by Susan May
“Surprisingly good, thank you,” Pam replied, as she crossed the kitchen toward the woman, her hand outstretched to greet her.
As she did, she noted the warm country feel created by the pots and pans hanging above the kitchen bench and the chintzy china on the oversized sideboard. A teapot and two cups, nestled on a carved wooden tray perched near the center of the pine table, completed the homey picture.
“I’m Pam. Lovely to meet you.”
The woman wiped her hands on her apron—white with big strawberries patterned across it (could this place be any quainter?)—and held out her hand to Pam. Their hands met with a gentle shake. Then the woman pulled her in for a warm hug.
“We don’t stand on formalities here, sweetheart. Deals are done on a handshake, but special meetings deserve a hug. I’m Bev Stillwater. Of course I know your name. Michael told us all about you over dinner last night.”
Pam felt a pang of regret, as if she’d missed something special, and then embarrassment that she’d slept for so long.
“Oh no, I’m sorry. Did I sleep through all yesterday afternoon and straight through the night? I never do that, usually I’m too busy with the…”
Pam paused at the thought that she rarely slept through afternoons even when she was sick, and certainly not past breakfast in the morning. Ever. That was an odd idea. Michael and she often enjoyed their “lazy weekends,” especially after entertaining friends. When enjoyable conversation and good wine were involved, it could be two or three in the morning before they got to bed.
“Sweetie, don’t you apologize for anything. Why, I don’t think I ever saw anyone as pale as you were yesterday. We were so worried about you, you poor darling.”
Abruptly Bev turned to the simmering pot, lifted up a spoon, and turned back toward Pam. She held out the spoon. A rich aroma of tender meat and vegetables in broth warmed Pam’s nose. The smell alone was good enough to eat. Her saliva glands exploded in hunger. It dawned on her she hadn’t eaten since breakfast yesterday.
Pam slurped the juicy taste from the spoon and stood there staring at Bev. She couldn’t stop herself from licking her lips like a ravenous dog.
“Oh, my goodness, Bev, that is divine. You are some cook.”
Bev smiled and placed the spoon on a small plate on the counter next to the stove.
“Well darling, I thought you needed some good home cooking after what you’ve been through. So I’m fixing a hearty country meal for dinner.”
“Oh Bev, that’s so kind of you, but we can’t stay another night.” Then she added quickly, as she didn’t want to insult this woman’s hospitality, “We’d love to, but didn’t Michael tell you? We’ve already paid for a booking somewhere else.”
Bev’s body stiffened, just a little, her mouth tightening ever so slightly. “No, sweetie, he didn’t tell us. He did say you were on a week’s vacation. So we thought—”
Pam instantly realized she’d offended the woman, taken her by surprise. She felt terrible. A pang of unexpected guilt hit her. Guilt wasn’t something she often indulged. She had such disdain for “guilt-meisters” like those women at work who were always complaining they should be home with their children.
In fact, she’d often say “I’ll take a guilt trip when I’m dead; life’s too short.” Michael laughed every time she said it, often calling her his “little, selfish beauty.”
Suddenly it occurred to her, lately, she’d been feeling guilty a lot. She couldn’t remember why, and she couldn’t remember when it started. There was just an all-pervading sense that this was a reoccurring feeling.
She felt Bev staring at her, waiting for an answer.
“Yes, yes … we’re on vacation, but we were heading to … um … to—”
She stopped.
For heaven’s sake, she thought. What is going on?
Hard as she tried, she couldn’t remember where they were going. She wanted to say “a resort.” Then why would they head for a resort? They weren’t resort people. They were cozy roaring wood-fire cabin people; or luxury beachside Mai Tai bungalow people. Resorts were filled with too many people—and worse, too many families.
Bev appeared to lose interest in waiting for Pam’s answer and began busying herself with wiping down the side bench with a muslin cloth.
As Pam continued to search for words, Bev suddenly stopped her cleaning as though an urgent thought had occurred to her. She put down the cloth and turned back to Pam. In her hands, she now held a tray. It was decorated with an ancient-looking picture of peaches, plums, and apples and held the most delicious-smelling cookies. Her taste buds went wild doing the hokey pokey in her mouth.
Pam smelled the same Christmas-cake scent wafting from them she’d noticed the day before in the tea. What was that aroma? In her entire life, she was sure nothing had ever smelled this wonderful.
It was orange and lemony, ginger and sugar, and something extra, something, something warm and familiar and comforting that reminded her of childhood, and the smell of spring and rain, and running through the forest, and candy canes and, and… something else important she couldn’t remember.
Ahh, it was driving her crazy. The thing was just at the edge of her memory.
She just had to have a cookie. Before she had time to think about it, she had scooped up two of the warm golden circles, suddenly not caring if she appeared greedy or rude—which just wasn’t like her.
Manners were necessary. Manners reflected your upbringing. She’d told Michael that many times. No, not Michael … she hadn’t told Michael to “mind his manners.” She didn’t need to reprimand him.
So if not Michael, whom did she tell? An intense vision of her repeatedly scolding someone floated through her mind. As she tried to think about it, little knots of frustration grew in her stomach. Though she couldn’t remember who it was, she just knew they never listened. For some strange reason it really mattered to her they listen and learn. Why she cared they “listened and learned” she didn’t know, because she was the most easygoing person you could ever meet.
She tried out the idea again the object of her lecturing was Michael. That just didn’t feel right. He was a real gentleman. He always opened the car door for her, without fail. That courtesy alone made her feel like a princess.
Except now, sometimes, she opened the car door for herself.
When? When did she start opening her own door?
The car. Something about the car, and why he didn’t open it. Now it was coming to her.
She was remembering there was always something to pick up and remove from the car: carry bags, and sweaters, and trash—so much trash—especially from the back seat. Images flashed through her mind: sweet faces smiling at her, small hands clutching a toy, a spilled drink, a singsong tune repeated constantly, dirty handprints on the headrest.
Then the images were gone, and she was left with the only conclusion, which made sense: Michael was taking her for granted. The two of them needed to sit down and have a good long talk. There was no way she would allow their marriage to go down the path of we’ve been together long enough I don’t need to try anymore.
As Pam crunched on a cookie—which tasted even better than it smelled, if that was even possible—she felt the same tingling, prickling numb feeling in the back of her throat she had felt when drinking the tea. Then a second later it was gone, and she was consumed by the delicious buttery sensations in her mouth.
“Mmm, mmm, Bev—you are a genius in the kitchen. You should have your own bakery business.”
A smile traveled across Bev’s face, from her mouth to her bright gray-blue eyes. She looked almost backlit. Pam glanced above and behind the woman to see if a small window was casting the gentle light. There was nothing there. The light appeared to be coming from the woman herself. Then Bev opened her mouth to speak, and it was gone.
“Why, sweet pea, you are just darling.” Bev patted Pam’s arm. “But we already have a business.”
“Oh, you’re farmers, aren’t you? T
hat’s what people do out here in this gorgeous country.”
“Oh no, honey. That’s not us. Snow and I were put on this earth for bigger things than farming. We’re here to look after good folk passing by, like you.”
Bev paused, catching her breath, as her smile transformed into a dreamy contented look—as though she were thinking about something so pleasurable it filled her to the brim with joy.
“We get a thrill out of knowing folks leave here and travel on a touch lighter, with a little less stress in their lives. Sure makes us proud that we’ve done our modest bit.”
Wow, Pam thought I’m really in Countryville. Nobody thought like that in the city. Most people there seemed far happier to add buckets of stress into your life. In fact, occasionally Pam and Michael had played with the idea of moving out to the countryside for that very reason.
It wasn’t a serious discussion, but every now and then when the myriad of annoying little frustrations peppering their lives built up too much, they pondered living somewhere where people thought and acted just like this woman. They wouldn’t, because the schools weren’t as good.
Hang on, she thought. As if schools are a priority! No, it was the jobs weren’t as good. Not the schools … the jobs!
They would never do it, move, that is. It was just a conversational game. She stood there looking at Bev’s sweet smile, breathing in the Christmas-cookie smell and marveling at the memory of how good that beef stew tasted. It made Pam wonder why they didn’t start taking that conversation a little more seriously.
In the back of her mind, she knew there were a couple of very good reasons why they couldn’t—wouldn’t—move, but like everything else today she just couldn’t think of them.
Shoving the last cookie into her mouth, it dawned on Pam, as much as she wanted to stay, they really needed to leave. Bev held up the tray again and offered another cookie. Pam shook her head.
“Bev, I’m wondering, where is my husband? We probably should get going.” Quickly she added, “Much as we really don’t want to leave.”
“No, no, of course, darling. Don’t you fuss about moving on. We don’t expect folks to stay forever. Much as we’d love it. You’ve done your bit, we’ve done ours, and that’s how it’s meant to be.”
She blessed Pam with a motherly smile. “Oh, and your lovely young man is out back, helping Snow chop wood. Michael’s already had his cup of tea.”
Michael, chopping wood? Pam raised her eyebrows. Now that was something to see. They’d always paid to have their wood delivered—and pre-chopped. “Cheaper for us to pay someone,” Michael would say. “Our time is valuable.”
They didn’t light the fire as much lately, but the thought of chopped wood reminded her how romantic it was to eat dinner on the floor, picnic-style, before the gently flickering flames. A home-cooked four-course Indian meal, a bottle of quality red, and the fire. It was their Saturday evening routine until … until … when did they stop doing that? More to the point, why?
Pam was suffused with a sudden determination. She would ensure after this trip they’d resurrect these rituals, which seemed to have fallen by the wayside. If they weren’t careful, before they knew it Michael wouldn’t be brushing his teeth every day, and she would skip combing her hair. From there it was a quick downward slide to complacency.
It was lucky she’d seen the path they were on before they’d gone too far. Thank goodness they had this week’s vacation to begin rebuilding the fundamentals of their relationship.
As she skipped out the door in search of her husband, she wore a satisfied smile.
What a stroke of luck we took the scenic route and came upon Broken Springs, Population 402.
CHAPTER FOUR
Following Bev’s directions, Pam navigated her way down the back stairs to a pathway alongside the house. From there, she followed a short tree-lined track up a small hill situated at the back of the house.
The surrounding trappings of a country life charmed her: a push mower; a vegetable patch with sprouting, bushy, green plants; trees heavy with fruit—oranges, mandarins, lemons; and even a white archway laced with a tangle of roses.
She breathed in deeply, enjoying the freshness of the unpolluted air, and thought, this is the life. Several steps later, she found herself breathing deeply for a whole other reason. Her thighs began to burn with the exertion of scaling the hill. Surprisingly, even her heart rate had dramatically increased.
Odd. Pam prided herself on maintaining her weight and her fitness. This hill should have presented little challenge. Once she was back home she would need to discuss upping her workout with her trainer. She must not have been getting enough exercise. When had that slipped?
Up ahead, between the foliage, she spied the mottled-gray and burnished-red tin roof of a wooden shed. The size of a large garage, the shed looked self-made, the work of a handyman of yesteryear. An axe leaned against the side of the shed, and nearby lay a large pile of freshly chopped wood surrounded by splintered woodchips. The boys had been busy.
There was no sight or sound of Michael or Snow.
Pam stopped near the woodpile to catch her breath. She leaned forward with one hand on her knee, the other pushed into her right side to ease a stitch. She really was horribly out of shape.
Scanning the heavily forested area, she was about to call out to Michael when Bev’s words suddenly hit her, as though her mind had encountered a fault and required a second perusal before filing them away.
“You’ve done your bit and we’ve done ours.”
She looked at the words in her mind’s eye. They struck her as not quite right. In fact, they struck her—just like everything else had today—as a little off-center.
Maybe it was the migraine. After receding, Pam’s migraines tended to knock her out of her mind for a couple of days. Usually, though, they left her with a sluggish my-head-is-too-heavy feeling, accompanied by what felt like the world’s worst hangover. Since she’d woken up, there had been none of those feelings. She actually felt fantastic—apart from the drop in her fitness level. So why was her memory being so… so faulty, to the point where she couldn’t even remember where they were vacationing?
When Bev had said “We’ve done ours,” Pam had understood the lovely old thing to be referring to their hospitality. Bev and Snow had provided a bed and dinner—and good company, apparently—and breakfast for Michael.
Thanks to her headache, Pam had missed out on most of this charming hospitality. Once they got where they were going, Michael could take her out to a romantic dinner to make it up to her.
The “you’ve done your bit” part still didn’t make sense. Unless she’d missed something while she slept, or misheard part of her conversation with Bev, or maybe forgotten something Bev had said to her before she’d passed out? She had been in a lot of pain when they arrived.
These memory lapses were a concern. She wouldn’t say anything about it to Michael just yet. He always over-worried. The first thing on her agenda was mending their relationship—which, without her even realizing, had somehow begun to deteriorate
Then it came to her.
“You’ve done your bit. It’s how it’s meant to be.”
Of course. How obvious. Now she understood. Bev must have been referring to the payment for the night. Michael would have explained they couldn’t stay, that they needed to leave. Pam wondered why Bev had pretended not to know. It was just like Michael to pay the bill and be organized; he took care of most things money related, even though they had separate checking accounts. She took care of running the house and the… ah, something else was her job. Something important. Damn, this was infuriating.
Except … she did recollect something about a joint checking account. Yes, now she thought about it, she distinctly remembered using it: writing the actual checks and seeing both their names on the bottom of the slip. When did they organize that account? She just couldn’t say, as though there were a big black hole in the canvas of her memory.
Th
e sound of laughter drew her attention to the shed and away from the confusion in her head. By now she’d recovered her breath, and was back to feeling wonderful, amazingly fantastic. More laughter erupted and she thought she detected the muffled sound of her husband's voice. Her eagerness to find Michael and tell him how much better she felt had her skipping to the darkened entrance of the shed.
The double wooden doorway was wide, taking up half the side of the building. One of the doors stood ajar. Long beams of wood diagonally crisscrossed it. Planks of wood were piled to the left of the door, as though the building were an ongoing project. Male voices and laughter came from inside.
Pam recognized Michael’s laugh, and a sudden rush of relief overcame her. It was something familiar—something not part of this house, or Bev and Snow, or Broken Springs, Population 402. That sound was something from before this trip, before they’d taken the scenic route to … to— A quick flicker of a resort hotel sprang into her mind, then vanished.
Oh well, she would ask Michael when she saw him. She’d be careful though, because she didn’t want to alert him to her silly memory problem. They’d traveled so much, she’d just gotten it muddled in her head, that’s all. Her memory surely would be cured with a good rest.
The interior of the shed was lit by a single electric bulb, dangling by a long cord from a lofty ceiling. As Pam entered, she immediately spied Michael and Snow—they were standing at a long bench laden with slim pieces of wood in various sizes. It was obvious how Snow, who looked to be in his seventies, had earned his name: a shock of white hair as thick as a teenager’s sprouted like a bush from his head.
“Well, here you are,” she said, walking toward the men. Both looked up from studying something Snow held in his hand. Michael greeted her with a grin and moved quickly to meet her halfway, wrapping his arms about her and kissing her forehead.
“Babe, you look so much better. I was worried.”
Michael looked from his wife to the elderly man. “Sweetheart, this is Snow. Snow, this is my wife, Pam.”