Honda—Full Circle Farm lay in the hazy distance. Rosemary breathed deeply as she gazed at the beloved pattern of dark woods and lighter pastures on the slopes of Pinnacle Mountain, and at the silver speck that was the metal roof of her childhood home, shining in the center.
Like a lodestone.
She smiled, feeling the tug of home and family. Words from one of Shakespeare’s sonnets ran in her mind.
…it is an ever fixed mark / That looks on tempests and is never shaken; / It is the star to every wand’ring barque, / Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Behind Pinnacle Mountain rose still higher peaks, toward which the late afternoon sun was rapidly sliding, its pinks and golds and reds gilding the mountain peaks and the banked, curdled clouds above them.
Home for supper…and Mum and Laur and Ben…and all the memories. Good ones and bad.
Her eyes were wet with tears as she turned the car back toward the road.
Memories. Elizabeth looked around the table at her two daughters and her nephew, all eagerly assaulting the chicken cacciatore and all talking loudly. These three had grown up together for the most part, and although Ben had only spent summers with them, he was as much a part of the fabric of their life as any brother or son.
He had appeared in her kitchen shortly before the girls had arrived and asked Elizabeth not to tell Rosemary about the events of the previous week. “Not tonight, anyway. Let’s just enjoy ourselves and not get into all the heavy crap.”
That seemed to be Rosemary’s wish as well. No mention had been made of Maythorn as yet. Rosemary had parked her sensible hybrid car at the workshop and climbed the hill to the house, leaving her suitcase for Ben to bring up in the little utility vehicle they used for hauling firewood and mulch. She had burst into the kitchen where Elizabeth was browning the cut-up chicken in olive oil and garlic, embraced her mother fiercely, and plopped down on the floor to visit with each dog in turn.
“It’s so good to be home.” Her voice had been slightly wistful. “Chapel Hill’s terrific and I love my little house, but there’s something about coming home.”
Now the three cousins were indulging in noisy reminiscences of growing up on the farm, each seemingly untouched by past tragedies—though tragedies there had been. Laurel, whose recently cropped red hair formed an aureole of ringlets above her lime green turtleneck sweater, was the most vocal. As befitted the artist that she was, Laurel was dramatic and flamboyant at all times. Her sister, however, though always known as “the quiet one” of the two, was holding her own tonight. Rosemary’s shoulder-length dark brown hair had been pulled back into a careless ponytail and she had changed her preppy slacks and neatly tucked-in shirt for a pair of faded jeans and a dark red sweatshirt. Her eyes glowed with affection as she vied with her sister in trying to remember exactly which of them had been the first to try to scare their young cousin from the city with tales of a creature lurking somewhere in the woods.
“It was Cletus who told us about the Skunk Ape. You remember, Mum.” Rosemary turned to her mother for confirmation. “He swore he’d seen one in his roaming around—‘Big ol’ thing, taller ’n your daddy, and all covered up with black fur, walking on his hind legs like a man.’ Remember, Mum? You told us it was a folk legend, like the Abominable Snowman—”
“Or Bigfoot.” Laurel broke in. “But with a silver stripe down its back.”
“Like a skunk.” Ben looked from one young woman to the other and laughed. “And you sweet little girls had me convinced that there was one hanging around the old cabin. You said if it saw me it would spray me with its super-skunk smell and I’d have to live outside for ten years till the smell went away.”
“It may still be around, Ben.” Elizabeth raised an eyebrow and looked at her nephew with
Like a lodestone.
She smiled, feeling the tug of home and family. Words from one of Shakespeare’s sonnets ran in her mind.
…it is an ever fixed mark / That looks on tempests and is never shaken; / It is the star to every wand’ring barque, / Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Behind Pinnacle Mountain rose still higher peaks, toward which the late afternoon sun was rapidly sliding, its pinks and golds and reds gilding the mountain peaks and the banked, curdled clouds above them.
Home for supper…and Mum and Laur and Ben…and all the memories. Good ones and bad.
Her eyes were wet with tears as she turned the car back toward the road.
Memories. Elizabeth looked around the table at her two daughters and her nephew, all eagerly assaulting the chicken cacciatore and all talking loudly. These three had grown up together for the most part, and although Ben had only spent summers with them, he was as much a part of the fabric of their life as any brother or son.
He had appeared in her kitchen shortly before the girls had arrived and asked Elizabeth not to tell Rosemary about the events of the previous week. “Not tonight, anyway. Let’s just enjoy ourselves and not get into all the heavy crap.”
That seemed to be Rosemary’s wish as well. No mention had been made of Maythorn as yet. Rosemary had parked her sensible hybrid car at the workshop and climbed the hill to the house, leaving her suitcase for Ben to bring up in the little utility vehicle they used for hauling firewood and mulch. She had burst into the kitchen where Elizabeth was browning the cut-up chicken in olive oil and garlic, embraced her mother fiercely, and plopped down on the floor to visit with each dog in turn.
“It’s so good to be home.” Her voice had been slightly wistful. “Chapel Hill’s terrific and I love my little house, but there’s something about coming home.”
Now the three cousins were indulging in noisy reminiscences of growing up on the farm, each seemingly untouched by past tragedies—though tragedies there had been. Laurel, whose recently cropped red hair formed an aureole of ringlets above her lime green turtleneck sweater, was the most vocal. As befitted the artist that she was, Laurel was dramatic and flamboyant at all times. Her sister, however, though always known as “the quiet one” of the two, was holding her own tonight. Rosemary’s shoulder-length dark brown hair had been pulled back into a careless ponytail and she had changed her preppy slacks and neatly tucked-in shirt for a pair of faded jeans and a dark red sweatshirt. Her eyes glowed with affection as she vied with her sister in trying to remember exactly which of them had been the first to try to scare their young cousin from the city with tales of a creature lurking somewhere in the woods.
“It was Cletus who told us about the Skunk Ape. You remember, Mum.” Rosemary turned to her mother for confirmation. “He swore he’d seen one in his roaming around—‘Big ol’ thing, taller ’n your daddy, and all covered up with black fur, walking on his hind legs like a man.’ Remember, Mum? You told us it was a folk legend, like the Abominable Snowman—”
“Or Bigfoot.” Laurel broke in. “But with a silver stripe down its back.”
“Like a skunk.” Ben looked from one young woman to the other and laughed. “And you sweet little girls had me convinced that there was one hanging around the old cabin. You said if it saw me it would spray me with its super-skunk smell and I’d have to live outside for ten years till the smell went away.”
“It may still be around, Ben.” Elizabeth raised an eyebrow and looked at her nephew with
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