The Witness

of green on the trees, and the hint of wild dogwoods scattered around.

As insurance, she’d baked a huckleberry pie that morning. No one resisted her huckleberry pie.

She got out of her car, went up and knocked on the door.

When it opened a few cautious inches, she beamed out a smile.

“Hi, there. I’m Sunny O’Hara, Brooks’s mama.”

“Yes.”

“I know Brooks came out to see you yesterday, and it made me think I should do the same. I thought, why, that girl’s been here for nearly a year now, and I haven’t paid her a call.”

“Thank you, Ms. O’Hara, but—”

“Sunny. I baked you a huckleberry pie.”

“Oh.”

In her life, Sunny had never seen anyone more baffled by a pie.

“Thank you. That’s very nice of you. I’m afraid I have work, so—”

“Everybody can take a few minutes for pie. Do they call you Abby?”

“No, no, they don’t.”

“Well, Abigail’s a sweet, old-fashioned name. Abigail, I ought to tell you straight off I’m a woman who tends to get her way. You’re going to find it’s easier to just invite me in for a few minutes rather than deal with me coming around until you do. Now, I expect you’ve got a gun on you or nearby. I don’t approve of guns, but I won’t lecture you about it. Yet.”

She shot out another smile, bright as her name. “I don’t have one, or anything else dangerous on me. Except the pie. It’s got a hell of a lot of calories in it, but you’re slim as a willow stem, you can handle some calories.”

“I don’t want to be rude, but—”

“Oh, I imagine you do,” Sunny interrupted, with considerable cheer. “Who could blame you? I’ll make you a deal. You ask me in, have a piece of pie. Then you can be rude, and I won’t take offense.”

Trapped and annoyed, Abigail removed her hand from the gun fixed to the underside of the table by the door.

She didn’t doubt the woman was Brooks Gleason’s mother. She had the same pushy nature disguised as friendliness, the same bone structure.

Saying nothing, Abigail opened the door wider, stepped back.

“There, now, that wasn’t so—oh, what a gorgeous dog.” Without a hint of fear, Sunny pushed the pie dish into Abigail’s hands and crouched down. “Oh, hello, big boy.” She looked up. “Can I pet him? We lost our Thor about six weeks ago. Seventeen when we had to let him go, and blind as a bat.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“Oh, me, too. I cried my heart out. We still have old Chuck. That’s our cat, but it’s not the same. We’re going to get another dog, but I’m just not ready to love like that again. It hurts so when you have to say good-bye.”

Helpless, Abigail clutched the pie. “Ami,” she said to the dog. “Ami, Bert. You can pet him now.”

Bert submitted to the strokes, even hummed a little at the pleasure. “Ami? That’s French. Are you French?”

“No. I speak French.”

“How about that. Bert, you speak French, too? You’re so handsome. He has hazel eyes, a little like Brooks’s. What a good dog you are.”

Her eyes filled, and she sniffled back the tears as she straightened. “Sorry. I’m just not over the loss.”

“Death is difficult.”

“It certainly is.” Sunny flipped back her braid, let out a breath as she glanced around. “You’re very tidy, aren’t you?”

“I … I suppose, yes. I prefer things in order.”

“I guess I like chaos, mostly. Anyway, I can never keep anything tidy for long. I have a painting that would work very well in your living room. It’s what I do. I’m an artist.”

“I see.”

“I paint mainly mythical and mythological studies. Fairies, mermaids, gods and goddesses, dragons, centaurs—that sort of thing.”

“Mythology is fertile ground for artists and storytellers. Ah … did you paint the murals on the house off Shop Street?”

“Yes. That’s our house.”

“It’s very interesting. The work is very good.”

“Thanks. I enjoy it. How about some coffee to go with that pie?”

Abigail stared down at the pie. “Ms. O’Hara.”

“Sunny.”

“Sunny. I’m not good company.”

“Oh, honey, that’s okay. I am.”

However awkward and unsettling it might be, it had to be easier—and more efficient—to simply let the woman have her few minutes. And that would be that.

“I’ll make the coffee.”

She started back toward the kitchen, thinking for the second time in two days she had someone in her house. Still, the woman meant no harm. Unless …

“Did your son ask you to come here?”

“No. In fact, he’s not going to be pleased with me for intruding on you when he finds out. But I—oh! Oh! I love your kitchen. Look at all your counter space. I have this same cooktop—an older model. And you grow your own herbs. So do I. Look at that, we’ve already found something in common. I love to cook. It’s like painting, only you’re mixing herbs and spices and mixing up sauces instead of paints.”

“I think of it as a science. There’s a formula. If you diverge from the formula, you may create something new or slightly different.”

Sunny only smiled. “However you look at it, you wouldn’t have a kitchen like this unless you liked to cook, and were good at it.”

She walked over to look out the window. “I’m envious of your greenhouse. I have a tiny one Loren and I built. We don’t have room for a larger one. Got your lettuce in, I see. Looks like a nice-sized vegetable garden.”

“I grow most of my own vegetables and herbs.”

“So do we. I came here in the seventies with a group of other free spirits. We formed a kind of commune, an artist community, you could say—and grew our own food, wove our own cloths—sold our wares. A lot of us are still here. Old hippies.”

“You were part of the counterculture.”

“I like to think I still am.”

As Abigail brewed the coffee, got out cups and plates, Sunny glanced over to the office area. And raised her eyebrows at the views of the drive, the back area, sides, on the computer screen.

“Isn’t that something? Nobody’s going to sneak up on you, are they? You work on security systems, isn’t that right?”

“I do.”

“There was a time nobody even locked a door at night around here, and if you had a shop and needed to run out, why you’d just leave a note. People could come on in, and just leave the money on the counter if they wanted to buy something before you got back. Sometimes progress and change is a good thing; sometimes it isn’t.”

“It’s better to be secure.”

Socially awkward, Brooks had said. Yet the girl set out nice plates, put milk in a little pitcher, set out sugar, cloth napkins. She knew how to entertain company, even if the company was unexpected and not particularly welcome.

Sunny took a seat at the counter. She imagined Abigail had two stools only because they’d come as a set. Sunny added milk and considerable sugar to her coffee, then patted the second stool.

“Come on and sit. Tell me about Abigail.”