Adrift (4 page)

A hand caught onto mine, abruptly pulling me towards the surface again. 

Startled, I kicked up, taking a deep breath of the icy night air.

I was myself again.  The moonlight touched my skin, turning it milky-white.  I stared down at the hand on my arm, a perfect, well-formed hand.  I had never seen such a beautiful hand.  I had never been aware that hands could be beautiful.  Warmth radiated from the touch on my arm and I looked up to see the face of whatever person could own such a perfect hand.

The most beautiful man I had ever seen smiled down on me.  His hand was soft on my arm, his fingers as pale and perfect as moonlight.  His hair was silvered in the darkness of the night and flowed back on an invisible breeze, framing the perfection of his high cheekbones, the sculpted, straight, nose-- his eyes the most intense shade of silver-blue. 

Chills races up and down my spine as his eyes turned to mine, my heart thrilled within me, my breath caught in my throat.  He was exquisite, perfect, glorious as an angel, and he turned his hand in mine and twined his fingers through my own imperfect, nail-chewed ones.

Suddenly I was no longer in the water, but we were standing side by side, under the trees, knee-deep in grass, the moonlight pouring down on us like a waterfall. 

The perfect being stared deeply at me, feasting his eyes on me as if he had never before seen anyone like me.  I, myself, could not tear my gaze away.  I had no desire to.  I wanted to melt into those incredible eyes and swim in them.  I felt my finger-tips reach out to brush the too-perfect skin of his face.

I woke with a start and it was daylight.

Chapter Four

I lay on top of my borrowed bed, my heart pounding, my hands shaking.  I did not know where I was.  I couldn’t breathe.  I trembled with shock, completely unnerved by the vividness of my dreams.  It had seemed so real—I had felt the water as I swam, I had actually smelled the scent of wild roses rising off of the strange, beautiful man’s body.  It still lingered in my nostrils, intoxicating and exotic.

I blushed to remember how my body had responded to that man.

Morning sunlight came through the window at a slant.  The window was propped half-way open.  I could smell the spicy salt of the sea.  I tilted my head back, enjoying the exotic taste of the salt in the air.  A cool breeze wound its way through the old-fashioned lace curtains and curled against my cheeks, chilling my skin.

I stumbled groggily to my feet, staring down at the homemade quilt, still trying to find my bearings.  I shook my head, feeling muffled and dizzy.

I died, I remembered. 

No, I didn’t die.  I’m in Trinity.

A bird, somewhere near, started trilling and in response I heard a whistle from the direction of the kitchen.  The whistle was light-hearted and merry. 

I smiled to myself, crossing my make-shift room to meander through the hallway to the main rooms of the cottage.  I glanced into the living room, noting a grand fire place and various pieces of crafting equipment before spotting Maura in one corner.

Maura sat, her dark hair loose around her shoulder, the strange white-streaked lock falling into her eyes.  She faced the sturdy fireplace, whistling to herself.  I stepped closer, my eyes adjusting to the relative dim of the room.  My heart began to race, as I recognized the object in her hands.

“Good morning,” she said cheerfully, looking up.  Her hands never halted, but kept busily winding the object before her.

“Good morning,” I answered, automatically.  “What… what is that?”

Maura laughed.  “It’s called a drop spindle.”  Her intense blue eyes sparkled with laughter.  “I’m afraid I’m a little old fashioned, dear.  I like to spin my own wool to weave.  This little beauty is a little less cumbersome than my spinning wheel, on days like today when I don’t want to get pinned down.  I was about to head outside.  My apple tree is in bloom, and it smells like Heaven.  Care to join me?”

“May I?” I smiled shyly at her, feeling honored that she would like my company.

“There are muffins on the table.  You grab the plate and we’ll have a little spring picnic.”  She hefted a basket onto her hip.  It was over-flowing with many colors of wool and several skeins of finished yarn.  I fought the sudden urge to dive in and tangle with it like a kitten.  Instead, I stroked one ball of yarn with the tip of my finger as Maura passed.  The fibers of the homespun were soft and silky against my skin.  I had never felt anything quite like it.

“It’s so lovely,” I gasped.

Maura smile appreciatively.  “Thank you, Meg, that’s sweet of you to say so.  It’s a bit of a lost art, hand-spinning, but I do love it.”

Her open smile warmed me as I headed for the kitchen.

The muffins were happily ensconced on a plate on the sturdy oak table.  The muffins themselves were a masterpiece of baking, with plump blueberries promising perfection with every bite.  Their sweet, heady aroma filled the air.  I sniffed happily.  If the muffins tasted even half as good as they smelled, then I was in for a real treat.

I carefully covered the plate with a linen napkin, mindful of the gentle warmth emanating from the muffins and their deliciously golden surfaces.  Maura must have just finished baking them.

I followed Maura’s light-hearted whistling down a winding stone path, through a just-budding rose-garden, and found her leaning against an ancient tree heavy with late white and pink blossoms.  Petals showered down around her, swirling in eddies as the breeze picked them up and cast them about.

Maura looked like something out of an old story, with her beautiful hair crowned with heavy blossoms by the branches around her.  She leaned against the tree as if it were an old friend of hers, whispering secrets in her ears that no one else could hear.

Her hands were busy with her spindle.  Lengths of fine yarn flew from her fingers by the yard.  The ball in the basket at her feet grew rounder and plumper, fed by her labors.

Maura’s lilting whistle chirped along as she worked.  I could hear the answering trill of a bird.  I would not have been surprised if she had suddenly been surrounded with woodland creatures, like Snow White all grown up.

Self-consciously I settled myself at Maura’s feet and busied my hands and mouth with the muffins.  They tasted even better than they had smelled.  The warm blueberries burst on my tongue.

Maura’s hands, with her spindle, were hypnotizing.  Almost as if by magic, the wool wound itself into a long thread, and then she wrapped it around the tail of her spindle.  Maura stopped whistling as she worked, but immediately began to hum.  There was something so centered about her, so happy. 

I wondered what her secret was.

“I’ve seen a spindle like that before,” I told her.  “I don’t know if it was a dream...  or something, but I saw a young girl, spinning like that.  I thought it was some kind of top, at first, before I saw the yarn.”

Maura’s beautiful eyes met mine for a second.  “Was that in the old cottage?” She asked, gently.

I nodded.  “I didn’t mean to trespass.  I don’t even know how I got there.”

“Oh, don’t worry, darling,” Maura said, lightly.  “Devin can be a little stern, but you did no harm.  He was just worried for you, not about you.”

“Oh.”  I shifted uncomfortably.

“He’s not here at present,” Maura added, seeming to sense my thoughts.  “He has a little place in town.”

“Is there anything I can do to help you?” I asked, eager to change the subject.  “Other than eat your muffins?”

Maura laughed.  “Oh, you’ll regret the offer before I’m done with you!  Do you know anything about gardening?”

“I grew up on a farm,” I said, slowly.  “My Dad and I were just starting to make a good go of it when he… died.  I love gardening.”

“That makes two of us,” Maura answered, ignoring my reference to my dad, though her voice was gentle and soft.  “I think there’s nothing nicer than eating out of my very own piece of earth.  It’s lovely.  I try to grow what I can for the table, and that which I don’t grow I barter for.  As I said before, I’m a bit old fashioned.”

“I love it,” I said, seriously.  “Your home is so comfortable, cozy.”

“I have tried to make it so,” Maura answered, modestly.  “I make all my cloth by hand; even those old carpets in the rooms are my handiwork.  I sell some things in a little shop in town… tourists seem to like my pieces just fine.”  She shrugged eloquently.

“I can imagine,” I said, remembering the room I had slept in.

“So,” She said, briskly, grabbing up her basket of wool and hitching it up to her hip.  “How about we get started on some nice old-fashioned weeding?”

Mud is the inescapable reality of weeding gardens.  For me, it seems to go from just the dirt under the fingernails category to mud from head to toe.  I pulled my shoes off so as not to damage Maura’s perfect garden beds, and soon I was mud up to my knees and elbows.

Maura laughed, her own mess contained at her wrists, as she collected her weeds and gathered them up in a bucket for her compost.

Maura whistled or hummed as she worked, pausing now and then as she regarded her young plants, some hardly more than seedlings.  She would gently brush some of them with her finger, murmuring under her breath some words of encouragement.

“Now then,” she muttered to a little tomato plant, which looked rather crestfallen with its leaves drooping.  “You chin up and get some sunlight.  You’ll be big in no time.”

I wiped the sweat from my face with the back of my hand and set to routing out one particularly tenacious weed that was threatening Maura’s rhubarb patch.

“Halloo the house.”

The voice was near enough that it startled me out of my reverie. 

Devin leaned against the wall of the house, with a stalk of grass hanging out of his mouth.  The image of a mischievous leprechaun flashed through my head and I lifted a muddy hand to wave at him.

“And we’re just finishing!” Maura exclaimed.

“Don’t you think I was counting on that?” Devin replied, putting an arm around her shoulders and pecking her cheek.

Maura swatted at him, a fond look on her face.  I felt awkward, out of place, an outsider looking on at their comfortable intimacy.

Maura glanced at me, and pushed her son away playfully.  “You’ll be needing to talk to this young lady, I’m thinking.”  She gave him a significant glance. “It’s not my place.”

Devin grimaced.  “Yes, I must,” he said.

I raised my hands.  “Am I in trouble?” I laughed.  “Have I broken some unspoken Trinity law?”

Instead of laughing, Maura and Devin just regarded me seriously.

“Go feed the horses and have a chat,” Maura suggested.  “I’ll make up some lunch.”  She stood up and brushed off her hands, bundling up her pile of weeds.

Devin looked at me uneasily. He cocked an eyebrow.

“What?”  I demanded.

“It’s hard to take you seriously when you have mud all over your face,” he said, the tiniest touch of a smile twitching his lips.

I felt my face flush and my hands automatically reached towards my face before I remembered that they were also covered with mud.  I stared down at my feet, wondering to myself if there was any mud left in the garden, or if I was wearing all of it.

“Come on,” Devin said, as he took in my chagrin.  “I’ll hose you off.  I wouldn’t want you to terrify the horses before their breakfast.”

“Terrifying them after breakfast is permitted?” I muttered, following him to the side of the house, where a hose lay coiled.

The water was bitterly cold, and I quickly scrubbed my feet and hands off.  Without a mirror, I didn’t even know how to go about fixing my face.

“Here,” Devin said.  He leaned forward and wiped his hand across my cheek, then down my nose.  “I think I got it all.”

I felt myself blushing again, and tried to hide my burning face, busying myself with my socks and shoes.

The horses were pastured a short walk from Maura’s little orchard. Here the grass grew long and untamed, dotted with sparks of color where wildflowers bloomed. Grasshoppers swarmed before us with every step we took, an odd entourage for our small procession of two humans and a dog.

Kip snapped at a grasshopper, promptly dropping it when he actually caught it. I smiled to myself at his expression, which looked for all the world as if he were exclaiming, “Yuck!”

He scrubbed at his mouth with a paw before briskly running ahead, ignoring the clouds of pests that flittered before him.

Beyond us, three larger horses grazed side-by-side with a shaggy pony in a ring of solid stone fences.  Kip stood, wagging his tail patiently, waiting for Devin to unlatch the heavy metal gate and let him into the field.  He immediately trotted through, as Devin held it open for him, and proceeded to inspect the small herd.

A tall rather ungainly chestnut gelding sniffed noses with Kip before coming straight to the gate to greet me, rumbling bossily for his breakfast.  A smaller delicately built palomino mare nipped crossly at him and swung her backside towards him, threatening to kick if he didn’t make way for her. The stocky brown pony and older black gelding watched this display with the air of viewing an oft-repeated performance.