In the meantime, she had the bad condition of this goat path to focus on. There were potholes to fight through, her headlights bouncing up and down as she tried to avoid the worst of them, and the brambles that grew up along the shoulder were so tight, the most aggressive of them scratched at the Civic’s paint job.
But then the cottage made its appearance.
As she rounded a final turn, her car pinpointed her destination, the headlights blasting the old stone of the outer walls in an illumination that was kind of unkind. The place was in a genteel state of disrepair, the front door painted in a faded red that was partially chipped away, one shutter hanging cockeyed, the slate roof showing a missing tile here and there. The grounds were likewise a shaggy mess, the rose garden nothing but a tangled circle of thorns and weeds, the front path ragged and frayed by tree roots and mole tunnels. A fallen branch big as a car was in the side yard, and that old birch tree looked like spring’s CPR of warmth and sunshine might not pull it through the winter’s cold coma.
Putting her car in park, she canned the ignition and took a deep breath. She really needed to help more around the property, but between her full-time work online and taking care of her own house, the last year had gone by so fast. Previously, when her father had been alive, he had come here and done a lot of the handyman stuff, and her brother had helped out like that, too. It was amazing how fast things degenerated, though.
Three years without upkeep and things were nearly unrecognizable. And it was hard not to find a parallel in the collapse of Mae’s own life, everything that had once stood strong and true now decaying and lost.
Her parents had seemed so permanent. Rhoger, too.
Youth and a lack of exposure to death had meant her family was immortal and the details of her life—where she lived, who she was related to, what she did—were written-in-stone facts, as immutable as the night sky, as gravity, as the color of her own eyes.
Such a fallacy, though.
Getting out, she almost didn’t lock her car. But an echo of the fear she’d felt in that crowd of humans had her putting her key in the door and turning it.
As she walked over the flagstone path, Tallah opened things up, and the sight of the stooped older female standing in that familiar archway made Mae blink quick. Tallah was always the same, dressed in one of her loose housecoats, this time in a periwinkle blue, and she had on matching blue-and-yellow slippers. Her cane was likewise coordinated, a pale blue ribbon wound down the metal stalk of the support, and there was a corresponding bow at the end of her braid of white hair.
“Hi,” Mae said as she came up to the front step.
“Hello, dearest one.”
They embraced across the threshold, with Mae being careful not to squeeze too hard—even though all she wanted to do was pull Tallah close and never let the old female go.
“Come,” Tallah said. “I have tea on.”
“I’ve got the door,” Mae murmured as she entered and closed things.
The kitchen was in the back, and as she followed Tallah through the tiny, familiar rooms, everything smelled the same. Fresh bread. Old leather armchairs. Faded fires in the hearth and fragrant loose tea leaves. The furniture was all too big for the small house, and it was of absurdly high quality, the tables marked with marble and gilt, the secretary set with fine inlaid woods, the chairs and sofas clad with faded and now-worn silks. Oil paintings in heavy gold-leafed frames hung on the walls, the landscapes and portraits executed by Matisse. Seurat. Monet. Manet.
There was a fortune under the roof of this tiny cottage, and Mae frequently worried about thieves coming out here. But so far, things had been okay. Tallah had been living here since the eighties and had never been bothered. It was a shame, though, that the female had refused to sell even one of those paintings off to better her living conditions. She had been steadfast in keeping her things with her, however, even if it meant that necessary improvements couldn’t be afforded. The obstinance didn’t make a lot of sense, but then it wasn’t anybody else’s call, was it.
Neither of them said anything as Mae took a seat at the kitchen table and Tallah busied herself at the counter with the plug-in kettle and two teacups. The urge to help the female with the tray was nearly irresistible, especially as Tallah hung her cane off her forearm and seemed to struggle with the load of creamer, sugar, and filled cups. But self-sufficiency was the pride of the elderly, and no one needed to take any more autonomy away from the female before it was absolutely necessary.