Georgia followed Laura down the drive toward the mailbox.
"Matt sometimes gets mail here, and sometimes people stuff circulars in and such." Laura opened the old metal mailbox from the front and stuck her hand inside. She pulled out a mass of paper. "See what I mean? Advertisements for everything from water beds to pizza."
She folded the small stack of papers and placed it under her arm.
"Let's go inside and check to see that all is well." She pointed to the walkway of wide, flat gray stones that led to the front door. "And don't let me forget to bring back some of Aunt Hope's preserves. Jody will hang me if I don't. She swears that those homemade jams are one of the reasons that people come back to the inn."
Georgia followed her up the walk and waited on the narrow porch while Laura unlocked the front door, then pushed it gently aside.
They were greeted by the faint smell of must and camphor and old dust. The door opened directly into a squared-off living room with long, wide windows running from floor to ceiling along the front and one side. A fireplace with a simply carved oak mantel stood in the wall nearest the door. Straight ahead, steps led unceremoniously to the second floor. To the right, one passed through a darkened dining room into a large square kitchen that overlooked the fields beyond the house.
"It's so still and close in here," Laura remarked. "Help me open a window or two. Let's get a little fresh air circulating."
Laura walked from the dining room through the living room, pushing back curtains and opening windows throughout the downstairs. The temperature inside the hou
se was already cold, the thermo
stat having been lowered to provide just enough heat to keep the pipes from freezing, but bringing in the cool morning breeze did a lot to dispel the empty feeling of the old house.
Not entirely empty,
Georgia thought as she wandered from room to room. The living room held a collection of upholstered furniture of indeterminate style and age, all of which were covered by white sheets intended to protect the old fabrics from dust. A porcelain bowl of waxed fruit still served as a centerpiece on the old pine dining room table, and along the window ledge several painted pots of dried plants sat where they had died of neglect. Little particles of dust danced in the hazy sunlight that spilled through the panes of old glass.
Georgia wandered through the first floor, then followed Lama up the old stairwell that bisected the front foyer.
The steps were a little steeper than they appeared, and led straight up to a dark landing. Laura turned on a lamp that sat on a small dresser, then, one by one, opened all of the four bedroom doors.
"
This was my room when I was little," she told Georgia, pointing to the room off to their left.
"
I loved it here." She entered the room and sat on the end of a narrow bed covered by a white bedspread with small yellow flowers.
"
I could fall asleep listening to the crickets, and wake to the song of the wrens. It was wonderful. Matt slept right here"—she
pounded on the wall behind the wooden headboard—"and at night we used to tap messages to each other."
She tapped lightly on the wall, as if sending a remembered greeting in code to her brother.
"We used to chase fireflies long past dark, and we'd put them in old jars with a piece of screen over the top and use the jars like lanterns. Of course, we'd always let the bugs out of the jars before we went in to go to bed, then we'd go back out the next night and catch more." She leaned on the window ledge and looked out, as if seeking something in the fields beyond the house and the old ba
rn
s. "Some nights there'd be so many fireflies that the entire field would be lit up. Aunt Hope used to say they were the ghosts of all the soldiers heading home after the war." Her voice dropped into a modified drawl as she explained, "Now, of course, that would be the War of Northern Aggression."
"Ah, your family had southern sympathies, then."
"Some did, but not all. My great great uncle Peter fought for the Union. His cousin Ted fought for the South—ran off to join Magruder's rebels when he was just seventeen. Maryland was really divided during the war." Laura pulled aside the curtain and pointed to the woods. "Back behind those trees is a small tributary of the Nanticoke River, which leads eventually to the Chesapeake, which was, as one might imagine, a real hotbed of activity during the war. The farm two over,"—she pointed out the window toward the left—"was owned by Quakers who were suspected of running a stop on the Underground Railroad, so there was a lot of nocturnal
activity over there. But over this way, closer to town, stood the home of a major in the Confederate army."
"I imag
ine that the residents of O'Hearn
must have had some lively discussions over the years," Georgia mused.
"You can bet they have." Laura gestured for Georgia to follow her to the window on the other side of the room, where she pushed aside the curtain and pointed to the lone tree that stood in the flat expanse of unplowed field behind the ba
rn
, its enormous canopy spreading out in all directions. "That's the wishing tree."
"The wishing tree?" Georgia's eyebrows raised slightly.
"It's an elm," Laura told her, "but the locals always refer to it as the wishing tree. The story is that whatever you wish for while sitting under the tree's canopy will come true. Legend has it that during the Civil War all the young brides and brides-to-be would gather here and wish for their loved ones' safe return."
"What if you had no loved one?"
"Ah, there's legend for that too." Laura grinned. "It's said that he who falls asleep under the tree will see the face of his true love, upon awakening."
"Do you think it works?"
"Nah. I've fallen asleep under the tree many times and it didn't stop me from—" Laura paused in midsentence.
"Stop you from what, Laur?" Georgia asked.
"Maybe I just didn't wish hard enough." She turned away from the window with a shrug.
The
tick tick tick
of the wall clock suddenly seemed
very loud. Georgia waited, thinking that Laura was about to confide in her, perhaps finally share something of her mysterious relationship with the man who had fathered her child. But when Laura opened her mouth to resume speaking, it was as if that tiny window into her past had never been opened.
"Anyway," Laura said briskly, "Matt and I used to have picnics out there. We'd eat, then read for a while, then maybe go for a swim in the pond. Life was very simple in those days. There was always something to do, something to see. Aunt Hope put us to work, but we never complained. We were always happy here. I still always feel safe here."
"Safe from what, Laura?" Georgia asked gently.
"From
…
from
…
"
Laura seemed flustered, unable to get the words out.
"Laura, is there something you want to tell me about?"
For a moment Laura seemed to hesitate, as if
inwardly debating, before saying, "I don't. At least not today. And not here. Please, Georgia," she seemed to plead, "not today. Maybe another time, I might be able to. But not here. And not now."
Georgia nodded slowly, not having expected such a response. It had not been a pouring out of the heart between sisters, but neither had it been a denial that something was bothering her. It would do, for now.
"Okay. We'll let it go for now," Georgia agreed, grateful to see the window open back up again, even if only by an inch or two. It was a start. "You were talking about growing up in the country. We grew up in the country, too, but we didn't farm."
"
Somehow, I just can't seem to conjure up a picture of Delia Enright seated atop one of those John Deeres." Laura forced a smile, and the unwanted topic slid into a place where it could not—for now anyway—touch her.
"
Neither can I. Mom dearly loves her country life, and is very fond of her horses, but she likes someone else cleaning out the stalls and feeding them. And I don't know how she'd feel about goats."
"
The goats were adorable," Laura told her.
"
Followed my aunt around like puppies."
Laura dropped the curtain back into place and took one last look around the room.
"
I love that it never changes here. Matt's room is still the same, Aunt Hope's room is still the same."
"
Are you going to keep the farm, now that your aunt has passed away?"
"
Oh, absolutely. It's such a big part of our family, I couldn't imagine parting with it, not ever. I hope it's still here for Ally when she grows up. And besides, Matt is planning on opening a veterinary clinic here, eventually. This land has been in my mother's family for over two hundred years. It will pass to Matt and me when my mother dies, and someday to Ally—and any children Matt might have, if he ever finds a woman fool enough to marry him."
"Why do you say that?"
"Matt is a troll. He's stubborn as a mule and just about as thick-headed. On the other hand, he's the most gentle man you'd ever want to meet."
Laura wandered into the hallway and poked into each of the open doors to ensure that nothing was
amiss. Satisfied that all was well on the second floor, she motioned to Georgia to follow her back downstairs.
"I want to check the basement and make sure that water from the last storm didn't find its way inside." She shivered as she hit the bottom step. "I feel chilly. I'll put some water on for tea when I come back up."
"I'll do it," Georgia offered.
"Tea is in the small canister there," Laura pointed to the row of tin containers lined up across the counter.
Laura unlocked the basement door and bounded down the steps. Georgia walked to the stove and picked up the old blue spatterware tea kettle, rinsing it out in the sink before filling it with cold water. She set it back on the stove, turned on the burner, and searched the cabinets for two cups and saucers. She poked into the tin and found loose tea leaves, and in a drawer that was crowded with old silverware of several mixed patterns, she found several silver tea balls.
"Wonder of wonders, the basement is perfectly dry, even after all the rain we've had," Laura announced from the doorway. "Ah, I see you found Aunt Hope's tea balls. She never used tea bags; thought they made an inferior cup of tea."
"I don't know how much to put in." Georgia frowned.
"Aunt Hope used to just fill one half of the ball."
Georgia opened one tea ball and dipped half into the loose tea, then repeated the process with the second.
"You know, I meant to check the attic while we
were upstairs. Matt asked me to make sure that there are no leaks," Laura said. "I'll just run up and check that all the windows ar
e closed tightly. I'll be right
back."
"Take your time," Georgia told her, and took the opportunity to look around the big, square room.
The walls were pale yellow, and the floor, worn linoleum squares of black and white. A round oak table sat snugly in a rounded bay window that was adorned with cafe-style curtains of sun-faded yellow-and-white gingham. Salt and pepper shakers of heavy green glass stood in the middle of the table next to a wooden napkin holder that still sported the same yellow paper napkins that Hope herself had probably placed there. The crisp white enamel stove and refrigerator looked surprisingly new. All in all, the room was tidy and cozy, and looked like exactly what it was: a working kitchen on a working farm. The kettle whistled, and Georgia poured the boiling water over the tea ball in first one cup, then the next.
There was something calming and satisfying about the small act of making tea the old-fashioned way in a centuries-old kitchen, and Georgia smiled to herself as she set the cups on the table and pulled out a chair to await Laura's return from the attic. It was a cozy place, and Georgia could easily imagine sitting just so, lingering over a second cup on a cold winter morning, watching billows of snow drift past, or perhaps on a summer evening, when the scent of roses might catch a ride on a passing breeze and drift lazily through the open windows. The very thought of it relaxed her, and she sank into the chair with a smile on her face.
A row of small photographs set atop the window ledge caught her eye, and she lifted the first small brass frame. Beautiful Laura, blue eyes shining in a tanned face alive with laughter, as she held a tiny Ally to the camera's adoring eye. Georgia replaced the photo on the ledge and picked up the one next to it. A ruggedly handsome man in his twenties, his dark hair tumbling onto his forehead, embraced a sturdy-looking woman wearing a straw hat, sunglasses, and a gray cardigan sweater the same color as her hair. Matt, and the woman, their Aunt Hope.
Georgia studied Matt's face—his laughing eyes and broad smile—thinking that the camera didn't do him justice, hadn't quite caught the twinkle in his eye or the way sunlight b
ounced off that dark hair…
Hearing Laura's footsteps coming back down the stairs, Georgia replaced the photo on the sill and pushed aside the curtain to look out onto the backyard. A tubular bird feeder—its seed long gone— stood a few feet from the glass.