Caron Todd - The House on Creek Road

She held up a neatly creased paper bag. “Grandma asked me to return your pie plate.”

He gave each dog one last pat, then took the bag and moved aside so Liz could get through the door. “I was just going to make a hot drink. Join me?”

“That would be great. It was a chilly walk. Is it cold for October, or have I forgotten what it’s like here?”

“Snow by Halloween, people are saying.”

Liz followed Jack into the kitchen. It was a large room, the most important room in the house at one time, with space for cooking and canning, separating cream from milk, churning butter, eating and visiting. It didn’t feel welcoming, though, not like Eleanor’s kitchen. Wires and pieces of something mechanical were spread out on a Formica-topped table, competing for space with a fax machine and laptop computer. “I’m interrupting you.”

He hooked a finger through the handles of two mugs and grasped a bag of coffee beans with his other hand, closing the cupboard door with his elbow. “I was ready for a break…and I’m glad to have company.”

The coffee grinder whirred into action. Jack packed the grounds into the filter of a stainless steel espresso and cappuccino maker. “Should I froth some milk?”

“I’ll take it straight. It’s days since I’ve had a proper cup of coffee.”

Steaming liquid, dark and pungent, flowed into one mug, then the other. Jack led the way into the living room. “Make yourself comfortable. I’m afraid it’s a bit of a mess.” He sounded surprised.

Liz looked around for a place to sit. Jack and the dogs had congregated near the sofa, and an acoustic guitar occupied one of the chairs. Another chair doubled as a shelf for newspapers, books and videos. “Isn’t this the Ramsey’s furniture?”

“It came with the house. They just took personal things, pictures and so on.”

Nails still protruded from the walls here and there, surrounded by discolored squares and rectangles where pictures had hung. How long had Jack been here? A year? It looked as if he were camping in someone else’s house, with or without their permission.

He handed her one of the mugs, then moved the guitar, leaning it against the wall.

“Thanks.” When Liz sat down, dust drifted up from the upholstery and tickled her nose. “You play guitar?”

“A little. Just to relax.” He moved some newspapers to make room for himself on the sofa. “Sorry about all this. There hasn’t been much time to think about the house. Every now and then I run a cloth over the tables, but I haven’t got around to buying a vacuum.”

“You’ve been busy establishing your farm.”

Books were piled on every surface. Liz turned her head sideways to read the titles on the table beside her. Blueberries for the Prairies. Growing Heritage Pumpkins. So You Want to Grow Christmas Trees. “Do you really think you can learn to farm from books?”

“That’s a funny question for a writer to ask.”

“It’s like cooking. You taste something delicious at a party and you get the recipe, but when you try to make the dish, it doesn’t turn out the same. People leave out subtle details.”

“I guess I’ll learn as I go. I’m doing all right so far.”

“Christmas trees, blueberries and pumpkins.” Liz smiled. It sounded like the beginning of a song. “You must have a bit of the child in you.”

For some reason, it was the wrong thing to say. Jack seemed to withdraw. “To choose those crops? It’s just good business sense.”

“If you had good business sense you wouldn’t be farming.”

She’d meant it as a joke, but he responded seriously. “Everyone wants blueberries in summer, pumpkins in October and evergreens in December. An abundant local supply, organically grown, can’t fail.”

Barring drought, pests, early frost or a downturn in the economy. At least he had the optimism a farmer needed.

Peeking out from under a Three Stooges video and a seed catalog, Liz noticed the corner of a familiar book cover. The Intergalactic Pirate by Elizabeth Robb. She moved the video and catalog and lifted the book to show Jack. “Researching me?”

“I was curious,” he admitted. “I read it with you in mind, trying to decide what it told me about you.”

“Absolutely nothing.”

He smiled as he zeroed in on his point. “And my choice of crops tells you absolutely nothing about me.”

Liz laughed. Bella and Dora looked toward her with interest, their tails thumping on the floor. She smiled at them instead of at Jack. “Did you enjoy the story?”

“It’s fun. Brave, resourceful kids right at the center of the action. Grown-ups on the sidelines if they’re there at all.”

“Children like that…a chance to feel like the powerful ones.” The more they talked, the less Liz could concentrate on what they were saying. Jack wore a dark gray sweater that drew her attention to his eyes and his fair skin. He must have just shaved—his face looked smooth. She found that she wanted to touch it, to let her fingertips drift along his cheek.

His hand came up to his chin. “Have I left some breakfast on my face?”

Liz flushed. She had always been a tactile person. It was all right most of the time—shopping for bedding or towels, admiring the grain of an oak door, trailing her hand in the water—but definitely not a tendency to indulge when returning pie plates to her grandmother’s neighbor. “Was I staring? Sorry. It’s a bad habit. After all that effort as a child learning not to do it, they encourage it in art school.” She went on, blurting out the truth. “I was just thinking you must have been a beautiful little boy.”

His quick, assessing expression had nothing to do with fairies or knights of the Round Table. “I don’t know about that. I heard a lot of complaints about my unwashed neck.”

“Mothers are like that.”

“My uncle, actually.” Abruptly, he stood. “More coffee?”

“I still have lots.” She’d been savoring it, letting the caffeine drip slowly down her throat and directly into her bloodstream. She followed him as far as the doorway and watched while he prepared another cup for himself. He’d been relaxed and friendly, with an enjoyable trace of something more. Now his back was one big Do Not Disturb sign. “I was so grateful for your help at the barbecue. You didn’t wait for an explanation. You just…stepped in.”

Jack leaned against the counter, refilled mug in hand. “No problem.” His stiffness was already disappearing. “We had fun when things settled down. I got the feeling I was missing something, though. Everyone was smiling and visiting and saying how wonderful it was that you were home, but there was an undercurrent I didn’t understand.”

Newcomer or not, Liz was surprised no one had filled him in. “A bit of tension is to be expected after all this time. I could have used a couple of quiet days between the trip and the barbecue. You know how it is before a holiday.”

“The last minute stuff?”

“No matter how organized you try to be, something always crops up.”

“What happened this time?”

She wasn’t sure if he was really interested or just relieved that they weren’t talking about him anymore. “Breakfast was the first problem. I had to get rid of all the perishable stuff in the fridge, so I ate a half carton of beef in black bean sauce, a slice of mushroom pizza and a scoop of potato salad.”

“That’s what the garbage can’s for, Liz.”

“I’ll try to remember that. Then I made a quick trip to the pharmacy for antacids and before they’d even had a chance to work I cornered my landlord and risked his disfavor by reminding him about the window in my kitchen that doesn’t close all the way. A lot of rain, gray squirrels and burglars can get into an empty apartment in two weeks. I left him muttering about rent increases and headed to the airport, but on the way I stopped at my publisher’s to hand-deliver the manuscript and illustrations for my new book.”