Charles de Lint - Forests of the Heart

“But…”

“Trust me,” Sunday said. “It will be of great help.”

“Okay. I...”

Ellie glanced at Tommy, caught him grinning.

“It was so nice to finally meet you,” Sunday said.

Ellie returned her gaze to Tommy’s aunt, certain now that she’d been the butt of some obscure joke, but Sunday’s features were guileless, friendly. The curious prickle she’d felt earlier grew stronger, rising up from the base of her spine and spreading out along the roadmap of her nerves. It was a disconcerting, though not altogether unpleasant sensation.

“Um, me, too,” Ellie said. “I mean, it was good to meet you as well.”

“And thank you for humoring me in this.”

“Sure. Well, I should go.”

Sunday clasped one of Ellie’s hands between her own.

“Keep your strength,” she said. “And walk in Beauty.”

Whatever that meant. But Ellie nodded.

“You, too,” she said.

She slipped out of the cab, boots crunching in the snow when she stepped over to the bed of the pickup to get her box of art supplies.

“What was all that about?” Ellie asked as Tommy helped her with her suitcase to the front door.

“Aunt business,” he said. “Weren’t you expecting something like that—if they even turned out to be real?”

“I’d whack you,” she told him, “only my hands are full.”

“Don’t worry,” Tommy said. “My family lives in another world from this one. You’d probably have to be born into it to see what they see.”

“And do you see what they see?”

Tommy nodded, serious for a moment. “I guess,” he said finally. “When I don’t try to pretend that none of it’s real. Why do you think I stay away from the rez? The world’s complicated enough as it is without bringing the world of the spirits into the equation as well.”

That spine tingle grew stronger again, as though trying to tell her something. Tell her what? That everything she thought she knew about the world was a lie? As if. That was Donal talking.

Tommy put her suitcase down on the steps.

“Are you going to be okay?” he asked.

Ellie nodded.

“Do you need a ride home tonight?”

“No, but we’re on for the van run tonight, aren’t we? Would you mind picking me up here?”

“No problem. It should be a fun night. The weather forecast’s calling for freezing rain.”

“Lovely.”

“Don’t worry. I’m putting my studded tires on the truck this afternoon so we’ll use it if the driving gets too bad. It may not be legal off the rez, but we won’t get stuck. And if the weather’s so bad that if we do need them, nobody’s going to hassle us.”

“Okay. Tell your aunt I’ll think good thoughts your way.”

Tommy laughed and headed back to the pickup.

Ellie waited until he got back in the cab. Tommy and his aunt waved to her and she waved back, then Tommy was backing up, the pickup pulling away. Ellie returned her attention to the house. When she rang the bell, a tall, red-haired woman answered and welcomed her in. Ellie hesitated a moment. She turned to look at where the pickup was making its way back down the steep, icy incline, brake lights flashing red against the snow as Tommy tapped them to slow their descent. The weird prickling still whispered along the length of her spinal column, but fainter now, fading.

Her life, Ellie decided, had gotten much too complicated lately. Thankfully she had this project of Musgrave Wood’s to immerse herself in. With any luck, working on the mask would allow her to forget about everything: the potential lawsuits and strange buzzy feelings, the curious utterances of Tommy’s aunt and all.

Miki was trying to learn a Ben Webster solo when the knock came at her door. Staring at a section of Donal’s painting that she’d torn from the ruined canvas, she ignored whoever it was, just as she had the phone that seemed to ring every five minutes, and continued to play. The only thing that was keeping her sane at the moment was immersing herself in an impossible task such as this: trying to recapture Webster’s sweet tone on her button accordion. It kept coming up too Irish, like an air, instead of a sax solo. The problem, she knew, were the instruments, free reed versus blown reed. It was like banging in a nail with a rock. It’d work, but a hammer was so much better for the job.

The knock came again.

“Go away,” she told whoever it was.

She started over at the beginning of the solo, one Webster had done when sitting in with the Art Tatum Group. Cole Porter’s “Night and Day.” Closing her eyes, she let Tatum’s piano roll through her head. She kept time with her foot. Tap, tap, tap. Felt the swing of the music. And now she’d come in, fingers spidering across the buttons. Getting the notes wasn’t the problem. But that tone was going to elude her forever.

“Come on, Miki,” she heard Hunter say through the door. “Open up. I know you’re in there.”

Well, duh. That was so obvious, he lost points for saying it. But she stopped playing and leaned her arms on top of her instrument.

“I’m too sick to come to the door,” she told him.

“Bullshit.”

What was Hunter doing here anyway? He was supposed to be at the store. So was she, of course, Monday morning bright and early, ni’e-thirty through to three or so unless it got really busy, except, hello world. Her life had ended. She had the best of reasons for wanting to be on her own, considering how well she’d handled things with Donal last night. What was Hunter’s excuse?

“Miki?”

Sighing, she slid the strap of her accordion from her shoulder and went to stand beside the door.

“Who’s watching things at the shop?” she asked.

“Fiona.”

“I thought you were letting her go today.”

There was a long silence from the other side of the door.

“I couldn’t do it,” he said finally.

Miki undid the lock and swung the door open.

“Wimp,” she told him, more out of habit than with any feeling. Her heart simply wasn’t into teasing him today.

Hunter came in and toed off his wet boots.

“How could I do it?” he said. “The store feels like a family—”

“It’s as dysfunctional as one at least.”

“And letting her go would be like you kicking Donal out of your apartment. It just wouldn’t feel right.”

Miki felt as though she’d been hit in the stomach—but of course Hunter couldn’t know. It was an innocent remark, nothing more.

She turned and led the way back into what had once been the dining room. Once she threw out all of Donal’s stuff, she supposed she could reclaim her bedroom and this could be the dining room again. Or she could hang herself from the light fixture and then Donal and his Gentry freaks could turn the whole place into a wolfish den.

God, now she was beginning to sound like some of Fiona’s little Goth friends, the ones who thought death and suicide were so cool.

“You’re just too soft,” she told Hunter, trying to keep her voice light.

“That’s not quite how my accountant’s going to put it.”

“But it is why we all love you so much.”

She sat down on the end of her bed and lit a cigarette, waving Hunter to a chair. He slumped into it, adjusting the seat cushion where it sagged.

“You’re not helping,” he told her.

“Sorry.”

“So, really—what gives?”

She shrugged. “I just felt like a time-out.”

“Right. You never blow off anything.” He glanced around the room. “Is your phone working? I tried calling, but there was no answer.”

“So that was you.”

“Miki, you know you can…”

His voice trailed off. Miki saw where he was looking. Why’d she have to go and leave that lying around?