I can only describe her to you.
“The painting,” said Lara. “You can’t share your memories with me?”
No. Sadly, I cannot. But if I see her, I will tell you.
“So we just wait for her?” asked Lara. Althacazur had given them no plan; they were just blended for battle.
She’ll find us, Lara. Be patient, plus enjoy the time you have here.
The next morning, the sound of her bedroom shutters snapping open woke Lara from a sound sleep. Lifting her head, she saw the morning sun filtering in on her. “Jesus,” she groaned. Somewhere in the distance she heard a rooster crow and the sound of a tractor firing up. “What the hell?”
Audrey stood there, arms folded. “We’re making jam today. The berries are in.”
Lara covered her head with her pillow. “I’m not making jam today, Mother. I’m sleeping, then Caren is coming over.”
Her mother lifted the pillow, so the sun seeped into Lara’s eyes. “The huckleberries have come in this past weekend. I need help before it gets too hot.” Audrey’s hands clapped, and as if on cue, Lara felt a firm thump on her stomach as her Welsh terrier, Hugo, peered down at her and sniffed along her ear. Hugo shared a name with the catcher from Cecile’s diary. This furry Hugo was also a great catcher… of tennis balls. While berry picking was, indeed, one of his favorite activities, apple picking in the fall delighted him even more. He mistook the apples for balls and could be found slobbering over the wooden baskets, heaping with fresh apples, one or two marred by tooth marks. Most of the top layer of apples with Hugo bites in them had to be discarded when baking pies.
“Seriously, Hugo? Why do you always take her side? It’s always the tiny ones who are trouble.” The terrier cocked his head and dug at her covers. “Where are the rest of them?”
“Penny and Oddjob don’t care for berry picking, as you know. Hugo is going, though,” added her mother, like there was ever any question about Hugo’s participation. For dogs, Oddjob and Moneypenny didn’t like to do much of anything except guard her. They hadn’t left Lara’s side since she’d gotten back from Paris, and she was surprised to find they weren’t on the bed.
She put her feet on the floor and looked up to see her mother standing in the doorway, arms still folded. She snapped the duvet back and wiggled out of the tangled covers. “Are you frozen in that position, Mother?”
Audrey snorted and walked out of her room. Lara could hear her mother’s shoes on the steps followed by Hugo’s frantic scrambling feet behind her. Audrey called from the stairwell, “Come on.”
Lara threw on pants and a gray zippered sweatshirt and pulled her hair into a ponytail, searching for her sunglasses. It was seven in the morning and it would be cold down in the groves, plus the mosquitoes could eat you alive some days. She moved like a zombie down the stairs, grabbing a cup of coffee. Then she headed out to the tractor.
Audrey had her hair in a tight ponytail and was wearing tortoise Wayfarers. She smelled of recently applied mosquito spray and suntan lotion. Starting up the dusty old John Deere, Audrey put it in gear, the old machine’s cadence competing with another, newer tractor in the next field. She steered it down the windy road past the gas wells and into the wooded groves. Lara, with Hugo in her arms, was being pulled behind the tractor on a wagon with empty buckets at their feet.
It had been her grandfather Simon Webster who’d first brought Lara to the wild huckleberry groves, located in the back acres of their farm. He’d shown her the secret hiding place of the lush bushes off the mowed path. The complete opposite of what you’d expect, Simon was a masterful canner and pie maker; he taught Lara how to roll out piecrust, always making cinnamon rolls with the crust scraps. As the road wound past the wells, the house faded from sight. The tractor rumbled and thumped across a wooden bridge over a small spring as they headed into a thick forest. The sun was bright overhead, peeking down occasionally from the canopy of branches above them and shining in patches on Audrey’s gold-colored hair.
The tractor slowed enough for Lara to hop out and walk ahead to investigate the ripeness of the berries. Lara and Audrey each took a giant bucket and headed out, Hugo yapping ahead of them. The sun came down in patches around her, and the stillness was welcome. Once Lara pushed through some dense thickets, the fragrant smell of the ripe dark-purple clusters baking in the sun hit her before she saw the light-green leaves of the bushes. You never knew what condition you’d find the berries in each season, and that was half the anticipation. Had Simon never shown them to her, Lara would have passed by them. Assessing the grove, Lara began plucking the berries, which fell into the basket with heavy thuds.
Audrey was humming what Lara knew to be a Hank Williams song, “Your Cheatin’ Heart”—one of her favorites. She’d move on to Patsy Cline soon enough because she couldn’t yodel. Midway through the song, she stopped humming. “You took far too many chances in Paris. You know that.” Audrey’s voice was sharp and tight. Her berry picking came to an abrupt halt.
Lara couldn’t see her mother’s face. “I know.”
“I was out of my mind with worry,” said Audrey, her voice calm and measured. “You were gone three days. They said you were dehydrated and feverish when they found you lying outside a bistro.” The bushes shook again as Audrey pulled them, plucking the ripe fruit from the leaves. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”
“I didn’t think I
