The Invited(80)

“Sorry, hon, you’re breaking up,” Nate said. “You there?”

“Yes,” she said. “I’m here.”

Nate. Only Nate. Just a bad connection. She must have misheard.

“I was just calling to see if you could stop at the farm supply store on the way home and pick up some deer feed. Hello? Can you hear me?”

Deer feed. Of course that’s what he wanted.

For his elusive white doe.

He thinks you’re going crazy, and you think he is, too.

Stop it, she told herself.

No money for pizza or decent beer or wine, but plenty of money to feed the wildlife.

She hated thinking of him like this, feeling bitter and resentful. She took a breath. Remembered how just last night he’d cooked an amazing dinner—coconut curry soup with sweet potato biscuits—then made her close her eyes before he pulled out his surprise dessert, a cute little saltbox house made from graham crackers and frosting that looked nearly identical to theirs. His way of apologizing for freaking out about the bricks, though he didn’t say it out loud.

“Yeah, Nate, I hear you,” she said now. “I’ll stop.”

    “Thanks,” he said. “See you when—” He cut out again.

She put the phone down on the passenger seat, pulled back out, and continued on. Half an hour later, the voice on the GPS cheerfully announced, “You have reached your destination.”

But there was no farmhouse in sight.

She was in front of a large expanse of lawn with a narrow driveway that led up to an enormous, glass-fronted log home with a wraparound porch and a pond beside it. There was no mailbox, no visible address. She drove on, scanning both sides of the road for a dairy farm and an old farmhouse. She passed fields of low-growing corn and even a pasture with some Holsteins grazing, but there was no sign of a farm or farmhouse. She had to be close to the old Gray place, though. Riley must have gotten the address wrong, or the GPS wasn’t doing well with Vermont directions (it often didn’t). Maybe there was an old County Road and this was the new County Road. She’d have to stop and ask someone. She continued on, hoping she’d come to the center of town. She only passed more fields, some grown over, abandoned.

Had Ann passed these fields often, walked them, even?

At last, Helen spotted a large red barn up ahead on the right. HAY BARN ANTIQUES was painted in tall white letters on the side. Perfect. She’d stop in, ask about the Gray place, get proper directions.

Helen parked, went through the front door and found herself in a room crowded with furniture and knickknacks. Classical music played from a back room. She passed an old schoolhouse desk with an abacus on top, a stuffed fox, an ornate cast-iron coal stove (FOR DECORATIVE USE ONLY, warned a hand-lettered sign), couches, chairs, mirrors, and tables of all sorts. At the end of the room, a mantel leaned precariously against the wall.

It was a reddish hardwood, polished to a shine with straight sides and carved brackets. There was something beautiful about the simplicity of the design. The price tag said $200, but it had been crossed out, marked down to $100. Helen felt drawn to it, imagined it in the living room of the new house, above the woodstove.

“It’s a lovely piece,” a voice said.

Helen turned, saw a gray-haired woman in a turtleneck with little Scottie dogs all over it. A real-life Scottish terrier trotted up behind her, squeaking a rubber hedgehog in its jaws.

“This is Mulligan,” the woman said. “He’s the real owner of the place. I just work for him. My name’s Aggie.”

    Helen smiled at the woman and the dog, who was now sitting by her feet, torturing the rubber dog toy.

“The mantel is solid maple. I’d let it go for seventy-five dollars—I’ve got another load from an estate sale coming in at the end of the week and I need to make room.”

“It’s beautiful,” Helen said. “You’ve got a lot of lovely things.” She walked around a bit, stopping to pick up sad irons, to touch a treadle Singer sewing machine. Then she approached Aggie.

“Looking for anything in particular?” Aggie asked.

“I actually stopped in hoping you could help me with directions,” she said.

“Sure. You on your way to the college? Or out to the bed-and-breakfast?”

“No, actually, I’m looking for the farmhouse the Gray family used to own. I’ve got an address, 202 County Road, but couldn’t seem to find it. Maybe the address I’ve got is wrong, but—”

“No, you’ve got the address right. The house isn’t there anymore. Stood empty for a long time, no one wanted to touch it. People said it was haunted. I imagine if any place was going to be haunted, it would be that house. I think houses hold memories, don’t you?”

Helen nodded, said, “Absolutely.”

“Anyway, it fell into neglect, then a doctor from out of state bought the place last year, had it all torn down—the house, the barn, everything—so he could build a fancy log house with a whole wall of windows.”

“Oh yes, I saw that,” Helen said.

Aggie nodded, stepped over to a table full of knickknacks. “One of those big prefab things trucked in. He put in a pond, stocked it with trout so he can fish whenever he wants. He comes up a few weekends a year. Place sits empty most of the time.” Aggie’s voice dripped disdain. She began to fiddle with a collection of old brass bells on the table, arranging them from largest to smallest.