This morning, Thursday morning, with the weather fair and fine for mid-September, Monsieur Wilde had set the shed doors open and was working just beside it, in full view of both his sons—the younger one restacking hay that had blown down the night before, the elder setting posts so he could fence around those haystacks.
Jean-Philippe had thought at first that Monsieur Wilde was trying purposely to draw his sons’ attention once again, by pausing often, setting down his tools, and seeming to be puzzling over some piece of the cider press. But after half an hour it became apparent this was the first time the older man had seen a press of this particular design. By trial and error he had pegged the bottom platform into place, but now he could not figure out the way to fit the crossbars of the middle plate together to allow it to run smoothly up and down within the side posts’ inner grooves, and his mild temper was beginning to dissolve into frustration.
Jean-Philippe stood in the deep shade of an oak tree at the forest’s edge and felt that half-forgotten voice stir deep within him. Can I help? This time he knew the answer: Yes, he could. He knew the way machines like this were put together; knew the way they worked.
He glanced away and exhaled, hard, and fought that small voice with a stern reminder to himself that officers, when captured by the enemy, could do no labour. But he knew—before he’d even made the choice to leave the shadows and begin the walk across the sunlit clearing—it had never been a fight that he could win.
Charley
From where I stood, in the deep quiet shade at the edge of the trees, I commanded a view of the house and barn and the clearing between them, still caught in the long stretching shadows that spread from the woods on the opposite side where the golden pale edge of the brightening sky was beginning to show now above the tall tangle of branches and leaves. The barn was not original. Frank’s uncle Walt had built it where he’d figured that the old barn should have been, and time and weather had done what they could to make it look authentic. It was only when you got up close and saw all the twentieth-century details—the nails and the hardware and too-perfect timbers—that you realized it wasn’t as old as it seemed.
Lots of things looked different when you got up close.
This place where I was standing, for example, was the same place where the light I’d seen last night had seemed to pause, and yet this morning I could find no evidence that anyone had walked or stood here recently but me. And while I knew that I’d seen something, I was less convinced of what I’d seen, and more inclined to think it might have been a simple trick of light; perhaps a stray reflection of the headlights from some car across the bay.
To prove I wasn’t going to be swayed by superstition, I’d turned my back to the trees and the path that wound through their green shadows, but even though I knew that ghosts weren’t real and there’d be nothing sneaking up behind me, I was still uncomfortably aware of every rustle in the undergrowth and leaves as birds and mice and squirrels went about their early-morning foraging. Deliberately, I kept my focus forward on the clearing.
If I let loose my imagination, it was not too difficult to picture how this would have looked when Captain Wilde was growing up here with his parents and his brothers and his sister. In my mind I stripped away the whole Victorian addition, leaving only the Colonial house with its plain white-painted walls and rows of square-paned windows. From the inventory, we knew there had also been a shed beside the barn, so I imagined that as well, and being mindful of the season added haystacks and a garden. I would have begun to add the animals and people, too, but the crunch of tires on gravel interrupted as a big black truck pulled in across the parking lot, destroying the effect.
I didn’t mind. That truck was what I had been waiting for.
Sam was carrying his hardhat as he stepped down from the driver’s seat, looking relaxed in his work boots and jeans and a well-weathered sweatshirt. He wasn’t alone. He held the truck’s door open for a moment and a small, smooth-coated dog leapt down and danced a joyous circle around his legs before falling into step beside him.
I would have thought that my dark-coloured clothes and the shade of the trees and the fact I was standing here off to the side would have made it unlikely that someone would notice me, but Sam walked directly towards me.
“Good morning,” he called, and the dog, having seen me by then, too, tucked quickly behind Sam’s legs as though it wanted the added protection.
I liked dogs. I crouched low to make myself appear less threatening, holding out my hand palm down and with my fingers curled to reassure Sam’s dog that it could sniff and get to know me without fear of being grabbed. “I didn’t know you had a dog.”
Which in retrospect seemed a ridiculous thing to say to someone you’d just met three days ago and didn’t really know, but Sam didn’t comment other than to say, “His name is Bandit. Bandit, come meet Charley.”
At his voice the little dog edged forward, nudged my fingers with its nose, then ducked its head and bumped my hand in a wordless invitation. I obliged, petting its brown floppy ears, soft as velvet, and running my hand further over the black-saddled back until the white-tipped tail was wagging. “He’s a beagle?”
“Yep. And if you keep doing that he’ll stand there all day long.”
I smiled and gave the dog a final scratch behind the ears and straightened. Most dogs, off the leash like this one, would have wandered away to explore, but Bandit went right back to standing next to Sam, who told me, “You’re here early.”
“I’m a morning person.” True enough, if not the whole truth, so I added, “And I wanted to catch you before your guys started their work today.”
“Is there a problem?” He looked to be one of those people who lived life on such an even keel their faces rarely registered surprise, but I thought I heard the tiniest suggestion of it in his tone, so I was quick with my reply.
“No problem. I’d just like to ask a favour.”
“Sure,” he said. “What do you need?”
The antique metal button in my pocket pressed its shape against my fingers as I felt for it. “I’ll show you.”
Sam and Bandit followed me across the dew-damp grass to where the excavated trench was taking shape, the workmen having taken care to shore the trench up so the old foundation walls would be supported on the one side and the soil on the other side would not cave in.
I took my hand out of my pocket. Held it out to show him. “I found this last night, when I was locking up. I’m pretty sure it rolled out of that dirt pile. It’s a button,” I explained. “A really old one. Eighteenth century.”
His nod held understanding. “And you think there might be more?”
“Well, maybe not more buttons, but more artifacts, or pieces of them. Yes. So I know this wasn’t part of the original plan, but I’d love to set up a place where we could sift through the soil before putting it back. Is that possible?”
Sam didn’t see why not. “How do you sift it?”
“We usually use screens, about so big, with wooden frames.”
His glance judged the distance between my two hands and he nodded again. “Do you want me to build you a couple of those?”
“That would be great. Thank you. Just let me know what they cost, and I’ll—” I didn’t get to say what I would do. A sharp ping from my pocket distracted me. “Sorry.” I pulled out the cell phone and answered the text. “Just my niece checking up on me.” I’d been expecting it. Rachel had still been asleep when I’d left the house, and although I’d left a note for her she still liked knowing I was where I said I was. “She keeps me on a short leash.”
I had meant that as a joke, but Sam accepted it as reasonable. “Hard on her to lose her dad. It seemed like they were close.”
“They were.” I slid the button and my phone back in my pocket, processing what he’d just said. “You knew Niels?”