here, to the wilderness, to get his feet muddy and play with power tools. Did he think of all this as a game?
"I flew," I responded.
He looked back at me sternly. "Why are you here?" he inquired, walking forward. He pulled off his work gloves and lay them on top of the log he had been sawing, then faced me squarely, putting himself between me and the cabin. His posture wasn’t threatening, but he was not asking me in for a drink, either.
"I’m here," I explained, my voice unmistakably bitter, "to tell you that I’m on to you now. I know about the development deal."
A flash of distress passed through his eyes, along with a touch of despair, either of which might have moved me had they been motivated by a goal halfway noble. But his body language remained defensive. "I see," he said simply. Then he turned away from me and picked up his work gloves again.
"And I’m here to tell you," I continued, irritated further by his nerve in ignoring me, "that I’m not going to let you get away with it."
He raised a pair of goggles over his eyes and picked up the chainsaw, then spoke without looking at me. "Step back, please."
A wave of fury swept over me, and I reached in to wrest the chain saw from his hands. He held onto it, looking at me in astonishment. "Are you crazy? I could have turned this on."
"Why don’t you?" I baited, my rare ire in full swing. "Why don’t you butcher every tree on this place right now? Or perhaps you’d rather rent a bulldozer and take out the whole hillside yourself? You might as well!"
He pulled the goggles off again, displaying wide eyes. He ripped the chainsaw from my hands and sat it down on the ground. "What are you talking about?"
"You know very well what I’m talking about!" I shouted. I started to say more, but contained myself. Yelling at him might make me feel better, but it wouldn’t change his mind. For that, I would have to get more creative.
On impulse, I reached out and grabbed the sleeve of his shirt. There wasn’t much slack around his biceps, but I was too d
isgusted with him to want to take his hand. "Come with me," I urged, pulling him toward the plateau’s edge. He followed, unresisting, as I had learned most men would when dragged by a person half their size. We had only to move a few steps before a dazzling view of the valley presented itself.
"How can you not see what you have here?" I asked, my voice firm, but not quite so shrewish. "You grew up with this, didn’t you? You grew up with forests all around you. Is that how you can take them for granted?"
A partially rotted tree stump rose up from the ground beside me, and I hopped up onto its uneven surface. I was used to sparring with ten- and eleven-year-olds, and I hated losing my height advantage. "I’ll tell you the same thing I tell my students in the suburbs, who don’t appreciate nature either, unless they’re taught. This tree right here," I instructed, pointing downward, "was probably two hundred years old when it died. Think about that! It could have been a sapling when George Washington marched through here. And there are others like it, all over these mountains. But not very many anymore, because people are cutting them down every day for any number of idiotic reasons. I’ve hiked all over this ridge, and this place is one of the biggest undeveloped, relatively undisturbed areas I’ve seen. For all you know, it could be the last one with any virgin timber. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?"
I paused to take a breath, and to try and assess his response. But his expression was inscrutable. Outwardly he seemed as perturbed as ever, yet at the same time there was an unfamiliar twinkle in his eye. Could it possibly be amusement?
"This is not funny!" I raged, offended. Whether I looked amusing hopping up and down on a tree stump like the Lorax was not relevant. "Your parents would never have sold this place, would they? You know that. And yet the second they’re gone you’re ready to sell it to the highest bidder! This forest will die, Fletcher. They’ll clear-cut the slopes for the ski runs; bulldoze half the mountain—and for what? So that a bunch of shallow women can get mud facials while their pampered teens stock up on designer underwear, that’s what! You know all those trickling little brooks down there? The ones you probably hunted for crayfish in when you were little? Well, they’ll be nothing but parking lot drainage ditches, hauling off melted snow stained gray from SUV exhaust. Is that what your parents would have wanted? Your grandparents? Is that what you really want?"
