“I don’t believe it,” Dad fired back quickly. “I don’t trust a word of it.”
“You don’t trust that a multimillionaire can afford you, that he can be trusted in his dealing?”
“Not as far as I could throw his bank vault,” Dad said.
Aunt Palleta giggled yet again. Then there was a long, awkward silence.
“And what about Ethan?” my uncle finally said. Now he had resorted to using his compassionate TV preacher tone of voice.
“Leave him out of this, Chuck,” my mother warned.
“He’s almost ten years old and barely speaks a word,” Chuck said. “How much longer will that little problem be ignored? You homeschool him, sure, but you can’t hide him here for the rest of your lives. If you’re not worried about your own future, that’s up to you. But you should be worried about that kid’s future.”
“Stop,” my father said then, not loudly but very firmly.
“Better to make a decision now than let it ruin the holiday for you tomorrow,” Uncle Chuck pressed.
“Stop,” my father repeated. The creaking of his rocking chair told me that he’d stood up to show Chuck how serious he was. My uncle was older than my father, but he wasn’t bigger and stronger.
***
As the living room fell into a tense silence, I felt a mixture of fear and guilt. My uncle was a creep, but he had spoken accurately. I was nearing ten years old, and truthfully I didn’t speak very often. I knew this wasn’t normal, and I knew it concerned my parents, but I hadn’t dreamed Uncle Chuck would use it against them as a guilt tactic, all just to get a large sales commission from helping Mr. Schwindler acquire our family’s inn.
Behind me I heard the soft sound of Ginny’s toenails lightly touching the floorboards. I felt her familiar presence move up close to me, and as she pawed at my arm, I turned my head and looked at her in the dark.
Ginny hadn’t always lived with us. She had been named Ginger as a little puppy and she joined our family when Mr. Fitz, an old friend of my father’s, suddenly passed away. She was about six months old then, and being frightened and sad, my father couldn’t resist bringing her home when Mr. Fitz’s family mentioned bringing her to the animal shelter. I was only about two years old at the time, so in all honesty, I can’t recall a day in my life without her.
Time for bed, Ethan, Ginny said as she nudged me with her paw. Their conversation isn’t meant for you to hear.
I’m nervous, I told her. I said it with my mind, not my mouth. Just as I couldn’t recall spending a day without Ginny, neither could I recall a day when the two of us didn’t silently speak with one another. It’s hard to explain how it works. It’s not mindreading and it’s not magic, it’s just something that happens between those who pay very close attention. Comparing it to a regular conversation, the difference is something like the difference between reading aloud and reading silently to one’s self, but even that explanation falls short.
Don’t be nervous, she said with a faint whine.
But what if they sell the inn?
They won’t sell it, she assured me. This our home.
But what if they do? Where would we live then?
Ethan, stop worrying, she said. Right now you need your rest.
I’m so tired of Uncle Chuck and Aunt Palleta, I complained as I stood and moped to my bed.
As we all are, she replied. She followed me to my bed and watched me get settled. Then she lay down on her own bed—a large beanbag chair on the floor beside my bed. It was covered with an old brownish blanket that somewhat matched her hair color.
After shuffling around to get comfortable, I lay on my side facing Ginny. She did the same and faced me. With her head on her forepaws, her gaze rested steadily on me. Even if I couldn’t have seen her, I could have felt her watching me. People that are very close with their dogs will know exactly what I’m talking about. They can feel it when we’re watching them, just as we can feel them watching over us. I also knew that Ginny wouldn’t let herself sleep until she was sure that I was asleep. So, reluctantly I closed my eyes, blocked out the faint murmur of voices from downstairs, and tried to forget all I’d heard.
Good night, girl, I said after a while.
Good night, boy, she replied.
With the low sound of my own breathing mingling with Ginny’s breathing, and images of Thanksgiving dinner in my head, slowly I drifted off to sleep.
Chapter 2
Every kid understands the excitement of Christmas perfectly well. As the month of December approaches, the 25th stands alone, shining as the single brightest point of the calendar year. The anticipation builds as the December days slowly pass, until the overwhelming night of Christmas Eve leaves most of us sleepless with anxiety.
Well, as for me, I’m a little different. Instead of waiting for December, I’ve always liked to get an early start on my holiday anxiety.
Right after Halloween is usually when we began to feel winter settling in around us. As the early days of November ticked by, the signs of the coming season were difficult to ignore. The lawn was frosty and the trees were bare, and by late November the cold weather was impossible to ignore. That’s usually when I gave in and began watching the calendar obsessively, counting the days and crossing them off with a red marker. You might think December 25th is the day I was counting down to, but it wasn’t. Not yet anyway.
Like I said before, my holiday anxiety always started early. Thanksgiving Day was the goal I longed for all through the autumn season, and when the eve of Thanksgiving finally arrived, to me it really did feel almost as thrilling as Christmas Eve. Of course I was excited about the usual things, like turkey and stuffing and mashed potatoes, butternut squash with maple syrup, cranberry sauce, fresh biscuits, buttery cornbread, blueberry pie, cherry pie, pecan pie, chocolate pie heaped with heavy whipping cream. As great as that all was, the greatest part was not the feast itself but what it signified: the official start to the holidays and the winter season—our busiest, most exciting time of year at The Inn at Maple Grove.
Every Thanksgiving we’d followed the same routine. After dinner, my mother, father and I would get our much-needed exercise by taking down the fall décor and packing it away into boxes. Then, after carrying those boxes up the narrow stairway to the attic, we’d begin the far greater task of bringing down dozens of Christmas boxes, all packed with bells, garlands, string lights, window candles, snowmen and snowwomen, toy soldiers and Christmas teddy bears, delicate angels and lighted stars, and more small trinkets than one might care to count. Of course we wouldn’t come close to getting everything done in one evening. The following day, however, was another story.
Friday morning we’d wake up refreshed and full of enthusiasm, and we’d tackle the grand project with all our energy. As soon as breakfast was over, Mom would start the base for the turkey soup. While the broth simmered on the stovetop, Dad would resume unpacking boxes, and I’d sort through the pile of Christmas records, putting my favorites through their inaugural spins of the year. (Yes, we still played records in the 1980s, and my poor parents—not to mention Ginny—endured countless repeats of The Chipmunk’s Christmas song, Christmas Don’t Be Late, with stoic tolerance.) Our living room was located at the west end of the inn, which looked over the parking lot. At such times the room became the center of our whole decorating operation. It was a good-sized room to start, but with all the boxes and decorations everywhere, it would start to feel more like a maze than a living room. We’d always start from there and spread out, decorating first the closed-off wing of the inn which we called home, and then we’d work our way out through the two levels of long corridors and many rooms of the guest quarters.
By Friday evening the entire place would be transformed. Instead of looking bland after losing the autumn décor, empty and a little bit cold, with the greens and reds of Christmas, the old place would take on a warmth against the cold light of the gray skies that shone through the age-clouded windows. The hallways would be line
d with garlands and holly, and each guest room had its own lighted artificial tree on a wooden stand. Fresh kindling and small stacks of firewood were placed in the rooms by the fireplaces. Sweet-smelling wreaths with red bows were hung on every door, and a candle light was placed in every window.
After dinner Friday evening, all four of us would stand outside and look up at the inn with all those candles glowing in the windows. We’d stand there and talk about how thankful we were to have it, admiring it until our teeth began to chatter. Then we’d go inside and collapse for the night.
Saturday morning my father would get out the ladders and line the eves and gables with countless feet of string lights. He’d wrap every porch post with lighted garlands, and hang a big spruce wreath over the grand entryway. Even the barn across the road—where we stored the old trail grooming tractor and other odds and ends—would get a few lights and some garlands around the doors. The little wooden snack shack would be readied to serve coffee and cookies and hot cocoa to cold skiers and tubers, as well as the ice skaters that skated on the little pond behind the inn. The makeshift hockey rink would be set up, which my father made in the parking lot each year by laying out tarps and flooding them with the garden hose. Then, at last he’d wrap the blue spruce tree that stood before the inn’s walkway with lights and cap it with a lighted star.
After all that we’d stand back in the parking lot, tired but cheerful, admiring all that we’d accomplished. Because we always had a real Christmas tree in our living room, we would wait a week or so after Thanksgiving before getting one. Otherwise, it would be so dry by Christmas morning the needles would be falling out, leaving a green coating on our presents.
Sunday, after that great burst of activity, everything would slow again to a grinding halt. Then the waiting would begin. While we feasted on leftovers, the ski trails would wait for the first snows of the season, and the ski lift would wait idly for its seats to be filled. The leafless trees that sprawled for miles in every direction from the inn would wait to be coated in white. And the long white inn itself, with its green shutters and green-shingled roof, would stand patiently waiting for the guests to begin arriving, wood smoke puffing from our living room chimney, and candle lights glowing warmly in the frosty windows.
***
Images of these days of decorating were passing through my mind when I was jolted from my dreamy sleep. Rather than seeing the light of morning through my window, when I opened my eyes I found that it was the dead of night. The house was silent, no light shone around my door, and Ginny was prodding me with her paw, her face just inches from my own in the darkness.
Wake up, Ethan, she said. Wake up!
With a groan I swung my legs out from under the covers and sat up. Ginny backed away. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and then stared at her shadowy face. Her demeanor was extremely anxious.
You need to get up, she said. Now!
Is this real, or a dream? I asked.
It’s very real, she said. And it’s very important. We have something important we must do, and we must not wake Mom and Dad.
What? I asked, trying to imagine what could be so important.
I will explain further once we are outside, but for now— Outside? I interrupted, rubbing my eyes again to make sure that I was truly awake. How could I go outside in the middle of the night? Ginny knew the rules as well as I did. If we were caught going outside to play in the middle of the night, we would have a lot of explaining to do. I might even have a piece or two of pie withheld as punishment.
Yes, outside, she answered, resting her paw on my leg to hold my attention. She stared intently into my eyes. This is very unusual, I know, Ethan. But I need you to trust me and do as I say.
Strange as it was, I could think of no good reason to mistrust Ginny. She loved to have fun, but always within the set boundaries of rules and structure. Ginny was no trouble maker, and she would never stand for me to partake in any mischief.
Have I ever let you down? She then asked. Have I ever led you into any sort of danger, any trouble or mischief of any kind?
No, I said. Never.
Will you trust me?
I trust you, Ginny.
Good, she said softly, giving her tail a quick wag. Now you must get up and dress as warmly as you can. A very special meeting is soon to convene—a secret meeting held far from the house, in the little valley between our hill and the mountain. You, Ethan, have been summoned to that meeting, and I am to take you there. We will be gone for hours; that is why you must dress properly. If we are to arrive in time, we must leave very soon. The longer we wait, the more we will have to rush later. And though this meeting is of a highly serious nature, I intend for you to enjoy the journey between here and there.
For a long moment I sat staring at her while my eyes continued to adjust. Had I heard her correctly, or was I dreaming a very strange dream? Had she really said something about a meeting? What kind of meeting? And who would summon me there?
Get moving, she said. But do so as quietly as possible. Mom and Dad are fast asleep. We absolutely must not wake them.
I slipped off the bed and stood with my bare feet on the cool wooden floor. The sharpness of the cold stunned me for a second, and before I could proceed to my dresser, my mind froze on the question of who. Who had summoned me to a meeting? And why?
Just then I heard a little series of tapping sounds. Not loud tapping, but clear enough to be heard in the stillness of the night as an intentional sound rather than the creaking of the old boards. It was a tinny sound of something firm against the cold glass of my window. If there had been a tree near the window, I would have suspected a branch to be rubbing against it. But there were no trees anywhere near my window.
Ginny moved quickly to the window, exaggerating her steps to keep her claws from clicking on the wood floor. Yes, yes, she said impatiently as I watched her. We’re on our way. Be patient.
Ginny, I said. Who are you talking to?
Not now, she said, turning to face me again. Hurry, get dressed. Put on a second pair of pajama pants. Wool socks, not plain ones. And a sweatshirt over your pajama shirt. Your hat and mittens are in the pockets of your wool coat, and your boots should be under the coatrack by the kitchen door. Yes, walk on your tiptoes. Good. Slide the drawers slowly, carefully. Tuck in that shirt before you pull on the sweatshirt. Yes. Good.
You’re lucky, I said when I’d finally gotten myself together. It had been an even slower and more tedious process than normal dressing was.
I need no time to dress, do I?
Yes! I wish I was like you. I wish I could just— Ethan, said Ginny in a level tone. You must stay focused on our task. We have no time to chat. We must now descend the stairs quieter than we ever have before. Can you do that for me? Can you stay focused and completely quiet until we’ve made it outdoors?
Yes, Ginny, I said, letting the other thoughts quickly go. I can do that.
Good. Now, open the door as gently as you can.
I lifted the metal latch (most interior doors at the inn have latches rather than rotating knobs) and slowly pulled the heavy door open—so slowly that the hinges barely made a sound. Ginny proceeded, stepping silently onto the hallway rug. After briefly sniffing in the direction of my parents’ room, she looked back to me and indicated for me to follow. I pulled the door to, just shy of latching it, and followed her until we both stood at the top of the stairs.
This will be very tricky, she told me. Let me go first. Watch how carefully I step. Then, copy what I do.
My heart was drumming with nerves as she took her first steps. I stood silently watching as she picked her way methodically down the stairs, her long frame stretched out in a creeping stance. Any moment I expected to hear a loud creak, then for my parents to awaken, the hall light to flick on, and for them to find us and put a stop to our strange little adventure. But to my surprise, it never happened. One foot after another, Ginny accomplished the impossible right before my eyes. Flowing as smoothly and s
oundlessly as a thick dollop of hot fudge flowing down a mountain of ice cream, she made all thirteen steps without raising a sound louder than the steady ticking of the grandfather clock. Before I knew it, she was at the bottom. That’s when I realized that I’d been holding my breath the whole time I’d been watching.
Come along now, she said, staring intently up at me. You can do it.
I exhaled slowly, then took in a deep breath. With my right hand resting lightly on the railing, I took my first step. My legs felt like spaghetti beneath me. The excitement of nerves and the extreme concentration heightened the sensation of my every movement. One, I counted with a small creak. Two. Three. Four.
Easy, Ginny warned, her tail flicking nervously behind her.
I paused to breathe and steady myself. Step four was an especially creaky step, and in my excitement I’d applied my weight to it a little faster than I should have. The resulting crack of the wood made my heart skip in my chest.
You’re okay, Ginny said. You’re doing very well.
Holding my breath again, I made it to step number eight before pausing again.
You’re more than halfway down, Ginny encouraged me. Almost there. Keep going.
When I reached the floor—step thirteen—a rush of relief and accomplishment swept over me. I always counted the stairs, whether I was going up or down, but it had never before felt so satisfying to reach step thirteen. To celebrate my small victory, I knelt down and wrapped my arms around Ginny.
Now, she said when I leaned back from the hug. Get on your coat and hat first. Then carry your boots to the kitchen door. Slide them on just before we go out.
Moving with less nerves after the fright of navigating the stairs, I was able to get on my coat and hat with relative ease. Carrying my boots, I scuffed my wool socks silently over the floor into the kitchen. The smell of pies was still present, though fainter in the now cool room. It made me think twice about actually going out into the cold night.
The Earthkeepers Page 2