Where the Forest Meets the Stars(20)

“I told Ursa he can’t stay on my property.”
“Good luck with that.”
“I know,” he said. “I let her feed him.”
“I’m seeing a pattern here.”
“I had to. I didn’t want him to have a hungry belly around my chickens and piglets.”
“You have pigs?”
“Haven’t you smelled them?”
“I wouldn’t know the smell of a pig from a horse.”
“Like most city folk.”
City folk pricked her ears again. “Do you eat your pigs?” she asked.
“Actually, I read Shakespeare to them.” He smiled at her. “Yes, I eat them. We live off the land as much as possible. I hate going into grocery stores.”
“Problematic aversion.”
“You have no idea,” he said, but she didn’t get his meaning.
He glanced at the lit windows of the cabin. “The story with Ursa is that she lives around here, but her parents have issues. That’s what my mother thinks, but she’s still not keen on her being here.”
“Didn’t Ursa tell her the alien story?”
“Yeah, but that only made my mother feel more sorry for her. She says Ursa is creating a fantasy to escape her reality.”
“Which is true.”
“No, it isn’t,” he said. “Ursa doesn’t believe that crap.”
“Then why does she stick to it?”
“Because she’s smart.”
“How is it smart to pretend she’s an alien?”
“I don’t know. I’m too stupid to figure it out yet.”
Ursa bounded out the front door, ran across the porch, and jumped over the three steps as if she’d been doing it for years. “He found you!” She wrapped her arms around Jo’s middle and laid her head on her belly. “I missed you, Jo! And guess what? I saw another miracle!”
“I heard—kittens,” Jo said.
“Can she go see them?” she asked Gabe.
“We won’t disturb them at night, and Jo needs to eat.” He said to Jo, “We have plenty of leftovers from dinner.”
“Oh . . . thanks,” Jo said, “but I—”
“You’d be doing us a favor. I made too much.”
“Pork chops, applesauce, green beans, and mashed potatoes,” Ursa said. “Gabe grows everything at the homestead. He even makes the applesauce. There are apple trees here, Jo! I climbed them today!”
“Kittens, piglets, apple trees—talk about a kid’s fantasy world,” Jo said.
“She’s been quite happy,” he said.
“I see that.”
Ursa dragged Jo by the hand up the cabin stairs beneath a wooden sign that said THE NASH FAMILY HOMESTEAD  . They passed a row of rocking chairs on the covered porch and entered the house. The cabin interior was an appealing space with log walls, wood floors, a stone fireplace, and furniture made from tree timber. The home was posher than Jo would have imagined, especially considering the neglected driveway and decrepit NO TRESPASSING  sign. The cabin had modern kitchen appliances and beautiful granite counters. And unlike Kinney Cottage, which was cooled with aging window air conditioners, the Nash homestead had central air.
A handsome white-haired woman, probably Gabe’s grandmother, sat at the kitchen table, a cane with a four-legged bottom placed near her. “I’m Katherine Nash,” she said, scrutinizing Jo with sharp azure eyes. She held out a hand that trembled from what might be Parkinson’s disease.
Jo grasped her hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Joanna Teale, but you can call me Jo.”
“Ursa’s been talking about you all day.”
“Sorry about that,” Jo said, and Katherine smiled.
Gabe was already dishing warm food from pots and pans on the stove. He set the plate on the table and pulled out a chair.
“Are you sure?” Jo said. “My boots are making a mess of your floor.”
“Nonsense,” Katherine said. “My husband used to say log cabins don’t look authentic without some dirt on the floor.”
“A philosophy that worked well for a kid who was always covered in dirt,” Gabe said.
Jo wondered if he’d been raised by his grandparents. Earlier he’d said his mother was sick. Maybe she had a long-term illness, something that had incapacitated her since he was a child.
Jo sat down, cut into the tender braised meat, and swallowed a delicious bite of seasoned pork chop. “This cabin is beautiful,” she told Katherine. “Was it here when you bought the property?”
“Arthur—my husband—and some of his friends built it,” she said. “George Kinney, the man who owns the property you’re renting, helped, too. He and my husband were great friends, you know.”
“I didn’t,” Jo said.
“They met as undergraduate roommates at the University of Illinois. After graduate school, they ended up in Illinois again. My husband taught English literature at the University of Chicago, and I’m sure you know George is an entomologist at the University of Illinois.”
“Yes,” Jo said. She glanced at Gabe, noting he’d been watching her from the kitchen. Now she understood some of his mysteries. The grandfather who’d raised him was a literature professor. That explained his connection to Shakespeare and maybe the reason he’d reacted to Ursa’s PhD question. Gabe self-consciously looked away from her gaze and put a plastic container into the refrigerator. “Did Dr. Kinney or your husband buy land down here first?” Jo asked Katherine.