Authors: Jennifer Wixson
Lila retreated to the first-floor bedroom, which she had appropriated for her own use. Here, her clothes and personal items were scattered throughout the room, spilling from boxes, draped on chairs and piled high on the old pine dresser. Lila picked through the jumble of clothing until she found a black silk skirt and a modest grey blouse with a V-neck ruffle that were both small enough for her to wear.
She donned the new outfit, smoothing the wrinkles away as best she could, and then re-checked herself in the larger bedroom mirror. “Not the best I’ve ever looked,” she remarked, “but at least I won’t be mistaken for a black lab!”
Lila rifled through the top dresser drawer until she located a pair of nylons. She sniffed them to make sure they were clean, and having satisfied herself pulled them on. She fished a pair of black flats from the floor of the closet and plopped onto the disheveled brass bed to slip into the footwear. To complete her toilet, Lila carefully retrieved a pair of ruby studs from a cedar keepsake box she kept on her dresser. The earrings, her birthstone, were a 21
st
birthday gift from her mother, and were Lila’s most prized possession.
She hesitated before closing the lid of her keepsake box, her eye tenderly lingering on a slightly yellowed envelope bearing a cancelled 44-cent stamp. Her own name and her last Massachusetts address were penned on the envelope in her mother’s familiar hand.
I can do this! Mom would WANT me to do this!
she encouraged herself.
Lila snapped the box shut, and stuck the studs into her ears. The rosy sparkle of the earrings illuminated the tiny flecks of burgundy in her hazel eyes, which were now eager with anticipation.
Over the past few weeks Lila had learned to recognize the peculiar hum of Hobart’s truck, and she heard the carpenter motoring up the hill toward her house. As he pulled in the drive, she peeked sideways out the kitchen window to see how he appeared. Was he any different?
Lila watched as Hobart let himself out of the driver’s seat and then turned to retrieve something – a bunch of flowers! – from the passenger’s side. Lila pulled back quickly from the window.
“It’s a date!” she said. Her heart did a little back flip.
Hobart knocked on the shed door, and politely waited on the stoop for Lila to answer. She paused on the other side, her hand on the iron knob, attempting to control her racing heart. Then Lila swung open the door and tried to act nonchalant.
“Hi,” she said. “Right on time – a man after my own heart.”
Hobart heard the words “heart” and “man” somewhere in the back of his brain, but the front of his brain was concentrating on the vision before his eyes. She was almost ethereal, graceful,
beautiful –
like a delicate silver birch swaying in the April-breeze, tossing its dainty branches back and forth as a woman seductively tosses her hair. Her radiant gaze invited him into a personal space he had never been with her before and—he choked.
Hobart thrust the handful of spring flowers at her like a schoolboy. “Here,” he said. “These are for you.”
Lila accepted the bouquet of yellow daffodils automatically; her happy eyes never leaving his face. She read his frank appreciation, and responded with a warm rush of gratitude. A tingling sensation spread from the center of her being down to her the very tips of her toes. “They’re beautiful,” she said, dipping her pert nose into the bouquet to inhale their natural sweet scent.
“So are you,” Hobart said, leaning gawkily against the roughly painted door frame in an attempt to steady himself. “You’re beautiful,
Lila
.”
Lila’s heart fluttered at the sound of her own name on his lips. Should she invite him in? What was the country protocol?
“Come in a sec while I put these in some water,” she said finally, retreating into the kitchen to the relative safety of the soapstone sink. She opened the cold tap and pulled a quart canning jar from the bottom cupboard. Hobart followed her inside and stood awkwardly on the entry rug. “You didn’t have to do this, Mike,” she continued, gently fitting the flowers into the jar and fanning the yellow trumpets in a clumsy attempt at a floral arrangement. “It’s not really a … date.”
He regarded her, bemused. “No? How come you’re all dressed up then, if it’s not … a date? I’ve never seen you out of your jeans since you came here,
Lila
.”
There it was; that name again.
Lila!
Why did it sound so different tonight? They had been on first name basis for weeks, but
Lila
had never sounded so
magical
before!
Lila set the jar of daffodils on the kitchen table, and straightened up. She leaned back, feeling the coolness of the soapstone through her thin silk clothing. “What are we doing here, Mike?” she asked, almost trembling. “I’m confused. I want this to be a date – but I don’t want this to be a date. Look at us – how silly we’re acting!”
Hobart tugged at the collar of the blue dress shirt that peeped out from the neck of his wool sweater. “I do feel kind of foolish,” he admitted, grinning; “like an eighth grader on my first date.”
“Maybe this whole thing is a mistake,” said Lila.
“Maybe we should just not worry about it – what it is and what it isn’t – and take the evening as it comes tonight?”
Lila picked up the spring coat she had draped over a chair earlier. “Why not?” she said. “Why not!”
Hobart helped her up into his truck and closed the door behind her. Then he jumped into the driver’s side, started the engine and backed out into the road. Within moments they were headed across town to Ralph and Maude Gilpin’s home on the North Troy Road.
The sun had not yet set – Daylight Savings Time having kicked in a few weeks earlier – but the finer features of the Maine landscape were slipping away in the fading April twilight. The red maples had budded out and lent a rust color to the dull rift of leafless trees in the distance. A patch of yellow willow shoots, near Black Brook, which shortly would be lost in a sea of green from its neighbors, shone like canned sunlight in a thicket of ordinary gray-brown stems.
Hobart, eager to share his love and appreciation for the area, highlighted items of natural interest as he carefully negotiated the back roads. “There’s the beaver!” he pointed out excitedly, as he spied the familiar brown nose leading an expanding pool of ripples in its watery wake. “He’s out early tonight.”
“I see him!” cried Lila, the tip of her nose touching the cold glass of the passenger window.
Hobart pulled into a dirt turnout beside Black Brook, gravel
crunching
beneath the truck tires. He stopped the truck and switched off the ignition so that Lila could watch the beaver glide through the black water. “He’s headed for those alders over there,” Hobart said, leaning across Lila to point to the fledgling trees. “He’s building up his dam. Beavers don’t like the sound of running water – the tinkling and trickling noises that most of us humans find soothing – they try to stop it up where ever they are.”
As he reached in front of her to point, Lila caught a whiff of his natural masculine scent, which was strong and reassuring – just the opposite of Tom Kidd’s cheap cologne. “I never thought about why wild animals do what they do,” she mused.
He pulled back and regarded her meaningfully. “Animals are no different than people,” he said. “We all have a purpose for why we do what we do. We might not know it, but we have our reasons all the same.”
“And what’s the purpose of you getting all duded up and bringing me a bouquet of flowers?” she asked lightly.
“To impress a pretty girl that I admire and want to get to know better,” said Hobart. He reached for her slender hand and held it gently within his own. “Is it working?”
Lila’s first instinct was to retort with a flip remark, but to her embarrassment two giant tears welled up in her eyes. A flood of hot water threatened to follow. Mortified, she tugged away from him and covered her face with her hands. Despite valiant efforts, a sob escaped from her locked box of emotions.
Hobart’s heartstrings tugged painfully in response. “Go ahead and cry,” he encouraged. “Don’t mind me.”
His words and affectionate tone had an immediate effect and her thin chest heaved for several minutes with unmitigated feelings of grief and loss. “Ahhhnnnn, ahhhh, uhhnnn,” she cried.
Unfazed, he rummaged around the seat of his truck and located a blue bandana. He held cloth out to Lila. “Here,” he said. “Use my handkerchief – it’s pretty clean.”
Sniveling, Lila accepted the bandana without looking at him. Between tears and dilatory sobs she dried her eyes. “Sorry,” she said, wiping her face. “That was stupid of me.” She blew her nose into the handkerchief.
“Don’t worry about it; I have three sisters,” he said. “I’m used to it. Feel better?”
She inhaled a deep, wobbly breath and exhaled slowly with a new sense of serenity. “I do, actually,” she said with a smile. “You have three sisters! I’m so envious—I’m an Only Child.”
“Yeah, I have an older brother, too. But I’m the baby. One of my earliest memories is being decked out in a pink frilly dress and paraded around downtown Maple Grove in a doll carriage. My sisters tried to convince everyone I was a girl. I was three or four at the time, though, so not many of ‘em bought it.”
Lila laughed heartily. “That’s too funny!” she said, daubing tears of laughter from her eyes. A thought popped into her head. “I wish I’d known you when you were a kid, Mike.”
“Aw, you didn’t miss much. I was a late bloomer.”
“Me too,” said Lila.
“You’re blooming now; I can see it. You’ve changed—this place is good for you, Lila.”
A Canada goose flew low overhead honking a warning to the beaver, and Lila leaned forward craning her neck to catch a glimpse of the fat gray bird through the top of the windshield. “I love it here,” she said, dropping back against the seat. “I feel like I’m home. I never want to leave it.” She shivered slightly.
“Cold?” Hobart said, anxiously. He switched on the truck’s engine, and turned up the blower on the heater. “What an idiot! I forgot you’re wearing those thin clothes.”
“It’s not the cold, it’s … well, it’s something else,” Lila broke off lamely. She looked forlorn; lost.
Hobart thought she resembled an abandoned chick, unsure how to go about finding its mother. “If there’s anything you need to talk about, feel free. I’m not the smartest guy in Sovereign, but I’m smart enough to shut up and listen.”
Lila shook her head, wordlessly. She unconsciously ran her hand through her hair.
Hobart caught the fresh herbal scent atomized by the movement of her hair and had an overwhelming desire to crush her to his chest. He wanted to hold her; protect her; care for her
forever
. Instead, he gripped the steering wheel and shut his eyes, willing himself to maintain the respectful distance between them. He didn’t want to rush in and take advantage of Lila in her vulnerable state. It wouldn’t be the right thing – for either of them.
Moments later, he drew in a deep breath. “We better get going,” he said, in a controlled voice; “or we’re gonna be late.”
Lila glanced at the dashboard clock. “It’s five o’clock,” she said. “We ARE late.”
But instead of putting the truck in gear, Hobart sat stupidly gazing at Lila with yearning eyes. She was still clenching his blue bandana. He couldn’t leave it like this. The guy on the white horse just wouldn’t allow him to drive off without another word, as though nothing had occurred between them.
Maybe she had expected him to kiss her? Maybe she
wanted
him to kiss her? Maybe he was making the biggest mistake of his life by NOT kissing her?!
Lila noted his hesitation, and correctly read in his unguarded eyes the tug of war that was ensuing in his breast. She felt a large measure of gratitude toward him. Not many men would have acted as he did – most, she felt sure, would have taken advantage of her vulnerable condition.
“Thanks for being such, such … a gentleman, Mike,” she said, regaining her composure. “It’s kind of a corny, old-fashioned word – gentleman – and nobody uses it anymore, but it suits you.” Lila refolded the blue bandana and proffered it to him with a hopeful smile.
“Keep it,” he said, huskily. He gently pushed her hand back into her lap. “You might need it again.”
She gave a little light-hearted laugh. “Omigod, that is so true! Thanks.”
And then Hobart did put the truck in gear, glanced over his shoulder and pulled back out onto the tar road. Not another word needed to be said; even the guy on the white horse was satisfied.
Chapter 13
Maude’s Little “Suppah” Party
In rural Maine, the supper hour (or “suppah” as it’s fondly known) is at 5 p.m., except in deep winter when the hour of repast dips in conjunction with the temperature and could be as early as 4 p.m. Supper is a small meal; on Saturday night it’s typically baked beans and corn bread; other nights “suppah” might be chicken soup or venison stew or even Saltine crackers crumbled up into a bowl of fresh milk. Historically, “dinner” was always the big meal of the day, served up at noontime (when Maine’s thousands of small dairy farmers were freed up from the twice daily chore of milking) with ham butts bigger than plates, roast chickens bursting at the seams with stuffing, and plenty of mashed potatoes, peas, hot biscuits and gravy. Food was – and still is – a central part of life for the rural Mainer, especially the family farmers, most of whom scratch out a subsistence living from the land, and, if nothing else, get to enjoy the earth’s bounty and the fruit of their labors.
Maude Gilpin (nee Hodges) hailed from a dairy farm in Winslow (about 25 miles southwest of Sovereign) and was expertly trained in all the rigors and mysteries of a farmer’s wife, including animal husbandry, domestic economy and larder management. The only problem was—Maude Hodges didn’t marry a farmer! She had met Ralph Gilpin when he stopped by the farm one May afternoon in 1960 to sell kitchen wares (his grandfather wanting to indoctrinate Ralph well by starting him in the business as a travelling salesman), and Gilpin not only made his sale, but also, as he says, “carried off the best heifer in the pasture!”