Message in the Sand

by Hannah McKinnon

  “What on earth were they doing there?” she’d cried.

  Wendell sounded chagrined. “They asked me if I would consider being their guardian.”

  “Good Lord. Not this again.”

  At first Julia feared she’d gotten Wendell in trouble, but luckily, Candace blamed only her. As she ferried Pippa up the stairs to bed, Julia overheard their conversation below. “Mr. Combs, please forgive the terrible interruption of your night. That child has been asking every Tom, Dick, and Harry to adopt her in her efforts to stay here. She is out of control, I’m very sorry she’s dragged you into this.”

  The next morning, to Julia, she said, “This idea of finding a new family has taken over your judgment. You’re becoming a negative influence on your little sister, and now you’re interfering with our neighbors and with Mr. Combs. This must end here.”

  There was no way around it: she had to tell Candace the truth. “It’s actually just beginning.” When Candace looked confused, she added, “I told you Pippa and I don’t want to leave, but you didn’t take me seriously. So I found someone who will. I hired a lawyer.”

  Candace actually laughed. Julia couldn’t believe it; adults had the strangest reactions to serious news. “Mr. Banks? I’m afraid he’s the family attorney, Julia. He cannot represent you or your foolish notions.”

  “Not Mr. Banks. Her name is Jamie Aldeen, and she’s a family practitioner. I met with her yesterday. I filed for emancipation.”

  This time Candace did not laugh. Not even close. “You cannot be serious.” Her voice was icy.

  Julia bit her lip. She thought back to what Jamie had asked her about feeling safe in her home. “I wanted to tell you, but I knew you wouldn’t like it.”

  “Well, you’re right. I don’t! Do you have any idea what you’ve done? You’re dragging all of us into court, and all our personal business will be fodder for the public.”

  “It’s confidential,” Julia said, trying to keep her voice even. “I’m a minor.”

  Candace jabbed one manicured finger in the air between them. “Which is exactly why you need a guardian!” She shook her head angrily. “Now I have to call Mr. Banks. I’m calling your therapist, too. Maybe she can talk you out of this nonsense.”

  Candace had called both, and that afternoon Julia found herself once again sitting across from Miss Lottie, who looked sad-faced but concerned when they met.

  “Julia, if you are serious about emancipation, you do realize I would likely be asked by the courts to weigh in?”

  Julia had thought of that, and it had seemed like a good thing.

  Lottie spoke softly but firmly. “Your recent behavior, despite the valid reasons you state for it, could be considered rash and not in the best interest of Pippa. You must realize going out in the night like that, alone, could’ve ended very badly?”

  Julia’s mind flashed to Pippa’s skinned knee, her anxious face at Wendell’s. “But I’m doing this for her,” she argued.

  “I believe you,” Lottie said. “And I know how desperate you feel. But from now on, if you want to make a case to a judge that you are mature and responsible enough to be considered for emancipation, your actions need to demonstrate that. Let your legal counsel advise you. And stop taking matters into your own hands.”

  Lottie made perfect sense. But what Lottie, and others, could never understand was how much was at stake. What Julia did not tell Lottie about was Wendell buying Radcliffe. Although he hadn’t told Julia to keep it a secret, she knew that if Candace found out, she would probably fire him. And after all he’d done for her and Pippa, she couldn’t risk doing that to Wendell.

  After her appointment with Lottie, she vowed to be more careful. More sensible. In order to see Raddy, Julia covered her tracks. She made up stories to tell both Pippa and Candace, that she was going bike riding with Chloe. Or to the town beach. Pippa had been sworn to secrecy about Raddy being at Wendell’s house, but if she knew Julia was going to see him, she’d want to come, too, and Julia couldn’t risk Pippa accidentally giving the secret away. Luckily, Candace was so entrenched with realtors and the lawyer that she barely paid attention. It gave Julia a chance to spend more time with Wendell and put to rest any doubts that lingered.

  * * *

  “Wendell, why did you take the job at White Pines?” she asked. It was the afternoon of the meeting with Jamie Aldeen.

  He looked confused. “It’s a good job. Your folks were good people.” He returned his attention to the post he was setting.

  “That’s not what I mean. I see the way you are when you’re there. You appreciate White Pines maybe as much as I do.”

  Wendell looked up at her. “Maybe.” He stepped back to eyeball whether the post was level while she held it. “Tip it a little to the right. No, that’s left. One more inch…” Wendell’s militant perfectionism was starting to wear on her. But there was Raddy, grazing happily in his pen, so no way was she about to complain. She held the post tight as Wendell shoveled gravel into the base of the hole to help stabilize it. Then he packed it with dirt.

  “What about White Pines do you love?” she asked.

  “ ‘Love’ is a strong word.”

  Julia groaned.

  “I can tell you what I like about it. I like the peace and quiet of it, working in the fields, knowing that I don’t have to talk to anyone or bend or flex for anyone all day.”

  “So you hate people,” she said.

  “No, I just like being alone.”

  “What about White Pines? Everyone who visits says it touches them, that it’s a magical place. Does it do that for you?”

  “You sure do ask a lot of questions.”

  “You sure do try to avoid them,” she told him. “Come on. Don’t be a sissy.”

  He threw her a look.

  “I’ll stop talking if you answer,” she said.

  “I doubt that.” But she could see from his expression that he was picturing the property. “I guess I like the way the place can change so much each season but still remain itself.”

  “Like how?”

  “The way the sun hits the orchard in the late afternoon on a fall day, and the way the edges of the pond freeze into these sparkling slivers where the water meets the land, one layer stretching over the other like silver-blue threads. Thousands of them, if you look close.” His eyes twinkled as he told her.

  “Remember that spring we found the baby bird?”

  He shook his head. “You found the bird. Then you made me climb up the tree and find its nest.”

  Julia loved that memory. “You didn’t seem to mind.”

  “Nah, I guess I didn’t.”

  He was coming around, and she could feel it. “See, you do love White Pines, even if you won’t admit it. If you came to take care of us, you wouldn’t ever have to leave it.”

  “Julia. Your aunt is selling White Pines. You know that.”

  “Not if I stop her. My lawyer said that she needs to review the will first, but who knows? There could be a way around it.”

  Wendell sighed and set down the level he was using. “So now you’re not just going to emancipate yourself, but you’re going to stop the sale of White Pines?”

  “There’s no guarantee, but I have to try.”

  Just like that, the spell was broken. Wendell dropped the shovel in the wheelbarrow and headed to the last post hole. “Julia, I’m going to that meeting. But it’s because your attorney, Ms. Aldeen, called and asked. I don’t want you to read into this any more than that. I’ve told you how I feel about your request.”

  Julia kept her eyes trained on the ground as she trailed him to the last post. “I know, I know.” But it didn’t mean she’d stop trying. She’d never stop trying.

  Twenty-Four Wendell

  He had always prided himself on honesty, and every time he saw Candace Lancaster and thought of the horse he was hiding in the barn behind his house, he felt like a liar.

  Wendell was a man of his word not just from his National Guar
d training; his own parents had raised him as such, long before his days in the military. He understood the value of a person’s trust. If Candace asked about the horse, he would tell her the truth, even if it meant losing his job or ending Julia’s secret visits to his house. There were good reasons he’d done what he’d done. But there was also good reason to face the consequences of your decisions. That was life.

  He hadn’t been in the main utility barn for more than a few moments that morning when he heard his name called from outside. But it was not Candace. Geoffrey Banks stepped out of his car. Wendell hadn’t seen him since the meeting up at the house two weeks earlier.

  “Good to see you again,” Geoffrey said, extending his hand. “Do you have a moment?”

  “Of course. How can I help?”

  “The surveyors have completed their work, and I wanted to go over the maps with you. Candace would like to identify them for prospective buyers.”

  Inside the barn, Wendell invited Geoffrey over to a sweeping worktable. Geoffrey paused, looking up at all the tools hanging on pegboards, the equipment covered and stored in the corners. He ran his hand over the worktable surface before unrolling a large white survey map. “This space is better kept than my office.”

  “Thank you. Alan took a lot of pride in taking care of things around here.”

  Geoffrey scanned the barn interior appreciatively. “And you still do. So, here’s the update. The engineers have subdivided the estate into eleven different parcels. As such, Candace’s broker will be showing each of the separate lots to interested clients. But ultimately, she’d prefer to sell to one developer.”

  Wendell scanned the map. The estate had indeed been divided. What Geoffrey did not know, and could never understand, was that the divisions on paper represented something entirely different to anyone who knew White Pines. Wendell knew the land intimately, as one vast parcel from forest edge to waterline. From the rise of the orchard hill to the dip of the wetlands. The only divisions he knew were natural: watercourses, elevations, rock formations. The tree line that jutted out against the horizon. The depression of swampland where beavers and egrets and old mother snappers made their habitats. Those were the divisions of the land that he worked with and worked around, respectfully. As his gaze left Geoffrey’s pointed finger and followed the topography and elevation markers, he recognized every nook and cranny of White Pines. It was the land he traversed by footstep and measured by stride. The only divisions were made by Mother Nature, by habitat and by season. He worked his tongue around his mouth in silence, taking it all in. Reluctantly, Wendell’s gaze followed Geoffrey’s hand tracing the subdivision. A gold signet ring flashed on his pinkie finger in the narrow band of sunlight slipping through the barn window, as unnatural and vulgar as the subdivision it traced.

  Geoffrey stabbed a finger at the largest parcel in the northeastern corner of the map. “Over here, we have what will likely command the largest price. It’s got a great view, or so I’m told.”

  “That’s the peach tree grove.”

  “Is it? Well, it’s going to have to come down, for whoever buys it. Best view on the estate. Candace wants the buyer to have a three-hundred-sixty-degree sightline.”

  “She wants it cut down?” Wendell’s stomach turned. “That orchard is almost a hundred years old. Her grandfather started it in the thirties.” In all his years on the estate, Wendell had worked hardest and longest on the peach orchard. Since he began, he’d already turned over and replanted half of it. Alan had loved not only the knotty crooked trees that defied orderly rows but also the fruit. The scent in August. The honeybees attracted by the peaches and the shady view beneath the branches. How many times had Wendell spied the family under those boughs, enjoying a picnic lunch? It was the stuff of children’s storybooks and old movies. And now they wanted to dig it up to build a structure that would likely jut out garishly against the natural backdrop, a stain against the bow of terrain and flush of fauna.

  “That depends on who the buyer is.”

  Wendell could picture it: an unimaginative boxy neighborhood, with alternating colors, vinyl-sided with faux chimneys and composite shutter. Attached two-car garages on each construction. Wendell stepped away from the worktable. “How does this change my management of the property?”

  “Candace hired a broker. They’ve decided to attempt to attract a developer first.” Geoffrey pointed to several proposed driveway locations. “The broker feels it’s important that we visually mark the property divisions so potential buyers can envision the actual lots.”

  “So they can imagine their yard. Where to put the trampoline or swimming pool,” Wendell muttered.

  Geoffrey looked confused. “Right. Anyway, our idea is to add to the existing stakes laid by the surveyors. Candace would like it if you could walk the property lines and mark the proposed driveway entrances with different-colored tapes. The broker has lined up showings in the coming days.”

  “Days,” Wendel said. But it would take mere hours for the backhoes to come in and desecrate the peach trees. He imagined the wildlife habitats, undisturbed in their present state, being knocked down, dug out, filled in. He ran his hand roughly through his hair, shaking his head. “Alan would have hated this.”

  Geoffrey glanced down at the map, then at Wendell. “I know. But Alan is no longer with us.” He looked truly sorry, and Wendell could hear the empathy in his tone, but it did not change the fate of White Pines or what he was asking Wendell to do. Geoffrey put a hand on Wendell’s shoulder. “So, are you on board?”

  Through the barn window, Wendell caught the wild flash of greenery over the shoulder of Geoffrey’s suit jacket. “I’ll start today.”

  * * *

  For the rest of the day, he drove the Gator around the property, marking the proposed driveway entries for each lot on the map. Wendell was not an engineer or surveyor. What he felt like, standing back and looking up at the colored lines of tape fluttering against the fields, was an executioner.

  Finished with his grim work for the day, he was locking up the lower barn door when he heard voices floating down from the house. He glanced up. Candace was talking to a woman in the driveway, but she was hidden from view behind the family car. No matter; he’d seen enough that day, and it was time to go home.

  Wendell was about to climb into his truck when a VW Beetle rolled down the driveway and pulled up beside him.

  “Ginny?”

  She smiled ruefully. “Hey, Wendell. Just finishing for the day?”

  Wendell nodded. “Long one. How about you? What brings you to White Pines?”

  Ginny was dressed nicely, but she looked uncomfortable. “I had a meeting.”

  Wendell glanced up at the house as it dawned on him. “A meeting.”

  “Yes. Candace Lancaster just signed my parents’ agency to list White Pines.” Even as she shielded her eyes from the late sun, he saw the flicker of remorse. “I wanted to tell you the other night, but I never thought we’d get the listing. It just seemed pointless.”

  Wendell’s mind rolled back to the dinner they’d shared on his porch, like old times. To the moment in the kitchen. And the next day, when she’d returned to help build the fence with Julia. “It seemed pointless to you?”

  Ginny put the car in park and got out. “Please let me explain. Candace called the agency for an interview, but it didn’t go well. At all. I started to tell you that night at your place, but then you shared how upset the sale of White Pines made you. I didn’t want to upset you even more, especially since I never thought we’d land it.”

  “Were you going to tell me now that you landed it?”

  Her expression twisted. “Yes! Right after I told my parents. You have to understand, this is big news for them. Their agency has been floundering, and my dad had the heart attack. If we’re successful selling this place, it will change everything for them.” The conflict in her voice was genuine, but he was too caught off guard.

  “It’s okay, Ginny. I get it.” There was
no point in making her feel bad. But he didn’t want to hear anymore.

  Ginny wouldn’t let it go. “Someone would’ve sold it, Wendell. This is so hard for me, knowing what this place means to you. But it means something so different for my family.”

  “I said I get it.” It came out harsher than he’d meant, and he instantly regretted it. There was the familiar flash of hurt in her eyes. Just like all those years ago. Wendell stepped toward her. “Ginny, wait. I’m sorry.”

  But she was already getting back in the car. “That makes two of us.” Before he could say anything else, she put the car in drive and was gone.

  Wendell spun around to the barn. There was a bucket by the door filled with the tape he’d used to mark the fields, and he grabbed it now and slung it at the barn. It hit the wall with a crack and spun away to the ground, spilling its contents across the driveway. He glanced up at the house. Agreeing to stay on at White Pines had been the worst decision.

  * * *

  The dark mood stayed with him back at home, and when he turned his lights out late that night, he knew sleep would not come. He had been wrong to accept the job offer from Candace. Despite the bonus. He’d have been better off cutting his losses and taking a position on a contractor’s crew or in the hardware store to tide him over until he found a position like managing White Pines. Only he knew the truth: there was nothing else like it. But this was worse. Worse than leaving or letting go, worse than giving up the sanctuary-like peace of the estate and his work among the wild fields and animals. He’d have been better off working the counter at a fast-food joint; the constant din, smells, and influx of demanding customers sure to trigger his PTSD from Afghanistan. It was a terrifying thought for a man who fought every day to buffer himself from such episodes. But even that would have been better than systematically dismantling the place that had saved him.

  At some point he fell into a fitful slumber, and for the first time in a long while, he was with Wesley. Not the Wesley who haunted him, from their last year together, serving in the Guard. But Wesley as a child. They were running, across the upper yard behind the farmhouse, where the horse was now living. Their mother’s garden was in its full glory beside the red shed, a tangle of tomato vine tinged with robust orbs of fruit. Tidy rows of frilly-leafed red lettuce. Trellises covered in green beans. Wesley was chasing him in some kind of game, and Wendell could feel his sturdy legs pumping beneath him, his heart pounding in his ears. His little brother was lithe and fast, and despite Wendell’s age and height advantage, running was Wesley’s claim to childhood neighborhood fame, not his. As Wendell rounded the corner of the garden and sprinted across the open yard, he could hear Wesley catching up. He ran faster, his legs straining. But then he stumbled, catching the toe of his sneaker in a divot in the grass, and he almost fell. He was done for. Wesley would surely have him now. But just as he turned, prepared to be face-to-face, Wesley closing the gap, his little brother was not there. The sound of his breath behind Wendell had faded, the pounding of heels in the grass distant. Wendell slowed to a walk and spun around. Wesley had fallen back, drifting as if a tide were pulling him away. He was running, arms pumping, but drifting backward. “Hey!” Wendell called out. “Where are you going?” But Wesley did not answer. He ran faster, despite his reverse direction, and then he tired, slowed, and simply stood. Wendell watched helplessly as his brother receded into the distance, a vision above the fields. Before he disappeared, he lifted one hand. Wendell screamed his name.