Authors: Gloria Repp
“I can’t believe that. I’ve heard the saying:
There are old pilots, and there are bold pilots, but there are no old, bold pilots in Alaska.”
“You’re remarkable, little lady. Tell me what I’ve just agreed to.”
She put her mug on the table and sat forward. “For my course, I need a proctor.”
“An impressive title. I think I’ve always wanted to be a proctor. What does one do?”
He was in rare form tonight. She glanced at the doctor, but he was asleep.
“I need someone to watch when I’m taking my tests so I don’t cheat. And to evaluate what I bake—that means you’ll have to eat it—and fill out a report.”
He smiled. “Really?”
“They suggest that the proctor be someone in retail sales—a business person who can judge the commercial value of my work.”
“Am I permitted to keep the samples?”
“Of course. You may also feed them to your dog, and I’ll never know.”
The doctor stirred. “Sounds like tough job,” he murmured. “But you can rise to the challenge.”
“Done,” Timothy said. “I’ll be glad to help you out. When do I start?”
“Maybe I can download some files on Monday. Then it depends how much spare time I get. There’s a lot to do in that old house.”
Timothy drank the last of his tea and gazed at her. “I knew Henrietta,” he said. “She’d be happy to see your aunt taking such an interest in the Manor.”
“Perhaps not.” Madeleine pictured the truck that had driven away with most of one whole room. “We’ve done quite a bit of clearing out.”
“Your aunt had to make a business trip this weekend, is that right?”
She nodded, ready to insist that she was doing just fine.
She’d thought the doctor was asleep again, but he opened his eyes. “You’re alone in that big house?”
“I don’t mind.”
At least, she hadn’t minded until Kent showed up. From the look on Timothy’s face, he was remembering her hasty arrival.
The doctor looked at Timothy. “The dog?”
“Exactly what I was thinking.”
Timothy smiled. “I have an idea, if you will permit me.” He whistled a low three-note call, and a minute later Timothy’s dog ambled toward them, waving his plumed tail.
“Hey you,” Timothy said. “We need to have a talk.”
The dog pricked up his ears and snuggled close—that was the only word for it—with his brown muzzle resting against Timothy’s shoulder.
Timothy whispered something into the dog’s ear, and the animal turned to look at Madeleine, as if he were sizing her up, once more.
“Put out your hand so he can sniff it,” Timothy said.
She did so, and the dog’s wet nose brushed her palm. He sat back on his haunches, as if he were waiting for something.
“Mission accepted,” Timothy said. “Would you mind having a bodyguard for the night?”
“That’s not necessary—”
“I think it is. He’s the best watchdog I’ve ever had.”
“But what about you? Won’t you need him for something?”
“Not tonight. I’m going up to bed.”
He pulled himself to his feet, and his slight body seemed to droop with fatigue. The doctor stood up too, saying, “Good night, Mrs. Burke.”
So stiff and proper. He must be wishing he’d never mentioned that writing project. “Good night, Dr. Parnell.”
Timothy gazed at her. “I don’t mean to find fault, but may I point out that the doctor has a first name?”
His earnest expression made her want to laugh. “Really! And here I thought he sprang into the world with a tag attached to his big toe, saying—in all capitals—DOCTOR PARNELL.”
“That’s the morgue,” the doctor said. A corner of his mouth quirked up.
“You’re right, as almost always, doctor. My apologies.” She turned to Timothy. “With a tag attached to his pink little thumb.”
Timothy shook his head. “This is all my fault, I see it now. You two haven’t been properly introduced.”
His voice rose a notch as if he were laughing inside. “Madeleine, this is Nathan. And vice versa.”
“Smoothly done,” she said. “What next?”
“You’re supposed to shake hands.”
She wanted to put her hands behind her back, but the doctor seemed amused, giving her a look that said, ‘Let’s humor my friend.’ He didn’t move, allowing her to take the lead.
“Far be it from me to break the rules.” She extended a hand, saying, “I am honored, Nathan, to make your acquaintance.”
He took her hand, barely touching it, as if aware that she’d forced herself do this. “On the contrary, Madeleine, the pleasure is mine.” He gave Timothy a mischievous glance. “Is this where I get to kiss the lady’s hand?”
She pulled it away. “Certainly not! Think of the germs. No wonder all those people died in the Middle Ages.”
No more kisses. She’d make sure of that.
But she smiled up at him—she wouldn’t be rude, not again—and he smiled back.
The dog bumped against Timothy’s knee, as if to mention that he’d been waiting through all this talk, and Timothy said, “We didn’t forget you, old boy. Just had to transact some important business.”
She followed as Timothy limped into the store and turned toward the front, his big sneakers making an irregular
thum-thud
on the old floorboards.
She glanced at the dog beside them. “What’s his name? I don’t think I have any dog food.”
Timothy pulled the door open. “His name is Hey-You. And he likes tuna sandwiches: no mayo, hold the pickles.” He gazed at her. “I think you’re going to sleep well, little lady. I saw you smile tonight for the first time. The Lord will use my companion to protect you.”
She stepped out onto the quiet sidewalk, and the dog followed. “Come, gallant protector,” she said, “Let’s go home.”
The house stood dark, its bulk almost lost in the shadows, and she parked close to the porch. “I’m glad for your company, Sir Hey-You.” She picked her way up the steps by the dim glow of the porch light, fumbling in her purse for the key.
As soon as they were inside, the dog disappeared on a tour of inspection. Her cell phone rang, startling her, but it was only Aunt Lin, saying she’d be coming back tomorrow afternoon.
By the time the dog returned, she’d made herself a peanut butter sandwich. “Tuna for you, sir?” She picked up a can of tuna, and his eyes widened. She forked half of the tuna onto a piece of bread, folded it, and set it on the floor.
Hey-You bent over the sandwich, and it vanished. He looked up at her—was that a grin?—and licked his chops with a long pink tongue.
She held out another sandwich. “More?” He took it daintily in his teeth and wolfed it down.
“Good work.” She carried her snack into her bedroom, and Hey-You nosed the corners while she chose a cookbook to read. He dropped onto the rug, rested his head on his paws, and watched her, looking satisfied.
Under normal circumstances she would have been able to lose herself in a discussion of strudel pastry, but her thoughts insisted on darting back to the events of the evening. Besides, her feet were cold. Socks.
As soon as she moved, the dog sat to attention. She opened the bureau drawer, reached for her blue socks, and the paperweight rolled into her hand. The smooth cool surface warmed under her fingers.
Dad’s present for her birthday, a month before he died.
She sat down with it and allowed herself to remember.
“Mountain laurel,” he’d said of the star-shaped pink flowers. “The blooms look fragile. But the plants grow in rocky woods and swamps, and they’re tough.”
He put a hand on her shoulder. “Like you, Mollie—lovely, but tough inside.”
His smile had blessed her. “Always remember, God loves you with His forever-love. I’m praying that He will keep you strong.”
She quivered as if she’d been slapped, and grief whirled within her, dark and ravenous.
She closed her eyes.
I’m glad you can’t see me now, Dad . . . Something’s crippling me.
After a time, she became aware of warmth that pressed against her knee. The dog gazed at her with troubled brown eyes, and she realized that she had been rocking back and forth, holding the paperweight to her cheek.
She stroked his soft muzzle and his tail thumped, and she stroked him some more. Finally she hauled herself to her feet. She slipped the paperweight inside a sock, rolled it up as if she were going to bury it, and put it back in the drawer.
She turned away, scuffed her feet into slippers, walked out of the room. What time was it? Late. She’d check that the doors were locked and get ready for bed.
The dog showed no inclination to leave. When she opened the bedroom window, he sniffed at the fresh-scented air and flopped back onto the rug as if he intended to stay.
A cold nose was nudging her hand. Sunlight filtered into the room. Ten o’clock already!
“Thanks a bunch, Hey-You,” she said. “You did a great job!”
The dog wagged his tail, accepting her praise, and she sent him outside to run around while she got dressed. Breakfast was scrambled eggs with toast for her and two more sandwiches for him. She ate quickly, thinking about the day ahead.
Sunday morning. She’d already missed church, if there was one around, and anyway, she didn’t feel inclined to go. Mother wasn’t here to insist that it was the proper thing to do. Freedom!
She wouldn’t unpack dusty bottles today. She’d take a walk with the dog, and sometime before Aunt Lin came back, she’d return him to Timothy.
Hey-You bounded ahead of her on the sandy path, detouring to investigate a mouse or chipmunk or whatever scent he picked up. She allowed herself to relax into the stillness of pine trees and sand-laced clearings.
There’d be wild blueberry bushes along here, from what Dad told her . . .
No! Pay attention to where you’re going.
The path slanted down into a congregation of cedar trees, and a minute later she stood in their dignified midst. A wide, slow-moving stream flowed at her feet, sliding past the mossy roots that clung to its banks. It was a dim, enclosed place with the faint tang of cedar, a place for hopeful dreams.
The dog paused to lap at the water, crossed on a muddy plank, and disappeared into leather-leaved bushes on the other side.
The first time the path forked, she turned to the left and so did Hey-You, but at the next fork he turned right. He ran a short distance ahead and sat down.
His comical version of a come-hither look made her laugh. “Tyrant! I hope you know what you’re doing.”
After that, she let him lead, and she took careful note of the turns. When the sun had passed its zenith, she thought they’d better go back, but the trees were thinning ahead, and the path ended at a paved road. Whitton?
Sure enough, from here she could see the back of Timothy’s store. Hey-You galloped ahead toward Timothy, who was leaning over the rail of a wide balcony. “Come on up,” he called.
Hey-You raced up a staircase that slanted across one side of the building, and Timothy opened a gate at the top. “Looks like you both survived the night.”
“We did. And Hey-You showed me how to get here.” She patted the dog’s head and turned away, saying, “I don’t like to run off, but Aunt Lin will be back soon. Thanks again.”
“You are most welcome,” Timothy said. “Remember, he’s here any time you need him.”
She smiled into the warm brown eyes. “I’ll remember.”
Aunt Line arrived before noon, and Madeleine help to unload her suitcase and cameras. The first thing her aunt noticed was the cake. She lifted its foil covering. “You didn’t! Bless your heart, Madeleine.” She tasted a smudge of icing from the foil. “It must be pretty good if you’ve eaten three pieces already. Mmm—it is!”
“I had some help, but I’ll tell you about that,” Madeleine said. “There’s cold chicken and tomatoes for sandwiches.”
“Wonderful.”
While they were eating, her aunt asked, “Did you get outside?” At Madeleine’s nod, she said, “Are you enjoying our pine woods?”
“Very much.” How could she put it into words—the way these silent trees helped to smooth her splintered edges? “The other day when I took a run, I poked around in the ruins for a while,” she said.
“The family’s been pretty secretive about that place, but there’s not much left, as you saw.”
“Old stones are always interesting,” Madeleine said. “Did your photo shoot go all right?”
“So far,” Aunt Lin said. “We were half done when the owner suggested a different perspective, which means more research and another shoot, but it’ll be worth it. I have to go back.”
She took a bite of her sandwich and gazed out into the trees. “Wednesday. For who knows how long. I don’t like to leave you again.”