Enright Family Collection (57 page)

In Ben’s eyes, she never did.

Chapter
5
 

The early October sun blazed on a field of corn stalks that stood, pale and brittle, against a backdrop of bright blue sky. Zoey glanced at the clock on the dashboard as her little red car approached a curve in the road that outlined the field in an uneven black line of asphalt. The corn had long been harvested, but the crows were still picking through the remnants of the ears that hadn’t made it to market. It was almost two, and the realtor’s office was still another ten minutes away, out on Route 30. Zoey would be late for her appointment, but she knew that Peg Morris, the realtor, would wait for her. Peg had been assisting Zoey in her quest for a little house for the past two months, since Zoey had signed the contract that ensured her employment with the HMP for the next twenty-four months.

This house search was, Zoey acknowledged, a very big step for her. She saw it as nothing less than an act of self affirmation. It spoke of her commitment to her job, to herself, to a future of her own making. It said that she could buy her own home with her own earnings, that she
expected to be with the HMP for a long time to come. The realization of the enormity of the step she was taking, without having consulted either of her siblings or her mother, made her grin every time she thought about it. She had wanted to surprise everyone. Surely they would be as proud of her as she was of herself.

Zoey pulled into the parking lot of the little brick house that served as the office of one of Lancaster County’s major real estate brokers. Inside, Peg would be waiting for her with a stack of color photos, perhaps a video or two of available properties. Zoey just hoped that there would be a few that were not center hall colonials with four bedrooms and two and a half baths in pricey developments that had years to go before they took on the appearance of a real neighborhood.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Zoey apologized as she slid her tweed jacket off her shoulders and sat in the chair next to the realtor’s desk. “I should have left earlier.”

“It’s not a problem.” The young woman smiled. “I was just organizing a few photographs of some new listings to see what you thought.”

The realtor passed an inch-high stack of color photos across the desk to Zoey, who flipped through them quickly.

“No . . . no . . . no . . .” Numbers one through five were soundly rejected. “I think I’d like something with a little more
character.”

“What about this one?” Peg handed her a photograph of a contemporary home perched high on a hill, from which an infinite series of decks led downward to what would have been the backyard had it been more accessible. “Gorgeous views.”

“Ummm, not my style.” Zoey handed the photo back. “It just isn’t me.”

“This one?”

“Not exactly . . .”

“How about this? It’s a lovely little cottage, authentic Revolutionary War era.”

“Is this one of those places where the ceilings are really low?”

Peg nodded. “The original section was built in seventeen thirty-two.”

“That’s out, then. My brother would have to crawl in.”

“Well, then, would you like to look at this one?”

Zoey narrowed her eyes and inspected the photo. “Where are the trees?”

“There are trees.” Peg leaned over and pointed to wispy shadows on the picture.

“What kind of tree is that?”

“I’m not sure,” Peg, told her, “but this developer is known for his landscaping, so I’m sure it’s a good one.”

Zoey shook her head.

“I’ve decided that I definitely do not want a development house. I want . . .” Zoey placed the pile of photographs on the edge of the desk and frowned. “I don’t know exactly what I want, but I’ll know it when I see it.”

“Well, how ’bout I take you out for a drive and we’ll see what’s out there that might catch your fancy?”

“I think maybe I should just wander about on my own. That way I won’t feel guilty for taking your time if I don’t see anything I like.” Zoey checked her watch again. There was a meeting for all of the show hosts at 4 P.M. If she left now she’d have time to meander through the back roads while on her way back to the HMP headquarters. “I promise I’ll call if I see anything that I think looks promising.”

“Well, let me just suggest a few places.” With a blue felt-tip marker, the woman drew a little map for Zoey on a sheet of letterhead. “There are a few small towns out this way.” She made an arrow following a road to the right of the highway. “Of course, many of them are little more than crossroads. . . .”

“Crossroads could be fun,” Zoey smiled. “I’ll call you. And thanks for the map.”

Once back in her little red sports car, Zoey followed the road back out to Route 30, drove south a little, then
made the indicated right turn. Five or six miles down the road, she came to a crossroads, just as Peg had said. She rode the brake, driving slowly through the little town until she passed a sign that read, “You are leaving East Crawford.” Three more miles down the two-lane road she passed another sign: W
ELCOME TO
B
RADY’S
M
ILL
.

Zoey slowed to the posted twenty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit and coasted down the wide main street. Gracious homes—mostly authentic-looking colonials—were set close to the road. A general store, a post office, a feed and farm equipment repair shop, and one gas station pretty much completed the center of town. A sign for the library—shaped like an open book—hung from the front porch of a small Queen Anne-style house. Set back off the road was a small white-spired church, architecturally plain except for its handsome stained glass window. Neatly tended rows of white marble headstones, glistening in the sun, marched behind the church in precise and neatly tended rows. Across the road weeping willows dipped lacy arms into a wide lake. Zoey eased her car to the shoulder and leaned across her steering wheel to watch two young boys in a small rowboat as they tossed fishing lines into the dark blue water. Irresistibly drawn, she turned off the car, got out, and walked to the edge of the lake.

On the roadside of the lake, a stone wall had been built, and Zoey found it to be just the right height for leaning on. Below the wall, the last few water lilies of the season floated and dragonflies chased lunch just above the surface of the water. A few brown ducks floated in the shade of some orange-leafed maples that grew near the bank, and along the shore, three young women walked frisky toddlers, holding onto their hands lest they venture too close to the water. Up a slight ridge to the right, several houses—newer than those nearer to the center of town—stood in the afternoon sun, their backyards sloping slightly to the lake.

A slight shuffling sound behind her alerted her to company. She looked up and smiled at the old man in
the worn straw hat and denim jacket who stopped and took a place next to her along the wall. He placed his arms across the broad top stones and leaned slightly forward and said, “Nice day, eh?”

The voice was like gravel, rough and gritty.

“Beautiful.”

“Yup. Nothing like an early autumn day.”

Several geese made a noisy arrival, feet first, startling the toddlers on the grassy slope with their loud honking.

“Noisy buggers, damned geese. Always complaining. Too many of them, nowadays. No predators, ya know. Oh, a hawk or a heron will get a few of the young ones, cuts the population a bit, but not so’s you can tell the difference.” He cleared his throat and took his hat off to wave it slightly in the crisp air. He ran a hand through thinning white hair before replacing the hat. All the time he spoke, his eyes never left the two boys in the rowboat.

“Isn’t there a hunting season or something?” Zoey asked.

“There’s sport hunting, but shooting those things”—he pointed a slightly gnarled index finger toward the birds on the bank—“tame as they are, would be criminal. Walk right up to ya. There’s no sport in that.”

“No, I would guess not.” Zoey took a deep breath, deep enough to catch the scent of algae and slightly stagnant water. She leaned over the stone wall and saw that below the bridge, the lake narrowed somewhat to run into a culvert that disappeared under the road. Here and there, remnants of the summer’s crop of cattails leaned toward the lake, their long fringed arms drooping like piano shawls into the still water.

“You wouldn’t be Addie Kilmartin’s granddaughter, now, would you?” the old man asked, still not looking at her.

“No.”

“Didn’t think so.”

They watched as the small boat with its young fishermen floated toward them. One of the boys held up the small fish he had just reeled in. The old man waved to
the boy to acknowledge the catch, then called to him, “Throw ’im back, James. He’s too small.”

The boy carefully removed the hook from the delicate mouth of the fish.

“What kind of fish do you suppose that was?” Zoey watched the boy as he gently slid the fish back into the lake.

“Trout.”

“Hey, Gramps,” James shouted up to them, “what do you think of this one?”

The boy held up another fish, noticeably larger than the one he had a minute earlier set free.

“Looks like dinner to me, son,” the old man chuckled. “I’ll be over to watch you boys clean them in another hour or so. Call your mother when you get home and tell her that we’re doing the cooking tonight.”

“Will do, Gramps.” The older boy grabbed an oar and headed back across the lake.

From somewhere a church bell chimed three bells.

Zoey checked her watch. Three o’clock. She’d better get moving, or she’d be late for her meeting. Reluctantly she straightened up and said, “Thanks for sharing the view with me.”

“My pleasure.” The old man turned to look at Zoey for the first time. “Just passing through?”

“Just passing through.” She nodded.

“Pass through again some time.”

“I just might do that,” Zoey called over her shoulder as she got into her car and started the engine, pausing for just a second to take one last look at the lake.

It really is a pretty little town, she thought as she followed the main street to the next crossroads, where one sign announced the end of the village limits and yet another the upcoming Brady’s Mill Pumpkin Festival. She made a left turn and headed back to the highway. If she hurried she would just make her meeting.

*  *  * 

On the following Sunday morning, Zoey hung over the railing of her small deck and watched a flock of Canadian
geese fly overhead in a slightly ragged V and thought back to the geese on the lake at Brady’s Mill. Sipping at the day’s first cup of coffee, she inhaled deeply of the morning air, fragrant with the scent of clematis and sweetpea from a neighbor’s deck, and wondered how she would spend this beautiful autumn day. A screen door slammed a few doors down, and she glanced over to see a young girl struggle to set a large orange pumpkin down on the deck steps without dropping it. Zoey glanced at the date on her watch. It would be Halloween in another three weeks. Maybe she would get a pumpkin at the local market and paint a clever face on it.

She thought of other Halloweens, long past, when her mother would take all four kids—Zoey, Georgia, Nick, and Ben Pierce—to the local farmers’ market, where each of them would pick out their own personal Halloween pumpkins. She and Georgia would select small, perfectly rounded pumpkins upon which they would carefully draw cute and friendly little features on chubby orange-pumpkin faces. Nick and Ben, on the other hand, would seek out the biggest, most unperfect specimens, which they would later carve into grotesque masks of twisting scowls and ragged teeth that would glow demonically when lit candles were placed inside. Zoey laughed out loud at the recollection of the sight of the two ugly pumpkins, which the boys would set at the end of the driveway to ward off evil spirits and erstwhile trick-or-treaters.

The little girl disappeared into the apartment, returning minutes later dragging her father by both hands. Time to carve the pumpkin. The father gestured to his daughter, who spread a layer of newspapers across the top of the table. The prep work completed, the pumpkin was set atop the table and the serious debate of how best to carve began in earnest.

I want a pumpkin too,
Zoey thought as she swished her coffee around in the bottom of the cup. Where had she seen something about pumpkins, about a pumpkin day or pumpkin fest?

Brady’s Mill,
she recalled.
Their pumpkin-something is today.

What better place to find a perfect pumpkin?

Zoey finished her coffee in two gulps, and took the stairs to her bedroom two at a time. She slid into Sunday country clothes of slightly baggy jeans and a nubby crewneck sweater of palest gold, and bounced back down the steps as quickly as she had climbed them. Locking the front door behind her, she set out for Brady’s Mill .

Traffic leading into the village was much heavier than it had been during the previous week. A middle-aged man in a black sweatshirt with a large orange pumpkin appliquéd on its front instructed Zoey to follow a short line of cars as they filed into a cornfield, now cleared to serve as a parking lot. She pulled into a makeshift parking spot in front of a row of tall evergreens, then fell in line behind a crowd of young pumpkin seekers who all seemed to know exactly where they were going. On the other side of the evergreens, a rambling stone farmhouse edged its way to the road. Behind it stood a barn, and next to the barn a windmill. In the open farmyard, large wooden cribs offered pumpkins of every size and shape, and long tables were laden with baked goods and produce. Zoey poked through the pumpkins until she found several that she liked, then tried to balance them while rummaging in her purse for her wallet.