The Blue Door - By Christa Kinde Page 0,1
usually when there was a package to deliver — he’d stop in and stay a while.
He had an easy smile, a pleasant laugh, and it was Prissie’s studied opinion that Milo’s eyes were an uncommonly wonderful shade of blue. She fussed with the skirt of her pink sundress and said, “At least he doesn’t treat me like one of the boys.” People always seemed to think that a country girl with five brothers would turn out to be a tomboy, but Prissie did her best to set them straight by being very, very ladylike.
“If you don’t hurry along, we’ll miss him,” she primly informed Tansy.
Most of the apple trees in this part of the orchard were the dwarf variety, their gnarled branches weighed down by unripe fruit. However, a long row of standard apple trees lined the lane. The full-sized trees took up too much space to be practical, but Grandpa Pete harbored a smidgen of nostalgia under his gruff exterior. They had been his mother’s favorite apples, and since he couldn’t bring himself to tear them out, they stayed.
Prissie gasped, stopping dead in her tracks. To her amazement, someone was sitting in one of Great-grandma’s trees, and he was definitely watching her. Bright, black eyes peered at her with lively interest. She stared right back in utter confusion. Theirs was a small town, and she knew everyone who lived nearby. Outside of harvesttime, it was unusual to see a stranger out their way, and this boy was definitely strange. Cautiously, she stepped closer.
He wore odd clothing — a long tunic over loose pants. The beige fabric’s unusual sheen shimmered in the sunlight, and the decorative patterns that edged the deep vee of the collar and the wide cuffs of each sleeve shone as if they’d been stitched with silver threads. His features were delicately exotic; pale golden skin and almond-shaped eyes were set off by glossy black, shoulder-length hair.
The boy looked comfortable enough as he leaned against the tree trunk, one foot braced on the rough bark of the low branch on which he sat, the other swinging casually. He was barefoot, and Prissie cast about for any sign of shoes, a pack, or even a bicycle in the vicinity. Nothing. Since it was too early in the season for apple thieves, she decided to err on the side of hospitality. “Hello!” she called.
The boy’s eyes widened in surprise, and he looked around uncertainly. Finally, in a soft, lyrical voice, he asked, “Are you speaking to me?”
Prissie tilted her head to one side and, in a fair imitation of her grandmother’s brisk tones, replied, “And who else would I be talking to?”
He only blinked at her, seemingly at a loss.
She smiled to lessen the sting of her retort. “Hi, I’m Prissie … Prissie Pomeroy.” Pointing at the roofline of their barn, which was easily visible over the tops of the trees, she added, “I live right over there.”
The boy’s eyes never left her face, and he was frowning in concentration.
“Do you live around here?” she asked, and when he didn’t reply, she tried again. “I haven’t seen you around. Are you new to the area?”
“I am,” he admitted slowly.
“That explains why we haven’t met,” she announced, glad to have hit upon a reasonable explanation. “So what’s your name?”
The oddly dressed boy swung a leg over the branch, lightly dropped to the ground, then straightened. He was shorter than her by a few inches. As he walked slowly toward her, he answered, “I am called Koji.”
She thought his response a bit strange, but she politely extended her hand. “Nice to meet you, Koji.”
The boy stepped right up to her, ignoring her hand and searching her face with keen interest. “You can see me?” he asked quietly.
“Obviously.”
“I thought so,” he mused aloud, his expression troubled.
It was Prissie’s turn to frown. His words made little sense.
“Then may I ask you a question?” Koji asked earnestly.
“Sure.”
“Why were you praying to your cat?”
“E-excuse me?”
Black eyes strayed from Prissie to Tansy, then back again. “I heard you, and I was wondering …”
“You were listening?” she gasped, trying to remember exactly what he might have overheard.
Koji nodded slowly, and Prissie huffed and propped her hands on her hips. “Well, I might have been talking out loud, but I wasn’t praying … and certainly not to a cat. That’s just weird!”
“I thought so, too,” the boy replied seriously.
Shaking her head, Prissie said, “Come on,” and resumed walking.
“Where are we going?” he inquired, taking up a position in