Emma did as she was told, dropping her bags on the floor beside her and sitting in comfortable silence, waiting for the only mother figure she had ever known to begin mothering her. This was exactly what she needed. In this ramshackle old boardinghouse, Emma had always been treated like a princess. Greta had been coddling and caring for her since Emma was six years old. Scraped knees, broken hearts, and one or two squirrel bites had been mended here by a woman who hadn’t changed in twenty-four years. As timeless and as constant as Medicine Lake itself, Greta Lavoie had been Emma’s sanctuary.
The caring and worry went both ways.
Six years ago Greta had lost her lifelong companion, and had leaned on Emma in her grief. Sable Jones had affectionately been known in town as Greta’s sister, but everyone had known the truth. Same-sex living arrangements were nearly unheard-of forty years ago, when the women had arrived in Medicine Gore, but they had quickly become part of the close-knit community. The two women had bought this old house and opened up a boarding home, taking in mostly bachelor woodsmen who wanted to be cooked for and pampered. When Sable Jones had died, the entire town had come to her funeral and mourned their loss.
“How’s things out at Medicine Creek?” Greta asked as she cut two large pieces of cake and set them on the tray.
“Fine. Greta, have you ever seen Wayne Poulin get any mail from away?”
Wayne had been boarding at Greta’s for nearly fifteen years, and Emma had been thinking about Wayne, and Kelly, and Ben’s letter.
“Sure. He gets lots of mail from away. He corresponds with other foresters all over the world. Why?”
“Would you have noticed if he ever got any mail that could have been from … from Kelly?”
Greta stopped fussing with her dishes and looked over at Emma, sorrow etching her aged face. “No, child. I know he’s said Kelly has written him, but I haven’t seen any letters like that.”
Emma shrugged. “I was just wondering.”
Greta walked over and set her hand on Emma’s shoulder. “Kelly would have written you, not Wayne. I don’t believe anything he’s said about her. He was mighty upset when she left, and he’s still telling people she’ll come back to him. It’s his pride speaking, Emma Jean.”
Emma nodded agreement. “I thought so. But I wondered.”
“Been shopping, I see,” Greta said as her foot touched the bags Emma had brought in. “What’d ya get?”
With a grand flourish, Emma picked up one of the bags and plopped it on the table. “When have I ever gone to Bangor and not brought something back for you?” she asked, reaching into the bag and leaving her hand there.
“Don’t tease me, Emma Jean. I’m too old for games.”
Emma scowled and pulled her hand back out. “Then you’re probably too old for what I brought you. I’ll just to give it to Mikey.”
Greta sat down and grabbed the bag. “That overgrown boy’s not getting my gift,” she scolded as she reached inside. She squealed when her hand came out gripping a book. “Stephen King’s newest! Oh boy. I’m gonna be scared silly tonight!”
Emma shook her head. “I don’t know how you can sleep in this creaky old house after reading his stuff.”
Greta was hugging the book to her bosom and grinning from ear to ear. “I met him once, you know.”
She’d heard this story a thousand times already,
but Emma dutifully answered the unspoken request. “Really?”
“Sable and I were shopping in that bookstore in downtown Bangor. You know, the one that has all his books. And he was there! He autographed one for me and one for Sable.” Greta was positively glowing, her eyes shining as she tried to look knowledgeable. “He’s a regular person, you know. No airs about him. He walks around town as if he’s nobody.”
Emma reached for the pot of tea so she wouldn’t roll her eyes. “I didn’t sleep for a week when I read that book you lent me.”
Greta reached back in the bag and found the rest of her surprise—linen towels with moose on them. “Oh, Emma Jean, you shouldn’t have.”
Emma had intended to keep them, but on the flight home she had given herself a good talking to, reminding herself that old dreams were better left unresurrected.
“Oh, Em, they’re beautiful. They’re too nice to use, though.”
“You could cover your rising bread with them,” Emma suggested. “Or just hang them here in the kitchen for looks.”
Greta set the towels on the table and patted them as she leaned over and looked at the other bag on the floor. “What’s in that one?” she asked, raising her brow.
Emma picked up the shiny black plastic bag and sat it on her lap. “Um, I bought a dress. For the dance tonight.”
Silence stole across the table and Emma finally looked up to find Greta staring at her, utterly surprised. Then the old woman waved at Emma to show her the dress.
“By the color of your face, missy, I’d say this dress is not your usual style.” She cocked her head at her. “Or is it your date that’s got you blushing?”
Emma did roll her eyes then. Leave it to Greta to sink her teeth into the heart of the matter. “Mikey’s been visiting you.”
“With amazing tales about a long-lost father,” Greta confirmed with a nod. “He’s more excited than a cat stuck in a mouse hole.” She picked up the teapot and poured herself a cup. “Go on, Emma Jean,” she continued. “Show me the dress.”
“I … I’m not going to wear it. I don’t know what possessed me to buy it.”
“A good-looking man possessed you, if I remember Benjamin Sinclair.” She covered her cheeks with frail hands. “Land sakes, that boy was handsome.”
“He’s no longer a boy, Greta. He
