by Jeff High
Matthew smiled. “Yeah, I saw more than a few of those in the Navy. Not a pretty sight.” Then, he pursed his lips and spoke guardedly. “Luke, listen. I know this kind of thing makes for a good story in a small town, but if you don’t mind...”
I stopped him in mid-sentence. "Matthew, it's not a problem. I have no need to tell anyone... except perhaps, for my fiancé, Christine. She's expecting me, and I'll need to provide an explanation. We don't keep too many secrets." I paused for a moment, wincing at my half-truth. "Anyway, she's discreet. So, no worries."
“Thanks. I um...I appreciate that.” He cast his gaze downward, deliberating. “Luke, I have another favor to ask.”
I shrugged. “Okay.”
“My reasons for buying the bed and breakfast are many-sided. They involve a mix of issues with my wife’s final wishes. I’d rather not have it under public scrutiny.” Having said this, he paused, gathering himself. Then oddly, he looked to the side and gushed a muted laugh. “Truth is, I wasn’t planning on visitors and hadn’t expected anyone to see that photo. I probably shouldn’t have it sitting out. But, it meant a lot to Emily.” For a second, he drifted; drawn to some distant moment.
“So, I guess what I’m asking is that you keep that knowledge under wraps, at least for now. I’ve got some things I’m trying to work through. I certainly understand confiding in your fiancée. But beyond that, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to anyone.”
His request fostered a dozen more questions. What were Emily’s final wishes? What things was he trying to work through? Naturally, I wanted to know more. But standing before me was a man with a tremendous loss and a simple request. My curiosity would have to wait.
“Sure. Not a problem.”
“Thanks. And thanks for coming to my rescue.”
The humility and sincerity in his voice were so unmistakably genuine that candidly, I felt slightly embarrassed. "Oh, hey, no big deal. Besides," I said jokingly. "You never know. Maybe next time it'll be you coming to my rescue."
He casually slipped his hands in his trousers and smiled. “I doubt that. But I’ll be on the lookout just the same.”
“Well, you’ve got my number. Call anytime.”
“Thanks, we’re fine. We’ll be right here.”
I tightened my coat collar around my neck and turned to leave. But while closing the door behind me, Matthew whispered under his breath, “in omnia paratus.”
After starting the engine, I eased back through town and guided the car into the immense and lonely countryside. The road before me was deserted and black, absorbing the beams of the headlights. I rode along in silence, accompanied only by the drone of the engine and the faint wash of the dashboard lights.
The high clouds had cleared, but the unfinished moon was shy and distant; casting only a dimly luminous pale across the darkened landscape. As the slumbering farmhouses and frozen fields vanished in a blur to either side of me, I pondered; wondering what Matthew had meant by quoting the Latin phrase, "ready for anything." Nothing came to mind. It was yet another twist in the tangle of words and events from the past hour. For now, there were no answers.
Grasping the steering wheel tighter, I sighed deeply and pressed onward into the swallowing darkness. Matthew’s friendliness was unquestioned. But I was troubled. His casual regard of the spectral world was unsettling enough. But all too often there had been a reluctance, an evasiveness in his words; something that went beyond shyness or a desire for privacy. And strangest of all was his desire to keep his wife’s relation to Hiram Hatcher secret.
It made little sense. The people of Watervalley held their family and ancestors in reverence. A bloodline connection would make his interest in the bed and breakfast easily understood and accepted; something that would go far to dispel the rumors that had been created to fill the void. But Matthew didn’t seem to care. Nor, by all appearances, did he seem interested in opening the B&B for business any time soon. Yet, one thing remained certain. As much as I wanted my first impression of Matthew to be correct, a crippling doubt had taken residence in my head. Suspicion now clouded the lens through which I had previously viewed him.
Chapter 11
THE CHAMBERS WOMEN
AT LONG LAST, THE DISTANT lights of Christine's farmhouse came into view. Warmed by the knowledge of seeing her, I put my concerns behind me. Inside, only a small lamp in the living room stood sentry. Christine was asleep, snugly coiled on the couch. I sat on the edge, brushing lightly against her, waking her without words. Her eyes opened slowly; quietly absorbing my presence before softening into an affectionate gaze, made perfect by a tender, sleepy smile. She placed a warm hand against my face and whispered in a voice that was sweet, heartfelt, relieved.
“Good. You’re finally here.”
Drowsy, she closed her eyes again and instinctively nestled closer to me, seemingly content in the knowledge of my safe arrival. I had been irresponsibly late and out of touch, fully expecting to apologize and pay penance for my delay. And yet Christine required none of this, patiently tolerating my absence. I ran my fingers through her hair and knew that I was most fortunate. Soon she was to be a doctor's wife, a role that included some unfair downsides. Knowing this was one thing. Accepting it was another. Christine had already done both.
In time, she sat up and gazed at me through nodding eyes. “Bradford, I’m going up to bed.” She rose and walked toward the stairs in a kind of groggy stagger. I turned off the lamp and half-leaned, half-collapsed against the shoulder of the couch. A couple of hours later, I awoke and stumbled to the guest bedroom. We would talk in the morning.
Breakfast was a late and lazy affair consisting of robes, house shoes, and coffee in the kitchen. I leaned against the counter as Christine and her mother, Madeline leisurely went about the business of frying eggs and country ham, occasionally imploring my help with a minor task or two.
In truth, despite my grousing to Christine the previous evening, I adored Madeline Chambers. A banker’s daughter, she was a petite and handsome woman with a pleasing, graceful manner. Christine’s father, a prosperous farmer, had passed away a decade ago in a tragic farming accident. But there remained between mother and daughter a deep intimacy; a delightful, tender relationship of two who had grown to be best friends.
Our breakfast conversation was light and lively, full of easy laughter. At some point, Madeline made a polite inquiry regarding my late arrival. I casually dismissed it as a house call. An errant glance to Christine conveyed that more was suspected. But Madeline left it at that.
I knew that the two of them telepathically communicated on some mysterious X-chromosome-only frequency. I readily assumed that Madeline was aware of a rift in my response. But, she had far too much tact and courtesy to query further.
After breakfast, we opened gifts and delighted in the small joys and affections of exchanging presents. We were a modest threesome. But even months before the taking of official vows, we were family. In her own way, Madeline was the flawless matriarch, full of warmth and humor and a slow, discerning gentleness. She was engaging and easy company. But this wasn’t true for all the Chambers women.
Near noon Madeline left to pick up Christine’s paternal grandmother, Mattie Chambers, at the airport in Nashville. This was not good news. I had met Mattie the previous Christmas and somehow had never quite won her over with the Bradford charm. Unfortunately, Christine adored her. Me, not so much. She was a blunt, opinionated, and proud Southern farm woman who generally regarded me as if I were a direct descendant of William T. Sherman. She lived in Florida but always came back to the farm every year during the holidays for an extended visit; similar, as I viewed it, to the off-season equivalent of locusts. I could scarcely wait.
That afternoon, Christine and I decided to take a hike up to Bracken’s Knoll, a large, bald hill on the back of the farm that, as a child, had been her favorite place to spend her carefree hours. We set out under a grey, overcast sky that felt close and moist. But our spirits were high,
breathing in deeply of the brisk, clean air of late December. The open countryside was a dormant world of neat fencerows, fallow fields, loamy earth, and broad pastures of hibernating, untamed grass. In the distance, the far, shouldering hills were covered in the delicate mist of winter.
Yet, Christine was energized by all of it. She drew from the land a secret strength; a provincial hardiness rooted from many years among constant hills and familiar skies. Even though the farm was in the slumber of winter, the whole of it felt like a sleeping giant, immense, raw, powerful; filled with a living presence and a romantic abundance.
Along the way, we talked. Christine listened as I related the events of the previous evening, responding with the same fascination and curiosity that I had felt regarding the various twists of the story; especially Matthew's desire to keep his wife's ancestry secret. I chose not to mention the paranormal part of the evening, especially the chanting voices. As impacting and real as they were, I lacked the words to describe the situation properly and, in the light of day, felt rather silly trying to do so. When I finished, Christine readily agreed to Matthew's request for discretion.
In time, we arrived at the pinnacle of Bracken’s Knoll. Awash in an enchanted smile, Christine stopped, closed her eyes, and breathed in a deep draft of the fresh, cold air. As she slowly exhaled, her face seemed transformed. There welled from within her a contentment found only in the thousand-fold memories of this remote hill. In all directions, the rolling plain of the valley floor extended for miles. Christine held out her arms in a euphoric long stretch, seemingly embracing the whole of Watervalley. Beyond any doubt, her mind and soul were intimately woven to this small place on earth.
After finishing the story about Matthew, I had planned on telling her about the letter containing the research offer from Vanderbilt. I didn’t. After seeing her so incandescently happy, my heart couldn’t bring me to it.
At the time, I had no idea that events were already in motion that would make this a profoundly foolish decision.
Chapter 12
THE TALK
I RETURNED HOME THAT evening to an empty house, an empty bed, and a napkin on the kitchen table with the word “Sorry,” written on it. John wasn’t a man for elaborate apologies. I worried about him. He had picked an odd time to break a dry spell.
Christmas had been on Sunday, and I had told Christine that I would be scarce on Monday to avail her the opportunity to spend some quality time with her grandmother. She, of course, saw right through this ploy, knowing that I would rather kiss a goat...twice, than spend five minutes with Mattie Chambers. Sooner or later I'd have to be around the old bat. I chose later.
Late Monday morning, I went next door and collected my two golden retrievers, Rhett and Casper, from my kind and accommodating neighbors. Based on the amount of drool, it appeared the boys were quite happy to see me.
Bowl games were on. So, armed with a load of munchies and the TV remote, I settled into the deep cushions of the couch. Soon afterward, I heard a car pull in to my driveway, and in short order, there was a knock at the door. It was Connie.
“Good morning, sunshine. I didn’t expect to see you today.”
She was carrying a full grocery bag and offered only a puckered frown at my teasing. She headed straight for the kitchen and set the bag on the table. “I brought you some leftovers,” she said dryly.
“Ohhhh, that’s right. Big Christmas dinner at your place. How’d that go?”
"It was fine. All my children made it except for Rayford. He's working as a commodities trader in Chicago now. He wants me to come and visit sometime."
“You should go.”
Connie removed her coat and began putting the leftovers into the fridge. “I will at some point. Maybe when it’s not so cold,” she said vacantly, leaving the subject at that. “We had two whole pies left over, so I brought you one.”
“Is it chess? Please tell me it’s chess.”
“Yes, Little Jack Horner, it’s chess.”
I closed my eyes in satisfaction. "Ahhh. And on the eighth day, God created chess pie, and He saw it was good."
She was unamused. “Be careful how you use the Lord’s name, doctor. You don’t want to appear as a man of low spiritual fiber.”
“I’ll eat more bran.”
“I also brought you all the leftover ham and turkey. I’m thinking about becoming a vegetarian for my New Year’s resolution.”
“Should I put the houseplants on notice?”
Connie regarded me with tired disdain. “Should I grab those wooden spoons over there and play a little tune on your foolish noggin?”
I held up a hand in surrender. “Fine. Suit yourself. Drink green stuff and jog. But the way I see it, the species fought long and hard to get to the top of the food chain. I’m not forfeiting the benefits so readily.”
Connie ignored me and casually changed the subject. “So, how’s your day been?”
“Rough. Just before you got here, I broke off a chip in the dip. So, I sent in a recon chip, and that broke too.”
She ignored this as well. “By the way, I want to thank you for your Christmas gifts. You shouldn’t have gotten me anything, you know.”
“So, I’m guessing you found them along with my note to open them.” I had put Connie’s gifts in her car during the Christmas Eve party. With all the frenzy of the evening, it was the simplest way to be sure she got them.
"I did, but I have to ask, what is the Fruit and Nut of the Month Club?"
"They send you a basket each month. It's supposed to be super, high-quality stuff."
“So, it’s for real?”
“Sure. Why wouldn’t it be?”
Connie shook her head and laughed, clearly amused. “Luke, dear, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but the combination of fruity and nutty along with your endless capacity for childishness made me think you were up to something.”
“Oh, I see. Well, I guess that does sound like me. But, no. It’s the real deal.”
Connie smiled. “It sounds lovely. Thank you. And thank you for the other gift as well.”
“Ouch. That last part sounded a little too diplomatic.”
“No, it’s fine. I’m just not sure what the point of it is.”
“It’s an ancestry DNA kit. You put some saliva in the tube and send it off. Or, if you prefer...in your case, venom works just as well.”
Connie returned to her task. “Umm hmm,” she hummed dispassionately. “And what will that tell me?”
"It will give you a pie chart of what countries your bloodlines are from, you know, like Kenya, Turkey, Sweden...Krypton."
Connie put away the last of the food and shrugged. “I guess it’s worth a go.”
“Well, try to curb your enthusiasm there, bubbles. All the cool kids are doing it. I thought you’d find it interesting.”
“Oh, I’m sure I will,” she said absently. The napkin on the table caught her attention.
“That looks like John’s handwriting. I'd heard a rumor that he had spent the night here Christmas Eve."
“Yeah, well bad news always seems to have a longer stride than the other kind.”
"Hmm, hmm, hmm," Connie muttered. "John will be getting his second liver transplant before he admits to his alcohol problem."
“I know. He didn’t seem himself. Except for you and me, I don’t think he talked to a soul the other night.”
Connie shook her head. “John’s not one to make friends with humans. I figured out a long time ago that for him, there are two categories of people in Watervalley.”
“Oh, really? What are they?”
“Doesn’t matter. He doesn’t like either kind.”
“Well, Ann will be back in a couple of days. Maybe that will boost his spirits.”
“You think they’re getting serious?” Connie inquired.
“Hard to say. I think she’s been good for him. But here lately, I don’t know. I hope he’s not falling back into a reclusive funk.”
Connie shrug
ged and rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “I doubt it. Ann’s smart and John’s not a bad catch. He’s a clean, one-owner model with relatively low mileage. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were married by summer.”
"You think so?"
“Maybe,” she said lightly. Then, after a moment’s reflection, she looked at me and spoke sternly. “But don’t tell anybody I said so. If it doesn’t happen, I wouldn’t want to lose any street cred.”
She paused and looked around the kitchen which, undeniably was in slight disarray from my chosen holiday laziness. “So, you have big plans for the day?”
“I was thinking about inviting some of the regulars from down at the Alibi Road House to come over. You know, slumber party, drinkey, drinkey, limbo contest...just the normal stuff.”
Connie spoke dryly. "Umm-hmm. Fascinating. Well, while you're planning your little shindig, you might want to think about taking tidiness for a test drive."
I stiffened, both surprised and amused at her allegation. “Something on your mind, Constance Grace?”
“Yeah. I’m thinking right now might be a good time for the talk.”
I shrugged. “Works for me.”
Connie nodded. She instinctively pulled out one of the chairs away from the kitchen table and sat down. I followed suit. Her voice was kind but direct.
"Luke, dear. You realize that after you get married, I'll no longer be coming around to help with the housework. This will be Christine's house, and she doesn't need me in the way."
“Okay, fair enough.”
"The wedding will be a blur, and I'm sure the honeymoon will be glorious. And for the first few weeks after you get back, everything will still be fresh and new and exciting. Both of you will be bending over backward to be considerate and affectionate to each other. It will be like living a dream."
I nodded attentively, wondering where this was going. Connie continued.
“But then one day you’ll both wake up and realize that the lawn needs mowing, the bathroom needs cleaning, and the garbage needs to be taken out. And that’s where I’m a little concerned. It’s about your domestic skills.”
