behind.
Feeling chilled now, she pulled the cuffs of her sweater over her hands as the Cole curve approached. That curve was a marker of sorts, as good as a gate. Once past it, you saw the house, and once you saw the house, you feared Cecily. As special as her herbs were and as healing as her brews, she could be punitive. Or so said the lore.
But what was lore, other than imaginative efforts to entertain? Cecily was dead, and Charlotte was curious. A look wouldn’t hurt.
Slowing only a tad, she rounded the curve. The thud of her heart felt good. She was alive; she was having an adventure; she was breaking a rule, irreverent person that she was. The salt air held a tang here, though whether from the nearby pines or adrenaline, she didn’t know.
Then, like a vision, Cecily’s house rose up at the distant end of the drive. It was the same two-story frame it had always been, square and plain, with a cupola on top that housed bats, or so the kids used to say. But there were no bats in sight now, no ghostly sounds, nothing even remotely scary. A floodlight was trained on the upper windows, spraying unflattering light on an aging diva. And the sound she heard? A hammer wielded by a man on a ladder. He was repairing a shutter, which would have been a totally normal activity had it not been for the hour.
Wondering at that, she started down the long drive. The walking was easier here, the dirt more forgiving than broken pavement. An invitation after all? She fancied it was. The house looked sad. It needed a visitor, or so she reasoned as the trees gave way to gardens left and right where Cecily had grown her herbs. In the darkness, Charlotte couldn’t see what grew here now, whether the low plants were herbs or flowers or weeds. She could smell something, though the blend was so complex that her untrained nose couldn’t parse it. Unruly curls blew against her cheek; wanting a clear view, she held them back.
Cecily’s garden. There was power here. She could feel it. But a man on a ladder in the nighttime? That was risky.
Her sneakers made little sound on the dirt as she timed her pace to the pound of the hammer. When he paused to fiddle with what looked to be a hinge, she heard a rustle in the garden beside her, clearly foraging creatures alerted by her movement.
Alerted in turn by that rustle, the man stopped pounding and looked back. He must have had night eyes; there was no light where she was. Without moving a muscle, though, he watched her approach.
Leo Cole. She was close enough to see that, astute enough to remember dark eyes, prominent cheekbones, and a square jaw. She remembered long straggly hair, though a watch cap hid whatever was there now. He wore a T-shirt and paint-spattered jeans. Tall and gangly then? Tall and solid now.
But thin-mouthed in disdain. Then and now.
“You’re trespassin’,” he said in a voice that was low and rough, its hint of Maine too small to soften it.
“What are you doing?” she asked, refusing to cower. She had met far more intimidating people in far less hospitable spots.
His eyes made a slow slide from her to the window and back. “What does it look like?”
“Repairing your house in the dark.” She tucked her cuffed hands under her arms. “Is that so you won’t see the broken windowpane over there, or do you just like being reckless?”
He stared at her for another minute. Then, holstering the hammer in his jeans, he climbed down the ladder, lifted a shutter, and, somewhat awkwardly, given its bulk, climbed back up. The shutter was wide, clearly functional rather than decorative. Though he carried it one-handed, he stopped twice on the way up to shift his grip. At the top, he braced it against the ladder’s shelf while he adjusted his hands, then lined up hinges and pins.
He had one hinge attached but was having trouble with the second. She knew what this was about. She had worked with storm shutters. They were tricky to do alone.
Resting the shutter on the
Feeling chilled now, she pulled the cuffs of her sweater over her hands as the Cole curve approached. That curve was a marker of sorts, as good as a gate. Once past it, you saw the house, and once you saw the house, you feared Cecily. As special as her herbs were and as healing as her brews, she could be punitive. Or so said the lore.
But what was lore, other than imaginative efforts to entertain? Cecily was dead, and Charlotte was curious. A look wouldn’t hurt.
Slowing only a tad, she rounded the curve. The thud of her heart felt good. She was alive; she was having an adventure; she was breaking a rule, irreverent person that she was. The salt air held a tang here, though whether from the nearby pines or adrenaline, she didn’t know.
Then, like a vision, Cecily’s house rose up at the distant end of the drive. It was the same two-story frame it had always been, square and plain, with a cupola on top that housed bats, or so the kids used to say. But there were no bats in sight now, no ghostly sounds, nothing even remotely scary. A floodlight was trained on the upper windows, spraying unflattering light on an aging diva. And the sound she heard? A hammer wielded by a man on a ladder. He was repairing a shutter, which would have been a totally normal activity had it not been for the hour.
Wondering at that, she started down the long drive. The walking was easier here, the dirt more forgiving than broken pavement. An invitation after all? She fancied it was. The house looked sad. It needed a visitor, or so she reasoned as the trees gave way to gardens left and right where Cecily had grown her herbs. In the darkness, Charlotte couldn’t see what grew here now, whether the low plants were herbs or flowers or weeds. She could smell something, though the blend was so complex that her untrained nose couldn’t parse it. Unruly curls blew against her cheek; wanting a clear view, she held them back.
Cecily’s garden. There was power here. She could feel it. But a man on a ladder in the nighttime? That was risky.
Her sneakers made little sound on the dirt as she timed her pace to the pound of the hammer. When he paused to fiddle with what looked to be a hinge, she heard a rustle in the garden beside her, clearly foraging creatures alerted by her movement.
Alerted in turn by that rustle, the man stopped pounding and looked back. He must have had night eyes; there was no light where she was. Without moving a muscle, though, he watched her approach.
Leo Cole. She was close enough to see that, astute enough to remember dark eyes, prominent cheekbones, and a square jaw. She remembered long straggly hair, though a watch cap hid whatever was there now. He wore a T-shirt and paint-spattered jeans. Tall and gangly then? Tall and solid now.
But thin-mouthed in disdain. Then and now.
“You’re trespassin’,” he said in a voice that was low and rough, its hint of Maine too small to soften it.
“What are you doing?” she asked, refusing to cower. She had met far more intimidating people in far less hospitable spots.
His eyes made a slow slide from her to the window and back. “What does it look like?”
“Repairing your house in the dark.” She tucked her cuffed hands under her arms. “Is that so you won’t see the broken windowpane over there, or do you just like being reckless?”
He stared at her for another minute. Then, holstering the hammer in his jeans, he climbed down the ladder, lifted a shutter, and, somewhat awkwardly, given its bulk, climbed back up. The shutter was wide, clearly functional rather than decorative. Though he carried it one-handed, he stopped twice on the way up to shift his grip. At the top, he braced it against the ladder’s shelf while he adjusted his hands, then lined up hinges and pins.
He had one hinge attached but was having trouble with the second. She knew what this was about. She had worked with storm shutters. They were tricky to do alone.
Resting the shutter on the
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