I’d regressed. If my goal in Devon was being a good person, I had failed. I had snipped at Liam, turned a deaf ear to Nina, walked right past Joyce, who had been so loyal to me. I had badgered Chris, then burdened him with a confession that might be too heavy for his already-burdened shoulders. I had let Grace down, putting my own obsession with The Devon Times before her obsession with People.
And Edward? I don’t know what I’d done to Edward. I don’t know what he’d done to me. The compartment of my life that contained him was a big, fucking mess.
Disgusted, I set down the bowl. I went to the door, put on my boots, parka, hat, and gloves, then went out into the night. I quickly returned for a scarf; the temperature had definitely fallen, but frigid air was what I needed to clear my head. No scent of lamb stew here. The forest was all moisture and earth and maybe, maybe new growth, though on a night like this, who knew if it would live? Native Americans did. They had a name for the moon, which this night shone full through the trees. They actually had two names, alternately calling it the worm moon, after worms that wriggled to the surface and invited robins, and the sap moon, for the flow from maples. Though I loved seeing robins and adored maple syrup, I was most grateful that this full moon was bright enough, so that even when it slipped behind a gauze of clouds, its sheen lit the road.
I walked down Pepin Hill to the bottom, turned around, and walked back up to my place. Those few nocturnal creatures that weren’t still in hibernation were scared off by my footsteps. And the cooing I’d heard? An owl, to judge from the heavy whoosh of feathers when whatever it was flew off.
Black ice was a challenge. Snow melt on dirt made mud; snow melt on rocks made ice, and there were plenty of rocks on my road. I slipped a time or two but caught myself short of embarrassment. Not that there was anyone around to see.
And wasn’t that the problem? As good as the exertion felt, the minute I was inside, the loneliness returned. At that point, I was just desperate enough for a distraction to go to my room, sit on the floor, and slide the green velvet box out from under the bed.
It was long and narrow, three feet by one and barely eight inches high. Its velvet was the color of spring leaves in all but the spots where the hand that loved it had been sweaty or soiled. Its corners were protected by gold filigree that matched the bracing around the latch. Lying flat beneath that latch was a worn leather handle. At its inception, the box had held my grandmother’s art supplies, most notably the pastels she loved, and several remained inside, carefully wrapped in glassine, but they were only one of many mementos there now.
I ran featherlight fingers along its edge, one filigreed corner to the next. Then I opened my palm on its top. Nana’s Treasure Box, I used to call it, because I had always found magic inside. I was ten when she died, but I remembered being as young as three, sitting cross-legged inside her crossed legs and holding my breath as she raised the lid. The past became real to me then, all those pictures and postcards and little tokens that wafted out and smelled of another time.
There was life in this box. Even after my grandmother died, there was. And now Lily was here. I pictured her flowing blond hair, pale-blue eyes, and impish grin. I saw her as a cat with face paint, and a princess with a tiara headband. I heard her high laugh when I tickled the side of her neck.
Heart beating wildly, I touched the latch, sliding my finger back and forth, back and forth.
Then I straightened. I told myself to breathe, and, touching velvet, that’s what I did. After a minute, I folded forward. Putting my cheek to the spot where my palm had been, I felt warmth. It might have been from my hand. But no. My hands were still bone-cold from being outside. This warmth came from two spirits, one of a woman who had lived long, another a child who had died young.
When my eyes began to burn, I thought I might cry. Lord knew, I