I am equally worn to a nub and energized, or, more accurately, buzzed with the combination of good food, possibly one too many Lemon Drops, and the relief of finally having the central mystery of my recent life solved. I’ve been so in my own head that I probably could have figured this out on my own if I’d just picked a little at the clues that were there.
Shadow is ecstatic to see me. His tail thrashes and he play bows and hunh-hunns. “Let’s go.”
It’s not that late, but the darkness around this lonesome stretch of back road is thick, punctuated only here and there with determined stars. Not a house light in sight. After last night’s storm, it’s rained on and off today, and everything is wet. The moon is waning, but bright enough as it breaks through the cloud cover to suddenly shed some light on the path that leads to Dogtown. I’ve acquired a pair of Hunter Wellington boots, so the wet grass is not a problem. Skunks are, but we are lucky as Shadow and I head to the old Dogtown road. Dogtown in the daytime is unsettling enough, but at night it takes on a whole different eeriness. One’s imagination runs to werewolves and witches. The uniquely weird sound of a screech owl sends shivers down my spine.
Shadow does what he does best, sticks close by and leads me to his favorite spot, the cellar hole I have come to decide must be where Susannah ended up. Maybe it’s my propensity for romantic notion, my idea that this dog has somehow identified the presence of a woman gone more than 150 years, but I don’t think that’s such a far-fetched idea. I don’t think it unreasonable to believe that my dog might be a descendant of the unnamed dog that attended Susannah. Any more than it is unreasonable that my fairy godmother has turned out to be Meghan. Or that someday my phone will ring and it will be one of my brothers or even my mother calling to see how I am.
Yesterday, I talked to Shelley Brown about the journal. As casually as I could, I mentioned how it was found, and what I’ve read in it. As I feared, she immediately suggested that the book needed to go somewhere appropriate, either the library’s history collection or the historical society’s. I argued back, right off the top of my head, that the book really belonged to the Baxter descendants. She agreed, and asked if I’d be willing to address the issue with them.
Them, as I thought at the time, was Carol. Now I know that it’s Carol and Meghan and Don Flint and a host of others. And, truthfully, I completely forgot about the journal, about Susannah, caught up as I was in the excitement of the moment at the Azorean.
Shadow has led me to the cellar hole, and, as is his habit, he circled and settled in the depression. I shut off my phone’s flashlight and sit on a remnant cellar stone, fondle his ears. I can’t give up that daybook until I find out what happened, if Susannah ever made it to safer shores than this desolate and lonely place. If she and her dog were rescued.
A glance at my phone and I see that there is a voice message from Pete, no doubt about Cecily Foster. But I’m going to let that one wait till tomorrow. Right now, I want to enjoy this quiet outing with my dog and let the pleasure of knowing that someone has loved me enough to do what Meghan set in motion on my behalf. I have not felt beloved in a very long time.