we'll have a right nice little
museum."
She smiled at Waneeta, and leaned close
in confidence. "I think Thomas Stafford would be proud of us."
Chapter 9
Waneeta echoed, "Thomas Stafford?"
"Yes, dear, he's the man who
founded our village. What’s wrong? You're as pale as a ghost! Are you all
right?"
"No, I'm not." The more she
looked down at the picture, the more an icy hand clutched her heart. The wave
of queasiness was slowly easing away. What was happening? What had happened? The photo, curled at its edges, shook in her hand. But still, Thomas'
face leapt out at her. Waneeta could almost see the blue of his eyes piercing
the sepia.
Tears swelled in her eyes. She sniffled.
Thinking quickly, she added, "It's the mold on this old stuff, I guess. I
must be allergic to it."
Doris hurried over to the side board and
poured some tea. Waneeta gratefully accepted the cup, turning the photograph
over as she did. She couldn't get her mind to concentrate. She couldn't get her
hands to stop shaking.
This made no sense. There must be a
logical explanation. Out there somewhere in the woods there was a cabin, in it
Thomas Stafford, a living, vibrant male, maybe the man Doris had mentioned, the
relative who’d wanted to clear out his parents' attic? A man who'd come up here
and decided to spend a few days before returning to his home in the US.
Thomas had helped her when she was hurt,
and had even proposed to her. Ghosts don't help you right your snowmobile. Ghosts
don't ask you to marry them.
But they do disappear as Thomas had
done.
"Excuse me for a minute. I need to
use your washroom."
The flowery and feminine washroom
smelled of roses and vanilla. With her back now pressed against the locked
door, Waneeta steadied her nerves, and then pulled up on her shirt.
Thomas was no ghost, no figment of her
imagination. The dark iodine that he'd offered for her scrape still stained her
skin.
Her shaking hand released her shirt and
it swept over the purplish spot.
This was just a coincidence. The
grandson had the same name.
After splashing cold water on her face, Waneeta
found Doris in the living room. She sat down on the sofa beside the woman and
immediately took a harsh gulp of the scalding tea, forcing it to pain her back
to reality. "Doris, where did this Thomas guy live? In that school house?"
"Oh, no, dear, he lived in a cabin
up the mountain. If you come back this summer, we could take a walk up there.
It's a bit of a hike, but quite pretty. Wait, I think my brother mentioned that
you'd come that way. You didn't see the cabin?"
"No," she lied. "Is it
still used?"
Doris laughed and shook her head. "Not
for years. I've been here all my life and have never known it to be. Thomas'
grandson wrote and told me he used to spend his summers here, in the thirties. I
suppose it’s probably all broken down by now. It was ramshackle when I was a
little girl."
Waneeta couldn’t offer up a comment. Thomas'
grandson would be too old to be her Thomas. Yes, she would come back on the
long weekend to find Thomas and demand the truth from him.
Sitting on the sofa beside her, Doris
had opened the ledger book she’d found earlier. "Look, Waneeta. This isn't
a ledger, at all. It's a journal!"
A journal? Thomas' journal? The one he'd
mentioned. Waneeta's breath stalled within her.
Was she in it?
No! That would be insane. How could she
be? Thomas was alive, out there in the woods, still writing in his own journal.
She should race out of here right now and find him, beg him to tell her
everything was all right, that the forest had only played tricks on her. That
he was only some distant relative of this one in the photograph.
He'd tell that this was all some crazy
coincidence.
Waneeta fought the urge to grab the journal
from her hostess, but waited anxiously for Doris to idly set it down.
The tea cup shook in her hands, forcing
Waneeta to set it down. Immediately, she reached for the journal. The moldy
cover resisted opening. Waneeta
museum."
She smiled at Waneeta, and leaned close
in confidence. "I think Thomas Stafford would be proud of us."
Chapter 9
Waneeta echoed, "Thomas Stafford?"
"Yes, dear, he's the man who
founded our village. What’s wrong? You're as pale as a ghost! Are you all
right?"
"No, I'm not." The more she
looked down at the picture, the more an icy hand clutched her heart. The wave
of queasiness was slowly easing away. What was happening? What had happened? The photo, curled at its edges, shook in her hand. But still, Thomas'
face leapt out at her. Waneeta could almost see the blue of his eyes piercing
the sepia.
Tears swelled in her eyes. She sniffled.
Thinking quickly, she added, "It's the mold on this old stuff, I guess. I
must be allergic to it."
Doris hurried over to the side board and
poured some tea. Waneeta gratefully accepted the cup, turning the photograph
over as she did. She couldn't get her mind to concentrate. She couldn't get her
hands to stop shaking.
This made no sense. There must be a
logical explanation. Out there somewhere in the woods there was a cabin, in it
Thomas Stafford, a living, vibrant male, maybe the man Doris had mentioned, the
relative who’d wanted to clear out his parents' attic? A man who'd come up here
and decided to spend a few days before returning to his home in the US.
Thomas had helped her when she was hurt,
and had even proposed to her. Ghosts don't help you right your snowmobile. Ghosts
don't ask you to marry them.
But they do disappear as Thomas had
done.
"Excuse me for a minute. I need to
use your washroom."
The flowery and feminine washroom
smelled of roses and vanilla. With her back now pressed against the locked
door, Waneeta steadied her nerves, and then pulled up on her shirt.
Thomas was no ghost, no figment of her
imagination. The dark iodine that he'd offered for her scrape still stained her
skin.
Her shaking hand released her shirt and
it swept over the purplish spot.
This was just a coincidence. The
grandson had the same name.
After splashing cold water on her face, Waneeta
found Doris in the living room. She sat down on the sofa beside the woman and
immediately took a harsh gulp of the scalding tea, forcing it to pain her back
to reality. "Doris, where did this Thomas guy live? In that school house?"
"Oh, no, dear, he lived in a cabin
up the mountain. If you come back this summer, we could take a walk up there.
It's a bit of a hike, but quite pretty. Wait, I think my brother mentioned that
you'd come that way. You didn't see the cabin?"
"No," she lied. "Is it
still used?"
Doris laughed and shook her head. "Not
for years. I've been here all my life and have never known it to be. Thomas'
grandson wrote and told me he used to spend his summers here, in the thirties. I
suppose it’s probably all broken down by now. It was ramshackle when I was a
little girl."
Waneeta couldn’t offer up a comment. Thomas'
grandson would be too old to be her Thomas. Yes, she would come back on the
long weekend to find Thomas and demand the truth from him.
Sitting on the sofa beside her, Doris
had opened the ledger book she’d found earlier. "Look, Waneeta. This isn't
a ledger, at all. It's a journal!"
A journal? Thomas' journal? The one he'd
mentioned. Waneeta's breath stalled within her.
Was she in it?
No! That would be insane. How could she
be? Thomas was alive, out there in the woods, still writing in his own journal.
She should race out of here right now and find him, beg him to tell her
everything was all right, that the forest had only played tricks on her. That
he was only some distant relative of this one in the photograph.
He'd tell that this was all some crazy
coincidence.
Waneeta fought the urge to grab the journal
from her hostess, but waited anxiously for Doris to idly set it down.
The tea cup shook in her hands, forcing
Waneeta to set it down. Immediately, she reached for the journal. The moldy
cover resisted opening. Waneeta
Similar Books
