She patted the child’s hand and said, “My great-granddaughter and I are perfect right here together where we belong, aren’t we, sweet Ellen?”
Trisha, aka sweet Ellen, nodded with a smile that about killed me. Blind and gasping, I found my way to the kitchen and fell against the counter. I needed air. I floundered through the back door and caught myself on the stoop railing. I slid down to sit heavily on the step. I put my face in my hands.
Beyond me, across Cub Creek and near the edge of the forest where the hill began to rise in earnest, were the resting places of my loved ones who’d already gone on. Gone. My Ellen . . .
This child wasn’t my Ellen. Trisha was George Bridger’s granddaughter. But Gran suddenly had a spark in her I hadn’t seen in two years . . . not since . . . Maybe longer. In fact, not since Grand had passed.
One task at a time, I reminded myself. The first was to go see about Mr. Bridger.
I called back into the house. “Gran, I’m taking a walk. Keep an eye on . . . on the child?”
“We’re fine. Take your time.” I heard a child’s high-pitched giggle follow Gran’s words.
Laughter. There hadn’t been any of that in this house in . . . how long?
The path was level in areas but steep in others. Louisa County was mineral-rich and mica schists ran through it. The tree growth was old, and Cub Creek cut through the small valleys. It didn’t pay to tackle the walk up to Elk Ridge with tears in your eyes because the footing could be tricky in spots. So I dried up my distress along with my tears. I stopped at Ellen’s grave and straightened the small clay bear I’d placed on top of it, then I began my trek, but empty-handed.
No cobbler for George Bridger this time.
CHAPTER FOUR
Without the old man sitting on the porch or working about the yard, the place seemed more desolate than ever. Or maybe it was more than that—a feeling that embodied emptiness.
The Bridger house had never been as fancy as the big brick mansion house at Cuckoo and of less historical significance, but it was memorable. Approaching it from my side, the Cooper side, and coming up Elk Ridge, was like coming through a wilderness where you might run into anything—coyotes, maybe even a bear, though rarely. The main approach to the Bridger place was from the other side, and it was a reasonable, if unpaved, road. His road didn’t dip and curve like ours. His house had a nice porch, and I’d heard about the pretty parlor and lovely wood paneling in most of the downstairs rooms. It had a true upstairs where the bedrooms were. It was vastly different from the small house where Gran and I lived.
I peeked around back before trying the doors. No cars. No sign of anyone.
The outside had grown shabby in recent years, but that was to be expected. I didn’t know how old Mr. Bridger actually was, but he had more than a few years on him and was living alone . . .
The front door was unlocked.
It was May. Despite the warmer days, the nights were cool. The air inside the house was musty, though he hadn’t been gone very long. To the hospital, he’d said. What had happened to his son and daughter-in-law?
It was easy to see where Mr. Bridger spent his days. Small piles of clutter began at a sagging chair in the living room and grew as they defined the path through the dining room with its amazing fireplace with the inset mirror. I’d seen some fancy houses when I was working for Babs’s cleaning service, but nothing quite touched the elegance of this deeply grained wall paneling and the mirrored fireplace.
The kitchen was usually where a person’s truth lived, and that was true here. Mr. Bridger hadn’t washed a dish in a long while. It was early in the warm season, but likely there were insects living amid the disorder. I could hear mice scurrying, unseen, around the room, happy with their home. I flipped the light switch. The power worked. The chill throughout was pervasive, with the walls and furnishings still holding on to the memory of winter. The heat was by woodstove and fireplace, and those ashes were long cold. That was a good thing, I thought, in terms of keeping the kitchen mess from stinking worse than it did.
I could only presume Liam and his wife had brought their child to his daddy’s place and had left her here. Hard to imagine what need would drive such a decision.
Gran and I lived simply, but we lived clean and decent. This house had the feel of a time warp. Stepping in here was like stepping into a place where life had stopped years ago. Nicer than our place, bigger than our place, but it felt abandoned. Forgotten.
Judging by the condition of the main floor, Mr. Bridger had lived down here and slept on the sofa. He might not have gone upstairs much anymore, but his family must have while they were visiting. I faced the stairs. They were steep, narrow, and dark. I hesitated.
Hoarders had chronological piles. If the child had been living only downstairs, her clothing would’ve been atop the piles. I would’ve seen her belongings.
I held tight to the stair rail. The steps looked sound, but it was too dark to see for sure.
All the bedroom doors were closed. Closed off is what they felt like. I opened the door to the front bedroom. Mr. Bridger’s room, yes, but I was right. He’d been sleeping on the sofa downstairs. The room was furnished and probably had a fortune in antiques, but there was nothing that felt “recent” about it. I walked in, mesmerized by the stained glass window. I’d never seen such a thing except in church, and Gran and I had left off going a while ago.
The light fell on the glass panes from outside and filtered into the room to paint my hands and arms with a myriad of colors. The colorful glass pieces, joined together by dark leading, depicted lilies and butterflies. The window was positioned to capture the morning sun. The sun-infused color streamed in, lighting the room. What a way to start each day, I thought, with this glory greeting you.
Reminding myself to be respectful, I backed away and pulled the door closed behind me. My business here was about the child and Mr. Bridger. Not to be nosy.
The next room must’ve been Liam’s because it had the look of a boy’s room. Mr. Bridger had married late in life, and Liam’s mother passed when he was young. A boy, growing up in this house with only George Bridger as a parent, must’ve had a difficult time of it. I felt empathy for him. We’d both had grievous losses. Many did. Everyone handled them differently.
There were several posters on the wall, plus a faded football program from the high school we’d both attended but at different times. The bed was roughly made, as if in a hurry. How long ago, it was impossible to tell. That was about all the room told me. No indication of where he’d come from, what he did for a living, or why he’d left—back then and now.