Forgotten Boxes (14 page)

Harry came to a slow decision. “I’m not going to fire you, Evelyn.
Fact is, I have a special job for you.”

Tarn led Charity to the very top of the
hill. The small bench nestled into a tiny clearing was a welcomed sight. Breath
squeaked from her lungs in short spurts and thousands of needles pricked the calves
of her legs. She ignored the fact that it was as much from being out of shape as
it was from the steep incline.

From this vantage, she had a broader view of the valley sprawled
below. She could see for miles, and every inch was as breathtaking as the next.
“This is magnificent,” she whispered in awe.

“Come here to clear my head.” Tarn’s voice rumbled behind her.
A single swipe of his huge hand across the bench seat sent orange and red leaves
floating in the wind. “Have a seat.”

Between the two of them, it was a tight fit. Tarn lifted his
arm to stretch across the back of the bench, allowing them more room. It also allowed
her to fall against the side of his warm chest. Charity had no complaints.

“Do you come up here often?”

Without daring to look at her, he gave a low, honest answer.
“Been here twice since the first time we met.”

Toning down the smile radiating from her heart, Charity leaned
in closer.

They sat for a long while without speaking. They soaked in the
beauty of the day, reveling in the crisp mountain air and the bright sunshine. They
watched a squirrel jump from limb to limb among the colorful leaves. Another squirrel
came to collect acorns from beneath a tall oak. In the valley far below, cars the
size of insects moved along a ribbon of highway. Somewhere in the distance was the
buzz of a chainsaw and the bellow of cattle, but the sounds were muted in this,
his kingdom. They listened to the whisper of rustling leaves, content to let nature
do most of the talking.

At last, Tarn initiated a conversation. “You’re from Maryland?”

“Yes. Born and raised.” She held her face into the light breeze,
loving the feel of the fresh air upon her skin. Up here, it had a zing to it, but
she was quite cozy with Tarn’s warm body pressed next to hers. “Lately, though,
I’ve been thinking it might be time to move.”

“Why’s that?”

It all came pouring out. She told him about the restless feeling
that often woke her in the middle of the night, whispering discontent into her ear.
She told him about her mother dying when she was young, about her father re-marrying
and the stepsiblings she had gained. She loved her family, but something was missing
between them, some deep inner connection. Sadly enough, she lacked that connection
with even her father. Charity suspected that if she moved away from all of them,
she would be content to see them only on holidays and major events. Just admitting
it aloud to another person lifted a burden from her shoulders.

She talked about her job and her crummy little apartment.
How Tanya was pressuring her to move in with her. Charity had her doubts if the
two of them could co-exist, but the thought of sharing expenses had its appeal.
Tarn asked questions about her graphic design business, and she was more than happy
to explain the process and different techniques.

When her cell phone rang, Tarn raised a shaggy eyebrow. “You
should be impressed. Service isn’t always good way up here.”

“What about internet service?”

“Better.” The phone rang again. “You going to get that?”

Charity looked down at the screen with a sigh. “It’s Tanya. I
don’t dare tell her where I am.”

“She doesn’t know you’re in Vermont?”

“She doesn’t know I’m sitting in the middle of the woods with
a total stranger.”

Tarn’s eyes were a wondrous shade of sincerity. His voice rumbled
deep and warm, every bit as sweet and thick as the pure maple syrup to which she
likened it. “You’re not.”

Charity smiled. With a little nod, she said simply, “But she
could never understand that.” She pushed a button, sending the call to voice mail.
Then she drew in a deep breath of the mountain air and whispered an admission. “I’m
not even sure I do.”

“Maybe we should head back down.”

“Your father probably wonders what happened to us.”

In some ways, the trek down was more difficult than the climb.
On the steepest declines, Tarn helped secure her footing. His own steps were confident,
never once sliding or stumbling. Charity did both, but he was always there to catch
her. By the time they reached the bottom, her hand was tucked into his. They pretended
it was a precautionary measure for safety, but they both knew the truth.

Back at the gift shop, Gavin Danbury was too polite to mention
their long absence. “Why don’t you take your friend up to the house?” he suggested.
“Happen to know your mother made a pumpkin-maple cake this afternoon.”

Tarn looked over at Charity. “Have time for cake?”

She grinned. “There’s always time for cake!”

Gavin laughed. “I think you’ve met your match, Tarn my boy!”
When both of the younger people blushed, he laughed all the more. Charity was thankful
a car full of tourists came bustling in the door, all talking and laughing at the
same time.

“I have some things at the register. I need to pay first,” she
protested as Tarn pulled her toward the door.

Gavin already had the merchandise rung up and bagged. All she
had to do was swipe her credit card and she was out the door. Tarn took the lead,
driving his pickup while she followed behind in her car. They retraced the path
Charity had taken earlier. They even turned down the lane she had questioned as
a legitimate road.

The road dead-ended at a farm. Tarn’s truck turned, leading the
way to a rambling old farmhouse perched high on the hill. What was it they called
those monstrosities, a traditional New England extended farmhouse? Something about
the big house, the little house, the back house, and the barn. To Charity, it looked
like a big white house with additions, all tied in together with the red barn at
the end. Could something so large be considered quaint? Despite its size, the weathered
dwelling came with instant charm.

A dog came out to greet them. Tarn tousled the Setter’s long
red mane, calling to Charity in assurance as she opened her car door. “Don’t worry,
he’s friendly.”

The dog danced around her legs as she joined Tarn. Petting the
dog, she murmured, “Hello, boy.”

“His name is O’Reilly.”

“Well of course it is,” Charity grinned, making the Irish connection.
Using her best Irish brogue, she rubbed the dog’s ears. “And how are ye today, me
lad?”

“He answers, and we’ll all be rich,” Tarn teased dryly.

Charity giggled, looking behind him to the sprawling house. “This
is yours?”

“Family home,” he acknowledged. “My place is in the back. Come
on in, I’ll show you.”

Tarn led her along the side of the huge house, to what she thought
was called the back house. A door opened into the long, wide corridor connecting
the back house and the barn. Traditionally, she knew this back house was for wagons,
so she nodded to the wall in front of them and guessed, “Garage?”

“Yep. No, come this way.” When she would have turned left, he
ushered her toward the barn end of the structure.

Her curiosity aroused, Charity paused at the set of two steps
leading up to the traditional red barn door.

“Go on in,” he encouraged her.

She didn’t know what she expected, but it certainly wasn’t
this
.
This
was a beautifully restored space, converted into a very comfortable
home. The walls were reclaimed lumber, left in their natural state of weathered
browns and grays. Judging from the comfortable temperature in the room, she knew
they were insulated, just like the newly installed windows that offered plenty of
sunlight and breath-taking vistas.

She forced her eyes away from the view outside, focusing her
attention on the inside. Huge old beams stretched overhead, braced by cross-timbers.
Beneath her feet, the floor was stained and sealed with a non-glossy finish. The
room was huge and airy, yet at the same time cozy and warm.

A two-sided rock fireplace divided the room. The side where they
stood was the living area, complete with modern conveniences and rustic charm. Beyond
the fireplace, Charity saw a kitchen, dining table, and a privacy wall. A steep
set of stairs led to an overhead loft.

“This place is amazing!” Charity said, looking back at Tarn with
a wide smile.

“Nearly done with it,” he said, letting his gaze wander the space
with quiet pride.

“
You
did all this?”

“Yep. Taken a while, but there’s been no rush.”

“The woodwork is incredible.” She walked around the room, admiring
the rustic feel that merged age-old material with modern functionality.

“Sort of a hobby of mine,” he shrugged.

“All I can say is…
wow
.”

Her praise settled well upon him, adding new depth to his intriguing
eyes. One side of his mustache hiked to indicate a smile. “Promised you cake.” Modesty
made his voice gruffer than normal.

Charity’s eyes twinkled. “By all means, don’t forget the cake.”

Along with heredity, cake played its own role in the swell of
her hips. Those hips, though, felt amazingly small when Tarn put his massive hand
low on her back and ushered her out the door.

They headed back down the long corridor into the ‘little’ house.
Stepping into the kitchen, the sense of
home
hit Charity with staggering
force.

This
, her heart whispered,
is what I miss most about
my mother.

Emotion pricked at Charity’s eyes, blurring her vision until
she blinked the tears hastily away. The style of the kitchen was a bit dated with
its tiled countertops and knotty pine cabinets, but she fell in love with it instantly.
There were nick-knacks and mementos everywhere, a mishmash of trends and styles
no doubt gathered throughout the years. Charity glimpsed everything from black and
white cows to roosters, apples to sunflowers, even a telltale blue-scarfed goose
shoved high upon a shelf. The scattered collection of canisters, cookie jars and
overall clutter added to the homey feel of the space. But absolutely best of all,
the air was permeated with the delicious aroma of home-cooked meals. One glorious
sniff, and Charity swore she gained five pounds.

While Charity choked down her irrational response, Tarn called
out to his mother. There was movement from the adjacent room, followed by an unseen
voice. “I’ll be right there, dear. I’ll get the coffee started while you get the
plates. Get the fall ones, son; the ones with the little leaves on them.”

With an indulgent smile on his face, Tarn did as his mother instructed.
A formal dining room — blessedly more homey than formal — spilled into the kitchen
via a wide doorway. Charity watched as the big man opened a china cabinet and took
three dainty plates into his beefy hands. He cradled them with care as he turned
back toward the kitchen.

His mother entered from an opposite doorway. Charity glimpsed
a laundry room beyond, but her eyes were drawn to the woman coming through the door.
She used a forearm crutch to support herself. Charity noted that the crutch was
made of rich, warm wood; Tarn’s work, she suspected. With obvious effort, the older
woman pulled her useless leg with her into the room, her body hunched and unsteady.
With her head down as she concentrated on her steps, much of her face was shielded
by a cap of gray curls. The slow journey into the room gave Charity time to digest
the scars that puckered one cheek and part of her chin.

“There you are, son.” There was no mistaking the pleasure in
her voice, nor the love. “And you’ve brought a guest!” She turned gray eyes upon
Charity, her smile warm.

“Ma, this is Charity Gannon. Charity, my mom, Lynnie Danbury.”

“Hello, Mrs. Danbury. What a pleasure to meet you.” Charity’s
smile was sincere.

“The pleasure is mine, dear.” With her free hand, she reached
out to grasp Charity’s forearm. She gave it a squeeze and a small pat. “Excuse my
cold fingers. Poor circulation, you know. And excuse my ugly old face. Long story,
old news.”

For some inexplicable reason, tears filled Charity’s eyes once
more.
Touch
, she realized. She missed a mother’s loving touch. She felt it
again now, for the first time in sixteen years.

Charity groped the other woman’s hand still upon her arm, squeezing
back. “I think you’re lovely!” she burst out, embarrassed when a little sob hiccupped
out with the words.

“Why, aren’t you sweet?” Untangling her hand from Charity’s,
she beamed up at her son. “I
like
her! I see why you brought her home.” Shooing
them toward the kitchen table, she turned her mangled body toward the sink. “I’ll
get the coffee started and we’ll visit while we have cake.”

“Do you need help?” Charity offered.

“Oh, no, dear. My old body is twisted and slow, but it still
knows its way around the kitchen.”

It was true, Charity could not help but notice, Lynnie Danbury’s
body
was
twisted. Her right leg was practically useless, a limp appendage
that did not respond to her commands. Her other leg bent at an odd angle, causing
her to stand tilted. Plump and overweight, her steps were as much a waddle as they
were a stagger. Even her large bust was lopsided, sagging noticeably to the right.
Scars raced up and down both arms, the skin twisted and knotted beneath the three-quarter
sleeves of her housecoat. Parts of two fingers were missing on her left hand.

None of that seemed to matter once she reached the sink and propped
herself against the cabinet. In no time, the rich aroma of brewing coffee filled
the air, and she traversed back across the room, to join Tarn and his guest at the
round kitchen table.

“Tarn, take the top off that cake so I can cut it,” she instructed.

The man dutifully removed the glass dome from the Bundt cake.
Still warm from the oven, the cake’s heat fogged the glass, but lifting the lid
released an aroma like none Charity had ever inhaled. She went a little weak in
the knees, just smelling the mingled glory of cinnamon, allspice, pumpkin, and maple.