“I’m not plannin’ to come back here and work all night.”
Shirley’s face twisted again as Canon moved to the outer door. “I can tell when you’re lyin’, you know.”
He nodded at Amos, the deputy on duty, which Amos knew meant to call him if he needed anything. Shirley was still muttering when she got into the passenger seat of the patrol car. Canon turned the radio up to drown her out. He wasn’t lying—Canon never lied. He simply had a different definition than Shirley of what “all night” meant.
They drove out of Marston on the main highway, down the familiar curves of Highway 47. The farther they drove, the quieter Shirley became. Canon was quiet by nature. Seven miles out, he pulled off the main road onto gravel that changed to dirt as it wove through the countryside.
Shirley swore suddenly, which really wasn’t like her.
“What?” Canon asked.
“I had new flowers at the house I meant to bring.”
“They won’t care.”
“I know they won’t care, but I still meant to bring ’em.”
“You can bring ’em next time.” They did this four times a year, on the birth days not the death days—never on the death days.
The cemetery came into view on the right side of the road, behind an old country church, white, with the windows boarded up. Canon pulled the cruiser into the overgrown lot.
“The paint’s peelin’,” noted Shirley.
“I’ll get down here and put a fresh coat on it when the weather turns.”
Shirley shot him a look, her did-you-leave-your-brain-back-at-the-office look. Winter had only begun in Tennessee. The weather wasn’t likely to break anytime soon. “Be a good summer project for Kyle.”
The part Shirley didn’t say…this time…was that she thought he worked too hard. But work was Canon’s solace. “We can do it together.”
Shirley got out first. Canon sat with his memories a minute before following. They walked together over the hard-packed earth until they reached the markers. He stooped down and pulled a wad of weeds that covered one of the names, then smelled of his hand—the smell of plants and soil…a comforting smell…a pain-filled smell.
They stayed some minutes, looking out over the cemetery and the fields beyond, neither of them talking.
“Herb still cuttin’ the grass?” Shirley finally asked.
Canon nodded. The grass hadn’t needed cutting since October, but Herb came a few times through the winter to mulch the leaves and keep things looking neat.
“Lord, I sure do miss ’em.” It was another of Shirley’s pet phrases.
* * *
Maggie hauled the bags of food in, along with her kitchen crate and the gun case, and slid the case beneath the bed beside her emptied rolling bag. Not many clothes had been needed…jeans and sweatpants mostly…cozy slippers…fuzzy socks…some workout clothes for running and yoga…a journal for writing longhand, a computer for typing, a stack of books to read and study.
She placed her clothes in a cedar chest at the end of the bed, hung her robe on a hook in the bath, set out her toiletries, and stacked the books on a table in the living room. By the time she was settled the sun hung low. Maggie flipped the switch for the windows and stepped outside to check around the cabin like Mr. Thompson had predicted. Sure enough the windows were opaque now.
Back in the kitchen, she put two eggs on to boil, chopped multi-colored vegetables on a cutting board, and washed greens for a salad. The water felt colder than at home—more pure. Maggie mixed oil, vinegar, and spices for a dressing and poured it on top of the eggs. She wasn’t much of a drinker but did like to cook with wine and thought a few glasses this week were justified. So opening a Chardonnay, she filled half a goblet before sitting down to eat and plan her week’s cooking schedule. Raising the glass she offered a toast, “To time alone in a cabin. New year. New life. New me.”
Then she reached for her journal.
Tomorrow I’ll bake a loaf of bread, and the day after that make pasta.
* * *
It was well after dark by the time Canon dropped Shirley at her place, went back to the office to finish reports, and finally drove home. Shirley had invited him in for supper. “There’s still leftovers from yesterday.”
But he declined. “No, thanks.”
This time, as he pulled off the main road onto gravel that turned to dirt, instead of driving past his place to the cemetery, he turned into the winding drive.
When he got out of the patrol car Canon flipped his collar up against the December wind and walked around to the front of the house, stopping at the end of the walk to stare down into what was left of the flower garden. The smell of dirt.
After a while, he sat on the front steps and stared into the night, wondering how much longer he could keep this up. Life was short, but too long to come home every night to a stack of mail addressed only to one person.
* * *
When the sun peeped over the hill the next morning, Maggie lay awake watching it.
She was an early riser by nature and often slept fitfully the first night in a strange place, even after staying up late to read in front of the fire—a true-crime thriller that didn’t make it easy to creep back into the bedroom. But now Maggie was glad to be awake. The windows captured the dawn like a fairy tale, the naked branches of a large oak tree dancing over the skylights.
Suddenly the cabin shone brilliant with daylight. The sun had tipped over the horizon. She threw back the coverlet and set her feet on the floor, savoring the brush of the rug fibers along the bottoms of her feet.
In two days Maggie had a pattern. Watch the sun come up. Curl toes in the rug beside the bed. Go for a walk/run down the dirt road and breathe in the frosty air.
It was thirty minutes to Mr. Thompson’s brick cottage to wave to the older gentleman if he happened to be about, then thirty minutes back. Maggie liked to run part of the way, just to feel the chest stabs of being alive.
The colder it got the better. She liked to see her breath roll out and hang in the air in front of her. After breakfast she showered, twisted her brown hair in a towel, and built the fire back up. Then Maggie picked up her pen or opened her laptop and played with words for the next few hours.
Her journal was for rambling. Longhand. Personal thoughts. So…I’m alone in a cabin in the woods. Her computer was for the first book idea she had decided to tackle, a story about the man who built the cabin for his bride: Micah Patterson. 1850s. Maggie didn’t have much to go on, but those two details were a start. If only the rough old logs could talk. She imagined a dark-haired man cutting them, hauling them, stacking them.
Why? For the woman he loved…to make provision for her. Oh, to be loved like that. Surely his devotion had seeped into the walls. Maggie could feel an aura of hope hanging over the rafters. Would that hope bless her? And would it bless her writing?
Yes, she decided. Yes to both.
Maggie had devoured several books on the writing craft over the past few months and was eager to carve out a process. Her goal for the next week was to get the shell of the idea down. Micah Patterson would be fatherless…misunderstood…befriended in childhood by the woman who would later become his wife. Character sketches…basic plot line…act one…act two…act three…interspersed with personal journaling.
A woman, following Thoreau’s much-tested call, went to the woods to see if she could remember how to live. She longed to drink deeply again, to savor and be deliberate--to look for proof she still had a working pulse.
After conversations with writer friends Maggie knew everyone’s process was different. She was anxious to find her own rhythm, see if she had the chops to pursue the calling. Could Maggie make enough money to support herself? It didn’t promise to be easy, but what had ever proven easy in life?
Her stomach would eventually make her stop and eat—something light, something quick—then supper would be her slower indulgence, her eyes feasting on the deep reds, yellows and greens of the vegetab
les, her hands savoring the silky texture of oil. After the numbness of the preceding months, Maggie’s senses were awakening again. Or maybe her heightened sensitivity to colors, textures, smells, and taste was somehow connected to the hypnotic state of writing. She had never allowed herself this much freedom with the written word.
After supper she read back over her notes, unless she was hot on the story thread. When the words were coming she went back to the computer, her fingers skimming the keys as the fire popped in front of the ottoman where her feet sat propped. When her eyelids grew heavy she crawled under the coverlet in the bedroom and waited to relive the peace and stillness again.
Peace and stillness proved to be the exact liniments Maggie’s body had needed. Robbie worried she would be lonely, but Maggie loved the stillness. She could feel it healing her, holding out a window that framed a hopeful future.
Or maybe it was only the calm before the storm.
4
Nothing can remain as it first appears. If it does, the reader won’t turn the page. If the reader doesn’t turn the page…well…what’s the point?
On Wednesday Maggie’s cell phone rang. Robbie’s voice came through in a rush. “You okay, Mom?”
She had been skimming the first pages of a historical novel, studying the author’s opening. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“The weather.”
Maggie had noticed a temperature drop that morning. A thermostat with large numbers clung to a porch post. She passed by it each morning, after flipping the switch down and locking the front door. Then she passed by it again when she stepped back onto the porch, resting a moment on the swing or in one of the rockers as she stared at the wooded landscape, letting her breath return to normal before going back in. Maggie liked the swing best. It allowed her to see into the living room and study the cabin, letting the thoughts stirred from her walk float down.
She went to the window and looked out past the swing at the sky. “I’m not worried about the weather.” Although it did look snowy.
“What if you lose electricity?”
“This cabin has a big fireplace that puts out a lot of heat. It’s wood-burning.”
“Do you have a flashlight? Candles?”
“Plenty. Why all the fuss?”
Maggie glanced at the cabinet that held the television she had never turned on, wondering if she should check out the forecast. Might be nice to hear other human voices. It was good to hear Robbie’s voice. She had spent so much time in her own head the past three days it was strange to hear herself talking. Maybe it was time to watch one of the movies she had brought.
“They’re predicting ice, then snow,” said Robbie. “Temperature’s dipping down to the single digits. I hate you’re out in that cabin alone.”
Maggie cradled the phone in the bend of her neck as she rummaged for the flashlight and candles she had seen in a kitchen drawer. Then she went back to the front window and peered out again. “This place looks like it’s been through its share of ice storms. And the Subaru handles well in the snow. It’s all-wheel drive. You know that.”
Robbie sighed.
“Really, Robbie, you sound like me. This is the kind of stuff I’m supposed to say.” Maggie went back to the couch in front of the fire. “What about you? You ready for an ice storm? You going to leave your cabinet doors open and drip your water?”
“If I get snowed in I won’t be all alone.”
“Trust me, I’m well supplied, plenty of food—too much, really. If I get snowed in, good for me. Maybe I’ll stay longer.”
Robbie’s voice dropped. “You’re getting impossible, Mom.”
“Would you rather I was needy? Wouldn’t that be harder on you and Cal?”
Robbie didn’t say anything for a minute. Maggie could picture exactly how her daughter would shake her head, casting around for just the right response. “What about the writing?”
“I have ten thousand words.”
“Ten thousand! Is that good? How much do you need for a novel?”
“Eighty or ninety.”
“Still…at that pace you could have a third of it by the end of the week.”
“I feel myself slowing down…second guessing. I wish I had someone to tell me if it’s any good.”
“You know you’re a good writer, Mom. What if you’re the next Kristin Hannah?” Robbie knew The Nightingale was one of Maggie’s favorites.
“How about I be the next Margaret Raines?” She felt Robbie smile on the other end of the line. Robbie was the one, after all, who preached the importance of non-comparisons.
“Fair enough. You sound okay.”
“I am! Better than okay.”
“I just wish the weather wasn’t turning bad with you out there by yourself.”
“I’m not in Iceland, Robbie. I’m still in Tennessee.”
“No one knows how to drive on slick roads in Tennessee.”
“That’s not true. Who taught you how to drive on them? Stop worrying!”
Robbie grew quiet again. Then she said, “I’m not used to you this way.”
“New me.” I’m choosing my life and my attitude. I’m living deliberately.
“If you say so, Mom.”
After they said their goodbyes Maggie decided to mix up a batch of molasses cookies. At the country grocery there had been a whole section of Amish goods. She hadn’t been able to resist the pure cane sorghum like the kind her grandmother had kept in a jar on her table for biscuits. Maggie used to make cookies and cocoa for the twins when it snowed, no reason for her not to have some now.
When the dough was ready, she rolled it and wrapped it in foil so all she had to do was slice and bake tomorrow. Ice began hitting the roof.
A tin roof in an ice storm. The steady ping was better than rain.
After bundling up, Maggie went outside to gather in wood. A large cord sat stacked between two trees in the yard. Scooping several armfuls, she piled them on the porch under the cover of the overhang. She brought more inside, to stack near the fireplace, enough for a couple of days. On her final trip outside, she stopped to stare at the graying skies, suddenly giddy with the anticipation of snow.
* * *
Canon was still sitting at his desk catching up on paperwork when Shirley leaned her head in. “Ice is hittin’ the windows. You want me to stay?”
“Get on home before it gets bad.” Last thing he needed was for Shirley to end up in a ditch. There would be plenty of that without her adding to the mix.
Canon got up and walked from his desk to the door while Shirley got her coat so he could see the ice for himself, get a gauge of how long his night was about to be. The ice was falling thick. Fast.
Shirley, ever thoughtful…maternalistic…left the scanner turned low. He could hear the reports droning in from the county to the west. Reporters on the television in the corner were gearing up for a long night, too, with more excitement in their young voices than Canon was feeling. Only eight more years and he was eligible for retirement. That was one number he didn’t used to know. Amos and Becky were the spry ones in the office.
“Any more news on that escape from Turney Center?” Canon asked Shirley as she reached for the door. Turney Center was a minimum security prison. Escapes weren’t entirely uncommon there. Dickson deputies typically handled them, but the Dickson sheriff had called midday to let Canon know about it, on the chance the guy went southwest toward Marston. Uneasy memories had plagued him ever since.
An ice storm and a prison escape.
“Everybody’s gone quiet on that story with all this,” said Shirley, wrapping her gray hair under a scarf. “They say it’s goin’ to be bad, Canon. You sure you don’t want me to stay?”
Amos was off and Becky was out working a wreck. He ought to put Amos on alert, but Amos was likely keeping an eye on the weather. Amos and Becky were both good deputies.
“Get on home,” he told her.
“I’m cookin’ beef stew if you want to come get some while you’re ou
t.”
“I might do that.” Canon knew she knew he wouldn’t, but it was nice of her to offer. Shirley fed him plenty as it was.
He watched her get in her Camry and leave. Cars were slowing down on the turns around the square. The falling ice made downtown look magical in the courthouse lights, the white building stark against the deepening sky. Who was that painter? Kinkade. Marston County looked like a Thomas Kinkade painting. Like a dreamland. But Canon knew ice, in reality, was deadly.
The switchboard lit up and the phone started to ring. Canon reached for his jacket.
* * *
By the time Maggie finished with the wood she had worked up a sweat. Ice came hard now with snow mixing in. She couldn’t resist sticking out her tongue so she could taste the falling flakes.
Maggie was filled with sudden desire to take a bath in the claw foot tub. Once she and Tom had gone to Maine in the winter. The resort where his medical conference was held had private cabins with hot tubs on the porches. There was nothing like being in a hot tub with snow falling all around you. Maggie wished she could drag the tub outside to sit in it naked while snow fell on her eyelashes.
She went inside, turned on the faucets and took some of the candles she found to the bathroom. After lighting them, she slipped out of her clothes and into the steaming water.
* * *
Amos beat him to the fifth accident. Canon pulled the cruiser off the road, put a tired boot on the snow-covered ice, and walked up to get a read on things.
“The driver’s calling his wife.” Amos pointed toward his patrol car where the man sat. “And a wrecker. If he can get one.”
Amos drove the new Explorer, Becky the old. That left Canon the Taurus—an old man’s vehicle, they teased him. But they knew it was because of his father so they didn’t tease him much.
“Good of you to come.” Amos was single and there wasn’t a lot to do in Marston County. Working for the sheriff’s office was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to the younger man. He often showed up for calls when off the clock.
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