Read Online The Riverhouse by G. Norman Lippert - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: G. Norman Lippert
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pulled the branch aside and kicked at a thatch of dead grass. There were flagstones embedded in the ground beneath, almost entirely obscured by a blanket of moss.
Had this been part of another patio at one time? It was too narrow to be of much use, and rather too deep, extending into the perimeter of the woods. Shane ducked, following the flagstones, feeling for their hardness beneath the weeds, and found that they formed a path, apparently long forgotten, that arced off between the trees.
He followed it carefully, pushing aside the intervening branches and stepping over the bushes that had grown up through the cracks, prying the rocks apart. The footpath meandered and curved, but led generally downhill, following the line of the river.
Shane stopped occasionally, using the garden shears to cut away some of the heavier undergrowth and reaching branches. There was a splash of color up ahead, where the trail curved around a gully, and as Shane worked toward it, he was surprised to see that it was a drift of hydrangeas, red, yellow and pink, lush in an errant sunbeam. The large flowers bobbed on their stalks, overwhelming the footpath and flowing down into the gully. Bees roamed from flower to flower, humming in the hot, sleepy air. Shane had never seen hydrangeas growing in the wild. Granted, flowers had been Steph’s specialty, not his, but he was fairly certain that these were a domestic breed, not a native wildflower.
He waded carefully through the waving blooms, trying to stay on the path, and struck something hard with his shin, almost pitching forward into the colorful mass. He swore, and his flailing hands grasped something buried in the flowers, preventing him from falling headfirst into the gaily colored blooms. Whatever it was, it was made of metal, hot in the woodsy sunlight and rough with peeling paint.
He pushed the flowers aside and saw wrought iron scrollwork, painted black wherever it wasn’t orange with rust. It was a seat of some kind. He brushed more of the thick hydrangea stalks aside, breaking some of them, and found that the vines had grown up through the metal shape, twining into it and completely burying it. It was, in fact, a bench. It leaned precariously backwards, but it had apparently, at one time, been positioned to provide the occupant a view of the low gully and the river beyond, just visible through the intervening trees. Shane was intrigued, even as his shin smarted from its collision with the buried bench.
He pushed on, feeling his way carefully through the drift of hydrangeas and coming out the other side. The flagstone footpath was a little clearer here, where it ambled around the lip of the gully. Moss filled the cracks between the stones, and vines and roots snaked over it, threatening to hook the foot of the unwary traveler, but Shane continued on, stepping carefully, his curiosity piqued.
After a few hundred feet, the flagstones gave way to broad stairs, cut from some dark, sharp stone. Shane had seen such stone recently, but couldn’t quite remember where. The stone steps were crooked and leaning but still very solid underfoot. They followed the curve of a hill, descending into a density of thick, thorny trees.
At the bottom of the steps, where the flagstone path began again, Shane was shocked to discover something else buried in a mass of vines and flowers. He could tell by the height of it that it wasn’t another bench. He leaned close to it, examining it, and was completely unprepared for the face that leered calmly out of it.
Shane wasn’t particularly squeamish; he recognized immediately that the face didn’t belong to anything living. It was a statue, almost entirely overcome with flowering vines and dead leaves. Even so, his heart skipped a beat and he gasped a breath when he saw that blank expression, those dead gray eyes suddenly staring down at him from the shushing mass.
He reached up and carefully hooked his fingers into the vines, pulling them away. They came
Had this been part of another patio at one time? It was too narrow to be of much use, and rather too deep, extending into the perimeter of the woods. Shane ducked, following the flagstones, feeling for their hardness beneath the weeds, and found that they formed a path, apparently long forgotten, that arced off between the trees.
He followed it carefully, pushing aside the intervening branches and stepping over the bushes that had grown up through the cracks, prying the rocks apart. The footpath meandered and curved, but led generally downhill, following the line of the river.
Shane stopped occasionally, using the garden shears to cut away some of the heavier undergrowth and reaching branches. There was a splash of color up ahead, where the trail curved around a gully, and as Shane worked toward it, he was surprised to see that it was a drift of hydrangeas, red, yellow and pink, lush in an errant sunbeam. The large flowers bobbed on their stalks, overwhelming the footpath and flowing down into the gully. Bees roamed from flower to flower, humming in the hot, sleepy air. Shane had never seen hydrangeas growing in the wild. Granted, flowers had been Steph’s specialty, not his, but he was fairly certain that these were a domestic breed, not a native wildflower.
He waded carefully through the waving blooms, trying to stay on the path, and struck something hard with his shin, almost pitching forward into the colorful mass. He swore, and his flailing hands grasped something buried in the flowers, preventing him from falling headfirst into the gaily colored blooms. Whatever it was, it was made of metal, hot in the woodsy sunlight and rough with peeling paint.
He pushed the flowers aside and saw wrought iron scrollwork, painted black wherever it wasn’t orange with rust. It was a seat of some kind. He brushed more of the thick hydrangea stalks aside, breaking some of them, and found that the vines had grown up through the metal shape, twining into it and completely burying it. It was, in fact, a bench. It leaned precariously backwards, but it had apparently, at one time, been positioned to provide the occupant a view of the low gully and the river beyond, just visible through the intervening trees. Shane was intrigued, even as his shin smarted from its collision with the buried bench.
He pushed on, feeling his way carefully through the drift of hydrangeas and coming out the other side. The flagstone footpath was a little clearer here, where it ambled around the lip of the gully. Moss filled the cracks between the stones, and vines and roots snaked over it, threatening to hook the foot of the unwary traveler, but Shane continued on, stepping carefully, his curiosity piqued.
After a few hundred feet, the flagstones gave way to broad stairs, cut from some dark, sharp stone. Shane had seen such stone recently, but couldn’t quite remember where. The stone steps were crooked and leaning but still very solid underfoot. They followed the curve of a hill, descending into a density of thick, thorny trees.
At the bottom of the steps, where the flagstone path began again, Shane was shocked to discover something else buried in a mass of vines and flowers. He could tell by the height of it that it wasn’t another bench. He leaned close to it, examining it, and was completely unprepared for the face that leered calmly out of it.
Shane wasn’t particularly squeamish; he recognized immediately that the face didn’t belong to anything living. It was a statue, almost entirely overcome with flowering vines and dead leaves. Even so, his heart skipped a beat and he gasped a breath when he saw that blank expression, those dead gray eyes suddenly staring down at him from the shushing mass.
He reached up and carefully hooked his fingers into the vines, pulling them away. They came
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