by Tudor Robins
Not at six a.m. though.
It’s fresh. In places it’s even chilly. In the dips of the road, where the fog lies thick and wet, the temperature drops, raising goose bumps on my skin. Things are visible this early in the morning that get blocked out later, as the hot sun rises.
Spider webs glimmer everywhere, beautiful on barbed-wire fences, shimmering between stalks of hay, their steely strands picked out by sunlit dew.
I run hard and fast, trying to drive away the fatigue building from my interrupted nights. Seeking energy to get me through my work days which are tiring both physically (carrying suitcases, making beds, vacuuming endlessly) and mentally (smiling all day long, answering the same questions over and over again, saying “of course I’ll bring you tea,” when I know they ordered coffee).
Most mornings I flush wild turkeys out of the long grass by the side of the road. Often I see the deer, sometimes with her fawn, sometimes not. “Where’s your baby?” I call, and her thin-skinned ears cup in my direction, honing in on my signal like translucent satellite dishes.
Every morning, the same dog barks at me. He’s a big German Shepherd but his wagging tail tells me he barks from compulsion, not malice: barks because he can’t not bark. Barks, a little bit, because he’d like to be coming with me, following me up the gravel rise to where the Old Concession Line crosses Split Oak Road, to where the cows congregate waiting to be let through the gate for their morning feed.
He can’t follow me though, because he clearly has an important job where he is. There’s a big old farmhouse to guard and, presumably, a family inside, so no gallivanting for Rex, as I’ve come to think of him. On the second day, I started bringing him dog treats.
At first, he wouldn’t take the treat from me. He barked and barked and barked, and I imagined him saying, ‘Look at me. I’m doing my job. I’m not being distracted by dog biscuits and running.’ I left the treat lying in the grass beside the driveway, and he glanced at it between barks.
When I passed the house on the way back, Rex was nowhere in sight and the dog biscuit was gone.
The next day he picked it off the ground while I watched him.
Today he takes it from me, but makes sure to bark before and after, just to make it clear he’s doing his job.
Rex makes me miss Chester. Maybe that would be all I need – a big, friendly dog – to curl up with me and soothe me through the night.
Slate’s texts always make me smile, and I want it to stay that way. Don’t want to turn our light, fun, back-and-forth into a pity party, so I tell her the good, and the funny, and keep quiet about the tough things.
I’ve even come to count on my mom’s messages reminding me to wipe down the microwave after I use it, and to clear leftovers out of the fridge at the end of the week.
The thing about texts, though, is I almost feel more alone after I’ve read them. Like the person was with me for a few, brief seconds, and now they’re gone.
Sometimes I think it would be nice to have a more constant companion. I don’t think I could convince Rex to come home with me, though.
Put-put-put. What is that noise?
The low-slanting sun waters my eyes as I squint over my shoulder.
It’s a tractor, going very slowly. There’s a guy in a baseball cap behind the big wheel. I wave, as is the island way, and move far over to the rough verge of the road, giving him a clear path to pass me.
He pulls up beside me, and I nod in his direction without really looking. I keep running and wait to be able to reclaim the smoother centre of the road.
No such luck; he’s still there. I keep moving, look straight ahead, trying to hold onto my running rhythm despite the rattle of the tractor engine beside me. Put your foot down.
Nothing happens; he’s still there. A sideways glance tells me he’s fit – or, at least, he doesn’t have the beer belly prevalent on so many of the older farmers around here. Then he turns a smiling face to me, and I recognize the guy from the highway, the guy from the bakery: “Where’s your tractor?” guy.
Maybe my blush won’t be noticeable in my already running-flushed cheeks.
He’s yelling, but I can’t hear a word over the rumbling of the tractor. I shrug, shake my head and keep running.
The tractor starts to slow. It eases off a bit, then some more and, within a few metres, idles to a halt.
Without noticing – without intending to – I also come to a stop. Or at least a jog on the spot. So much for my rhythm.
“Hi,” says the guy from his perch way up on the tractor seat.
“Hi.”
“Jared,” he says, and I say “Meg.”
“Are you the one who’s been waking up my dog every morning?” He’s smiling, so I don’t think he’s serious, but it’s hard to know for sure.
“Well, as far as I can tell your dog’s already awake when I come by.”
“Good point. Rex.”
“Pardon me?”
“His name’s Rex.” In the shade under the brim of his cap, his eyes narrow. “Are you OK? You look strange.”
I’ve stopped moving. Am just standing, stock-still. His name’s Rex … I shake my head. “Uh, I’m fine, thanks.”
“He’s friendly.”
“I know, I like him. Is it OK if he runs with me?”
“Fine. Just whistle and he should go.”
“Alright.” And then, the same geeky part of me that started the whole tractor thing in the first place surfaces again. “I see you found your tractor.”
Instant change. In him. In the atmosphere between us. Sparks, chemistry or something, ignited by my stupid joke, fanned by that same molasses-smooth-and-slow smile from the other day.
“Still funny,” he says.
Something twangs deep in my gut. A twist, a lurch, a feeling like nervousness, but edged with pleasure. “I don’t know about that. I’m not exactly known for my wit.”
“Hmmm,” he does something to the tractor – something involving gears, I suspect – and the engine gets louder again. “We’ll see.”
“We’ll see?”
“We’ll see!” And he’s off, lumbering away, with one last wave for me.
I sprint a few strides, my eyes on his straight, strong back, then slip back into a steadier pace; one I can sustain all the way home.
And as I run, two words cycle through my head. We’ll see-we’ll see-we’ll see.
Back at the cottage my charging phone holds a text:
Slate: Bronc-riding cowboy, or tractor-driving cowboy?
My reply: Oh, he definitely drives a tractor.
My cell reception’s good this morning, because Slate’s reply pops up before I leave for work:
YAIT. Tractor = boring. Keep looking Miss Meg.
Slate doesn’t care if acronyms mean anything to anyone else, as long as they work for her. I spend my whole walk to the B&B working on her latest one. YAIT. Y.A.I.T. What the … It pops into my head as I step onto Carl’s mowed lawn. Oh! “Yawning as I type”.
I smile. Funny, because the last thing Jared makes me want to do is yawn.
Chapter Nine
It’s a beautiful summer evening and I’m in the village, on a mission to replenish my reading-in-bed snack supply.
I shouldn’t be here this late, but this afternoon one of the B&B guests started having chest pains. “I’ll be fine,” he insisted when I found him sitting on a mostly decorative chair in the hallway, clutching his left arm. “I just need some water.”
Not only did I get the water, I got Betsy too. “He’s kind of grey,” I told her.
It took her one look, and two seconds to decide. “I’m driving him to the ferry. Call 911 and tell them we’re on our way.”
With Betsy gone, and Carl cutting brush at the edge of the far field, I was alone in a house which was very much not ready for an onslaught of breakfast guests in the morning. I did the best I could to mix ingredients for muffins, then made a salad out of random pieces of fruit left in the fridge and fruit bowl.
Tidied up the kitchen and, meeting Carl on my way out, explained what had happened.
Stumbled down the path to the cottage tired, hungry and looking forward to a relaxing evening, which is when I discovered no Diet Coke, and no Doritos.
Checked my watch, and decided I could just make it to the village and back before sunset if I started immediately, and if I pedaled hard. Both of which I did, and made it to the general store in decent time.
I’m zipping my panniers closed on a twelve-pack of DC, two pounds of new potatoes, a carton of orange juice, and a family-sized bag of Doritos, when I notice a problem. A fairly major problem. “Shit!”
I look around, ready to apologize for my language, but there’s nobody in sight. “Shit,” I mutter again. I have a flat tire. Very flat. When I push down on my handlebars, the rubber pancakes on the pavement.
This is a working island, a rural island; a place where nails, and barbed wire, and other sharp and piercing things are a fact of life. Flat tires aren’t surprising but, like this one, they’re never particularly convenient.
With a click and a hum, the light outside the general store powers to life. It’s getting dark.
God, I am so stupid. I shouldn’t have come. Should have made do with well water and saltines.
I trap my lip between my teeth and gaze past all the empty parking spots in front of the closed post office, bakery and coffee shop. There isn’t even the shortest of ferry lines – the boat pulled out five minutes ago, and people aren’t exactly queuing up to get off the island at this time on a weekday evening.
No. They’re safe at home, watching TV, getting ready for bed. Like I should be.
I don’t want to go back into the store. Don’t want to ask to borrow the phone. Don’t want to disturb Carl and Betsy – not that I even know if Betsy is back from dealing with the hospital-bound guest – and have to say “I’m stupid” and “I’m stuck” and “Would someone please, please come and get me?”
In the quiet evening, voices grab my attention. Two figures walking up from the ferry dock – one in the high visibility vests worn by the ferry crew – the other wearing a familiar uniform of jeans, t-shirt, baseball cap.
It could be anyone …
But it’s not. He takes a package from the ferry guy, and the voice that says, “Thanks, again, for picking this up, Doug,” is Jared’s. I’d already know it anywhere.
My stomach knots. Jared.
A car crawling down the street rolls to a stop, and the ferry worker gets in. “’Night Jared.”
“’Night.” Jared lifts his hand in a half-wave, and turns away from me.
Shit. There goes my drive home.
Ask him.
I can’t.
Why not? Ask him.
‘Oh for God’s sake, Meg; if you don’t ask him I will!’ – I’m channeling Slate when I take a deep breath, and ask, “Jared?”
He half-turns, shrugs, and keeps walking.
I step into the pool of light shed by the sign. “Jared! Jared!”
He stops this time, turns around completely, and walks back toward me with a smile spreading, slow and friendly, across his face.
“Nice night for a bike ride.”
“Would be if my bike wasn’t broken.” I point to the tire. Now I’m smiling too. It’s amazing how fast relief can push despair out of the way.
Jared bends down, tests the tire, straightens up and pushes his baseball cap back. “Well, unfortunately I don’t seem to have my tractor with me tonight …”
I give a half nod – a you-got-me nod.
“… but I think I can remember where I left my pick-up, if you wouldn’t mind me giving you a lift back in that.”
“I think I could settle for a pick-up,” I say.
**********
It’s accomplished in no time. Bike – complete with flat tire – in the back of the pick-up, me installed in the high cab, loving the space of the long bench seat, the sparseness of the dashboard, the absence of any clutter.
“You like it?” There’s laughter in Jared’s voice as he catches me caressing the ridged vinyl of the seat on either side of me. “It’s real Corinthian leather, you know.”
He says it like I know what he means; like it’s an inside reference we already share. His tone invites me to enter the joke with him, so I do. I smile, then laugh, and let the laugh be mostly at myself. It feels good.
“I love old pick-up trucks,” I say.
“You spend a lot of time in them?”
“I ride.” I hesitate, backpedal. “Rode. I rode. A lot. For most of my life.”
He looks at me for a long minute with questions in his eyes. Please don’t ask.
The best defence is a good offense, and talking is my only weapon.
I tap the window behind my head. “So, I hear they might close. Does that affect you?”
“What?”
“The agricultural college. How far into the program are you?” Please don’t say “I’ve graduated” – that would mean too many years between us … I pinch the inside of my wrist … Now I’m being an idiot. Too many years for what?
He turns to me, his brow furrowed. “How did you …”
“The sticker. From the college. On your back window. I saw it when you loaded my bike in.”
“Oh. That. No.”
“No, what?”
“No, it doesn’t affect me.”
“Oh. Why? Are you done?”
“You could say that.”
His half-answers are making me twitch. “What, exactly, does…”
He holds up his hand and brakes at the same time. “Sshhh. Listen.”
The coyotes again. Baying, howling, saluting the moon. The notes float and twist and rise in a spiral to the starry sky.
“Nice.”
His easy smile comes back. “Isn’t it? As long as they stay far away from the cattle.”
The truck picks up speed again. The long, straight highway is smooth, and warm evening air breezes through the open windows. I stretch my legs into the deep footwell and lean back. “So, cattle?”
He nods. “Beef. And hay. And some soy.”
YAIT. I shake my head. Get out of my head, Slate.
“Hard work,” I say.
He shrugs. “I try to stay on top of things, which is basically impossible.”
“Hence the tractor driving?”
“Yup. Couldn’t do half of what I do without the tractor. Speaking of which …” We turn off the highway and his headlights sweep across shiny metal, massive tires with v-shaped treads.
“New?”
“Used, but new to me. I try to take care of it.”
We coast to a stop in the gravel by the tractor, and Jared cuts the engine. Rex whines at the side of the truck, tail sweeping, waiting to greet me, and there’s a woman stepping out the side door. She’s drying her hands on a tea towel, with flour dusting one cheek.
Wow, I can’t believe how pretty she is. Or maybe attractive is a better word – it’s one my mom uses all the time – one that, to me, sounds stilted and old-fashioned but, with this woman, it fits. There’s something undeniably attractive about her.
She’s clearly Jared’s mom. I know it even before he says “Hey, Mom.” I know from the coarse, sandy not-quite-curly-but-more-than-wavy hair they share. From the tight stretch of skin over high cheekbones. From the intriguing crinkles at the corner of their eyes that speak of sun, and smiles, and wide-open spaces.
“Hi there! I’m Jane Strickland.” Jared’s mom says this, not quite as though we’ve known each other forever, but as though this could be the first step in us getting there. Instead of holding out her hand, she squeezes my shoulders in a sort of mini-hug.
“Pie ready?” Jared asks.
“Cherry,” she confirms, and saliva springs into my mouth. I love cherry pie, and I have a feeling she makes a good one.
“Can you join us for pie, Meg?” My mouth is open to ask how she knows my name, when she says “Nothing’s a secret on this island
, Meg, you must know that. Betsy and I are good friends.”
I follow her into a kitchen that would have my mom calling in renovators on the spot but, to me, looks country perfect down to the last, old-fashioned linoleum tile.
The cherry pie is amazing. Delicious, mouth-watering, and nicely tangy, while staying just the right side of too-sweet.
“I love this pie!” I clap my hand over my mouth, realizing I may not be one hundred per cent done chewing.
“Yeah, my mom knows which grocery store makes the best pie.”
Jared ducks as she throws her napkin at him. “As Jared well knows, I started baking as soon as I got home from work yesterday, so he could have pie for his birthday, which means I got to bed late. He should be careful, because I’m grumpy when I’m sleep deprived.
“It’s your … oh, I am so sorry … I shouldn’t be here … I …” I give up, drop my fork, hide my red cheeks behind my hands.
“Don’t be silly!” Jared’s mom says. “Having you here is a treat. Another piece, either of you?”
Jared nods a yes, and while she lifts the knife to cut another slice, she smoothes over my awkwardness with a question. “So, what brings you here this summer, Meg?”
“Oh. I usually show all summer – horse shows; I horseback ride – but I …” I hesitate, but something about Jared saving me, and his mom welcoming me, makes me want to tell them. “… I lost my horse at the beginning of the season.”
She hands Jared his pie, but keeps her attention on me. “That sounds difficult.”
I nod. “It was. He died right on the course. I was thrown and I couldn’t get to him. I had a concussion. I didn’t get to say good-bye.” My voice is thickening now. “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say all that. I need to learn when to shut up.”
Jared’s shaking head catches my eye, and I turn to him.
“Don’t do that,” he says.
“Don’t do what?”
“Don’t shut up. If you were a quiet person, I wouldn’t have driven you home tonight and then I’d be stuck alone with my mom on my birthday.”