by Caron Todd
He waited until nine o’clock to call. After the fourth ring he began to consider hanging up, but then he pictured Liz picking up on her end, breathless from hurrying, only to hear the click. There was one telephone, in the dark hall between the kitchen and the living room. She could be outside, or in the bathtub…just when his mind was about to go down that path, he heard Liz’s voice giving a company-polite greeting. Her tone didn’t change all that much when she realized she was talking to him.
Jack walked as far as the telephone cord would let him. He looked out the kitchen window, to the woods Liz had disappeared into after her last visit. “I had a little trouble settling in last night.” He tried to keep his tone light, but he heard a certain intensity creep in. “Did you sleep?”
“Not that well.”
“How about some breakfast over here…apple pancakes?”
“I can’t, Jack. I’m taking Grandma to church. The minister’s in town this morning. It’s his one Sunday a month in Three Creeks.”
“That leaves lunch or dinner. Or both.”
“I can’t,” she repeated. “There’s a family get-together.”
He hadn’t thought of that. Sundays in Three Creeks were for big, hot midday meals followed by dozy conversations. When Eleanor had the Robbs over to her house, she usually invited him, too, and her relatives treated him with an elaborate courtesy that made it clear they’d be happier if he hadn’t come. “Who’s having it this time?”
“Tom and Pam. So I have to go.”
She didn’t sound very disappointed. “What’s the matter, Liz?”
“Nothing’s the matter.” She took a deep breath, then let it out. “We got carried away last night, Jack. Don’t you think?”
“I thought we showed a lot of self-control.”
“It was an awful way to behave, with Grandma down the hall.”
“It was a little embarrassing. I guess a lack of self-control came first, then the abundance of it. Isn’t that more commendable, though? Putting the brakes on rather than never needing them in the first place?”
He’d hoped he could make her laugh a little, or at least relax, but it didn’t happen. Her voice became even more reserved. “I’m leaving soon, so that sort of involvement really doesn’t make sense. I’m not looking for a holiday fling.”
“Wait a minute—” He stopped, unsure of what he wanted to say. He wasn’t going to beg her to see him.
“Grandma’s ready to go.”
“At this hour?”
“We’re decorating—fall leaves and vegetables. And Grandma has a carafe of tea for the minister.” Liz lowered her voice, speaking so quietly he could hardly hear. “I’m sorry if I sent the wrong signals, Jack.” Gently, she replaced the receiver.
He stared at the silent telephone. Sent the wrong signals? They’d all but made love on Eleanor’s living room floor. What kind of signal had she meant to send?
Holiday fling. Thanks, Liz.
She had a point. Fifteen hundred miles separated her home from his, her work from his. They had connected, though. He’d never felt such a sudden, strong connection with anyone. He really didn’t like the idea of her going back to Vancouver just as he was getting to know her. He almost smiled. Maybe he could put her in a pumpkin shell. Keep her safe, keep her here, keep her his. It was tempting, but a wee bit dysfunctional.
Jack grabbed his coat, made sure his gloves were in his pocket, and slipped on his hiking boots. As soon as he felt the morning air on his ears he pulled up his hood. Snow by Halloween? He wouldn’t be surprised if it came before. That might keep Reid and his friends from dropping in whenever they liked. Yesterday he’d bought a padlock for the plywood door. It wouldn’t stop them if they were determined to get in—they could force the hinges off—but at least it told them he’d found their entry point.
He looked up to locate a honking sound overhead. Geese, just a few stragglers, but still holding to a small V-formation. He’d heard them in the city occasionally, but here they were part of the swing of things, telling you that spring had come, telling you to dig out your winter clothes. Too bad they didn’t travel stealthily, and at night. They mated for life, raised a family all summer, then had to fly past a gauntlet of hunters every fall. Try as he might, he couldn’t think of them as dinner. He wasn’t a vegetarian, so it was illogical and sentimental. If he didn’t watch out, he’d be writing a children’s book full of talking geese smoking pipes or some ridiculous thing.
Breakfast in Pine Point sounded good, and then maybe he’d take another look at Eleanor’s field. When he’d arrived for dinner last night she’d had a rental agreement all ready for him to sign. It was the first time he’d ever had to negotiate to get someone to raise their price.
Maybe Liz was backing away in general, not specifically from him. The noise and inquisitiveness of a big family might be overwhelming if you found yourself in the middle of it. At the barbecue last Saturday she’d hardly been able to eat her dinner. Every time she took a bite of food, someone had asked about her life in Vancouver, or how long she planned to stay, or whether she was involved with someone. Privacy was an unknown concept.
Except for that one area of restraint, the question he’d most like answered. What was behind the tension between Liz and the people in town? He’d sensed that Eleanor felt guilty about something relating to her granddaughter, but she had never revealed what. Everyone in town, usually so quick to tell him what and when and who, as well as what they thought about it, were silent when it came to Liz.
TWO KITTENS HUDDLED ON THE STEP, just out of the way of any foot traffic. One was gray; the other was half marmalade and half tabby, clearly divided down the middle. They crouched low, fur bristling, lifting first one paw, then another, mewing forlornly. Liz stood beside Jennifer on the landing. The storm door was open, and they watched the kittens through the glass window of the screen door. Liz wanted to bundle them under her sweater, away from cold cement and unseasonably wintery breezes.
“What unusual markings the little one has, half and half.”
“That’s Charlotte.”
“After the spider?”
Jennifer nodded. “The gray one’s Smoke. Dad named him.” She looked at her mother, mashing potatoes with enough energy to make it clear she wished they’d stop chatting and give her some help. “Can’t they come in, Mom? Just for a while?”
“You know they can’t.”
“They’re cold.”
“Then they can go back to the barn, where it’s warm.”
“They don’t like it in the barn. There are mice in the barn. And it smells.”
Liz moved to the stove and gave the gravy an unneeded stir. Pam had everything under control and a particular way she wanted things done. When Liz had started to put out pickles, Pam had swooped in with a different dish; when she’d tried to drain the vegetables Pam had exclaimed that she wanted to save the water for soup. Stirring gravy seemed to be a safe gesture of good will, but suddenly Pam was at the oven wanting room to check the cabbage rolls and perogies. The rice-filled cabbage leaves and soft potato and cheese filled turnovers weren’t part of the Robb menu until Pam had joined the family. Now she was asked to make them all the time.
“There’s so much food, Pam. It’s like a holiday dinner. I can hardly wait to eat.”
“You’ll hardly have to.” Pam lifted two round roasting pans out of the oven. “You can put the cabbage rolls and perogies into the serving bowls, Liz.” She glanced at her daughter. “Shut the door, Jennifer.”
“In a minute, Mom.”
“They’re no happier with you watching them. It’s kinder to ignore them, so they’ll go back to the barn.” One corner of Jennifer’s mouth trembled. Pam’s voice softened. “You’re always scolding me about the environment. Think of all the extra oil the furnace will burn while you let cold air into the house.”
There was a soft but definite click as Jennifer closed the door. Pam handed her the salad tongs. “Toss the lettuce with a little of that dr
essing I made and put it on the table. Not too much. It’s supposed to be salad with dressing, not the other way around. Liz, would you tell everyone to sit down?”
Liz’s hand, holding a slotted spoon, hovered over the perogies.
“Never mind. I’ll tell them.” Pam hurried from the room. Liz could hear her voice rising above a political discussion and opinions about the new television season, telling everyone to come to the table. Then she was back in the kitchen, taking the spoon from Liz. “Go sit down, Liz, across from Aunt Julia. She was saying she’s hardly talked to you yet.” Emily’s mother hardly ever talked to anyone, but Liz was willing to try.
With its extra leaf in for company, the dining table filled most of the available space, leaving little room for people and chairs. Even if Pam had wanted it, Eleanor’s black walnut set wouldn’t have fit. Besides, it would look out of place in this modern room. Eleanor’s house was always dark, no matter how many lights were turned on, and it always seemed dusty, no matter how recently it had been cleaned. Here, light streamed into every room, and there wasn’t the smallest suggestion of family or local history to be seen. Pam said there were enough disadvantages to living on a farm without being surrounded by other people’s old stuff.
Liz squeezed past Tom at one end of the table and into an empty chair between Emily and Martin, across from Aunt Julia. Julia was busy trying to read the identifying mark on the bottom of her plate and didn’t say hello when Liz greeted her. Beside Martin was his wife Pat, with a flushed and sleeping toddler on her lap—Nell, looking exactly like early photos of Susannah. Liz smiled. Nell would be a very sweet teddy bear.
Then Uncle Will at the head of the table, and around the corner, Aunt Edith, still in her church clothes. Eleanor was next, looking especially pretty—happy, maybe, that she’d heard the St. George’s organ that morning and listened to the minister’s measured voice sorting its way through an illogical but well-meant sermon. The seat closest to the kitchen had been left for Pam, so she could refill serving dishes and keep an eye on the children’s table. It wasn’t the whole family—Brian’s bunch was spending the day with his wife’s parents—but it was more than Liz had seen at once for a long time. She blinked quickly, hoping no one would notice the sudden moisture in her eyes.
Emily touched her hand. “Okay?”
Liz blotted a drip that had grown big enough to fall. Almost under her breath, she said, “You know how it is when something makes you so happy you feel sad?”
Emily smiled in understanding, but on Liz’s other side Martin said, “Good grief. Not mixed feelings again.”
“Martin, don’t be hard on your cousin.”
“Thank you, Aunt Edith.”
“That’s just the way she is,” Edith went on, “the way she’s always been. An absolute compote of feelings. Bits of everything. What is it you’re feeling mixed about, dear?”
Martin answered for Liz. “She’s so happy, she’s sad.”
Pam set the biggest standing rib roast Liz had ever seen in front of Tom. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard the word ‘bittersweet,’ Martin.”
“It’s a kind of chocolate, isn’t it?”
Tom waved the carving knife in the air until everyone paid attention. “I’ll serve Grandma first. Then Liz—” he smiled at his sister “—because I’m so glad she’s come home.” Ignoring good-natured rumbles of disagreement about his second choice, he offered Eleanor a well-browned and seasoned outside piece, then cut three medium-rare slices so thinly they crumpled as they fell onto Liz’s plate. “That still how you like it?”
“Perfect. Thank you, Tom.” She sat back, listening as her family continued to debate the hierarchy of service. After everyone had been given roast—now cold—the rest of the food was passed around the table: potatoes and gravy and horseradish, cabbage rolls in tomato sauce, perogies and sour cream, carrots and peas and green beans dotted with butter, home-pickled beets and cucumbers, dressing-laden salad. Liz had a sudden picture of Jack, alone in the Ramsey kitchen.
She turned to her brother. “I thought Jack might be here today.”
“Jack McKinnon?”
There wasn’t any other Jack. “He doesn’t have family in the area. I thought you might ask him to Sunday dinner.”
“Great-grandma always does,” Jennifer called from the kitchen.
“Because he’s her neighbor,” Tom said.
“And because he’s good company.” Eleanor’s quiet voice dared anyone to say otherwise. “Besides, he does thoughtful little things for me, and I appreciate that.”
“Like bringing you firewood.” From Tom’s tone, anyone would think Eleanor had given Jack the biggest piece of cake.
“Jack is just being neighborly,” Emily said.
“There’s neighborly and then there’s odd.” Tom looked at Martin, who nodded in agreement. “He’s a young guy from the city, no wife, no kids, a business he doesn’t talk about, and suddenly he’s calling himself a farmer and spending half his time visiting an old lady—no offense, Grandma—who happens to be selling her place, ingratiating himself by doing odd jobs and taking her baking like he’s some old woman himself—”
“Tom!” Liz, Pam and Emily all spoke at once.
“—and the next thing I hear he’s all set to rent a field I’ve had my eye on for quite some time.”
“Ingratiating?” Eleanor said. Although she spoke quietly, everyone stopped eating and stared.
Tom’s knife and fork froze above his plate. “I’m sorry, Grandma.” The two looked at each other across the table.
“It’s true that Jack is a young man from the city who lives alone. And it’s true that he has embarked on a new way of life. He’s also a very good neighbor.”
“And a very good cook,” Edith said. “I really do enjoy his pie. Although, it will be nice when it’s blueberry.”
There were small movements as knives and forks began working again. Will looked around the table and zeroed in on Liz’s plate. “Is that all you’re eating, sweetheart? Somebody send the cabbage rolls back this way for Liz.” He motioned for the bowl, ignoring her protest.
“She’s dieting,” Martin said. “She hardly touched her lasagna when I was there the other night.”
“Oh, but you shouldn’t diet, Liz.” Edith sounded concerned. “That’s what they say now. It does something…what does it do to you, Pam?”
“It slows your metabolism, because your body thinks it’s starving.”
“Maybe she’s still full from last night’s dinner,” Will suggested. He raised an eyebrow at the rest of the group. “I was at Mother’s Friday picking up the car Liz dented, to take it back to the city. The place was quite the hive of female activity. Liz was getting ready to cook for McKinnon.”
Pam said, “I knew it.”
“Everyone knew it,” said Martin. “If you were at the barbecue you couldn’t miss it.”
“Miss what?” Tom asked. “Liz and McKinnon? You’re kidding, right?”
Aunt Julia spoke for the first time. “Leave the girl alone.”
“That’s right,” Will agreed quickly. “If you aren’t careful she won’t come home again. I talked to her the other day about coming back permanently. She’s thinking about it, aren’t you, Liz?”
“To live?” Emily asked.
Edith blinked happily. “Oh, wouldn’t that be nice!”
Liz focused on her meal, letting her family’s noise wash over her. If she stayed longer, for a month or two, would it be as if she’d never gone? Maybe Uncle Will’s idea wasn’t as far-fetched as it sounded. She could move back and keep house for her grandmother and work in the bedroom under the eaves. The light was good, there was plenty of floor space to spread out pictures and visualize a story. Her neck got tight just thinking about it. It wouldn’t be easy, but she could do it. And Jack would be there.
Edith was talking about Susannah’s wedding again. “I know I need to let it go. But I had dreams, what mother doesn’t? I always saw Susannah in my weddi
ng dress.”
Patiently, Martin said, “It wouldn’t have fit her, Mom. Sue’s a foot taller than you.”
“But not even to attend my own daughter’s wedding.”
There were murmurs of agreement around the table. It had always been like this. Every member of the family had at least one opinion about whatever the others did. What would they do if she got up and left, a silent protest, just walked out of the dining room and out of the house? Most likely, they wouldn’t bat an eye. Someone would ask, “What got into Liz?” and then they’d turn back to their meal, with cheesecake for dessert, no doubt, just to be sure no one’s body was fooled into thinking it was starving.
WHEN HER MOTHER left the kitchen to get another stack of dishes from the dining room, Jennifer hurried outside, a slice of roast beef dangling from her fingers. Liz followed her to the back step, and found her ripping the meat into small pieces for the kittens.
“Maybe we should take these poor things to the barn.”
Jennifer picked up Charlotte. She touched the kitten’s nose, then her paws. “See how little she is? She wouldn’t be in the way. She could stay in my room the whole time.”
Liz crouched down to get Smoke and received a scratch in thanks.
“It’s just that he doesn’t know you,” Jennifer said quickly.
“If you encourage them to stay by the house, what will they do when it’s dark? Shiver on the step all night?”
Reluctantly, Jennifer agreed the barn would be warmer. They each took a dish, one with the scraps and another with water, and crossed the long yard.
The barn was older than the house, a practical, easy-to-build peaked roof design, white with green trim. It was rarely used for animals anymore. Most of the cattle spent the winter in the feedlot, with shelter from the woods and warmth from each other’s bodies.
“Are there other cats out here?” Liz asked.
“Charlotte and Smoke’s mother disappeared a while ago. There’s another cat around somewhere. She goes to the granaries and the other outbuildings.”