Covenant

by Ann McMan

  David faced Maddie. “And who gives this woman to be wed?”

  “I do.” Celine smiled at her daughter. “Proudly.”

  “We have all come together on this, the most sacred of taco nights, to witness the joining of these two lives. For them, the extraordinary has happened. They met each other, fell in love, settled some hefty fines for past-due books, and are now finalizing their journey with a commitment made before us all.”

  The rest of the ceremony was a seamless, happy blur for Syd. She remembered them each making their vows and exchanging rings—then David concluded the short ceremony with his customary dramatic flair, and it was done.

  They were married.

  Maddie was happier than Syd had ever seen her before.

  Everyone was happier than she’d ever seen them before.

  Syd was filled with joy—and a surprising amount of . . . calm. She knew that was because this, finally, had been right. Exactly right.

  She tugged on Maddie’s hand. “So, whattaya think?”

  “I think we done good.” Maddie kissed her warmly.

  “Too bad we don’t have any champagne to serve with all those cupcakes.”

  “Au contraire.” It was David. “I happen to know where there are two, highly-coveted bottles of Duval-Leroy.”

  “Where?” Maddie demanded. “In your other suit?”

  “Nice try. Check the fridge,” David told Syd. “It’s in the crisper drawer, behind the rotting leeks and Napa cabbage.”

  Syd shrugged and went to check the fridge. Sure enough, she discovered the two bottles of premier cru champagne. She lifted one out with amazement.

  “How the hell did those get in there?” Maddie was flabbergasted. “I thought you drank them up months ago.”

  “Duh . . . I’ve been saving them for something special. That’s why I hid them in the crisper drawer.” He batted his eyes at Maddie. “I knew it would be the last place you’d ever look . . . I mean, after your sock drawer.”

  Syd returned the bottle to its resting place. “Now that we have the cake and champagne toast part of the ceremony covered, how about we eat some tacos and get this party started?”

  “Hear, hear!” It was Syd’s father, still broadcasting live from Lizzy’s iPhone. “Mom and I will try to get down there within the next couple of weeks, honey. We’ll celebrate with you two then.”

  “I love you both so much.” Syd blew her parents a kiss. “It means the world to me that you were here—even remotely.”

  “Bye, honey. Bye, Maddie.” Syd’s mother waved. “See you soon, Henry.”

  “Bye, Gramma!” Henry tugged on Syd’s arm. “Can I have a cupcake first?”

  “No. And you still have to do your homework after supper, so don’t ask about that, either.”

  Henry’s face fell.

  “Don’t worry, Sport.” Maddie put an arm around him. “Buddy will help you with your prime numbers chart.”

  “A new covenant has been born.” Buddy had managed to be first in the food line, and was busy piling cheese on his taco. “The golden ratio is restored.”

  Maddie looked at Syd. “Do you think he means the cheese?”

  “No.” It was Dorothy. “He means the wedding. Buddy likes it when things happen the way they should.”

  Buddy looked up at them from his plate. “A new covenant is right. The transitions are complete.”

  “He’s right about that.” Syd smiled. “About the only thing we’re missing is tying it all off with some car tape . . .”

  “Ask, and ye shall receive.” David opened a drawer in the big pine sideboard and withdrew a roll of the ubiquitous tape. He slapped it down on the table next to the trays of hopelessly overwrought Quinceañera cupcakes.

  “Hell,” he declared, “hath retreated to its box. However,” he nudged Maddie, “you’re still on the hook for the deposit on those doves . . .”

  Maddie was too happy to care. She looked around their crowded kitchen. All of their friends were huddled close together, laughing and grabbing plates from a tall stack Syd had placed at the end of the counter.

  After all, it was Tuesday night—and everybody was ready for tacos.

  Chapter Eleven

  Prime

  On Friday, Dorothy asked the bus driver to let her off at the old bookmobile stop, near the river. It was a familiar place to her, this bend in the road that overlooked a shallower swath of water. All the rain they’d had recently had swollen the river to higher levels than were common through here, but she knew she’d still be able to cross it, if she proceeded carefully and took her time jumping from rock to rock. She hitched her backpack up higher on her shoulders and carried her shoes in her left hand to prevent them from getting wet. Dr. Heller had just bought them for her, and she didn’t want to ruin them. They were the first shoes she’d ever had that fit her feet and didn’t leave blisters on her soles.

  The smoke was already pretty thick through here, and the slight breeze blowing in from the north made it swirl above the water in crazy patterns. The air smelled like soot and wet wood—the same way smoke from their burn can would smell when they loaded it with dried brush, and burned it with the trash.

  It took longer than usual to make her way across the river. Muddy, swirling water surged over her feet in some places, but she managed not to slip. Once she’d made it safely across to the other side, it was a short climb up the bank and into the clearing that led to the house.

  Or to what was left of the house.

  It was still burning. There were two fire trucks and several men wearing hats and bright yellow coveralls, watching over it. They stood back at a distance, near her overgrown vegetable garden. The men held rakes and long poles with hooks on their ends. Dorothy stayed back out of their sight. She was sure they wouldn’t want her there.

  She hadn’t known what to expect when she made her decision to come here and watch the house die. Part of her thought it might make her sad, even though she knew she never wanted to live here again. That’s why she hadn’t told Dr. Heller that she was coming. It was something she needed to do by herself.

  Most of the porch roof was gone, but bright orange flames still flashed and lapped at the sides of the empty attic window, where she’d retreat to watch the stars and try to identify the constellations pictured in her mother’s book.

  No one would be here to see the stars anymore. But Dorothy knew that didn’t matter. They’d still be there every night—high above the treetops, shining down on what once had been, and soon would be gone. The stars would always be there—long after any reminders of the life she’d lived here had ceased to exist, and all that remained was a ravaged landscape dotted with poppies.

  She understood that now. Everything that happened happened. Then it stopped happening, and all of it became part of the past. Sometimes the past got so big and so full it overwhelmed her. But it was still past . . . and the important part was to remember that it was over, and she could choose not to let it hurt her anymore.

  She watched the fire burn. Each part of the house it took fell to the earth and became part of the past. Her past. She thought about the fire, and the water she’d crossed to witness it. Fire and water were like opposite ends of the same thing. One consumed, the other nourished. But from her hiding place at the edge of the woods, they existed together. One consigned the bad things that had happened here to the past, and the other carried them away.

  Still . . . she knew with certainty that some part of the fire would stay alive inside her—like a pilot light, burning forever.

  She didn’t hear Buddy’s scooter approach until he stopped near where she stood.

  There would’ve been no way for him to know she was coming here today, but she wasn’t really surprised to see him. Buddy just knew things.

  He watched the fire with her in silence. After the roof fell, he told it her it was time to leave.

  “Goldenrod is right. The ratios are restored.” He looked at the diminishing flames. “The orange dog has go
ne away.”

  Dorothy smiled at him. He handed her his homemade helmet.

  “The Quiet Lady waits. It’s time for Goldenrod to go home.”

  Dorothy climbed on the back of his scooter and rode out with him—past the stand of ragged trees that hid the rutted lane, and out of the smoke into the sunlight.

  Acknowledgments

  If Daniel Defoe hadn’t already coopted the title, this book would have been called A Journal of the Plague Year. Few of us would be able to deny the impact the Covid-19 pandemic has had on nearly every aspect of daily life in the past year. For my part, the pandemic, coupled with free-floating election year angst, rendered me all but speechless . . . a feat most people who know me well would claim to be impossible. The fact that you’re holding this book right now ranks, in my experience, as one of the great wonders of the world—right up there with the Hanging Gardens of Babylon.

  I’m not kidding.

  Thanks for this are entirely due to a small group of incredible people.

  Susie Bright, my straight-shooting producer at Audible, was gracious enough to move my submission deadline—twice. I will always be grateful to her for her supreme indulgence and unwavering trust.

  My dear friend, Christine (Bruno) Williams, was the one who encouraged me to write this story when I was persuaded I could not. “Why not channel everything you feel and fear right now into the book?” She suggested. “Let that be your voice. Let us all see how you find your way out.” So I did.

  And special thanks are due to the pair of Evenflo Position and Lock™ baby gates that Salem West cruelly employed to barricade me into our dining room until I finished writing this novel. It was a slog—and my dearest hope is that the finished product doesn’t manage to read like one.

  To the many followers of the entire Jericho series: your words of encouragement mean the world to me. I hope I didn’t disappoint you.

  As always, I derived constant inspiration from the longsuffering Cherie Moran, who selflessly walked away from fame and fortune as the film industry’s leading animal colorist. Cherie, in the ninth month of her pregnancy, had nearly completed the application of Grecian Formula to all of the spots appearing on the cast of 101 Dalmatians in the recent Disney Studios reboot of the classic tail [sic]—when her water broke, and she embarked on an epic labor that lasted longer than the first season of Bridgerton. Cherie selflessly walked away from her meteoric rise in the world of Technicolor Makeup Magic to bring writer Sandra Moran into the world. Cherie? I speak for us all when I say we shall always be in your debt.

  My Bywater Books family has sustained me through thick and thin. I am, as always, grateful for the steady hands of Marianne K. Martin and Salem West, who give us all a publishing home to be proud of, and Kelly Smith, Fay Jacobs and Stefani Deoul are as essential to me personally as they are to the success of our company. (And, Fay? We won’t talk about that time Bonnie cut Salem’s hair with a Flowbee.) My editor, Nancy Squires, was the best partner I could’ve had in the quest to make this a better book. Elizabeth Andersen constantly kept me on the straight-and-narrow—and I’m finally off em dash probation. I’d also like to thank our superlative family of authors (including Michael Nava and our extended family at Amble Press) for inspiring me to work harder every day. You’re all the best there is, and I’m grateful to call you friends.

  I also plan to continue stealing liberally from every one of you.

  Finally, my eternal love and thanks are due to Buddha, Dave and Ella—my family. Without you, I’d be lost (even though I wouldn’t get far, because I’d still be unable to figure out how to open those damn baby gates).

  –Ann McMan

  Winston-Salem, NC

  About the Author

  Ann McMan is the author of eleven novels and two collections of short stories. She is a two-time Lambda Literary Award winner, a nine-time winner of Golden Crown Literary Society Awards, a three-time IPPY medalist, and a recipient of the Alice B. Medal for her body of work. She resides in Winston-Salem, NC with her wife, Salem West, two precocious dogs, and an exhaustive supply of vacuum cleaner bags.

  Bywater Books

  Copyright © 2021 Ann McMan

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  eBook ISBN: 978-1-61294-192-9

  Bywater Books First Edition: July 2021

  Cover design: TreeHouse Studio

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or, in the case of historical persons, are used fictitiously.

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