Caron Todd - The House on Creek Road

Tom spooned a big dollop of raspberry preserves on a second waffle. “If they’d waited one measly day we could have got to Alberta in time. Would one day have made such a difference?”

“That’s what I said,” Will agreed.

Liz tried to defend her cousin, although she’d been disappointed to miss the wedding, too. “There aren’t all that many flights to the Gobi Desert.”

“Trust you to be in favor of a rushed marriage, Liz. What is it with you and eloping, anyway—” Tom broke off when Eleanor made a warning sound. With a guilty glance at his grandmother, he apologized.

Liz forced a smile. “That’s okay. I did elope. It’s no secret.”

“And everybody was very happy for you,” Will declared, “no matter what they said at the time.”

Emily jumped up. “Let’s get the dishes cleared away, Liz. Then we’ll take a look at the furniture. My mother’s hoping for that cabinet radio, Grandma.”

Eleanor tapped the table. “Settle down and enjoy your breakfast, Emily. Your cousin isn’t a child with a short attention span. You can’t distract her that easily. And you, Elizabeth, I’m sorry to say it, but you bring it on yourself. If you’d transport in here more often, people would be done commenting on that episode of your life.”

Episode. Liz smiled weakly. It was beginning to look as if two weeks would be more than she could handle. At this point, two days was in question.

JACK SCOOPED SOIL INTO a specimen jar and twisted the lid tight. Eleanor’s field looked promising. Coming through the woods he’d noticed a few small conifers growing in the shade of the poplars…if nature was already beginning to diversify the deciduous forest, it just might be willing to accept a push from him. He should know for sure in a week or two. So far it had never taken longer than that for the provincial lab to fax the test results.

He yawned and stretched. He’d been awake most of the night, his mind ricocheting between Reid, who had somehow found a way into his house, and the granddaughter with the spicy hair. Cinnamon, with darker strands, like cloves. She smelled like Christmas. She shouldn’t. People who refused to visit their grandmothers for as long as she had should smell like Scrooge—all dust and cigars.

In the middle of the field he used a trowel to dig a small hole so he could get another sample from deeper down, where the trees’ roots would be looking for nourishment. He was hoping for a slightly acidic soil, the kind white spruce and balsam firs preferred. Balsams were a safe bet to grow. They were always popular because of their thick growth and festive smell and because they hung on to their needles longer than some trees. The more sparsely branched spruce he liked for old times’ sake. It was the kind he and his uncle had always decorated.

When he straightened from collecting the second sample he noticed a figure coming across the field. A female figure. Tall and slender, with light curly hair tousled by the breeze. Elizabeth Robb. She was heading right for him. Striding toward him, in fact. Barely arrived after an absence of fifteen years, Eleanor’s granddaughter had spotted a trespasser, and she wanted to do something about it. Jack waited, surprised how glad he was to see her.

She stopped a couple of yards away. Even at that distance he was sure he caught a whiff of cinnamon. Maybe she wore cinnamon perfume. Was there such a thing? If there wasn’t, his nose was hallucinating.

After a guarded greeting, she said, “I didn’t expect to see anyone way out here.”

“There never is anybody.” Usually he could walk for half the day without seeing a single person. It was one of the things he liked about country living.

She had noticed the specimen jars nearly hidden in his hand. “I was thinking about you this morning, wondering if everything was all right when you got home last night.”

“Because of the car? Everything was fine. It must have been someone turning around in my driveway. I wondered about you, too. The accident didn’t leave you with any aches or pains?”

“It wasn’t much of an accident.” She was still eyeing the specimen jars. “The car seemed a bit sinister without headlights and disappearing the way it did, but I guess the simplest explanation is usually the right one.”

“I hope you warmed up eventually.”

A brief smile relaxed her features. “I don’t think I’ll warm up until I get back to Vancouver.”

“Overheating isn’t a problem in these old houses,” Jack agreed.

“They do provide some protection from snow during the winter.”

“And they keep the coyotes out.”

“But not the mice.” She squelched the growing feeling of friendliness by adding, finally, “I’m not sure if you realize you’re on my grandmother’s property.”

He nodded. “I’m collecting soil samples.”

His calm admission stalled her for a moment. “I suppose you’re looking for somewhere to grow evergreens.”

“That’s right.” He started walking, and Liz fell into step beside him. He shortened his stride to match hers.

“My grandmother won’t sell this field. It’s part of the original homestead.”

“Nobody else is using it.”

“I’m sure my brother would like it for pasture. He’s expanding his herd.”

“It borders my land. It’s miles from his.”

They walked in silence, dry grass brushing their legs. He saw that her shoes were splotched with paint, nearly every color ever invented as far as he could tell. For the first time it occurred to him that illustrating children’s books meant she actually painted pictures.

They had reached the edge of the field. A well-marked path led to Eleanor’s; Jack would have to cut through the woods to reach his house. He found he didn’t want their conversation to end. He tucked the offending specimen jars into his pockets. “Have you and Eleanor been working this morning?”

“We’ve being going through the furniture, making lists of everything. She has to get rid of most of it.”

“That must be hard for both of you.”

“The time had to come eventually. It’s just stuff.”

He scuffed the toe of his hiking boot into the ground. “And this is just land.”

As soon as he said it, he wished he hadn’t. She looked at him indignantly, all her suspicions in place. He understood. He had never belonged anywhere in particular, she had always belonged here. They both knew what roots were.

DESPITE THE DULL BROWNS AND GRAYS of late fall, Will and Edith’s place looked beautiful. Evening sunlight sparkled through the leafless oaks and elms, and small fires flickered here and there in the yard so guests could warm themselves. Coal oil lamps stood on picnic tables, ready to light at dusk. People had come prepared for the temperature to dip when the sun went down—coats were open over sweaters, hats and gloves stuck out of pockets. Children ran through groups of chatting grown-ups, playing Statues, or jumping in fallen leaves.

Liz pulled over, as far off the road as she could get without driving into the ditch. If she parked in the field that was already bumper to bumper with cars her escape route might be cut off by people arriving later. She pulled down the sun visor for one last check of her appearance. The view in the small rectangular mirror wasn’t reassuring. She looked pale and pinched, like someone in the dentist’s waiting room anticipating a root canal.

“You look lovely, dear.”

“Thanks, Grandma.”

Pretending not to notice the curious faces that had turned their way, Liz offered Eleanor an arm out of the car, then lifted a monster salad bowl from the back seat. When she turned around, she found herself inches from a small woman with short, graying hair and bangs, and a girl who looked about ten.