Construction progressed quickly with little incident and no accidents; the exterior studs were transformed into walls, and the roof was decked out. Montis was now “in the dry,” as the carpenters told Pam and Mark, and that was a very good thing.
Within a matter of hours, the cast of characters changed as if Montis had become a different show production. Mackenzie McGuire and her framing crew, who had shared many weekday breakfasts, every lunch and occasional dinners with Mark and Pam over the past month, packed up their tools, bade farewell and drove away, leaving Montis incredibly empty and quiet for a midweek afternoon. With no activity, the puppies quickly became bored, and wandered off to further explore the orchard.
Pam and Mark took the opportunity to walk through the rooms, which appeared immense when they were just studs, but now seemed claustrophobically enclosed because of the outside plywood shell. They knew that the appearance would change again once the drywall was hung, and again after that once the trim and painting were completed. Pam was fascinated at how one space, of the exact same dimension, could look twice the size or half the size at any point during construction.
“I’m getting nervous,” Pam said in a quiet voice, as if she didn’t want anyone to hear.
“Really?” Mark asked.
“Well, more of an excited nervous…like an excivous.”
Mark laughed as he always did when Pam made up words.
“Why so?” he asked.
“It’s getting close.”
“It?”
“The completion. The inn.”
“Oh, honey,” Mark said, “I hate to disappoint you, but we are so not close to completion.” He laughed. “Now, that’s what you should be nervous about.”
Pam then remembered how, when building the house in Falls Church, she thought it was all but complete when it was finally enclosed, but how, in reality, that was only the beginning of another phase, a more expensive phase: heating, plumbing and electric. Then Mark’s words struck full force.
“Oh, God,” she said.
“What?”
“It’s so far away.”
“You mean the completion, don’t you?” Mark laughed.
“You’re right. We’re not even close to done.” She shook her head. “And we’re burning through money like it’s a pile of leaves on a fall day.”
“Hello?” someone called from the front door, as there was no doorbell, which was just fine, as there was no door either.
“We’re in here,” Mark called back from the great room on the first floor, looking through the interior studded walls toward the front door.
“Mark? It’s Cantor. Where would you like us to park?” Cantor walked into the inn, slipping between the two-by-fours instead of walking around through the door opening. He was a small, agile, middle-aged man, with short, bushy black hair and huge hands. Pam never understood if he was given that nickname because of his love for arias, or because of his own tenor voice that bellowed through the air ducts that he installed. Either way, his skills as a heating and air tradesman were highly recommended by so many in Wheatley that Mark sought him out shortly after buying the property.
“Anywhere other than the south side. The mason is having some stone delivered tomorrow and asked us to keep that area clear.”
“No problem,” Cantor said.
Within minutes the silence of Montis was broken by the Three Tenors singing “Funiculi,” with Cantor singing every note. Clipper and Cutter, who had ventured into the far fields of the orchard, heard the music and came running. Within an hour, the first of the ductwork was being strapped in place.
With the tradesmen working on the main building, Pam found peace in finishing the old library, which she had transformed into a beautiful multipurpose sitting room with a thick green area rug and several heavy upholstered chairs and leather sofas that one could sink into and spend the rest of the afternoon.
Pam refinished all of the bookshelves surrounding the windows, which were now curtained, and brought in two large antique library tables for the far end of the room, where they had laid the cables and electric lines for guests who had brought their laptops and wanted an Internet connection. A large television flanked the stone fireplace for those who wanted to watch the news or a good movie. A wonderful room, she thought as she stepped back and looked around.
Behind her, a weak knock on the open door was followed by an almost weaker “Excuse me?”
Pam turned to see a very old woman with brilliant silver hair loosely pulled up in a bun standing in the doorway.
“May I help you?” Pam asked, looking quite puzzled.
“Yes, I’m Charlotte Ross. I probably have no business here, but Mackenzie McGuire mentioned that you may have a garden that could benefit from some compost.”
Pam thought for a moment. “Oh, yes. That would be Brooke’s garden by the side of the lodge. It’s been badly neglected,” Pam admitted, while trying to figure out who this strange but very polite woman was.
“Well, I have a tremendous amount at our orchard…really far more than we know what to do with. So perhaps, if you don’t object, I can bring some by?” Charlotte offered.
Pam noticed the dirt under her nails and rightly assumed that the old woman was an avid gardener. “Yes, that would be appreciated.” She paused, creating an awkward moment. “By the way, I’m Pam Walker,” and gently shook her outstretched hand.
“How very nice to meet you. And what a wonderful library,” Charlotte said, looking into the large room at all of the bookshelves. “Libraries are very special indeed.”
“Yes, they are,” Pam concurred.
Then, as strangely as she appeared, Charlotte Ross left. But the following morning she returned sitting on the back of a pickup truck loaded with rich, dark compost. She and the driver spent most of the morning weeding and adding the organic matter to the dry soil. And under her capable hands, Brooke’s garden was slowly transformed.
Mark and Pam had decided to finish the bedrooms in the old sleeping quarters as soon as possible, hoping that Brother Matthew, and perhaps Michael, would be returning that month. They asked the trim carpenters to come in for a few days, and the men finished all the rooms, adding molding and wainscoting, building bookshelves, restructuring closets and repairing drywall.
With four of the bedrooms, Pam decided to convert the adjacent bedrooms into private sitting rooms with a door connecting the two. So the doors from the hall to these converted rooms were framed up, enclosed, and drywalled. Finally, when all was completed, there were eight bedrooms: four with attached sitting rooms, all with private baths.
For three days, while the rooms were being repainted, Pam went furniture shopping in Wheatley and Rocky Mount. During the next week, trucks converged on Montis Inn, delivering rugs and runners, beds with wonderful wrought-iron and cherry headboards, and bureaus and vanities. On several evenings she worked well past midnight making beds, putting out fresh linens, and arranging books and artifacts on the shelves.
Mark also had a well-established routine. He worked at the construction site until lunch and then, after a meal shared with the laborers, he went across the road into the orchards to work on his trees, weather permitting. The first days of each week were spent in the sapling field, which he called the Terrace because of its smaller size and the best views of Woodrow Lake. There he planted as many as two dozen young fruit trees a week, wrapping each one with protective wire so the deer wouldn’t chew on the tender bark.
On most days Mark took Clipper and Cutter with him, where they displayed the unbridled joy of being puppies: to chase butterflies, dig holes, dig more holes, and sleep in the warm sun, round bellies rising and falling to their pants. One afternoon, while Mark planted cherry trees that had just been delivered from Rocky Mount, Cutter caught wind of something and took off to the edge of the woods. His barks, which were more like high-pitched squeaks, were nonetheless relentless. Clipper, although staying with Mark, also raised his fur and started growling. Mark leaned over to grab Clipper’s collar and yelled at Cutter to get back.
Mark had read recent stories in The Lumby Lines about two mountain lions that had been sighted numerous times south of town. They were thought to be a pair, and they probably had a den somewhere between the lake and Lumby. He had seen tracks that could have been theirs once on the property, but that had been well over a month ago.
But there was something in the woods, and that something was big. Mark yelled at Cutter again, while Clipper frantically tried to free himself from Mark’s grasp. From within the woods Mark heard a large piece of wood crack, loud enough to send Cutter running back to Mark, who nabbed his collar. With a dog in each hand, too heavy to pick them both up and run, Mark felt trapped. He flashed back to Brother Matthew’s comment about how the monks would occasionally bring guns up in the fields to ward off bears and lions, and regretted not following up on the suggestion.
The dogs were going berserk, growling, cowering and pulling every which way to free themselves. Mark was squatting close to the ground, trembling, staring into the woods. He wanted to pick up the shovel to defend himself, but that would mean letting go of the dogs.
The noise in the woods got louder, breaking limbs. Mark struggled to see, but the brush along the edge was just too thick. The animal or animals were large and getting closer; Mark saw the top of a fallen tree shift by the weight of something stepping on it. That was it. Mark let go of Cutter, picked up Clipper, and started to run as fast as he could in the opposite direction.
Moo.
In his panic he thought he heard a low, fierce growl. Mark’s heart was racing. He was disoriented. He turned around quickly enough to look but not slow his run. He then stumbled over some gardening tools and hit the ground with Clipper flying in the air.
Moo.
He recovered, looked around again, and almost stopped breathing. A Guernsey cow sauntered into the clearing not far from where he had been working. Mark, kneeling on the ground, felt his heart drop back into his chest. Heart attack at the tender age of forty-four, he thought.
Clipper and Cutter, seeing the animal was not a predator, started running circles around the slow-moving bovine, trying to catch its swaying tail. The only thing the cow was interested in was chewing her cud. After a minute of recovery and laughter, Mark got up and walked over to the beast. A worn, frayed rope was tied around her neck, but there were no branding marks. That didn’t mean anything. But then again, maybe it did, because Mark knew absolutely nothing about cows.
Mark did remember an article he had read about “free range” states where cattle had the right of way on all roads. The article told of a man who hit a large steer, his wife dying in the accident, and then, to add salt to the wound, the man had to reimburse the farmer for the cow. So, this unfortunate fellow was out one car (totaled), one wife (deceased), and two thousand dollars (prize steer).
Moo.
Mark took off his belt, attached it to the rope already around the cow’s neck, and escorted the unwelcome visitor down to Montis Abbey, having absolutely no idea what he was going to do with the cow once there. Medium-rare hamburgers for all, he thought.
“Bertha!” one of the workers called out while Mark was walking across Farm to Market Road. Bertha? Mark looked at the animal in tow.
“Do you know this cow?” Mark asked.
“Yeah, she belongs to that Mcnear fellow with the big farm off Killdrop Road. She just won best in show for Guernseys at the fairground last week. See the circle of brown hair on her forehead? That’s how I know. She’s the one who beat my Josie May,” he said.
“Didn’t know your wife was entered,” one of the workers on the roof yelled out, to which everyone broke out in laughter and catcalls.
Moo.
The Walkers checked The Lumby Lines, expecting to see a story about Bertha, but only saw one interesting article, which they faxed to Brooke.
The Lumby Lines
Fork River Festival
BY CARRIE KERRY July 12
Volunteers are needed to help prepare for the 8th annual Fork River Festival scheduled for Saturday, August 21st, rain or shine. The Festival will have the same format as last year’s because it was so successful:
8:00 a.m. Breakfast and dry-land raft design competition at Kelly’s Bend on the Fork River. To remind our readers, during this first competition, the panel will only be judging the appearance of the raft, and not seaworthiness.
11:45 a.m. Dry-land raft awards announced.
12:00 p.m. BBQ lunch at the same location provided by Jimmy D’s.
1:00-4:00 p.m. Raft race. Boats will enter at Kelly’s Bend and proceed down to the finish line at the entrance to Woodrow Lake. This year there will be a staggered start, due to the pileup of all the rafts last year. Entrants will be given their start times by Mr. Dickenson during lunch.
5:00 p.m. Family-style dinner at Shelburne Beach.
Mayor Toby will be participating this year. Lumby Police Department said that parking will be available on the dirt access road to Kelly’s Bend as well as the public parking area by Shelburne Beach. Competition rules and raft specifications are available at Lumby Sporting Goods.
Immediately below the article was an invitation of sorts:
THE MONTIS INN
Would like to invite our neighbors of Lumby for dessert and coffee after the Fork River Festival
Good luck to all competitors
Mark looked at Pam and said, “Well, this is a nice surprise, but didn’t you want to first talk with me about it?”
“Mark, I had nothing to do with it,” she said, and they both stared at the paper in utter bewilderment.