The Winter Before

by Karen Crompton

  He took a deep breath to clear away the rough edges, but when he went to speak, he hesitated and the words just wouldn’t come.

  He shook his head and made for the back door. Maybe some fresh air would help take his mind off things. He really was in a bad mood now, and he didn’t want to take it out on the only friend he had in the entire town.

  Abe shut the cash drawer, folding his arms across his chest. “Stop.”

  Isaac paused mid-step. “Why?”

  “Don’t walk away. Talk to me.”

  Isaac’s mind raced, his pulse slowed, and the guilt he felt earlier bubbled to the surface once more. A wave so strong it almost pulled him under.

  “You think I didn’t want to be there, at the funeral.” Isaac’s voice quivered slightly as he stared down at his boots. He didn’t look up, but he could feel the weight of Abe’s eyes bearing down on him. “Mrs. Ackerman was a lovely lady, one of the few people in town, other than you and Caroline, who actually spoke to me. One of the few people who wasn’t afraid of me. But I’ll be honest, even she looked at me differently.”

  “Differently, how?”

  “Like she felt sorry for me. Like she wished she could change things for me. Like she saw something in me that no one else knew existed.”

  “And… that’s a bad thing?”

  Isaac shoved his hands hard into his pockets. He fiddled with the truck keys he had buried in there, the metal cool and sharp beneath his fingers, and he suddenly wanted to go home. He felt uneasy. He didn’t like being the sole focus of the conversation. It made his scars hot and scratchy, like he’d been wrapped in an old blanket you’d find in a barn.

  “No. I guess not.”

  “If Eleanor saw something in you that no one else saw, that’s because it’s there. It’s real, and it’s worth seeing.”

  Isaac wasn’t sure what to say or do. So he just kept looking at the floor.

  “Go get some air. Take a few minutes for yourself. We’ll finish off the Flannigan job together. If we can get it stained this afternoon, it’ll have all day tomorrow to dry, and then we can get a second coat on it before Saturday.”

  Isaac simply nodded and headed for the door. “Whatever you say, boss.”

  Olivia pushed open Mrs. Ackerman’s squeaky front gate, pausing a few seconds on the stone pathway while she caught her breath.

  She still couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

  Had she really just inherited a house?

  The official papers had been signed less than an hour before, but she could barely remember a single thing about the exchange, and she wondered if she’d even managed a polite thank you when Mayor Dell handed her the keys to her very own home.

  The midday sun was hidden behind the shadows of the looming mountain range that circled the town, and Olivia blew on her fingers as an icy wind pushed swirling gray clouds even lower over Woodlake.

  The last leaves of the season drifted lazily to the ground beneath her feet, and she took another deep breath as she walked slowly up the pathway toward the house.

  Mrs. Ackerman lived in a rundown property over by Briar’s Creek, one of two houses that stood on opposite sides of a long gravel driveway. The creek itself sliced through the property, and it could be heard running shallow and slow-moving behind a wooded area that sat just beyond the pastures—the icy water trickling around rocks and over fallen branches.

  The Stone residence sat a little higher on the crest, about a quarter-mile away, the front porch looking down over the valley and the rolling green fields beyond. It was peaceful, and secluded, and really beautiful.

  “This place… sucks!!”

  Olivia’s newly married older sister, Tate, picked at her bottom lip with her teeth as she looked all around the yard. Opinionated was the best way to describe Tate. She always had a way of making Olivia feel small, even when she wasn’t trying to.

  “You can’t stay here, Liv. It’s a shit hole!” she exclaimed, with her hands planted firmly on her hips.

  “Watch your mouth,” Olivia’s father warned. He loosened his tie as he traipsed along behind the others toward the house.

  Olivia’s mother, Beth Parker, rolled her eyes, patting her youngest daughter gently on the shoulder. Olivia had hoped she might be afforded the opportunity to inspect her new home without prying eyes and jaded opinions, but no such luck.

  Her family knew how to make their presence felt, especially when it wasn’t necessarily wanted or needed. She loved them all dearly, and their intentions were always good, but working together every day at the family bakery—Sweetie Pies—and still living under her parents’ roof in their compact little town where everyone knew everyone’s business, often dampened her desire to break free and live a life less ordinary.

  Olivia was twenty-five years old after all, still lived at home with her parents, and still worked at the family business—the same job she’d had since she was old enough to see over the front counter. The same job she’d promised herself when she graduated high school was only a stop-gap while she saved enough money to travel the world.

  Olivia had often thought of moving out of town, considered what life might be like living beyond the mountains, over the valleys and the creeks, across the rickety wooden bridges, toward the endless horizon of cities she’d only ever read about in books.

  But with her mother’s recent failing health, and her parent’s dwindling business account—she’d sacrificed it all to stay home and help out.

  She was starting to question that decision.

  But Tate was right. The Ackerman place really was in a state of disrepair.

  The fences were all falling apart, damp from the recent bout of rainy weather they’d had over the past few months. The grass on each side of the pathway was overgrown, weeds poking up through the stones. The timber porch was wide and inviting, but the edges of the planks were jagged, like stained, stumpy teeth waiting to take a bite out of you if you dared to venture too close.

  A trellis covered in climbing vines, withered with age, framed the awning above their heads, and at the opposite end was a porch swing hanging on rusty chains that didn’t look like it had been used in a very long time.

  Olivia eyed the peeling paint, and the shutters that hung loosely from the windows.

  What had she gotten herself into?

  “The garden beds aren’t too bad,” said Mrs. Parker, nodding enthusiastically. She was obviously overcompensating for the sudden look of despair on Olivia’s face. “And the front fence is only missing a few palings. We can have them up again in no time at all.” The wind whipped the flimsy strands of Mrs. Parker’s hair, the ones not anchored by her warm woolen beanie. She shivered and yanked it down a little lower on her head. “And look at the shingles on the roof. They’re such a pretty shade of green.”

  “That’s moss!” shrieked Tate. “You’ll be riddled with scabies in no time. No, seriously, Liv… what you need is to find yourself a nice, decent guy from town, get married and buy a house, a new house. Not a shack. A house of your own.”

  “What. Like you?”

  “Yes, exactly like me,” she huffed. “It’s to be expected after all. You’re no spring chicken, my girl. What are you waiting for?”

  Olivia groaned, letting her head fall back heavily on her shoulders.

  She felt like screaming.

  She was trapped, suffocated by her family’s constant presence, and despite how much she adored her sister, and her new brother-in-law, Conner Finlay—they’d only been married three months and they were still in that sickly honeymoon phase—Olivia knew that it was time. The storm had been brewing for years, and now the clouds were rolling in, the downpour set to burst at any moment.

  Mrs. Parker pulled Olivia into her thin arms and held her tight as if she could read her mind.

  She knew very well why Olivia hadn’t moved out on her own yet, spread her wings and flown free like Tate had done, and she appreciated it more than Olivia would ever know. But she was doing
much better now. She’d come through the worst of her illness, and now she could see the light at the end of the tunnel.

  The good kind of light. Not the other one.

  Mrs. Parker glanced down at the faded half-barrel sitting by the front door. “You know, Livvy-Lou…” she whispered. “Come springtime, this barrel here will be brimming with life again. It will be full of promise. I could say the same for you. It’s time, my darling. This is your time to shine.”

  “What are you two whispering about?” asked Mr. Parker. He flashed a quick smile at his wife. “Do you feel alright? You must be tired.”

  “I’m fine.” Mrs. Parker grinned back at her husband, playfully ruffling his hair as Olivia pulled open the screen door, then pushed the key into the lock of the thick timber panel.

  Despite the fact she was now the proud owner of the old Ackerman residence; she couldn’t help but feel like she was trespassing as they all walked into the dark, dank living room, instantly greeted by the pungent smell of damp, and mold, and what might possibly have been rat droppings.

  Her eyes swept side to side, taking in everything at once—the threadbare rug on the floor, the cracked marble on the mantle that sat above the hearth of the fireplace.

  Plaid curtains were pulled shut across the windows at the front of the house, blocking out most of the natural light. A wingback chair covered in the same material as the curtains sat in the corner of the room, flanked by two enormous floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. They would have been impressive in their day, but now they just looked tired and drab against a backdrop of neglect.

  The living room was separated from the rest of the cottage by frosted glass sliding doors, and beyond the doors was a rundown kitchen and a dining room all combined. A long, scratched farm table sat in the middle of the room, and floral wallpaper hung on the walls, browning and curled at the seams.

  Olivia wondered what those walls could tell her if only they could talk. She could only imagine the dulled memories that might surface from a chamber long since forgotten.

  Turning left out of the kitchen, the little ensemble wandered down a wide hallway. The graying walls were peeling and blistered, and Olivia found her fingers tracing the empty wall as she walked further along, preoccupied as she was by the staleness of the air and the eerie silence that surrounded them.

  “Odd spot to hang a picture frame,” said Mr. Parker.

  Olivia turned to find her father putting on his glasses, so as to get a better look at the single-frame hanging on the otherwise bare wall just outside the bedroom door.

  It was positioned in the most peculiar place, not centered in the middle of the hallway, not at one end of the hallway where you might see it from the kitchen, but not lined up with the bedroom door either. Instead, it was hung just a few inches away from the doorframe, at chest height. Strange indeed.

  “Yeah, you’re right.”

  “Looks like the original plans for the house.”

  “Maybe?”

  Olivia moved slowly inside the bedroom, taking note of everything but careful not to touch anything. She’d been hoping to find quaint and charming, but what she found instead was something else altogether.

  The large bed in the middle of the room was unmade, balanced precariously on three timber legs. A wooden crate propped up the fourth side, the side closest to the door.

  What the hell?

  How could Mrs. Ackerman live like this? A dull ache throbbed behind Olivia’s eyes, tears threatening to spill over her lashes at the thought of her sweet, kind teacher—a woman she’d loved and respected for as long as she could remember—spending her golden years living in such a state of forgotten disregard.

  On the dusty bedside table, Olivia noticed an upturned book that sat like a tent, the pages marked by a pair of thin reading glasses perched on top, and she suddenly had to swallow the enormous lump that filled her throat. The strangest sensation took over her—not happy, but not sad either.

  Nothing had changed, yet everything had changed.

  It was as if Mrs. Ackerman wasn’t really gone. Like perhaps she’d simply popped down to the store, and would come strolling back through the house at any moment to pick up where she’d left off.

  Life is a precious, fleeting gift.

  Olivia heard the words from Mrs. Ackerman’s letter rattle around inside her head like pots and pans all clanging together.

  An overwhelming sense of longing and nostalgia come over her, and she blinked, causing a single tear to trickle down her cheek.

  “Who’s hungry?” she suddenly asked, wiping her tears, desperate to change the subject. “I’m starving. I say we go eat.”

  “Sounds good to me.” Olivia’s mother nodded. “What does everyone want?”

  “I’ll text Conner and have him meet us at Gable’s,” said Tate. “I could go some pasta. I haven’t cooked all week and Connor loves their steak and mash.”

  “Why haven’t you cooked?” Mrs. Parker was an unfailing hostess, so it didn’t make sense to her. “What have you been doing—” She waved her hand in the air, dismissively. “No. Actually, you know what, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. Save your money, anyhow. There was some quiche left over at the bakery yesterday. Let’s head home and I’ll heat it up. I’ll make a salad too, and I’m sure we have pie in the fridge for dessert.”

  “You’ll do no such thing.” Mr. Parker took his wife by the hand, pulling her into his side so that he could drop a quick kiss on her forehead. “You need to rest. I’ll get lunch ready. Leave it to me.”

  “Thank you.”

  The weakest rays of sunlight trickled through the window that looked out onto the small yard at the back of the property. Dust motes danced in the air, casting a soft ashen light across the room.

  While the rest of the family discussed lunch options, Olivia was drawn to that light in a way she couldn’t explain, as if the slight dapple of warmth through the trees could disguise the emptiness she felt deep down inside.

  She peeked out the window, and beyond the trees, she spotted an enormous weather-tight barn on the eastern side of the property.

  From where she stood, and from what little she knew of barns, it seemed to be filled high with bales of dry bound hay, not to mention all kinds of farming equipment that she didn’t know the first thing about.

  There was a small horse-stable beside the barn, and a chicken coop too—but the coop was completely empty, as was the stable for that matter, and it seemed to be a good many years had passed since Mrs. Ackerman had owned any kind of livestock.

  With the exception of a few rats, Olivia thought to herself. Not to mention the dozen or so spiders she’d already had the good sense to crush beneath her shoe as she moved carefully around the house. Horrible little creatures they were. She’d likely die a thousand deaths herself if she didn’t get things straightened out soon.

  “Once I get settled in, I’ll get the pest control out to give the whole house a spray. And then I’ll get the exterminator to come. I bet there are mice and rats too.”

  Mr. Parker glanced up briefly from where he was tearing back an inch of stained carpet from the seam, checking to see if the floors beneath were hardwood. “I certainly hope you’re not under the assumption you’ll actually be living here.” His eyes shot to Olivia. “You can renovate all you want to unload it later on, make a small profit maybe? But there’s no way I’m going to allow you to live out here all by yourself.”

  Olivia felt as if she’d just been slapped. “Allow me?”

  “Trevor, stop.” Mrs. Parker sighed, her lips twitching. “Leave her be.”

  “You can’t be serious?” he said sharply.

  Mrs. Parker put her hands on her hips, her pointy elbows cocked out to the sides. “Deadly serious,” she said. “We’ll be fine, Trev. I’ve loved having Olivia help take care of me, but I’m in remission now and I’m doing just fine.”

  “But, but—”

  “I’m not her responsibility, and neither are you. We can take c
are of each other.”

  Mr. Parker frowned. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, look how happy your daughter is.”

  Mr. Parker glanced back at Olivia and stood slowly. He stepped back like he was afraid. “You really plan on living here?”

  “It’s not like I can stay living with you and mom forever. I know it’s not great timing, what with—” Olivia looked at her mother, who was already shaking her head in protest. “But, well… the opportunity has presented itself now, and I… I think I need to do this, for me. I’m ready, Dad. I swear, I’m so, so ready. Please don’t take this away from me.”

  “What about the bakery? The place won’t run itself.”

  Olivia’s lips parted on a quick breath. “I’ll still be working at the bakery. Why would that change?”

  “You’ll be too far out of town.”

  “It’s a ten-minute drive.”

  “It’s too quiet, too isolated. There’s no one around in case something goes wrong.”

  Olivia felt something she hadn’t felt before. Her stomach clenched and her gaze drifted back across the field toward Isaac Stone’s timber cottage that stood proudly up on the hill.

  “Oh, come on, Olivia! You and I both know he doesn’t count. What good would he be in an emergency?”

  “Judgmental,” coughed Tate.

  “I’m not judging him. The kid had a rough start to life. I get that. But he’s a loner. He’s antisocial.”

  “So?” Olivia asked briskly.

  “He’s strange. He’s unpredictable. There’s no way of knowing how he’ll behave. He’s not the kind of man I want around my daughter.”

  Anger seeped through Olivia’s veins and she instantly saw red. “Mrs. Ackerman lived out here for years by herself. He was right there the whole time. He never hurt her. He’s never hurt anyone.”

  “That’s different altogether. She was an elderly woman, a widow for goodness sakes! You’re a pretty young woman who might be prey for a man like him.”

  “Like him?”