Where the Forest Meets the Star - Glendy Vanderah Page 0,22
few of the male graduate students had been awkward around her since she’d returned, especially the ones who used to flirt with her. Her psychologist had warned her of such reactions from men, but the injury of it couldn’t be alleviated by any number of therapy sessions. Dealing with the pain was a day-by-day ordeal. Nature and her research were some of her only respites.
“That’s too bad,” Egg Man said. “Must be kind of lonely.”
“It’s not,” she said. “I prefer to live alone when I’m doing research. Having people around is distracting.”
He opened his truck door. “I guess that was a hint. Follow me over.”
8
The furrowed lane that led onto Egg Man’s property hadn’t been graveled for years, and only the width of his truck kept the forest from conquering it. Jo took the road slowly, the Honda rocking and squeaking as its tires dipped into deep troughs. She heard loud woofs before Little Bear’s eyes appeared, glowing in the headlights. He continued barking, running between the truck and SUV as the press of dark forest opened into a yard lit by a utility light.
Egg Man sprang from his truck and tried to shush the dog.
“I see you’ve inherited Little Bear as well as Big Bear,” Jo said, stepping from her car.
“I told Ursa he can’t stay on my property.”
“Good luck with that.”
“I know,” he said. “I let her feed him.”
“I’m seeing a pattern here.”
“I had to. I didn’t want him to have a hungry belly around my chickens and piglets.”
“You have pigs?”
“Haven’t you smelled them?”
“I wouldn’t know the smell of a pig from a horse.”
“Like most city folk.”
City folk pricked her ears again. “Do you eat your pigs?” she asked.
“Actually, I read Shakespeare to them.” He smiled at her. “Yes, I eat them. We live off the land as much as possible. I hate going into grocery stores.”
“Problematic aversion.”
“You have no idea,” he said, but she didn’t get his meaning.
He glanced at the lit windows of the cabin. “The story with Ursa is that she lives around here, but her parents have issues. That’s what my mother thinks, but she’s still not keen on her being here.”
“Didn’t Ursa tell her the alien story?”
“Yeah, but that only made my mother feel more sorry for her. She says Ursa is creating a fantasy to escape her reality.”
“Which is true.”
“No, it isn’t,” he said. “Ursa doesn’t believe that crap.”
“Then why does she stick to it?”
“Because she’s smart.”
“How is it smart to pretend she’s an alien?”
“I don’t know. I’m too stupid to figure it out yet.”
Ursa bounded out the front door, ran across the porch, and jumped over the three steps as if she’d been doing it for years. “He found you!” She wrapped her arms around Jo’s middle and laid her head on her belly. “I missed you, Jo! And guess what? I saw another miracle!”
“I heard—kittens,” Jo said.
“Can she go see them?” she asked Gabe.
“We won’t disturb them at night, and Jo needs to eat.” He said to Jo, “We have plenty of leftovers from dinner.”
“Oh . . . thanks,” Jo said, “but I—”
“You’d be doing us a favor. I made too much.”
“Pork chops, applesauce, green beans, and mashed potatoes,” Ursa said. “Gabe grows everything at the homestead. He even makes the applesauce. There are apple trees here, Jo! I climbed them today!”
“Kittens, piglets, apple trees—talk about a kid’s fantasy world,” Jo said.
“She’s been quite happy,” he said.
“I see that.”
Ursa dragged Jo by the hand up the cabin stairs beneath a wooden sign that said THE NASH FAMILY HOMESTEAD. They passed a row of rocking chairs on the covered porch and entered the house. The cabin interior was an appealing space with log walls, wood floors, a stone fireplace, and furniture made from tree timber. The home was posher than Jo would have imagined, especially considering the neglected driveway and decrepit NO TRESPASSING sign. The cabin had modern kitchen appliances and beautiful granite counters. And unlike Kinney Cottage, which was cooled with aging window air conditioners, the Nash homestead had central air.
A handsome white-haired woman, probably Gabe’s grandmother, sat at the kitchen table, a cane with a four-legged bottom placed near her. “I’m Katherine Nash,” she said, scrutinizing Jo with sharp azure eyes. She held out a hand that trembled from what might be Parkinson’s disease.
Jo grasped her hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Joanna Teale, but you can call me Jo.”
“Ursa’s been talking about you all day.”
“Sorry about that,” Jo said, and Katherine smiled.