Faerie Tale

• Prologue •

May

Barney Doyle sat at his cluttered workbench, attempting to fix Olaf Andersen’s ancient power mower for the fourth time in seven years. He had the cylinder head off and was judging the propriety of pronouncing last rites on the machine – he expected the good fathers over at St Catherine’s wouldn’t approve. The head was cracked – which was why Olaf couldn’t get it started – and the cylinder walls were almost paper-thin from wear and a previous rebore. The best thing Andersen could do would be to invest in one of those Toro grass cutters, with all the fancy bells and whistles, and put this old machine out to rust. Barney knew Olaf would raise Cain about having to buy a new one, but that was Olaf’s lookout. Barney also knew getting a dime out of Andersen for making such a judgement would be close to a miracle. It would be to the benefit of all parties concerned if Barney could coax one last summer’s labour from the nearly terminal machine. Barney absently took a sharpener to the blades while he pondered. He could take one more crack at it. An oversized cylinder ring might do the trick – and he could weld the small crack; he could get back most of the compression. But if he didn’t pull it off, he’d lose both the time and the money spent on parts. No, he decided at last, better tell Andersen to make plans for a funeral.

A hot, damp gust of wind rattled the half-open window. Barney absently pulled the sticky shirt away from his chest. Meggie McCorly, he thought suddenly, a smile coming to his lined face. She had been a vision of beauty in simple cotton, the taut fabric stretched across ripe, swaying hips and ample breasts as she walked home from school each day. For a moment he was struck by a rush of memories so vivid he felt an echo of lust rising in his old loins. Barney took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. He savoured the spring scents, the hot muggy night smells, so much like those that blew through the orchards and across the fields of County Wexford. Barney thought of the night he and Meggie had fled from the dance, from the crowded, stuffy hall, slipping away unnoticed as the town celebrated Paddy O’Shea and Mary McMannah’s wedding. The sultry memories caused Barney to dab again at his forehead as a stirring visited his groin. Chuckling to himself, Barney thought there’s some life yet in this old boyo.

Barney stayed lost in memories of half-forgotten passions for long minutes, then discovered he was still running the sharpener over a blade on Andersen’s mower and had brought the edge to a silvery gleam. He set the sharpener down, wondering what had come over him. He hadn’t thought of Meggie McCorly since he’d immigrated to America, back in ’38. Last he’d heard, she’d married one of the Cammack lads over in Enniscorthy. He couldn’t remember which one, and that made him feel sad.

Barney caught a flicker of movement through the small window of his work shed. He put down the sharpener and went to peer out into the evening’s fading light. Not making out what it was that had caught his attention, Barney moved back towards his workbench. Just as his field of vision left the window, he again glimpsed something from the corner of his eye. Barney opened the door to his work shed and took a single step outside. Then he stopped.

Old images, half-remembered tales, and songs from his boyhood rushed forward to overwhelm him as he slowly stepped backward into his shed. Feelings of joy and terror so beautiful they brought tears to his eyes flowed through Barney, breaking past every rational barrier. The implements of society left for his ministrations, broken toasters, the mower, the blender with the burned-out motor, his little television for the baseball games, all were vanquished in an instant as a heritage so ancient it predated man’s society appeared just outside Barney’s shed. Not taking his eyes from what he beheld beyond the door, he retreated slowly, half stumbling, until his back was against the workbench. Reaching up and back, Barney pulled a dusty bottle off the shelf. Twenty-two years before, when he had taken the pledge, Barney had placed the bottle of Jameson’s whisky atop the shelf as a reminder and a challenge. In twenty-two years he had come to ignore the presence of the bottle, had come to shut out its siren call, until it had become simply another feature of the little shed where he worked.

Slowly he pulled the cork, breaking the brittle paper of the old federal tax stamp. Without moving his head, without taking his gaze from the door, Barney lifted the bottle to the side of his mouth and began to drink.

Erl King Hill

June

• Chapter One •

‘Stop it, you two!’

Gloria Hastings stood with hands on hips, delivering the Look. Sean and Patrick stopped their bickering over who was entitled to the baseball bat. Their large blue eyes regarded their mother for a moment before, as one, they judged it close to the point of no return where her patience was concerned. They reached an accord with their peculiar, silent communication. Sean conceded custody of the bat to Patrick and led the escape outside.

‘Don’t wander too far off!’ Gloria shouted after them. She listened to the sounds of eight-year-olds dashing down the ancient front steps and for a moment considered the almost preternatural bond between her boys. The old stories of twins and their empathy in likes and looks had seemed folktales to her before giving birth, but now she conceded that there was something there out of the ordinary, a closeness beyond what was expected of siblings.

Putting aside her musing, she looked at the mess the movers had left and considered, not for the first time, the wisdom of all this. She wandered aimlessly among the opened crates of personal belongings and felt nearly overwhelmed by the simple demands of sorting out the hundreds of small things they had brought with them from California. Just deciding where each item should go seemed a Sisyphean task.

She glanced around the room, as if expecting it to have somehow changed since her last inspection. Deep-grained hardwood floors, freshly polished – which would need polishing again as soon as the crates and boxes were hauled outside – hinted at a style of living alien to Gloria. She regarded the huge fireplace with its ancient hand-carved façade as something from another planet, a stark contrast to the rough brick and stone ranch-house-style hearths of her California childhood. The stairs in the hallway, with their polished maple banisters, and the sliding doors to the den and dining room were relics of another era, conjuring up images of William Powell as Clarence Day or Clifton Webb in Cheaper by the Dozen. This house called for – no, demanded, she amended – high starched collars in an age of designer jeans. Gloria absently brushed back an errant strand of blonde hair attempting an escape from under the red kerchief tied about her head, and fought back a nearly overwhelming homesickness. Casting about for a place to start in the seemingly endless mess, she threw her hands up in resignation. ‘This is not what Oscar winners are supposed to be doing! Phil!’

When no answer was forthcoming, she left the large living room and shouted her husband’s name up the stairs. Again no reply. She walked back along the narrow hallway to the kitchen and pushed open the swing door. The old house presented its kitchen to the east, with hinged windows over the sink and drainboard admitting the morning light. It would be hot in the mornings, come July, but it would be a pleasant place to sit in the evenings, with the windows and large door to the screened-in back porch left open, letting in the evening breeze. At least, she hoped so. Southern California days might be blast-furnace-hot at times, but it was dry heat and the evenings were impossibly beautiful. God, she wished to herself, what I’d give for an honest patio, and about half this humidity. Fighting off a sudden bout of regret over the move, she pulled her sticky blouse away from herself and let some air cool her while she hollered for her husband again.

An answering scrabbling sound under the table made her jump, and she turned and uttered her favourite oath, ‘Goddamnitall!’ Under the kitchen table crouched Bad Luck, the family’s black Labrador retriever, a guilty expression on his visage as he hunkered down before a ten-pound bag of Ken-L-Ration he had plundered. Crunchy kernels rolled around the floor. ‘You!’ she commanded. ‘Out!’

Bad Luck knew the rules of the game as well as the boys and at once bolted from under the table. He skidded about the floor looking for a way out, suddenly confounded by discovering himself in new territory. Having arrived only the day before, he hadn’t yet learned the local escape routes. He turned first one way, then another, his tail half wagging, half lowered between his legs, until Gloria held open the swing door to the hallway. Bad Luck bolted down the hall towards the front door. She followed and opened it for him and, as he dashed outside, she shouted, ‘Go find the boys!’

Turning, she spied the family’s large, smoky tomcat preening himself on the stairs. Philip had named the cat Hemingway, but everyone else called him Ernie. Feeling set upon, Gloria reached over, picked him up, and deposited him outside. ‘You too!’ she snapped, slamming the door behind him.

Ernie was a scarred veteran of such family eruptions and took it all with an unassailable dignity attained only by British ambassadors, Episcopal bishops, and tomcats. He glanced about the porch, decided upon a sunny patch, turned about twice, and settled down for a nap.

Gloria returned to the kitchen, calling for her husband. Ignoring Bad Luck’s mess for the moment, she left the kitchen and walked past the service porch. She cast a suspicious sidelong glance at the ancient washer and dryer. She had already decided a visit to the mall was in order, for she knew with dread certainty those machines were just waiting to devour any clothing she might be foolish enough to place inside. New machines would take only a few days to deliver, she hoped. She paused a moment as she regarded the faded, torn sofa that occupied the large back porch, and silently added some appropriate porch furniture to her Sears’s list.

Opening the screen door, she left the porch and walked down the steps to the ‘backyard’, a large bare patch of earth defined by the house, a stand of old apple trees off to the left, the dilapidated garage to the right, and the equally run-down barn a good fifty yards away. Over near the barn she caught sight of her husband, speaking to his daughter. He still looked like an Ivy League professor, she thought, with his greying hair receding upwards slowly, his brown eyes intense. But he had a smile to melt your heart, one that made him look like a little boy. Then Gloria noticed that her stepdaughter, Gabrielle, was in the midst of a rare but intense pout, and debated turning around and leaving them alone. She knew that Phil had just informed Gabbie she couldn’t have her horse for the summer.

Gabbie stood with arms crossed tight against her chest, weight shifted to her left leg, a pose typical of teenage girls that Gloria and other actresses over twenty-five had to dislocate joints to imitate. For a moment Gloria was caught in open admiration of her stepdaughter. When Gloria and Phil had married, his career was in high gear, and Gabbie had been with her maternal grandmother, attending a private school in Arizona, seeing her father and his new wife only at Christmas, at Easter, and for two weeks in the summer. Since her grandmother had died, Gabbie had come to live with them. Gloria liked Gabbie, but they had never been able to communicate easily, and these days Gloria saw a beautiful young woman taking the place of a moody young girl. Gloria felt an unexpected stab of guilt and worry that she and Gabbie might never get closer. She put aside her momentary uneasiness and approached them.

Phil said, ‘Look, honey, it will only take a week or two more, then the barn will be fixed and we can see about leasing some horses. Then you and the boys can go riding whenever you want.’

Gabbie tossed her long dark hair, and her brown eyes narrowed. Gloria was struck by Gabbie’s resemblance to her mother, Corinne. ‘I still don’t see why we can’t ship Bumper out from home, Father.’ She said ‘Father’ in that polysyllabic way young girls have of communicating hopelessness over ever being understood. ‘You let the boys bring that retarded dog and you brought Ernie. Look, if it’s the money, I’ll pay for it. Why do we have to rent some stupid farmer’s horses when Bumper’s back in California with no one to ride him?’

Gloria decided to take a hand and entered the conversation as she closed on them. ‘You know it’s not money. Ned Barlow called and said he had a jumper panic aboard a flight last week, and they had to put him down before he could endanger the crew and riders, and he almost lost a second horse as well. The insurance company’s shut him down until he resolves that mess. And it’s a week into June and Ned also said it would be four or five weeks before he could get a reliable driver and good trailer to bring Bumper here, then nearly a week to move him, with all the stops he’d have to make. By the time he got here, it would be almost time for you to head back to UCLA. You’d have to ship him right back so he’d be there to ride when you’re at school. Want me to go on? Look, Gabbie, Ned’ll see Bump’s worked and cared for. He’ll be fine and ready for you when you get back.’

‘Oooh,’ answered Gabbie, a raw sound of pure aggravation, ‘I don’t know why you had to drag me out here to this farm! I could have spent the summer with Ducky Summers. Her parents said it was all right.’

‘Stop whining,’ Phil snapped, his expression showing at once he regretted his tone. Like her mother, Gabbie instinctively knew how to nettle him with hardly an effort. The difference was that Gabbie rarely did, while Corinne had with regularity. ‘Look, honey, I’m sorry. But I don’t like Ducky and her fancy friends. They’re kids with too much money and time on their hands, and not an ounce of common sense in the whole lot. And Ducky’s mom and dad are off somewhere in Europe.’ He cast a knowing glance at his wife. ‘I doubt they have a hint who’s sleeping at their house these days.’

‘Look, I know Ducky’s an airhead and has a new boyfriend every twenty minutes, but I can take care of myself.’

‘I know you can, hon,’ answered Phil, ‘but until you’ve graduated, you’ll have to put up with a father’s prerogatives.’ He reached out and touched her cheek. ‘All too soon some young guy’s going to steal you away, Gabbie. We’ve never had a lot of time together. I thought we could make it a family summer.’

Gabbie sighed in resignation and allowed her father a slight hug, but it was clear she wasn’t pleased. Gloria decided to change the subject. ‘I could use a hand, you guys. The moving elves are out on strike and those boxes aren’t going to unload themselves.’

Phil smiled at his wife and nodded as Gabbie gave out a beleaguered sound and plodded towards the house. When she was up the steps to the porch, Phil said, ‘I’m probably selling her short, but I had visions of having to fly back to bail her out of jail on a drug bust.’

‘Or to arrange for her first abortion?’ queried Gloria.

‘That too, I suppose. I mean, she’s old enough.’

Gloria shrugged. ‘For several years, sport. I hadn’t when I was her age, but I was raised with the fear of God put in me by the nuns at St Genevieve’s.’

‘Well, I just hope she has some sense about it. I expect it’s too late for a father-daughter talk.’

‘From the way she fills her jeans, I’d say it was about six or seven years too late. Besides, it’s none of our business, unless she asks for advice.’

Phil laughed, a not altogether comfortable sound. ‘Yes, I’d guess so.’

‘Sympathies, old son. Instant parent of teenager was tough. But you’ve done a good job the last two years.’

‘It’s no easier for you,’ he countered.

She grinned up at him. ‘Bets. I’m not her mother, and I remember what it was to be a teenage girl. Look, Gabbie’s not going to be the only one around here throwing temper tantrums if I don’t get some help with those boxes. After combative twins, that clown in a dog suit, and a smug alley cat, it comes down to you, me, and Miss Equestrian of Encino.’

Phil’s face clouded over a little. His dark brown eyes showed a flicker of concern as he said, ‘Having second thoughts about the move?’

Gloria hesitated, wondering if she should share her doubts with Phil. She decided the homesickness would pass once they settled in and made new friends, so she said, ‘No, not really. Just about unpacking.’ She changed the subject. ‘I had a call from Tommy about an hour ago.’

‘And what does Superagent allow? Another movie offer?’ he asked jokingly.

‘No.’ She poked him in the ribs. Tommy Raymond had been her agent when Gloria worked off-Broadway and in Hollywood. She had quit acting when she and Phil married, but over the years Tommy had stayed in touch, and she counted him among her few close friends in the business. ‘He called to say Janet White is opening a play on Broadway in the fall. They’re reviving Long Day’s Journey.’

‘Getting the itch again?’

She smiled. ‘Not since the last play I was in bombed in Hartford.’ Phil laughed. She had never caught on in New York or Hollywood, where she and Phil had met. Phil had taken to calling her ‘the Oscar winner’, and it had become a family joke. She didn’t regret her choice, as she had little desire for fame, but she did occasionally miss the theatre, the challenge of the work and the camaraderie of other actors. ‘Anyway, we’re invited to the opening.’

‘Rented tux and all, I suppose.’

She laughed. ‘I suppose. Assuming Janet can survive the out-of-town run.’ Tugging on her husband’s arm, she said, ‘Come along, handsome. Give me a hand, and once we get things under control, you can run out to McDonald’s or the Colonel’s for dinner, and when the kids are in bed, I’ll scrub your back, then show you a few things I didn’t learn from the good sisters of St Genevieve’s.’

Kissing her cheek, Phil said, ‘Just as I suspected. Scratch a good Irish-Catholic schoolgirl and underneath you’ll find a dirty old woman.’

‘Complaints?’

‘Never,’ he said as he kissed her on the neck. Giving him a hug, Gloria put her arm through his and they walked towards the old house that was their new home.

• Chapter Two •

Sean and Patrick marched along the little stream, wending their way among the rocks as they followed the tiny rivulets of water. The gully deepened and Sean, the more cautious of the two, said, ‘We’d better go up there.’ He pointed to where the bank began to rise on the right.

Just then Bad Luck came galloping down the creek bed, red tongue lolling and tail wagging a furious greeting. He circled around the boys, then began sniffing at the ground.

‘Why?’ asked Patrick, contemptuous of anything resembling caution.

‘’Cause we could get caught down there,’ Sean answered, pointing to where the gully dropped rapidly into a dell, his voice sounding thin and frail over the water’s merry gurgle. ‘Besides, Mom said not to go too far.’

‘That’s dumb; she always says stuff like that,’ was Patrick’s answer as he tugged on Bad Luck’s ear and set off to follow the water. His catcher’s mitt hung by a thong from his belt and his Angels cap sat upon his head at an aggressive angle. He carried his Louisville Slugger over his shoulder as a soldier carries his rifle. Sean hesitated a moment, then set out after his brother, struggling to keep his beat-up old Padres cap on his head. Twins they might be, but Sean just didn’t seem to have Patrick’s natural confidence, and his timidity seemed to rob him of grace, causing him to slip often on the loose gravel and rocks.

Sean stumbled and landed hard on his rear. He pulled himself upright, all his anger at the tumble directed at his brother. He dusted himself off and began to negotiate the steep drop of the gully. He half scrambled, half slid down the incline, his baseball glove and ball held tightly in his left hand. Reaching the bottom, he could see no sign of Patrick. The gully made a sharp bend, vanishing off to the right. ‘Patrick?’ Sean yelled.

‘Over here,’ came the reply. Sean hurried along, rounding the bend to halt next to his brother.

In one of those moments the boys shared, they communicated without words. Silently they voiced agreement, This is a scary place.

Before them squatted an ancient grey stone bridge, spanning the gully so a trail barely more than a path could continue uninterrupted as it rambled through the woods. The very stones seemed beaten and battered as if they had resisted being placed in this arrangement and had yielded only to brutish force. Each stone was covered in some sort of black-green moss, evidence of the presence of some evil so pernicious it infected the very rocks around it with foul ooze. Overgrown with brush on both sides above the high-water line on the banks, the opening under the bridge yawned at the boys like a deep, black maw. Nothing could be seen in the darkness under the span except the smaller circle of light on the other side. It was as if illumination stopped on one side of the bridge and began again only after having passed beyond its boundaries.

The boys knew the darkness was a lair. Something waited in the gloom under the bridge. Something evil.

Bad Luck tensed and began to growl, his hackles coming up. Patrick reached down and grabbed his collar as he was about to charge under the bridge. ‘No!’ he shouted as the dog pulled him along, and Bad Luck stopped, though he whined to be let loose.

‘We better get back,’ said Sean. ‘It’ll be dinner soon.’

‘Yeah, dinner,’ agreed Patrick, finding it difficult to drag his eyes from the blackness under the bridge. Step by step they backed away, Bad Luck reluctantly obeying Patrick’s command to come with them, whining with his tail between his legs, then barking.

‘Hey!’ came a shout from behind, and both boys jumped at the sound, their chests constricting with fright. Patrick hung on to Bad Luck’s collar and the Labrador snarled and spun around to protect the boys, pulling Patrick off balance.

Patrick stumbled forward and Sean fell upon the dog’s neck, helping to hold him back from attacking the man who had come up behind them.

The man held out his hands to show he meant no harm. Bad Luck struggled to be free. ‘Stop it,’ shouted Sean and the dog backed away, growling at the stranger.

Both boys looked the man over. He was young, though not recognized as such by the boys, for anyone over the age of eighteen was a grown-up.

The stranger examined the two boys. Both had curly brown hair protruding from under baseball caps, deep-set large blue eyes, and round faces. Had they been girls, they would have been considered pretty. When older, they would likely be counted handsome. The stranger smiled, and said, ‘Sorry to have scared you boys and your dog. It’s my own damn fault. I shouldn’t have shouted. I should’ve known the dog’d be jumpy.’ He spoke with a soft, musical voice, different from what the boys were used to hearing.

Seeing no immediate threat to the boys, Bad Luck stopped his growling and reserved judgement on this stranger. The boys exchanged glances.

‘Look, I’m sorry I startled you guys, okay?’

The boys nodded as one. Patrick said, ‘What did you mean about Bad Luck being jumpy, mister?’

The man laughed, and the boys relaxed. ‘Bad Luck, huh?’

Hearing his name, the dog gave a tentative wag of his tail. The man slowly reached out and let the Labrador sniff his hand, then patted him on the head. After a moment the tail wagging became emphatic. ‘Going to be friends, right, boy?’ said the man. Leaning forward, with hands on knees, he said, ‘Who are you guys? I didn’t know there were any big leaguers around here.’

Sean grinned at the reference to their caps and equipment. ‘We just moved here from California. We live on a farm.’

‘Philip Hastings your father?’ Both brothers nodded. ‘I heard he’d be moving in at the Old Kessler Place. I didn’t know he was here already. Well, I guess I’d better introduce myself. I’m Jack Cole.’ He held out his hand, not in the manner of a grown-up making fun of kids but as if they were just like anyone else he’d met. The boys said their names in turn, shook hands, and silently judged Jack Cole an acceptable human being, even if he was old.

‘What’d you mean about Bad Luck being jumpy?’ Patrick repeated.

‘There’s this bull racoon that’s been hanging around this part of the woods for the last month, and likely as not that’s what your dog smelled under the bridge. If so, it’s a good thing he didn’t get loose. That ’coon has torn up most of the cats and half the dogs in the area.’

The boys looked unconvinced. Jack Cole laughed. ‘Look, take my word for it. This isn’t some little critter from a cartoon show. This ’coon is almost as big as your hound and he’s old, tough, and mean. And this is his turf, clear?’

The boys exchanged glances and nodded. Jack faced back up the gully. ‘This isn’t a good place to play, anyway. We get some pretty sudden showers in the hills near the lake, and if we get a big one, this gully could flood pretty fast. I mean, it can hit you without warning. I’d stay clear of this creek in future, okay?’ They nodded. ‘Come on, I’ll walk back to your house with you. Must be close to your dinnertime. Besides, I’d like to meet your dad.’

The boys tugged at Bad Luck’s collar and began to hike back up the gully. As they rounded the corner, Sean cast a backward look towards the bridge and for an instant felt as if he was being watched by someone … or something … deep within the gloom beneath the rocky arch.

• Chapter Three •

Gloria regarded the grotesque carvings cut into the roof lintel over the front porch and shook her head in dismay. She gazed at the odd-looking creatures who squatted below the eaves of the roof and muttered, ‘Just what every girl dreams of, living in Notre Dame.’ Upon first seeing the house, she had inquired into her husband’s mental health, only partially joking. It was all the good things he saw, sturdy turn-of-the-century construction, hardwoods used throughout and every joint dovetailed and pegged, with nails only an afterthought. It was made of materials a modern builder could only dream of: ash, oak, and spruce now rock-hard with age, marble and slate, teak floors, and copper wires and pipes throughout. But Phil couldn’t see that it was also a living exercise in gracelessness, a testimony to Herman Kessler’s father’s knowing what he liked without the benefit of taste. The first Kessler had built an architectural hodgepodge. A gazebo, stripped from some antebellum plantation and shipped north to this gentleman’s farm, sat off to the left of the house, under the sightless gaze of Gothic windows. Regency furniture clashed headlong with Colonial, while a stuffed tiger’s head hung upon the wall of what was going to be Phil’s study, looking balefully down upon the ugliest Persian rug Gloria had ever seen. All in all, Gloria decided it would be a good year’s work fixing up Old Man Kessler’s place.

She entered the house and moved quickly towards the back door, expecting to have to shout for the boys for ten minutes before they’d put in an appearance. But just as she was about to open the screen door Patrick’s voice cut through the late afternoon air. ‘Maaa!’

She pushed open the door, a half-smile on her lips as she watched her twins approach from the woods behind the house. Bad Luck loped alongside the boys and a young man walked behind. He was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, with the sleeves rolled up, and practical-looking boots.

When the boys were within shouting distance, Patrick yelled, ‘This is Jack, Mom. What’s for dinner?’

Gloria glanced at her watch and realized it was getting on for five. ‘Hamburgers or chicken. Whatever your father brings back from town. Hello, Jack.’

‘Hello, Mrs Hastings,’ answered the young man with a grin and a decidedly southern lilt to his voice.

‘How did you manage to cross paths with Heckle and Jeckle here?’

‘I noticed the boys were wandering down a gully. Spring floods can come quickly if you don’t know the signs.’ Seeing a tightening around Gloria’s eyes, he quickly added, ‘Nothing to fret about, Mrs Hastings. There’s been no rain in the hills for a couple of weeks, so there’s no chance of a flash flood. But it’s not a good place for the boys to play. Thought I’d mention it to them.’ Gloria fixed a disapproving eye upon her boys, who decided it was time to vanish into the house in a clatter of sneaker-clad feet on the porch steps, punctuated by a slamming screen door.

Looking briefly heavenward, Gloria turned her attention to Jack. ‘Thanks, Mr …’

‘Cole, Jack Cole. And it’s no trouble, Ma’am. I hope you don’t mind my being in your woods?’

‘My woods?’ asked Gloria.

‘Your family’s, I mean. Your property line runs back a half-mile beyond the creek bridge.’

‘A half-mile. We own property for a half-mile from the house?’

‘More than that. The bridge is almost a quarter-mile from here, Ma’am.’

‘Gloria.’

For a moment he looked embarrassed, then he said, ‘Excuse my discomfort, Ma’am, but I haven’t met a lot of actresses.’

Gloria laughed. ‘God! What are you? A fan, out here in the wilderness, after all these years?’

‘Well, I’ve never seen you onstage, Ma’am, but I’ve read about your husband, and they mentioned your career in passing.’

‘Fame, so fleeting,’ Gloria said with mock sorrow. ‘Anyway, just the fact you knew of my humble career calls for a drink, assuming the refrigerator is still working and you’d like a beer?’

‘With deep appreciation,’ he answered with a smile. ‘I’d been hoping to meet you and your husband.’

‘Then come inside and I’ll scare up a beer for you. Phil should be back with the food shortly.’

Leading the young man into the kitchen, Gloria pulled the kerchief from her head, letting her ash-blonde hair fall freely. Suddenly she was aware of a desire to primp, feeling both amused and alarmed by it. She hadn’t been in front of the cameras since before the twins were born, and had lost a lot of the automatic checking of appearance that was almost second nature to young actresses in the film jungles. Now this young man, little older than Gabbie from his appearance, made her wish for a mirror and a washcloth. Feeling suddenly silly, she told herself she wasn’t going to apologize for her appearance. Still, he was handsome in a way Gloria liked: unselfconscious, dark good looks, athletic but not overly muscular. Gloria smiled inwardly in anticipation of Gabbie’s reaction to the young man. He really was cute. Turning towards Jack, she said, ‘We’re still uncrating around here.’

Jack looked concerned. ‘I’m sorry if this is an inopportune time, Ma’am. I can visit another day.’

She shook her head as she opened the refrigerator. ‘No, I just mean pardon the mess.’ She handed him a beer. ‘And it’s Gloria, not Ma’am.’

Jack’s eyebrows went up as he regarded the white bottle. ‘Royal Holland Brand,’ he said approvingly.

‘Phil is that rarest of all birds, a well-paid writer. He buys it by the case.’

Jack sipped the beer and made an expression of satisfaction. ‘I can imagine, considering the success of his films. Still, I’ve often wondered why he hasn’t written another book.’

‘You’ve read one of Phil’s books?’ Gloria asked, suddenly interested in the young man.

‘All of them. And all the short stories he’s published. They should be put in an anthology.’

‘You’ve read all three of Phil’s books,’ she said, sitting down.

‘Four,’ Jack corrected. ‘He wrote that romance paperback under the name Abigail Cook.’

‘God! You’ve done your homework.’

Jack smiled, a boyish grin on a man’s face. ‘That’s exactly what it is, homework. I’m a graduate student up at Fredonia State –’

Conversation was interrupted by an explosion through the door in the form of the twins and Bad Luck. ‘Dad’s here!’ yelled Patrick, with Sean echoing his cry.

‘Hold it down to a dull roar, kids,’ commanded Gloria. As expected, she was ignored. The unpacking was a constant pain for Gloria, but the boys thought food from the local fast-food emporiums two nights running a treat.

Phil came through the hall door carrying two barrels of the Colonel’s best. Setting them down, he kissed Gloria on the cheek and said, ‘Hello! What is this? Cheating on me already?’

Gloria ignored the remark. ‘Phil, this is Jack Cole, a neighbour. He’s a fan of yours.’

Phil extended his hand and they shook. ‘Not many people pay attention to who writes a movie, Jack.’

‘He’s read your books, Phil. All of them.’

Phil looked flattered and said, ‘Well then, Jack, there are fewer people still who’ve read my … Did Gloria say all of them?’

Jack grinned. ‘Even Winds of Dark Passion by Abigail Cook.’

‘Well, I’ll be go-to-hell. Look, why don’t you join us for supper. We’ve both original and extra crispy, and there’s another bottle of beer where that one came from.’

Jack appeared about to beg off when Gabbie entered the kitchen carrying paper bags filled with rolls, potatoes, and other accompaniments for the chicken. She was on the verge of some comment when she caught sight of Jack. For a brief moment the two young people stood facing each other in an obviously appraising fashion, and equally obviously both approving of what they saw. Jack’s face slowly relaxed into his biggest smile so far as Gloria said, ‘Jack Cole, this is Gabrielle.’

Jack and Gabbie exchanged nods, while Phil ordered the twins to wash up. Gloria fought off the urge to giggle. Gabbie absently touched her collar, her cheek, and a strand of dark hair, and Gloria knew she was dying for a mirror, comb, and clean blouse. And Jack seemed suddenly unable to sit comfortably. Gloria glanced from Jack to Gabbie and said, ‘Right, one more for dinner.’

• Chapter Four •

Dinner was relaxed. Phil and Gloria, Jack and Gabbie sat around the kitchen table while the twins ate sitting on a crate before the television in the parlour. Jack had spoken little, for his questions had coaxed Phil into explaining the family’s move from California.

‘So then,’ said Phil, ‘with Star Pirates and Star Pirates II being such tremendous hits, and with me getting an honest piece of the box office, as well as a creator’s royalty on Pirates III, IV, and however many more they can grind out, I have what I like to call go to hell money.’

‘Go to hell money?’ asked Jack.

Gabbie said, ‘Dad means that he’s got enough money to tell every producer in Hollywood to go to hell.’ Gabbie had managed to find a mirror, comb, washcloth, and clean blouse and had barely taken her eyes off Jack throughout the evening.

‘That’s it. Now I can go back to what I did first, and best: write novels.’

Jack Cole finished eating and sat back from the table. ‘You’ll get no arguments from me. Still, most of your films were pretty good. The Pirates films had darn good writing compared to most others in the genre; I liked that sly humour a lot – made those characters seem real. And the plots made sense – well, sort of.’

‘Thank you, but even so, film’s more of a director’s medium. Even with an editor’s input, a book’s a single person’s product. And it’s been too many years since I’ve been able to write without story editors, directors, producers, other writers, even actors, all screaming for changes in the script. In films the writing’s done by committee. You’ve never lived until you’ve been through a story conference.’ There was a half-serious, half-mocking tone to his voice. ‘Torquemada would have loved them. Some idiot from a multinational conglomerate who needs to have every line of Dick and Jane explained to him is telling you how to rewrite scenes, so the chairman of the board’s wife won’t be offended. Or some agent is demanding changes in a beautifully thought out script because the character’s actions might be bad for the star’s image. There are agents who would have demanded a rewrite of Shakespeare – have Othello divorce Desdemona because his client’s fans wouldn’t accept him as a wife-murderer. Or the studio wants a little more skin showing on the actress so they can get a PG rather than a G, ‘cause they think teenagers won’t go to a G. It’s a regular Alice Through the Looking Glass out there.’

‘Is it really that bad?’ Jack asked.

Gabbie rose and began gathering up the paper plates and napkins. ‘If the volume of Dad’s yelling is any indication, it’s that bad.’

Phil looked wounded. ‘I don’t yell.’

Gloria said, ‘Yes you do. Several times I thought you’d smash the phone, slamming it down after speaking to someone at the studio.’ She turned to Jack. ‘You’ve been doing most of the listening, Jack. We haven’t given you a chance to tell us anything about yourself.’

Jack grinned as Gabbie replaced his empty bottle of beer with a fresh one, indicating he should stay a little longer. ‘Not too much to tell, really. I’m just a good old boy from Durham, North Carolina, who got a BA in English from UNC and wandered up north to study at SUNY Fredonia. I had my choice of a couple of different grad programmes, including a tempting one in San Diego, but I wanted Agatha Grant as an adviser, so I pulled some strings and got her, and here I am.’

Phil’s eyes widened. ‘Aggie Grant! She’s an old family friend! She was also my adviser when I got my MA in modern lit. at Cornell. She’s at Fredonia?’

‘Emeritus. She retired last year. That’s what I meant by pulling strings. I’m her last grad student. I’m after a doctorate in literature. In a few more months I’ll be taking orals to see if I get to continue, and an MA in passing. I’m doing my work on novelists who became film writers, on how work in films affects a writer’s work in print. I’m looking at writers who did both, like Fitzgerald, Runyon, William Goldman, Faulkner, and Clavell. And of course yourself. Though mostly I’m working on Fitzgerald. When I figure out the thrust of my dissertation, I’ll probably concentrate on him.’

Phil smiled. ‘You put me in some fine company, Jack.’

‘It’s all pretty technical and probably pretty boring.’ He looked embarrassed. ‘When the local papers printed the word you’d bought this place, I thought I might impose and get an interview with you.’

Phil said, ‘Well, I’ll help if I can. But I don’t have much in common with Fitzgerald. I don’t drink as much; I’m not having an affair with another writer; and my wife’s not crazy … most of the time.’

‘Thanks,’ said Gloria, drily.

‘I was going to call Aggie, and take a weekend and drive up to Ithaca. I had no idea she’d moved. First chance I have, I’ll get up to Fredonia and see her. God, it’s been years.’

‘Actually, you don’t have to go to Fredonia. She lives on the other side of the woods now, right at the edge of Pittsville. That’s part of the deal. I double as something of a groundskeeper, general factotum, and occasional cook, though she prefers to putter in the kitchen most of the time. She only runs up to the university when she has to, commencements, a colloquium, guest lecture, the occasional alumni function, that sort of thing.’

‘Tell Aggie I’ll be over in the next day or two.’

‘She’s at NYU for the next two weeks. She’s editing a collection of papers for a symposium in Brussels. But she should be back right after. She wouldn’t miss the Fourth of July celebration in Pittsville.’

‘Well then, as soon as she returns, have her give us a call.’

‘She’ll be glad to know you’re back home. She’ll whip up something special for the occasion, I expect.’ Jack finished his beer and rose. ‘Well, I want to thank you all – for the hospitality and the dinner. It’s truly been a pleasure.’ The last was not too subtly directed at Gabbie.

‘I hope we’ll be seeing you soon, Jack,’ said Gloria.

‘If it’s not an imposition. I hike this area when I’m thinking around a problem in my thesis, or sometimes I go riding through the woods.’

‘Riding?’ asked Gloria, a calculating expression crossing her face. Jack’s presence had lightened Gabbie’s mood for the first time since they’d arrived, and Gloria was anxious to keep her diverted from any black furies.

‘There’s a farm a couple of miles down the highway where they raise horses. Mr Laudermilch’s a friend of Aggie’s, so I can borrow one sometimes. Do you ride?’

‘Infrequently,’ answered Phil, ‘but Gabbie here rides every chance she gets.’

‘Oh?’

‘Bumper – that’s my horse – he’s a champion Blanket Appaloosa. Best gymkhana horse in Southern California, and one of the best cross-country horses at Highridge Stables.’

‘Never ridden an Appaloosa; they tend to be a little thick-skinned, I understand. But I guess they’re good working stock. Champion, huh? Pretty expensive, I guess.’

‘Well, he’s a good one …’ Gabbie shrugged, indicating money was not an issue. Gloria and Phil smiled.

Jack said, ‘Back home I had a Tennessee Walker. Perhaps you’d care to go riding some afternoon, after you’re settled in?’

‘Sure, anytime.’

‘I’m going down to visit my folks in Durham, day after tomorrow. I’ll be there two weeks. When I get back?’

Gabbie shrugged. ‘Okay.’

‘Well then. As I said, it’s been a pleasure. I do look forward to the next time.’

Phil rose and shook Jack’s hand. ‘Don’t be a stranger,’ offered Gloria as Jack left through the back door. Returning to her husband’s side, she said, ‘So, Gabbie. Things don’t seem quite so bad, do they?’

Gabbie sighed. ‘Oh, he’s definitely a hunk; Ducky Summers would say, He’s got buns worth dying for. But how am I