I reached the end of the drive and turned right toward Cupid’s Creek, keeping to the edge of the highway. I had to walk at least another mile before I could backtrack and call it three miles, although with the weight of my winter boots, it would feel like I’d walked six by the time I was done.
The wind picked up. I tied my scarf around my face. The sound of a car rumbled behind me and I hoped the driver would give me a wide berth. Across the road, a path led off to the east. Someone’s tires had already packed the snow. I looked over my shoulder and crossed the highway before the car overtook me. I felt safer walking off the main road.
I headed along the two-track. The route curved up a hill back in the direction of my house. I followed the bluff to a clearing that looked out over Valentine’s Bay. I paused to catch my breath after the rigorous climb. The trees below resembled ultra-shag carpet fit for a giant. And where the trees ended, the giant left his heel-print, a huge ice-covered semicircle called Valentine’s Bay, a tiny part of the larger expanse of Nocquette Bay. Nestled along the shoreline was the roof of my cottage. Captivated by the view, I kept moving along the trail even though I’d already surpassed my mileage quota.
I looked ahead, farther on through the trees, and saw red. My face had begun to sting a little ways back, so at first I thought I was experiencing wind-burnt eyeballs. But as I blinked and squinted for a better view, I could make out a cherry red four-wheeler parked near a clump of brush. Curious, I drew closer. The outline of another four-wheeler, this one dark green, became visible through the bare limbs. Standing next to the vehicles were two men. One was dressed in a camouflage snowsuit, the other in black winter gear. Their voices came in muffled bites, blown by the wind, too low to distinguish words. The man in camouflage passed something to the man in black. And the man in black passed something back to him.
The action stopped my progress cold. Perhaps I’d seen too many cop movies, Brad’s favorite Saturday night pastime. But instinct told me I was witnessing a drug deal. I crept backward, hoping to make a quick escape without drawing attention to myself. I backed into a bush and fell with a resounding crunch. The men jerked their heads in my direction.
6
The man in camo looked at me from behind his ski mask, jumped on his four-wheeler, gunned the motor, and sped toward me on the two-track.
I scrambled to my feet, pivoted, and ran back the way I came. The engine roared in my ears and I lurched sideways to get off the trail before the maniac ran me over. I fell and rolled. Before I could stop myself, I slipped over the edge of the bluff. I grabbed handfuls of snow, groping at anything to hinder a plunge down the hillside. Gravity mocked me and I gained momentum, sliding like a human toboggan through the trees. My ski parka and sweater crept up until my bare stomach scraped against the cold, harsh slope. Halfway down, my hip collided with a tree trunk. I bounced off and found myself hurtling headfirst down the hill. Brush raced past me at a dizzying speed. Straight ahead, a tree trunk loomed on a collision course. I screamed and reeled to one side. The move spun me around and I was feet-first again. I grabbed at a passing shrub and pulled back at the sting of needles biting into my flesh. Raspberries. I hated those.
The next moment, I was on my tush in the ditch. A semi-truck roared past on the highway, not ten feet from where I sat wet, bruised, and cold. I turned and looked up the hill behind me. The black-clad man stood at the top, looking down. Even at this distance, I recognized him as the man I’d seen going into Sinclair’s Grocery yesterday morning.
I got up, just to prove I still could. Every muscle in my body ached. I gave the guy a look I hoped would kill and brushed the snow off my clothes.
I crossed the highway and limped homeward. I thought about calling the police, but I didn’t want to start my stay in Port Silvan as the head Wolf Crier. Then someday when I really needed help, they’d drag their feet coming to my aid. After all, what had I really seen? Two guys riding four-wheelers in the woods. At least I’d had my scarf over my face so they wouldn’t recognize me if we ever crossed paths again.
I looked down at my white ski parka. The fabric was sliced and shredded from top to bottom after that shortcut I took. I guessed it was time for a new one anyway. I’d bought the thing my first year in college, almost fifteen years ago. Letting go of the jacket meant letting go of the fact that I’d never completed my college degree. I’d been sidetracked in prison instead, after helping my grandmother end the pain of her terminal lung cancer. But my life hadn’t really been so bad. A few disappointments, a couple letdowns, one super-big setback . . . overall a pretty good existence, if I focused on the bright spots. And up ahead was the most beautiful bright spot of all, my log cabin in the woods. I rushed toward it, eager to walk the same floor my mother had all those years ago.
Before I knew it, Sunday morning rolled around. Instead of getting dressed in ski gear for an outing after church like Brad and his sister Samantha would be doing back in Rawlings, I put on a mid-calf-length denim skirt over tall boots. Long johns underneath and a turtleneck over top along with my jean jacket completed my winter fashion.
I started my Explorer and let it warm while I had a cup of coffee. I’d seen the community church at the top of the hill in Port Silvan. I had no idea what to expect, only that I’d really enjoyed the people and sermons at the church back in Rawlings. I hoped I’d get the same warm welcome at my “home” church that I’d gotten as a stranger downstate.
I climbed behind the wheel and pulled down the driveway. Ten minutes later, I parked behind the traditional white church building. Bells in the steeple rang as I walked through the door. I snuck into a vacant back pew and fumbled to find the opening hymn.
The music swelled against the white walls of the spacious sanctuary. Stained-glass windows in cheerful colors showed simple renderings of Noah’s ark, a rainbow, a dove, and other religious symbols. A plain wooden cross filled the space above the altar.
There were about thirty people in attendance, many a trifle on the elderly side. I looked down at the notes in front of me, disappointed there weren’t more people my age.
Off to my left, a baby cried. I craned for a peek at the parents. Along the opposite aisle, a young woman stood at a pew with an infant around six months old in her arms. Blonde hair fell in thick waves to the woman’s shoulders. She looked frazzled as she tried first a pacifier then a bottle to soothe the baby. Next to them, a golden- haired girl not more than four years old doodled with a crayon.
The hymn ended and the congregation sat. A man wearing khakis and a flannel shirt stood at the podium and began the service.
The baby let out a wail.
“Was that an ‘amen’ I heard from the back corner?” the leader joked, getting a round of chuckles. He launched into announcements.
His jovial voice blurred into the background as I watched the woman try frantically to stop the crying. She looked on the verge of tears as she grabbed the four-year-old’s hand and left the sanctuary.
Empathy pulled at me. I snuck out the door behind her into the large fellowship hall. A rear corner served as a makeshift nursery, its boundaries formed by a sofa and plush rug. The woman sat in a glider, soothing the baby. The young girl picked through a toy box.
“Hi.” I stepped toward the little family. “Any way I can help?”
The mother looked like she was holding back tears herself. Her golden hair was tousled and one edge of her blouse had pulled out of her skirt. “He’ll stop in a minute. He’s just cranky this morning.” The woman patted the baby’s back. “I’m sorry if he disturbed you. I try not to let the kids get too carried away in there.”
“Disturb me? It’s so wonderful to see children at church.” I gave a quirk of my lip. “Not too many at this one, huh?”
“No.” She managed a smile. “Are you visiting relatives in town? We don’t get many tourists this time of year.”
I hesitated, not wanting to share too much information. Still, what did it matter after the clerk at Sinclair’s probably already broadcast the news? “Actually, I just moved to the area. I bought an old log cabin that I used to spend summers in as a kid.”
