From The Mists Of Wolf Creek. Rebecca Brandewyne
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as surely as her grandmother was. In its place were clean white beadboard cupboards topped with black granite counters, above which gleamed glass-fronted upper cabinets. A white porcelain Belfast sink had replaced the copper one, and a long wooden farmhouse table occupied the center of the room. The floor was now a checkerboard of black and white tiles, and the old brick fireplace had been painted white to match. Against one wall stood a massive Welsh dresser Hallie had never before seen. Only Gram’s crockery on its shelves was the same. Even her old stove and refrigerator Hallie thought must surely have dated from the fifties had given way to modern reproductions that looked like Victorian antiques.
What on earth had ever caused her grandmother to make such drastic alterations to the kitchen, Hallie wondered, deeply puzzled, when she had plainly left the remainder of the house so largely untouched?
As she continued to stare at the many changes that had been made, Hallie was suddenly beset with the oddest sensation that there was something missing, something she ought to have been seeing, but that was no longer there in the kitchen. But try as she might, she could not think what it was, and at last, she gave up the attempt, realizing it was getting late and that she was truly hungry and exhausted.
There would be plenty of time in the weeks to come to explore the old farmhouse properly during the daylight hours—and when she had got the power to the lights restored.
Fortunately, Gram’s sweeping redecoration of the kitchen had not included switching from a gas stove to an electric one, so Hallie would be able to cook, at least. Now, if she could only find a tin of tea and something to eat.
She had planned to run up to the corner market upon her arrival and buy some groceries. She had not counted on oversleeping earlier at the motel where she had spent last night and, as a result, getting such a late start today. Nor had she accurately calculated how long the drive this afternoon would take or on being delayed by the storm and the wolf.
So much for the best-laid plans of mice and men, she thought, frowning.
Opening the icebox, Hallie was once more besieged with amazement and disbelief. For, instead of finding it completely empty, as she had expected, she discovered it was filled with food: a huge glass platter of cold fried chicken and large ceramic bowls of homemade baked beans, cole slaw and potato salad—precisely what Gram herself would have prepared for her homecoming.
At first, in her weariness, Hallie thought dimly that it must be victuals hospitable neighbors had made and carried over when her grandmother had died. Then she recognized how stupid that notion was, that there would have been no one here to provide meals for and that Gram had passed away last month, besides. All the food would have spoiled by now.
Adding to her confusion were the plates of biscuits and brownies she finally noticed sitting on the counter next to the fridge. Slowly unfolding the plastic wrap and examining them, she found they were fresh, probably baked that very afternoon, in fact.
At the realization, Hallie felt a sudden cold chill creep down her spine.
Someone had been in this house earlier—perhaps was even still here….
From the knife block perched on the farmhouse table, she carefully withdrew a sharp butcher knife for protection. Then, picking up the oil lamp, she embarked upon a thorough inspection of the house, determinedly pushing aside her nostalgia and grief at familiar sights that kindled long-buried memories to concentrate instead on some sign of an intruder.
Back through the ground floor, she progressed, her mouth dry and her heart pounding as she searched behind sofas and yanked open closet doors to peer inside, only to find nothing save emptiness. Then, stealthily, Hallie ascended the beautifully carved staircase in the main hall to the upper story.
Here, the tale was exactly the same as it mostly was below. Nothing had changed, except that just like downstairs, all the closets were bare. Much to her astonishment and heartache, even her old bedroom looked just as she had left it so many years ago, all her childhood books, dolls and stuffed animals perched neatly on their shelves, her robe still lying across the foot of the bed.
At the sight, Hallie felt more certain than ever Gram must have had a very good reason for sending her away. Her grandmother would never have left this room untouched like this if it had been nothing more than an annoying reminder of a bothersome child, or if Hallie’s resemblance to her dead mother had been more painful than Gram could bear.
Now there remained only the attic. But when she reached the bottom of the narrow staircase that rose to that dark space above, Hallie hesitated, all the strictly forbidden Gothic stories she had ever sneaked into her great-aunts’ town house and read as a teenager returning to haunt her. She had always thought those poking-and-prying heroines who had invariably crept up steep narrow attic stairs to investigate matters that really had not concerned them in the first place were exceedingly dumb. A deranged killer had always been hiding up there, lurking in the shadows, lying in wait to conk the heroine on the head as a dire warning for her snooping.
Most assuredly, Hallie did not want to suffer a like fate. She had already had more than enough for one day, and now, it belatedly occurred to her that Mr. Winthorpe’s wife, Blanche, had probably brought the food over and left it for her. It was just the sort of neighborly gesture Mrs. Winthorpe would have believed proper. Hallie did not know why she had not thought of it earlier, instead of leaping to the crazy conclusion that an intruder was in the house.
For pity’s sake! she chided herself sternly. An interloper wouldn’t have stocked the fridge and baked biscuits and brownies! She must be even more tired than she had realized.
Sighing with relief, truly glad she was not to be compelled up into the attic, Hallie returned downstairs to the kitchen, inordinately grateful she was not going to be forced to cook for herself, either. She even discovered a tin of Earl Grey loose tea in one of the cupboards and so was able to make a cup of hot tea.
Perhaps her luck was changing, after all.
Filling a plate, she ate mechanically, now so weary that she could actually scarcely eat at all. Still, she knew she needed something in her stomach if she did not want to awaken with a sick, hunger headache in the morning. So she cleaned her plate and drank her tea.
When she had finally finished, Hallie unconsciously did something she had not done since her childhood in this very kitchen: she swirled the remnants of her tea around clockwise three times, then turned her white ceramic mug upside down on its matching saucer to drain off the remaining liquid.
For an instant she waited expectantly for Gram to take the cup and turn it right side up again, peering into it to see what symbols the tea leaves left inside it had formed. But of course, her grandmother was not there, and so Hallie could not imagine why she had ever done such a thing, indulging in a long-forgotten gesture Great-Aunts Agatha and Edith had labeled “superstitious pagan nonsense” and a habit they had labored diligently to break her of.
“Aunts Agatha and Edith would surely not be very happy with me right now, Gram.” Hallie spoke in the empty room. “They said it was a good thing you sent me to them, that otherwise I might have lost my way and become a heathen and a sinner, just as you did. I know they meant well and loved me. Still, it was a long, hard path you set my feet on, Gram, when you sent me away to them. Did you know it would be? Is that why you did it? You always believed that kind of journey was the making of a person.”
There was no response save for the plaintive keening of the wind outside and the steady thrumming of the rain against the kitchen windows. But Hallie had not really expected one. In some dark corner of her mind she knew she was talking only to herself, that her grandmother had passed beyond the pale into another state of being.
Still, for old times’ sake, and for everything from her childhood in this farmhouse that she held dear, she closed her eyes, made a wish then upended her teacup to look inside.
She supposed there were symbols someone like Gram, knowledgeable about the art of reading tea leaves, would have recognized. But to Hallie, the dregs seemed like nothing more than a complete mishmash at the bottom of her cup.
Inexplicably, she felt a strange, bewildering sense of