6

 

 

THE BELL OVER the shop door tinkled as she entered. Behind the counter, the proprietress—Leah, Colin Moore had called her—looked up and smiled. It seemed the first real smile Gwynn had seen in days. Her own face felt stiff when she smiled in return.

“What do you need, love?”

Leah looked like someone’s mother—or at least, how one would hope a mother would look. Her dark hair was held back from her round face with clips; her cheeks were flushed. Yet she couldn’t have been all that much older than Gwynn.

“I’ve got a gate latch that’s rusted shut,” Gwynn said. “I don’t know if you’ve got some penetrating oil or something that would loosen it up.”

Leah frowned for a moment in thought, then pushed back her stool from the counter and stood. “I think out here.” She was wearing a flowered bib apron, but Gwynn saw when she stood that she was wearing jeans. Still, she absolutely bustled around the counter and toward the back. Gwynn followed through a room with racks of towels and hangers of aprons very much like the one the woman wore. Another room held shelves of light bulbs and fixtures. There seemed no logical order, and yet the woman seemed to know exactly where she was headed, along the narrow passage, deeper and deeper into the building. Finally she ducked through a low doorway and stopped so quickly Gwynn nearly ran into her. “Here.” She reached up onto a shelf to the left and pulled down a small can. “You’re in luck. I think this is the only one left. I’ll have to have Harvard order some more.” Again the smile. “Would there be anything else today?”

Gwynn shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“You’re in Gull Cottage over on Eyewell Lane now, aren’t you?” Leah asked over her shoulder as they returned through the labyrinth to the front counter. “Gwynneth Chelton’s old place? How’re you finding it?”

“Yes,” Gwynn answered, suddenly wary. “It’s—interesting.”

Leah shot back an openly curious look. “You’re on your own?”

They reached the counter. Leah, surprisingly, wrote out a receipt by hand on a block. She made change from a drawer under the bench, then dropped the can of oil into a small paper bag. She seemed not to notice how long Gwynn took to answer, so intent was she upon the sale, a tiny frown between her dark brows. “Harvard just mentioned he’d seen all the lights on, upstairs and down, the other night. Thought you might be throwing a party.” She laughed, handing Gwynn the bag, though there was more than a hint of question in her tone.

Gwynn’s smile was again tight, making her feel her face was not her own. “No, it’s just me.”

Leah shrugged, still cheerful, still curious. It was like playing chess. “Well, if you need anything more, you stop in.” She waved her hands at the wild array around her. “We’ve got some of everything.”

 

GWYNN STUFFED THE paper bag and receipt into the cold stove on the way through to the back garden. The dead leaves whispered wetly underfoot as she forced her way through the brambles, and the closer she came to the wall, the darker the day seemed to grow. She shivered, wishing she’d worn a heavier jacket, wondering if the sun ever fell at the rear of the cottage. Those brambles she had shoved aside on her previous trip had sprung back as though insulted that she would wish to tame them. Determined, she pushed her way to the gate, still black and stubborn; she ignored the scratching at her legs and arms.

Apply liberally. Allow to work into rusted metal.

Gwynn opened the nozzle, made a test squirt, and then worked the point down into the innards of the latch. The rusted metal darkened with the spread of the oil. After a moment’s consideration, she squirted some into the gate’s two equally rusted hinges as well. From somewhere beyond the high wall came a sudden rustle of wings, a chorus of cooing. Doves? She wasn’t sure. The air was still and cold and wet; with her free hand, she rubbed her arm, trying vainly to warm herself. It was no use: the dampness which had rusted the metal had worked its way into her bones.

She waited impatiently for a few minutes, then grasped the latch and pulled it. Nothing. It did not move. She shoved the flat can into her back pocket and used both hands. Still nothing.

This was getting ridiculous. Gwynn jerked the can out again and squirted the remainder of the oil all over and into the latch, cursing it for the foul thing it was. The smell of the oil worked its way into her nose, overlaying the scent of wet leaves and mold and old, wet wood. Probably she would have to leave it overnight, and the thought of having to be that much more patient infuriated her.

The sound of the doves grew louder, as though an entire flock roosted just on the other side of the wall. She looked up at the ivy, wishing it were possible to see over. One more glance at the latch—she wouldn’t touch it this time, in case she jinxed the efficacy of the oil—and she turned away, disgusted, resisting the urge to haul off and kick the damn thing.

Gwynn shoved her way back through the brambles and heard, above the crying of the doves, a soft human sobbing. She turned and gazed intently at the closed gate, to the high wall.

“Is—anyone out there?” she called after a moment.

But there was only the low cooing of birds. Nothing else. She must have imagined it.