“How bad does it hurt?” Doug asked.
“Not much,” she answered. “Painkillers rule.”
He kissed her neck.
“You scared the shit out of me,” he whispered.
“I thought he was going to kill us all,” Laura said. She wrapped her arms around Doug’s neck. She shuddered. “I thought I’d never see you again. You looked wonderful coming through that door.”
Doug pulled away to look into her sparkling green eyes. “Not as good as you looked lying here alive.”
The edges of her lips turned up in a hint of a Laura Locke smile. She touched her gown. “In this old thing?” she drawled. “I just threw it on.”
“It’s actually the oversized mittens I liked.” He pointed at her bandaged hands. “Women should have never stopped wearing gloves.”
Such witty repartee had always been their shared defense, comedy relief in those early times of canned tuna meals and intermittent steam heat. It had been awhile since they had batted the language back and forth. She sighed at the familiar tone of their banter, like seeing a friend for the first time in years. That’s when Doug knew they would make it through this.
Then Laura’s face went dark again, as if a black memory had come back up for air. She stared back out the window. Her arm tightened around Doug.
“It’s going to be all right, isn’t it?” she whispered.
Doug’s love for her filled him until he thought he would burst. This was all his fault, but he could fix it. He caressed her cheek with his fingertips.
“Everything is going to be fine,” he said. “I promise.”
Rosa Elizondo stood in the hall with a clear plastic dome of fresh shrimp salad in her hands, the reunion’s unseen witness. She shook her head and turned to go home.
Chapter Six
Six months later.
“All right, it’s just around this bend,” Doug said. The suspense had been murderous since they left Knoxville that morning. Finally, the Lockes were moving into their new home.
The process had taken less time than Doug had expected. The NY house sold in twenty-six days for twice what they paid for it. Laura’s medical leave covered her through the end of the school year. Doug quit his job. He explained that he was moving, going to write the Great American Novel. There was enough money in the bank to cover them for at least a year. He remembered the financial weight he put on Laura when he last tried to write full time. That wasn’t going to happen again.
Laura stared out the Volvo’s side window. She wound an empty McDonalds straw wrapper back and forth around her index finger. Doug knew repetitive motion meant pensive emotions.
“You okay, babe?”
“You’re sure about this place, Doug? I mean we bought it and we never set foot in it.”
“It’s been inspected by pros who know more about structural integrity, wiring and plumbing than I ever will. The location is great, the floor plan is perfect. I haven’t been so sure about a decision since I married you.”
Laura rolled her eyes. “This is no time to start sucking up.”
Doug wasn’t exaggerating, though. He was certain about this house. Not because the inspectors had certified it, not because the appraisal came in thirty percent over the asking price, not because the local schools had teacher openings they needed to fill. He was certain before all that. The moment he saw the listing online, before he even clicked on the address to see a picture of the property, he knew this was it. It was as if some benevolent force had twisted the internet’s currents and eddies to direct him to this one perfect house. No, strike that. It was more like something pulled him to the listing. He had to have this place.
The house came into full view as Doug turned into the driveway. The gate under the Galaxy Farm sign was wide open. The imposing white house looked radiant against the blue sky. Its silver roof glittered in the sun. The lawn was lush with the unique green of Kentucky Bluegrass. At the top of the driveway, Dale Mabry sat on the open tailgate of his pickup truck. He waved and flashed an enormous “welcome home” grin.
Laura took a look at the resplendent castle on the hill.
“Oh my God. Doug, its more beautiful than the pictures, isn’t it?”
Doug could barely utter “Uh-huh.” He knew he was home.
“I’m calling dibs on that second-story turret,” Laura said. “I’m writing lesson plans and grading papers looking out that window.”
Doug was so happy Laura had continued to embrace teaching, he’d agree to anything she asked. After the terror in the classroom on Long Island, he had feared she would shrink away from the profession. No way. Laura had faxed resumes and completed phone interviews within a week of closing on the new home. If owning the second-floor turret kept that train rolling, it was hers.
Doug pulled up next to Dale. The realtor hopped off the tailgate and spun a ring of house keys on his finger like a Wild West gunman would a Colt .45. Doug got out of the car while Laura looked over at the just-visible barn.
“Welcome to Moultrie, Homeowner!” Dale boomed. “I’m Dale Mabry.” He slapped the keys into Doug’s outstretched hand then shook with them sandwiched between their palms. Doug had an impression that Dale was in a hurry to go.
“Doug Locke,” Doug said. Laura joined them. “This is my wife, Laura.”
“Pleasure, Ms. Locke,” Dale said. “Gotta say, ain’t never sold a house to someone I never met. This whole proxies and power of attorney thing was something else. But there’s a first time for everything. Let me give you folks the tour.”
They entered into the main living room. A huge, custom-built stone fireplace filled one wall. Polished light oak floors shined like mirrors. An ornate chandelier hung in the center. The room was big, but without furnishings or decorations, it looked immense. Laura gave an audible gasp.
“Galaxy Farm was designed to entertain,” Dale said. “Robert Hutchington built it with the profits from his candy empire. That’s how he named the place.”
“Like Galaxy Bar?” Laura said. “That chocolate, pecan and coconut thing I ate as a kid?”
“Pree-cisely,” Dale said. “Richest folks in the county back then.”
Laura gave Doug a shove. “You didn’t mention that.”
“I didn’t know it,” Doug said. He realized how few his questions were about the place and how he’d brushed aside so many of Laura’s when she asked.
“The Hutchingtons used this room for receptions or for parlor games with guests after dinner,” Dale continued, pressing on with the tour. “All real high society for the 1920s. There’s a stack of seasoned firewood out back for you to light up that fireplace if you want.”
Dale showed them through the dining room, the master bedroom and then into a smaller first-floor room. A bay window with a window seat looked out over the expansive down-sloping backyard and across a pond. Even empty, the sunny room radiated positive energy.
“This room was the nursery when the Hutchingtons lived here,” Dale said. “Still perfect for that if ya’ll get the itch for children.”
Doug shot Laura a quick glance to gauge her reaction, afraid Dale ripped open an emotional wound. She didn’t flinch.
“Now from here you can see your property line,” Dale said. He pointed out the window as he spoke. “The pond and the land on the other side are yours, right up to that cut in the ridge.” The dark pond was easily a hundred yards across. Between the house and the pond stood a large natural gas tank. The ground underneath was charred and a large blackened stump nearby was cut down to the ground. “Big thunderstorm came though a month ago. Lightning hit an old oak over the natural gas tank. Tank’s ground was all wrong and the thing blew a hole in the dirt a few feet deep. But Moultrie Savings and Loan trucked in some earth and fixed it up nice. That tank is brand new, double grounded and will last fifty years.”
“And lightning never strikes the same place twice,” Laura said.
“Especially not with that oak cut down,” Dale said. “I wouldn’t give it a worry. Now from the
other side of the pond, just follow the tree line south to where it cuts back west and that is all yours back to the highway.” The trees ran about three quarters of the way up a hill, leaving the forested top to a neighbor. The fifteen acres were nearly all pasture and dwarfed their postage stamp lot in New York. “Buddy Tucker lives down the road and he’s been keeping the fields mowed for the bank while the place was up for sale. Reckon he’ll keep it up for you for a fair price. You don’t want to let those locust trees run wild. ’Course nothing keeps you from running a few head of cattle out there to keep things trimmed.”
“I think I do,” Laura said.
“Pay for themselves in steak and burgers,” Dale offered.
“Vegetarian,” Doug said, pointing a thumb at his wife. “Fish only. You’d best let this idea go.”
Dale led the three past the renovated kitchen, which glimmered with stainless steel and green LED lights. The bank had revamped the shambles of a kitchen to pass code and make the sale enticing. The three of them mounted the L-shaped stairs that ran along the far wall.
“Four bedrooms upstairs,” Dale said at the top of the stairway. “Three with a full bath.” He opened the door to the turreted room that looked out over the front lawn. “This room’s a real peach.”
The turret filled one corner and lit the rest of the room in blazing daylight. The walls were finished in a light pine. One was all bookcase. Two doors graced the far wall.
Smiling like a kid at Christmas, Laura strode into the room alone, ready to claim the space for Queen and country. Three steps in, she froze. She turned back to face Doug. The smile was gone. In the bright room she looked pale.
“Doug,” she said. “This room is yours.”
“But you had a plan,” Doug said. “Red pens grading tests and all that.”
“No,” she said. She stepped out of the room faster than she entered. “You are making the career change. You’ll be writing here at the house. You need the most inspirational setting. That room is your study.”
Doug didn’t want Laura’s burst of altruism to sabotage her enthusiastic return to work. “No, babe. You called it.”
“It’s yours,” she said, with uncommon finality. “I insist.”
Doug stepped past her into the room. His guilt at taking the room evaporated, replaced by a sense of completeness, of belonging. It was the same feeling that filled him when he first saw the ad for the house, with twice the intensity. He was glad to have this room. Standing in it now, he realized that if Laura hadn’t offered it, he might have demanded it anyway. He was going to do great work in this room. He could feel it.
Doug walked to the first door in the wall and opened it to find a roomy closet, paneled in fragrant cedar. He tried the door next to it. It was locked. The old tarnished brass handle looked like one of the originals from the house, unlike the modern ones everywhere else. There was an antique keyhole below the knob.
“That’s attic access,” Dale explained. “We didn’t even know it was there ’til we pulled the bookcase away from the front of it. The bookcase was nailed to the wall. The key to the door came up missing after the inspection. I’ll give you our locksmith Jake’s number and his service is on the house. Sorry.”
It was agreed that they would sleep in the ground-floor master bedroom. The former nursery downstairs would be Laura’s workspace. Dale walked them back to the front door.
“When do the movers arrive?” Dale asked. As if on cue, a long truck with Empire Moving painted on the side began crunching up the driveway. Laura’s black Honda Civic was on a trailer behind it.
“Looks like now,” Laura said.
Dale caught sight of the truck and looked relieved. “Well, I’ll be out of your hair then. Y’all need anything, you just give me a ring, hear?” Without so much as a wave, Dale was off the porch and in his truck, as if the movers’ arrival had freed him of any further obligation.
“That’s a little abrupt,” Laura observed, watching Dale’s F-150 leave twin trails of dust down the driveway. “People leave burning houses slower than that.”
Doug didn’t hear her. He had the turret room on his mind; planning where to put his desk, his books, his printer. A burly, balding man in gray coveralls approached the porch from the truck.
“I hope youse guys are the Lockes,” he said, thick with the Brooklynese. “’Cause if you ain’t, I’m too lost to ever find ’em.”
Chapter Seven
The clock struck two a.m.. Doug stood in the kitchen in his shorts and t-shirt, a glass of water in his hand. He hadn’t tasted sweeter water than the well water that supplied his new home. He’d been up for an hour, inexplicably awakened at the stroke of one.
He shouldn’t have been awake. He was still exhausted from eight hours of unpacking. Then he and Laura had made love that night with newlywed passion. Doug’s obsession with work the last few years had sapped his fervor for all life’s pleasures, even those in the bedroom. But the anticipation of the move had sparked the old ardor the last few weeks. Doug should have been mentally, emotionally and physically spent. Yet here he was, wide awake in the wee hours.
His new study sang some subconscious siren’s song. It took all his self-control to pass the stairway. But there was no way he was risking waking Laura. She had an interview in seven hours at Moultrie Elementary. He walked into the old nursery. The full moon lit the backyard. Its glow sparkled off the pond beyond. Fireflies danced above the grass like neon pixies. A lone coyote howled in the distance and then the other members of its pack joined in a mournful chorus.
Something stirred by the pond. His first instinct was that the coyotes had loped down for a drink, but it was too tall. Backlit by the moon’s reflection in the pond, the shape was unmistakable. A man. Tall and thin, he paced the south edge of the pond, back and forth across the fresh red clay around the propane tank. He glided along the edge of the water, head turning to scan the shore in all directions. At intervals he probed the ground with a long rod.
The figure first startled then angered Doug. Who the hell was in his backyard at two a.m.? He sure didn’t move out into the boondocks to have his privacy violated. He could have stayed in New York for that.
Dormant primal programming kicked in. Another dog was on his turf. He slipped on his shoes at the back door, flipped on the backyard light and rushed out into the night.
“Hey, what are you doing down there?” he yelled.
The figure paused and looked up at Doug. Even in the far reaches of the porch light, the figure’s eyes flashed like a wild animal. Long, greasy hair framed his narrow, pale face. The man’s dead, unresponsive stare frightened Doug. Doug realized he was unarmed and unprotected with no clue who he was about to confront. The trespasser could have a knife. Hell, this was 2nd Amendment country. He was likely to have a gun. And that wasted expression on his face didn’t paint him as the cool deliberate reasonable type.
The intruder broke left and sprinted. He sailed across the field. His long legs traversed the land with ease. He moved as if he had every dip and stone memorized. In seconds, the darkness swallowed him.
Doug walked at the edge of the pond. Rough-soled boot prints marked the shore, trampled on each other as if a stampede of construction workers had passed through. Small bore holes opened at irregular intervals where the man had probed the ground with the rod, looking for some buried secret.
By now, the intruder would be into the west tree line and long gone. Doug sure as hell wasn’t going to follow him. He’d call the sheriff, but what good would that do, with the perpetrator long gone and the only descriptive details Doug had made the interloper sound more supernatural than substantial.
He’d call the sheriff tomorrow, in the daylight.
Laura woke up weeping.
The dream had been beautiful. She had been sitting behind the new house on a gorgeous spring day. A breeze sweet as honey flitted through the trees. Sunlight shimmered on the pond.
Angelic voices twittered from the side of the house. Two
twin girls raced past Laura to the pond. Their long blonde hair trailed behind them, pennants of youth. They wore matching white dresses that swirled just below their knees as they ran. They could not have been more than six, all radiant smiles and sparkling blue eyes. Their bare feet hit the rich grass. Soft footfalls blended with their high laughter.
“Mother, come down to the pond!” one called. Laura knew the girl’s name was Constance.
“Yes, Mother,” called the other, Elizabeth. “We’re skipping stones all the way across.”
Laura knew their names and knew they were hers, the two girls she lost in St. Luke’s ER. Healthy, happy, beautiful. Everything she’d dreamed of from the moment Dr. Cavanaugh looked at her sonogram and said, “You’re having twins.”
The girls flashed by and Laura tried to give chase. But she could only move in slow motion. The air felt like quicksand around her and the more she tried to force her way through, the harder it resisted. She tried to cry out after her daughters, but her voice was gone, swallowed by the stifling air. Frustration filled her as she watched her children skip down to the pond.
“Mother,” Constance called. “Hurry or you’ll miss all the fun.”
Laura felt that void in her heart she vainly prayed would fade away, that ruptured gap where a child’s death permanently robs a mother of ever being whole. As she had a hundred times over the past few years, Laura awakened crying.
How odd to have images of the house fill her dreams from the first night. There was something else unique about the dream; its digital-signal clarity. Every blade of grass was distinct, every ripple in the porch’s wood grain sharp. Most striking were the girls. So much older than the other dreams and so detailed. Even now she could count the teeth in their smiles as they headed down to the pond. Such clarity only made the pain of the loss more intense.
She wiped away her tears. She hadn’t cried about her lost girls in so long. So much still felt unresolved, a strong current ran under the emotional ice she had frozen over it.
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