Where the Forest Meets the Stars(53)

“Arthur had the kind of confident intelligence that was always on display. He had to be the smartest guy in the room, the one who had the last brilliant word on any topic. George is as smart and confident as him, but in a quiet way. I don’t know what he’s like now, but when I was a kid, George Kinney was . . . it was like he knew actual mysteries of the universe, but he was too laid-back to care about sharing them.”
“Silent waters run deep?”
“Definitely, and George’s quiet confidence bothered Arthur. Arthur would try to undermine him with these underhanded jabs that he disguised as jokes. Like, he often pointed out that George was a ‘bug picker’ at the University of Illinois while he was a lit scholar at the University of Chicago.”
“Geez, poor George.”
“You don’t have to feel sorry for him. It rolled off George like water off a duck. He’d laugh along, and Arthur would end up looking like a jerk. Somehow, George always got the upper hand. Arthur dominated social situations with funny stories and intellectual discussions, and then there would be George, quietly collecting the smartest people in the room with his few carefully selected words.”
“He didn’t have to work at it.”
“Right.”
“That’s why your dad and George stopped being friends?”
“They were friends until the day Arthur died.”
“Then why did you hate this house?”
He gazed pensively into the forest. “Have you seen the old graveyard between these two properties?”
“What, did you think the graveyard was haunted when you were little?”
His lips twisted into a wry smile. “Yeah, I’d have to say it’s haunted.”
“Really? What’s the ghost’s name?”
His smile vanished. “Get your flashlight and I’ll show you.”


21

Jo needed sleep, but she had to find out what had caused Gabe’s cryptic mood change. She checked Ursa in the living room and grabbed a flashlight, turning it on as she met Gabe on the walkway. “This way,” he said, leading her toward the forest. Little Bear followed, his tail wagging, game for a stroll even at that late hour.
Gabe shined his light on the western side of the gravel driveway. “It’s been a while, but I think we go in here.” They pushed through thick vegetation at the edge of the driveway. But once they were deeper in, the woods opened up and were easier to navigate.
“My parents and I came down here at least one weekend of every month during the school year, and we stayed most of the summer,” Gabe said as they walked. “George and Lynne—his wife—didn’t visit their property as often, but they were around a lot when I was a kid.”
After a short pause, he said, “When I was eleven, I noticed my mom and George had this strange inside joke. My mom almost always started it. She’d use the words hope or love it when she was talking to him.”
“I’m not sure I get what you mean.”
“She would say One can only hope in response to something George said, or Look at that sunset—you have to love it. ”
“Weird,” Jo said.
“Yeah, it intrigued me.” He and Jo stepped over a log together. “It made me pay more attention to them. Most adults don’t realize kids are listening or how much they understand.”
“That’s for sure.”
He stopped walking and shined his light back and forth to orient himself. He steered toward a rock outcrop to the left. “So the more I eavesdropped on them, the more I saw that bothered me.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Yeah, uh-oh. By the time I was twelve, I was convinced they were having an affair. That summer I was down at the creek looking at insects with George, and he mentioned that he was tired because he’d had insomnia the night before.”
“So what?”
“My mother often had insomnia, and she said the only thing that cured it was going for a long walk.”
“That’s hardly proof.”
“I know. But just a few weeks later, I explored a new patch of woods between the Nash and Kinney properties. I always took the road, usually on my bike, when I went over to the Kinneys’.”
“You were here, in these woods?”
“I was, and this was what I stumbled on.” He aimed his light left, illuminating a cluster of tombstones. “In the eighteen hundreds there was a small church here, and some people were buried in its graveyard before it burned down in 1911.”
They walked to the graves, Gabe shining his light on the tallest marker. It was a cross made of worn white stone that immediately brought Ursa’s drawing to mind. It was scoured by time but still readable. The etched lettering in the middle of the cross read HOPE LOVETT , AUG . 11, 1881 – DEC . 26, 1899.
“Hope Lovett ,” Jo said.
“Do you see the connection?”
“I do, but are you sure it’s a connection? Maybe it’s a coincidence.”
“I considered that, but I decided it had to be linked to my mother’s inside joke with George.”
“Was this . . .” She hated to say it.
“Where they met?”
“Was it?”
“I was determined to find out,” he said. “George and Lynne arrived a week and half after I found this place, and as usual, they came over to the cabin for drinks and dinner. I kept George and my mother within earshot the whole night, but I didn’t hear what I was waiting for until George and his wife were leaving. My mother and George walked outside before my dad and Lynne. I slipped outside and sat on the porch rocker to listen. George said something about how hot it was, and my mother said, I hope it rains tonight and cools things off. George smiled but didn’t say anything. Don’t you love it when it storms at night? my mother said, and George answered, Yes .”