by Katie Powner
Daisy jumped up from the floor to follow him outside.
“You don’t need to come.”
She wagged her undocked tail. Hannie had insisted the breeder leave the tail alone when she was born, not caring whether Daisy ever met the AKC standard.
“I’m only getting the mail.”
Daisy barked.
“Fine.” Gerrit opened the door and let her out ahead of him with a grand gesture. “After you. But this counts as your walk.”
He strode purposefully to the end of the drive, pleased with the crisp, fresh air and the daffodils and tulips leaping to life around him. Not to mention the rhododendrons. After spending the majority of the day indoors watching cooking shows and scraping the seal around the downstairs bathtub so he could recaulk it, the outdoors put a spring in his step. Hadn’t he spent most of his life in the open air? It’s where man was meant to be.
As he passed the barn, Daisy by his side, a vague memory sharpened into focus. He was agile and unwrinkled. He held two-year-old Noah’s hand on one side and Evi’s on the other. She made up a song as she skipped beside him.
“Daddy and me on a walk, walk, walk. Checking for mail in the box, box, box.”
He grinned at her and lifted her from the ground with one arm.
She squealed in delight. “When’s the pony barn gonna be done, Daddy?”
He set her back on the ground. “Uncle Luke’s coming this weekend. We’ll finish it then.”
“Then we can get a pony and play in it all the time?” Her eyes were big and bright and full of hope and faith.
“Yes. All the time.”
The memory faded. His time-ravaged, worn body returned. He had never played in the barn with Evi. And they’d never gotten that pony.
He slowed his steps. He had time to play now, but it was too late. Evi was all grown. And Noah. There had been a time when Gerrit hoped Noah would take over the farm one day. Follow in his footsteps.
That would never happen now.
He reached the box and pulled a small stack of mail from inside, remembering a movie trailer he’d seen during the commercial breaks on the cooking channel this morning. It was for a movie about a man who discovers a fantasy world inside his mailbox. Huh. He might want to see that movie. When was the last time he’d gone to the theater?
He turned to head back to the house and froze. Wait a minute. He looked down. Something was wrong.
The end of the drive had a strange ridge of gravel scattered with trash that hadn’t been there the day before. What had happened here? Daisy looked up at him with a question in her liquid brown eyes, and he drummed his chin with his fingers. It was almost as if someone had raked all the dirt, gravel, and litter from the road and the ditch into a pile at the end of his driveway. But who would—?
His hand clenched into a fist.
George.
Unbelievable.
He picked up an insect-infested beer can and hurled it in the direction of his scoundrel neighbor’s house.
George would pay for this.
GERRIT STRUTTED AROUND the kitchen as he put the finishing touches on the broiled pork chops with rosemary beans and potatoes and biscuits made from scratch. He had outdone himself this time, he was sure.
The back door banged, and Hannie called from the mudroom. “Smells good.”
Daisy sprinted to meet her mistress, grinning from ear to ear.
Gerrit rushed to set the table. “It’s almost ready.”
Tomorrow was Thursday. If Hannie had to go to bed early on Wednesday nights in preparation for Thursday morning deliveries, the least he could do was have dinner ready on time.
Hannie swept into the kitchen, Daisy at her heels. “I’m starving.”
He eyed the pork chops warily as he set them on the table, a pinch of dread biting his chest. It was easy to overcook pork to the point of dryness. Hadn’t that guy on TV said so at least a dozen times? Gerrit gave the chops the same look he used to give the kids when they were little that said, Don’t even think about it.
Hannie set her purse on the counter and knelt beside Daisy to give her a good scratch behind the ears. “It looks great. Biscuits are my favorite.”
His palms began to sweat. He had been gun-shy about taking any risks with dinner after the fettuccine Alfredo—opting for the safety of grilled-cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, chicken Caesar salad, and the like—but tonight was a big night. It had been one week since he signed the farm papers. One week since he became a free man. He needed to convince himself that was something to celebrate. And he needed to talk with Hannie about Memorial Day.
They sat at the table in silence, and he waited with anticipation as Hannie took a bite of her meat. He held his breath. She chewed. Her expression was inscrutable. He waited.
She was not going to comment.
He quickly cut a bite of pork from the outer edge of his chop and ate it. It was . . . fine. Not amazing, but not dried out. Definitely passable. His shoulders relaxed. It wasn’t a disaster.
If he was waiting for a good omen, this was the best he was likely to get. He cut a potato, studying it as if it were the most interesting spud he’d ever seen. “So have you talked to the kids yet?”
After a long moment with no response, he looked up.
Hannie swallowed. “About what?”
“Memorial Day weekend. Are they coming?”
She chose a biscuit from the tray and admired it. “I didn’t think you meant it.”
He speared a bean. Of course he’d meant it. Why would he have brought it up if he hadn’t meant it?
“I’m not sure it’s such a good idea.” She buttered the biscuit with deliberate movements. “And they probably already have plans.”
“But I’m going to barbecue ribs.”
She sighed. “Look, honey, I’m not sure how to tell you this.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What?”
“Evi’s a vegetarian now.”
He sat back in his chair, hard. It couldn’t be. She loved meat. Hamburgers, buffalo wings, rump roast. Pulled pork.
“How could—when did—I can’t—”
“Don’t take it personally.”
His fork dropped to the table. It was beyond all comprehension. He hadn’t worked—slaved—on that thankless piece of land for sixty-three years so his own daughter could shun the very animal that had put food on their table her entire life. How could he not take it personally?
“She still eats fish.” Hannie waved her biscuit in the air. “Sometimes.”
Gerrit didn’t know what that meant. Couldn’t process it. “Does she still drink milk?”
Hannie studied the table. “Almond milk.”
He threw up his hands. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Like I said.” Hannie brought the biscuit to her lips. “I don’t think Memorial Day’s a good idea.”
He helplessly watched her bite into the biscuit. Evi must hate him more than he figured.
Hannie’s face twisted for a second as she chewed her biscuit, then smoothed back into place. Uh-oh. Gerrit snatched a biscuit from the tray and took a big bite, the pinch of dread in his chest a fistful now. Fresh biscuits were one of Hannie’s most beloved foods. He had counted on them being his ace in the hole.
He spit the bite out. “It tastes like cardboard.”
Hannie set her biscuit down with a disappointed sigh and folded her hands on the table in front of her. “I think you forgot the salt.”
His ace had turned into a joker. He retraced his steps in his mind, trying to recall the biscuit recipe and what ingredients he’d used. Yes, it had called for salt, but only half a teaspoon.
“How much difference could that little bit make?”
The crow’s feet around Hannie’s eyes appeared. “Sometimes it’s the little things that make the biggest difference.”
She wasn’t talking about biscuits anymore. He knew that much. But what exactly she meant was not something he was willing to consider.
&n
bsp; CHAPTER
TEN
Rae looked up from her laptop as her dad entered the kitchen. He was usually deep into The Wall Street Journal by this time of night. She glanced over at her mom, who was scouring a pot at the sink. Mom caught her eye and gave an almost imperceptible shrug.
Dad sat down across from Rae. “What are you working on?”
She sat back in her chair. “Just an essay for comp. class. Nothing major.”
“Every assignment is major, Rae.” Dad leaned his elbows on the table and gave her an intent look. “Every grade matters.”
“I know.” She shifted. “I just meant it’s easy. Only three pages.”
“Make it five.”
Mom tossed her dishrag on the counter with a thwack. “Give her a break, Wade. It’s one assignment.”
Dad threw up his hands. “I just think it’s time to start taking her future more seriously, that’s all. She’s almost sixteen.”
“I think we take it seriously enough.”
“I’m not sure we all do.” He gave Mom a pointed look.
Mom narrowed her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Rae looked back and forth between them and forced a smile. “I can make it five. No problem.”
Mom shook her head. “You don’t have to do that, sweetie.”
“I want to.”
Dad stood with a nod. “That’s my girl.”
As he left the kitchen, Rae watched Mom from the corner of her eye. Dad had always been a little on the demanding side, yet it wasn’t like her parents to talk like that in front of her. Mom’s face as she turned back to the sink seemed pensive. Like she wasn’t sure what to make of it, either. Like something Rae couldn’t see had changed and the conversation wasn’t over.
Rae squirmed.
GERRIT SHIFTED ON his feet. “What are you looking at me for?”
Daisy inched closer with a whine.
“I said come on.” Hannie put her hands on her hips. “Time for bed.”
Daisy turned her back on Hannie. Hannie blanched.
Gerrit winced. “I think she knows I’m going”—his voice dropped to a whisper—“outside.”
The stout corgi’s ears perked up at the magic word.
Hannie smirked. “Well, she certainly does now.”
“Go with your mom.” He shooed Daisy with his hands. “Up the stairs with you.”
Daisy didn’t budge. He nudged her with his foot.
Nothing.
He knew how to get a cow moving when it didn’t want to, but he didn’t think that strategy would work here. Especially not with Hannie watching. He pled with Daisy to go with his eyes.
Hannie’s shoulders drooped. “Okay. I can’t blame her for wanting to play outside. It’s a nice evening. But I need to get to bed.”
Gerrit was afraid to move. Afraid to keep encouraging the dumb dog to go, in case she didn’t. Afraid to let it appear he was fine with her staying, in case Hannie believed that. So he stood there like a fool as Hannie ascended the steps. As she rounded the corner at the top, he lifted a hand.
“Good night.”
He thought he heard a muffled “good night” in response, but it might have been “yeah, right.” He knew which was more likely.
He turned on Daisy. “This is all your fault.”
Daisy smiled and took a step toward the door as if they’d been planning this all along. Great. She thought they were in cahoots.
“I don’t like it.” He pointed a finger at her. “You better not get mixed up in anything out there.”
He pulled on his boots and unrolled the sleeves of his flannel shirt, buttoning them at the cuffs. Then he stepped outside. Hannie was right. It was a nice night. The heady smell of spring was in the air, and a hint of gold remained on the horizon. He could even hear the lowing of Holsteins as he closed the door behind him. If only the language Hannie spoke was as easy to understand.
Daisy took off at a trot toward the pony barn. Why did he still call it that? He shoved his hands in his pockets as he stared at the structure, his brother’s face flickering through his mind. Luke had been gone almost twenty-five years now.
Gerrit started walking, his boots crunch-crunching across the gravel drive. Maybe Luke had been the lucky one. He had died young enough to be immortalized in fond memories. Young enough that he’d never struggled to get the work done, never doubted his purpose. He died forever strong and ambitious.
Gerrit stopped, watching Daisy sniff at the door of the barn. He’d spent the past twenty-five years trying to fill Luke’s shoes, trying to carry the torch—and for what? To hand the farm over to an opportunistic interloper without a drop of Dutch blood. His father would turn over in his grave. Not that he’d worked his life away on the farm for him.
Daisy’s sniffing became more intent, and a low growl warmed the air.
Gerrit tensed. “What’re you doing?”
His voice stabbed the falling night like a pitchfork through hay. Daisy’s growl intensified. The hair on Gerrit’s neck stood at attention.
Something—or someone—was in the barn.
DESPITE HIS UNWIELDY girth, Mr. Whiskers leapt into Rae’s arms with the agility of a feline half his age. She clutched him to her chest and slid deeper into the shadows, her heart pounding.
A tall man with broad shoulders appeared in the doorway of the barn with a shovel in his hand. “Who’s there?”
Rae froze in stunned silence. This was her special place. Her refuge. The only place on earth she had no pressures or expectations hanging over her head and no parents to worry about. An overwhelming sense of being violated washed over her.
Mr. Whiskers squirmed as a dog ran up to them barking.
The man raised the shovel with one hand. “Come on out.”
A spark of indignation lit in her chest. She wasn’t a criminal. Maybe technically this barn belonged to someone, but it had obviously been abandoned for years. She’s the one who’d spent hours tidying it up. And in the three years she’d been coming here, she’d never seen this man. Occasionally, she’d glimpsed a woman in the buttercup-colored house in the evening, sitting alone, but no one had ever come near the barn. Never given it so much as a passing glance, as far as she could tell.
She took a step forward, buoyed by righteous indignation. “What do you think you’re doing?”
The man swung his other hand above his head until it connected with a ratty old string hanging from the rafters. He pulled the cobwebbed cord, and a bare bulb clicked on in the middle of the barn. She flinched at the sudden bright light.
“How did you get in here?” The man’s face appeared as astonished as she felt.
“You look upset.”
His nostrils flared. “Of course I’m upset. I just found a stranger trespassing on my property. You’re lucky I didn’t take your head off with this shovel.”
The dog stopped barking but remained vigilant. It was cute the way it acted tough. Mr. Whiskers yowled.
She patted his back. “You’re scaring my cat.”
The man’s eyes bulged. His mouth opened and closed. He leaned the shovel against the wall with a thunk and looked around the barn.
“Did you move all this stuff around?”
He didn’t sound pleased. She nodded reluctantly. “I like your dog.”
“It’s not mine.”
“Sure looks like yours. What’s his name?”
The man shook his head. “What are you doing in here, kid?”
She took a long, slow breath, buying time. He didn’t need to know how long she’d been coming here. Didn’t need to know she fled to the quiet solitude of this barn as often as she could, trying to escape the relentless forward progress of her life.
She shrugged. “Just thinking.”
He scowled. “You can’t think on your own property?”
She wrinkled her nose. He would never understand. Sometimes she got tired of people watching her every move, waiting for her to slip up. Tired of Dad’s unending ideas a
bout her future. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think anyone—”
“Owned this barn?”
“—cared about this place.”
The man took a step back, like someone had struck him. Something in her stomach twinged. She didn’t know why or how, but an invisible line had been crossed. The concluding words of Edna St. Vincent Millay’s “Bluebeard” poem rang in her mind: “This now is yours. I seek another place.” Her secret hideout had been trespassed upon, and yet something told her she had unwittingly committed an even greater offense than intrusion.
The barn was special to this man, too. Whoever he was.
She shifted so that Mr. Whiskers lay cradled in her arms like a baby. “You live here?”
“Of course.” He threw his hands up in disgust. “Why else would I be here?”
“I’ve never seen you before.”
His eyebrows shot up. “You’ve been here before?”
Oops. She searched for a way to answer that question without causing more trouble but came up empty. Instead, she jerked her chin toward the door. “I guess I’ll be going.”
The man stepped aside so she could pass. “Don’t get any ideas about coming back.”
She paused with her back to him, her heart sinking. No other haven would ever be as good as this. But it had been nice while it lasted.
She sighed. “Okay.”
The dog trotted behind her, smiling now as if they’d been friends all along. She stepped onto the gravel drive and turned to go behind the barn, where the shortcut trail was hidden.
The man called out, “It’s a she.”
Rae stopped. “What?”
“The dog. Daisy. It’s a she.”
“Oh.” Rae knelt beside Daisy to pat her on the head. “Good girl.”
Daisy licked Rae’s hand and sniffed Mr. Whiskers’s rear end, much to the cat’s dismay.
Rae laughed. “She’s just saying hello.”
She sensed the man close-by, watching, but was afraid to look at him. He was old and seemed harmless, but something about him was a little frightening. Intense. She stood and turned to go again.
The man cleared his throat. “Why’d you really come here?”