Light From Heaven (48 page)

“Del would have them out of there in no time flat.”

“No, sweetheart. Even with a window, too dark and confining.”

“Here’s a crazy thought...” he said.

“I love your crazy thoughts.”

“The barn loft. The old hay doors open straight out to the north.”

“The barn?” She was quiet for a time, thoughtful. “I don’t know. But He knows. Could we pray about it?”

He took her hand.

“Father,” he said, observing St. Paul’s exhortation to be instant in prayer, “thank You for caring where Cynthia cultivates and expresses the wondrous gift You’ve given her. We’re stumped, but You’re not. Would You make it clear to us? We thank You in advance for Your wise and gracious guidance, and for Your boundless blessings in this life... for the trees above us, and the good earth beneath. For the people whose lives You intermingle with ours. For Sammy, who was lost and now is found. For Dooley, who’s coming home ...”

“And I thank You, Lord,” prayed his wife, “for my patient and thoughtful husband, a treasure I never dreamed I’d be given.”

He crossed himself. “In the name of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ...”

“Amen!” they said together.

“That feels better.”

“Thanks for the kind words to the Boss.”

She patted his hand; they listened for a while to the bleating of the lambs.

“I hope poor J.C. can step up to the plate, as you say; I’m sure he has all sorts of lovely feelings that need to get into general circulation.”

“Feelings. There’s the rub! It was all those scary feelings that held me back for so long. And then, standing at the wall that evening, I had the agonizing sense that I was losing you forever.”

“I was thinking of leaving Mitford.”

“What if I hadn’t thrown myself at your feet? We would have missed everything. We would have missed this.” The creek sang boldly; a junco called.

“Worse yet, we would have missed the sugar-free cherry tarts hidden under the tablecloth that we haven’t unpacked.”

“Aha!” he said, digging at once to the bottom of the basket.

Cynthia had trotted home to finish April and sketch May, and he’d stayed behind to check out what now appeared to be the track of long-ago hay wagons. He would take care of the papers before five.

He left the basket and blanket by the creek and trekked through the woods. Barnabas would love this ...

As he rounded a turn in the overgrown trace, he was startled to see a shingled, one-story house standing in a clearing.

Had he somehow walked off the Owens’ land and onto a neighbor’s property? He didn’t think so. The path had run here from the far side of the sheep paddock, well inside the property line marked by the state road ...

A gutter rattled as a squirrel raced across the roof and fled onto a tree limb.

Might have been charming once, he thought. He walked toward the house, taking his time, inventorying the ruin of weather and neglect.

... A large pine tree across the broken ridge of the roof.

... Roof tiles missing and decking showing through; broken window panes; a shutter propped against the porch; the chain of a porch swing dislodged from its hinge on one side ...

He didn’t remember this house. When he and Hal had walked the property with the dogs a few years ago, they’d kept to the fields, and the stand of old hardwoods to the north.

Probably a tenant house, disused since Willie’s little cottage was built in the fifties. His eyes roved the yard. A bale of rusted wire, discarded bottles, general rubbish.

With a good rehab and a coat of paint, exactly the sort of thing his wife would find intriguing. But she wouldn’t be intrigued by the eerie feeling he got as he stepped onto the porch.

Beyond the patched screen, the door stood open.

There was a distinct sense of emptiness about the place, but just in case...

“Hello!”

In the two front rooms, ivy was growing through fissures in a west wall; thanks to the derelict roof, a large portion of flooring was rotted through. The kitchen had been stripped of cabinets and appliances; only a rusted sink remained and a fireplace half filled with ashes. A few sticks of wood had been thrown down next to the hearth; a wooden chair sat on cracked and peeling linoleum.

Curious, he took the stick that leaned against the chimneypiece and poked the sour-smelling ashes. A couple of crushed beer cans. A plastic top from a fast-food drink. Chicken bones.

He looked around the room and saw a narrow door—possibly a space that contained an ironing board—and opened it.

The small pantry retained only one of its shelves; on it were a fast-food drink cup, a pair of sunglasses with one lens missing, an unopened can of pork and beans, several dead bees, an open box of saltines, a half-roll of toilet paper, small packages of mustard, ketchup, salt, and pepper, and a beer opener. He took the cup down and peered into it. Dentures. Lowers. Not a pretty sight.

He shut the pantry door, leaving everything as he’d found it, and walked out to the porch, closing the screen door behind him.

His plan was to circle the house, but he stopped when he came to the derelict woodshed, where he smelled a curious stench. He saw the fire pit first, then the large mound of feathers partially hidden beneath a slab of plywood.

In the farm library, illumined only by the glow of a computer screen, several e-mails queued up.