K. C. McKenzie walked to the picture window of her ninth floor furnished apartment. Her few possessions were packed, ready. She just had one final farewell to say. Pressing her hand against the cold glass, she looked out beyond Lake Shore Drive to Lake Michigan.
“Good-bye,” she whispered to the waves pounding below. She’d once loved these waters that had been part of her life, all twenty-seven years of it, here in Chicago. The waves were an old-time companion, sometimes nipping at her feet as she’d run along the beach, other times drenching her clothes in their awesome show of power. But no longer could she laugh at or delight in the waters below. Especially on a day like today, when the waves displayed their pounding, brutal ability to heave, to crush … to snatch. Just as they had the day they left her a widow.
She shuddered and stepped back from the window, her gaze going to her leather briefcase, the last item to be placed in the BMW. Inside was her lifeline, a rose-scented letter containing the one thing she needed to start a new life. Hope.
Brian’s Great-aunt Lidia probably had no idea what the oft-read letter in an arthritic scrawl meant to her. But a few memorized snatches clung to K. C.’s heart.
Dear Kathryn,
I’m sure you’ve found that two years do not erase your grieving.… I thought you’d want to know
Mother’s old farm is up for sale.… Such fond memories I have of you and Brian playing there as children.…
From my front door I can see that the old house could use a touch of repair. Perhaps now is the time for it to belong to the McKenzie family once again.
Should this be the Lord’s leading for you, please stop and see me when you get here.…
Buying Brian’s Great-grandmother McKenzie’s old house, a place of childhood memories, a place she could call home, seemed the perfect balm for her restless heart. Using her interior designer skills to remodel the place that also held a part of Brian would bring healing, a sense of comfort. Of course she’d miss the city, the familiarity, the pace, but maybe the waters over on the Michigan side of the lake would be kinder, the way she remembered them.
Turning to an end table, K. C. touched the heart-framed photograph of a laughing couple, arms linked at the wheel of a sailboat. They belonged together, complemented each other. He with blond hair, hers dark and caught up in a ponytail as it was now, both with brown eyes sparkling with love, both so full of promise.
She picked up the white frame and clasped it close. This couple no longer existed. Brian was gone, and she, too, had been robbed of the spark of life, even while living. She wondered if she would ever laugh like that again.
K. C. placed the photograph inside her briefcase next to the letter and two long-ago snapshots of the farmhouse Aunt Lidia had enclosed. With one last glance around the apartment that had served as a temporary home for two years, she locked up for good.
Though she didn’t need a map for the drive around the lake and into the southwestern corner of Michigan, K. C. did need some directions once she pulled off I-94 at the Hartley exit. She hadn’t been back to the fruit farm since she was twelve and was uncertain of the exact location, but she hoped the locals downtown could direct her.
If only … If only Aunt Lidia hadn’t waited weeks from dating the letter to mail it. If only she’d remembered to put postage on it so it wouldn’t have been returned to sender. If only she’d had K. C.’s current address instead of where she and Brian had once lived.
If only Brian hadn’t died, none of this would matter.
K. C. shook her head, stopping such wasted thoughts. In spite of the delays and the irrationality of the venture, she knew this was what she should do and therefore had to accept the timing as well.
At the single stoplight in town, modern-day Hartley took her by surprise. The farming community had shriveled through the years. Several of the shops in the two-block business district had boards across their windows and signs hanging on their doors: Closed. For good, it appeared.
Finding a nice hotel where she could spend a couple of weeks until her inherited lake cottage was readied might be more difficult than she had anticipated. But she’d worry about that later. She wanted to see the old farmhouse first.
Locating my farm shouldn’t be hard—everyone must know where it is. Well, she amended to herself, it isn’t actually mine yet, but it will be. She had enough money set aside that no one could refuse her offer.
Pulling into the only gas station in sight, K. C. stopped at the full-service pump, waiting for an attendant. She lowered the automatic window midway as a man around thirty, shrugging into a jacket over his green-and-navy plaid shirt, strode out from the small building. Each step he took declared confidence. His attire stated otherwise, though, with his wrists protruding inches below the sleeves of the jacket that bore a worn Bob’s Auto Service logo stitched above the pocket.
Catching herself staring at the attractive face and thick, wavy hair almost as black as her own, K. C. guiltily looked away. How could she be aware of such things? Better to focus on his knowledge of cars and local farms.
When she looked back to get his attention, he readjusted his course and headed toward her. She managed a smile.
“Hello. Fill it with premium, please.” She shivered a bit in the cold spring air. “And could you also check the oil?”
Surprise flickered across the man’s gold-flecked eyes, making it apparent that he wasn’t used to providing such service. But before she could rescind her request, he was pumping gas and had grabbed a squeegee out of a bucket.
“Sure. Just pop the hood.” He started on her windows.
And again, K. C. caught herself watching him, noticing how his eyelids crinkled at the outer edges. Laughing at her, no doubt. There was no hiding the fact that she was an outsider, flagged by her out-of-state license plates and gray BMW. It even lacked the farm dust of other passing cars.
“The oil is fine.” The man wiped his hands on a paper towel he pulled from the outdoor dispenser.
“Thank you.” The pump clicked off, and she handed him the exact change.
“No problem. You’re quite welcome.” He half smiled, and his eyes took on a warm, charmingly boyish look that made K. C. feel—what? She wasn’t sure, nor was she comfortable with it. It was as if she were attracted to him, which, of course, was ridiculous.
“Sir,” K. C. called after him as he turned to head back inside. How could she have gotten sidetracked so quickly?
“Yes?”
“Could you please give me directions to Sixty-sixth?”
His eyes lit up with amusement. “Sure. Are you looking for Sixty-sixth Street or Sixty-sixth Avenue?”
“Street, avenue—” She shrugged. “Does it make a difference?”
“Well, yes, here in Hartley it does. There’s one of each.” His compelling gaze, highlighted with that teasing glimmer, held hers. “And the two intersect.”
“Oh.” K. C. scrunched her face. “I don’t know. I’m looking for the old Walter McKenzie farm. I don’t remember exactly how to get there. Are you familiar with it?”
“Yes.” His eyes narrowed, and his tone turned cautious. “Why?”
“I’m interested in seeing it.”
“Why?” he asked again.
K. C. wasn’t sure how to answer. Was he just a busybody or suspicious of strangers, or was this the small-town way of looking out for each other?
“Personal reasons,” she said simply, deciding against being specific.
“I see.” He looked at her strangely, and in that moment, all charm was replaced with a cold stare.
“Well,” K. C. persisted after a prolonged silence on his part, “do you know where it is?”
“Yes.”
“May I get directions?” She tried to keep the building exasperation out of her voice.
He stared at her a moment longer, seeming to debate whether or not to provide the information.
“Turn left at the light,” he finally said, “heading toward the interstate. Go two miles to Sixty-sixth Avenue and turn right.” His tone matched the precision of his directions. “The farm is on the left, nine-tenths of a mile. The next right is Sixty-sixth Street. If you come to the green-shingled house on the corner there, you’ve gone too far.” He crossed his arms, signaling the finality of the conversation.
“Thank you,” K. C. said. The directions sounded familiar now, and simple. Good thing, too, as his stance made it clear he was not going to repeat them. The only sound competing with his silence was the whir of her window as she pressed the button to raise it. At least he knew his way around here. Hastily she put the car into gear and took off. A quick peek back in the mirror showed him staring after her, arms still crossed, his scowl even deeper.
The sun was inching toward the horizon as K. C. made the turn onto Sixty-sixth Avenue. She knew exactly where she was now. This was the stretch of gravel road where summers ago she’d ridden her bicycle countless miles, back and forth between the farm and this corner. Her heart accelerated along with the car as second by second she drew nearer to the hill not quite a mile down the road.
Then, just before the crest, there it was—her farm! Acres and acres of fruit trees stood like watchmen among the last remains of a late-season snow. And the sun’s final glow presented her with a welcome mat as it bounced off the packing shed, reflecting a warm, pinkish image into the small pond.
K. C. pulled to the side of the road a moment and gazed at the wondrous scene before her. The duck pond was peaceful and still, unchanged from the long-ago days when she and Brian and his brother, Colton, rowed across it. The sight kindled a tiny longing. These waters were safe. Maybe someday she could venture onto a boat again … something small, like the old, unwieldy rowboat they’d used.
Plans and memories tumbled together. She couldn’t wait to find the lilac bush that bloomed outside Great-grandmother McKenzie’s bedroom window. Even the lilac soaps and candles Brian once bought her didn’t begin to compare with the fragrance of that old tree. When she moved into the house, she’d make the front bedroom hers, where she could wake up to the scent of purple lilacs in the spring.
I’m home. The peace settling in her heart confirmed the rightness of this wild move she’d made.
She pulled back onto the road, anticipating the moment she’d glimpse the farmhouse. She’d never even wondered before, but might not the single-level wing have been an afterthought decades ago? The framework of the small living room, bathroom, and music room resembled an odd appendage growing from the side of a two-story farmhouse. She made a mental note to research it.
K. C. spotted the red barn, dulled through the years but standing ramrod straight. And then, as she crested the hill, the house came into view. She hit the brake so hard she had to brace herself against the steering wheel.
A touch of repair? Aunt Lidia’s sight must be poor, very poor. The building was dilapidated.
Pulling into the long, sloping driveway, K. C. brought the car to a halt and sat without moving, staring at the house. Behind the yellow police tape that stretched across the front porch, the windows were broken out and boarded up. Paint splatters on the once-pristine white siding matched the bright, greenish blue trim around the window frames. And the privet hedge, once growing sedately beneath the music room window, now looked like a jungle attacking the side of the house and creeping around the front. Known to thrive with neglect, this shrub was flourishing.
K. C. got out of her car and walked through the front yard, weeds catching at her knees. Standing carefully on the broken glass beneath the front bedroom window, K. C. peered inside. Empty—except for shotgun shells scattered across the floor.
The tattered, dingy pillowcase hanging out an upstairs window seemed to be a limp, silent plea of the house for help.
K. C. followed the ugly siding around the house to the back. Here the colors faded to dull lime on the two-story portion with graying wood showing beneath rotted shingles on the rest. The rear entrance was ajar, though not welcoming. Anyone pushing against the thick cardboard door could enter. K. C. shivered, wondering if indeed she was alone on the property.
The old kitchen was gone, but the wide concrete porch around which Great-grandmother McKenzie had planted hollyhocks partially remained. K. C. bent down, pushing away weeds from the edge of the porch to reveal three small handprints pressed into the cement almost twenty years ago.
Brian, Colton, K. C. The names and ages were barely readable now. Brian, the leader of the trio, had been ten, and she and Colton seven. Gently she placed her hand over Brian’s small imprint, her throat tightening at this nearly forgotten memory of him. Brian, always so sure of himself, so strong and steady.
I’m so sorry.
She stood, pushing aside the emptiness as she had done so many times before. Repairing this house would occupy her time and thoughts, she realized as she surveyed the ruin around her. It’d take months and no telling how much money to restore this place, but it could be done, of that she was certain. Even with the disrepair and the condemning police tape, the house had escaped being torn down. It was a survivor.
Somewhere upstairs a door banged. K. C. shuddered, glancing up at another paneless window. She hoped it was just the wind. This place would make a pretty good home for a vagrant.
As the sun dropped behind the apple trees for the night, K. C. knew she couldn’t go inside. She’d be foolish to do so, especially with no electricity to offset the approaching darkness. The thought of going inside triggered another long-ago memory. The pact. After Great-grandmother McKenzie’s funeral, K. C., Colton, and Brian had promised that the next time they ever entered this house, it would be together. Now that wasn’t possible. Only she and Colton remained.
Debating whether to stop by Great-aunt Lidia’s house tonight, K. C. glanced at the green-shingled house down on the corner. She saw no lights on, and she didn’t want to barge in on her this late in the day.
As dusk settled around the farm and K. C. knew it was time to leave, the sound of an approaching engine broke the silence. Not one vehicle had come down the road since she’d arrived. But a green Jeep Wrangler slowed as it crested the hill and neared the driveway, as if someone was looking for something. She caught her breath, suddenly aware of the isolation of this place … of her vulnerability. Her car was left wide open with her cell phone thrown on the seat. And she was too far away to get to it now without being seen.
K. C. stepped into the shadows behind the privet just as the Jeep stopped opposite the bottom of the driveway. K. C. held her breath, her heart thudding in terror, as she realized she was about to be blocked in. Then the driver accelerated and sped away—but not before K. C. recognized his green-and-navy plaid shirt and almost black, wavy hair.