by E L Wilder
Hazel inhaled sharply. There it was. She had known it would come up, but the bluntness of it, the one-two punch of Gammy and the Knack (the two things that had most haunted her since she’d left) almost took her breath away.
Her mother still stood at the edge of the counter, plate in hand. “I won’t play coy, Hazey,” she said. “At some point we need to talk about it.”
“About what?”
Her mother shot her a withering gaze. “All Bennett women with that mark have the Knack.”
“Except me,” Hazel said. “I don’t have the Knack.”
The mark, on the other hand, that rose-shaped birthmark at the nape of her neck—there was no denying it. But so what? Just because every Bennett woman marked at birth showed an aptitude for . . . unconventional skills, didn’t mean she was the same. Sometimes nature made mistakes. A mark could be just a mark. She tried to maintain eye contact and make her stand, but her mother’s green eyes bored into her like they always did. Hazel sputtered, “I don’t have the Knack,” and then held out her hand, silently demanding the plate.
Her mother smirked, shrugging. “If you insist.” Then with a wicked glint in her eye, she sent the plate spinning into the air, chips and sandwich pirouetting haphazardly.
Reflexively, Hazel threw a hand up, fingers splayed and palm warming as if all the blood were rushing there. The plate slowed its spinning and landed gracefully on the counter, the sandwich and chips settling back in place without so much as a misaligned piece of bread or a lost crumb.
“Huh,” chirped her mother, eyebrows arched. “Interesting bit of luck there.”
“The plate could have broken!”
“But it didn’t.”
Hazel scowled and tried to rub away the prickle that lingered in her hand like pins and needles. “That was a dirty trick.”
“So is lying to your mother.”
“I wasn’t lying,” said Hazel a little too defensively. She breathed deeply and then proceeded with more deliberation. “Things happen sometimes . . . when I don’t mean them to.”
“Sounds dangerous,” her mother responded, then hummed cryptically before adding, “Now tell me about Chet Morgan and why I shouldn’t lead a boycott against all of his films.”
Hazel groaned. Maybe she’d rather talk about the Knack than her failed love life, especially this time. This had hardly been her first breakup, but she (no, Helena Rose, she chided herself) and Chet (ugh, had she really dated a guy named Chet and never seen it coming?) had been Hollywood’s darling couple. Chelena the press had dubbed them. But this was the first one that had ended with a very public meltdown, complete with a gawking crowd and a flurry of flashbulbs. What could she say about it? That she never wanted to see the West Coast again? That she was certain that in less than twenty-four hours her entire career had gone up in flames? Her mother would add to the din of the crowd, telling her she was being melodramatic. Hysterical. And that’s not what Hazel needed to hear right now.
But her mother said nothing of the sort. Instead she looked into the distance as if trying to pick out a point only she could see and said, “I knew a jerk like him once. He too was as devastatingly handsome as he was devastatingly vapid. All face, no heart.”
Before Hazel could ask more, they were interrupted by the sudden stampeding of feet and a chorus of shouts. Her mother’s face brightened. “The younglings approach!”
Link appeared first, entering with a flourish, arms bent like an air-traffic controller and faced tucked into the crook of his elbow.
“Is that a dab?!” moaned Hazel in mock horror. Her nephew had just turned eleven, and somehow homeschooling had not insulated him from all the trappings of modern pop culture. He was every bit the prepubescent boy, clad in a Minecraft T-shirt, eyes obscured beneath a mop of dirty blond hair. The spitting image of his father. Not a scrap of Bennett about him, T-shirt and all.
“He dabs, he flosses, he dips,” said a voice from the doorway.
Harper, Hazel’s niece, appeared next. Hazel’s jaw nearly dropped. To say the Bennetts were late bloomers was an understatement. She herself had been a gawky flat-chested kid well into high school. But if that were the rule, Harper had clearly broken it. Her young niece was no longer a knobby-kneed little girl but had bloomed into a gorgeous young woman in the year since she’d seen her.
Amy grumbled. “Dabbing, flossing, dipping.” She threw her hands skyward in exasperation and turned back to the far counter to make more sandwiches. “I can’t tell if you’re naming dances or describing a beauty regimen.”
Link rushed forward and threw himself at Hazel.
“My god, you’re a giant,” she wheezed. There had been FaceTime sessions, sure, but Hazel hadn’t seen him in person since she’d flown her mother and the kids out to LA—and that had been three years ago. She blanched a little at the thought. Had it really been that long? But here was the evidence right in front of her. He had been a little sprout then, but now his sandy hair grazed her chin. “You haven’t grown a bit,” she cracked, as sarcastically as she could muster.
He pulled back from the hug, beaming.
Harper lingered in the doorway, hugging a thick tome to her chest and toeing the floor. Hazel went to her and wrapped her in a warm embrace.
“You’re here!” Harper gasped into her ear, as if she couldn’t believe it.
Hazel held her niece at arm’s length. “Your brother looks exactly like your dad,” she said, nodding to Link, “And you—”
“Looks just like you,” Amy interrupted, pointing a mayonnaised knife for emphasis.
Harper blushed and smiled sheepishly.
“Well she is beautiful,” Hazel said archly, eliciting a few snickers and blushes from Harper.
Amy rolled her eyes and slid two more plates across the counter.
“Still homeschooling?” Hazel asked.
“It’s the worst,” said Harper at the same time Link chirped, “It’s the best!”
“We’re in the middle of the Athlon,” said Harper.
Hazel grimaced dramatically. The legendary end-of-year project, a brutal assessment of all of their academics, was almost as ancient as the farm itself and had broken the will of many a young Bennett. “That sounds like something we need to discuss over hot chocolate, nail polish, and Netflix.” Harper perked up, and then smirked when Hazel added, “Excluding anything I’ve starred in.”
“Where are our presents?” blurted Link, earning himself a slap on the back of the head from his sister. “Ow! What?!”
“They’re in the top of my bag,” said Hazel. “Have at it. I’ll expect to squad up later.”
His eyes went full cartoon owl. “No way!”
“Or is nobody playing Fortnite anymore?”
He dashed from the kitchen but then came scampering back, hugged her arm until she thought he might tear it from its socket, and then disappeared again.
“There’s something for you there too,” Hazel told Harper, adding in a stage-whisper, “Don’t worry. No Fortnite.”
Harper grinned and hurried from the room.
Hazel turned her attention back to her mother. And her lunch.
“This isn’t bologna or white bread,” Hazel noted, peeling back the top layer of the sandwich.
“Are you kidding? I’ve been waiting years for your taste buds to catch up to your attitude. This is organic avocado, Bennett Farm’s own uncured bacon and pasture-raised turkey, topped with my homemade garlic aioli. The hippy in me is still alive and kicking, though that could change if I eat too many of these.”
Hazel made a face. “You sure there’s no bologna?”
“Still a smart-aleck,” said her mother. “Good.” She reached across the counter and took Hazel’s hand, squeezing it gently. Her eyes, dancing in the green-tinged light of the kitchen, said, Just like Gammy. “They’ll be busy for a while,” she added, nodding toward the doorway where Harper and Link had just disappeared. “Now finish your food and go find your sister. I know you’re dying to s
ee her, and maybe if you hurry, you can catch her on her lunch break, assuming she ever takes one.”
“I’ll take it to go,” Hazel said, grabbing the sandwich, stuffing some chips in her mouth, and winking at her mom before ducking out of the door.
CHAPTER THREE
Hazel set out across the lawn, munching contentedly on her sandwich. She looked out across the harbor, a private pocket of lakefront edged by dark cliffs, to the narrow band of Lake Champlain visible through the harbor mouth. More memories surfaced as she spotted the little island, Turtle Rock, to which she and Juniper raced on summer mornings. The pylons of the old ferry dock where they used to build bridges and test their jumping skills. The boathouse with the sagging roof.
Somebody sat on a rock jutting from the water near the base of the north cliff, below where the manor rose. A slender silhouette with long hair. Hazel raised a hand in greeting and the silhouette returned the gesture before rolling to the side and slipping into the water. That was when Hazel saw it, not the flick of slender legs disappearing beneath the surface but of elegant fins waving one last time. Mermaids, she thought. Always so reckless.
Hazel took the South Way, a winding dirt lane that left the harbor behind and turned inland, providing a shortcut to the East Barn. The South Way was more than a path though. It was a barrier that kept the Tanglewood in check. That wild bit of ancient woods was always pushing against the farm, looking for ways to creep into the pastures, but the South Way was a line in the sand. We’ll stay over here, and you stay over there, it seemed to say. Which was why her ancestors’ decision to put the Carriage House beyond it had always perplexed Hazel. The building was so overgrown now that she could barely spy it down a weed-choked path and just make out the grand archway to the barn’s courtyard. Unconcerned by the encroaching foliage, a group of pigeons shuffled about the crumbling cobblestones, pecking at the ground. Hazel paused and watched them wistfully. When she was growing up, the Carriage House had been a favorite hangout for her and her friends—hide-and-seek when they’d been in middle school, parties in high school. It felt exotic . . . dangerous being that close to the edge of the wild Tanglewood, even if her friends had been oblivious to the true nature of the farm.
She felt a pang of sadness seeing the building lost to the Tanglewood now.
Before she could continue toward the East Barn, a flurry of movement and panicked squawking interrupted her reverie. A barn cat, as dark as the building’s slate roof, had leaped into the flock of pigeons, scattering them but ultimately walking away without bagging one. Hazel watched it go, mystified. She could have sworn it flicked not one but two wire-brush tails.
An imp, a mermaid, and a bizarre feline all before she’d finished her lunch? At the rate she was going, she expected she might run into a unicorn, a manticore, and Dracula before she reached the East Barn. It made her wonder. Was Ronnie still here . . . still alive? She couldn’t imagine that he would let the Tanglewood advance this far or allow magical interlopers to gallivant around the property so brazenly.
She was about to find the answer to her question though. Just a little farther up the South Way, she came to the caretaker’s cottage, a pinched one-story stone abode surrounded by a picket fence and crouched beneath the leaning bows of the Tanglewood.
She saw a man standing in the front yard and sighed with relief.
She recognized the oddly bent posture, the weathered jeans, the unseasonal flannel shirt, the tarnished John Deere hat, and the chest-length grizzled beard of Ronald Skilton. Ronnie had been the caretaker of Bennett Farms her whole life. And she now understood why he had let the farm go. Ronnie must have been pushing ninety—and he looked his age, his skin grayer and riddled with liver spots and wrinkles.
And yet he was still here and looking as stern as ever, arms crossed, weathered by time but not beaten.
Hazel approached the gate, still unnoticed. Ronnie’s attention—his glare, really—was focused on a man crouched before a rose bed. A complement of shovels and gardening tools lay in the grass next to him. The entire flowerbed looked like a lost cause. A row of Chrysler Imperial bushes had once bloomed lush raspberry-colored hybrid tea roses, but they were all dead now, nothing but skeletons littering the topsoil with blackened leaves and petals. Her Gammy had planted those bushes, and Hazel felt yet another pang of sadness. Maybe the old adage was true—you could never come home again.
She tried to make light of it though.
“Don’t tell me you’ve lost your green thumb, Ronnie!” she called out, trying to sound more cheerful than she felt. Ronnie looked up, finally noticing her, and his stern expression changed, though to what she was at a loss to say. It was as if she’d witnessed a still pond ripple as something scaly and spiny nearly broke the surface. But just as quickly, he resumed his customary snarl.
“Yer back,” he barked. Nothing got by Ronnie. “And I ain’t lost nothin’. This greenhorn is the one with no green thumb.” He smirked, proud of his own wordplay. “If I were a few years younger, I’d do it myself, but I have to babysit Alex here when I have keows that need milkin’.” She savored the way he’d said cows like she might savor a piece of chocolate. Growing up, she had hated that old-time Vermont accent, but she’d been a girl desperate to get the heck out of Dodge. Now she thought she could sit and listen to it all day, like an acoustic guitar played on a farmhouse porch.
“What’s the problem?” she asked.
“Besides the help?” asked Ronnie.
The young man, Alex, looked up nervously, flashing cobalt blue eyes. Hazel couldn’t help but stare. He was striking and more than a touch exotic for Vermont—the olive skin, the jet-black hair, and that electric gaze. He stood and took up a long-handled shovel, set it to the earth, and pierced the ground with one swift stomp. There were always seasonal farmhands coming and going, so it was hardly unusual that there would be new faces, but Ronnie looked upon him like he was hosting a deadly virus.
“A blight,” concluded Ronnie, finally answering her question, though Hazel wasn’t sure if he was talking about the rose bushes anymore. “A shame. Helena planted these for me . . . I did my best to care for them—” He paused, his gnarled beard quivering. Ronnie and her Gammy had always been particularly close, ruling the farm like royalty and keeping it in fine order when they’d both been younger. When they’d gotten older, they’d played cribbage on the front porch, sipping Gammy’s homemade sangria until the summer sun went down and the mosquitos drove them inside. And once inside . . . well, there had been rumors, though neither Gammy nor Ronnie ever copped to anything more than friendship.
Hazel wondered for a moment if that had accounted for his look upon seeing her. Her mother’s words still lingered in her head. You look just like her. From the red hair, to the blue eyes, to the mark on the nape of her neck.
“They had a good life, Ronnie,” she offered. “Gammy would be pleased. Can I help you plant new ones?”
His face hardened suddenly, his eyes narrowing and the thin line of his lips disappearing into the depths of his beard. “That’s what this oaf is for,” he said. “If he can get it royt.”
The man kept his eyes on his work this time.
“I’m headed to the East Barn to see Juni,” she said. “I’ll see what she can do.”
“You can tell her to spend less time makin’ the barn look preddy and more on hiring some decent hands.” He sniffed and snorted, then spat onto the grass. “Maybe I’ll go see her myself, if this young buck can go a few minutes without babysittin’.” He stared hard and then dug a knuckle into the corner of his eye, tending to an itch or a teardrop but turning back to the roses too quickly for Hazel to tell which.
“I’m sorry about your roses, Ronnie,” she said, though she didn’t think this was really about the roses.
If he’d heard her, he didn’t bother responding. She spared one last glance for the dead bushes and the young man digging them up and then moved on. She’d have to ask Juniper about him as well.
* * *
Like everything else on Bennett Farm, the East Barn failed to match the standard New England farmyard design. Instead of barnboard painted red with white trim, the East Barn better resembled a medieval castle, a behemoth of stone and wood with soaring turrets and steep-pitched slate roofs and about a million nooks and crannies all wrapped around a giant courtyard. An ancient place where time seemed to stop and the world faded away.
Hazel hoped the construction vehicles and the scaffolding she’d seen on her way in meant the barn was just getting a facelift. After nearly a century and a half of life, it deserved a little nip and tuck.
But as she stopped in the archway to gape at the courtyard, she tried to comprehend what lay before her. Her initial assessment had been way off base. Facelift was hardly adequate to describe what was underway. The barn was now in the final stages of getting the works—from boob job all the way to butt implants. Everything had been rejuvenated. Gone was the quiet, charming, quietly decaying barn of her youth, where chickens scratched and pecked in the courtyard dirt, doves cooed in the eaves, and a rusty weathervane creaked on the rooftop. Instead it was filled with the thwapping of hammers, the squealing of drills, and the shouts of countless workers.
The imposing double doors that had once concealed innumerable cellars and lofts and storage spaces, empty stables and pens, were flung wide to reveal a bustle of activity. And if Hazel’s eyes didn’t deceive her, the spaces were now occupied by businesses—actual places of commerce.
To one side, a set of stairs that had once accessed a loft for storing old butter churns, spinning wheels, and giant looms, now wafted the smell of baking bread. A sign fixed over the door read “The Doughn’t Even Bakery.”
On the opposite side of the courtyard, nestled in one cellar space was an establishment called “Kindred Spirits,” which billed itself as The People’s Distillery. And from the looks of it, the people were pissed off. A woman stood out front, her straw-colored hair balanced in an artfully messy bun. She either had the best resting scowl Hazel had ever seen, or she was ticked about something, because she scoured the hive of activity, seemingly on the hunt for something or somebody. Hazel moved on, lest there be any chance she end up on the receiving end of that steely glare.